He looked at her a moment longer. He didn’t need Marma Adi to see Elaine’s weaknesses; her smoking habit was enough for anyone to have a guess at what was killing her. The lungs glowed brightest, but her veins and arteries were clogged and thin, the blood circulation poor. Death covered her, a ready shroud. She didn’t have long.
She went pale. “What do you see, lad?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I see nothing.”
She looked at the half-empty packet. “I suppose I should cut down. Maybe quit.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference.”
Elaine cleared her throat and put the packet back in her pocket. “Just watch yourself. You read these stories about kids who get hold of their parents’ guns and… bang, someone ends up very sorry and someone ends up very dead.”
“Are you saying I’m a kid with my dad’s revolver?”
“No, I’m saying you’re a kid with a thermonuclear device, with a big red button saying PRESS ME.” She tapped Ash’s hand. “Keep out of trouble, lad.”
nd just like that, Parvati was back in his life. Ash stood in the hallway, bewildered, well after the van had disappeared.
What should he do now?
He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever see her again, waiting every day for some message, getting none. First he’d been angry, then he’d tried to have a ‘quiet’ life. And just when he thought it was all back to normal, there she was, having tea in his kitchen! His guts felt like they were on spin in a washing machine.
A pair of bright headlights lit up the driveway. His parents were home. Ash opened the door just as his mum was unbuttoning her coat.
“Hi, Ash,” she said, ruffling his hair as she entered. Briefcase went alongside the small table beside the door as her raincoat went over the banister, and she brushed imaginary dust from her smart navy-blue suit jacket. She gave a weary sigh and took off her shoes, wiggling her toes for a moment. She tucked her glasses in their case as she glanced at the answering machine for any messages. Then she turned slowly. “Anything wrong?” she asked. Ash was still by the door.
“Girl trouble, I bet,” said Sanjay, Ash’s father, as he followed his wife inside, his gaze on his BlackBerry. “That right, son?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Ash.
Ash’s mum lifted the BlackBerry from her husband’s hands. “That’s enough, Sanjay.”
“See what I mean?” Dad shrugged. “Girl trouble.” Ash’s mum was about to protest, but Sanjay took her hand and twirled her, clomping about in his boots. His own suit wasn’t quite as neat or as smart as his wife’s, but Sanjay worked as an engineer and spent half the week on building sites, making sure the walls stayed up and the roofs stayed on. He was at least half a metre taller and quite a bit wider than his wife, so when he pulled her towards him, Ash’s mum was pressed against the globe of his belly.
“Is it Gemma?” asked Mum.
“The girl in the poem?” said Dad, and there was an irritating smirk across his face, the sort of smirk all parents get when they are about to mortally embarrass their children.
“Hold on. You know about that?” Ash said.
“I think it’s very romantic,” said Mum. “I would have been flattered if some boy had written me a poem.”
Ash wanted to die, right there and then. Was there anyone in the Greater London area who didn’t know about his stupid poem? It was meant to be private, and it had gone viral on the Internet. One day Josh was going to pay.
“How did it go, Bina?” Ash’s dad dropped to one knee while still holding his wife’s hand, cleared his throat, and began to recite. “‘If I may be so bold, to say your hair is like fallen gold, and that when I see you smile, my heart flutters for a while…’”
“Dad, just shut up. It’s got nothing to do with Gemma.”
Both looked at him with more than mild surprise. Dad lightly punched Ash’s arm. “Another girl? That’s my boy. Come on, do it.” He held up his fist. Ash groaned as he gave his father a fist bump. Parents trying to be cool. Seriously, had he been swapped at birth or what? “Just make sure it doesn’t affect your school work.”
Ash left his dad in the hallway undoing his boots and went back into the kitchen with his mum. The tap went on and soon the kettle was bubbling. She paused by the open window and sniffed suspiciously. “Someone been smoking?”
“Smoking? Of course not.” Ash grabbed the Yoda mug with the cigarette stubs. He really didn’t want to explain what had just happened. Frankly, it would sound quite mental. “Let me help wash up.”
“This girl, she’s someone important, isn’t she?”
Weird, wasn’t it? Normal girls like Gemma left him sweating and tongue-tied, but Parvati, a half-demon assassin? No problem.
There had been a moment when, well, if not exactly a girlfriend and boyfriend sort of set-up – there was a significant age gap between them – they had been something a bit more than just ‘friends’. She had kissed him, twice. Didn’t that count for something? But once he’d left India there hadn’t been a word. She’d completely forgotten him. And now, just when Ash himself was moving on, here she was, and it felt like not a minute had passed since they’d last seen one another.
“Mum, I just don’t know.”
The doorbell rang. Must be Josh. He’d planned to come over early so the two of them could head out to Dulwich Park together for Bonfire Night. Ash would have to tell him his plans had changed and he couldn’t come. Not that he’d want to go to the park anyway if it meant bumping into Gemma and having to relive the humiliation of what had happened in the canteen.
“Ash,” his dad called from the hallway. “It’s your friend.”
Ash went to the hall, and his dad winked at him as he passed. What was that about? Jeez, maybe it was Elaine again. What had she forgotten now – her walker?
Ash opened the door. “Look—”
“Hi, Ash.”
Oh my God. Gemma.
“Er, hi. Er, Gemma.” He looked around, wondering if she’d got lost or something. “Er, yes?”
He so wanted to punch his own face. Why oh why couldn’t he just talk to her like a normal person rather than a cretin?
“Can I come in?”
“Here?” Yes, he should punch his own face repeatedly. “Of course.”
Gemma stood in the hall. “Hi, Lucks.”
Lucky sat at the top of the stairs, chin on her knees, watching. She waved back. “Hey, Gemma, my brother was—”
“Go away, Lucks,” Ash said.
Lucky didn’t move. She was totally immune to his threats.
“Please, Lucks?”
Lucky blinked. She didn’t know how to respond to politeness. She blinked again, then left.
So. Gemma. Him. Standing in the hall. Well.
She’d tied back her hair, but a few curls had slipped free, framing her face. She looked uneasy. “Listen, Ash. I just came to say I’m sorry about Jack. He’s not usually—”
“Such a git?”
She smiled. Ash felt another poem coming on. “Git. Just the word I was going to use.”
“Is that why you’re here? To apologise for him?”
“No. I never answered your question.”
“Question?”
“About Bonfire Night.” She smiled at him. “I am going. What about you?”
“No. Plans have changed.”
“Oh. All right then.” She gave a shrug. “Well, I’ll see you later. At school.” She adjusted her rucksack in an ‘I’m about to leave now and you’ve totally blown it’ sort of motion.
Hold on. He rewound the last few seconds, trying to understand the complex subtext of that last conversation. Somewhere he’d gone wrong.
“What I meant to say was I… yes, I am going. Totally. I am.”
“Great. What time?”
She was asking him. She was asking him. That hair flick in the canteen had meant something!
Time to play it cool. For once in your life.
Ash g
lanced at his watch. “I dunno, about eight?”
“Shall I pop over?” Then she laughed. “D’you remember when we were at primary school? I was here almost every day. Playing that board game.” Gemma frowned. “What was it called?”
“The Orpheus Quest.”
She snapped her fingers. “Down into the underworld to rescue the princess, right? You still have it?”
Ash shrugged. “Went to the charity shop years ago, sorry.”
“What happened? We used to hang all the time. I only live round the corner.”
“I stayed in the Nerd Herd and you didn’t, I suppose.” Ash put his hands in his pockets. “We ended up in different crowds. High school’s a big place.”
“Do you think I’ve changed that much?” she asked.
“We all change, Gemma.”
“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
Ash’s mobile phone buzzed. It was Parvati, with an address. She wanted to meet at six-thirty.
Typical. Of all the days since time began, why today?
Gemma glanced down at the glowing screen. “Problem?”
“No. There’s just something I need to do, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you there. In case I’m late or something.”
“Oh, OK.” Gemma paused by the door. “Bye, Ash.”
“Bye, Gemma.” He closed the front door behind her.
Ash’s parents both fell silent as he entered the kitchen. They were each staring intently at their mugs.
Ash’s mum turned to his dad. “That Gemma, I know her family well. Very respectable.”
“Yes, her father is a dentist. Perfect teeth, both Gemma and her sister. Have you ever seen more beautiful smiles?” said his dad. “There is the dowry, him having two daughters. But no rush. We will wait until Ash has finished university, then the wedding.”
“But can she cook curries?” asked his mum. “It is simple to fix. I will teach her once they are married.”
“Just…” Ash backed out of the kitchen. “Oh, just shut up.”
he plan was simple. Ash would meet Parvati in Soho at six-thirty, get the Koh-i-noor off this Monty fella, then head off to Dulwich Park and the fireworks at eight. And hang out with Gemma. Sorted.
This was turning out to be more fun than he’d thought.
Lucky shoved his clothes off the bed and threw herself on it. Resting her chin on a pillow, she surveyed the wardrobe scattered across the carpet. “How many T-shirts can one person need?” she asked. “And Mum told you to tidy up.”
“This is tidy,” Ash said. There were no clothes on the floor that didn’t belong there, most of his books were up on the shelves, and the bed was made, sort of. You could even see some of the carpet. Disney wallpaper for a fourteen-year-old was social death, so it had to be covered up with posters, though poster selection was a minefield. The posters told any visitors who you were, what you were, your religious beliefs. Ash was going through a major superhero phase. Batman. The X-Men. Even a vintage Bond from the 1960s. It informed the casual observer that Ash was either a dangerous outsider with superpowers, or a total geek. It just so happened he was both.
Ash sniffed his deodorant. According to the ads, this particular brand would attract a whole planeload of European supermodels. He’d better use just a small amount.
He checked his hair in the mirror as he slid his gel-coated fingers through his thick black locks. He’d grown them out over the last few months and they were getting perilously long; the gel barely held his hair under any sort of control. “Pass us the Levi’s T-shirt,” he said. “The black one.”
“They’re all black.” She picked up a random T-shirt. “What happened to all your other clothes?”
“Thought it was time for a new look. Anyway, a lot of my old stuff didn’t fit any more.” After his time in India, he’d come back a different shape. The old Ash had been ‘cuddly’; this new Ash was as sharp as a razor.
“So you’ve decided to go all skintight and superhero-ish?”
“Something like that.”
As Ash took off his shirt, he saw the scar – a pale white line locked in the dark skin, wedged between hard muscle at the top of his stomach. He drew his fingernail along it. That was where Savage had pushed the arrowhead in. Another Ash had died that night in the ancient capital of the demon king. Another boy had bled to death on the sand-covered flagstones before the Iron Gates. Now Ash was a dead man walking, brought back to life by Kali to be her weapon.
“Do you miss him?” he asked Lucky. “The old Ash?”
“You’re still here. Same as you ever were.”
Ash slid the T-shirt on. “We know that’s not true.”
“Where it matters, it is.” She glanced at the mirror. Ash stood there, the T-shirt taut across his chest, clinging to the contours of his torso. He double-knotted his Converse All Stars. It wouldn’t do to go tripping over a loose shoelace.
Ash pulled out his shirt drawer and dropped it on the floor. He stretched his arm to the back of the dresser and felt around. His fingers touched bare steel. The object was taped to the back panel of the cabinet. He ripped the tape off.
Hands tightening round the hilt, Ash pulled out his katar.
The Indian punch dagger was thirty centimetres long, the blade almost half the length. Its handle was shaped like an H, gripped along the short, horizontal bar, with the wide triangular blade jutting forward, so the attack was delivered via a straight punch. The tip was diamond-hard and designed for penetrating steel armour. It was like no other weapon in the world, unique to India.
Lucky drew in her breath. “I didn’t know you still had it.”
Ash checked the edges. Still razor-sharp. “You approve?”
“No.” She sat up. “I don’t want you getting involved with Parvati.”
Ash took out a folded piece of leather. He’d made the scabbard himself one evening at the school workshop, doing some after-hours work to earn more credits. He slipped his belt through the straps and then put it on. The katar went into the leather sheath, nestling in his lower back.
“Ash…”
“I’m just doing her a favour, that’s all.” Ash put his Victorian Army greatcoat on over the katar, a knee-length number, his ‘Sherlock Special’. He checked himself in the mirror. The coat hid the katar perfectly, but with a flick he could instantly grab it. Lucky peered over his shoulder.
“You’ll knock ’em dead,” she said before grimacing. “But not in the literal sense. OK?”
“OK.”
“And Gemma will be there.” Lucky sniffed the deodorant and wrinkled her nose. “Who knows, you might get your first real kiss tonight.”
“I’ve kissed a girl before.”
“Really? Who?”
There was a long pause. “Parvati.”
“Parvati? As in daughter of Ravana? As in half-demon assassin?” Lucky leaned forward. “What was it like?”
“All I remember was the abject fear and the sense that I was about to suffer a slow and hideous death.”
“I’m sure it’ll be better next time round,” she replied.
n hour later, Ash got off the bus at Piccadilly Circus. Despite the cold, London was buzzing. Tonight was the fifth of November, Guy Fawkes Night. Fireworks flared into the night sky, but a dingy fog was sinking over the city, steadily smothering all light and colour.
Ash checked his mobile phone. Parvati wanted to meet at the Royal Bengal Restaurant. He went along Shaftesbury Avenue, with its theatres showing musicals and Shakespearean plays. The Lyric had a revival of Faustus, and a glaring red devil loomed over the passers-by, his face split by a bloody grin. Ash turned down Great Windmill Street and away from the bright lights and bustling streets into a very different part of Soho.
Soho still had an edgy, forbidden atmosphere, especially for a boy with parental locks on his computer. His parents would go mental if they knew he was wandering around here at night. In spite of the gleaming towers and flash shops, most of London still lay upon ancien
t streets and winding lanes, which made Soho a labyrinth of seedy, dark alleys where dimly seen figures lurked in the doorways and the encroaching fog seemed to choke all colour, fading it to grey. Ash kept his eyes down.
“Nice coat,” said Parvati as Ash entered the restaurant. The place was packed with diners and smelled of spices – fried onions, cardamom and garlic. A waiter slipped past holding a sizzling balti tray. Molten butter shone on the fresh naan bread. Ash’s mouth watered. “Dinner first?”
“Just tea.” Parvati pointed out of the window. “Monty’s flat is round the corner.”
The neon lights from the bar opposite filled the front window with garish colour, and it took Ash a second to realise there was someone waiting at the table for them.
“This is Khan,” said Parvati, taking a seat.
Khan stood up and reached across to greet Ash. “Namaste.” His voice was a deep, rumbling growl – the sort of sound that wouldn’t be out of place in a jungle. Over six feet tall, the guy had bronze skin with cropped light brown hair, and the stitches on his dark purple shirt strained against the pressure of his muscles. He met Ash’s gaze with confident, amber eyes. Despite his size, he moved with feline grace.
Ash felt Khan’s nails prick his skin as they shook hands. He sat down, acutely aware that everyone in the restaurant was watching him. No, they were watching Khan. The phrase ‘animal magnetism’ sprang to mind.
Dark stripes marked Khan’s arm. Ash didn’t need any more clues to know what sort of rakshasa this guy was. “Tiger,” Ash said. “Yes?”
Khan nodded. Once, and not that long ago, Ash hadn’t believed in rakshasas. They were the bad guys in Indian mythology, immortal shape-changers that had fought humanity thousands of years ago over rulership of the world. The Ramayana was the story of that long-ago war, recounting how Prince Rama had defeated Ravana, the biggest and baddest of the rakshasas, and led humanity to victory.
Rakshasas were legends. Now here Ash was having tea with two of them.
Parvati put her hand on Khan’s arm. Ash’s blood boiled at the way she smiled at the tiger demon. “Khan and I go way back. He’s here to help.”
ASH MISTRY AND THE CITY OF DEATH Page 3
