The Moon's Complexion

by Irene Black

  The Chamundi bustled with early morning arrivals and departures. Taxis and autorickshaws cluttered the long, sweeping driveway to the hotel entrance. Once inside, Ashok had to sidestep ordered lines of waiting suitcases to get to the reception desk.

  “Has Mr. Duncan Forbes arrived from England yet?”

  The receptionist consulted his arrivals list.

  “Yes, . Arrived in the night. But I think he will now be sleeping, .”

  Ashok looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. Yes, he had rather acted on impulse. After all, there was no rush now the stalker had been caught. But surely Duncan would be awake and impatient to contact Hannah? Then he’d discover that she was not there. Goodness knows what he might do.

  “Please connect me to his room.”

  The voice that answered was infused with sleep. “Yes?”

  “Hallo, Duncan Forbes?”

  A pause, then a hesitant acknowledgement. “Uh huh.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Forbes. My name’s Ashok Rao. You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Hannah Petersen. Could you come down to reception please?”

  “What is this? Where’s Hannah?”

  “Please don’t worry. Hannah’s away for a couple of days, but she’s fine. If you could come down, I’ll explain.”

  Again a pause. “Well, okay. But I’m not showered or dressed yet. Can you wait?”

  “Take all the time you need. I’ll be in the coffee shop.”

  Ashok made his way to the hotel’s twenty-four-hour bistro. It was almost deserted. He sat down at one of the sanitized, white, melamine-topped tables and ordered a cup of Mysore coffee and two idlis. He spotted the croissants and had a sudden pang of homesickness for Europe. “And give me a couple of those croissants and some jam,” he said.

  He was on to his second croissant when a couple walked in. The man was athletically built and, Ashok reckoned, touching early middle age. His physical appearance was immaculate. He was some six feet tall; tanned face, handsome by any account; thick, blond hair, graying at the edges, carefully combed into place; crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt; and impeccably pressed trousers.

  Despite his outward appearance, Ashok sensed something awkward about the man, as though he were ill at ease with his surroundings. Not at home in the East, Ashok decided. His companion was a young woman, small, slim, reddish hair, but not natural, like Hannah’s. She was fairly creased and could have just been unpacked after spending the past ten hours in an aircraft hold. The man pushed ahead of her, but though he appeared dominant, she had something defiant about her, like a recently captured slave who has been compelled to suppress a powerful personality. At first, being a couple, Ashok dismissed them from his mind. However, the man headed straight for his table.

  “Excuse me, are you the person who called my room a little while ago?”

  “Forbes? Duncan Forbes?”

  “That’s right. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Ashok Rao.” Ashok pressed his fingers together with mock solemnity, in an Indian greeting. This, as he had anticipated, fazed Duncan, who fumbled clumsily with his hands, not quite knowing how to respond. He diverted attention by turning to the girl.

  “Oh—this is Felicity, a friend of mine.”

  To Ashok’s amazement, Felicity immediately pressed her hands together, bowed her head to meet her fingers, and said, “Namaskara.” It was as natural a gesture as a local Indian would make. He acknowledged her with an admiring nod, and she smiled, wistfully, but Ashok registered a flash of triumph in her eyes. He started to warm a little towards Duncan, too. Maybe he really did have altruistic reasons for his sudden arrival. Since he had a female in tow, Ashok had obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion about the nature of his interest in Hannah.

  “Now,” Duncan said, “perhaps you could explain who you are and what’s going on.”

  Ashok told him briefly that he was a friend of Hannah’s, that he was fully aware of the situation, and that it was he who had set up the email contact.

  Duncan glanced around. “This isn’t really the place to talk. There are ears everywhere. Felicity, your room’s nearest. Let’s go there.”

  “My room’s chaotic,” the girl said. “It’s also very small. I think we’d better go to yours.”

  Alarm bells started again in Ashok’s mind. Separate rooms? What was going on? Perhaps they weren’t an item after all.

  “Why the furtiveness?” he said. “There’s no danger now they’ve caught him.”

  “Caught him? You mean they’ve got Salers?”

  “Not Salers. It wasn’t him after all. But I forgot, you’d probably left by the time news came through. It was Bannerman’s man.” Ashok told Duncan about the email from the police. “I assume it was you who passed on the email address?”

  Duncan muttered, “So he was after her, too. I thought as much.” Turning to Ashok he said, “Look, I think we’d better fill you in on the rest of this.”

  Duncan led them back to his room, which overlooked the garden. Ashok noticed with a pang of disquiet that it was next door to Hannah’s room. Had he requested it so?

  The room was immaculate. Even the bed had been made. Pajamas were folded neatly on the pillow, a shirt hung to air on a hanger hooked over the bathroom door. A small travel iron stood on the dressing table. Duncan motioned them to sit on the two chairs while he took the bed.

  “Right, Mr.…er…er…”

  “Doctor,” Ashok said. Somehow it seemed important to make sure Duncan knew this. He repeated his name once more.

  “Right. Well, I’ve got some bad news. They may have caught Bannerman’s agent, but Salers is still after her.”

  Ashok laughed. “No, you’ve got it wrong. That was a set up. It’s what Bannerman wanted us to believe. Salers isn’t involved.”

  Duncan sighed. “Look. I appreciate the fact that you’re trying to be helpful, but since you’re not directly involved, you’re not aware of the facts.”

  Ashok saw red. He fought in vain to control his anger. “Not directly involved? Tell me this. Why did Bannerman want to use me to get at Hannah?” He pulled the police email out of his shirt pocket and thrust it at Duncan, who read it in silence.

  Duncan stared at Ashok as the implication sank in. Ashok could see his mind working: Was it possible that this upstart Indian was muscling in on what he thought was his patch?

  Duncan spoke, not taking his eyes off Ashok’s face. “I’m getting a little tired of playing guessing games. Now please tell me how come you know Hannah.”

  Ashok was irritated at Duncan’s attempt to be officious. “Hannah and I met on the plane coming over,” he said, struggling to hide his hostility. “I recognized her from her picture on the back of A Small Life.” He took a deep breath. “I am the doctor who was involved with Maighréad Salers in Oxford.”

  Duncan’s expression was one of incredulity. This was only matched by Felicity, who rose slowly from her chair and gasped, “You!”

  Ashok looked from one to the other. No one spoke, while the two tried to digest Ashok’s information.

  Finally Duncan broke the silence. “Rao. Ashok Rao. Name means nothing to me. You, Felicity?”

  “No. Mark never knew the name of the opportunist who helped himself to his wife while he was festering in prison. He only knew the man was Indian.” Felicity had backed away as if proximity to Ashok had become intolerable.

  “Perhaps,” Ashok said to Duncan, “it’s time you told me what’s going on.”

  “Yes, I think it is. While you’re sitting back thinking everything’s hunky-dory, the maniac’s still chasing after Hannah.”

  “What? But that can’t be. They caught him.”

  “Oh yes. They caught Bannerman’s man, but he wasn’t the only one after her. And he was only watching her. Mark Salers is out to get her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Felicity glanced at Duncan, who nodded.

  “I’m Felicity Salers,” she said quietly. “Mark’s my brother.”


  Now it was Ashok who was lost for words. It was nonsense, of course, that Bannerman wasn’t the only person after Hannah. But how on earth had Duncan rustled up Salers’ sister? Did he have contacts, or what? “I don’t understand,” he said. “How do you two come to know each other?”

  Felicity opened her mouth to speak, but Duncan quickly cut in. “Coincidence. Felicity used to work for me.”

  A likely story, Ashok surmised. Lies again. The girl had a half-smile on her lips. It was a smile that spoke of embarrassment—Duncan’s embarrassment. She seduced him, Ashok concluded. Silly man. You’d think he’d have more sense.

  He turned to Felicity. “Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey. I know your brother’s been released, but I assure you, he’s not involved here, except indirectly, through Bannerman’s plot to implicate him.”

  “Tell him,” Duncan said quietly, not looking at Felicity.

  Briefly, calmly, Felicity told Ashok how Mark Salers had, with her help, been keeping track of Hannah since his release a year ago.

  “The last I heard of him,” she said in a flat tone, “was a month or so back. I told him how to break into Duncan’s answerphone messages. So that he could trail her in India.”

  Minutes passed. Ashok sat with his head in his hands as the truth filtered through.

  “I don’t get it,” he said at last to Felicity. “If what you say is true, why are you telling all this now? What are you hoping to achieve here?”

  “I gave her the choice,” Duncan cut in. “Either help me, or I’d get Interpol onto him. Under the circumstances, she had no option. She doesn’t want to see him banged up again.”

  “So Duncan’s saying you’ll only help if we don’t turn him in?”

  The girl looked at him with an expression akin to pleading. “If you have any pity...”

  Pity? Ashok’s head spun. His world had capsized again. Hannah was out there on her own, stuck in some village. And Salers? Oh, God, it didn’t bear thinking about. “Why should I pity a man,” he shouted, “who treated Hannah so despicably? And, may I remind you, what he did to Maighréad didn’t exactly amount to pity.”

  Felicity gave a harsh laugh. Duncan looked down at his shoes. “I think you’d better let Felicity explain about Maighréad and Mark.”

  Ashok felt anger and bitterness well up like bile inside him. “Explain? You don’t have to explain to me. It was I, let me remind you, who had to pick up the pieces, patch together broken bits of body and soul when that brute had finished with her. It was I who listened to her, got her to articulate the horror of what that creature had done to her. And in the end, the damage was too great. You can’t explain anything to me. He killed her—young woman, twenty-two years old, and he killed her. You can call it suicide if you like, but Salers killed her just as surely as if he’d pushed her himself. And now—and now, God help us, he’s after Hannah. What sort of brute goes to such lengths for revenge?” Ashok shook with anger. “Don’t waste any more of my time. I’ve got to get to Hannah before he does.”

  Felicity’s face was smudged with the tears that she was hastily trying to wipe away. “You’ve got it wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “Everyone’s got it wrong. Please listen to me.”

  Duncan turned to Ashok. “Look, my friend.” His condescension grated. “Your hang-ups don’t interest me. I’m here to find Hannah and take her home. I’m sure Hannah is very grateful for your help here. Hopefully we can resolve this soon, and then you can take yourself off the case, so to speak. Meanwhile, if you are interested in Hannah’s safety, you have to understand how Salers’ mind works. I suggest you listen to what Felicity has to say.”

  I hate you, Ashok thought but nodded at Felicity, tight-lipped.

  * * * *

  Outside the Nanjangud hotel, Hannah and her companions, seated on the roadside, had lapsed into worried silence. Some forty minutes passed with no sign of life at all, apart from a cow that munched its way languidly along the edge of the road. A bus turned up. It was a battered old wreck of a vehicle, crowded to capacity, heading towards Nanjangud. As it drew level with the hotel entrance, a crowd of cyclists and motorcyclists suddenly materialized from the direction of the town and forced it to stop. An animated discourse ensued. From their gestures and shouts it was clear that the bus driver was being told to turn around and go back.

  Whether this was simply because there was no way through the block or because the bus was in danger of being burned was not clear, since the Europeans had no idea if it was a Karnataka bus or one from Tamil Nadu. After a great deal of heated argument and discussion, the driver reversed the bus into the hotel drive and headed back towards Gundlupet. The army of cycles dispersed as suddenly as it had come.

  For a while, all was quiet again. The sun poured down its fire in venomous fury. As they wilted under its power, Hannah lapsed into a nightmare world of inward speculation. What would happen to them if no help came? Were they enemies or friends to the angry people in the town? Hannah had no idea. Except that the Law Enforcement Officer had warned her to be careful. What chance was there of getting through to Mysore? The incident with the bus had done nothing to increase her optimism. Would they be safe back at the old house? How long would they have to stay there?

  “I could kill for some ganja,” Willi murmured.

  The English boy fumbled in his pocket and drew out a small metal tin and some cigarette papers. He offered them to Willi. They watched as she deftly rolled the joint.

  “Lighter?” she said. The boy dug into his pocket again and produced a battered box of Swan matches. “Keep them,” he said. “I’ve got more in my bag.”

  Hannah watched with increasing disquiet as Willi was about to take a drag. “You can’t do this,” she finally said, putting her hand on Willi’s arm. “This is no time to get muddle-headed. Especially with police swarming around the countryside.”

  “Oh, stop being such a misery. Anyway, I don’t get muddle-headed. It makes me feel braver, that’s all.”

  Hannah glared at her friend. “No, Willi. Please.”

  Willi groaned. “You’re right. As usual.” She gave the joint a regretful look and passed it to one of the Germans.

  Hannah watched the youngsters defiantly take it in turns to inhale. It was as if they had something to prove.

  She looked at her watch. Five o’clock. It would be dark in just over an hour. They had to make a decision. A police jeep pulled up on the other side of the road. The driver called across to them. It was the policeman who had spoken to Willi earlier in the hotel.

  “Situation is getting worse,” he said. “Best you return to that house at once and stay there. Area is under curfew. No hope at all of getting to Mysore tonight. Police have hands full quelling riots.”

  “Well, that would seem to be that,” Hannah said. “Let’s get going before it’s dark.”

  Willi nodded.

  The boys were huddled together murmuring. “Look,” one of them said, “we have decided we will attempt to walk to Mysore. It is not so far.”

  Hannah stared at them in disbelief. “You’re crazy. What if you meet trouble?”

  “But there can be no trouble. You see, because there is a curfew, no people will be on the streets.”

  “You’re high on that stuff. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hannah’s admonishment was greeted with a dismissive wave.

  “Nothing to it,” the English boy said. “Not for chaps like us. Of course, it’s different for you girls.”

  They watched as the three young men, their blond hair like torches in the fading light, strode off into the distance, towards the town, the bridge, and the burning trucks.

  “Well, I guess it’s just you and me,” Willi said.

  Hannah nodded. And Salers? she wondered but kept quiet.

  * * * *

  Ashok, seated in Duncan’s hotel room, waited to hear what Felicity had to say. The girl sat quietly, apparently mustering difficult thoughts into coherent words. Finally she
spoke, enunciating each word with slow deliberation.

  “Like I said,” she began, “everyone got it wrong about Mark.” She smiled at a secret memory. “When my mother first brought us home to England, after our father left us, it was so terrible. I missed India, the freedom, the sun, my friends. I was a little girl—twelve years old. Mark turned my childhood around. Took care of me. He was my confessor, companion, father. But that was Mark. Always put other people first. He had a deep sense of justice. That’s why he went into journalism. He’d seen so many bad, destructive journalists—truth-twisters as he called them. He wanted to redress the balance, in some small way.”

  She could have been describing Hannah. Ashok dismissed the thought and flapped his hands in a gesture of irritation. “Is there any point to this?”

  Duncan turned to Felicity. “Cut the sob story and get on with it.”

  “The point I’m trying to get across—” Felicity’s eyes flashed angrily at Duncan. “—is that he took the job in Belfast with the idea that he could make a difference. He was so full of idealism when he went there. Compromise. Reason. Reconciliation. Tolerance. Love.” She gave a sharp laugh. “I suppose marrying Maighréad was part of that idealism—she was a Catholic, and we had been brought up by our mother as Protestants. And after all that she’d been through—family wiped out by a Loyalist bomb. He knew she was a mess. Trouble was, he was so wrapped up in Maighréad that he thought he could come along like a knight on a white charger and put everything right. Rather like you.” She looked at Ashok scathingly. “And Hannah.” Now she fixed Duncan with a defiant stare before pulling her mind back into her story. “Maighréad was no sweet, pathetic little victim. She was crazed with hatred and a desire for revenge. So crazed that she was prepared to destroy Mark and anyone else who got in her way. And Mark did get in her way. As time went on, his views became more forceful. Maighréad began to despise her husband. He argued openly in the press against a united Ireland. The extremists hated him. He hunted them down, he exposed them—because of him a number of prominent activists ended up in the Maze.