Can You See Me Now?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  ‘Are you sure this will work?’ I whispered even though we were the only ones in the house. ‘Maybe we should go out the back.’

  With all the media attention, the house was even more heavily guarded than usual, but it was a massive house, and we’d snuck in and out through the servants’ entrance enough times for me to know that was the easiest thing to do.

  But Noor wasn’t having it.

  ‘I’m not hiding anymore,’ she said, grabbing my hand. For a moment it felt as though this was just another adventure I was setting off on as we went downstairs and marched out of the front gates.

  SABAH

  I grip the wheel, dust flying beneath the tyres as I as swerve onto the private road leading to the Qureshi estate. Trees whir by, their wrangled branches nothing but a blur of darkness.

  Though there are only two residents, the Qureshi estate has always been a busy place. Aside from the full-time cavalry of staff – maids, drivers, cooks and cleaners – the Qureshis have always enjoyed an almost endless stream of guests and visitors. Anyone could have accessed the Qureshis’ wifi connection to send the tip, but the Trojan gave us one other piece of information. The email account was accessed from a MacBook Pro and as open-minded as I like to think I am, I have trouble believing that any of the staff would shell out a few months’ wages on a computer, which leaves only two options – a guest or one of the Qureshis. My gut tells me it had to be one of the Qureshis, but logic tells me I’m wrong. If either Fatima Aunty or Faraz wanted to tell me something, all they had to do was pick up the phone. There was no need to go to the trouble of sending in an anonymous tip.

  But I suppose there’s no harm in checking it out.

  I honk when I get to the big iron gates, impatient to be let in.

  ‘I’m here to see Fatima Aunty,’ I say, rolling down the window to speak to the chowkidaar.

  ‘Madam nahi hain,’ he replies, his Hindi delivered with a strong Nepalese accent.

  ‘Faraz?’

  ‘Nahi hain,’ he repeats before hurrying back into his hut.

  For a moment I consider ditching my car and sneaking in through the servants’ entrance, as I’d done hundreds of times with Noor. But the house is shrouded in darkness and I am not a teenager anymore.

  I ring Faraz instead.

  ‘Sabah, how can I help?’ Faraz sounds harried. I can hear noises in the background and I realize I’ve interrupted him at work. I get straight to the point.

  ‘I thought I’d visit Fatima Aunty. I’m outside the house but the guard won’t let me through.’

  His voice softens at the mention of his mother. ‘I wish you’d called first. She’s visiting her brother.’

  ‘When is she due back?’

  ‘Next week.’

  I’ll be back in London by then.

  ‘Could you send me her phone number?’

  Faraz hesitates for the briefest of moments before speaking. ‘Sure, I’ll text it to you now. Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Just a few more questions. Nothing that can’t wait. But while I’ve got you on the—’

  ‘Hang on one sec,’ Faraz says. I hear the sound of footsteps and then a door closing before Faraz’s voice comes back on the line, minus the background clutter. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,’ he says, his deep voice concerned. ‘Ammi’s been a bit . . . distraught since your last visit.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.’ I run my hand along the curve of the steering wheel. When I last saw her, Fatima Aunty had seemed convinced that Vineet was to blame. Was it possible that it was more than just her instinct that told her that Noor hadn’t committed suicide? It made sense that she would’ve found Noor’s diaries after her death and Faraz had already told me she was obsessed with online courses. She could easily have learned how to set up the complex VPN framework that Dan had described online. I could tell Faraz what I suspected, but if Fatima Aunty had gone to the trouble of using proxy servers to send me the diary, she obviously felt the need to keep it from Faraz. What I can’t understand is why, when it seems like all Faraz is trying to do is protect her.

  ‘I know you didn’t. And it was always a toss-up. I’d hoped that talking about Noor would help bring her some form of closure but it’s had the opposite effect.’

  Unless it is because he’s trying to protect her. Faraz has been doing everything in his power to help Fatima Aunty move on. He wouldn’t want her getting drawn back to Noor, obsessing over her diaries, trying to prove that her death was more than a tragic suicide. It occurs to me that that is exactly what I’m doing and I turn my focus back to Faraz.

  ‘But I’ve been thinking and I don’t think it’s good for her to keep revisiting the past, Sabah. She’s already back on her anti-depressants and I . . . you remember what it was like after the funeral, don’t you? What it did to her. I can’t risk that again.’

  I feel myself deflate. Fatima Aunty is a key contributor. Her interview in the sizzle reel had been crucial in roping in Amazon.

  ‘I can make sure that—’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to put you in an awkward situation. You’ve already got the footage from the interview a few weeks ago and I’m still more than happy for you to film me. But I need to look after Ammi. She’s all I have left.’

  I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. It feels as though I’m stuck in a real-life slow-motion sequence. The infamous Delhi fog has descended and I am inching along on the highway, the usual orchestra of honks and beeps muffled as it travels through the thick clouds of mist.

  I nearly jump when my phone rings, the shrill ringtone a sharp contrast to my current environment. I consider pulling over, but I can barely see the road, let alone try to find a hard shoulder. I put my phone on speaker and answer.

  ‘Sabah?’ Alia’s voice echoes through the car. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the highway, heading home. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got the files.’

  ‘Okay, so what have we got here?’ Alia sets two cups of tea on the coffee table before settling down on the sofa next to me. Dressed in a sweatshirt and leggings, with her hair swept back into a messy bun, she looks more like the young girl I’d once known than the suave politician she is now.

  I point one by one to the four stacks that I’ve split the contents of the police file into.

  ‘The first information report and phone transcripts, a copy of the suicide note, transcripts of the police interviews the week after, copies of the press release issued by the police.’

  ‘Start with the FIR and transcripts?’ Alia asks, picking up the first bundle and splitting it into two.

  We spend the next two hours working through all the paperwork, poring over every report, reading and rereading every transcript, but we find nothing. It is shocking how sparse the file is, lacking in even the most basic pieces of information. The incident report consists of little more than a typed-up sequence of events and a copy of the death certificate. There are no crime scene photographs or documents detailing evidence gathered, but then, I suppose, with the fact of Noor’s suicide being uncontested, the police wouldn’t have treated it like a crime scene.

  I tear up when I come to the note. I pass it to Alia and she nods, refusing to meet my eye.

  We don’t need a forensics team to analyze it. The handwriting is Noor’s, but the words aren’t. There is a formality there, the use of a certain legalese that could never have come from her. It is obvious that she had been coerced into writing it. Or threatened.

  ‘Did you know that Javed Uncle’s bodyguard reported the gun stolen four days before Noor died?’ Alia says, looking up from the sheet of paper in her hand.

  I shake my head. I didn’t know that but it doesn’t surprise me. Noor’s death wasn’t an accident or a crime of passion. Her diary entry, dated a week before the party, had confirmed as much.

  Someone had been threatening Noor.

  My stomach drops as something occurs to me. I leaf through the pa
pers splayed out on the coffee table till I find the one I’m looking for.

  ‘What do you know about Brij Pratap Joshi?’

  ‘He used to be the police commissioner. Retired three, maybe four years ago. Why?’

  I hand her the copy of the FIR.

  Alia scans the incident report then looks at me, puzzled. ‘What am I looking for?’

  I lean over and point out the name of the attending officer.

  ‘Emergency calls are automatically diverted to the nearest patrol car,’ I say. ‘So why was the head of Delhi’s police force first on the scene?’

  ALIA

  Fifteen years ago

  The leavers’ ball wasn’t hosted or even endorsed by the school. All the school organized to send off the graduating class was an incredibly dry farewell full of speeches, awards and a dance floor in the middle of the football field that no one could be bothered to hit up. Everyone knew that the real farewell happened at the leavers’ ball hosted by the year eleven students, a party that was much more apt for the kind of debauchery that Wescott was famous for. Our class had decided to send off the year twelve students with a ball at Yash’s farmhouse in Sainik Farms.

  The party was already in full swing by the time Noor and I arrived. The drive was packed with cars and I could hear laughter floating out of the house and into the front lawn. We pushed our way inside, the crowd parting as Noor and I walked through the hallway and into the front room where a dance floor had been set up, complete with overhead disco lights, smoke machines and strobes.

  I wasn’t naive enough to think that Noor would get a warm welcome, but nothing could have prepared me for the way they treated her, clusters of girls whispering and hissing and groups of boys shouting out lewd comments and whistling.

  ‘Line up, boys, the slut has arrived,’ someone yelled over the music.

  I saw Noor’s jaw tighten but she just kept walking until we were standing in front of Saloni and Addi.

  ‘Where’s Sabah?’ Noor asked them.

  ‘I didn’t know the boys had hired escorts for the party,’ Saloni said, turning to Addi, pretending she hadn’t seen Noor.

  ‘Come on, Saloni, there’s no need to be nasty,’ I said.

  ‘Of course you would defend her.’

  I looked at Addi for support, but she slid her eyes sideways, refusing to meet mine.

  ‘Sabah doesn’t want to talk to you or see you so just go back to whatever shithole you came from, okay?’ Saloni leaned in close to Noor, their faces almost touching. ‘Some of us are trying to have fun here.’

  With that, Saloni turned to pick up her drink from the bar, something hideously pink and girly.

  ‘How—’ Noor started as she reached out to grab Saloni’s shoulder, but Saloni shrugged her off with such force that Noor stumbled backwards.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ Saloni hissed. ‘Slut,’ she added under her breath.

  Even Addi looked horrified. No matter how twisted the rumours got, we all knew that technically, Noor’s only mistake had been trusting Vineet. The rest, getting involved with her friend’s ex-boyfriend, getting drunk, having sex – if they even got that far – they were all things that most people in this room had done.

  Noor’s eyes darkened. She took a step forward, gaze fixed firmly on Saloni.

  ‘I suppose you only like being touched by bus drivers and conductors,’ Noor said, raising her voice an octave so everyone around us could hear. ‘What was his name . . . Ajay? I’ve always wondered how it works, do you pay them or—’

  ‘How dare you!’ Saloni lurched forward but Noor stepped aside.

  ‘Where is Sabah?’ she repeated after Saloni had straightened herself.

  This time Addi stepped in. ‘She’s not here yet but she called me earlier, she’s on her way,’ she blurted out.

  Is there anything better than the threat of a secret being exposed to make people talk?

  ‘Tell her to come and find me.’

  Noor reached around Addi to grab a bottle of vodka from the bar and stalked off into the garden, ignoring the stares she was getting from girls daintily sipping on fruit juice.

  Fruit juice that they had spiked with whatever spirit they could get their hands on earlier.

  We sat down on the concrete slabs in the corner and took turns swigging from the bottle.

  It wasn’t long before Sabah found us, trailed, of course, by Saloni.

  ‘I thought you would’ve got the message by now. I’m done with you,’ Sabah said, looking down on us.

  ‘Oh, you’re done, are you? After making sure I have no one left to go to?’ Noor sneered, before her expression softened. She stood up. ‘I know you’re upset, Sabah, but please let me explain.’

  ‘Explain what? How you humiliated me by kissing my boyfriend then pretended to be my friend while you continued screwing him?’

  ‘I know what you did, and if I can forgive and forget, then so can you. Please, Sabah, I just want us to go back to being friends.’

  ‘I could never be friends with someone like you,’ Sabah spat out. ‘Slut.’

  ‘You know what, I’ve just about had it with you. I made a mistake but you committed a crime. The only reason I haven’t told anyone is because I thought you were my friend.’

  A crime? I looked at Saloni but I could tell from the startled expression on her face that she had no idea what Noor was talking about either.

  ‘You’re making no sense.’ Sabah paused to frown at the bottle Noor was holding. ‘Vodka straight from the bottle? Classy.’

  ‘Come on, Sabah, you can drop the act now. Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage already?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if this is your way of apologizing, you need to do better.’

  ‘Sabah, I am trying really hard here. Don’t push me. Vineet sent that video to only one person. You.’

  I heard myself gasp as Noor’s words sunk in. The realization rose like nausea. The guilt followed soon after. There was only one reason Vineet would send Sabah the video.

  Sabah’s face was impassive. ‘Stop lying.’

  ‘When you sent that video out you ruined my life. Half the fucking country’s seen it. Surely you can see what you did is so much worse than anything I’ve done to you,’ Noor continued.

  ‘You sound deluded. Why would I do that?’

  ‘To punish me? You have always liked the idea of poetic justice.’ Noor looked away. There were tears streaming down her face. Saloni and I shifted on our feet, neither of us comfortable with watching yet unable to tear ourselves away. ‘Or maybe you didn’t realize who the boy was when you sent it. Either way, you got what you wanted,’ Noor continued. ‘They’re sending me away. I can’t get into any school here, and even if I did, I think my parents would rather see me dead than—’

  ‘So would I. I will never forgive you for what you did. And after your little porno, good luck finding anyone to talk to. You’re finished here.’

  Sabah flipped around and walked away, Saloni on her heels.

  ‘Noor.’ I took a step towards Noor, arms open, but she pushed me away. Loud sobs were wracking through her entire body.

  ‘Just leave me alone.’

  ALIA

  Fifteen years ago

  I found her a few hours later, spinning on the dance floor by herself, a nearly empty bottle of vodka in her hand and the tell-tale remnants of white powder on her fingertips.

  I cast around the room, remembering too late the party favours that were being passed around earlier. I couldn’t believe I had been foolish enough to think that anyone would look out for Noor at this party.

  ‘What did you take?’ I asked Noor.

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘Come on, Noor, you know I care. Let’s—’

  ‘All you care about is worming your way into this world. Well, you’ve seen what we do to each other. What do you think about it now?’ She swung her arm around, knocking against a couple as she twirled.

  Almost
immediately a small circle cleared around us. I felt the heat of at least fifty sets of eyes burn into my back.

  I put an arm around Noor’s shoulder, and tried to pull her away from the dance floor.

  ‘Actually, no, that’s not it,’ she said, shoving me. ‘What you really care about is worming your way into my world. Poor little Alia wants a new mummy and daddy.’

  The room darkened.

  She leaned in close, her face inches from mine. ‘Well, look somewhere else because you can’t have mine.’

  I willed myself to say something but no words came out.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Noor said, clocking that she had a captive audience after weeks of being the pariah. ‘You all don’t know. Alia’s parents hate her. That’s why they shipped her off,’ she spat out.

  I heard someone gasp.

  I stood there unable to move, unable to speak. I wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow me whole, every lie, every ambition, every thought gone. I wanted to vanish, pretend I had never existed.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Noor continued. ‘They aren’t ambassadors on some high-risk posting in Turkey. They aren’t even diplomats. They’re aides. They can’t even afford to pay the school fees. And the award for Liar of the Century—’

  I spun around. I didn’t know how, but my feet were moving. I was pushing through the crowd, running, running, running, desperate to get away, desperate to forget.

  I must have spent hours alone in the cold, staring up at the cloudless sky. It was almost midnight when people started spilling out into the garden for the fireworks. The girls had slipped off their heels and were standing on their tippy-toes, wrapped tightly in their boyfriends’ coats, pretending they didn’t know how cute they looked. And the boys were acting gallant, as if we didn’t all know they had only one thing on their minds. It was a charade we were all experts in, right down to the fluttering eyelashes and the not so subtle hair toss. I watched from a distance as people knocked back shots and toasted their futures, kids who had said nasty things to each other and about each other clinking their glasses together and promising to remain best friends. Forever.