Dishonored

by Maria Barrett

  “Hello? Rob? It’s Oliver, I’m returning your call, sorry we weren’t in, mate.”

  “No problem, Oli. I’ve got some stuff here from the files but I’m afraid it’s not great news.”

  Oliver reached for a pen and the hotel notepaper. “OK, fire away.”

  “Well, it’s not as simple as that, Oli, I’m going to have to send you some press cuttings in order to give you the full story. But, in short, the Jane Mills you wanted to know about wasn’t involved in any car accident, as far as I can find out. If it’s the same one, and I’m pretty sure it is, then she was accused of murdering her husband, Major Phillip Mills, and his mistress, some Indian woman, in Baijur in October 1966.”

  Oliver slumped down on to the chair. “Jesus,” he murmured.

  “She disappeared straight afterward and has never been found since. It was generally assumed she died at some later date or took her own life. There’s never been any sighting or word of her for twenty odd years. Oli? You still there?”

  Oliver ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. “Yup, still here. Sorry, Rob, it’s a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I can imagine. Look, I’ll send the cuttings by express parcel delivery, they may help to get things into perspective. It was a hell of a scandal at the time; apparently she found him in bed with the mistress and there’s a mountain of newspaper coverage.”

  “I bet!”

  “I’m sorry, Oliver, sorry I couldn’t tell you anything better.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Oliver had been doodling absentmindedly on the notepaper and saw that he’d drawn teardrops.

  “What’s happening at the office, by the way? You want me to say anything?”

  He dropped the pen and screwed the sheet of paper into a ball. “No, not yet. I’ll probably be back tomorrow; if not, then I’ll ring the boss myself.” He threw the ball across the room and hit the wastepaper basket first time. “Listen, thanks, Rob, I appreciate this. I’ll see you in a few days, OK?”

  “OK. If I come across anything else about Baijur in the next twenty-four hours I’ll give you a buzz.”

  “Great, thanks. Bye for now.” Oliver hung up. As he turned, he saw Indi in the doorway watching him.

  “So?” She leaned against the door frame. “What did he say?”

  Oliver walked across to her. He stood in front of her and placed his hand on her arm. “Oliver! What did he say?” She smiled up at him. “Come on! Tell me.”

  “He said that Jane Mills was accused of murdering her husband Major Phillip Mills and his mistress in Baijur in October 1966. She disappeared straight after the bodies were discovered and has never been found.” He looked down, then a few moments later he glanced up at her. “I’m sorry, Indi, really I am.” He reached for her hand. “I…”

  “Stop it!” She knocked his hand away. “I don’t want your pity!” Shoving past him, she walked out on to the balcony and stood with her back to him staring out at the water. He didn’t know what to do so he went after her.

  “I know how you must feel, Indi, I…”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” She spun around. “Christ, that’s very intuitive of you!” He saw that she was crying although she seemed unaware of it herself. “How can you possibly know how I feel?” she cried. “My grandfather lied to me! He told me a load of old crap, took the moral high ground and all my life he lied to me! He must have known, he must have…” She broke off and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. The tears were streaming down her face now and she could hardly see.

  “Perhaps he couldn’t tell you.” Oliver stepped closer to her. She was dangerously near the edge of the balcony and it scared him. “Maybe he was trying to protect you, Indi.” He reached out to her. “Doing what he thought was right.”

  “Right!” She jerked away from him. “Right!” Suddenly she lost her footing. She stumbled back and fell off balance. She screamed. Oliver lunged forward and grabbed her. “Jesus Christ!” He hugged her tight, his heart pounding. “Nearly lost you then,” he whispered. She started to sob.

  “Hey! It’s all right.” He gently stroked her hair, his fingers tracing the curls. “Come on, please, Indi, don’t cry.”

  Indi pulled back. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Oliver handed her his hanky for the second time that day and she blew her nose. “Thanks.”

  She went to hand it back to him and they both smiled.

  “Come on, I’ll phone room service. I think we could both do with a drink.” Oliver took her hand and led her back inside. A while later, after the drinks had arrived, he poured her a whisky and took it across to her.

  “You OK now?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Indi took a sip then forgot the drink and stood abruptly, walking across to where she’d left her bag. She unzipped the pocket and took out the book, sitting on the edge of the sofa to look at it. Oliver watched her.

  “Perhaps this means more than we thought,” she said, going through the pages. She was odd, all fired up, angry and determined. “Perhaps it is connected to my father and mother in some way.” She flicked to the end. “It must be, Oliver! It has to be!”

  Oliver came over to her. “Yes, perhaps it is.” He took the book and closed it. “But just for now, let’s leave it.” He wanted to touch her, to make some kind of physical contact but she shrank from him, almost flinching. He moved away. “Finish your drink,” he said, “and then let’s go and have a massive, eye-wateringly hot curry.”

  Indi at last smiled.

  “Whatever this means,” he tapped the book, “it can wait.”

  “OK.” She thought for a moment. “But we have to come back to it, we have to find out.”

  Oliver nodded. “We will, I promise.” He picked up his whisky and drank it down in one. “Come on,” he said, suddenly unable to be alone with her any more, “let’s go!”

  Oliver felt the cool breeze on his back and rolled over. He had been only half asleep and sat up on seeing the empty space on the other side of the bed.

  “Indi?” He dropped his feet down on to the floor and, reaching for a towel, wrapped it around his waist and walked out on to the balcony. “Indi? Are you all right?”

  She turned. She was wearing a long, thin muslin shirt and he could see her body quite clearly through the fine gauze. He looked away.

  “The verse,” she said, “in the book, I keep thinking about it, why he wrote it there, the last entry at the front of the book. It is obviously the end, it’s dated after the last drawing, yet does it symbolize the beginning as well?” She looked at the book on the cane table. “I don’t understand it, Oliver, I keep thinking that it has to be there for a reason. I can’t sleep for thinking about it. Who was he? What did it all mean?”

  Oliver pulled a chair out and sat. He rubbed his hands wearily over his face to wake himself up. “‘O Rose thou art sick,’” he began, “‘The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm; Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.’” He took a breath. “The verse is from the Songs of Experience, you know that, the passing of innocence to experience, a stormy passage, experience is darkness, corruption.” He looked down at the book. “What does it mean? Well, to be honest, Indi, it can mean what you want it to. If we were to maybe put it in the context of your parents it could mean any number of things; it would be how we translate it.” He broke off and thought for a moment, then he glanced up. “What’s the matter?”

  Indi was staring at him as if he’d just stepped off another planet. “How do you know all this, Captain Hicks?”

  “BA honors, English, Durham University.” He shrugged. “Anyway, as I was saying. Let’s look at what we know. Your parents, Jane Mills is English, right, your father is Indian, they are in love, deeply in love, it is beautiful, a gift of the gods, like a rose, perfect almost, but it is difficult, stormy, she’s married, unhappy, they are forbidden to meet maybe, this is the howling storm, maybe he’s even referring to the murder?” Oliver stopped for b
reath. “Yes, OK. Let’s say it’s the murder he’s referring to. The rose, the perfect love, is sick, a murder has been committed, there is chaos, a howling storm, and there is danger, Jane is in hiding, perhaps with her lover, but there is a sick worm, and this worm has found them out.” He broke off and looked at her. “How does it all sound?”

  “Weird!” Indi smiled. “But impressive. Go on.”

  “Ah,” Oliver pulled a face. “I can’t. That’s as far as I can get, I think.”

  “So, basically, in plain English for the dunce here, you’re saying that maybe the verse refers to what happened to them? That they, my parents were in danger, their love was in trouble, a sick rose, and that someone had come after them?”

  “Yuh, more or less. Perhaps.”

  Indi thought for a few moments. “That sounds credible.” She reached for the book and sat down next to Oliver. He glanced briefly at her thighs and then looked away. “D’you think this book might tell their story and that’s why he wanted me to have it?”

  Oliver shrugged. He was desperately trying to think of something else, anything else to take his mind off the rush of blood to his groin.

  “Maybe the dates, verses and drawings mean something, perhaps a series of events?” Indi suddenly had an idea. She turned to him. “What if it’s like some sort of puzzle, one thing leading to the next?” She shook his arm. “Oliver?”

  “Hmmm, maybe.” He crossed his legs and shifted on the chair, away from her.

  “And if it is, then perhaps I should try and follow it, try to make some sort of sense of it.” She looked at him expectantly. “Well, what d’you think? Oliver?”

  He faced her. “I think you could be right,” he said, “and I think it might be worth trying to follow the pages, to see where it all leads.” He let out a sigh of relief, he had it under control now. “But I also think that this book may be what someone is looking for and there’s no way I am going to let you do it on your own!”

  Indi shook her head. “No, I don’t want to involve you, Oli, I don’t want you to feel you have to,” she said.

  “I don’t feel I have to.” He shrugged. “I want to.” It was the first time he had put any sense to the turmoil of feelings whirring round and round in his head and he felt immediately better for it, more in control. He did want to be with her, he wanted it more than he could remember wanting anything before. He smiled at her. “All right?”

  She smiled back. “All right,” she said, then she reached forward and gently kissed his mouth, her hand on his cheek. ‘Thank you,” she whispered. Before he knew what he was doing, Oliver caught her wrist. He held her fingers and trailed them over his lips, kissing the tips, watching her face. He couldn’t stop himself. Then he eased her forward again and kissed her mouth. She responded, instantly, uncontrollably, and her whole body almost fell toward him.

  “Jesus, Indi…” He tangled his hands in her hair, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, biting her lips. She lifted her face and he tore his mouth down under her chin, to her neck, her chest. She moaned as he released her hair and felt for her breasts, yanking the thin muslin up, desperate to touch her hot, damp skin, cool, hard nipples. She pulled herself up and blindly moved toward him, sinking down on to his hips, wrapping her legs around him, raising her arms over her head so he could take off the shirt and kiss the flushed skin of her body. He held her, away from him for a moment, and stared, just a moment, at her breasts, the narrow shape of her hips, the long curve of her legs, her face, the burning green eyes. Then he reached down and fumbled with his towel, pulling it away. He eased her forward, shifting her hips slightly.

  “Oh… God, Oli…” She pulled back.

  “What…” He continued to kiss her throat, not looking at her. Then, he sensed a change. He stopped and stared up at her face.

  Indi swallowed hard. She had suddenly tensed, her body had tightened up and she sat straight, her arms across her breasts.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t… not now… I just…” She moved and stood, untangling her body from his. Bending, she picked up the shirt and threw it over her head. She stood, staring at the ground, her head hung, her eyes full of tears. “I just can’t do it,” she mumbled. “Oh God… how awful…”

  And suddenly she ran from the balcony into the suite and through to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  “Fuck!” Oliver sat motionless for a while, his body still pulsing, then he stood and kicked the chair opposite. It fell and clattered against the table. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He walked into the suite, looked miserably around him and slumped down on to the sofa. He was furious, not with her, but with himself, for getting so bloody carried away, for messing things up in his usual, plough-in-and-think-later way. “Fuck!” he said again to the empty room, then he slung his legs up and curled on to his side. “Fuck!” he murmured one last time.

  He was in for one hell of a long night.

  In the bedroom, Indi lay in darkness and pulled the sheet up to her chin. She was shivering, unable to get warm and she wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t come. She stared, dry-eyed, at the shadows, and tried to stop the terrible pounding of her heart. What has happened to me, she thought, what? One moment I’m an ordinary young woman, just out of medical school, just into my last summer of freedom and the next my life has been turned upside down, complete chaos. I don’t know who I am, where I came from, I don’t know what I want or where I’m going to. She sniffed and wiped her nose on the edge of the sheet. I don’t know anything, except how miserable I feel, how confused. What am I doing jumping into bed with the first man I see?

  She sat up. The truth was, she wanted to jump into bed with him, she longed to do it. Fat lot of good that would do me, she thought, letting the tears finally roll down her face. Up to my eyes in some sort of awful, sinister history and I want love.

  “Well, you can’t have it, Indi Bennet,” she cried out loud, weeping openly now and reaching for the handkerchief under her pillow. “Men always let you down. Always!” She blew her nose and wiped her face. “Gramps, Jimmy Stone…” She hiccuped and sobbed, covering her face with the hanky and trying to suppress the noise. “All of them! Oliver too, if you give him half a chance!”

  She continued to cry, quietly, until the tears slowly dried up and the tightness in her chest eased. Then she gave up on the hanky and blew her nose on Oliver’s part of the sheet. He won’t be needing it tonight, she thought, thank God. She lay back and closed her eyes. A lucky escape by all accounts, she told herself. The only problem was, it didn’t feel like a lucky escape, it felt more like a miserable disappointment.

  30

  THE MAN WAS OF MEDIUM HEIGHT, THIN WITH A BEARD. HE HAD no muscle but he was powerful, he carried his power in a machete fastened to his belt. He was an Indian, living in America, ordinary looking, he blended in to the environment. They didn’t see him, not once, he was far too skilled for that.

  In his hotel room, late in the day, he stripped his shirt off and dropped the belt and knife down on to the bed. He was in a second-class hotel and it pissed him off. He wanted to do the job and get out of there; he hated the heat, the smell, he deserved better than the shithole he was in. He walked across to his telephone and dialled the operator to place his call, then he went into the bathroom to wash. He was filthy, crawling on the ground, hiding, it was the part of the job he despised. He liked to kill. Women, that was his thing, he was a professional and the suffering turned him on.

  The phone rang.

  He came out of the bathroom and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Khan here.”

  “Mr. Khan. What have you got for me?”

  “Something has happened,” he said, “I think they have what you want.”

  “You think?” The man on the other end was derisive. “I don’t pay you to think, Khan, I want to know!”

  Khan swallowed down his anger. “Yeah, well they’ve been to three different places in the city today. I watched them; they’re at the gymkhana club now. They’re following s
ome sort of trail, a map.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He was more than fucking sure, he’d been close enough to spit in their path.

  “Good. We don’t have to move yet, then.”

  “You want me to leave the girl?” Khan was openly angry. He had been wasting his time, he had been planning…

  The man on the other end cut into his thoughts. “If she has what is rightfully mine, then yes, that is exactly what I want you to do.” The man paused. “For now.” He let his words sink in. “There is no need to take her, we do not need a bargaining tool, she has what I want. If she did not then it would be a different matter, Mr. Khan. You do understand that?” Khan remained silent. “I want you to keep on them. I will ring in a few days.”

  Khan lit up a foul-smelling cigarette. “I need more money,” he said.

  “When I arrive. Not before.”

  “No, now! Get someone to deliver it. This place is a dump. I don’t do anything until—”

  “You do as I tell you! Mr. Stone got greedy, look what happened to him.”

  Khan dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out under his heel. He kicked the stub off the skin. “What if they find what you’re looking for first?”

  The man on the other end was silent. “Then they lead me to it,” he said after a pause, “and you kill them.”

  “What are you looking for?” Khan asked.

  “None of your fucking business!” the man snapped. “Understand?”

  Khan took his knife out of its sheath and flicked it across the room. It landed, its tip embedded in the wood of the window frame. “I understand all right, Mr. Rai,” he said. And without another word, he hung up.

  John sat on the floor in his study. He had moved the desk, his chair and the small filing cabinet out into the hall and had spread the four relevant newspapers out over the carpet, along with a historical account of the 1857 mutiny open at the chapter on Moraphur and his Polaroids of the jewelry collection in the British Museum donated by Phillip Mills’ family. He sat and stared at all this information; he had been sitting there for three hours and had not come up with anything. Picking up his notepad, he started again, thinking aloud. It was the only way he was able to work anything out, talking to himself. He’d done it for years, ever since Caroline died and there had been no one left to listen.