The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3)

by Laxmi Hariharan

  "Mum," I prompt her.

  Her shoulders are heaving.

  I jump to my feet and rush to her. She turns to me and buries her face in my chest. She feels fragile, and under my arms I can feel her trembling.

  "Tell me," I order.

  "Your dad …" She is sobbing, great heaving bursts of grief. As if all the repressed tears, once uncorked, can't be stopped anymore.

  She leans back and out of my arms and then folds her lips together as if trying to get control of herself. She shakes her head, and the cold feeling inside me turns dark, swallowing me completely.

  "What happened to Dad?" I shake her shoulders urging her.

  "He's been gone almost a year now on a secret mission. No news, nothing. Then yesterday I get a call from his boss. They suspect he is dead."

  "Dead?" The dark feeling deepens, churns. I refuse to accept what I am hearing. It makes no sense.

  She swallows again. "He was on the trail of a particularly dangerous criminal this time. Some national security issue. The usual, I thought. But apparently this time it related to a threat to the city. Something similar to 9/11, they suspect."

  What's she talking about? A 9/11 in Bombay? It's serious, life and death serious. And now Dad is … dead? My legs going weak, I sink down into the closest chair.

  "No, not possible," I say. "He has to be alive."

  "They called this morning, asking me to identify the body." She breaks down again, and, holding onto me, sobs.

  SEVENTEEN

  The cold air leaps to embrace me like a stranger getting overfamiliar with me too quickly. The morgue is in the basement of the King Edward Memorial (KEM) Hospital. The body I am to identify may or may not be my father. My heart thumps, slowly, keeping pace with the footsteps of the coroner ahead. My skin soaks in the coolness, grateful to be out of the heat.

  Stepping inside the small room, I stop by the doors. My legs have turned to slabs of concrete and I am unable to move. The coroner walks around a covered figure on the gurney. The white sheet bulges up at the feet and at the head.

  "You okay?" he asks, his features composed, his eyes as blank as the sheet, as if he has done this many times. His hair is greying, white coat hanging off his shoulders as if he has lost weight recently. He walks back, puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me to the figure by the sheet.

  "Be brave," he says, not unkindly.

  Then, without giving me a chance to breathe, he pulls off the sheet. The food I had eaten on the plane rushes up my gullet and, leaning to the side, I puke. When I straighten, I find he hasn't moved. His eyes drop to the smashed features of the face and back to me.

  "Is it him?" he asks.

  "I … I don't know," I reply. "It looks like him, from his … his hair. But it's difficult to tell."

  I feel the sickness rush up my throat again, and swallow down on it.

  "We found this on him." He hands over the watch with a leather strap and a wallet.

  With shaking hands I open the wallet. My own face stares up at me from the family picture of the four of us. There's a separate picture of Vishal from when he is much younger.

  No. No. No. The world tilts around me, going grey at the edges. I swallow; fist my hands at my sides. I take a deep breath, look at the coroner, nod jerkily, and then turn. I run out of there, through the corridor, before slamming into someone. He pulls me up and I look into the eyes of my brother.

  Vishal grips my shoulder, his nails digging into my flesh so it hurts. But right now I almost welcome the harsh edge of pain.

  He peers into my face, sees the grief curling over my features.

  "No, it can't be." He shakes his head, denying it.

  His words echo those running through my mind. Closing my eyes, I allow the tears inside to well up.

  "Fuck it! Fuck it!" Letting go of me, Vishal turns and slams his fist into the wall so a piece of plaster falls to the ground.

  Two nurses walking towards us take one look at him and turn back.

  I don't blame them.

  In the months since I last saw him, Vishal's filled out. The muscles on his arms bunch, so the tattoo on his upper arm and neck—a new addition—writhes like a lizard about to leap off his skin. With his crew-cut hair, cut-off black T-shirt, and torn jeans, he looks like he's part of a street gang. Which he is.

  "I told him not to take this last mission. That it was too dangerous. But of course he did. I should have stopped him."

  I place a hand on his shoulder only to have him shrug it off.

  "Vishal—"

  "What do you care?" he mutters, placing his forehead against the wall. "You go back to your school or to Oxford or wherever it is you like to run away to."

  "I didn't run away," I say in a low voice, welcoming a crack in the ice that has encased my heart since I first identified the body.

  He turns to me, his coal-black eyes blazing as if a volcano is surging inside. "What else do you call being away …? Oh! Wait!" He claps a hand to his forehead. "You were getting an education. Something I was never good for. But you know what, I have learnt a lot, and from the real world, while you were gone."

  I grip his shoulders. Hard. "Tell me," I say urgently. "Do you know what happened to him?"

  He jerks free. Takes a step back. Anger and something else—Disgust? Revulsion? —colours his face. He hates me so much. And now, now that the father we shared, the bridge between us, is gone, he's slipping away too.

  "Even if I did, I would never tell you," he says. "You weren't there for him when he needed someone. I was there. I warned him to drop the case. But he wouldn't listen. He only listened to you. And now he's gone."

  How dare he say that? I take a step forward, so we stand almost chest-to-chest.

  "Don't you blame this on me, you hear?" A whiff of my anger shakes free.

  The next moment, I'm on the floor and Vishal's on top. He grips my neck and presses, hard enough that I begin to choke, feel the blackness zoom in on me from the edges. Then, I am free and coughing. Through the pain fogging my eyes, I find Vishal being restrained by two male nurses. The coroner helps me to my feet.

  "Are you okay? This boy—"

  "—He's my brother. Let him go." I cough, swallowing through the pain searing my vocal cords.

  He hesitates, and I insist, "Please. He's just upset …" I nod towards the room. "You know—"

  The coroner nods to the men, who release Vishal. Breathing heavily, Vishal looks at me. His hatred fills the space between us.

  "Can you leave us?" I tell the men. "I am fine, and we … we need to speak." When they don't move, I plead. "Please."

  The coroner turns and leaves, the men in tow.

  "Do you know what happened to Dad?" I ask. This time my voice is firm but soft. Coercing. I don't want to fight with him. Not now. Not when he's as upset as me.

  "Why should I? I don't owe you anything." His face folds itself into stubborn lines, lower lip jutting out. "As long as he was alive, it felt like I should at least try to get along with all of you for his sake. But now—" He looks sad, like the lost little boy who clung to my father's legs the first day I saw him. Then, he narrows his eyes, and a line I haven't seen before appears between his eyebrows. I realise I am mistaken. I don't know him at all. These last few years have created a distance between us, one I cannot cross.

  "You won't see me again. Not you or your fancy mother." He bites out the words.

  I don't react to that. "Where will you go, Vishal? What are you going to do now?" I ask softly.

  "Keep your fake worries to yourself. There are people I can turn to. People who actually care about me."

  "I do care about you, Vishal—"

  "It's too late now." He turns to go.

  "And Seema?" I prompt. What will he say to that? I know he loves her. She's innocent. And if not us, he definitely sees her as his family. His sister. He'll surely want to stay in touch with her.

  "Tell her." He hesitates. "Tell her I'll call."

  I watch him leave
. I must stop him, must say something. But what? I feel powerless, like my life is not my own anymore.

  SEVENTEEN

  It's been a week since Dad's funeral. Days when the house has been filled with grieving relatives, crying women and men walking around with serious faces. All of them assembled because they're "concerned" about us.

  "Things will get better," one uncle tells me in all seriousness. "You'll come to terms with it. With time you'll get over him."

  I want to scream at him and say: How do you know that? Are you feeling what I am feeling just now, this mind numbing sorrow where it feels my skin is being ripped off my back? I will never get over his loss, never.

  Another adds, "Besides, your mother is still young … She can marry again, you know?"

  People can be callous—insensitive—when they are trying to make you feel better.

  I want to just shut myself in my old room. Bury myself in one of the video games or comic books of my youth. But I can't find refuge in them. Not when the vision of that smashed-up face haunts my every waking moment. I refuse to believe that–that thing is my dad. The police confirm it is. They don't give us any further details. It's all classified. Not to be revealed. Not even to his next of kin. No, all they say is that he was on the trail of a particularly vicious terrorist, one that got to him before he did. And that's it.

  When finally the house empties, Mum retires to her bed. She hides under the covers, in her darkened room, saying she is unwell, refusing to eat. It's as if we have exchanged roles—she the adamant child and me the parent, trying to coax her to behave.

  Grief hangs between us like clothes hung out to dry on a washing line.

  SEVENTEEN

  A buzzing jerks me awake. I fumble for the phone … where is it? I pat the bed next to me; look for it on the side table. The buzzing continues, growing, filling the space. I slip my hand under my pillow and my fingers brush the plastic casing of my phone. There it is. I pull it out and look at the time. It's 3am. Who can it be? I click on the message.

 

  Wha—? A crank text message? And why the mortuary? My heartbeat speeds up. A surge of adrenaline propels me to sit up. Who am I going to find this time? No, not Mum … It can't be Seema … Vishal? It must be him. Is he hurt? No, no. It can't be. I will never forgive myself if it is. Fuck. I should have done more to convince Mum to have him back home. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Please, not him. I get out of bed and pull on jeans and a T-shirt. Grabbing my phone and wallet, I run out of the apartment.

  I barrel through the mortuary doors, the double doors swinging open. The cold air rushes up to greet me, an old friend now. There's a slight fog creeping in, growing strong … mist everywhere. Why is everything so hazy? It's getting colder by the minute. It's as if I've walked into a very large deep freezer. I'm shivering now. I put my arms around myself, trying to keep some of the warmth for myself. The coroner walks up to me. His face is white, bleached of all colour. Stained lab coat. Red. Crimson. The blood splotches sparkle, the only colour in the grey world. He gestures to the tables.

  Three. There are three bodies, all covered in white. One smaller than the others. It's a child's body. No. It can't be. I'm rooted to the spot now. I can't move. I jam my hands under my armpits, teeth chattering with the cold. My leg muscles are locked, breath coming out in short gasps.

  The coroner walks up to the first body, pulls off the sheet, and then, in rapid succession, the second and the third. Their faces are smashed in, features ground to an oozy pulp.

  Seema? It can't be. This little life, my beautiful sister, gone?

  I reach out a hand and she sits up. One eyeball is exposed in its socket, the other fallen out. The sheet falls to her waist, exposing her chest. The flesh drops down, showing her lungs, her still-beating heart. No! This … this, whatever it is … is not my sister.

  I sit up in bed. Breathing heavily. It's a dream. It's a dream. JUST. A. DREAM. A piercing pain sears through my chest and I double over. Mouth dry, my shirt sticks to my back with sweat. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, hunch over, and hide my face in my palms. Just. A. Dream.

  I check my phone. Just to be sure. There it is. A message. I stare at it. No. No. This isn't happening. I don't want to know what it says. I have to find out. Must open it. OPEN. IT.

 

  What the fuck? Who is this? The phone trembles in my hands. I grip it with palms gone sweaty. I drop it on the bed; wipe my palms on the bed sheet. Stomach muscles jumping, I read the message again. It's from the same number, the unknown one. It's definitely not from the service provider. Is this the same person who texted me when I arrived from St James? How do they know where I am? Do they know I am awake? Are they watching me even now? No. Someone's playing me, manipulating my life, putting my family in danger. I pick up the phone, squeeze my fingers around it, and I am raising my arm to fling it, when my eyes fall on the briefcase Dad had left with me on his last visit to St James.

  Another puzzle. But this one … this one I can solve. I am going to open it. Now. I let the phone drop back on the bed. Walking over, I get the briefcase, place it on the bed and try to open it. It's password protected.

  Of course it is. Dad was a stickler for security. What's the password? Which numbers would he use? Think. Think.

  I try the date of my mother's birthday, their wedding anniversary date, the date of my birthday, Seema's birth. No luck.

  Then I set the numbers to 0911.

  Nope. Still doesn't work. Strange. I was so sure it was this one. It's why he had chosen to stay on in the force and fight the war on terror within his own country. 9/11 had made him recommit to his chosen path, despite the dangers involved. He'd loved his country almost as much as the women in his life.

  What else? What can it be? I try the numbers for Vishal's birthday and it snaps open.

  I lean back and stare at the briefcase. Not my birthday, or Seema's, but Vishal's birthday. He used that as the password? What's in here? Heartbeat racing now, I reach out to open it and am surprised to see my hands are trembling. I pull out a family album.

  There are photographs of my father's growing years in Mussoorie. Of my grandfather, including one of him standing next to a Bentley, wearing an impressive turban, holding a child—my father probably. Then Dad as a teenager, growing up in Bombay: a gangly boy with big ears who had become a dashing young man. He's always well dressed in slim trousers, well-fitted shirts and with thick tousled hair falling over his broad forehead. I can see his appeal. I understand now why the girls had liked him. There's something arresting … in his gaze. I share more than a passing resemblance with him.

  Another photo catches my eye. This one feels different … The only one in which he is bare-chested, a sprinkling of hair on his chest. His arm is around a woman—clearly not Mum. She has long black hair flowing to her waist and is wearing a bikini top and a sarong. She looks up at my father with adoring eyes, laughing at something he's saying. My father's gaze locks with her, echoing the almost obsessed look in his eyes. In the background is a beach. Was this taken in Bombay? I can't tell.

  I turn the page, and it's almost as if Dad has thrown himself headlong into domesticated bliss after that. The usual birthdays—mine, Mum's. Family outings, wedding anniversaries, Seema's arrival. More family gatherings. As I am about to put away the album, two pictures fall out. The first of a child ... I know immediately it is Vishal. It's unfamiliar, the first picture I have seen of him as a baby. But it had to be him. After all, Dad used his birthday as the password to this briefcase.

  The other picture shows a woman holding baby Vishal on a beach. They stare at the camera, wearing an identical, serious expression. The woman seems on the verge of tears. I flip back the pages of the album, back to the picture of Dad with the woman on the beach. There she is, the same woman. It's her all right: that strong curve of the jaw, those large dark eyes outlined with kohl
; only in the later picture her features are drawn, and between those arches of her eyebrows is smeared vermillion, an angry crimson that soars almost to the top of her forehead, slashing across her face like an open wound. Who is she?

  A shiver runs down my back. She's looking at me, through me. There's something else here—a hidden image between the pictures that I am not seeing. There's nothing else in the box.

  It doesn't seem right. He wouldn't have come all the way to St James to hand over a family album. But, of course, he was a spy … Spies don't take the easy way out if they can hide something and make you look for it. Standard procedure.

  I hunt around the walls of the box. Find a tiny space at the bottom and tug at it till the entire bottom comes away in my hand. Below are files with newspaper cuttings, some documents and a small handgun …

  A gun?

  I weigh it in my hand. It's light. Lighter than it looks. It carries the burden of death easily. It's not the first time I've seen a gun, of course not. I have always known Dad carried a gun. It's one of those things we knew but just never acknowledged or spoke about. It brings home just how dangerous his job really was. And yet he had never let on how risky his work had been. To us he was this easy-going, always smiling, good-humoured dad.

  He lived surrounded by violence.

  And died by it too.

  Keeping the gun aside, I look at the paper clippings. All talk about threats to the city and are dated at intervals over the last ten years.

  The document is what interests me the most. Stamped "Confidential" and with the seal of RAW, it's dated a little more than year ago. It gives details of a radical organisation that has infiltrated the city and many of the government's own essential services. According to this report, a big attack on the city is imminent and this threat comes from within the country. They call it "youth violence".

  Reports prior to this one reveal how this organisation has been enlisting rich kids from Bombay to be part of this movement.