‘Also, Father D’Gama insists on being the only one to deal with the police in connection with Father Furtado’s disappearance.’
‘But he’s hardly going to kidnap his own uncle.’
‘I don’t know,’ Veda replied. ‘But I’ve been thinking. Both priests live together in the priest’s quarters on the top floor of the college. It would be so easy for Father D’Gama to hide his uncle. We know that the Shadows don’t seem to have Father Furtado. Otherwise, why was Minty trying to get information out of Denzil? So then where is Father Furtado?’
Maya hugged Donkey Do harder. The devious, invisible force that seemed to hover in the background was acquiring an unexpected shape. The form of a middle-aged priest in a crumpled, white cassock.
It didn’t make sense, but then it did.
Images and words floated before Maya’s eyes. The eavesdropper skulking outside Professor Kekobad’s office, and the flap of white in the distance. The priest standing outside the gate of the zoo, following their taxi with lizard eyes. Noiseless footsteps, boneless fingers and watchful eyes.
Maya’s flesh crawled at the thought of Father D’Gama pawing through her life. ‘Do you think he’s working with the Shadows?’ she babbled. ‘Or manipulating them?’
‘Whatever,’ Veda said. ‘There’s no point going round and round. Luckily, tomorrow is a holiday. I’m using the day to finish my assignments. You better do some work too or you’ll be in trouble. I’ll meet you at college before the social. At 7.30 in the evening. Bring the keys and let Professor Kekobad hide them. Be sensible. For once.’
Maya made a couple of noncommittal sounds and hung up. She drank a glass of water, rubbed Nivea cream on her face and splashed her puffy eyes. Then, when she could absolutely push it no longer, she checked the last message on her phone.
‘Can you forgive me?’ Sanath had written.
Leaning against her pillow in the dark, Maya peered deep into herself. She knew that she could forgive what Sanath had done. That was a no-brainer.
But could she forget what he was? Could she ever forget that he was born out of darkness? From a woman with green eyes and immense evil?
The answer came to her in a healing puff of air from the hardworking AC.
‘Maybe,’ she typed.
‘At the gate at 7.30 tomorrow?’ the answer came in a heartbeat.
‘OK,’ she typed.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Alone at home. Parents gone for a wedding. Planning to sleep.’
‘Sleep deep, Maya.’
Maya smiled as she put aside the phone and snuggled under her quilt. Maybe she would sleep deeply, after all. Stranger things had happened.
CHAPTER 45
The doorbell roused Maya from an almost-doze.
Her parents must have forgotten the key, she thought woozily, and stumbled to the door without bothering to turn on a light. Through the balcony, with its veil of netting, the moon appeared swollen and bright. Almost as if it had been fitted with new batteries.
’Cause in a sky, ’cause in a sky full of stars
I think I saw you
The words of the pop song reverberated in her head as Maya looked blearily through the peephole. Nobody.
Maya looked once more and decided that she must have dreamt up the doorbell. The weather seemed to have changed, and she was feeling uncomfortably cold. She padded towards her bedroom.
Just then, she heard footsteps outside. Not the heavy, I’m-so-relieved-to-be-home clomp clomps that characterised her father. Nor the efficient click-click of her mother’s golden sandals. But a sound that was small and sneaky.
Maya stopped, trying to tamp down her uneasiness. The living room was alien in the moonlight, and she stood in the silvery light, waiting and barely breathing.
She could sense a presence on the other side of the door, also waiting and barely breathing.
Was it Father D’Gama, on a mission of destruction? Aniruddh, come to choke her to death? The girl-woman with the green eyes, determined to keep her secret a secret?
Just then, the doorbell rang again – sharp and peremptory. Maya stifled a scream and looked through the peephole. This time she saw her visitor.
It was a little girl, clutching a hanky.
Feeling daft, Maya switched on the light and opened the door. ‘Yes?’ she asked.
The child looked about seven years old. She had an untidy ponytail and a dazed expression. ‘Aunty, I’m locked out. Can you please help me?’
‘Of course,’ Maya said.
‘Can I come in?’ the girl intoned again.
‘What’s the—’ Maya started, but the girl ducked under Maya’s arm and walked into the living room.
Questions bumped around in Maya’s dopey head. Wasn’t it too late for a child to be wandering around? Why were little girls everywhere these days? And, most bizarre of all, why was the child walking deeper and deeper into the flat?
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, as the girl slipped into the narrow passage leading to the bedrooms.
‘I’m locked out. I need the key,’ the girl said in a hoarse, singsong voice. ‘Give me the key.’
‘What key? Where are you going?’ Maya asked. She disliked cheeky little girls.
‘It’s mine,’ the child singsonged. Her eyes were very wide and very empty.
‘Give me your mother’s number. I’ll call her,’ Maya suggested, trying to block the pesky intruder. Which was when the little girl pushed Maya away with unexpected strength.
The brief contact was a jab of ice. A blast of frost. Maya shivered uncontrollably. In that split second, she knew that something was dangerously wrong.
‘She’s just a kid, half my size,’ Maya told herself. But when she looked at the girl’s chalky complexion and vacant eyes, Maya was afraid. More afraid than she had ever been in her life.
‘Can I recite my favourite nursery rhyme?’ the girl asked and, without waiting for an answer, she began:
‘Little Bo Peep
Has lost her key
And doesn’t know where to find it
If she leaves it alone
It won’t come home
So she’s got to go looking for it’
With a scrawny, dead-white hand, the little girl beat a rhythmic rat-a-tat on a wooden side table in the dark corridor.
Rat tat tat TAT
Rat TAT rat TAT
The tattoo drilled into Maya’s head. ‘Stop it,’ she whimpered, as the words sank in. ‘Who are you? Why have you come?’
‘You don’t like the poem, aunty?’ the girl asked, still rat-a-tatting on the table. ‘Shall I recite Old Mother Hubbard? I like that too.
‘Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she got there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker’s
To buy him some biscuits;
And when she came back,
The poor dog was dead.’
Taut with horror, Maya backed away. Mr Pinkwhistle. Was she talking about Mr Pinkwhistle? Could this child have killed Mr Pinkwhistle?
Mr Pinkwhistle loved and trusted children. He must have welcomed this little girl and her tainted Cheeslings with his goofy grin and waggy tail. How could he know that some children were killers? How could he know that some children were not children at all?
‘You killed Mr Pinkwhistle,’ she cried, trying to lunge at the girl.
‘Aunty, I’m only seven years old. I didn’t do anything,’ the girl chanted, and darted into Maya’s dark bedroom. She bumped around the room, opening drawers and boxes, feeling under pillows and mattresses.
‘Do you have the last key?’ Maya asked.
‘My mummy told me not to talk to strangers,’ the girl replied.
Maya punched a switch with a shaking fist and the bedside light came on. The girl drifted around the room, looking under curtains an
d sheets. Then she spotted Donkey Do, lifted him and galloped the toy on the bed, while reciting in an unpleasant monotone:
‘Sweetly sings the donkey,
At the break of day
Hee haw, hee haw
This is what he says.’
Ratatata Tat tat
Tat tat RAT TAT TAT
‘I have to distract her,’ Maya thought, as the rhythm bored into her skull. ‘I have to get Donkey Do away from her. She mustn’t find the keys. But they will win. They are bound to win.’
Maya felt overpowered by hopelessness and misery. But she had to try. ‘Are you also a zombie like all those others?’ she taunted the girl. ‘Are you also half dead?’
The girl gazed at Maya with pale, blank eyes. Then suddenly the façade of innocence ripped.
The small face contorted into a snarl, and the voice turned sibilant. ‘Give them to me. Give them to me. Give them to me,’ the girl intoned, dropping Donkey Do and coming closer and closer, enveloping Maya in her icy, corrosive aura.
‘You have two keys with you. Give them to meeeee.’
Maya’s ears buzzed, her nose felt numb and her vision blurred. She had to get away from the suffocating poison. Skinny fingers gripped her and the hoarse voice insisted, ‘Mine. Give them to me. They are my life, my fut—’
The voice halted mid-word. Merry sounds floated from the compound. Car doors slamming, whisky-tinged laughter, cheerful goodbyes.
Pine View had returned home from the Vaidya wedding.
The girl froze. Casting Maya a spiteful glance, she crept out of the bedroom.
A moment later, the apartment door slammed.
Mr and Mrs Anand tiptoed into the house soon after. ‘Be quiet,’ Maya could hear her mother say. ‘She needs to sleep.’
But sleep remained elusive, as unanswerable questions chased each other.
Who was this little girl? Who had sent her for the keys? Who even knew that Maya had the original keys with her? Who knew that Maya would be alone at home? What should she do about the keys?
The answer to the last question was easy, at least.
Maya sent Veda a message at 3.21 a.m. ‘Will do what you recommended.’
Then she fell into a half-sleep and awoke when her phone beeped at 8.05 in the morning.
‘Sensible,’ Veda had replied. ‘For once.’
CHAPTER 46
Lola landed up at 1.30 p.m. with a purple hard-shelled Samsonite, a big appetite and a gleeful grin.
Mrs Anand, who’d been scrutinising Maya’s tense, puffy face all morning, greeted Lola with warmth. ‘I’m so glad you girls are going together,’ she said. ‘Maya’s not very good with social occasions, you know. Please take care of her.’
‘Please,’ Maya prickled. ‘You really have a way of making me sound like a weirdo.’
Mrs Anand flinched, and Maya felt guilty. Her mother had produced aloo parathas and mango ice cream. She’d located the wonky hair-dryer at the back of a cupboard. She’d even pretended to admire the aqua skirt. All this while, their entire life was in jeopardy.
‘Uncle will come and drop both of you,’ Mrs Anand announced, giving Maya a concerned look. ‘And as soon as you are done, just phone us. Uncle will be waiting to fetch you.’
‘No, no. You don’t have to worry. Raz will be picking us up at 7 p.m.,’ Lola announced, looking like the cat that had got the cream. And the salted caramel. And the chocolate-coated strawberries. ‘He’s using his friend’s Volkswagon.’
‘Who is Raz?’ Mrs Anand asked, on high alert. ‘Is he at St Paul’s? Is he a good driver? Does he have a licence? Is he—’
‘He’s at St Paul’s,’ Maya jumped in. ‘And he’s also Mrs Rodrick’s son. You remember my piano teacher? Mrs Rodricks?’
‘Who? Renita Rodricks? Then that’s fine,’ Mrs Anand said, heading for her computer. ‘You two eat and get ready. I’ve taken on a couple of extra assignments, so I’m trying to put in a few more hours. Call me if you need anything.’
Maya and Lola settled down at the table. ‘Why are you looking so wretched?’ Lola asked.
‘I’m exhausted,’ Maya replied. ‘This business with the Shadows is really getting me down. The minute I think I understand it, something shifts. Do you think Father D’Gama could be behind everything?’
Lola blinked. ‘Huh? What? Please, start from the beginning.’
Maya told Lola all about the missing key, about Professor Kekobad’s suspicions and about her visitor of the night before. ‘What do you think?’ she demanded finally.
‘I don’t think,’ Lola replied. ‘I can’t. My brain’s done a bunk. It’s like when a mean maths teacher sets a paper full of logarithms I get paralysed. But let me try and go over this step by step, just so I know I’ve understood it.’
Lola held out three fingers. ‘So,’ she started. ‘Three hidden keys. Two keys are with you, but the Shadows think they are actually with them. The third key is not with you, or with the Shadows. Questions: Who has the third key? How will our friends, the bad-tempered Shadows, react when they find that they’ve been duped?’
‘Next. There is another group of nasties involved, possibly led by Father D’Gama. Father D’Gama looks like a corpse but is not a corpse. While the Shadows are corpses but look like the winners of America’s Top Supermodels. Okay, question: Are they working together or separately?’
‘Next. We have identified six Shadows. Amara, Minty, the Girl with Green Eyes, Aniruddh, Owais and a little kid who likes nursery rhymes. Question: Are there any more out there?’
‘Lastly, are you planning to do some really foolish stuff tonight? Am I supposed to be helping? Please remember, I’ll be wearing four-inch heels …’
Maya laughed. ‘I’m going to hand over the keys to Professor Kekobad and then hang out with you and Raz and Sanath. I’m going to eat and dance and be merry. It’s my first proper social.’
Lola raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right! And Owais is going to win the Nobel Peace Prize! Somehow, I don’t think so. But please try not to get yourself killed tonight. It will really mess up your make-up. Which reminds me, it’s time we got started.’
‘But it’s just 3 o’clock,’ Maya objected. ‘We can’t spend four hours dressing up!’
‘Oh yes we can,’ Lola snorted.
Lola was not exaggerating. First, they organised their evening bags. Yellow for Lola and a green bead bag for Maya. ‘Tissues, make-up wipes, lipstick, perfume,’ Lola instructed, and looked pleased when Maya popped in the miniature bottle of Vivace. ‘Good, I knew it would be useful.’
The green bead bag had a small zip at the side. Maya slipped out the two keys from Donkey Do’s bib, tucked them into the narrow pocket and zipped them up. ‘You must be relieved to get rid of them,’ Lola said.
Maya see-sawed her hands. The relief was mixed with guilt. She felt she had let down Wagle, Mr Pinkwhistle, Father Furtado … and Father Lorenzo. ‘I guess,’ she said. ‘But …’
Lola frowned at the morose voice. ‘Remember. Boy of your dreams. Boy of your dreams. First date.’
‘Except that the boy of my dreams was the only person who knew I was alone last evening,’ Maya erupted. ‘Do you think he’s in cahoots with the Baby Zombie?’
‘You’re determined to be in a funk,’ Lola answered, and headed for the kitchen. She surveyed the contents of the fridge and produced a papaya from the purple Samsonite. Half an hour later—after a lot of squeezing, mashing and stirring—the face packs were ready. Lola applied the thick, fruity paste on her face, popped a slice of cucumber on each eye, and lay down on Maya’s bed. ‘No talking while the face packs are on,’ she ordered in a muffled voice.
Maya smeared the stuff on her own face and lay down. But although she imagined clouds floating in the sky and the roar of the sea and all the other stuff that their school counsellor had suggested, she couldn’t relax. Her thoughts kept returning to the tangled skien of lies and illusions, trying to find a single loose end.
‘What are we missin
g?’ she asked Lola. ‘Can you think of anything?’
‘Bkwwt,’ Lola replied, wagging an admonitory finger and pointing at her gloop-covered face. ‘Nttkng.’
Maya tried to obey. But the image of a seven-year-old killer with glazed eyes and a marble-white face kept superimposing itself over the fresh green meadows and dancing tulips. Feeling fretful, she sat up and decided to do something useful.
She pulled out a book from the pile that she had checked out from the library – the slimmest of the three, which was called The Tale of a New City. Although the book had been written in the 1950s, this was a recent paperback edition with plenty of illustrations and photographs.
Maya dipped into the book, which was quite engaging. She smiled over a description of the Byculla Souffle served on silver salvers in colonial times. The dish was an unappetising mix of booze and eggs, but was The Thing to order – especially as it was made using ice imported all the way from Boston.
Idly, Maya flipped to the back of the book to get acquainted with the rare historian who had breathed so much life into his musty subject. She found a black-and-white photograph and a cursory biography on the last page. Then her mouth fell open.
Three things struck her at once.
The author was Karl Brun, the historian who had taught at St Paul’s College years ago.
The face in the photograph belonged to Professor Charles Brown.
He hadn’t gained a single wrinkle in 60 years.
Maya had found the loose end. Now all she had to do was tug.
CHAPTER 47
The next hour was a flurry of activity. Facemasks were washed off. Decisions were made. And phonecalls zipped across the city.
Maya phoned Veda. Veda phoned Aadil. Lola phoned Raz. Raz phoned the nameless friend from whom he was borrowing the blue Volkswagen.
At 6.45 p.m., Lola and Maya stepped out of a blue Volkswagen at the gate of St Paul’s. Raz drove on to find a parking spot.
Lola looked like Lola, except a bit more elfin and pink-cheeked than usual.
Maya looked nothing like the Maya who had walked through this same wrought-iron gate exactly a fortnight ago. The carefree aqua skirt gleamed and flounced, and the violet beads looked alluring against mocha skin and waves of soft hair. But the transformation was about more than silk and beads and lipstick. ‘You’ve grown up in two weeks,’ Lola remarked. ‘You look fabulous.’
What Maya Saw Page 27
