Living Hell

by Vivaan Shah

  ‘The last time we showed up here to have a word with him, he was behaving like a baboon,’ he began.

  ‘He was out of his head,’ added Jayant, ‘saying that he was hooked on to anti-anxiety pills, sleeping tablets and some other medication . . . that he needed to replenish his stock immediately since his doctor had cancelled his prescription.’

  ‘He was doing all kinds of things as a replacement. Powder, dope, smack, ketamine, Dexedrine, Mandrax. He claimed Irshaad Batla had put him in touch with some people who supplied them.’

  ‘The ketamine horse tranquillizer he claimed to have picked up from the same pharmacy where he purchased his medication.’

  ‘So, we got hold of one of his prescription slips and copied it out on to an empty sheet of paper.’

  ‘It worked with the chemist.’

  ‘After all, he isn’t exactly what you could call straight.’

  ‘But we didn’t want to waste our time on him, that’s for the narcotics’ department.’

  ‘We got him his medication and went back to his house to give it to him. That was the last we saw of him.’

  ‘He promised us the files.’

  ‘Needless to say, he failed to live up to his word,’ Mangesh concluded.

  Just then, a soft knocking was heard from the door, as if the person outside intended to be discreet.

  ‘That’s probably Rohini,’ said Nadeem.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ asked Mangesh, panic-stricken, as Jayant went coolly to open the door. He tried looking through the view hole, but could not see anyone outside.

  ‘There’s no one out there,’ he said.

  ‘I thought I heard knocking,’ said Nadeem.

  ‘Shhh . . .’ Jayant hushed him up.

  He opened the door just wide enough for him to peer outside and get a glance at whoever it was. Mangesh immediately pulled out his regulation automatic from his pocket and quietly went over to the door to back him up. Jayant looked back towards Mangesh, who nodded in reply. Jayant took out his revolver from his pant pocket and opened the door completely, poking his head out cautiously in order to scan the third floor. There was no one in sight, not even on the staircases going up to the fourth floor and down to the second. Once he was certain that the coast was clear, he stepped out of the doorway to take a proper look while Mangesh took cover on the back end of the open door. The third floor corridor was empty.

  Perhaps they had just imagined the knocking or it was the wind, he thought. An approaching wind suddenly closed the door shut with a slam and Jayant was briefly trapped outside the flat. He tried turning the door knob and knocked a couple of times, but before either Nadeem or Warren could get to the door in order to open it for Mangesh, who was having a hard time figuring out how to unlock the latch, the automated sound of the lift music was heard, followed by the mechanized voice. The lift door was not closed completely, hence, it continued playing. Jayant turned around from the closed door of the apartment and went over to the lift to shut it. He tried shutting the lift door completely, but for some reason the irritating music would not cease. He pressed hard against the door in order to stop the music, but it still did not cease. He thought, perhaps, the lift door was spoilt.

  Inside, they were struggling to get the door open as Mangesh had entangled the locking device by turning the latch in the wrong direction. The lift music could be heard inside as well, and just as Nadeem successfully managed to unlock the door, three loud shots rang out from the lift. They were most definitely from a semi-automatic and went off in quick succession. Mangesh immediately sprang up, pushing the door open and leaping out of the doorway. The lift door was closed and the irritating music was still playing. Jayant was most definitely inside the lift, as he could not have possibly vanished into thin air.

  ‘Please close the door,’ the mechanized voice said. ‘Kripaya darwaza band kijiye.’

  It was followed by a beeping tune. Before Mangesh could get to the lift and open the door, in order to be sure of his partner’s safety, the music stopped and the lift shot up to the top floor with a rumbling sound. Mangesh tried yanking the door open, but it was tightly sealed and would open only when the lift was back on the third floor. Mangesh pressed the lift button, calling for it numerous times before the distant sound of the lift door opening was heard from the fifth floor. The lift music was heard faintly this time. When Mangesh was sure that the lift door had been closed properly, he pressed the lift button, ringing for it again. It slowly came back to the third floor making its rumbling noises. Once it reached, Mangesh pulled the door open impatiently to find out where his partner had vanished, only to be startled by what lay at his feet. The lift was carrying the corpse of his partner with two bullet holes in the abdomen and one in the neck. Mangesh let go of the door handle and staggered back, retreating in utter bewilderment. His automatic pistol fell from his trembling hands and he nearly collapsed face down into the tiles in shock and disgust. The lift door fell back into place smoothly, closing completely. The lift was called back up to the fifth floor.

  All Hell Breaks Loose

  Nadeem and Warren rushed out of the flat to see what the commotion was all about.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Mangesh yelled at them, holding up his automatic pistol in firing position. He was pointing it in the direction of the staircase going up to the fourth floor and called out to whoever was upstairs.

  ‘This is the police!’ he yelled. ‘Slowly come down the stairs with your hands in the air!’

  The lift came back and stopped at the third floor. Mangesh fired two shots in the air to let them know he, too, was armed. Two shots were fired back at him from a disembodied hand that popped out of the lift door. Mangesh fired two shots at the lift, crouching back into the flat and taking cover behind the door.

  Warren rolled under the sofa and Nadeem hid behind the television as another round of shots was heard outside. The sound of the lift music was audible in the silent intervals between the crossfire.

  ‘Please close the door,’ the mechanized voice repeated as the familiar jingle played over it. ‘Kripaya darwaza band kijiye.’

  Mangesh fired again, this time poking his hand out from behind the door. He hit the nameplate of the adjoining flat and had, no doubt, succeeded in awakening their neighbours. He slammed the door shut and ordered Nadeem to rush to the intercom and instruct the neighbours to not step outside their flat under any circumstances. He then switched sides from the hinges to the handle of the door and opened it slightly ajar, just enough for him to peep outside. As it opened, another shot sent the door handle flying halfway across the room. Nadeem and Warren were taking cover in the kitchen and were out of range of the firing that erupted across their living room. The door was almost off its hinges and kept swinging back and forth, as Mangesh literally emptied his revolver, shooting indiscriminately out of the doorway. Realizing that his gun was empty, he fled into a corner of the room and took cover in the balcony to reload.

  In the silence that ensued when the firing stopped, and when the party outside was certain that the coast was clear, the lift door was heard closing. As the irritating music emanating from the lift door came to a halt, Mangesh rushed back into the living room. He called out for Nadeem and Warren, telling them it was all right to come out. But it took more than just a little reassurance to get them to budge an inch from their spots.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he yelled again. ‘They’ve gone.’

  On hearing that, the two of them felt sufficiently secure and sprung out of the kitchen back into the living room. Mangesh was panting heavily and was still trying to catch his breath.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ he gasped.

  ‘Irshaad Batla’s men,’ said Nadeem.

  Mangesh ran out to the balcony to try and get a glimpse of the shooter. A black Mahindra 4x4 was parked in the compound with the boot facing the lobby. Two figures armed with double eagles were struggling hard to lift Jayant Naagre’s body. They dragged him all the way to the vehicle and poppe
d open the trunk, dumping him inside. Mangesh could get a faint look at them from the balcony, but he didn’t manage to spot either of their faces. He wondered whether to take aim and fire or call for backup. He tried getting a glance at the number plate but could barely read in the darkness.

  ‘Notify all units in the area!’ he barked into his mobile phone. ‘Night patrol, vans and two wheelers. Black Mahindra 4 by 4. Armed and dangerous. Approach with caution.’

  ‘I think that’s one of his shooters, Ghazfakullah Khan, goes by the name Ghazfak,’ said Nadeem. ‘He usually handles jobs like this. I’ve seen him before. Only the last time I saw him at work, he carved up a door with a Sten gun. He’s seen me, but obviously never taken notice.’

  ‘Why did they take the body with them?’

  ‘Because they thought it was me. They’ve taken it along to show Rohini. Batla’s going to get quite a shock when he sees who they’re carrying. A murder of a police officer. That makes two for him. He’s definitely not getting off this time.’

  Mangesh immediately dialled Inspector Gaekwad’s number. For the next half an hour, he gave out his report to him over the phone in Marathi. Warren and Nadeem could barely understand a word he was saying. For all they knew, he could have been trying to frame them, but he was an honest cop who was only trying to do his duty. He didn’t want to wind up like his partner, so he told Inspector Gaekwad everything that happened without sparing the minutest of details. Tailing a couple of tippers around was one thing, but he knew who they were dealing with here. He insisted that Inspector Gaekwad come right down to the scene of the crime at once, but Inspector Gaekwad was smarter than he thought. He, instead, suggested that they try and identify the vehicle the men arrived in.

  ‘Somebody must have seen them,’ he said over the phone. ‘The watchman, neighbours; just try and track these men. In the meantime, I’ll try and find out where Irshaad Batla is.’

  It was hopeless. As soon as he cut the call, Mangesh threw his phone down on the floor in anger.

  ‘Fifteen years in the force and you see the man’s lights go out in front of you just like a candle,’ he sighed. ‘What was it all worth? A pension, free parking, a pat on the back, another star on the uniform, an under-the-table bonus from the inspector. He served him loyally and faithfully, but now, he’s just another stiff in the morgue. A tick off the list. He’ll be lucky if he gets the coroner’s blessing.’

  The lift door opened, letting the sound of the mechanized music creep quietly through the open door into the flat. The lift door was firmly shut with a bang, and that put an end to it. Rohini’s face turned pale as she got a glimpse of the bullet-ridden front door of Nadeem’s flat. The watchman, Kishorie Lal, stood beside her with a bruise under his left eye. His eyebrow was swelling visibly and turning purple. He was the only one that the gunfire had succeeded in awakening and, judging by his wound, he had probably attempted to stop the assailants or had come in their way. The next-door neighbours didn’t even answer the intercom when Nadeem tried frantically to reach them. They were probably fast asleep.

  In an instant, Kishorie Lal recognized Mangesh’s face and he too stepped into the flat with Rohini to take a look around at the mayhem that had disrupted the living room.

  Getting Even

  ‘Did you get a look at their car number?’ Mangesh asked Kishorie Lal.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I was asleep when they came in. They opened the gate themselves; I told them they couldn’t park inside the building.’

  Rohini looked at Nadeem.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m alive,’ he replied. ‘That’s what counts.’

  ‘I just got a call from Irshaad.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was asking me where I was, saying that he was under my building. He said he had come to pick me up and that pretty soon the whole place would be crawling with cops.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he whispered, taking her to the balcony, away from Mangesh and Kishorie Lal.

  ‘I said I wasn’t at home.’

  ‘Is the money still in your possession or have you blown it up?’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The loan that he gave your husband,’ he spoke in the same sly tone that she had heard from Inspector Nagpal. ‘The sum of Rs 1 lakh is no meagre amount. I expect that if you have spent it, then you would have done so wisely, and utilized it to provide for a secure future, since you do not have the luxury of support from your family as most people from your social strata do. By the way, what do you do to keep the home fire burning? Provided you have a home to call your own.’

  ‘What makes you think that I’m any different from you? What makes you think I’ve had it any easier? We’re both made of the same metal!’

  ‘Not me! You don’t get to see these kinds of goods in my line of work. Most of us, we’re just scrap metal. But you? You’re a silver-plated wristwatch. Or no . . . a gold Rolex.’

  ‘I need your help, Nadeem.’

  ‘It’s only fair and square that you get it, after that we’re even. And you’re on your own.’

  ‘I need to hole up at your place for a couple of days, until this thing cools off.’

  ‘My landlord will throw a fit!’

  ‘Please,’ she cried. ‘Irshaad’s men will be looking for me.’

  Nadeem breathed heavily and rolled his eyes, flickering them to let her know that he was doing her a favour by talking to her in the first place. He had stayed up way past his usual bedtime and his faculties of judgement were not in the best shape.

  ‘What about 502?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you still have the legal right to stay there?’

  ‘Don’t try and be smart with me, Nadeem,’ she snapped. ‘Are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘What’s in it for me? How about the one lakh that you skimmed off your husband? We can split it fifty–fifty right down the middle.’

  She remained silent. Didn’t say a word, barely breathed even. She had her lips sealed, but her eyes spoke more than she could afford to reveal.

  ‘If you want Irshaad off your back, I can arrange that for you, but there’s gotta be a price, lady. You can even pay me off in information, works like currency for me, but anyway, tell me . . .’

  ‘I didn’t take a rupee of that one lakh from him. It was spent on running our kitchen, and when it ran out, I walked. I didn’t want any of Irshaad Batla’s money.’

  Nadeem glanced at her sideways to try and spot a chink in her armour.

  ‘How did a nice girl like you from a good family come to know a guy like Irshaad Batla?’

  ‘Through a friend of mine . . .’ she blinked. ‘He helped me out in a jam.’

  ‘What jam?’

  ‘Shoplifting. I spent the weekend in jail. Was caught in Oberoi mall with twenty-five grand worth of perfume, nail polish, lipsticks and other shopping accessories.’

  ‘Sounds like quite a heist.’

  ‘My friend happened to know him, so he helped me out.’

  ‘It’s useful having friends like that. I suppose Irshaad Batla came into the picture to help out with the police.’

  ‘That’s how I came to be acquainted with him.’

  ‘And what about Chintan?’

  She turned away to look outside the balcony, her gaze yearning for some reassurance in the bewildering darkness. ‘You know,’ she turned back to look at Nadeem, the corner of her mouth curving into a strange smirk. ‘This isn’t the first time he’s died on me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’d cook up all kinds of stories, anything to get my attention. Once, he sent out emails to all of his friends and relatives that he had had a severe accident and was in the ICU. Just to get attention and sympathy from someone. Once I got a call from K.L. Hospital in the middle of the night saying he’d had a heart attack. I rushed over to find him hiding in the emergency ward in a wheelchair. Once they even laid him flat on the slab, embalmed and everything. He pretended to be s
till, but one look at him and I could tell he was breathing. I guess you could laugh at that and say what a stupid thing to do, and it is downright silly, not to mention inconsiderate. I had no idea what I was in for when I got involved with him.’

  ‘He was unstable?’

  ‘Not when I was married to him, but as the hours at the office grew longer and his pocketbook began to shrink, something within him began to change. He became more irritable, ill-tempered and even dishonest. He began to lie to me about trivial everyday things like whether he had put out the dustbin at night or paid the milkman.’

  ‘I guess cheapskates stick together,’ Nadeem remarked, his voice devoid of any compassion whatsoever.

  Rohini still had her back towards him. She felt no need to challenge his assessment of her character. Her peacock eyes dwelt broodingly on the balcony railings. She slowly leaned forward on them and craned her head up to get a look at Makhija’s window.

  Inside, in the living room, Warren had brought out the ice tray from the fridge for Kishorie Lal. Mangesh had one eye on his phone and the other on Kishorie Lal’s bruise. After a thorough inspection, he concluded everything was all right and that it was nothing: just a little cut.

  Nadeem spun Rohini’s shoulders around and looked her right in the eyes. ‘You didn’t know that he was lying to you about his profession?’ he squirmed, specks of saliva hitting her forehead.

  ‘I had suspected it from the outset,’ she admitted, her eyes still hoisted up. ‘But as he began to grow more secretive and kept to himself, I knew for certain that something was wrong. He’d spend hours locked up in the bathroom. God knows what he’d do in there. He was constantly glued to his phone. 24x7. I knew he was up to some scam or the other. It began to show on his face, he began balding, growing fat, all kinds of strange growths started erupting on his neck and shoulders. I guess a lie can only get you so far, sooner or later it gets into your skin.’