Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  I glanced at the gaggle of students milling around on the corridor ahead of us. A few weather-beaten faces, wrinkled jaw lines or receding hairlines jumped out at me. I hadn’t realised it until Ritchie’s little dig at them.

  ‘Those who’re here on study loans aren’t older than twenty-two. They usually lose out to older, so-called experienced students when it comes to scholarships … or so I hear,’ Ritchie explained with a smug half-smile. But now, his eyes looked kind. ‘So, back to the topic at hand. You don’t sound so submissive when you’re approaching a faculty member for help. No one here is bothered about how sorry you are or aren’t. It’s all about unleashing your potential. You’re paying through your nose to be here, you need to understand that you’re entitled to any information you want. And these folks are around to help you find it because that’s part of their job. That’s the kind of daredevil attitude that gets noticed out here.’ He pointed towards my chest. ‘Being Miss Goody-Two-Shoes does nothing to unlock all that potential.’

  Wow. Quite a piece of advice from a stranger.

  ‘I guess you’re from India,’ he said, suddenly.

  I nodded curtly.

  ‘Well then, you aren’t to blame, really. The Indian educational system has people behaving submissively. Just the way you did.’

  ‘And where are you from?’ I asked as we headed downstairs together.

  ‘’Ola, I’m a world citizen.’ He shrugged out of his jacket as we paused on a corrugated step outside the building. I stared amusedly at a Walt Disney logo on his tight yellow T-shirt. ‘When I finished high school, my parents wanted me to take up medicine or engineering. I had no flair for either. Scooted to the States at seventeen to study television and film.’

  ‘Ah, Indian parents then. But you don’t look or sound Indian,’ I mumbled as we walked towards Houghton Street.

  He winked at me. ‘Well, Ritchie is my Anglicised name. Comes in handy in the film circuit. Ritchie became my insignia during my stint with Granada when I did the sales campaign for Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares and Celebrity Fitness Club, back in LA.’

  Oh, he sounded like a big shot. ‘What’s your real name then?’ I pressed.

  Ritchie shook his head. ‘You’ll never be able to pronounce it. No one here has. Ritchie is how everyone knows me, really.’

  ‘Try me,’ I pressed. ‘I’m used to complicated words. I really won’t get it mixed up.’

  ‘All right,’ he relented. ‘It’s Chitraksh Johari.’

  I repeated his name slowly. ‘Actually, it is challenging to pronounce it correctly,’ I admitted.

  ‘The name Chitraksh ain’t saleable,’ Ritchie affirmed. ‘Now, there’s my number.’ He handed me an embossed business card. ‘Give me a shout if you need to. Getting adjusted out here can be a pain in the ass.’ The card tagged Ritchie as an independent film specialist. It carried an embossed picture of a flamingo on the corner.

  ‘Flamingo Films. Name of my outfit,’ Ritchie mentioned, catching my gaze.

  The card listed two mobile numbers, a landline number and an address in north London.

  ‘The media careers information fair is happening at Custom House for ExCel, early November,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘I think the online tickets sold out a long time ago. But you could ride the line out for one if you have the patience for it. All the media bigwigs, including Bloomberg and the BBC, are parking their asses there. Folks looking for the best they can hire. Good day, young lady!’ He shook my hand briskly, doffed an imaginary hat and walked away in the direction of Holborn station. I stared after him. Strange character.

  15 October

  ‘We haven’t hit pay dirt with our proposal for a sponsorship,’ Lanong whined as we hustled out of the Peacock Theatre after an afternoon public lecture.

  I had been elected as the LSE television network, LooSE TV’s executive head. Zubeen, who went by his last name, Lanong, was a post-graduate anthropology student and had been voted LooSE TV’s new business director. I had suggested planting LCD television screens across all student halls of residence and many more sites on campus. But our bid for an external corporate sponsorship to translate that idea into a concrete measure didn’t seem easy.

  ‘Endurance, Lan. And persistence,’ I said. ‘We could …’

  A jazzy poster on a wall outside the theatre caught my eye. It was an advertisement for student-run publications and TV stations to apply for a grants programme. A multinational conglomerate, EGG, was running it.

  ‘We should apply for it!’ I told Lanong, nodding towards the poster.

  That night, I studied the grants programme web page and researched the company. EGG, an acronym for Eric Gregersen Group, was a London-based pharmaceutical and consumer goods manufacturer. Its CEO, Lord Melvin Bradshaw, who had earned a peerage five years ago, seemed to be as much a face of his own brand as the company’s. Forbes described him as a much-loved philanthropist and one of the world’s most trusted business magnates. He credited his success to his adoptive parents, the Gregersens. My fascination with Lord Bradshaw’s ascent from an orphaned child to business baron extraordinaire kept me up for a few more hours. An unusual article poked out at me from a web page as I continued surfing. The story, dated 26 December 1980, opened on the archives of The Herald-Times. I studied it with interest. Melvin’s former foster parents, Logan and Abigail Fanning, had been caught scrimmaging for insurance money after their two-storey residence in Bloomington, Indiana, burned down in a mysterious fire on Christmas Eve.

  Wow. As I climbed into bed, I ardently hoped for an opportunity to meet Lord Bradshaw one day. But first, we had to get that grant.

  2

  The Tip of the Iceberg

  4 November

  I fastened Sunil’s pewter-silver belt buckle over his wool tartan kilt and kissed the toddler on his forehead. ‘The spotlight is on you, Sunil!’ Nidhi crooned, waving a Canon.

  Pandy wagged his tail excitedly. I scooped the dog up in my arms and leaned against Jyoti, who placed Sunil on her lap and pointed towards the camera with a smile. Sunil glanced up curiously at the flashbulb exploding in our faces. Nimmy watched happily.

  Asha and her mother stepped out into the conservatory. Asha’s coiffed hair and checkered Chisholm skirt made her look like an angel as she surveyed the scene before her in blithe wonder.

  Ashok was in his study, discussing his financial affairs with a tax consultant. Why wouldn’t he spend time with his family on a lazy Saturday afternoon? He seemed uncomfortable around Asha.

  Nidhi beckoned Asha and Shailaja to move towards the sofa lounge for fresh shots.

  A faint clang of the doorbell reached my ears.

  Nimmy strode towards the door. He returned in a few seconds, his face white. He glanced at me briefly before mumbling to Nidhi. ‘There’s this g-g-girl asking for you.’

  What’s with the stuttering?

  Nidhi looked mystified. ‘I’ll see who it is.’

  Nimmy and I followed her to the door. Nidhi opened the door a crack. A drift of cold air gushed into the foyer. Pandy scuttled back through the kitchen into Asha’s room.

  ‘I can’t see anyone here!’ Nidhi cried exasperatedly.

  ‘This girl in a purple parka … I wonder where she went,’ Nimmy mumbled.

  A scream rang out from the conservatory. Jyoti rushed upstairs, cradling her son in her arms.

  Nidhi, Nimmy and I nearly toppled over one another as we ran back through the narrow corridor towards the conservatory.

  The scene before me seemed so normal. Yet, I instinctively knew it wasn’t.

  Shailaja was speaking to a young woman in the conservatory. The visitor did wear a purple parka over a pair of baggy jeans, and her wet raven hair hung down her back like a rat-tail. She had a pale, pinched face. Droplets of water fell from the rim of her parka onto the smooth parquet floors. She had probably rung the doorbell for attention and slipped her way through the hedges towards the back of the garden to enter the house from the conservatory. That
meant she knew the architecture of the house well. So, she couldn’t be a stranger asking for alms or donations.

  ‘You?’ Shailaja cried. ‘Couldn’t you have waited at the door?’

  ‘I stooped in to get away from the rain. I’ve traveled a long distance to get here,’ the girl said.

  Shailaja’s eyes combed over the expanse of the lawn beyond the conservatory and fell on the shade reaching out from the conservatory rooftop towards the marble lawn table and chairs on the small quad before the garden. Her eyes narrowed disbelievingly. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I have to speak to you,’ she said to Nidhi.

  ‘Is your boss harassing you again, Rosie?’ Nidhi’s voice blared out, dripping with sarcasm. ‘How dare you barge into my house on a Saturday? You know Renu and Shahana are in the SBS offices today and can attend to you with equal grace in my absence.’

  Rosie looked terrified now. ‘I-I didn’t know they would be in.’

  I was puzzled. Why would a Southall Black Sisters solicitor, who campaigned for victims of violence, be insufferably rude to a young woman who seemed to be experiencing some form of harassment?

  Rosie fished out a fluffy, medium-sized purple teddy bear from her messenger bag and turned to Shailaja. ‘I brought this for your daughter,’ she said softly.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Asha’s eyes grow as wide as saucers. I couldn’t say whether they widened in fear or excitement. Shailaja made no move to receive the present.

  A look of resignation glazed Rosie’s features. ‘I’ll drop by the SBS offices then. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’

  When I turned back, I spotted Asha peeking out from the curtains partitioning the sitting room and the dining area. Smiling contritely, Rosie placed the bear on a windowsill near the door and stepped out gingerly. My curiousity got the better of me. I stepped out soundlessly in my floaters. A cold blast of rain and sleet hit me hard as I edged towards the gate and poked my head out. The bounce in Rosie’s retreating gait was enough to say she was anything but traumatised. She pulled up the hood of her parka and nonchalantly lit a cigarette as she gamboled down the lane. A few strands of chestnut brown hair peeked out from the rim of her hood. She tucked the black rat-tails wig carefully into the front pocket of her parka as she puffed away and picked up her pace.

  ‘Hey, Rosie!’ I called out.

  The girl began running. I sprinted after her. When I rounded the corner, I saw that the winding pathway forked out into another, shorter road. The other end of that road led back to King’s Road, while the road that Rosie had first gone into opened out into the residential lane of Warden Avenue on its other side. Halfway through my chase, I leaned forward, held my sides and gasped for breath. There was no trace of Rosie anywhere.

  A posh black sedan swished by from behind me, a few seconds later. It sped towards Warden Avenue, splashing me with cold, dirty rainwater. A mass of chestnut brown curls bobbed over the edge of the driver’s seat. I tried to catch the number on the license plate, but all I could make out in the fog were an ‘M’ and a ‘9’ before the vehicle disappeared down the road. I fished around for my cell phone to tell the Sawants what I had seen. Then I realised I had left my phone behind at home. I stumbled towards Capthorne Avenue, floundering to remember which roads led the way back – a key feature of West Harrow is the convoluted, circular pattern of the streets and lanes across its suburban colonies.

  By the time I returned to the Sawants’, I looked none the worse than Rosie. Shailaja swung open the door. ‘Sandhya … where on earth have you been? We thought you vanished, too!’

  Pandy pounced on me and extended his paw, as if he were trying to tell me something.

  ‘Who else vanished?’ I asked.

  ‘Asha’s gone!’ Nidhi moaned.

  Ashok stepped out, tax advisor in tow. I could feel his accusing stare. It was as if he somehow held me culpable for turning a perfectly happy afternoon indoors into an uproarious one. But I decided not to jump to conclusions. ‘She isn’t inside?’

  ‘She’s nowhere in the house,’ Nimmy said grimly.

  My heart raced. Did Asha’s disappearance have something to do with Rosie?

  I recounted what I had seen to everyone. Embarrassed, the tax consultant beat a hasty retreat.

  Ashok frowned at me. ‘Why are you getting involved in our personal affairs? As a paying guest, I think you should mind your own business.’

  So, I was right about Ashok. I did not respond.

  ‘Can you write down the license plate number?’ Shailaja asked me.

  ‘Let’s search for her first,’ Jyoti mumbled.

  Ashok glared at her. It was the first time I saw her interrupting anyone in the house, especially Ashok. I realised how frightened she must be if she were doing that now.

  ‘Let Nidhi search around the garden and beyond … up until Warden Avenue through Lynton Road,’ Shailaja suggested. I remembered that the chauffeur was on his day off as she added, ‘Nidhi, take the VW with you. And Pandy, too. Nimmy and I will take the BMW towards Lucas Avenue. Asha can’t have gone that far. Ashok can stay home and watch the front door. Sandhya, stay home and give Jyoti and Sunil company.’

  ‘I think we missed the street leading to the Rayner’s Lane station,’ I said. ‘I know that route well. I can do that bit.’

  Shailaja nodded. ‘Let’s get moving then.’

  The rain was severe and visibility was poor beyond ten yards of my line of sight. I knocked on the doors of several houses on the street leading to the main traffic lane, inquiring if anyone had seen a curly-haired, squint-eyed girl walk by. No one had.

  I called Nimmy. ‘Found Asha yet?’

  ‘I’d have called you if I did,’ Nimmy said dryly. ‘Dad’s registered a complaint with the police station. They’re sending someone up from West Harrow. We checked Lucas Avenue. We’re at Sunningdale Avenue near the Eastcote station. No luck here, either. Where are you?’

  ‘Warden Avenue,’ I panted.

  ‘Don’t go too far out in this weather,’ Nimmy warned.

  My long wet hair whipped madly across my face as the wind whistled spryly over the din of the downpour. I sighed. ‘Okay, I’m coming back now.’

  When I flipped my phone shut, the tails of my umbrella got stuck in my hair. I squawked in exasperation. I whirled around to disentangle it. Just then, I spotted a curly-haired woman near a TESCO Express store across the traffic lane on Alexandra Avenue. She had her back to me, but there was no mistaking her gait and that checkered skirt she had worn.

  ‘Asha!’ I screamed, blindly darting across the road.

  Two men arranging their shopping bags in the boot of a car outside the shopping store turned around and stared. By the time I got to the TESCO parking area, she was gone.

  I zipped out of the car park and ran down the barren boulevard that TESCO overlooked, assuming that Asha had gone down there, further into Rayner’s Lane. But, to no avail.

  I retraced my steps to a deserted bus stop across the store, wondering if she had ventured inside the store. A security guard would be sure to have seen her if she had.

  As I turned to cross the street, I lost my balance on the wet, slippery ground. The umbrella flew out of my hands. I tumbled backwards into what felt like a skein of barbed wire. A searing pain shot up my legs. I hadn’t noticed the dense thicket of shrubbery lining the picket fence around the garden behind me. As I looked down, I realised to my horror that my waist and legs were entangled in wild undergrowth. One of my arms was caught in the jumble too.

  I began to cry when I saw thorns in the bushes all around me. My free hand meandered through the thorns as I attempted to extricate myself as gingerly as I could. But, whenever I wriggled, I sank deeper into the bush.

  I looked around, desperately hoping to see someone pass by. But Rayner’s Lane looked too deserted for my liking. I squirmed to reach for my mobile phone. Despite the thick layers of my coat, it hurt whenever I moved. I was sobbing by the time I had the phone in my hand. My
phone flashed, before I could dial Nimmy. He was calling me himself.

  I heard his breathless voice even as I pressed the green button.

  ‘Sandy? We’ve found Asha! She was at a neighbour’s down by Ovesdon Avenue just across our lane.’

  ‘Nimmy … I’m stuck,’ I rasped, starting to feel faint.

  Thorns jabbed at me everywhere and a huge stalk was cutting across my chest. I think a twig was piercing my back too.

  ‘Sweet Jesus! Where are you?’

  ‘Down the street across Warden. I think it’s Rayner’s Lane. TESCO is around the corner,’ I mumbled. ‘I-I’ve fallen into a bush. Can’t get out.’

  I wasn’t sure if I sounded coherent enough, but I heard Nimmy say, ‘I’m coming right over.’

  A clean sheet swaddled me as I lay in bed in my room. Another blood-soaked sheet lay strewn in a hamper across the room. I cringed. How badly had I been hurt?

  My phone buzzed from the nightstand beside me. I tried to pull myself up, but my body felt too leaden to cooperate. I picked up my phone, lying in bed; its display was mildly scratched.

  ‘Sandhya? I tried calling you many times. How are you?’ My father.

  We spoke a few times a week, if I could, but our regular Saturday phone calls were a must-have. And this time, I must have passed out or been stuck in that bramble bush when Appa rang me from India at his usual time, before going to bed.

  ‘All good here, Appa,’ I managed. ‘LSE is a lot of fun. But I’m still getting used to … um, the family I’m staying with here.’

  Of course, I wasn’t going to tell him about my fall in the bush. He would be worried sick.

  ‘Good. Ensure you have your inhaler with you all the time. Take all asthma your meds regularly,’ Appa said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Are you registered with a doctor?’

  ‘Yes – with the medical centre at LSE,’ I informed. ‘I’ll take care of myself. Missing you.’