The Moon's Complexion

by Irene Black

  They were about to retire to their rooms when they heard a knock.

  Hannah rushed over to the door. “Ashok?”

  “Message.” Siraj’s voice. Hannah swallowed her disappointment and opened the door. Siraj handed her a slip of card. “Mr. Gower say to bring to you.”

  “Mr. Gower? You mean the man in number five?”

  “Yes, Madam. But now he has gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “Just now I myself watched car drive away.”

  Of course. He must have brought the car with him from Bangalore. Hannah cursed silently. Why the hell hadn’t they had the sense to retain their driver instead of sending him back to Mysore?

  Hannah locked up quickly and took the note to the dining table. A chill spread through her when she saw that it was written on the inside of an opened up Charminar cigarette packet. She recognized the scrawl that she had first encountered in Hyderabad on the note that had purportedly come from Willi.

  Apprehensively, she read.

  You disappoint me, Hannah Petersen, I didn’t think you’d be so stupid as to call the cops. You won’t find me. I’m too good for you. So don’t try again. We’ll meet, you can be sure of that. When I’m ready. Tell that fucking Dutch whore to watch her back.

  Squashed at the bottom of the card in very small print she read:

  If you want to know any more, ask your boyfriend.

  Chapter 12

  As soon as Ashok saw the package that had been delivered from the Chamundi lying on his bed, he knew. It could only be one thing. His hands shook as he opened the Asian Books’ bag.

  For some moments, he remained standing, staring blindly at the book in his hand. Slowly, he opened it and flicked through several pages of photographs near the center. Most of them were too painful to look at for long; Maighréad in happier days, before evil had overtaken her; the house in Belfast where she had lived with Salers; then close-ups of some of the wounds that Salers had inflicted upon her, propelling Ashok back to the first time he had set eyes on her, lying in the hospital bed and covered with bandages.

  With increasing impatience, he leafed through the photographs several times more. Where were the pictures of Salers? He checked the list of illustrations at the front of the book. Page three: Mark and Maighréad on their wedding day. Page nineteen: Mark visiting Maighréad in hospital in Belfast after a “fall.” Page twenty-seven: Mark Salers shortly after his conviction. He turned to where each page should have been. Gone. Carefully cut away so that you could only tell on close inspection. So what? Ashok told himself. Who but Salers could have sent him this book? Now he had no doubt about the stalker’s identity.

  As Ashok digested this certainty, reality dawned in another guise. Salers knew where he lived. He had placed his family in the firing line. No way forward, no way back. He was caught in a whirlpool, sucked down, slowly drowning. He struggled back to the surface, only to be dragged away by a wave of utter despondency and remorse. Guilt overwhelmed him, as the impact of the day hit him. Everything that had happened was his fault. He had planned the trip to Bandipur. Instead of protecting Hannah, he may have placed her in greater danger. He had asked Hannah to marry him, and she had agreed. How quickly his joy had turned to confusion when he had met Janaki again. How ashamed he was now of his fickleness. Why, oh why had he allowed that lovely young girl’s sweet charm and graciousness to get to him? What a weakling he had been. How could he have behaved so despicably towards her, too, giving her a glimmer of hope where none existed, leaving the door fractionally open by agreeing to write to her? And now he had brought danger to his own door.

  He forced himself back into a rational state of mind. There was no point in panicking. After all, Hannah had been adamant that Salers wasn’t at Bandipur. He willed himself to believe she was right. What alternative did he have, while he was stuck in Bangalore? But as soon as the road was passable, Salers would make for the park. His priority tomorrow, when the Fiat was repaired, was to get Hannah back safely. After that, what? Well, firstly he would insist on Willi leaving. That would be one less person to worry about. The next step was to lure Salers out into the open, as they had hoped to do in Bandipur.

  He turned his mind to the book. The title A Small Life was printed in large letters on the cover. Underneath, in smaller lettering, was written A case history of domestic violence. Then the author’s name. Hannah Petersen. The cover design had been taken from a painting by Munch. Ashok recognized it. The Scream. At the foot of the page was a quotation from a daily broadsheet.

  “Anyone preferring to exist in the comfortable apathy of ignorance should not read this book.”

  Ashok looked at the back cover. A picture of Hannah stared out at him. How young she looked. A little girl. How old was she then? She was born in the same year as Ashok. That would make her twenty-five or twenty-six at the time. He read the short note underneath.

  Hannah Petersen read English and Sociology at University College London. Her first book, Crying Shame, was received with great critical acclaim. It gained her the 1985 Commonwealth Prize for Non-fiction. She is currently living in Surrey.

  Gritting his teeth, Ashok forced himself to open the book. On the front flyleaf was a synopsis of the content. Only it had been tampered with. Certain phrases had been crossed out, but carefully, so that they were still legible. Intrigued but apprehensive, Ashok read:

  Hannah Petersen first met Maighréad Salers when the author was in Belfast gathering material for her book Crying Shame, a study of the children of the Irish Conflict. Maighréad’s parents, prominent members of the Catholic community, had been killed in a Loyalist bomb attack when she was thirteen.

  At the age of eighteen, she married the English journalist Mark Salers.

  A close friendship developed between Hannah and the then twenty-year-old Maighréad. Over the next few months, Hannah Petersen watched helplessly as she witnessed the results of the terrible physical abuse meted out on Maighréad by her husband, whom Maighréad, fearful of reprisal, was reluctant to report to the authorities.

  When she returned to England some months later, Hannah Petersen smuggled Maighréad out of Belfast and took her to live with her in Burfold, where she was able to recover from the wounds inflicted on her by Salers during her two-year ordeal.

  Her respite was short-lived. Mark Salers traced her and attacked her violently when she was alone in the house. After this, she moved into a women’s shelter in Oxford, where Salers once again found her and inflicted wounds of such severity that she spent several weeks in the John Radcliffe Hospital.

  Mark Salers was arrested and is currently serving a fifteen-year sentence for attempted murder.

  Maighréad Salers, unable to come to terms with the traumas of her past, committed suicide exactly one year after Salers’ conviction.

  As Ashok leafed through the book, he found many more instances of sentences crossed out. It happened on every occasion that Salers was accused of harming Maighréad. If the man was sick enough to believe that someone else had carried out the assaults on Maighréad, it explained why he hated Hannah enough to pursue her to India.

  Ashok turned with trembling fingers to the end of the book. Hannah had written a postscript.

  After the arrest of Mark Salers came a few months when Maighréad was happy in a new relationship with a young doctor, who appeared to be healing her psychological wounds with a success that had eluded the rest of us.

  In truth, however, wounds of such magnitude were beyond repair. During her first visit back to that city since the fateful day when she had fled with me from its past and present terrors, Maighréad jumped off the third floor of a multi-storey car park. She left a suicide note, addressed to me. It took the form of a biblical quotation.

  Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning; let us solace ourselves with loves

  For the good man is not at home, he is gone a long journey

  Proverbs 7;18-19

  Maighréad’s message, her la
st cry of desperation, was so obscure that it has been interpreted in many ways by many people. To me it seems to say that love alone could not sustain her indefinitely.

  Ashok closed the book slowly and with great tenderness, as if in fear of further harming those within. He saw that he was seated on the edge of his bed and that two hours had elapsed since he first opened the book. He became aware that his father was calling him.

  “Just coming, Bapa.”

  He did not move but opened the book once more at the postscript. The pain he felt as he reread it was only held from overwhelming him by an underlying sense of incompleteness. Hannah had written her final comment for public consumption. Only they—Ashok and Hannah—could really understand it.

  …let us solace ourselves with loves.

  Loves. Plural. A solace that he, Ashok, could not accept, and from which Hannah had also finally withdrawn. Hannah was right. They were both the catalysts that prompted her suicide. The next line puzzled him also.

  For the good man is not at home, he is gone a long journey

  Did she mean him, Ashok? Was he the good man, who was not at home to her needs? Who had metaphorically gone away from her? He would never know.

  “Ashok,” his father called. “Where are you?”

  He closed the book once more and wiped away the tear that had strayed down his cheek. He stood up.

  “Coming, Bapa.”

  * * * *

  Hannah woke up with a start from restless sleep. Salers’ words had been struggling round and round in her brain like a drowning man: If you want to know any more, ask your boyfriend. What had happened to Ashok? Had Salers got to him after he’d made his phone call to her? How could that be, when Ashok was in Bangalore?

  Darkness was absolute. The jungle yielded no light to penetrate through the wire mesh windows. The heat was overwhelming. Hannah realized that she was soaked to the skin. Something had awoken her. Not the heat. Something else. A scream. Had she dreamt it? She fumbled as silently as she could for the torch under the pillow and turned it on. The claustrophobic veil of the mosquito net surrounded her, like a nebulous, white sea. Slowly, she lifted the net a little and shone the torch around the room. Everything was peaceful and orderly. She struggled from under her muslin prison and onto her feet. Her cotton T-shirt, soaked with perspiration, felt suddenly cold in the contrasting air, free of the confines of the net. The cool tiles under her feet sent a shiver through her body.

  The door to her room was still locked. She had to get out. Each small turn of the key sounded to Hannah like gunshot, but finally the lock sprang open. She shone the torch around the little day room. Nothing. The room was as they’d left it when they’d gone to bed some four hours earlier. Willi’s door was shut. Had she locked it? Knowing Willi, probably not. Hannah crept towards it across the day room. She tried the handle. It was unlocked. With infinite slowness, she pushed the door open far enough for her to be able to step into the room. Instantly, she noticed a strong smell of oranges. She shone her torch onto the bed.

  Willi was sitting up in bed. She was eating something. Oranges maybe. It was hard to make out behind the mask of the mosquito net. Hannah opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself. Something was wrong, but what?

  She shone her torch directly at Willi’s face. Willi seemed oblivious. Hannah peered at her. Not even the net could soften the brilliant red complexion of the face that momentarily stopped eating and glowered back at her. Then, in apparent unconcern, the monkey continued to munch the Mysore orange that it had stolen from Willi’s bedside table.

  Hannah shone her torch at the window. It was open, the wire mesh no longer in place. She felt an icy dagger of fear push slowly through her chest. Where was Willi? Had Salers got her? Had he dragged her out through the open window? His words to Willi raced back into her mind. Tell that fucking Dutch whore to watch her back.

  Why hadn’t she struggled? Willi was tough. If she’d put up a fight, she could have overcome such a puny adversary. Hannah was coming to an unbearable conclusion. Salers must have disabled her in her sleep. Chloroformed her, perhaps, or—Heaven forbid—smothered her with a pillow.

  Now Hannah’s breath came in short, fast bursts. She was on the verge of panic. Then she reasoned with herself. You’re letting the night distort your rationality, girl. Perhaps Willi let the monkey in herself. She might have forgotten to secure the mesh. It’s probably nothing to do with Salers. She remembered the scream. Willi’s probably scared of the monkey. I bet she’s in the bathroom.

  She crept somewhat apprehensively around the bed and knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Willi. Are you in there?”

  She was rewarded with a scarcely audible little moan from within.

  “It’s me, Hannah. Come on, unlock the door.”

  A few seconds passed before Hannah heard Willi shuffle to the door and turn the key.

  White as a shroud and totally naked, she was shaking violently.

  “Has he gone?”

  “It’s all right. He won’t hurt you.”

  “Are you mad? Lock the damn door.”

  She pulled Hannah into the bathroom and locked the door once more. Hannah turned the light on.

  “What on earth are you talking about? It’s only a monkey.”

  “A monkey? What d’you mean, a monkey? It’s Salers. He tried to rape me.”

  Hannah unlocked the door. She grasped Willi by the arm and pushed her into the bedroom. The monkey, seeing Willi’s stark, white form emerge from the brightly lit bathroom, let out a shriek and dropped the orange. It made no move to leave the bed.

  “I was so sure it was Salers when it attacked me,” Willi said. “You can’t blame me. It was dark, and I was still half asleep.”

  “What do you mean, it attacked you?”

  Willi shrugged. “Well, maybe not attacked...I guess I’d been careless about tucking in the mosquito net, and I suddenly felt this thing on top of me.”

  “Did it bite you?”

  She shook her head. “It woke me up, and I made out this wizened little face inches away from mine. I just shrieked and kicked it away. Then I ran for the bathroom.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you make sure the window mesh was secure?”

  “I did. But I couldn’t have, could I? I was so sure I’d checked it.”

  “Shoo! Get off!” Hannah shouted, clapping her hands at the animal.

  It leapt at her, shrieking again and falling back onto the bed when it came in contact with the mosquito net.

  “Don’t, Hannah.” Willi struggled to salvage a modicum of dignity from her predicament. “Those things carry diseases like rabies, and they have sharp teeth.”

  Hannah let her arms drop to her sides.

  “I guess you’re right. You’d better grab your rucksack before he does

  and come and sleep in my room.”

  At seven o’clock the following morning, a knock came on the bungalow door. Hannah wriggled out from under the mosquito net. Willi was already up and dressed. The events of the night had foiled further attempts to sleep.

  Siraj had arrived to serve them a breakfast of parathas filled with egg and vegetables. He set his tray down on the table.

  “We’d better explain about the mess in the bedroom,” Willi said.

  She signaled to him to follow her. She opened the bedroom door carefully, in case her guest was still there, but the room was deserted.

  “Pfuh! It’s ripe in here,” Willi said. She pointed to the unguarded window. “Monkey came. In the night. Sorry.”

  The bed was yellowed with dried urine and covered in droppings. The mosquito net hung in tatters.

  Siraj shook his head in disbelief and clicked his tongue. For a moment, he stood in the doorway staring at the mess. Then he went over to the window.

  “Sorry,” Willi said again, as Siraj inspected the window. “I thought I’d secured the mesh, but I hadn’t.”

  He called her across. “Is closed, Madam. Some person was cutting
wire.”

  “What? Hannah, come and look at this!”

  They let the news sink in slowly as they ate their breakfast. So Salers had come back in the night. His threat to Willi had not been a vain one.

  “Let’s get out of here, Willi. Priority now is to get back to Bangalore and check that Ashok’s okay.”

  At the reception center, the duty ranger was pessimistic about their chances of actually encountering a bus to take them back to Mysore. The look on his face said “unlikely,” but nevertheless he pointed them in the right direction and suggested they try their luck.

  “Bus stop is outside police station,” he said.

  “By the way,” Hannah said, “did Mr. Gower return last night, after he drove away at around ten?”

  The ranger shook his head. “Oh no, Madam. But I am doubting he got very far. All roads were blocked.”

  * * * *

  As soon as Duncan booked his airline tickets, he paid a visit to the police. The same constable was on duty. This time, he seemed to be falling over himself to please.

  “Ah, Mr. Forbes, Sir, we were just about to phone you to let you know how our enquiry is progressing.”

  “Yes? And?” Running scared, Duncan thought. Afraid of what Hannah might do to their reputation if she unleashed her anger over their treatment of her.

  “Sir, we’ve alerted Interpol in New York, and surveillance has been placed on all incoming flights from US to all European and American airports.”

  “Why should Salers go to America?”

  “Not only Salers, Sir. We’re following all leads. After all, it’s only Miss Petersen’s opinion that Salers is involved. We checked on Bannerman. You were right. Seems no one can trace him. We haven’t ruled him out yet. Pity we don’t know where Miss Petersen is, Sir. You sure you’ve no idea?”