by Katy Gardner
I swayed down the aisle, searching for a place to sit. Unlike the bus we had ridden into Agun Mazir three days earlier this one was only half full so I soon found a seat. Propping my rucksack beside me I leaned into the sticky plastic cover and stared unseeingly from the window as, gathering speed, the bus clattered through the village. We passed the track leading up the hill to the bungalow and the National Bank, and finally were among the rickshaw workshops on the edge of the village. Pulling the rickety window down, I leaned forward, the breeze blowing on my face and through my hair. Finally, I was beginning to cool down.
A few minutes later, the road plunged down the hill, leaving the village far behind. I gazed blankly at the passing landscape. I didn’t know where I was headed or what I was going to do. One moment I felt completely numb and the next I’d be overcome by a blast of drenching shock. I kept replaying the argument over and over in my mind, my thoughts leaping wildly from Coral to Steve and then back again to Gemma and my terrible guilt.
The road meandered in endless loops up and down the sides of the forested hills, across rivers and through tiny deserted hamlets. We passed goats grazing at the side of the road, laborers laden with vast bundles of firewood, and in a clearing next to a sign marked “Sri Krishan Estate: Keep Out,” a group of thin, dark women hacking at the trees, their faded saris pulled up over their shins. A few miles further the bus came to the roadside shrines which the passengers had thrown coins at on their way to Agun Mazir. This time it didn’t slow down.
I closed my eyes, uninterested in the view. All I could think was that because of my selfishness, I’d messed everything up. I knew I could be careless, could become fixated on my own goals and not notice when people got in the way, and I knew I was a liability around men. But until now I’d always been a good friend to Gemma. Whatever happened in her life, and God there had been enough dramas over the last few years, I’d been there for her. I was loyal, that’s how I saw myself, a loyal old Labrador, lying lovingly at her feet. And she needed me to be like that. Her parents were a disaster: her dad unavailable and Up North, her mum distant and depressed; her older brother long gone. She’d always been so shy at school, so she stuck to me like ivy to a tree.
And this was how I’d repaid her trust. I started to cry again, my nose filling with snot, hot tears splattering messily down my cheeks. How could I have done something so terrible and even begin to think of myself as her friend? She’d been down for so long, stuck in her grotty flat above the Alliance and Leicester, working at the Kodak factory while I lorded it over her at university, sleeping with a string of Stevenage losers who never stayed for long, while her mother fell apart. And all I did was complacently repeat the same tired clichés: it was just a phase, soon she would meet someone to rescue her: all those fairy stories for grown-ups.
It hurt so much it winded me all over again, but what she said was true. All the time I’d been reassuring her, I was also smug in the knowledge that my life was different. And perhaps, I thought with a jab of self-hatred, that was the way I wanted it to be. It was easy like that: I was the pretty, successful one, while she was the troubled failure.
And then, one day last summer, everything changed.
“I’ve met someone,” she had told me triumphantly. “And this time, it’s going to work.”
At first she wouldn’t let me meet him. But she told me about him in detail, describing conversations and dates in phone calls between us which would last for hours. Did he feel the same way as her? What had it meant when he kissed her good night? Which finger should she put his ring on? I counseled her at every stage, relieved that she was happy and we were close again. I told her he was a slow mover, that she should drop a few hints, take the initiative. Christ, I think I even told her that I would sort him out!
I squeezed my eyes shut, dabbing at the tears angrily with the side of my hand. She had accused me of stealing him deliberately, of always coveting and destroying what she had. But it wasn’t like that at all. I had no intention of taking him from her, but he had worked his way into my life in a way I couldn’t fully explain. He was so determined, so sure that we should be together that he made my fears sound like weak excuses, my reticence, stupidity. And he was right, deep down I knew he was. When he finally came to my door that evening I’d run to answer it like a schoolgirl, my heart bumping against my ribs. I didn’t want to hurt her, but as he leaned over and brushed his lips against mine, I realized how much I wanted him.
“What about Gemma?” I’d whispered, but he just shook his head. “Gemma, Gemma, Gemma. What’s it got to do with her?” And then, before I had time to step back, his arms were around my waist and he was pulling me toward him and kissing me properly, and suddenly Gemma no longer seemed to matter.
After that first kiss, we stepped apart. I could hardly bear to let him move away from me. I wanted to merge and melt into his body; I wanted to never ever let him go. My parents were out. It felt like everything was just beginning.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I looked into his face, a little bit nervous, a little bit ashamed. I had never examined him so closely before: his chin was sprinkled with stubble and he had a small scar above his eyebrow. I reached up and touched it lightly with my finger.
“You know I’m going to India?” I said, but he just laughed and shrugged. I kissed him back, running my hand down the back of his shirt and over his smooth warm back and pulling him closer. And then, of course, the doorbell rang.
Oh, Christ, how could I have? I was meant to be a feminist, for God’s sake, someone who put womankind first, not some flaky femme fatale. I sat up, peering through the grimy window at the potholed road. That was what Gemma had called me on the train, wasn’t it? She must have made that comment deliberately, knowing how guilty it would make me feel; in retrospect, her comments about writing to him had been barbed with poison, too. We passed the rusty carcass of a broken bus, a group of people milling around it unpurposefully. All that time when I thought Gemma suspected nothing, she had known. And now that I remembered the scene with Steve I could see that my guilt must have been completely transparent. I sniffed, wiping my nose in despair.
The doorbell had rung and Steve and I had jumped apart. I remembered that Gemma said she would come around after work. I think I wiped my hand across my lips, as if his kiss—my betrayal—was plastered there in paint. I knew my face was scarlet and clothes askew, wanted more than anything to creep away from the hall and hide. But it was too late: through the frosted glass I could see the slope of her shoulders, the lumpy profile of her face. I squared my shoulders and opened the door.
She stared at us for a moment, then pushed past, stumbling along the corridor and into the sitting room.
“Hi,” I said in as casual a voice as I could manage. “What’s up?”
But she just shook her head. Guilt-tripping without accusation, it was her tour de force.
And of course it worked. I spent the whole night awake, horrified at what I had done. The next day I rang Steve and told him I wouldn’t be able to see him again. He sounded stunned, but I put the phone down on him before he could say more. Then, to further pacify my raging guilt, I asked Gemma if she wanted to come with me on my great trip to India. And to my surprise she’d agreed. I’d been so stupidly, naively relieved, convinced now that she suspected nothing, praying that she never would.
Yet now it was clear that she’d always known, and as I recalled the things she’d just said I realized that her jealousy fractured our entire relationship. And now something new started to trickle into my thoughts, a drip-drop of resentment which, as I repeated her accusations, began to flow with increasing speed. How could she say that I wanted to destroy the things she had, that I was competitive? Ever since we were children I’d shared what I had: friends, invitations to parties, clothes, everything. It was hardly my fault that I’d done what was expected, worked hard and achieved the required grades for Sussex. What did she expect? For me to me
ss up my life, too, so that she’d have someone to keep her company? Oxford had offered her a scholarship, for God’s sake; all she’d had to do was pass. But then, for some reason that she had never explained, she’d chucked the whole thing away, skipping almost a whole term of lessons and turning up stoned for her exams. It was nothing to do with her parents’ divorce, I thought angrily, that was just her excuse. No, it was that she couldn’t bear to put herself on the line. That was why she had deliberately messed up her A-levels and why she always chose hopeless men. And I was the one who was supposed to feel guilty?
That summed it up, I thought. Through a clever mixture of passivity and covert aggression she always managed to put me in the wrong. Sure, getting off with Steve wasn’t the best thing I could have done. But she should try to get it into perspective. He was a friend who she had a crush on, not her lover. Just because she had met him first did not mean that she owned him.
The bus had nearly broken free of the hills now; we turned a corner and were speeding through padi fields, the horizon flat and uneventful. For a brief moment I’d been starting to feel better but now my spirits suddenly plummeted again. So, Gemma might be jealous and destructive, but it didn’t absolve me. No matter how hard I tried to justify my actions, there was no escaping the fact that I had not acted like a true friend to her. She’d been desperately infatuated with Steve, and I’d got off with him. I’d lied and deceived her, and there was nothing to be gained in being defensive. I could rehearse any number of excuses, tell myself that the things she had just said were unfair, yet the bitter fact remained: her heart was broken, and it was my fault. I had seen what she wanted and made sure that I was the one who got it. No wonder she didn’t want me around.
I turned away from the window, no longer able to bear my own reflection. All I could think now was that I had to somehow make it up to her; that I’d do anything to make it better. As well as saying where I would be I’d leave an apologetic letter for her in the locker in Delhi. She’d have to come back to it to get her gear; thank God they had supplied us with two keys. Then, after she’d had a few days to cool down, I’d try to talk to her again.
I stayed overnight in a youth hostel in Bhubaneshwar, using up most of my cash on a plane ticket back to Delhi. I planned to spend the night in the Connaught Circus hotel, then go to the railway station to retrieve my things. After that, I decided, I would travel south.
18
THE Delhi morning dawned with the roar of traffic and the sound of slamming doors. In the corridor outside my room I could hear loud British voices. As they passed my door I heard a man say: “It was like, fucking cool, I mean . . .” I didn’t catch the end of the sentence.
I lay on my back for a while, staring up at the dirty, flaking ceiling. I’d been dreaming muddled, fearful scenes, the details of which had wholly disintegrated as soon as I’d woken. In their wake a thick residue of anxiety remained, something to do with Gemma and Coral. Without warning, I pictured Gemma staring at me with such hatred and pain from her bed and felt suddenly nauseous. Although two days had passed since our row, still I couldn’t purge it from my mind; no matter how I tried to distract myself the details of what was said kept replaying themselves over and over. I’d given up trying to justify my actions now; all I was left with was the overwhelming desire to somehow make Gemma forgive me. And yet what real hope was there of that? She had told me to get lost, said she would be pleased when I was gone.
I shuddered, sitting up and pushing the memory from my mind. What I had to do, I told myself for the umpteenth time, was to forget about what had happened in the past and concentrate on being here. I had spent almost a year planning this trip and I should try to enjoy it. This thing with Gemma was just a silly fight. As the days passed, her attitude would soften; she would forgive me in time. Then she would come back to Delhi, find my note, and we would be reconciled. After all, it wasn’t as if I was still seeing Steve. The relationship was over.
But in spite of my efforts to cheer up, an unformed anxiety gnawed at my insides. It was partly that it felt so strange to be alone. I’d always seen myself as an adventurer, but as I sat up and pulled my dress over my head I realized that I was horribly afraid. Nobody knew where I was, I thought; and here, in this vast, unknown country, anything could happen. I wandered over to the grimy window and peered out. Outside was a small balcony, but the window was painted shut. Traffic fumes rose chokingly from the road, my view obscured by hazy pollution. I didn’t want to stay in Delhi a moment longer.
Pushing the few possessions I’d strewn about the room back into my rucksack, I pulled the drawstrings tight and hauled it onto my back. I told myself I should treat the next few days as a challenge, but recently my famous spirit of adventure had become increasingly flimsy. As I put my hand out to open the door I was suddenly overcome by what faced me outside. I didn’t want to struggle with it all alone, I thought with a wave of self-pity. Compared with the huge continent that lay before me I was so small and vulnerable. For a moment I was unable to move. Then, bracing myself, I opened the door and walked out of the room.
Once outside I hailed a scooter rickshaw and asked the driver to take me to the station. I told myself everything was going to work out. In a day or so, I’d be in Goa; in under a week Gemma might even be with me. The scooter puttered contentedly past the cyclists and rickshaws that creaked by the side of the road. In spite of all my rationalizations, just thinking of Gemma made my stomach heave with guilt. Who was I kidding? After what had happened how could I seriously think we would spend the rest of the trip together?
I clutched the rusty rail above my head, my jaw tight. Yesterday I’d been convinced that I was right in coming to Delhi, but all morning I’d been feeling increasingly uneasy, a lumpen, unfocused fear swelling in the pit of my belly. I swallowed, closing my eyes in distaste at the view of a beggar defecating in the drains. It was being in the city, I told myself. I just needed to get away.
Forty minutes later the rickshaw puttered to a halt outside the station. Unfolding my numbed legs I climbed with relief out of the cramped canvas cabin. I stretched my arms above my head and took a deep breath in a futile effort to calm down. For some reason it seemed imperative that I get to the locker as quickly as possible.
I gave the driver sixty rupees, walking quickly away so he wouldn’t have time to object. A train had just come in and all around me people were shouting and pushing, running across the platform in an effort to get onboard. I stepped back, almost treading on a small, half-naked girl who immediately started pulling at the hem of my dress, holding out her hand for money. I turned sharply away, jogging toward the bridge which led to the lockers.
As I descended the steps, the row of lockers finally came into view. Now that I had them in sight my heart started to pound again. There could surely be no rational reason why I felt so jumpy. All I had to do was open up the locker and take out my ticket, and my traveler’s checks. I had the key right there in my hand; Gemma’s was tucked into the money belt in Agun Mazir. Yet as I approached the metaled bank of doors a distant memory kept running through my mind, a vague thought or connection that I couldn’t force into focus.
It was something about the money belt. Turning onto the platform, I searched the row of lockers for our number. There it was: written in English under the Hindi numeral: 54. I clutched the key in my sweaty hands. Placing my rucksack on the concrete floor, I knelt down and pushed the key into the lock. Behind me I could hear the incomprehensible fuzz of a train announcement, the slam of carriage doors. I was twenty-three. Despite this blip with Gemma nothing had ever really gone wrong in my life. I still thought nothing really would. Whistling under my breath, I turned the key.
The locker door swung open.
I peered inside, the pit of my stomach plunging in horror. For a moment my brain simply refused to register what I saw. I stared at the key and then back at the door, but the number was the same. Swallowing back my mounting panic, I groped inside until my hand found the wal
l.
There could be no mistake. The locker was empty.
Someone pushed past, making for a locker a few rows down. I moved to one side, dimly aware of large amounts of baggage being unloaded next to me. For a few moments I struggled to make the connections. If our stuff had gone then someone—a thief presumably—must have removed the locker key from Gemma’s belt either before or after it dropped from the pack onto the station platform. Yet when Coral had handed it back to us the key had been there—or at least they were there in Agun Mazir; on the train all I remembered seeing when I’d hastily unzipped the belt and glanced inside was a wad of rupees. Yet if the thief had taken a key and nothing else, how had he returned it to the belt before Coral saw it drop to the floor? And why hadn’t he taken the money? I stared into the dark space of the locker, its door hanging jeeringly open, then suddenly gasped. Of course! How could I have been so stupid?
It was Coral who had taken one of the keys. She must have removed it from the belt before going to the lockers then handing it back on the train or gone back to the lockers after Calcutta then returned the key in Agun Mazir. Her story about seeing the belt fall to the ground was fiction; she had stolen it. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to concentrate. A dim image was starting to appear.
“Oh my God!”
I clamped my hands over my mouth, my guts dissolving with horror. With her false braid attached—the one she had been wearing with her fake bridal gear—Coral became the woman I’d seen at the airport. And without the braid it was she who had bumped into me on our first evening in Delhi. Whatever, or whoever, she’d been running away from, we must have been noticed there, too. And the silver jeep at the mela was also the same: I’d seen it in the airport car park when I’d gone to look for buses; that was what I’d been struggling to remember in Agun Mazir. In fact, I realized with cold, drenching dread, the man in the robes—Zak, he’d called himself—was the same person as Gemma’s tall yellow-haired hippie; the only difference was that he had shaved his head.
