by Dar, Azma;
‘You’ll have to excuse me, dear,’ said the Begum. ‘The indignity.’ Gago twisted out the Begum’s legs from under the sheets and lifted her on to the chair. Saika moved to help, but her inexperienced hands just made matters more difficult and she let Gago do it herself.
‘Won’t be long,’ said the Begum as Gago drove her off into the bathroom. When she returned, the Begum was dressed in a Victorian nightgown trimmed with lace and a matching cap. She was still wearing her ghostly make-up, and carried a pink broderie anglaise drawstring pouch in her lap.
Gago settled her down, after checking if she needed anything else, said goodnight and went out, closing the door firmly behind her.
‘How nice,’ said the Begum. ‘Just the two of us.’
She poured the tea herself.
‘Sugar?’
‘One, please.’
‘I don’t, as you know,’ said the Begum. ‘I take these instead.’ The Begum tipped five sweetening tablets into her cup. ‘So, how is everything coming along? Feeling any movements yet?’
‘No.’
‘Do you mind just…?’ said the Begum, meekly holding up the cup. Saika leaned forward and took it. It was Kashmiri tea this time, pink and milky. The Begum had quite a collection of brews. Saika sipped it. It was hot and sweet, laced with cinnamon and elaichi.
‘So, Anwar is staying in town. The first time you’ve been separated, eh? I didn’t mind it so much. My husband used to go for long trips away. It was good to go a little mad. Be free and unpredictable.’
She licked the fake cream off an apple puff.
‘Gago tells me you’ve been suffering from heartburn. I hope the kava I sent you last night helped.’
‘I didn’t drink it.’
The Begum looked sour at this news, but then softened her expression as she continued in a conversational tone.
‘I’ve heard you’ve been interested in finding out about our first bahu. Why didn’t you come to me if you wanted to know things? I could have told you.’
‘I didn’t think to ask.’
‘Well you’ll know for next time. We need to make an effort to be friends. We’re going to be together for a long time, inshaAllah.’
She smoothed down her hair, watching as Saika drained the cup and set it back down on the hospital table.
‘Gago has a lot to answer for,’ said the Begum, laying back onto her pile of pillows. ‘I don’t know why she told you Zareena was pregnant. Raking up old stories without reason.’
‘At least someone in this house is honest with me,’ said Saika. The Begum pinched up her lips.
‘I don’t think you should use that tone about your husband, but I suppose I can understand things might be difficult for you. Well, it was a lie. Zareena made it up to make a fool out of me. That’s what she was always trying to do. She wanted to build up my hopes and then watch the disappointment. I’ll confess I did believe her. It was only when we got the post mortem report that I realised.’
It tallied with what Dolly had told Saika.
‘Maybe she was scared you would find Anwar another wife if she didn’t produce something quickly,’ she said.
‘Hmm. I did mention babies once or twice. But only in jest, and only because I was so desperate to see my grandson! Who can blame me? And I have to thank you, too, for making me so happy. Pastry?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You have been good for my son,’ she said. ‘He seems to be very contented, after putting up with all those tantrums. She wanted to possess him completely. There’s love, yes, but with her it was like a disease. All-consuming. She couldn’t bear it if he preferred my opinion, even on the most trivial matters. Where to go shopping. Whether a window should be open or closed. She didn’t even spare poor Pamela. I suppose you heard about her?’ Saika nodded, surprised at how cosily the Begum was sharing the reminiscences, and a little uneasy. Who knew, perhaps they could become more tolerant of each other? There certainly didn’t seem to be anything to lose by letting her talk.
‘The poor boy went to the trouble of getting an exotic breed, not easy to come by, and even a uniform for it, and she showed no appreciation whatsoever. Anwar had to look after the dog himself, and that infuriated her even more. Then, one night, they were late for a party because Pamela was constipated. Next day the poor thing was dead.’
‘If she did it herself, why did she blame you?’ asked Saika, yawning unexpectedly.
‘I’ve told you, she wanted to make me look bad. Even in front of the servants, so they would want her to be their only mistress. It must have been Zareena.’
Saika nodded. ‘Anwar said she confessed to him.’
‘See?’ said the Begum triumphantly. She squinted at Saika. ‘What’s wrong? You look sleepy.’
‘Nothing… I’m fine…’
The Begum nodded, then continued.
‘Eventually she just went too far. Otherwise it would have worked out fine. She started playing around with that sewer creature cousin of yours.’
Saika was shocked to hear the Begum refer to Pervez in this way, despite knowing her opinion of him, but thought it best not to interrupt.
‘Anwar had seen them together. Can you imagine how he felt? He cared about her. And that was how she treated him. It was what they were arguing about on the last day. He should have done something! But he didn’t. He just left her there. She ran out of the bedroom, following him. The slut liked to wear those shameless bells. With high heels. Utterly stupid. Even her bedroom slippers were stilettos.’
Saika’s head began to hurt, a slow, irritating throb in her right temple, and her eyes ached. Shutting them tight then opening them was the only thing that gave her a little relief.
‘Were you there when it happened?’ Saika said.
‘Yes, I saw her totter and then come tumbling down, over and over. I was waiting at the bottom. Not a pretty sight. Anwar had got as far as the front door. He came running back, distraught, terrified, but I sent him to call the doctor. By the time he did that it was all over.’
It was the first time Saika had heard the accident described in detail, and it coloured her own sketchy versions of it. Although it occurred to her the Begum might be lying, listening to her talking about it as an almost straightforward incident, a fall caused by an unfortunate choice of footwear, dispelled some of the more fantastic elements she had added herself. She realised that it was possible the reason behind Anwar’s odd attitude to it was that he felt guilty for arguing with her even on the day of her death. As she came to this conclusion, her mind, overwrought with turning over endless theories and possibilities, felt a little less strained, but the physical pressure was still there. Unable to control them any longer, she let her eyes close.
‘My, you are drowsy!’ said the Begum. ‘It’s worked very quickly on you. It took two or three doses with Zareena. That was partly why she was unsteady on her feet that day. Mind you, with her the stomach cramps had also started. Not feeling anything down there yet?’
‘What?’ said Saika, pulling herself upright, trying to make herself more alert, but she could feel a vague numbness spreading over her limbs. Her voice was slurred. ‘Cramps?’
‘I think it’s safe to tell you, as you’ll probably lose all memory of it once it’s over. That’s what Baba said. And no one else will ever guess in a million years. I got it from him. A potion to induce labour. It’s what’s required of me. To cause the death of an unborn child. A child of my own blood.’
Saika didn’t know if she was hearing things. Her brain was pounding.
‘You’ll understand better when you’re older, and the emptiness begins to suffocate you,’ she heard the Begum say. ‘It was when my husband had his riding accident. Baba brought him back from the dead with his powers. I was grateful, but it scared me. I mentioned my fears to Baba. This time we’d been lucky, but one day my husband would leave me, and then I’d be a lonely old woman, and no longer a pretty face for people to take an interest in. He said he could stop it i
f I was willing. He said the jinn would give me eternal youth. Make me beautiful once again.
‘Of course I had to keep my side of the bargain. To enslave the spirit, a demonstration of loyalty is necessary. I tried to get pregnant. But unfortunately I discovered that the damned horse had left my husband with blanks.’
Saika felt a gentle prodding. The Begum was touching her shoulder with the walking stick.
‘Are you listening?’ she asked. Saika’s head dropped. ‘I gave up. But now you’re here. And your child is descended from me. It will work. It has to.’
Saika was awoken by a clatter, from somewhere behind her. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep or unconscious. She blinked her eyes open. The room was now lit only by a pair of lamps on either side of the bed, which, to her astonishment, was empty. Her armchair faced the bed, with the door behind it. In the space directly within her view, her mother-in-law was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t gathered enough energy yet to get up and search the room for her, or to see what had caused the noise.
The clock radio said a quarter-to-eleven in red. Not more than ten minutes. She flexed her hands. Remembering snippets of what the Begum had said, Saika ran her fingers over her clothes to see if there was a sign of anything wrong, although she wasn’t sure precisely which symptoms she should expect. Although she was feeling dizzy and her head still rocked, and it was an effort to move, there was no sign of abdominal cramps. She put her head against the tall back of the armchair in relief, still unable to make sense of what she thought she had heard.
There was a sudden creak and the Begum was by her side, rolling along in the wheelchair, her night cap slightly dishevelled, a blanket across her lap. There were crumbs of chocolate on her lips.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Go back to sleep. I knocked over the flower pot when I was closing the fridge.’
Saika swallowed. ‘I’m going downstairs. Please move out of the way.’
‘Sit down,’ said the Begum. ‘I was afraid something like this might happen. The dosage wasn’t quite strong enough. But I’m not taking any chances this time. An extra shot, just in case.’
Her hand slipped under the blanket and pulled out a syringe, a drop of clear liquid quivering on its tip. Saika jerked automatically and kicked the wheelchair. The Begum grunted and rubbed her legs, but it didn’t deter her. She had just begun a speedy re-advance, when the lights went out.
‘Load shedding tonight of all nights,’ moaned the Begum in the dark. Then she was quiet. Saika, not waiting any longer, grabbed the armrests of the chair, and struggled to her feet, the blackness disorientating her further. She took a cautious step, stumbling a little, and put her hands out to feel her way, but her legs folded as the wheelchair drove into them and hands clutched at her hair. She lashed out in every direction, pushing and punching, ignoring the old woman’s screams. The door opened and Nathoo came in, carrying a lantern in each hand, illuminating the Memsahib collapsed on the floor, and Madam unconscious in the wheelchair, the syringe poking out of her neck.
CHAPTER 13
Anwar had dozed off soon after his parents-in-law turned in.
He dreamt about cups of tea.
He was a poor man, selling tea on the streets. Not ordinary tea, special flavours. Earl Grey. Darjeeling. Pink Kashmiri tea. Ginger. Mint.
There was another man, a rival tea seller. It was Ibrahim.
He wasn’t doing as well as Anwar, because he didn’t have a cart on wheels that moved around. Plus Anwar had another special asset. A microwave oven. Customers liked it boiling hot, and in a china cup.
He woke up. It took him a moment to recognise where he was. The room was lit by a single red light bulb on the wall. The silence was broken abruptly by the call to the Fajr prayer outside. Dawn was still more than an hour away. He felt around for his mobile phone in the dark and dialled Saika’s number, not knowing what he would say, just wanting a bit of reassurance, but heard it ringing somewhere in the room.
Anwar rarely performed the Fajr prayer, but now he was awake he had no excuse to miss it. He found his way to the bathroom, little more than a closet with an old green metal handpump and an aluminium bucket. He raised the handle and then pushed it down, several times, to fill the bucket, trying to do it slowly to minimise the sound. The water was freezing. There was coil of metal attached to a wire and plug hanging from a hook on the wall, a large version of the element found in electric kettles. It was meant to be placed in the bucket and then connected to a socket, to heat the water, but as there wasn’t one in the bathroom, he would first have to transport the whole thing to wherever there was. He didn’t fancy sloshing around in the dark.
He did his wudhu, shivering as he washed, then went back to the lounge and prayed. Then he folded the bedding, put on his shoes, and went outside. Even if the road was still blocked, at least he would get home as soon as he could. He’d had enough. He would tell Saika everything.
The snow had stopped, and the streets were empty. He drove as far as possible towards home, but the road block was still there, and no one was about. He parked on the side and waited.
Anwar was asleep in the car when the policeman tapped on the window. It was morning, the sun shining cool and silvery.
‘Saab, the road is open, you can go now.’
His whole body was stiff, especially his neck, from leaning against the window, and frozen cold. He’d turned the heater off for while, thinking to put it back on a bit later, but had nodded off. He ached all over.
He started the car and drove up the hill, frustrated that each time he tried to go a little faster he could feel the car sliding. He slowed right down as a car came from the other direction, going close to the rocky hill, so the other vehicle was on by the side of the edge, by the drop. They passed each other, no more than three or four inches between them. He accelerated then stopped as something bigger appeared from around the next turn. It was too dangerous to keep going. He waited until the ambulance had gone by, then went a bit further to where the road widened, turned the car round, and went back down the hill. Nathoo had been sitting in the front, in between the two ambulance men.
The Inspector was at work early, dressed in a white linen suit. The Constable made a joke about him being undercover and trying to camouflage himself against the winter scenery. The Inspector humoured him with a chuckle and pointed out most of the snow had melted.
‘It’s not good,’ said Sharif. ‘We are making fools of ourselves. First Farzana and now Rafeeq. There’s no way we can prove that Dolly’s lying about the alibi. At least two neighbours popped in to see the end of the health show Rafeeq and Dolly were watching. We’ve got no more than what we started with. All the time new crimes are being committed elsewhere.’
‘So what, sir?’ said the Constable. ‘Close the case. If something new turns up, we’ll investigate. There aren’t enough of us here to waste any more time on this. We’ll just say it was a bandit.’
‘We won’t hear the end of it from the mother.’
The Constable thought.
‘I know the mother,’ he said. ‘She’s as thick as thieves will the old medicine man. Go and see him. He’ll tell you what to do about her.’
Baba was almost finished packing. It was time. There had been two unhappy customers in the last month: one whose face had erupted with boils after the application of a soothing paste, the other very angry because the woman he had been lusting after for many years had just given birth to another man’s fourth child. The charm he had hidden inside her stove had not proved itself particularly effective.
A change of weather would also be pleasurable. Baba longed for heat, not ice.
He was locking the suitcase and about to ring the hired driver to get here in ten minutes, when he heard voices, the neighbour shouting greetings to people in the street. There was a knock at the courtyard door.
‘It’s Inspector Sharif. I’d like to talk to you, Babaji.’
Oh shit! He relaxed himself, filtered suitable lies through hi
s brain to sit ready on his tongue. He took the padlock off the door.
The Inspector and the Constable sat down in the yard on the string bed without being invited.
‘Please, Baba or is it Hakeem saab?’ asked Sharif.
‘Baba is what I am called with love.’
‘Hmm. Had your breakfast?’
Baba nodded.
‘I’ll get to the point. We need you to do a job for us.’
Was it a trap? He played along.
‘Mental problem or physical?’
‘No problem. I understand one of your patients, er, clients is Mrs Rabia Chaudhary. I would like you to tell her something. The identity of her son’s killer.’
‘But I have no idea who did that. It was nothing to do with me.’
‘You have knowledge of the Unseen, don’t you? So, you tell her that you’ve had a message–’
‘Communication.’
‘–from your… er spirit guide, who confirms that the killer is dead… escaped … what do you think she will believe? We want to close this case because we have no clues and money is being wasted. We want her to have her closure too.’
‘I don’t have time.’ The words fell out accidentally. ‘I mean… I mean I’ll tell her I have my suspicions… One of the men who came to me last week, a minor gangster, asked for a very strong prayer, and I believe he used it on Pervez. The man has since been found dead too.’
The Inspector and the Constable looked each other, approving of this more sophisticated plan.
‘Good. If you don’t do it by lunchtime, we’ll start investigating you.’
The Inspector’s mobile buzzed.
‘We should go to the hospital. There’s been a disturbance at the haveli.’
Farzana was folding laundry when Rabia came up the stairs slowly, panting. She went against her natural instinct to let her continue struggling for breath alone, and helped her into the room. Rabia never came upstairs.
