Me. Former captain of the Oxfordshire County Cricket Club. The one who till a few months ago had lived the life of a normal student. An almost normal life
Now, here I am, in my worst nightmare come true. Back in the home country and at the mercy of its bureaucracy. Knocking on the doors of the Indian Police Service, asking to enrol.
It's ironic that they are headquartered in this imposing Anglo-Gothic building. I may have left Britain behind, but the long hand of the Raj has followed me here. Here I am then, at the meeting point of where my past meets my future, begging them to take me on as a recruit. Pleading with them to take me in so I can become Dr B's scapegoat.
I almost want to fail, so I don't have to do as she commands. But I cannot give up, not now. I don't matter anymore. I am here to save my family, perhaps even my country. And for that I have to swallow the bitterness surrounding me. I will have to drown in this mirage of my making; so I can wake up in a world that is truer, cleaner, one without her in it.
Only brave fools and patriots—like my father—tread the path I am about to go on. But, I am not my father. I never was. And what I am going to do is going to take me down a path of no return.
I stand ramrod straight, in my ancient blue Levis, shuffling my feet clad in faded leather moccasins, which are already wilting after a few days of the searing-through-your-soul Bombay heat. Mirroring the other man's gesture, I fold my arms over my stomach, and almost sneer in satisfaction at the muscles I feel under my skin. It's in stark contrast to the out-of-shape silhouette of my prospective superior. Faint consolation, but I'll take what I get just now.
The sweat runs down my back and I try to ignore my white cotton shirt, which is sticking to my back, lover-like. It brings to mind the embrace of soft arms, palms smelling of lilies, of the moist-green countryside I had walked through with my lover just a week ago. I let it rush over me, breathing in deeply of its comfort before I shove it aside, and watch … as those dreams crash to the floor between the now-silent man and me. He points to my just-vacated seat with his eyes. I walk towards him, standing on the other side of the table, but don't sit.
My wounded pride has shoved a stick up my backside, refusing to let me bend. I stay fixed to the spot.
"So you want to join us?" His gravelly, cigarette-smoke-hurt voice scrapes over my skin, making the hair on my forearms stand on edge.
"I want to join Force One." I refuse to give into the impulse to salute in response to the authority in his statement.
"Why?"
Such a simple question. One word. Three letters.
Why?
Why are you offering yourself up as a fall guy?
"I want to protect Bombay." I say it slowly, as if meaning every word. Inside I want to catch the sounds even as they fall from my lips. If I could, I would have taken them all back, turned back the clock, gone back to a year ago, to change the course of my life.
But I can't. So I am here.
And so is this stuffed-shirt bureaucrat, a cop gone to seed. One who I have to convince of my intent. Just enough to get him near enough to me. Just a few steps closer. I look around the room, making sure once more there are no security cameras in the room. I can't see any.
"Mumbai," he says.
"What?" My voice comes out in a forlorn bark which bounces off the walls of the room.
"It's Mumbai," he repeats, a smile threading through the words. "You people who spend time outside the country, you'll have a perverted sense of nostalgia. You insist on calling this city by a name which does not exist anymore. Bombay doesn't exist anymore. It's a mythical city, consigned to the dreams of the cosmos … to nothingness."
Like I will be. Swallowed up in the depths of the monster whose belly I am asking permission to enter. The thought makes me clench my jaw till it hurts; my throat closes up. The band around my chest tightens till I can hardly breathe.
Avoiding eye contact, I say, "Bombay."
My voice comes out thin but firm. Convincing. It should because I mean it. All I can do is cling to the remnants of a dream, whose fragments tear at my conscience.
"It's Bombay," I insist, stretching to my full six-feet-two-inch height. Not for the first time I am thankful to have the weight of my physical presence behind me.
He gets to his feet and walks around the table to stand in front of me. Upright, he looks very different from the overweight public servant who had cowered behind the wall of his desk.
Standing up, the folds of skin stretch and disappear miraculously. The belt around his gut is now stretched, not by a roll of fat, but by the weight of his holstered gun hanging casually at his side. He meets my gaze eye-to-eye, for he is almost as tall as me.
"Suit yourself." He shrugs. "Mumbai or Bombay, the city by any name smells as bad." He throws back his head and laughs at his own joke.
He is at arm's length now. Close enough. The ball of tension I had not been aware of, between my shoulder blades, loosens in response to the shared mirth, and my shoulders sag in relief.
"What's your name again, young man?"
Young …? I have aged a million years in the last week.
"Vikram," I say aloud. "Vikram Roy."
"Okay, Roy. You have some great credentials, as you are well aware. And it's not every day—" His eyes light up with a wicked glint, making them appear almost catlike. I blink. This chap's more intelligent than I gave him credit for. Unbidden, I recall the results of a test for hidden bias, taken at Oxford … Turns out I am biased … towards my elders. Apparently, the older they are, the less respect I have for them; for they are, after all, out-dated, past their sell-by date. Big fucking deal. I could have told them that for free. Still, it had rankled—this problem of mine with authority and experience, as the assessor had clearly pointed out.
"—It's not every day that a student from Oxford—much less one with your talents and abilities joins the force—"
I wait for him to make the inevitable comment about my graduating so early and asking if I was just a little too smart or something to that effect … and I am both surprised and grateful when he just moves on.
"—You may be running away from something … or someone … a broken heart perhaps." He puts up his hand to stop me when I start to protest. "Honestly, I don't care for explanations."
That shuts me up. Not that I care to explain myself. I have other things on my mind just now. Like how to finish the job I have come here to do and get the hell out of this place.
"You have your reasons." He shrugs. "Keep them to yourself. It's just another sob story lost in the vortex of pain this city attracts. And while we do need good recruits."
His eyes scan down the length of my body, and in that subtle gesture he acknowledges my youth, my superior physical prowess. Clapping his palm on my shoulder he continues, "You may have made it through entrance exams of the police force, but you still need to apply and get picked for Force—"
His features meld into a look of surprise as the gun recoils in my hand. He looks down at the growing blot of red on his chest, over his heart. I watch, fascinated, as it increases in size, from the dimensions of a tiny island to a vast continent.
"You … you shot me?"
The words tumble out from between a shower of spittle. Hearing his own voice seems to sap the strength from his legs, which buckle under him. He tumbles towards me and I catch him before he falls on me. Bam! Bam! Bam! My heart slams against my chest. What the fuck have I done? No, don't lose your nerve. Not. Now. You've come this far just see it through. I drag him to his chair and manage to heave him onto it.
Breathless, the pulse hammering in my ears, I place him with his back to the chair. And turn it around so he's facing away from the door. If someone looks in, it would merely seem like he was staring out the window … I hope.
The sweat trickles down my forehead, stinging my eyes. Feeling panic bubble up in me, I take a deep breath and look around the room for something to soak up the blood from the body, to buy me a little more time. Seeing a
door leading off the room, I walk into a tiny washroom. Grabbing the towel from the rack, I run back to the man. Balling it, I place it against his chest and fold his arms over it. His hands begin to slip down, even as I rush to the door.
TWENTY-THREE
PULLING OUT THE balaclava from the back pocket of my jeans I slip it on. The irony! A few months ago I was at the receiving end of attack by masked men. Now, I am the one wearing the mask. It’s hot, really hot and I’m breathing so fast it feels like I have run a marathon. Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt, and the blood thunders at my temples. I am sure I am going to be discovered any minute now. My eyes dart around at the security cameras in the corridor and I hope that Dr B's team has come through with jamming them. I resist the urge to run out of there, away from the still-warm corpse.
I walk past cops in the other rooms, to the end of the floor to call for the lift. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Were there security cameras in the lift, and had she said that they would take care of that too? I can't remember. Of course I am masked, my features are hidden, but still I don’t want to risk it. I run down the staircase, taking it two at a time, down five floors, then past the reception and out of the main door.
An alarm sounds behind me and I jerk.
Don't look back.
Don't. Look. Back.
Knees trembling, I force myself to walk … walk one step at a time, through the heat of the midday sun. As I reach the exit, I pull off the balaclava. Stuffing it into the back pocket of my jeans, I step onto the driveway. My instinct is to run out of there and deliberately I slow my steps. Slowly, walk slowly. Stay casual, real casual. That’s it. Keep going. I reach the end of the driveway, out of the gates onto the crowded streets when another alarm goes off behind me. No, no, no. Don’t hurry. Don’t push your feet against the ground and race out of there. Keep walking, one step in front of the other. Don’t look to the sides, don’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead. Around me the crowd of people surge, some of them turning towards the commotion exploding behind me. With a sigh of relief I spot my SUV.
Had I actually made it this far without being discovered? It feels like a dream. I look for the key fob in the pocket of my jeans … and can't find it.
The sweat trickles down my forehead as the summer heat pours into my cells, trying to blink away the fear that threatens to overwhelm me.
Think, Vikram. Think.
By the time I reach the car, I am still searching the back pockets of my jeans, patting the front pocket of my shirt. But I know already that I will not find it. A man collides with me, and I start in surprise. But he is gone before I can protest. I look around me to find that the crowd has multiplied. They are pushing towards the building I have left behind.
I abandon all pretence of normalcy.
Kicking my way past the man in front of me, I head-butt the next and punch the one after, to clear a path. It's as if the crowd is a single organism. It gives a little and closes in behind me. Like a centipede I inch forward. When I look back, the facade of the imposing building has disappeared out of sight, swallowed by the multitudes who are running up the driveway. Even as I watch, the police finally react, slamming shut the iron gates, and the crowd slam themselves against the bars, like water against a dam.
For once, I am grateful for the idle curiosity of my fellow citizens. I plunge through the crowds ahead, head-butting my way through the last of them, and suddenly I am free. The warm air slaps my face, and the relief of being rid of the human chain weakens my legs. I fall to my hands and knees, crawling the remaining stretch of the road till I reach the pavement. Sitting on it, I let my arms dangle between my knees, blinking away the sweat that stings my eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, I get to my feet and, jumping over the pockmarked surface of the footpath, dart into the alley leading off the road. The sun is cut off by the overhanging balconies of the ramshackle buildings that lean across the alleyway to kiss each other. Water drops patter off my shoulders from the freshly washed laundry hanging overhead, but I pay no attention.
Dodging the overflowing gutters, I step right into the path of a man on a bicycle carrying a basket of vegetables on his head. He swears at me and I get out of his way just in time by plastering my back to the wall of the building. Then, I am through to the other side of the narrow passage. Bursting onto the busy thoroughfare, I step off the footpath onto the road and right into the path of an oncoming black-and-yellow taxicab.
It screeches to a halt, and its bumper bangs against my knees. Losing my balance, I fall over, hitting my forehead against its bonnet, and I roll over, stunned, to topple over into the middle of the traffic. A truck thunders by, its wide tyres narrowly missing me, the dark smoke from its exhaust filling my face, and even as I cough, I am being pulled to my feet.
"Do you have a death wish?" I look down into the angry face of the taxi driver. "Or did you decide to just choose my taxi to fall under this morning and spoil my life. You may not care about your family, but I care about mine, you know?"
The human contact threatens to cut loose any remaining shreds of my self-control. Shaking off his steadying hands, I stagger to the cab. Wrenching open the door to the passenger seat, I slide inside, collapsing diagonally across the cramped space of the rickety Fiat. After a moment's hesitation, he gets back into the driver's seat, shaking his head. He mutters under his breath to himself, but don't pay any attention.
"Breach Candy …" I gasp. "Take me to Breach Candy."
TWENTY-THREE
It's funny how quickly one adjusts to a new life. Three months ago, if you had asked me who I was, I would have answered, a student, a born-again Englishman, a county batsman, a one-time lover. Now, I am a cop killer.
One gunshot. That's all it took to reduce a man to dust. Perhaps his soul had stood over us even as I had walked away from the corpse, letting the blood seep into the cracks between the tiles on the dusty floor. I had resisted the urge to look back—a killer's instinct to admire his handiwork. The boy in me had wanted to run away from the scene of my offence. And it wasn't just any offence. It was the murder of a top-ranking official in the heart of the offices of the law enforcement agency of the city. Can I really get away with this?
It feels like the half-hour journey home takes forever. I sit at the edge of my seat, peering into the driver's rear-view mirror, trying to make out if we are being followed. Any moment I expect to hear the sound of sirens chasing me. Surely I am going to be found out. If not now, then when I go back to enrol with Force One. I push that thought away. First things first—I need to just get home now.
As the taxi turns off from Pedder Road onto Warden Road, I allow myself to relax a little, only to start when the taxi breaks to a halt.
In front of us is a bullock cart. As I peer through the dirt-strewn windshield of the cab, the driver of the cart rises to his feet on the cart, one of his feet on the yoke which chains the two oxen to the vehicle. He raises his arm, and as he coaxes the two, I realise he is trying to turn the cart around, right in the path of my taxi, which rams into the cart. It jolts to a stop so suddenly that I hurtle forward hitting my head on the front seat. Wincing, I sit back touching the already forming bump on my forehead. So, here I am, a murderer who gave the police the slip only to meet his end under the wheels of an ox cart.
There is nothing funny about the situation. Except my sense of humour insists there is. When nothing makes sense anymore, only the twisted begins to seem straight. Leaning over, I pay off the cab driver and walk the rest of the short distance to the apartment on foot. When I turn into the driveway of the apartment block, I heave a sigh of relief. Trying to look nonchalant, I force myself to walk slowly past the group of chattering drivers.
When I ring the doorbell to the apartment, it clangs through the house. But there is no reply. I ring once more, then I recall that my mother has left to run some errands. Seema has not returned from college yet. There has to be a simple explanation to why they are not yet home. Right?
I pull out my house keys—
I still have them, haven't dropped them—and enter the apartment letting the double doors slam shut behind me. I head straight for my room and into the adjoining bathroom. Opening the tap, I splash lukewarm water over my face, and with the tap running I look at my dripping face in the mirror. Amber eyes stare back at me, and I am unable to meet my own gaze.
Pulling off my sweat-sodden shirt, I ball it and throw it in a corner of the bathroom. I should be relieved I managed to pull that off. But all I can think is that if I—an amateur—could walk into the police headquarters and shoot down a top-ranking official then it didn't say much for their security measures. Is this how they had protected my father too? And then it strikes me … Did she have my father killed too? I ram my fist into the mirror, groaning when the pain spears out from the point of contact. My cracked reflection offers littler consolation.
I did what I had to do. She had promised no harm would come to my family if I did as she ordered.
So, why aren't Mum and Seema home yet? Please, please, let them be safe, I pray.
The ring of the doorbell startles me.
TWENTY-THREE
My stomach muscles clench … I am encased in ice. Immobile. I stare at the mirror and see the fear in my eyes. I don't want to go, don't want to find out what's on the other side of the door. The doorbell again, this time more urgent.
It's just them returning, yes that's all it is. They'll come through, laughing, Mum clutching her bags of shopping, Seema telling me all about school. Go on take a look. It'll be okay. Water drips down my face and I move without realising it, putting one foot in front of the other. And then, I am at the door.
Hands trembling, I pull it open, to be greeted by empty space. I blink in the dull light of the passageway. Then, I look down. There, in front of me, on the floor, are two large cake boxes.
The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) Page 14
