Runaways

by Carolyn McCrae

  It was two days spent in taxis between airports and hotels, dressing for one event, rushing home to change for another. I felt as if I was a spectator or had somehow strayed into someone else’s life as I knew so few people who ate the food Jonathan had chosen and listened to the music he thought his bosses would enjoy.

  It all felt so wrong.

  Sitting alone at the top table after the meal inaccurately called the ‘wedding breakfast’, I watched Jonathan laughing and joking with his colleagues. They weren’t friends. We had no friends. I had soon realised that all the men and women who worked for that management consultancy firm would stab each other in the back as soon as talk to each other. Only a few of each year’s intake would be promoted and those who weren’t were unceremoniously told to find some other way of making a living. Every conversation they held, everything they did in their lives was geared to getting through to the next year, up one step of the career ladder that was everything to them. I also learned that promotion wasn’t so much about how good they were at their work as what sort of person they were. I watched Jonathan as he talked to his colleagues and their wives and I realised why he had married me. He had to have a wife to have a chance to make it to the next level, with the decision being made in late September the timing was perfect. This whole pantomime of a wedding was to establish him as Partner Material. I was simply a means to that end.

  “You look a little lonely up here. Where’s your gorgeous husband?” I tried to focus on the woman, somewhat younger than me, who had sat down in Jonathan’s vacant seat. “Where are you going on your honeymoon? Susannah?” I just wanted her to go away yet I couldn’t make a scene. That wouldn’t do at all.

  “I don’t know. It’s a surprise.”

  “He hasn’t told you? How on earth did you know what clothes to pack?”

  “I didn’t. He did it.”

  She laughed in a rather forced manner “Jonny has always been a complete control freak.” I had never heard anyone call him Jonny. But then I had only known him six months. For all I knew he had lived for years with this woman who called him Jonny’ and who seemed to know him far better than I did.

  “I bet I know where he’s taking you.” She carried on talking, oblivious to the absence of any encouragement. “It’ll either be Amsterdam, he loves Amsterdam, or India. Yes, I’d bet on India. It’ll be somewhere he can easily get hold of stuff. We all went to Amsterdam last year and were OK with the coffee shops and the cannabis bars but Jonny wanted more and he always found it. I’m sure he’ll tell you about it. We all had such a great time. Jonny was with Flic then, he’s told you about Felicity hasn’t he? No? Oh he will. They worked together and were very close, but she didn’t make the cut last year. I think she’s in Hong Kong now working for a bank or something. It doesn’t matter. He was never going to get serious with her. He needed someone from outside the firm. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes the honeymoon. I’d bet on India because there he’ll get everything he needs if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t like her false laughter or the tone of her voice and I had absolutely no idea what she meant.

  She was right though, the honeymoon was in India.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I found out as we sat in the aircraft and the captain came over the intercom to announce the destination. Jonathan had managed to get me aboard without seeing any signs of the final destination. ‘Welcome aboard this flight to Bombay’.

  “Are you surprised?”

  He seemed genuinely disappointed when I said flatly ‘Not really’.

  The flight was a long one but we had the VIP treatment in First Class. I remembered what Linda had said, about de-fumigation, the noise, the heat and the crowds. I had hoped the surprise would be a good one, a safari perhaps, a luxury resort in the Caribbean or a villa in Tuscany. I had not expected one of the dirtiest, noisiest, poorest cities in the world. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  Despite my tiredness and disappointment the drive from the airport was exciting. The air conditioned limousine was everything you could expect in luxury. After what seemed like hours driving through the colour brown with more people, cars, black and yellow taxis than I had ever imagined we began to drive past lush green squares, beautiful red and white buildings and through cool, tree lined streets.

  We pulled up outside a building I knew immediately was the Taj Mahal Hotel. This was where Linda had been staying when she phoned me only a few months before. I wondered at the coincidence.

  But then, I told myself, I don’t believe in coincidence.

  The Manager said something to Jonathan I didn’t hear then my husband gestured for me to follow him. He didn’t head for the lift, instead he crossed the wide foyer and walked through doors which were, as Linda had described, opened by a pair of turbaned attendants. Jonathan strode along the wide corridor and it became obvious he had been here before and knew exactly where he was going. Without checking whether I was behind him he turned sharply to the left and instead of the small room I had been half expecting there was a staircase.

  I stood and looked at it, Jonathan had paused at the bottom.

  “Magnificent isn’t it.”

  I wasn’t in the right mood to take in its beauty. I did not want to climb how many flights of stairs, however magnificent they were. I wanted to have a shower, lie down and rest after two emotional days and a long journey.

  “For Pete’s sake Jonathan, I’m tired. Why bring me this way? What was wrong with the lift?”

  “I thought you’d like to see the staircase, reach the rooms the same way people did for a hundred years.”

  “I just want to get out of these clothes and sleep.”

  He seemed disappointed in me, but for once I didn’t care.

  I followed him up the stairs, watching as he paused briefly to talk to a man walking down. A short way down the corridor on the third floor we turned right into our room. It was furnished in an old fashioned way with heavy rosewood furniture and rich silk fabrics. The view from the seat in the bow window was across the brown water of the harbour, a large arch which I knew to be The Gateway of India, was just visible to the left. Despite the fact that this wasn’t the blue Caribbean or the wide expanse of the Serengeti I had to admit it had its own sort of beauty.

  I was prepared to relax. I sat in the window seat and waited for Jonathan to come over to me, gently remove my clothes, lead me to the shower and wash me down, then lead me back to the bedroom and make long, leisurely and satisfying love to me. Whatever his motives, and whatever my misgivings about our marriage we had usually enjoyed sex together and this would be our first time as husband and wife.

  But although he walked over to the bed he ignored me, instead lifting the phone and speaking a few words in what seemed to be the local language.

  “You speak Hindi?” I asked, surprised out of my expectations.

  “Muje Urdu aatee hay.” It seemed to be some sort of answer to my question.

  “There’s a lot about you I don’t know isn’t there?”

  He didn’t answer me directly, he just said I should have a shower and then spend some time walking around the hotel. He had things to do.

  “What about clothes?”

  “They’re in the closets.”

  I opened the wardrobe and the drawers in the unit in the dressing room and found them filled with enough clothes to last for weeks.

  “Have a shower, change, go and walk round the hotel, do some shopping. I need some time on my own.”

  It was not what I expected my new husband to say.

  I found my way to the pool, and sat down wearily in what were possibly the same wicker seats Linda had sat in six months before as she heard her husband and his family tell her she had never had a marriage.

  It was all so strange. Inside the walls of the hotel and the high fence, there were servants, there was water, food, cleanliness. I hadn’t realised how cooling the sound of the splashing water of the small fountains could be as I concentrated on
the refreshing sound they made. Squatting on the grass were boys cutting the grass with what looked like scissors, blade by blade just as Linda had described. I walked aimlessly along the wide corridors of the hotel. There were western shops with shoes that perhaps a fraction of one percent of the population of the city could afford, there were clothes that someone must have taken a month to make, earning a minute fraction of their value. I looked at a montage of photographs of the rich and famous that had stayed at the hotel, and wondered whether any of them had seen anything other than this air-conditioned convenience store, an oasis of western consumerism in the desert that was the poverty of the city.

  I hated it.

  I walked through the doors. They opened for me as if they were automatic but really through the attentiveness of the attendants. The heat hit me like a wall and I was in the real world with its dirt, noise, stench and overwhelming heat. Very carefully I crossed the road and headed for the large archway, the Gateway of India.

  “Baksheesh baksheesh” the beggars repeated monotonously with their hands held weakly out in front of them. They seemed to be everywhere. Thin children dressed in ragged and dirty saris with babies balanced on their hips pursed their hands to their lips as if pretending to eat nonexistent food. ‘Baksheesh’. A boy, no older than five, his legs tied up around his neck, propelled himself on a wheeled board. ‘Taxi munta? Taxi?’

  “No. No.” I repeated over and over to everyone who approached me. But I was determined not to go back to the hotel. I knew this wasn’t the real India but it was a damned sight more India than the hotel.

  I walked along to the arch and read the inscriptions redolent of empire and imperialism, I watched the multitudes piling into pleasure boats to take trips around the harbour, to their islands. There were so many boats I could hardly see the water. And people, so many people.

  I turned away from the archway and walked towards a green roundabout, wishing I’d thought to wear shoes that didn’t hurt my feet every step I took on the hot, uneven pavement. There were shops, barely the size of the doorways of shops in London. And everywhere there were children, with babies on their hips, mouthing ‘baksheesh’. Always behind the beggars’ cries was the noise of cars breaking and accelerating and the incessant hooting of horns.

  I walked for a long time on pavements that were so potholed as to be almost impassable. I needed something to take my mind off the knowledge that was overwhelming me, that in marrying Jonathan I had made a terrible mistake. I took my life in my hands crossing wide streets one minute clear the next filled with a mass of anarchic traffic as I headed for an area of green. I didn’t know what to expect when I reached it, peace perhaps, a respite from the incessant noise and the tides of people who all seemed to be rushing somewhere. If I had been expecting something like a London park I was to be disappointed. There was as much mayhem as in the streets. Tens upon tens of wickets were marked out, all surrounded by their own group of fielders. Thousands of people were playing cricket. I thought of the village cricket pitch where I had spent so many Sunday afternoons watching my father play. The players there had worn perfect whites and there was never any noise apart from the polite murmur of ‘shot’ or the ripple of embarrassed applause as a wicket was taken or a boundary scored. That was the cricket I had known, this was something completely different. This was a mlée of men and boys of all ages in their normal clothes, shouting at each other. The wickets, bats and balls seemed to be anything that could serve the purpose. There appeared to be no set teams, any number of fielders were placed in any positions and most seemed to be playing in more than one game, occasionally turning to face a different group. Everyone seemed to be taking it all extremely seriously, shouting instructions to everyone and anyone who cared to listen.

  This was so completely different from any cricket I had known that I sat down on an empty patch of ground. When I reached out instinctively to stop a ball that came my way I smiled at the young man as I threw it to him and was pleased to get a broad, red-toothed smile in return. That young boy seemed to me to be the only person I had enjoyed meeting in months.

  I don’t know how long I sat watching but when eventually I stood up I realised how painful my feet were. They were not used to such uneven streets in such heat. I walked gingerly to the road and held my hand out hoping that a taxi would stop, there seemed to be enough of them.

  “Taj Hotel” I said with a confidence I did not feel and was relieved to find that the driver seemed to know where I meant. As we drove back through the teeming streets I wondered what I would do to pay him. I had no money. But, feeling very much as if I were part of the world of the Raj, I assumed that the hotel would sort it out.

  I was dusty and somewhat bedraggled when I limped bare-footed into our suite, looking forward to the air conditioning and the wonderful shower.

  “Well Susannah. There you are, I was wondering where you had got to.”

  “I went for a walk.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Well I did. It was very interesting.”

  “Here.” He went to hand me a cigarette.

  “You know I don’t smoke. Neither do you.”

  “Tobacco. No, I don’t smoke tobacco but this…” he took a long drag of what I assumed was a joint but exhaled very little smoke. “This is different.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I have my contacts.” He said mysteriously as he took another long drag before stubbing out the minute remnants in the ashtray on his bedside table.

  “Don’t be so prissy, Susannah, relax, enjoy.”

  I had seen him drunk, I had seen him very drunk, but I had never seen him when his eyes were such intense bright marbles. But his mind was dull and uncomprehending.

  “Here.”

  He reached over and took a small packet out of the pocket of his jacket and teased out a brown sliver from a cube the size of a sugar lump.

  I turned away from him.

  Drugs. Whatever it was I didn’t want to know. I heard small noises that could have been anything and when I turned around he was lying back, a small pipe in his hands, smoke rising from the bowl as he exhaled.

  “That’s real good stuff.” He said approvingly.

  “What is it? Where did you get it?”

  He took another long draw from the pipe and handed it towards me.

  “No!” I turned away. I didn’t know how to react or what to do.

  “You must have done this sometime.” I shook my head “You’re a big girl. Try some.” I shook my head again. “Please yourself bitch.”

  After a few moments I turned around. He was masturbating as he smoked, bringing himself to a climax in a very short time, giggling absurdly as he watched the small fountain of ejaculate. He stared at me as he handled himself, defying me to object.

  “Relax, we’re not in England now. We can do what we like.”

  He had obviously been doing exactly that since I had left the room an hour or more earlier.

  I went into the bathroom, locked the door and tried to forget what my husband was doing. I decided to try to forget he was my husband.

  When, after half an hour I went back into the room he was lying asleep on the enormous bed. I pulled the covers over him with something approaching disgust and sat at the table by the window looking out at the teeming world wondering what on earth I had done and why on earth I had done it.

  I was interrupted by the room bell which was followed immediately by the noise of the servants bringing in the tea table with great ceremony. I acted the part of the aloof and distant memsahib as Jonathan woke up and spoke briefly in words I could hardly hear let alone understand. I said nothing to him, there was nothing I wanted to say, as I poured the tea, buttered the scones and ignored the pile of tiny triangular cucumber sandwiches.

  “We must talk.”

  I couldn’t disagree and he seemed more in control of himself than he had been an hour or so earlier.

  “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.
”

  I gave him what I hoped was a withering look of sarcastic disbelief.

  “There is a lot you don’t know …”

  He paused as if waiting for me to say something but I stayed staring out from the window seat over the harbour. It was late in the afternoon and the sea front was crowded, but then I supposed it was crowded throughout the day and the night.

  “You’re over-reacting Susannah, everyone does drugs, everyone. I really didn’t think I’d have to tell you that. How do you think we work so hard, such long hours, and still stay out half the night taking you girls to dinner and the theatre?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well you should have done.” He answered me in a parody of my own voice. “Why is it such a big deal?”

  “It’s illegal.” Even to me it sounded feeble.

  “Have you never done anything illegal? Oh come off it woman, relax. Once you’ve had some you’ll feel better.”

  “No! I don’t want any! I’m not having any! Go away!”

  He had rolled a cigarette and put it between his lips to light it and walked over to me, grabbing my arm and trying to force the joint into my mouth.

  “No!” I tried to speak without opening my mouth. I kept my lips pursed together and I realised how idiotic I must have looked and sounded.

  “You will take a drag Susie. You will.” He knew I hated being called Susie. He only did it to annoy me.

  With my mouth and eyes tight shut and my arms flailing like a windmill to keep him away from me I heard crockery crashing to the floor.

  “Do you know how stupid you look?”

  I hadn’t realised he was standing a few feet away. I started to cry. I was tired and I was disappointed. I was so angry with myself for having been taken in by his charm.

  “You really are a naïve little bitch.”

  Apart from Susie, the one word I hated to be called was bitch.

  I picked up the first thing I could lay my hands on, a heavy glass ashtray, and threw it with all the force I could in his direction.