Dishonored

by Maria Barrett

  She was tired, it had been a long day and she hadn’t yet fully recovered from the ten-hour flight to Delhi but nothing could take away the sensation of the warm breeze, the sight of the palace floating out across the water and the sky, a dark purple and blue streaked with fiery orange. Indi settled on to her cushion, nodded at the other passengers and smiled as the boat set off. It was odd, but since arriving in Baijur she had felt strangely at home.

  An hour later, Indi rang Jimmy’s room once more while the boy placed her tray on the bedside table and uncovered it. She hung on for as long as she could, letting it ring, then she replaced the receiver and rummaged in her bag for a tip for him. He thanked her and departed, leaving her alone to eat. She was disappointed but she was also sleepy after a long hot bath, so she curled herself up on the bed, flicked the remote control on the telly and reached for the tray. She picked at her meal for a few minutes and, deciding she was too tired to eat, laid it on the floor. Indi switched channels to an Indian action movie without the volume and, making herself comfortable, settled down to watch it and to wait for Jimmy’s return. Twenty minutes later, she was sound asleep.

  “What?” Indi rolled over and pushed the covers down, away from her face. She heard the knocking again and blinked several times to try and get her eyes into focus. She sighed, opened them fully and saw it was daylight outside, full-blown morning.

  The knocking continued, loudly.

  “Yes…” she croaked, “I’m coining!” She lifted the blankets and saw that she was fully dressed, the clean clothes she had put on after her bath now crumpled and slept-in. She must have gone straight out last night while watching TV and at some point crawled under the blankets. She looked across at the television; it was still on. “Oh God,” she moaned, spying the mess on the tray by the bed. She stepped over it and went to the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Please, madam, room cleaning.”

  Indi sighed. “Look, can you come back later? I’m not dressed or up yet.”

  “No, madam, room cleaning now.”

  Indi held on to the door. She had slept so heavily, so deeply that it felt as if someone had knocked her on the head. She gripped the handle and said, “I’m sorry but I do not want you to clean the room yet. Please come back later.” She went to close the door.

  “Please, madam, new guest arriving! Must clean room now!”

  Indi opened it again. “What d’you mean new guest arriving? I’m booked in for two weeks!” She saw the cleaner’s blank face and realized he had only the one sentence in English. “Wait,” she said, “I will ring the manager now.” She held up her hands. “Wait there, all right? I am going to ring the boss.” She made all the arm actions and finally the man nodded. She shut the door.

  Hurriedly she rang reception and asked for room 117. She listened to the empty ringing tone in Jimmy’s room until the switchboard cut her off and she experienced a momentary flash of panic. “Calm down,” she told herself. “This is a silly misunderstanding.” But she had begun to sweat, tiny beads of perspiration on her brow. She rang reception again. “Hello, this is Miss Bennet in room one three four, may I speak with the manager of the hotel, please?” She waited to be put through. “Ah, good morning!” she said, as brightly as she could manage, “I hope so Mr. Banerjee, I have slight problem with my room, number one three four and I was wondering if you might be able to clear things up for me…?”

  Ten minutes later, Indi sat small and helpless in a large leather armchair in the manager’s office and watched him on the phone to the police. Her heart was pounding, her hands sweating and she felt sick, dreadfully sick. She listened to the Hindi, not understanding a word of it and thought, you stupid, stupid girl! What did you know about Jimmy Stone? What did John try to tell you? You stupid, stupid girl!

  The manager hung up. “Please, Miss Bennet, the police are on the way over to the hotel now. Please be telling me again your story so that I am clear when they arrive.”

  Indi swallowed and fiddled nervously with her hands in her lap. “I, erm…” She stopped and cleared her throat; her voice had failed her. “I, erm… came to India with Mr. Stone, we arrived at the hotel yesterday morning. He told me he was working here, that he had a meeting and he, erm, er, took my travel documents to put them in the hotel safe before we both went out for the day.” She stopped and took a breath. It was becoming increasingly harder to speak without losing control; the tears lay just beneath the surface and she was holding on to her dignity by a hangnail. She clenched her hands together. “When I arrived back last night, I tried to call his room but could get no reply, it was the same this morning…”

  “So you did not know that Mr. Stone had checked out yesterday lunchtime?”

  “No! I…” Indi put her hand up to her face and bit on her knuckles. How could she know that? What on earth had happened? “No,” she continued, her voice strained, “I had no idea he was checking out. He told me that we would be here for two weeks, that he’d booked me in for two weeks. He was paying for my stay, he was…” Indi broke off, appalled by the hotel manager’s expression. “It wasn’t like that!” she cried. “He was a friend from London, he wanted the company while he was working here! He… Oh God!” She put her hands up and covered her face, unable any longer to stop the flood of tears. “Something must have happened to him,” she sobbed. “There must be some kind of mistake, I can’t believe…” She bit her lip and forced herself to stop crying. Blowing her nose, she said, “I don’t understand it all, Mr. Banerjee, something must have gone wrong.”

  “Then you did not know that you had reservations for only one night?”

  “No! Perhaps he changed his mind, perhaps…” She gave up.

  “But the booking was made several weeks ago, Miss Bennet.” The manager looked down his computer sheet. “It was a telephone booking, from Bombay.”

  Indi’s head jerked up. “Bombay? What the…?”

  “Yes, that is quite correct, from Bombay. When Mr. Stone left, Miss Bennet, he paid only the one bill.”

  Indi closed her eyes for a moment, her head had begun to spin. She had no idea what was going on. Jimmy had disappeared, he’d taken her passport, her money and her tickets and now the manager was going on about Bombay and reservations. She rubbed her hands wearily over her face and said, “Look, Mr. Banerjee, could I have another room for a day or so? I am sure this is all a misunderstanding, I…” She broke off at the sight of his face.

  “We have no rooms available, Miss Bennet, we are fully booked for the next month. I am very sorry but this is our peak season for tourists.”

  “But where will I…?” Indi sat and looked down at her hands in her lap. She sat like that for several minutes, paralyzed by the sheer desperation of her predicament. Then she glanced up. “May I make a telephone call please?”

  The manager stared at her across the desk. India was full of hopeless cases, European drifters. Penniless, they booked into hotels, left in the middle of the night without paying. He’d seen too many of them in his short career with the hotel chain; this one was no different, they all spun ridiculous lies, told him stories. He tapped his pen on the desk.

  “I will have to ask you for cash, Miss Bennet, for the telephone call.”

  Indi swallowed. She picked up her rucksack and took out her purse, she had just two pounds in Indian money. “I think I have enough to call the British consulate,” she said in a small voice, “at the High Commission in Delhi.”

  The manager sat stony-faced while Indi laid the notes on the desk, then he nodded. He passed her the telephone. “Go ahead, Miss Bennet,” he said, “the operator will dial the number for you.”

  Oliver Hicks was taking a year’s sabbatical from his regiment before he had to decide whether to become a career soldier or leave the army for good. He had secured an easy, boring job through his father, for the experience of India rather than the actual work itself and he sat in a small poky office at the back of the High Commission in Delhi, his feet on the desk, his h
ead back and his mouth slightly open as he slept. His boss was out of the office, he finished at lunchtime, for a few days off, and he had completed everything he’d been asked to do well in advance of his holiday. It was hot, even at that time of day; the fans whirred but the warm air was just wafted around the room, rustling papers and making it more uncomfortable. Oliver, in the warmth, had been unable to keep his eyes open. He had dozed off.

  At eleven-ten, the telephone rang.

  Oliver started and sat bolt upright. He felt momentarily disoriented then he lunged across the desk for the phone. “Hello! Passport office, Oliver Hicks, passport clerk speaking.” He shook his head and blinked several times, stifling a yawn with his hand. “Hello?”

  “Erm, hello? I’ve been put through to you and I’m not sure if I’ve got the right person but I’ve had my passport stolen and my money and I…” The voice was female, she sounded young.

  Oliver reached for a pad. “If you’d like to give me the details, miss?”

  “Yes, I…”

  The line crackled and Oliver shook the receiver. It sounded like the girl was crying. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Look, why don’t you tell me what happened and I can get some forms filled in for you.”

  “I came out with a friend,” the girl said, “Jimmy Stone, to Baijur, and now he’s disappeared, he’s gone with my passport and my money and everything!”

  Oliver rolled his eyes, another victim of love. “Do you have any money at all?”

  “No! I haven’t even got somewhere to stay! I…”

  “It’s all right, calm down now. Look, I can telephone your next of kin for you in the UK and have some funds wired out to you if you give me a number and your address in Baijur. All right?”

  “Yes…” The line went silent and it sounded as if the girl was weeping again.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes…” There was a loud blowing noise and Oliver smiled; he couldn’t help it. “My grandfather in the UK should be able to wire some money out. He’s Brigadier John Bennet, the number is West Sommerton…” Oliver started for a moment at the name. “Have you got that?”

  “Oh, yes, erm…” He scribbled frantically. “Yes, got it! Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Lake Palace hotel in Baijur; the number here is… Look, can you hold on for a moment?”

  Oliver said yes but his brain was somewhere else. He knew Brigadier Bennet, or rather knew of him! Jesus! Brigadier John Bennet DSO, OBE, had been in command of Oliver’s regiment from ’63 to ’ 68! He apparently survived some sort of awful personal scandal to become one of the government’s chief defense advisors. He must have been a hell of a soldier! God, Brigadier Bennet’s granddaughter! Lord, what a coincidence!

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello!” Oliver jumped back to the present.

  “I’ve got the number here…” She read it out. “I haven’t got a room here but the manager has said I can wait at the hotel for your call.”

  “Right, fine. Can I just ask you, miss, is that Brigadier Bennet of the Queen’s Regiment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right!” Oliver could hardly believe it! “Erm, can you give me your full name, miss?”

  “Yes, Indu Bennet. Do you want my home address?”

  “No, only your grandfather’s address.”

  “It’s the same. It’s Turnpike House, West Sommerton, West Sussex.”

  “OK, got that. Look, d’you want me to have a word with the manager, to tell him that we are helping you?” It wasn’t his jurisdiction but Oliver suddenly felt personally responsible for this girl. Brigadier Bennet’s granddaughter! Imagine!

  “No, it’s all right, I’m in his office now, he can hear what’s going on. If you could just ring my grandfather please.”

  “Right, I’ll do that straight away and I’ll call you right back.” Again it wasn’t his job but that wasn’t important now. “Hang on there and don’t worry, things will be fine.”

  The girl had started to cry again and Oliver’s heart went out to her. “It’s OK,” he said. “Please don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted out.” He heard her blow her nose again.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’ll ring you back, OK?” Oliver replied. “Bye for now.” Without waiting for her answer, he hung up. Scrabbling in his desk drawer for the UK telephone list, he yanked it out, scattering the mess that was in there with it and ran his finger down the codes. He found the code for West Sommerton and wrote it next to Brigadier Bennet’s number. Then he picked up the receiver again and dialled the switchboard operator.

  “Can I have an outside line, please?” He waited, heard the dialing tone then dialled Great Britain. Seconds later, he was through to Sussex and waiting for his call to be answered.

  John woke with a start at the sound of the phone ringing down in the hall. He hurried out of bed, thinking, it must be Indi, pulled on his dressing-gown and, unable to find his slippers in the faint dawn light, went downstairs in his bare feet. He picked up the receiver and bent to switch on the lamp as he did so. It was six forty-five.

  “Hello?” The line was bad, he heard a crackle then nothing for several seconds. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Brigadier Bennet?”

  “Yes, speaking.” He felt the sudden thumping of his heart in panic.

  “Good morning, my name’s Captain Oliver Hicks, I work for the British consulate at the High Commission in Delhi and I’m calling about your granddaughter, sir, Indu Bennet.”

  “Yes?” John gripped the receiver. “What’s happened? What is it?”

  “She’s quite all right, sir, but I’m ringing because she’s had her passport and money stolen in Baijur. Would it be possible to wire some money to a bank in Baijur today to tide her over while we get on with processing some travel documents for her?”

  “Yes, yes of course! I’ll go down to my bank as soon as it opens. She is all right, is she? She’s not harmed in any way?” John slumped down onto the bottom stair, the sudden shock made him momentarily weak.

  “No, not as far as I know.” There was a pause then the young man suddenly said, “I am going down to Baijur this afternoon, sir, to see that she’s all right.”

  “You are?” John was surprised.

  “Yes.” Hesitation again. “Yes I am!”

  “That’s terribly good of you! I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Captain Oliver Hicks, sir, of the Ninth Cavalry Division.”

  “I see.” John felt enormous relief, his regiment. He felt as if he knew this young man. “Thank you, captain,” he said, “I greatly appreciate your help.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir, I had some leave coming up. Can I give you some bank details?”

  “Yes, yes please. Could you hold on for a moment while I fetch a pen?” John stood and reached to the hall table. He took the notepad and pen off it and sat down again. “Right, captain, fire away!” he said. And scribbling in his slightly arthritic scrawl, he wrote down the name of the bank and all its details.

  Oliver hung up and thumped the desk with his fist.

  “Oh shit!” he cursed. “Damn, damn and shit!” Then he smacked his palm against his forehead. Why? Why did he do it? Why did he have to go and open his big mouth? He had to interfere, he had to impress, didn’t he? It had just popped out, he’d been so zealous in trying to help that he’d gone and offered his three days’ hard-earned holiday to go to Baijur and sort this silly girl out! Why couldn’t he keep his big mouth shut? He always did it, always!

  He stood up and paced the room. He’d have to cancel his night out with Rob Jones, he’d have to book a flight, or a train if the planes were busy. Oh God! He slumped down into his chair. He was so bloody impulsive, that was his trouble, university and five years in the army should have taught him to think before he acted. Instead he was still the same old Oli, jump in head first and think about it afterward, think about it when you’ve either cracked your head on the bottom or caught a nasty bout of flu becaus
e the water’s too cold!

  He sighed heavily and reached for the telephone. He’d better dial the ticket agency, then ring the Lake Palace Hotel. He’d committed himself now and, whether it was a good idea or not, he had to bloody well go through with it.

  Indi sat on the terrace in the shade of a striped awning and read an old copy of The Times. She was thirsty but she had no money for a drink and she was tired; the trauma and the weeping had exhausted her. She kept one eye on the hotel lobby as she read, for sight of the man from the high commission, and tried to ignore the intrusive glances from several of the hotel’s male guests. She was agitated, she felt vulnerable and, glancing briefly up at the lobby, she saw a tall young man staring at her, his light brown hair cut short, the slight curl in it cropped and his tanned face set in a determined expression. She thought he might be about to approach her and lifted up her paper to hide her face. If she hadn’t been so anxious, if she hadn’t been so depressed, she might have considered his look appealing. As it was, his stare thoroughly annoyed her. She rustled The Times and sighed irritably, crossed her legs and clenched her jaw. When she heard footsteps, she got ready to pounce.

  “Erm, excuse me?” Oliver stood in front of The Times and glanced briefly down at the long slim legs that came out from under it, the shape of the thighs clearly visible through the thin cotton of the long Indian skirt. They were nice but he wasn’t here for pleasure. He ignored them and glanced up at the paper again. Damn! England were a hundred and twenty-six for seven against Australia. Damn, damn damn! He shook himself. “Hello?” he tried again. “I’m looking for—”

  “Whatever it is,” Indi snapped, dropping her paper, “I’m sure that I can’t help you!” She glared at him and noticed that his eyes were green, a vivid intense green. “Sorry,” she said sarcastically. “Now, if you don’t mind.” She lifted the paper again and tutted behind it.

  Oliver moved away. He was in a rotten mood, the flight had been terrible, he was hot, tired and the last place on earth he wanted to be was Baijur. Rude young woman! He had a good mind to say something pertinent back, only he didn’t want the aggravation of an argument. The sooner he found Indu Bennet, sorted her out and left on the next flight out the better! He walked back into the hotel and across to reception. He would ask the manager where she was, better that than risk upsetting some other stroppy holidaymaker.