by Samit Basu
They’re somewhere over the Caspian Sea, taking a big left for Europe. Vir is flying the plane, and it’s clear from his face that he hates the confinement, that he longs to be outside, skimming through the clouds, chasing moonbeams, dodging lightning bolts.
Aman sits next to him, eyes closed. It’s cold, but there are beads of sweat on his forehead. He’s been busy since they left Mumbai, making sure their private jet doesn’t show up on any civilian or military radar or satellite. His thought-bots are working at full stretch, scanning every air authority’s logs, constantly checking whether their flight path coincides with anyone else’s. They’ve had a few close calls: there are strange things in the sky above the Middle East, but they do not know whether these are prototype American drones or alien ships.
Outside the pilot’s cabin are fourteen very comfortable seats. Uzma’s in one, with Tia beside her. They’re watching an illegally downloaded old episode of The A-Team on a big LCD screen. When they’d stolen the jet, Tia was horrified to find that her Mr T quotes had fallen on deaf ears: no one else on the plane had watched her favourite eighties show, mostly because they were too young. Tia giggles every now and then, and Uzma’s doing a good job of pretending to be awake.
Across the aisle, Sher and Anima are asleep, huddled together. Behind them, Zothanpuii pretends to be impressed by Shankar the Great’s homunculi illusions. Behind Uzma, Premalata hums every bhajan she can think off, convinced that they’re all going to die in a horrific crash without constant divine supervision.
The jet is a Bombardier Global 5000 they’ve stolen from Mumbai airport. It belongs to an Ambani brother. Aman hasn’t had time to check which one, but he’s sent them both polite thank-you notes and virtual hugs. Offering to pay them for the trip might be seen as an insult. It’s a sleek, fast, beautiful jet with a king-sized bed. Aman wonders, yet again, why he’s not using his powers to live a life of supreme, anonymous luxury instead of voluntarily rushing towards the most dangerous man in the world.
It is hours later, while they’re crossing the English Channel, watching the dawn sky lighten behind them, that Aman realises they have no idea where they’re going to land. Turning up radar-invisible at Heathrow is pretty much begging for an international incident. It’s also not the ideal point in human history for a single unidentified plane to fly over a big city: it might lead to a slight image problem.
After looking inside his head a little, Aman guides Vir towards a good landing spot, outside central London but inside the ring of the M25: Damyns Hall Aerodrome, home of the Rochester Microlights Club. He shuts down all communications and surveillance in the area, hoping it’s too early in the morning for anyone to really notice.
The city is covered by a sheet of thin grey cloud. As Vir takes the jet into it, all Aman sees for a while is grey, bleak, blank except for the rivulets of water dancing across the screens. And then they’re through, a panorama unfolds before them. London. Aman always loves the first glimpse of the city from the sky, the steel-grey curves of the River Thames flanked by spires and domes and little toy bridges; the blocks of the Docklands buildings glittering in a few stray sunbeams that have escaped through the clouds; the leaf-under-microscope pattern of fields and streets and houses. He’s walked its streets many times, but from the sky it’s a labyrinth of wonders, a place of power and mystery, an alien paradise. He’s never seen it as clearly as he does now, sitting in the cockpit of a jet stolen from a billionaire. He turns to Vir and grins. The plane dips and banks, and the city sways beneath them, the horizon tilting crazily. The jet flies through a wispy low cloud and lurches violently. Vir grabs his microphone.
“You are now experiencing turbulence,” he says.
Aman can hear Tia giggling through the cockpit door. Vir shakes his head, smiling, as he guides them towards the airfield’s grass runway. It’s far too short for a jet to land comfortably, but Vir asks everyone to put on their seatbelts, initiates landing controls, and when the wheels are out he gets up, kicks open the plane’s door, and flies out in front of the jet. As Aman and his thought-bots play pilot to the best of their ability and the rest of the team experience the joys of strapped, seated skydiving, Vir slows the plane down using sheer strength. The landing is bumpy but perfectly tolerable, and Uzma leads a standing ovation when Vir flies back into the plane.
“We have to move fast,” Vir says. “Everyone nearby must be awake by now.”
As they sprint over the airfield, no one sees them except an elderly cleaning lady. Shankar the Great gives her a vision of a giant Johnny Weismuller as Tarzan, and she faints in joy.
It’s three kilometres from the airfield to Upminster Tube station. Sher carries Anima in his arms and Premalata holds on for dear life to Vir’s neck as they cover the distance at a jog. The one who suffers most is Aman, who is not in good shape and has foolishly offered to drag Uzma’s large suitcase. She’s the only one who has bothered to bring luggage.
A few minutes and some new Oyster cards later, they’re all sitting in a compartment of a District Line train, heading for central London. They sit in the traditional semi-comatose pose of the experienced London Tube passenger, not saying anything, watching green fields and dull grey-brown buildings and walls flash by, swaying and lurching occasionally.
The compartment is empty apart from two plump teenaged schoolgirls loudly discussing their classmates, and a wrinkled, bearded old lady reading a yellow-stained copy of The Sun and taking long, slurping sips from a can of lager. Uzma peers at the front page: THE END OF THE WORLD TODAY? it asks cheerily, while a side column promises readers a tell-all interview with a mostly naked divorced glamour model three days from now.
The train stays largely empty as it trundles its way towards the city; evidently a lot of people have decided not to go to work today. At every station, notices warn the public that services on all lines will be suspended from 11:30 a.m. due to extraordinary circumstances. London is staying home today, it doesn’t want to meet Jai. Aman does a quick scan of British TV channels. The Mayor of London has assured citizens they are safe, but has urged them to stay indoors. Across the city, several South Asian men have been attacked on suspicion of being Jai.
“A little more excitement, people,” Vir says as the train leaves a station called Barking. “We’re here to save the world.”
“So Jai meets Namrata at noon on the Millennium Bridge,” Tia says. “That’s assuming Namrata shows up — I don’t think she will. And then Jai starts breaking London. Where will we be?”
“The plan is simple enough,” Vir says. “We stick together and attack Jai as soon as he arrives. Five of us are strong fighters, we should be able to take him. I will lead the attack. He will expect Zothanpuii, Sher and Anima to be on his side, there will be a moment of surprise, so hit him as hard as you can on the first try. Tia, should things go wrong, it’s up to you. Sacrifice as many bodies as you need, but immobilise him. We’ll wear him down and take him out.”
“Sticking together is a bad idea,” Tia says. “There’s also the mob guy. We need to spread out, if anything, so we don’t all turn into howling mob zombies if he attacks. We don’t really know whether Mr Mob wanted to kill the baby or the cricketer — he didn’t succeed on either try, because Jai was there as well. Maybe he wants us all together — that way he can have a whole bunch of superheroes under his power.”
“But how do we attack Jai from far away?” Vir asks.
“I think our first target should be Mr Mob,” Tia says. “Because if we don’t find him by the time Jai steps on that bridge, there’s going to be a large crowd of Londoners trying to take him apart. A lot of people are going to die if we don’t find the mob guy first. I have no idea how, though.”
“That’s where Aman comes in. He, Uzma and you are immune to the mob manipulator’s powers, right?”
“They are. I’ll probably have to fight a few of me, but I should be okay,” Tia says.
“Well, then, Aman needs to keep watch,” Vir says. “You have the com
plete set of passengers from the plane, Aman. Just keep your eye on every camera: CCTV, news cameras, phone cameras, whatever you can find — and there will be plenty of people trying to take pictures and videos, wherever they are. He’ll be somewhere in the crowd. He could be in disguise. He could be anyone. He could be watching it all from a window. And it might not be a man, of course. His face might be completely hidden — you’ll also have to watch for people who aren’t moving with the mob, other people who seem to be immune. He’ll be tough to spot. But he’ll be there, and you’ll get him. And when you find him, you let Tia know. We’ll have several Tias spread out all over the area. We’ll stop him. Or Jai will.”
“Got it,” Aman says. “I’m also planning to disrupt communications in general — jam phones, cut off camera feeds to TV stations. Send lots of people messages saying they’re needed at home. Do whatever I can to stop people going near the Millennium Bridge.”
“That works.”
“What about Uzma didi?” Anima asks.
“I’m going home, darling. My brother’s flat, if you really want to know. My parents are coming to visit.”
“You won’t come with us?” Anima says, disappointed.
“Aman and I are going to work from there. Tower Hill is our stop. Call us if you need us,” Uzma says.
“Can I come meet your mummy-daddy?”
“Emphatically not.”
“What about Premalata Aunty?” Anima asks.
“I was coming to her,” Vir says. “Premalata ji, I’m afraid today is going to be very difficult for you.”
Premalata is staring out of the window, completely lost in thought, shaking her head from side to side in time to the song she’s humming. She’s shivering, and it can’t be the weather, which is pleasantly warm. The train rushes into a tunnel and she flinches. Tia taps her gently on the shoulder and briefly explains the plan.
“Don’t worry about me, beta,” Premalata says. “God is on my side, and my husband is with me too. What do you want me to do?”
“A lot of people might die today. If they do, I want you to raise them and have them attack Jai. Keep him covered with a wall of bodies until one of us recovers enough to take him on,” Vir says.
“I will do that,” she says. “I will help you kill him.” Aman is surprised to find she sounds quite cheerful. He takes a closer look at Premalata, sitting by a window placidly watching nondescript buildings whizz by. He calls Sher aside.
“Where was Premalata when you people attacked the cricket match?” he asks.
“She came with us. Didn’t do anything, though. She got caught up in the mob just like I did. We found her later, trying to escape with the crowd.”
“And earlier? At the hospital? At the Baby Kalki rally?”
“I wasn’t there for either of those. Why do you ask? You think she’s the mob guy?” Sher grins, and then laughs out loud. “You’re losing it, boy. Stay in the game.”
“You’re right,” Aman says. “It’s just that — she can control the dead. What if she can also influence the living?”
“What if Anima, she and I are here to make sure Jai kills all of you? What if all this is part of some grand masterplan to kill Vir?” Sher says. He taps Aman on the shoulder. “Trust people a little bit, boy. It’s the only way you’ll get through this with your sanity intact.”
Sher stalks back to his seat and sits. He looks keenly at Premalata, who is now humming another devotional song, and grunts in amusement.
The train draws closer to central London, and more people get on. The Indian group sitting at one end of the compartment gets more than one angry stare. The air is rife with tension, everyone’s discussing the impending supervillain interview.
Vir sits with head bowed, covering his face with a newspaper. Sher turns his huge bald head from side to side, meeting all glares, occasionally cracking his neck and knuckles, itching for a fight.
Aman doesn’t have time to entertain wild suspicions about his other teammates, the phone rings in his head. It’s Namrata. She’s in London, and she’s terrified.
“Is Uzma here? Can we meet?” she asks. Her voice is teary and shaking. “I can’t do it, Aman. I don’t want to meet him again.”
“Are you safe? Are you alone?” Aman asks.
“I’m in a phone booth in Soho. Street’s empty. What should I do? Where do I meet you?”
“Pick a hotel. I’ll book a room for you. We’ll come and see you in — half an hour or so.”
“I don’t want to go to a hotel, Aman. I’m scared of public places. He could be anywhere.”
“Then call me in ten minutes,” Aman says, and disconnects. He books several suites at The Ritz for his teammates. Vir wants to go straight to the hotel and chalk out battle strategies, combination attack plans and so on. He doesn’t want to meet Namrata at all — she might be Jai’s first victim of the day, and he doesn’t want to get to know her. He tells Aman to dissuade her from coming to the bridge at all.
“What if Jai does just want to talk?” Tia asks. “Maybe he just wants to send out a message like you did.”
“The last time Jai just wanted to talk, it was at his base in Udhampur, and he killed the man who’d come to negotiate with him,” Vir says. “He doesn’t just want to talk. If this girl can see the future, then I think he’s going to abduct her. He’s going to want to see how things turn out.”
“He let her go before, in Mumbai,” Tia points out. “Maybe he just wants to be sure he has the world’s attention.”
“Let her decide what she wants to do, then. If she can see the future, she’s in a better place to judge than I am.” And Vir buries his head in the newspaper again.
The train stops at Tower Hill, and Uzma and Aman get off, minding the gap. Before he leaves, Tia hugs Aman, hard. To his surprise, there are tears in her eyes. Lugging Uzma’s suitcase, they leave the station. As they emerge into the grey morning, Aman hears sirens everywhere. Police cars zip around the Tower of London, and a few policemen and women in high-visibility fluorescent jackets walk around, openly carrying guns; something Aman hasn’t seen in London before.
Namrata calls again, and this time she’s in tears. She’s seeing Jai at every street corner, inside every passing car. Aman asks Uzma where a good place to meet would be. It’s 10 o’clock already, but he doesn’t want to give her Uzma’s brother’s address. Uzma rolls her eyes at this, and instructs him to call Namrata over at once. Namrata has, after all, never expressed a desire to kidnap her parents. When Namrata hears she’s going to be in someone’s house, meet people she knows, she sobs in relief, and Aman pretends he isn’t feeling any guilt at all.
Uzma’s brother’s flat is on Pepys Street, only minutes from the station. During that short walk, a policeman stops Aman for questioning, but is charmed by Uzma’s smile and leaves them alone. Pepys Street is narrow and calm, tall beige and white modern buildings rise on either side of the road, mostly full of renovated flats and yuppies. Uzma’s brother Yusuf fits the profile completely: his building has a hotel-like glass door, a porter and a lift which opens with a posh, restrained ping! Uzma practically flies across the landing into her parents’ arms.
Aman watches Uzma’s family envelop her in a giant-squid-like hug and smiles slightly nervously as he lugs her suitcase out of the lift. Uzma’s mother is as beautiful as she is, but judging from the stern line of her jaw and the formidableness of her nose, Aman does not envy her opponents in court. Her father looks like an actor hand-picked to play an ageing, distinguished, still-sexy Oxford professor, the kind that young undergraduates dream of seducing after tutorials. Her brother Yusuf is not as intimidating, mostly because he’s slightly plump and dressed in standard investment banker gear, which is not a disguise.
Outside the scrum waiting to jump in is Yusuf’s wife, a thin, freckled and immediately lovable redhead named Meg. It is she who rescues Aman and ushers him into the flat. He sits on a big cream-coloured futon and studies the shiny wooden floor, the sleek and very impersona
l minimalist metal/wood furnishings, the striking contemporary artwork (by jet-setting Pakistani artists) on cream-coloured walls and the very empty, very smart open kitchen. He deduces, correctly, that Yusuf and Meg are a very rich, very trendy couple who aren’t home a lot. He sees a family photograph on a table: Uzma, her two brothers, their parents. It’s Yusuf’s graduation, and everyone’s beaming.
Aman has a sudden urge to take an open-top bus tour of London, he wants to see the city once again before Jai tears it down. He remembers his first time here, many years ago, when his father was alive, when his mother smiled a lot.
After a few minutes, the squealing, many-legged beast that is the Abidi family totters into the drawing room and collapses on a low divan, and Uzma’s mother turns to Aman, back to Uzma, and says, “Tell us everything.”
“Before that, meet Aman, my boyfriend,” Uzma says, and Aman is surprised at how elated he feels; his face splits into a bashful grin.
The family Abidi scans him from head to foot in complete silence and then they all start talking at the same time. What they say is destined to remain a mystery to Aman because at this point two extremely attractive young men dash into the flat and lift Uzma off the divan with tremendous strength and enthusiasm. Neither of them is Uzma’s other brother, their names are Hanif and Mark, and they’re both old friends and former boyfriends of Uzma’s. Hanif is British-Pakistani, beautiful and sensitive-looking, has spiky hair, a carefully styled beard and a very posh accent; Mark is built like a rugby player and is charmingly Irish. Aman hates them on sight. Mark and Hanif have evidently managed to cross the gap between ex-boyfriend and friend-of-the-family, and they join the Abidis in subjecting Aman to a thorough investigation on every detail of his life.
Aman talks for what seems like hours, facing reactions ranging from wide-eyed and impressed (Meg) to openly condescending (Hanif). Between Hanif and Mark, Uzma’s exes have done everything from performing in the West End to climbing Mount Titicaca, and Aman cannot find anything to brag about. “I recently took major steps towards solving world poverty and accidentally gave the internet sentience” seems like a rude thing to say. He’s actually relieved when Namrata calls to announce that she’s lost very near Pepys Street.
