by Irene Black
Duncan picked up the phone and dialed his firm’s US attorney, Hal Brodsky, in New York.
“Don’t worry about Bannerman,” Hal told Duncan. “Doesn’t stand a chance. Hannah’s dug up too much dirt on him. Croxley Burnett’s a crook. He and Bannerman are in this together. He’s just trying to spook you. Ignore it.”
“Easy for you to say, Hal.”
“Listen, Duncan. There’s not a court in the land wouldn’t throw that one out. Bannerman’s well known. Hannah’s only provided evidence for what we all suspected in the first place.”
“Is Bannerman going to let the matter rest, if this injunction fails?”
“Not if he can help it. There’ll be litigation—he’ll be out for blood, you can be sure of that.”
“Thanks, old man. That’s just what I needed to hear right now.”
“Don’t worry about it. Hannah’s built up such a strong case against the guy that his number’s up. Look at the evidence. There’s the testimony of medics who used to work at ERPC. Then there’s the evidence of the victims and their relatives. The insurance companies are desperate to get the matter cleared up. They’re losing millions through these scams. As soon as Fair Game came out in the UK, the American press got hold of it. It’s opened up a floodgate of complaints from all over the country.”
“Empowering the people. Hannah will be pleased. What kind of complaints?”
“Oh, everything Hannah mentioned really. You know the sort of thing—forceful detention and tranquillization of patients; fraudulent insurance claims made on their behalf; and so on and so on. The press are milking it for every cent’s worth.”
“And presumably Bannerman’s doing his usual slick cover-up job?”
“Funny you should say that. A friend of mine, Carole Waterman—works for the New York Times—has been trying to get an interview with Bannerman ever since this thing blew up. But no one, apart, I guess, from Croxley Burnett, seems to know where the hell he is.”
* * * *
Hannah was convinced that she was about to die. She stared at the black-robed figure. A sense of outrage engulfed her disbelief.
“Who are you?” Her voice teetered on the edge of hysteria as she spat out the words. “What the hell do you want with me?”
The figure seemed to shrink into the shadows before it rushed out of the gloom towards her. She caught the glint of steel in the exposed right hand thrust towards her. No time to think, she lashed out at the head with the only weapon at hand—her camera.
“Bastard,” she screamed, her fury overcoming her fear. “Leave me alone!”
A cry of pain as the figure’s hand shot up to the face. A man’s voice. “Fucking hell! I’ll bloody well…”
Other voices permeated the mausoleum vault. Hastily, the figure pushed Hannah aside and fled towards the light, just as a middle-aged couple emerged from the direction of the stairwell, accompanied by the young guide with a torch.
“Well! She was in a bit of a hurry. You reckon she seen a ghost, maybe?”
“Could be. Say, sweetheart, you okay?” The matronly Australian had discovered Hannah, slumped against the sarcophagus.
“Yes…yes thanks. That person pushed me—the one that just ran out.”
“Well, that just goes to show. Never trust these people,” the woman’s male companion pronounced.
“No, no—I think something frightened her.”
“See, what’d I tell you, Martha. Seems there is a ghost.”
They both laughed.
“These folk are so superstitious. Now what you need”—the man turned to Hannah—“is something for the shock. You come back with us, darling, and we’ll soon get you sorted. Just name your poison—Martini, Scotch, even a drop of beer—we got the lot. Wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Now come along.”
“Thanks, but I’m all right now. I’ll just go back to my car.”
“Do you have anyone to take care of you?”
“My driver.”
“I wouldn’t be too happy about that, m’dear. Come on, let’s look after you.”
Hannah was sure that their timely arrival had saved her life. Now their outrageous comments probably saved her sanity, for her desire to escape from their clutches jolted her back once more into clear thinking.
“No need. I’m fine,” she said, mustering up the aura of self-confidence perfected over years of professional snooping and hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. “Thanks, anyway.” She drew herself up and marched across the room and out into the daylight.
Taking a deep breath, she surveyed her surroundings, but the apparition had melted back into the landscape. She checked her camera. Undamaged. She’d caught him with the edge of the heavy, telephoto lens, still attached after photographing the workmen on the roof. She made her way carefully to the car, thinking about what had taken place. Now she had no doubt. The vibes from the burkha at the top of Golconda—it had not been her imagination. He was here. He had pursued her from England, like a malevolent shadow. Briefly, she wanted to tell the driver and to ask him to take her to the police. How much faith could she have in the police here, where corruption was rife, she wondered, when she’d had no cause to have faith in them back home? Time after time she’d called them. Each time it happened. Week after week…
…Footsteps getting louder week after week, eh? And this always happens when you’re walking home from the pub, does it? I see. Well, we’ll look into it, Miss Petersen, but you haven’t given us much to go on…
No point in telling the driver. The police would only take her for an eccentric tourist, or worse. Who knew what demands they might make in return for agreeing to “help” her? In any case, without a clue to the man’s identity she might only make matters worse by involving officialdom. Now that her pursuer had followed her abroad, the situation had cranked up a notch. No longer simply a case of some demented stalker. With her propensity for meddling in high profile public affairs, the CIA, the FBI, or even MI5 might be implicated. She knew that she must keep silent.
The journey back to Hyderabad passed in a blur.
Still no sign of Willi at the hotel.
“Your friend is not returning, Miss Petersen?” Mr. Reddy, the receptionist, asked.
“No. She met someone. Gone for lunch, I suppose.”
Hannah went up to her room. She showered away the grime and sweat of the excursion, scrubbing at her skin as if cleansing her body would remove the stains of the morning from her mind. But it was no good; no soap and water could wash away the horror of the encounter at the tombs. She remembered the fear that had gripped her and cursed herself for her weakness.
At Ashley House, Hannah had learned to be strong, like Omi Rosen. Her height had been her ally. She remembered her mother’s relief, when she finally stopped growing. But Hannah bought shoes that made her look even taller. The starved look that was fashionable during her teenage years never appealed to her. She was proud of her body, a woman’s body while her peers were still little girls. Too busy for regular exercise, she swam as often as she could and walked long distances. She was strong, as strong as any man.
She remembered the times back in England when she had tried to intercept her pursuer, her terror subsumed under the rage that momentarily vanquished thoughts for her own safety. She had been indignant. Distraught, too. How dare anyone infiltrate and dominate her life in this way? Of course she had been frightened. Terrified. She had managed to control it. Risen above it. Kept her fear from him, and from others. No one else had witnessed her goose pimples as she peered though her window at night or heard her pounding heart. But the final encounter in England on that awful November night had planted seeds of self-doubt, now being nurtured in the strangeness of this land.
Had she made a terrible mistake in coming here, so far from all that was familiar to her? Well, the deed was done. But one thing she knew. She had to get away from Hyderabad.
* * * *
“You are too thin, Ashok,” Girija said. Ashok’s moth
er set out on the dining table a medley of spice-infused dishes that she had spent all morning preparing. Dal, bringal, rasam, sambar, raita, aloo gobi, kofta, gulab jamon. The variety was endless. Plus rice, roti, pickles, chutney, and fruit. Sections of banana leaf served as plates, a festive tradition, to prolong the celebrations of Ashok’s return.
“That English cooking,” she persisted, “it is not agreeing with you. It is good that soon you will have a wife to make proper food.”
“Amma, I eat proper food. And once weekly I am invited to dine at the home of the Patels.”
“Then it is very wrong of you to neglect mother of Mrs. Patel. You must take those parcels to her today afternoon.”
“Not today. I have other matters to attend to.”
In truth, Ashok was putting off as long as possible the specter of small talk with the mother-in-law of his eminent mentor. Dr. Patel was the most senior surgeon in the Ophthalmology Department at Queen Anne’s, whereas Ashok was a mere fledgling consultant. The Patels had taken him under their wing, and Mrs. Patel was determined that his taste buds should not forget the flavors of his native land. Grateful as he was to them, his gratitude did not extend to Dr. Patel’s in-laws. In any case, he was still marginally peeved at what he could only think of as Dr. Patel’s audacity in turning up on the doorstep the night before Ashok left England, a large brown package in both hands, an irreproachable smile on his face.
“Ah, my dear boy. I do hope you were not sleeping.” Without waiting for a reply or an invitation, Dr. Patel had stepped into the flat.
“No. I’d just finished packing.”
“Packing. I see. Then I hope you will find room for this small gift for my wife’s family. You will, of course, visit them when you are in Bangalore.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Ashok took the package, staggering under the weight. He tried not to look concerned.
“Medical books for my brother-in-law—including latest volume of my own book, you see. Not yet available in India. Oh, yes, and also some saris for my wife’s mother.”
Ashok had resigned himself to getting another bag down from the loft. Why, he wondered, did so many people want books and saris from England, when Bangalore was bursting with the very best of both? Even his own mother had requested a sari, so he had spent a wasteful morning shopping in Southall. He wasn’t even sure if she would like the end result of his endeavors. Perhaps the beige silk with its scarcely defined acanthus trellises reflected his taste rather than hers—at least the taste that seemed to have crept up on him as a result of years of exposure to British restraint.
“One more small package is in the car. I could not carry two.” Dr. Patel smiled and looked expectantly at Ashok.
“Oh—do let me bring it for you.” Ashok had checked his rising irritation by forcing himself to remember Dr. and Mrs. Patel’s generosity towards him over the last five years.
“Very kind of you. It is behind the front passenger seat.”
The second package was bigger than the first.
“A pressure cooker—British make,” Dr. Patel explained. “So many times they have asked. Of course you must tell me if you cannot manage to transport these small items.”
Ashok would stay silent on the matter. Even the excess baggage fee would remain his secret.
Now he said to his mother, “I will take the packages tomorrow. Or the next day.” He turned his attention to the meal.
They ate with their fingers, which gave Ashok particular pleasure. It was such a basic, sensuous act that once again reinforced the oneness of man and nature. Sometimes, when he was alone in the flat in Richmond, he would eat in this way, but it was not the same. In Richmond he felt awkward, like an erring child, nervous in case a friend walked in on him or the phone rang and he should forget and pick it up with a sticky hand.
After the midday meal, Ashok left his parents quarters on the first floor and went downstairs to the ground floor of the house. It was here that his grandmother, Lakshmi Devi, kept her rooms, living amidst the security of her son’s family and yet, upon her own insistence, maintaining a degree of independence so she could withdraw undisturbed into her memories.
“Come, Ashok.” Lakshmi Devi patted the space beside her on the settee. “Come, sit and tell honestly. For so long you have been away from us. Are you not a little nervous about marriage plans Amma is making? You are a young man only, and I know how young men are—and now you are a young Englishman…”
“Oh, Ajji.” Ashok laughed. “I am not so young. And anyway, how old were you when you married Tata?”
“Ah, yes,” the old lady said, her eyes bright with the memory. “Eight years of age I was, as you well know, when I was married and brought from my father’s home to stay in house of your grandfather.”
“And you fell in love when you were eight years old?”
“Perhaps. But what I am telling—by time we were of an age to live as man and wife, long since we had fallen in love.” The old woman’s voice softened. “Eighty years, Ashok. Eighty years we were married. Eighty years without one day apart.”
Ashok never tired of hearing his grandmother tell the story of her life, just as he had never tired, when he was a child, of hearing her recount for him tales from the epic Hindu poems Ramayana and Mahabharata. With her singsong voice and her infectious enthusiasm and devotion, she wove for him many a tale that broke the boundaries of the imagination. If a monkey could move a mountain, if a chariot as big as a country rode the skies, if gods could be men and men could be gods, if cities had walls as high as heaven, if demons could be good as well as evil, if a single arrow could destroy heaven and earth then nothing was impossible. Nothing. Not even a small Indian boy’s dream of an Oxford education and a brilliant career. Ashok always knew he could make it happen.
It was three years since his grandfather had died, during Ashok’s last visit home. It was as if he had waited to see his grandson one more time before he cheerfully, and without fuss, shed his present existence, a grand old man of ninety years. Characteristically, he had been helping his son Srinivasa investigate a mysterious rattle in the engine of their old Fiat when he suddenly said he felt a little tired and would go and rest. He lay down for the last time and slipped away with a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes, which seemed to linger even after he had drawn his final breath.
Ashok considered his grandmother’s words to him and smiled. She was wrong. He was not and would never be an Englishman. His love for his adopted country was boundless, but it would never absorb him.
* * * *
When Willi left Hannah in the Durbar Hall at Golconda, she hurried down the hill by the same path that she had used for the ascent. She skipped down the steep steps, humming. Life was good. In spite of her aura of bravado, she’d sometimes felt isolated in her travels, and now she had found a pleasant companion. She reached the Grand Portico and waited until it was clear of people. Only the black-robed woman, who had followed her down the hill, still lingered.
Willi clapped her hands. She repeated this several times, but no reply came from the Durbar Hall.
Ah, well! Might as well give up and look for a loo.
Outside, she found the car driver draped across the front bench of the Ambassador dozing, his bare feet, brown and bony, poking out of the open passenger window. She rapped on the windscreen.
“Where is a toilet?” she demanded, before the startled man had time to gather his thoughts.
“Sorry, Madam. Not in this place.”
“Well, I will walk to the tombs. Perhaps I will find a toilet on the way. Please tell my friend I have gone on ahead.”
Instead of taking the road, Willi set off across scrubland, peppered with small, square, white dwellings, towards the towering onion-shaped domes beyond. Glancing back, she noticed that her burkha-clad shadow had the same idea.
The need to find a toilet was becoming urgent. She scoured the countryside in vain for a suitable bush or other obstacle, behind which she could relieve herself in
comparative privacy. An embarrassing accident was becoming inevitable. Moreover, her stomach cramps were now so acute that she felt faint. Her feet began to drag across the soft sand.
The woman in the burkha was gaining on her. Willi stopped and waited for her to catch up. Perhaps she lived in one of the little houses and would be able to help. If not, Willi would have to crouch down once the woman had gone by and empty the contents of her bowel under the scrutiny of anyone who chanced to come past.
“Toilet!” she shrieked. “Where?”
No glimmer of life was discernible behind the veil. However, a strong, wiry hand emerged from the burkha, a pale hand, and grasping her elbow, steered her off to the right, weaving in and out of the little, whitewashed homes until they reached the edge of the settlement and the outer wall of the tomb gardens. Leaning against this wall was a small wooden hut, possibly the property of workmen employed on restoration of the site.
“Toilet?” Willi shouted, by now too despairing to doubt that fate would have been so obliging as to plant deliverance in such an unlikely spot.
The black-robed figure continued to propel her towards the hut. The door was swinging open, and Willi ran inside. A first glance revealed nothing that even approximated a toilet. In fact, the hut was empty, apart from some rubbish swept into the corner.
That was the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness.
* * * *
By the time Hannah had showered and made her way down to recaption, darkness was setting in. Willi had still not returned. She began to feel uneasy.
“Any messages for me?” she asked Mr. Reddy, hoping that maybe Willi had left word of her whereabouts.
“No, Madam, no messages.”
“By the way,” she continued, in as casual a voice as she could muster, “would you be able to book a plane ticket for me?”