The Thing about Thugs

by Tabish Khair

  But there was one winter — I must have been about nineteen or twenty then — when I spent almost every day of the vacation month in the veranda off that room, studiously retrieving the books that — or so I pretended even to myself — needed to be saved. Mayhew’s was one of them.

  The reason I was there was not really the books. It was a ‘part-timer’, an incredibly healthy-looking woman in her early twenties with lush black hair, who had been recently employed in the house. She would arrive around ten in the morning from some remote slum, and so would I from my parents’ neighbouring house. She would leave around four in the evening, and so would I. It was my first real love — not an adolescent crush, of which I had experienced a few, but something close to an adult passion. If I had had the knowledge or the courage, I would have invited her into the shady corners of that library room.

  She was not unaware of my interest. She took to sitting in the veranda, sunning herself during the afternoon hours when she had no work, and bringing her chores, such as winnowing grain, to the veranda. She sometimes offered to fetch me a glass of water. I was not unaware of her interest either. But there was such a gap between us — of class, clothing, family, education, literacy, even language (for the Urdu spoken in my family was very different from the rough dialect she uttered) — that I could not act on my passion (a passion that often threatened to gag my voice, bedazzle my sight) without the knowledge of betrayal. I would have liked to hold her, kiss her, make love to her; I felt — I knew from the unabashed way she walked and sometimes joked with other (male) servants — that she would know what to do if I so much as reached out and touched her, and that I would not be averse to her display of a knowledge still forbidden to me. But I did not touch her. And once when, by chance, we fell in together on the way back from the market — or, rather, she walked out of a crowd, said ‘salaam’ and walked back to the house with me — I burned with desire for her, but confined myself to the politest of formal talk. It was not just my ignorance that prevented me; it was also my knowledge- and here I give myself some credit — that our relationship was (in the terminology of the ism that interested me in those years) so ‘over-determined’ that it could only end in exploitation and betrayal.

  That is how, sometimes, I see Jenny and Amir walking; passion holding them apart in the politer parks and avenues of London. And sometimes I see them walking alone, but still full of thoughts of each other; buoyed, disturbed, confused. That is when I stop myself: there is a danger in such retrospective crystal-gazing. I have seen signs of it in the well-meaning talk of Captain Meadows and his closest, kindest friends. Once, during one of those dinners in early Victorian London that I glimpsed from my grandfather’s library in Phansa more than a century later, I heard Captain Meadows defend some reviled Asian or African custom by waving his hands, taking in all of the great metropolis that stretched around him with that gesture, and saying, ‘This too has been one of the dark places of the earth.’

  I had read enough by then, and not just in my grandfather’s library, to know what he meant. He meant well. He meant that perhaps a few centuries from now, India or Nigeria would mature into the civilization — the best of it, of course — that had evolved in England since the dark pre-Roman days. Some of my crystal-gazing might depend on this expansive, well-meaning and not entirely blind gesture of his. But unlike Meadows and his friends, I am aware of the dangers, the limitations of all such gestures. I see myself, at the age of, say, forty, looking at a nineteen- or twenty-year-old boy, seeing in his confused maturity a bit of myself, and a bit of Amir Ali. I see a family resemblance, a kinship in the confidence and confusion of early youth. But I hesitate to suggest that the resemblance points to me. For I know that when that nineteen- or twenty-year-old boy grows to be forty, he will not be me. Never. To comprehend his similarity, I have to prepare myself for this ultimate difference. No matter how much like me he seems from my retrospective point of perception, he will never be me; I have to narrate his story not only through claims of knowledge and visibility, which are inevitably based on my knowledge of myself, but also through conjecture, silence, darkness. It is these that make him other than me. It is these that make Amir Ali who he is, and make Jenny, Jenny.

  That is how I see Jenny for almost the last time.

  She is walking back from work, late again. Tonight she will not go to Amir’s house. I can sense that much. It is a chilly night and she does not want to send Gunga and the boys into the streets two nights in a row. She also needs to be alone. Or so I conjecture. She needs to settle the problem that her heart has become. She knows she is in love with Amir, she even shares her bed with him; she wants to marry him. But he refuses to convert to Christianity. And how else can they be married?

  Her desire to escape the streets entails that she can marry him only in the correct manner, in the eyes of God and mankind. Perhaps there is suspicion too. How can love across a precipice not contain the fear of a fall? Perhaps her doubts about the stories of Amir Ali make her clutch at conversion, however superficial, as proof of his reality as the man in her life.

  She has to think about all this, and it is better to think alone. With Amir, she cannot think of anything; with him, she feels too alive to bother about such matters.

  69

  Shields is haunted by the business. But he is also addicted to it; the excitement as well as the money it brings. Now, when they walk into a pub, they can buy and eat and drink what they want. It is a new experience for Shields. John May knows this, and he counts on it to keep Shields from getting frightened out of his senses, to keep him from seeing the ghosts that he hears all the time, that make him jump and fret and complain about being trailed.

  Jack, on the other hand, shows no trace of their activities. Blood is just so much water off his back. John May wonders if the tall, gaunt man even thinks of their nocturnal stalking and killing. In his own case, it is with an effort of the will and exercise of reason that the ghosts are kept at bay. But Jack, one-eyed Jack, seems to lack that very appendage, whatever M’lord would have called it, which troubles Shields so much and which would afflict John May too, if he were a man with lesser strength of character.

  He is aware of this difference between his two accomplices. As they leave the table, he watches them from a corner of his eye. They have just gorged themselves on a meal of fried fish and bread, washed down with mugs of ale. With a head to it, Shields had instructed foolishly every time they ordered a round. Shields is drunk, but not drunk enough to stop jumping at sudden noises. Jack is unperturbed, ambling along in his loose-jointed manner.

  They step out of the pub in such different ways: Shields looks around surreptitiously, turns up his collar and snuggles his head into his coat; Jack steps onto the pavement briskly, stopping just short of a cab that jolts its way past. The driver curses; Jack curses back. The horse neighs and the carriage disappears into the night.

  The street is dimly lit and deserted. As they proceed, saying very little to one another, Shields suddenly clutches John May’s arm. May shakes himself loose. Shields grabs his arm again and drags them into a dark alley. ‘Hush’, he says, ‘hush. They are following us.’

  He has done this before. He often suspects others — Peelers, bobbies, vindictive beggars, ghosts — of trailing the trio, seeking vengeance or justice. John May is about to shake him off and step back into the street again, when he spots a woman walking out of the shadows. She does not seem to be trailing anyone, but she does pause, either in thought or to investigate.

  Shields gasps as she passes them. ‘I told you. I told you they are looking for us.’

  John May knows the reason for Shields’ conviction. It is a woman they have seen before; at the opium den, where they killed their first victim. It is a woman who would recognize them. John May does not believe she has been trailing them. But he knows that Shields will be even more jittery now.

  Shields is tugging at his sleeve again. ‘See, see, what did I say...?’

  John May looks at
Jack. Jack is following the full walk of the woman, her sturdy, shapely back, her rounded hips as they recede into the shadows. He is whistling softly.

  70

  The great stench from the Thames forces Amir Ali to wrap his shawl around his face, muffling his nose and mouth as he used to in India when he went out on summer afternoons. Only, this time, the air is not hot and dusty; it is cold and it smells of putrefaction, caulking tar and fish. There are smoking houses in the distance. And the sun, which was only slightly stronger all day than a full moon in India, has long set.

  Fetcher, noticing Amir’s gesture, laughs and says, ‘Eau de Thames, guv’nor, Eau de Thames. Bin known to get ’em lords in tha’ Parli’ment up there to leave t’umping the’r tables and dis’pear fasta ’n wizard-man headin’ for a bafu. But tell-ya-wha, guv’nor, there’s money in the Thames and the cesspits, and je’ll’ry too. Ask ’em Toshers. Real guld in this spicy sancocho. If ya’ve the nose for’t, guv”.

  And pointing to his own broken, smudged nose, he lets out a whooping laugh that echoes past the dilapidated buildings, past the steps leading down to the waterside, and slithers like some sea-monster over the slimy surface of the Thames before disappearing into the night. ‘Watch’t, guv’, says Fetcher. ‘Good thing the fog’s aint stronga tonight. T’way.’

  There is an old cesspit, one of the two million that serve the inhabitants of this bloated city, and next to it, a sewer opening. Fetcher looks around, steadies the bag slung over his shoulder, and suddenly ducks into the sewer. As Amir hesitates, he hears a muffled whisper from inside: ‘C’mere, tis shorta and no bobby on t’way. Bin clogged for cent’ries, guv’nor.’

  The sewer doesn’t smell much worse than the Thames. Fetcher brings out and lights a Davy lamp. Its yellow light is just sufficient to show them the way. They wade through a couple of inches of filth; the sides of the sewer are dripping. Fetcher hoots on seeing Amir’s revulsion: the laugh goes echoing into the tunnel and splinters into many eerie sounds. ‘Thought ya Indoo-laska’s were used to ev’rythin’ ‘n all’, Fetcher sniggers. ‘Good I talked ya into making ’em leggin’-csizma, no, guv’? Chapplis won’t do ere.’

  Fetcher is as restless and talkative underground as he is above it. Along with instructions and warnings — watch yer ead, guv’nor — he comments on everything, including the large rats that stand on their hind legs, watching the two men pass. Some are as big as cats, and Amir has no trouble believing the stories Fetcher tells of hordes of rats attacking and devouring injured or sick men in the sewers and tunnels.

  ‘Let the beasties smell blood, and yer a goner, guv’nor. Lor, look at that ’un. Wish I had a trap; win me a dozen fights, that monsta there. Worth five d au moins. Look at ’im; look’t ’is whiskas. That one’s chapard beseff, guv’nor.’

  But rats, Fetcher adds, are not the only animals in the tunnels and caverns of London. There are entire herds of pigs, run wild; there are big cats; there are fugitives and criminals; and there are — here Fetcher’s voice drops to a whisper — ‘them. They are human, Fetcher avers, but no, they are not from above, not beggars, escaped prisoners or homeless Londoners. They never even go above. They were born and reared in the tunnels under London. Not ghosts, not ghouls; they are human, or half-human. Of that, Fetcher — like others who repeat similar tales — is almost certain. These people can see in the semi-darkness, they know the underground like the back of their hand. They could be next to you anywhere in the tunnels and you wouldn’t know, unless they want you to discover them. Small secretive people, albinos. Like a gusano blanco, some say. Who knows? They never go outside; light blinds them. The lost tribe of London, Fetcher whispers. Mole People.

  71

  John May is against it. He is whispering, since the pub they walked into is still full of workers who were paid their wages in the pub and, except for two who were dragged away by their prescient wives, are spending a substantial part of their salaries there.

  ‘It was a coincidence’, he says.

  Shields shakes his head.

  John May looks at Jack. The tall man is smiling. ‘A comely wench, she was’, he says in reply. And then he adds, licking his lips, ‘She can rec’nize us, squire. Shields ere is right ’bout that.’

  ‘She won’t come across us again. It was a coincidence’, John May hisses back.

  ‘They are tracking us, I tell you, John May. I have sensed it in the small of my back for weeks now, the small of my back. They are watching us...’

  John May is going to ask in exasperation, and for the hundredth time, who ‘they’ might possibly be, but One-eyed Jack interrupts him. ‘You don’t have to come with us, squire’, he says. Then he adds, and for the first time John May detects the steel of a threat in his tone: ‘It is a free country, after all, ain’t it, squire?’

  72

  They have been walking for at least fifteen minutes now, squeezing through openings that are just large enough for one man, hunching through arches of brick, once cutting across a catacomb with lead coffins warped and twisted like paper with time, darkness, humidity, some of them leaking viscous pools of ichor. Some tunnels are dry and some wet, in some there is a draught that makes Amir shiver under his coat and shawl, but all seem to lead away from the Thames.

  A couple of times, the darting, rambling Fetcher has come to a sudden halt and hissed Amir into immobility too. They stand still for a minute, Fetcher dimming his lamp until the tunnel is dark and eerily silent. Had it been daytime, Amir is sure he would have heard the bustle of the city above, the clatter of wheels, the hooves of horses. But even such sounds of familiarity are absent at night.

  When this happens for the second time, and they start scuttling through the tunnel again after their minute of stillness and silence, Amir asks Fetcher the reason for it. Fetcher lowers his voice. ‘Them...’ he whispers, ‘they’ve got their checkpoints. Ojo, ojo ev’rywhere. No one comes ere without the permission of the’r king...’

  ‘You are joking’, Amir replies.

  ‘Oh no, guv’nor, cross my heart. I seen ’un sometime back.’ Fetcher is adamant, though his voice is still a whisper.

  Yes? What did he look like?

  ‘Naked as Adam; stark nu. ’N schwartz, blacker ’n me — except that it was earth, filth, kul dust. God knows what was unnerneath. ’Is ’air was mostly reddish, I think, ’n his eyes, guv, lor’ his eyes...’

  It is difficult for Amir Ali to follow Fetcher’s conversation, not just because of the way he speaks but also because of the sediment of other languages — all that have ever been deposited in the nooks and crannies of London — swirling around in the muddy torrent of his English. Amir has never been able to figure out how many of these are languages Fetcher understands, at least in bits and pieces, and how many are just sounds, embedded like gold nuggets in the stream of his conversation.

  ‘Like a hvid sheet. Pale, guv’nor, pale. Y’see, them people can’t take much light. They aint have t’eyes for’t. Not outside, that is, guv’nor. But ’ere: they know what’s goin’ on. Ev’rythin’, guv’nor, they ’ear ev’ry footstep. ’Tis the’r kingdom, this ’ere. Who do ya think has connected all the sewers ’n tunnels we bin walkin’ thru’? The’r kindom, guv. And ya gotta show ’em some izzat.’

  Amir recalls a conversation on this same subject during one of the rare gatherings at Captain Meadows’ house: a lady had said they were a prehistoric people, and an officer laughed at that and said that they were just idle beggars with nowhere else to go. Amir is more inclined to agree with Captain Meadows, who considers the Mole People to be a tall story concocted by those who live mostly on the surface of cities.

  At that moment, the tunnel they are walking through comes to an end. It is blocked by rubble. But Fetcher is not put out; he starts scrambling up the rubble heap. Right at the top, he gropes around and opens what Amir later realizes is a trapdoor. Then he pulls himself up through the door and stretches out a hand for Amir.

  Amir finds himself in a dry room, paved with sto
nes and bricks, with low brick arches. There is a candle burning in it and a slight draught that indicates some sort of connection to the world outside. The candlelight is enough to reveal the extent of the room, but not enough to dispel the shadows lurking all around, the darkness obscuring the roof.

  ‘It’s Fetcher, Ustad, it’s Fetcher that’s fetched ya ’nother hazraan cust’mer.

  ‘Out, out, you spawn of Satan’, comes a rasping voice from the shadows in a corner of the room. ‘How did you get in here, you incubus of Iblis? Out. I told you, I do not want anyone to know where I live.’

  ‘Aw, Ustad, it’s me, Fetcher, yer fav’rit, an’ I got a cust’mer fra yer own land, yer watan. He aint know where you live; we come longlongway, unnerground...’

  A string of curses in Urdu and Farsi follows.

  ‘An’ what’s endnu mere, ustad, he is nob’lity fra yer watan.’

  There is a silence; suddenly, an old man, almost spectral, darts out of the shadows from where the curses ensued. For a moment, perhaps because of a similarity in age, voice and posture, Amir thinks it is Mustapha Chacha, risen from the dead in the bowels of this foreign city. But this is another man, a man whose resemblance to Amir’s murdered uncle has long been twisted into something else, something bitter and underground. The man, Ustad, is dressed in a long flowing robe, once white. He is completely hairless, bald and without whiskers. His face and body are tiny, as though shrunk, and there is a mad glitter in his eye. For a moment, it occurs to Amir that Fetcher’s image of the Mole People is based on this pale old man.