by Tabish Khair
John May knows that M’lord will not buy any more skulls: this is the last one, and were it not such a strange sample — John May waxed poetic in his message — it is certain that M’lord would not have agreed to a meeting five evenings from now. John May is not entirely disappointed. He has accumulated a small fortune from his dealings with the masked aristocrat, and though he is not averse to earning more, one part of him is relieved to have the temptation removed from him. He is not euphoric about this loss of enterprise, unlike Shields, who burst into rapturous prayers of deliverance on being informed that M’lord had stipulated that no further contact could be made between them after this transaction. But he is not morose about it, either, unlike Jack, who suggested that perhaps they should look for another customer.
But what kind of customer? Shields, because he is too obtuse, and Jack because he wants to, still believe that the skulls are sold to some school of surgery or club of medical students; they see it as a strange version of the older profession of selling ‘Things’ to surgeons and students, a profession that has almost disappeared in recent years. But John May, who knows that the skulls have to be prepared before being handed to M’lord, understands that this is a different sort of collection, a unique one. They will find no other customer.
A street Arab runs towards him, attempting to hustle last week’s, or perhaps even an older newspaper, in the bad light of the dusk. The headline is something about the death of the Ottoman emperor. John May shoos the urchin away.
Tomorrow, John May knows, the paper will carry news about a beheaded lascar. London will be abuzz again. The Rookery Beheader strikes again! The Head Cannibal consumes another victim! John May will go about with the knowledge of being better than his betters, of knowing more than them, of tricking them with his strength of will and intelligence, his cautious enterprise. He will miss that feeling in the future, but still...
112
The things that woman has made me do in the past. You wouldn’t believe it.
Here I was, at the Head of Pan, not my favourite place I must say, regaling my chums with lies about the small inheritance that I had just come into. I had to invent that inheritance. They would have been suspicious of my standing them free rounds otherwise, and I would not have been certain of getting more than a couple of them to join me without the carrot of free drinks. As it was, there were seven of us in the pub now, and I was the only one not really drinking.
I had to remain alert, ears tuned for the signal that would be shouted from the streets — or perhaps by one of Gunga’s men running into the pub screaming, murder, murder. I could not afford to miss the signal. So, not only was I paying for the bloody drinks, I was not drinking half as much as my chums were. That woman and her scheming!
113
Night descends on London once again. Descends? No. It rises slowly, in the overlooked nooks and crannies of this teeming metropolis. First, it crawls like a spider between the cobblestones. Then it spills like ink on the ground, between the buildings, from the walls, under the bridges. It grows out of the corners. It builds a net of shadow in the parks and between the lampposts. It turns the water of the Thames blacker. It darkens the façades of the houses, mean or majestic. It is only when the land has been conquered that night rises up into the sky, the cloudy, smoky London sky, and snuffles out the last traces of day.
The city is at home in this night. It knows the night as one of its own. Night makes the city more of a city, stretches its expanse, deepens its anonymity. At night, the city dons a mask and steps out in another character, whether it is in a room full of skulls and candles, the room of a thousand and one flames in Lord Batterstone’s mansion, or in the feeble light of a fireplace in Qui Hy’s dhaba, where Qui Hy sits alone tonight and stitches, stitches, stitches, or in the fumes of the gas-lit pub under the sign of Pan, where Paddyji regales his old and withering friends, or in the shadows of the streets outside, where steps approach, eyes watch: if night is not sheer blankness, surely it is a place for masquerade.
114
Mary was already at breakfast with her mother when the Major returned. He had been away from around midnight when the news had been brought to him. He had been woken up in bed by Watson, as he had instructed: anything to do with the Rookery Beheader had to be reported to him immediately, no matter where he was.
‘Oh, poor Pa’, said Mary, jumping up and embracing him as he entered the room.
‘You must be tired’, added Mrs Grayper, putting down the knife she was using to butter her slice of thick bread. ‘Would you like to eat something, or should I have your bed made ready again?’
The Major shook his head and sat down at the table. He knew what the two women really wanted to ask him as they watched his grim, tired face.
His face broke into a broad grin.
‘What?’ said Mrs Grayper. ‘Is it true? Have they been arrested?’
The Major nodded. ‘All except one’, he replied. ‘One of them escaped.’
‘Are they the culprits, the beheaders?’
‘It looks like it’, said the Major, helping himself to the bacon. He had his doubts, but he was not going to express them if the beheadings ceased.
115
Gunga was worried. He had not seen Amir for two or three days. Amir had not participated in the farce organized by Qui Hy and Fetcher last night: despite his disguise and false papers, Amir’s presence would have been too risky. The farce, Mai be blessed, had gone well; Gunga was sure that Amir would feel justice had been done. In any case, Qui Hy was relieved that it was all over, the suspicion, the danger. She believed in a quiet life, a quiet life of steady profit. Gunga was relieved too. But where on earth was that boy Amir?
He should have been back by now. It was evening again. Gunga also had news for Amir. Not just the news of the arrest of the beheaders — he was sure the boy must have heard of that by now, London was talking of little else — but other news. He had done as Amir had asked him to do when they last spoke together: he had gone to the docks and enquired about the ship, Good Hope. He had found out that it was bound for Africa.
It had been a lucky break, actually. His enquiry had led to something Gunga had almost given up hoping for. It appeared that for some reason or the other, the skipper was determined to sail the following morning instead of the following week, as scheduled. He was so desperate that he was hiring any dog of a sailor to fill in for those who could not report on time. Gunga and his boys had been hired immediately. Gunga was ecstatic. He was tired of England. He was sick of land. Even Karim, who had been lying in bed, coughing blood for weeks now, had roused himself. They were hoping to take Amir along too. Why leave him here? What did he have left to do here?
But where was the damn boy?
In any case, Gunga had to take his gang of lascars aboard Good Hope now. The ship had just been loaded and moved to another dock for some mysterious reason. All of them had to be aboard by dawn. The skipper was determined to sail at first light.
116
I have seldom seen Qui Hy show such visible signs of happiness. She has an Indian peasant’s suspicion of providence. Providence, she thinks, is a bully always on the lookout for smiling people, so that it can bash them in the face.
But when I read out Daniel Oates’ account of the events last night, her broad face creased into a smile. ‘Finally’, she said, ‘finally, the son of a pig is writing something vaguely close to reality.’ And then she shook with silent laughter.
This is what the report by Daniel Oates said:
Gracious Reader, this morning your correspondent brings to you news that will set you dancing in the streets. The Rookery Beheader has been apprehended. It had been suggested in this paper that the beheadings which have plagued our fair city could be attributed either to the old and deplorable profession of Resurrectionists or to some Oriental cult. We are glad to report that our first conjecture has been proved entirely correct.
Last night, when the respectable citizen had retired from the dark and
the unusually thick fog, three desperate men walked with murder in their minds to an abandoned building in the Mint. There they attacked a beggar from the East — how correct was your humble correspondent in predicting the Eastern connection! — with the intention of murdering him and selling his head (and perhaps other bodily parts) to students and doctors of surgery. The beggar would surely have forfeited his life had he not woken up in time. He raised an alarm in his own tongue, for he is not acquainted with the English language. Fortunately for the man, the abandoned building contained other illicit sleepers who came to his aid. The alarm carried to a neighbourhood public house, where a group of brave Englishmen, some of them retired soldiers, were having an honest drink. Acting quickly, these heroes repaired to the spot and nabbed two of the attackers, who have since confessed to their crimes. However, one attacker, a man identified as John May, managed to escape the custody of our brave ex-soldiers before policemen arrived on the spot.
It is reported that some men ran after Mr May. He was pursued through a number of dark alleys, until he was finally lost in the fog. Some of the men, however, claimed that he was not lost in the fog, but grabbed by strange figures and dragged into a tunnel or a doorway. They heard him shriek and then all traces of him were lost. Need we state that wild speculation is a trait of the mob; such credulity is fortunately not shared by your correspondent.
The police, who arrived on the spot with admirable efficiency, gave assurances that the escaped man would be captured soon. Major Grayper, who came personally at that unearthly hour of the night, took over the final investigations, which we believe cannot rest in more capable hands.
Thus, honoured Reader, ends the mystery of the infamous Rookery Beheader: the seventeen or eighteen murders committed were all the work of this gang of Resurrectionists, a profession that, it was hoped, had been eradicated after the public outcry over the case of the Italian boy. However, once again, the honest citizens of our magnificent metropolis can walk its streets without the angel of terror hovering over them.
I read it aloud to her. Then I put aside the paper.
‘Strange figures’, I observed, raising an eyebrow. ‘Bookman’s people?’
‘So I think’, she replied. ‘But Fetcher swears it was the Mole People. That damnfool boy sees Mole People everywhere! And Gunga, who is old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, also hums and haws. The fog, he told me, was like a cloud fallen on the street. I saw him run into it, Mai, Fetcher and me had just turned the corner; then something happened, Mai, the fog grew darker, denser, as if there were things in it, it filled with movement, and I heard him scream, Mai, such a terrible scream. In all my years I have not heard the like, Mai, so, by all the gods, I do not know, I do not know, perhaps there are Mole People living under these streets, Mai, who knows?’
She looked at me, undecided and scoffing. ‘Have you ever heard the like, Paddyji? You who have lived here half your life? Mole People!’
I did not care. A tune was already playing in my head. It grew louder. I could recognize it now. I did a light jig. Then I danced to where Qui Hy was sitting, in her usual chair. I curtseyed to her, elaborately. I offered her my hand, inviting her to dance. She would usually turn down such invitations with a grimace. No tomfoolery for me, she would say, slapping away my hand; she was no dancer. But today she grasped my hand and pulled herself up.
Qui Hy is heavier on her feet than I am. Younger but heavier, with bad knees. I led her. The tune flowed out of my head and flooded the room. And we danced together, holding each other, King and Queen in our impregnable castle.
117
Amir has stood watching the house all night. He has stayed in the neighbourhood for two nights now; his coat and shawl affording him enough protection from the balmy, foggy May nights. He knows he should get back to Qui Hy. But he also knows that something is afoot in M’lord’s mansion. The house has been bursting with activity all day. He has seen the butler, whom he now recognizes by face, and the coachman, bustling about, supervising this, having that carted out, covering the furniture inside, closing windows. Then suddenly, late in the afternoon, M’lord came out and, after shaking hands all around (which was unusual), drove away in his fly.
The butler and the servants went inside after that, and quiet descended on the house. Now, with darkness falling, the imposing house looks asleep. It is less brightly lit than usual. Has Lord Batterstone gone away somewhere, out of the city? The thought has crossed Amir’s mind before: he knows someone is about to leave, what with the boxes being carted in and out, but he expects the departure to be formal and more elaborate. Great men do not sneak away in a fly; they are seen off by friends and family; there are dinners and farewells. This, Amir believes, is as true of London as of India. Why should a nobleman like M’lord leave all of a sudden, without any dinners, speeches, announcements in the newspapers?
It begins to drizzle, and Amir seeks shelter under a ledge. The fly passes him on its way back to the house. There is only the coachman; no M’lord descends from it.
Amir walks up to the coachman, who is leading the horses to the mews. ‘I need to see His Lordship’, he says boldly to the giant. The coachman is surprised. He laughs. ‘Come back in a year or two’, he replies.
‘A year or two?’
‘A year or two, lascar; his Lordship is on his way to the dark continent...’
Amir starts running towards the docks even before the coachman has completed his reply. The slight drizzle cuts into his face. The emptying streets of London seem to fill with his footsteps, as if he were a monster chasing himself. He brushes past the few pedestrians; he runs into the wet darkness.
118
Gunga and his men were given the usual quarters: the worst in the ship, well below the deck. Gunga did not mind. He was used to it all. Even this ship, with its drunken skipper, its motley crew, not one of whom Gunga would show his back to if he could help it, its mysterious owner, some rich lord who had filled the hold with crates full of equipment for some ‘scientific expedition’ in Africa.
Good Hope, the ship was called. Good hope for whom, Gunga wondered; perhaps for the Lord-owner and perhaps for Gunga and his men, who could finally start the long journey home, for he doubted the crates contained hope for wherever they were headed. He had sailed the seas long enough to know that hope does not ship well; it is usually spoiled across long distances.
But that was not what worried Gunga. He was worried about Karim: he did not know if Karim would last to the Congo, though perhaps warmer climes would revive him. And he hoped that he would be able to go out just once at dawn and look for Amir. He had told Qui Hy and Fetcher to send the boy to these docks.
119
Amir wakes with a start, and that is when he realizes he must have fallen asleep. The wood is cool and hard against his body, the sound of the waves soothing despite the stench. All is still and clear. By the stillness he knows it to be late in the night, perhaps just a few minutes before the first light of morning. For the docks — with their pubs and taverns, biscuit bakers and block makers, pawnbrokers and rope spinners, knocking shops and grog shops — are never quiet until long after midnight, and they come alive again with the faintest light.
He is not surprised that he fell asleep. His last memory is of the men in the tavern. He had run without stopping when he left Lord Batterstone’s mansion. The drizzle had stopped by the time he reached the tavern, leaving his clothes moist rather than wet. He rushed up to the sailors and dock hands in the drinking den, jostling the crowd so that one of them spilled his ale. Luckily there was a man, a recently arrived Burmese lascar, who knew him from Qui Hy’s place; knew him not as Amir Ali, but by his new Ustad-given identity. It was this man who answered Amir’s desperate, madly repeated question.
‘No’, the lascar replied in the jargon that Amir can just about comprehend. ‘Good Hope sailed hours ago. It is not docked here any more, bhai.’
Amir cannot believe it. He scrambles to the piers — to be met by an empty, dirty
stretch of water where he saw Good Hope anchored a few days earlier. He rushes around, peering at the names of the ships still anchored here, hoping against hope to find on one of them the cursive letters of Good Hope. There are so many ships, but not one of them is Good Hope. It is then that fatigue falls on him like a cloak, and he sinks onto the wooden planks of a pier, resting his tired body on a pile of ropes, his fists clenched, his mind undecided between frustration and relief. He has failed Jenny. It is too late now. And yet, a burden has been lifted from his soul. It is then that he falls asleep without even realizing it.
Loneliness wraps the dock, its closed stalls and shacks like sightless eyes. With dawn now limning the horizon, the dark masts of ships seem to stand solitary and mute, aspiring to heaven but failing to reach it; the riggings are spread like empty nets. Water laps against the ships, dirty, but mysteriously insistent, as if it is telling the caulked planks stories that are beyond human hearing.
Slowly an eyelid lifts in the sky. The sun is rising in the east. Waves of light spread behind the clouds, pulsing like a mighty heart.
Then Amir hears Gunga shouting for him. He knows in that instant that Good Hope has not sailed. Perhaps it was moored somewhere else; perhaps the lascar was misinformed. Gunga is shouting for him, asking him to hurry up, they are going to lift anchor soon, they have to go aboard now, he cannot wait any longer, all the other boys are already there, where are you, jahaajbhai? Oh, where are you, nawabzada?
