The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Smita Bhattacharya

Before she could move a muscle, Oleg had already walked out of the market gates. In her hurry, Darya nearly fell over the cart. The shopkeeper scowled at her and muttered something in Romanian. Mumbling excuses and not looking back, she ran. She came out just in time to see Oleg jump on his mountain bike and take off. She ran to where her own bike was chained and unlocked it.

  They pedalled hard, Oleg in front, Darya a few feet behind, through a maze of honking cars, evening strollers, and bikes. She was thankful she had a dirt bike too, taken on rent recently, even though it wasn’t as good as Oleg’s. She’d complained to Alina about how much it was costing her, and that she was happy enough with the one she had, but Alina had replied with an acerbic, ‘What do you care? It’s on the Rosetti tab. Think of it as a gift.’

  Oleg was racing through the streets like a maniac and Darya lost him a couple of times. Each time, she guessed the direction he might have gone in and was lucky to be right.

  They pedalled on and on.

  After a while, cement roads gave way to grasslands, dirt mounds, and mud. They’d been riding for nearly forty-five minutes.

  ‘Shit,’ she cried. She’d lost him.

  She got down and looked around. They’d ridden through a series of fields onto a small hill. No one was around. There were woods on one side: thick clusters of beech, oak, and birch trees. A few houses at the far end, down a slope. Sparse dry grass on her feet.

  What was she to do? Should she turn back?

  But her instincts were buzzing. There was something wrong. She had to find Oleg.

  She got back on her bike and rode again, following the dirt path.

  It must lead to somewhere.

  Even in her anxious state, she noted how beautiful and silent the forest was. The sun had long gone down, the sky had turned a fragile purple, and the stars were yet to make an appearance. She should’ve felt spooked—it was going to be night soon, and fully dark—but she was in pursuit, hunting something, and the end was near. She could feel it.

  She had to keep going.

  After a few minutes, realisation dawned on her.

  She knew where she was.

  They were riding to the abandoned Rosetti farmhouse. She hadn’t been there before, but she’d heard about it from Alina and Helenka, and seen pictures when she’d read up the story of Draco online.

  Ten minutes later, the farmhouse appeared in front of her; its massive iron gates were wide open. Without a second thought, she rode inside. She vaguely registered the house; its walls in desperate need of paint; the fish scale brick-roof; the attic windows, now shut and boarded. The garden was overgrown with nettles, brambles, and weeds, and the once beautiful koi pond was dense with inches-thick oily-film-like algae.

  Darya threw her bike by a tree. She took out her mobile phone and put on the torch. The sky hadn’t darkened yet, but the light wasn’t enough.

  She directed the torchlight in front of her. Her senses were on high alert.

  The front door was ajar. A bare bulb on an exposed wire hung from the ceiling in the doorway. Another low-watt bulb illuminated the left of the farmhouse, throwing flickers on a curved ramp that wound its way along the side to the roof. Oleg’s mountain bike was leaning on the wall next to it.

  So, Oleg is here.

  She walked up to the bike. A putrid smell was all around. The place had become a dump.

  Darya took out the Swiss army knife from her backpack and stuck it into the bike’s back tyre. That should slow him down.

  She looked around. The mossy fir tree on which she had set her own bike looked thick enough to hide behind.

  But what if Oleg noticed Darya’s bike? Darya grabbed hold of it and dragged it behind a cluster of overgrown bushes next to her and left it there.

  Leaves crackled underneath her feet as she moved back to the tree and adjusted her body behind it. Her eyes sought the shadows.

  A piece of fabric lay entangled around her shoe. Yellow and green. She seemed to vaguely remember it from somewhere …

  Focus!

  She trained her eyes ahead again.

  Perhaps she ought to go in. What was Oleg up to? Why was he here?

  But she didn’t have to wait for long.

  Five minutes later, Oleg emerged from the house, looking pleased with himself. Obviously, he’d accomplished what he’d come for.

  Darya put off the light on her phone and stuffed it back into her pocket. She shifted her body to get a better look.

  She had expected to see something. That was why she had followed him.

  But what she saw on Oleg’s shoulder made her insides grow cold.

  She gasped. Her hands clutched the sides of the tree and she prayed she wouldn’t fall.

  It all made sense now.

  It was Brian’s Matt & Dean backpack.

  There was no mistaking it. She knew it immediately. In her memories, when she saw Brian, she saw the bag on his back, bobbing along as he walked, out of place, burnished bright.

  Only in real life and at this moment, Oleg was carrying it.

  But even as she dialled the police hotline, Darya had not, in her wildest dreams, been prepared for the extent of the tragedy she’d helped uncover.

  Week 12: The Present Day

  ‘What a macabre way to die,’ said Ana-Maria, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I doubt the police would’ve found him without your help. No one went to the farmhouse anymore. My father got a couple of stopgap fixes done a few years ago—I think he was thinking of selling it—but I don’t think any of us particularly enjoyed going there anymore ...’ she stopped abruptly.

  After Draco … Darya almost heard the words leave her lips.

  When she saw Oleg with Brian’s backpack, for a brief minute, she debated whether she should call Ana-Maria first, but something made her stop. It was Ana-Maria’s family property, after all; what if she didn’t call the police after Darya told her she suspected something untoward had happened at her farmhouse? Of course, she was going to be worried about the consequences. The police would be all over the place, her family name would be dragged through the mud, she and her staff would be questioned, and vicious gossip would do the rounds. Who would want that? Especially not somebody rich. Darya hadn’t been sure what the police were going to find but seeing the backpack in Oleg’s hands had made her certain Brian wasn’t okay; something had happened to him, and Oleg had been responsible.

  Her instinct turned out to be right.

  No one, least of all Ana-Maria, would’ve wanted to be linked with what was discovered by the police in the farmhouse.

  The details were horrific. Darya had seen the pictures, captured by the press photographers from the peripheries of the police tape, but those hadn’t been of much help. Little had been visible in the photos; the bodies, or what remained of them, were covered by canvas and carried out in stretchers, because the police hadn’t brought body bags, which, by what she learnt later, might’ve been more fitting.

  Instead, she, and the rest of the doggedly curious local populace, pieced together what was found from the gory descriptions that followed those pictures.

  Three dead bodies had been found, stuffed on top of each other in the chimney of the Rosetti farmhouse.

  Brian’s was the first.

  He had been dead for over two weeks, his flesh in advanced stages of decay, with maggots feeding on the organs. While most of the outer layers of his skin had sloughed off, the exposed parts of what remained were covered with scrapes and cuts, presumably a result of him trying to escape. His rib cage and pelvic bones were visible between slowly putrefying flesh. The skin of his face had turned black and hardened and looked like a latex mask.

  Two other bodies were underneath his; smaller in frame and long gone to bones. One was identified as belonging to a Hispanic female, Maddox, a backpacker from Boston, Massachusetts, who’d been reported missing a year ago. She was estranged from her parents, and it was a friend, whom she’d been in touch with, that alerted her parents she might be in trouble.
She was identified by matching her teeth to the dental records the police had collected during the previous cursory investigations a year ago. The third body belonged to a 5’ 1” teenage male, as yet unidentified. He had died in a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt, no shoes. From his remains, the forensic pathologist identified that the boy had died two years ago. He had thick, blonde hair, was of slender build, and wore braces on his teeth.

  But it was not the reporting of the remains that shook Darya the most; it was the description of the state the bodies had been found in.

  The three of them had been crammed together into the narrow chimney—twelve feet long and four feet wide. Their bodies were unimaginably contorted—like ectoplasm in a tube—covered in soot and grime. They’d been paralysed by some means before their bodies were stuffed inside, and the bones of their elbows and knees shattered to make them fit. The bodies showed signs of superficial charring, suggesting the chimney had been used just enough to stain the remains, which may have helped to preserve the bodies better.

  It was as if they were being preserved to serve as trophies.

  All three had ultimately died of asphyxiation. Brian’s body also showed signs of pulmonary congestion and oedema. A follow-up forensic examination was to be held in Bucharest to confirm the findings of the Sibiu team and determine the sequence of events.

  The image of the three bodies packed inside a dark passage—a pack of ghostly skulls and bones, eyes staring, mouths agape—haunted Darya and everyone she met, and the locals talked of nothing else for days.

  As expected, Ana-Maria was upset with Darya—that she’d spoken to the police before having spoken to her—but when she found out there was a suspect in police custody, she was somewhat mollified. She met the police chief and extended her support to him, promising to do everything in her power to bring justice to the dead. Yes, Oleg was their employee, she told the police, but his had only been a part-time gig, and he’d not been with them for very long. They knew Oleg’s father only socially—Mihai and he had briefly studied together—but that was not going to be a problem.

  Oleg was not speaking to the police. His father had gotten him an expensive lawyer who was making things difficult for them and the investigation. It was frustrating, but the police hoped to get to the bottom of things shortly.

  ‘Oleg had removed the chimney cap.’

  Darya nodded.

  She knew everything now. Why Oleg did what he did, who helped him and why, what had happened to Brian …

  … but she wasn’t going to tell Ana-Maria as yet.

  It wasn’t the right time.

  ‘I haven’t gone there in years,’ Ana-Maria continued. ‘Seeing the house again, with the mayor and the police swarming all over it, was hardly a pleasant experience.’

  Darya played along. ‘You think Oleg knew none of you went there anymore and took advantage of it?’

  Her eyes flashed for a split second. Then she nodded. ‘I presume you have more to tell me,’ she added.

  Darya bobbed her head in agreement, but as she opened her mouth to speak, ‘It’ll have to wait,’ Ana-Maria stopped her. She looked at her watch. ‘I have to meet my father’s lawyer.’ She rose from her chair and indicated with her hand that Darya do the same. ‘The execution of his will and transfer of properties need to be looked at. It’s urgent, and unavoidable, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Understood.’ Darya got to her feet.

  ‘Can you come by early tomorrow?’ She glanced at Darya, simultaneously stuffing things into her purse. A lip balm, the house keys, a headband. ‘We need to get this done with.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Alina,’ Darya replied.

  ‘De ce? You’re still working there?’ she murmured. ‘Tell her it’s important.’

  ‘I will.’

  She slung her purse over her shoulders and looked at Darya meaningfully. ‘I’m glad you didn’t tell the police everything. I was not happy that you called the police before calling me, but you did not tell them anything else. That’s good.’

  ‘It was a spur of the moment decision,’ Darya said. ‘The police didn’t know it was I who had called them, so there was no opportunity to reveal anything else.’ On the call, Darya had said she was a passing tourist and had seen something suspicious at the farmhouse. After the call had ended, she’d discarded her store-bought prepaid SIM card to avoid being traced.

  Ana-Maria’s face wore a sneer, barely discernible, but it was there.

  Because what Darya said was not completely true. There was another reason Darya had been unwilling to interact with the police after that first time.

  Christine had come to Darya’s house, accompanied by two henchmen, and in her typical deceptively polite manner, threatened Darya with consequences if she were ever to speak to anyone about Brian or the case again, other than to Ana-Maria. Because, even though it had only been an informal arrangement, Darya’s first responsibility was towards Ana-Maria; absolute confidentiality was a given.

  Hence, Darya had had no other way.

  Afterwards, when she met Ana-Maria and Christine again, it was as if they were different people, and the altercation with Darya had never happened.

  The curious ways of the wealthy!

  As if to prove her point, when Ana-Maria spoke again now, it was a cheery ‘I’m glad.’ She walked to the door and opened it, gesturing for Darya to leave before her.

  A few minutes later, Darya stepped onto the pavement outside. She’d declined Ana-Maria’s offer to drop her home, saying she needed to clear her head; a walk would do her good. In any case, she hadn’t wanted to spend more time than necessary with Ana-Maria at close quarters.

  The sky had turned a raw pink. The fish scale roofs stared down at her, bright-red and jaunty.

  She was going to leave Sibiu in two days and return to her messy life back home. Because what point was there to prolong her stay in Sibiu, even though she’d fallen hopelessly in love with it? She knew life would never be normal again for her here.

  Once or twice, she wondered at her own bravado—nay, recklessness—of telling Ana-Maria everything; she wasn’t going to like it one bit. But Darya revelled in the impulsive and the wild; and she wondered, too: If I don’t, who will?

  Although, worse things were coming up in her story.

  Far worse!

  PART III

  We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.

  ― Bram Stoker, Dracula

  Week 10: 1 week after Brian is found

  Darya is moping after Brian is found dead. She doesn’t understand why Oleg did it. Was he being directed? Did he have help? She follows a seemingly unrelated clue and discovers more.

  They stood facing each other, their breaths coming fast and shallow. Emotions flooded over her: irritation, excitement, desire, anxiety. Are you sure about this? He asked softly. She didn’t nod. She didn’t reply. She was sure.

  She knew he knew she was sure.

  She could see him tense his body. She felt her own tense in response. They wanted it to happen, not because they were in love or craved each other physically. It was only because … it had been much too long. For the both of them.

  And now, here, standing next to each other, they felt safe in the knowledge that the other would be compassionate. Sex was not always about the body’s needs.

  She slid off her clothes. He ran his eyes over her body and while he did so, he slid off his own. She pulled him to the bed, hungry for his touch. But he didn’t caress her for a full minute; he just held her and took the sight of her in.

  Something inside her shifted: a deep, deep yearning. A sigh escaped her.

  ‘Please,’ she begged.

  Warm hands slid up her back, brushed her cheeks, passed through her hair. She shivered with pent up excitement.

  ‘Please,’ she said,
but this time, the word was a command.

  She pulled him towards her.

  Darya did not tell Ana-Maria that the night she’d gotten drunk with Brian at Harlequin, they’d slept with each other afterwards, and underneath the swathes of fabric smelling strongly of ripe strawberries, they’d briefly wondered how it might be to go away together, to explore the world. Yes, they were years apart in age, but Brian had been an old soul, wise beyond his years, and Darya had needed a distraction.

  Only fleetingly had she thought of Aaron; for a moment she imagined she saw his kind face staring down at her from the doorway, blazing disapproval in his eyes. She’d stared back defiantly, until the image had faded out.

  Hadn’t they split up? At least that’s what she’d thought he’d meant when he said they needed time apart. Aaron knew what Darya’s father had done in Mumbai, as part of the secret escort club called Matangi, but instead of commiserating, his response had been saying something along the lines of the vices of the blood were hard to escape which had caused Darya to go into a rage. He’d waited until she’d calmed down and said it was time to think things over.

  Surprisingly, she’d felt relief. Her relationship with Aaron had run its course.

  She’d then realised with a jolt how different she’d become from how she’d been even a year ago. Being with a man was all she used to care about, no matter what the cost. She no longer craved their love and approval to feel validated. Her love and her life were her own, to nurture and to protect; she’d accept a man in her life only if his presence made her feel free and fulfilled, not small and restrained.

  It was empowering. She felt free.

  So, yes, she owed Brian. His death was a bigger blow to her than anyone could imagine, and if asked, she wouldn’t have been able to explain why.

  Darya hadn’t seen the bodies, but she’d heard and read enough for her imagination to consume her every waking moment. How could this have happened to her? Again? Did she carry ill-luck with her everywhere she went? Why did people she met, lives she touched, always, always, get into trouble?