by Soyna Owley
For full thirteen and one half days
Floyd inhaled the acrid smell of the sea straw hitting the water, a smell that flooded him with memories of every Hobson-Jobson, of his entire childhood.
To a mountain he will make his way
The crowd chorused as the crackling fire spat enormous coloured sparks. The water was luminescent with strands of sea straw.
The Merrows he will keep at bay
Ressuldars in his debt will stay
The fire-eaters moved faster, the flames from their mouths roaring as the music reached fever pitch. It was as if the crowd had a single voice.
For safe return to light his way
The sea straw burns like sun-dried hay
The water churned and glowed. Floyd clapped his hands and thumped his feet with the crowd pressing around him. He felt more and more distanced from the mad fortuneteller as he threw himself into the frenzy.
To see that on his course he stays
The water glows, Durjipore prays
On the stage, the robed dancers lifted their shields and swords together and stamped their feet in synchrony.
Rejoice, rejoice with pomp and cheer
For Hobson-Jobson comes each year!
Floyd felt a thrill run through him. This truly was the best time of year!
3
Alone in This World
Floyd pulled out a sweet from the stash in his pocket and studied it. Aha, his favourite—a tamarind tucker. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. The sweet and sour taste spread over his tongue as he went back to studying the green board game with the black and white discs.
‘Come on, Floyd. Are you just going to let me beat you?’ Farook asked.
Floyd smiled. Farook was his bestie. There was no one whose company he enjoyed more. They were sitting in the drawing room of their little brick house and playing ‘Othello’, a game that two Englishmen claimed they had invented, both calling the other a fraud. Farook had just nearly demolished him. Floyd placed his white checker and flanked three diagonally placed black checkers, turning them to white. Too late. Farook smiled, neatly placed one black checker at the end of the board and smartly turned all of Floyd’s white checkers to black.
Floyd sighed and looked outside. Too bad it was raining. They could have gone down to the ‘Deeps’, the sunken cricket field, and played a match. There were some advantages to living on a sinking island. Some areas of land had slowly, over decades, become deep bowls that were used for either sports or special functions. It was true that the waterways were becoming more unpredictable and flooding frequently, but as long as the cricket matches could continue, there was no harm done. Othello wasn’t really his thing but at least it was a nice, calm evening. He hadn’t seen any of those blasted visions since the first day of Hobson-Jobson, and Farook seemed to have forgotten about them too. He shook off the image of the creepy woman in the water with a small shudder.
Just then Papa walked in and sank into his armchair. He threw down a copy of the Durjipore Daily. The headline screamed: ‘KIDNAPPED CHILDREN TOLL RISES TO 91’, and below that ‘WILL FOXWALLAH OUTFOX KIDNAPPERS?’ Papa turned the radio on. The soft drone of the shipping forecast filled the room, informing listeners of the conditions at sea all around the islands. Inspector Foxwallah sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned back into his chair.
Floyd smiled. Papa loved the shipping forecast broadcast by the Commonwealth Islands’ Maritime and Coastguard Agency, and listened to it every day at precisely 4.25 in the afternoon, along with his tea. These days, however, even these rituals didn’t seem to provide him comfort. Tensions were running high. Papa was not enjoying his promotion. He had become a media sensation overnight—unusual for a chief inspector. He now had to report to Colonel Ravi Rana. Thanks to the kidnappings, he had been summoned to North Utsira, the defence capital of the Commonwealth Islands, by express ferry three times in the last week.
The mayor of Durjipore, the parliament of the Commonwealth Islands, even the Nabob himself were all quite nervous. After all, what could be a more politically charged issue than disappearing children? The only opposition party, headed by a Kaka Patel, was already crying foul and calling for the Nabob to step down.
Ma and Papa had also been arguing lately—about Floyd. Ma was convinced that the soothsayer’s predictions would all come true and Floyd should be homeschooled. Papa thought she was overreacting.
Footsteps sounded.
Ma walked into the room, holding a tea tray loaded with mince pies and rose biscuits—Hobson-Jobson specials. The tea cosy quivered as she tried to shoo Floyd and Farook away so she could put the tray down. They deftly grabbed a pie each.
Ma ignored them and picked up that day’s Commonwealth Chronicle. That newspaper had also run a piece about Papa’s new position, titled ‘The Fox or the Hound?’
‘How was North Utsira?’ she asked her husband.
‘Tiring, Maya,’ Papa said, rubbing his eyes. ‘They need someone to whip and it’s me. I’ll make the tea.’ He put the paper down, and poured steaming fragrant Earl Grey tea into cups. Farook looked at Floyd, shrugged and bit into a mince pie; his lower lip seemed to have a slight quiver. So much for peace and quiet at teatime.
Ma sat down, plucked the pins out of her hair, as she did at the end of the day, and let her black tresses thunder down her back. ‘I know you think I’m being superstitious, Regent. But it’s not like avoiding walking under a ladder. And it’s not chance, like throwing dice,’ she said, tucking the free end of her sari around her waist. ‘I know an excellent astrologer who can help him. It’s a strange time of year—it always has been.’
‘Maya,’ Papa was pleading now. ‘Let it go. Floyd’s eyes are this way because of a harmless condition. His doctor even has a name for it—heterochromia.’
‘And your promotion, Regent? What about that?’ Ma persisted.
Papa didn’t respond but passed her a cup of tea. She shrugged him off, pulled out the inhaler that was tucked into her sari waistband and took three quick puffs in succession. Farook was trembling now.
‘Stop it!’ Floyd yelled. Every time his eyes were mentioned, Ma’s inhaler came out. How he wished he could pluck his stupid eyes out of his head and insert a matching set instead.
‘There’s no need to shout.’ Ma turned on him now. ‘Floyd, this is serious. What if Jaadu was right and something terrible happens?’
Farook now stood up. ‘Floyd’s been seeing things,’ he burst out. ‘He’s had visions, and … and nightmares. Just like those other children who got kidnapped.’
Ma gasped, her face paling. Papa stood frozen. Floyd could feel his anger bubble up and break. How could Farook be so idiotic? He grabbed Papa’s pen from the table and threw it at Farook. It flew past his shoulder and landed with a metallic clunk on the floor.
Ma had sunk into a chair, her fingers pressed into her temples. ‘We have to homeschool him, Regent. I’m not taking the risk.’
Floyd’s heart sank. ‘That’s not fair. Cricket is just going to start and—’
Papa threw his hands in the air. ‘Floyd. To your room,’ he barked.
Floyd pointed at Farook. ‘But he doesn’t know anything. I just—’
‘Your room. Now!’ Papa slammed his hand on the table and glared at Floyd.
Farook shrugged his shoulders and mouthed ‘sorry’ to Floyd.
‘Whatever,’ Floyd said and burst out of the room. He raced up the spiral stairs, rage scalding his eyes, burst through his door, threw himself on the bed and punched his pillow. Then, sitting up, he pushed aside the green curtains filtering fading light through the old window above his bed. Past the tendrils of jasmine peeking into the frame, a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped by. In the distance, the Gubernaculum, a network of waterways that criss-crossed Durjipore, gleamed. No motor vehicles were permitted on the sinking island. People could only travel by bicycle, catamaran or horse-drawn buggy. He pushed open the window. The strains of a popular song floated up. Mrs Jussawa
lla, their neighbour, loved oldies and her radio was always on at this time. The words wafted into Floyd’s room. ‘My name is Anthony Gonzales. Main duniya mein akela hoon …’ How apt. The song was from an old Bollywood movie that had made its way to Durjipore and was repeatedly shown on television. Amar Akbar Anthony, a movie about three brothers separated at birth. The radio sputtered and buzzed intermittently, and then died out.
A few fireflies buzzed up to the window, their tails blinking brightly. There was a slow rumble of thunder, and raindrops heavy with moonlight drenched the jasmine vines.
Tomorrow it would all be over. Ma would never look at him the same way again. Goodbye normal life. Goodbye cricket practice. Goodbye freedom. He flopped on his bed, shut his eyes and listened to the lull of the rain’s steady beat. His thoughts tumbled and drifted into a dream.
Farook was trembling next to him. They were on a ship made of shiny white stone. It floated, unyielding, against a furious wind. They cowered as a wave reared over them like a solid wall, spraying their faces.
Floyd held Farook tightly. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.
It wasn’t. They were on the deck huddled with many—maybe a hundred—other children.
‘I’m thirsty,’ one said.
‘I’m scared,’ sobbed another boy with matted hair.
A large cloaked figure lifted a struggling girl, who looked vaguely familiar. Floyd gasped as she was hurled overboard. He heard more screams and saw an unconscious boy being thrown over the side of the ship. Farook pulled Floyd’s elbow and said, ‘Let’s hide.’
‘No!’ Floyd shouted. ‘We have to stop them.’
‘It’s too late …’ Farook screamed.
It was. The hulking figure stood in front of them. The parched, noiseless scream stayed in his throat as he saw Farook picked up and thrown into the icy-cold water. He knew he was next.
A cracking sound woke Floyd up. There it was again. The round brass clock at his nightstand, with its concave glass, read 4.30. The pounding rain and thunder were quieting. Was that a dog barking? He looked out of the rain-spattered window. A silhouetted figure stood with arms crossed. A large dog stood, statue-like, beside the apparition. Floyd closed his eyes and opened them again, but now the street was empty. How very odd.
Maybe he should wake Farook up. It had been an awful night. Maybe they could talk.
He opened the door to his room and rubbed his hands as the chill hit him. Glass crunched under his slippers. He turned the light switch on—nothing. The storm had caused a blackout.
A soft, flopping noise made his heart thump. His eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight. Imli, Farook’s jewelfish, flapped on the windowsill. Shards of glass glittered on the floor. Floyd rushed to the bathroom, threw his toothbrush out of a tumbler, poured water in it and put Imli in. ‘Poor girl.’
The bed lay empty, the sheets rumpled and tossed aside. The window was broken, the brightening sky framed by the jagged edges of the glass hole.
‘Farook,’ he called.
No reply.
‘Okay. Don’t be an ass …’
No reply.
The soothsayer’s words suddenly popped into his head. A brother leaves.
‘Papa!’ he screamed, feeling faint. ‘Papa, hurry!’
4
Grief
‘Floyd? Why aren’t you in bed?’ Papa came running in. His candle threw leering shadows. Inspector Foxwallah had his handheld monitor clipped to the belt of his dressing gown, as always.
‘Farook’s not here.’ Floyd pointed to the bed, his heart thumping.
‘Great Garuda. Is the window broken?’ Papa’s face tightened as he picked up the bed sheets. Floyd’s stomach churned. Blood stained one sheet—fresh, red and sticky. Papa pressed a button on his monitor and it crackled to life. ‘Foxwallah here. Emergency.’
‘Deputy Singh speaking. Sir?’ The words stabbed the air.
‘Kamini. I need you at the house, right away. Make sure the papers don’t hear about it.’
Floyd trembled. Another child kidnapped. This time his brother, the inspector’s own son. Farook was gone.
Because of my bad luck. The thought pierced his heart. His bestie—gone just like that—after such an awful fight, too. He squeezed his eyes and rocked on the heels of his feet, clasping his arms around his chest.
Because of me because of me because of me.
Outside, the sky lightened and the birds began to chirp.
Papa rushed down the stairs, skipping a step at a time. Voices floated up. Ma had woken up. He heard a soft wail and then shrieking.
Two very slow hours later, the doorbell rang. Papa answered it. Deputy Inspector Kamini stood at attention, her hair in a knot at her neck, trim in the pale orange uniform of the DPD. She held a large folder marked ‘Foxwallah’. ‘Chief. Classified emails sent everywhere … All six islands, India, Sri Lanka … even China.’
‘Thanks, Kamini,’ Papa said. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed.
Deputy Inspector Kamini talked softly but rapidly of searching underwater and across empty fields. Floyd shuddered. What else could one find there but a body? He shook the terrible thought out of his head.
‘Sir, I hate to bother you with this but … the final fingerprint results. We ran them four times and even sent them to a lab abroad.’ Kamini’s voice sharpened.
‘What is it?’ Papa asked.
‘It’s ridiculous. There’s a fingerprint that looks odd … clearly a mistake.’ Kamini’s brown eyes registered confusion. ‘And there was sand found. We traced it to the Souks.’
Floyd shivered. The Souks were the nastiest part of the island—old markets and the only prison in Durjipore were housed there. It was the northern-most point of Durjipore, where the waterways emptied into the sea. Children were told to absolutely never get off at that catamaran stop. There was always news of a crime being committed there, almost once a week.
Papa turned to Floyd. ‘Floyd, I need your help. Please feed your Ma … she’s refusing to eat. Dr Mohandas will be here soon.’ Papa knew how to get curious ears out of a room.
Floyd closed the door behind him but peered through the keyhole.
Kamini showed Papa a photograph. ‘The lab says it isn’t human,’ she whispered.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Papa exclaimed. ‘Send it back for retesting. And call the elite unit—we need the Souks combed. Garuda knows they’ll find something. That place is a cesspool.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kamini snapped her bag shut and walked towards the door. Floyd rushed to the kitchen, grabbed the plate and climbed the stairs, three at a time. It was tricky, balancing the plate as he opened the door to Ma and Papa’s room.
Ma squatted on the stone floor, nodding at her rickety bamboo shrine piled with statues of all the gods she loved. Sandalwood incense and fragrant smoke assailed his nostrils.
‘Please eat something, Ma,’ he said, putting the plate of food beside her.
Ma rocked back and forth, biting the edge of her sari, her inhaler on standby. Floyd placed the food on the floor beside her. A fine coating of dust covered all the figurines. She hadn’t even wiped down the shrine she usually cleaned compulsively.
The rotund recipient of today’s invocation, Lord Ganesha, sat cosily on the altar, a mouse at his feet.
‘Om, shreem, dhreem, gleem, gloam, gum Gunnaputha yey,’ Ma’s guttural prayers to Lord Ganesha spilled from her throat, half moans and half words.
Alongside Ganesha the dark-skinned Kali grinned horribly, her bright red tongue hanging like a hibiscus petal in full bloom. Her six arms brandished deadly weapons and a garland of skulls wrapped her throat. Why wasn’t Ma praying to this terrible beauty? She looked more likely to take care of business. Floyd shut his eyes and thought. How would they find Farook? Who would? Then, slowly, like a drop of water hardening into a crystal, the decision formed in his mind.
This was his fault. The astrologer had said so. He would find Farook. He didn’t know how, but he would. He felt a sense of dete
rmination suffuse him.
‘My son …’
Ma had spoken at last. He opened his eyes. She was smiling—a smile that made the hairs on his neck feel as sharp as a bed of nails.
‘Farook?’ Ma’s stare was unblinking. She drew closer and covered his blue eye with her hand. ‘Farook,’ she repeated.
Farook. Floyd controlled his tears. ‘It’s okay, Ma. Farook will be home soon.’ He removed her hand from his face and kissed it.
She turned her face away, making a soft, mewing sound.
Floyd shivered. ‘You must eat, Ma,’ he said, pushing the plate of food towards her.
Ma grabbed the plate and threw it across the room, shattering it. Blotches of boiled rice and yellow curry stained the floor. Just then the door opened and Papa entered the room, followed by a grey-haired man in a stiff white coat. Floyd thought he would burst with relief.
‘Hello, Maya. Remember me?’ Dr Mohandas spoke in a calm, soft voice.
Ma looked away.
‘Dr Mohandas would like to give Ma some medicine. It will help, I hope,’ Papa said and jerked his head towards the door.
Floyd walked out, shut the door behind him and hesitated outside. He bent down and squinted through the keyhole. He would surely develop a squint if he kept this up, he thought.
Dr Mohandas was pulling something out of his bag. He lifted it—a syringe. Next, he rubbed a needle with alcohol and took a small bottle of clear liquid out of his pocket. Turning the bottle over with one hand, he pierced the inverted cover with the needle and sucked the liquid into the syringe. Papa held Ma’s arms down as he sat on the bed next to her.
‘I don’t need your poison. I need Farook. You hear me? Farooookkkkk!’ Ma screamed. In seconds, she was making soft, gulping sounds.
‘The grief has been too much, too quickly …’ Dr Mohandas said. ‘She’s not strong enough.’
‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ Papa’s voice shook.
‘Regent, if I could get Ninipuri, I would give it to her.’
‘A man of science believes in that rubbish?’ Papa raised an eyebrow.
