The Moon's Complexion

by Irene Black

  A wintry scene, incongruous in the midday heat. Indefinable white masses rose like icebergs from the dusty, pale stone floor. Only the big bed in the corner was clearly identifiable. Ashok stood still and listened. Nothing. Not even birdsong broke the silence. The bathroom door at the far end stood open. He noticed a large wardrobe. The key was in the lock. Ashok steered a silent course through the white specters across to the door. He called out, “Hannah? Willi? Are you there?”

  At once, scrambling from inside the wardrobe greeted his ears. Someone was trying to move, trying to talk but only managing to make moaning sounds. With trembling hands, Ashok unlocked the door and opened it. Two large-eyed faces stared at him from the gloom. Huddled on the floor were Willi and an elderly Indian. Each was bound hand and foot with red nylon cord, and sticky tape covered their mouths. Ashok tore the tape from Willi’s mouth. At once, words came tumbling out.

  “Salers—he’s here. Probably got Hannah. He’s got a gun. Made the old boy tie me up. Then bashed him over the head with the gun. He came round just before you arrived.”

  Ashok untied the two prisoners. He checked the old man over and spoke to him in Kannada. The fellow was shocked and woozy. Ashok carried him to the bed, but he struggled up muttering, staggered out of the house, and disappeared into the trees.

  * * * *

  “Don’t try that again. Could have killed you...not quite time yet. Almost. Now get back onto the chair.”

  Unable to stand up and scarcely able to take in Salers’ words, Hannah pulled herself up by the chair and collapsed upon it. Her shin, she could see now, was covered with blood. The pain began. Salers stared at her, open eyed, the gun once more pointed at her chest.

  Another eternity. A painful wound that was becoming unbearable. Still the unblinking stare. Time crept like a silent metronome. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Was that the distant sound of a motor engine? It stopped. Was she imagining the crackle of footsteps sneaking around outside? Pain was blurring the crisp outlines of reality. Once more, Salers looked dead. This time Hannah knew better.

  He made an effort to speak. Words exhumed from flesh already putrefying.

  “...the end. Darkness...”A flash of terror crossed his face. Then hatred; intense, evil. “Say your prayers, bitch. On your knees.”

  A blanket of calm enveloped Hannah. Salers’ last words drove out the fear. If she was going to die, it would be on her terms not his. Slowly, she lifted her head and faced him.

  “No,” she said quietly. “I won’t do that.”

  Before Salers had time to react, a knock sounded on the door. Salers flinched. “Keep silent,” he hissed, as the gun leaped once more into the offensive position. A bullet whistled past Hannah’s ear, and she realized from the clunk as it hit wood that it must have lodged itself in the door.

  Hannah could hear Willi screaming, “Oh my God! He’s shot her!”

  Another voice, a dear, familiar voice. “Hannah, Hannah, answer! It’s me.” She heard him frantically throwing himself at the heavy door. “Say something!”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Salers snapped.

  The silence that followed was so sudden and so deep, it was as if someone had turned off a background radio, hitherto unnoticed.

  Ashok was calling again. “Salers, are you in there? Let me in. I’m a doctor.” He flung himself again at the door.

  “Salers, if you’re in there, listen to me. Felicity’s here. Your sister. She’s waiting for you in Bangalore. Don’t you want to see her?”

  A peacock started up its horrible wail. But no, it wasn’t coming from outside. It was Salers. “Traitor! Jezebel! Keep her away from me.”

  None of it made sense to Hannah. The pain in her leg was beginning to dominate her consciousness, and Ashok’s voice, the mention of Felicity, must be manifestations of her hallucinatory state.

  “Salers.” Ashok was clearly struggling to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I’m the person you sent the book to. I read your comments. Can we talk about it?”

  “It’s that interfering fool you picked up,” Salers spat.

  “Listen to me. Felicity’s told me the truth. We know you’re innocent.”

  Salers muttered hoarsely, “Does he think that’ll give me back my life?”

  “Do you know who I am? I’m the doctor who lived with Maighréad after you went to prison. It’s me you want, not Hannah.”

  A sharp, snakelike hiss, and Salers’ face contorted as if several thousand volts had just passed through his body; then all at once he seemed to rally. He started to laugh hideously, with a sound like a cat vomiting grass balls. “Poetic justice,” he spluttered. “Finally...the unknown enemy.”

  Wriggling grotesquely, he pulled the door key from somewhere beneath him and held it out to Hannah. “Pass it to him under the door.”

  Hannah momentarily toyed with the idea of making a lunge for Salers as she reached for the key, of taking the gun off him. If she failed, he would shoot her and kill Ashok anyway. Was it worth a try? But it was no good. As soon as she tried to get up, her leg gave way. Pain and weakness overwhelmed her. She flopped back down onto the chair.

  “I can’t walk.”

  “Try.”

  “No,” she said, “so kill me. Do it now.”

  Cursing furiously, Salers, like a dying wasp, found the strength for one last sting. He hurled the heavy key with surprising force and accuracy through the small fanlight that Hannah and Willi had left open.

  “The key’s outside the window,” he called, his voice like worn out chewing gum.

  “Ashok, don’t,” Hannah called in desperation. “He’s got a gun. Don’t give him the satisfaction of killing you.”

  Silence. Agonizing stillness. Had he gone away? Oh God, let him have gone away. Were those whispering voices, or was it only the rustling of leaves outside the window?

  She heard the key in the lock, the door opening behind her. Through the fog of her pain, she heard Ashok’s voice from across the room. “Let her go, Salers. She’s done nothing. I’m the one who took Maighréad away from you. Let Hannah go.”

  She watched the sneering grin spread slowly across the dying man’s face. “You first. Then her. Your lady friend will have the pleasure of watching you die.”

  Hannah saw Salers point the gun at Ashok. Something finally snapped inside her head. “No!” she screamed. “No! No! No!” Sobbing and screaming uncontrollably now, she felt herself trying to get up. Somehow she had to protect Ashok. But why wouldn’t her body move from the chair?

  Her outburst unnerved Salers. “Shut up!” he croaked weakly. “Shut up, or I’ll shut you up.”

  “Please,” she sobbed, “please leave him alone. He’s innocent.”

  The voice from the grave spoke again. “Enough. You’re dead, bitch. Say your prayers.”

  She saw the gun swivel away from Ashok. Now it pointed at her again. At once, her fear seemed to leave her. She gazed calmly into the barrel. Behind her, she sensed Ashok creeping closer. She willed him to go back. What good would it do? He couldn’t protect her. They were both doomed. She saw the twisted look on Salers’ face, the weapon shaking in his hand. Get on with it, bastard. Why was it taking so long? Why was she still alive?

  A noise like a siren blasted through the bungalow. Clearly startled, Salers momentarily dropped his guard. It was enough. Still slumped on the chair, Hannah, through a fuzz of semi-awareness, saw Ashok throw himself across the room and grab the gun that was still tightly clasped in Salers’ hand. For an endless minute, she watched them struggle, Salers somehow finding the strength to hold on. Enmeshed in her own struggle to stay conscious, Hannah observed the scene from afar, from some other place, outside herself, a witness to an elaborate adventure game. Now the barrel was pressed into Ashok’s chest. She saw Salers’ finger grope for the trigger. Brought back to instant reality, she tried to scream, but her scream was silent. Then she saw Ashok roll out of the way just as the gun went off.

  It was all over. Salers fell ba
ck limply as Ashok tore the weapon from his hand.

  * * * *

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  Ashok was standing next to the bed, feeling for Salers’ pulse. He scowled at Willi, who was peering nervously around the door. It was a reaction of shock rather than of anger. “Give me two minutes then create a diversion,” he had said. Willi had waited almost five minutes before sounding the horn of the truck.

  “Sorry,” she said, coming into the room. “Only I thought if I could light one of the cylinders, I could blow out the window. I had the box of Swans from when I rolled that joint. But the damned gas wouldn’t light. So I had to think of something else.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” Ashok said, calming down. “It was well done.” He let Salers’ arm drop. “Dead. That last effort finished him.”

  Chapter 15

  Voices, breaking like waves in the swirling mist; rhythmic, rushing to pierce the space between them.

  “Hannah, Hannah, can you hear me?”

  “Hannah, wake up.”

  “Hannah, open your eyes.”

  “Hannah, it’s me, it’s Ashok.”

  Her eyelids struggled to resist the commands of her brain. Sealed, overgrown with the slimy cancer of intolerable exhaustion. “Sleep, let me sleep...”

  “Hannah, open your eyes. Hannah, it’s me, it’s Ashok.”

  Someone or something was exhorting her. Exhorting her back to life, tugging the cork out of the bottle that held her trapped. Suddenly, she perceived that her eyes were open. The mist was still around her, but she could make out the faces poised above her. Familiar faces—Ashok, Willi, and... What? Duncan? Oh God, the nightmare’s not over after all.

  “Where am I?” Events flashed back like an odd, rapidly presented slideshow. “Where’s Salers? And what’s he doing here?” She lifted a heavy hand and waved it anxiously in the direction of Duncan. “God, I must be off my trolley. I keep seeing Duncan.” Now she was fully conscious, suddenly alert and struggling to sit up.

  “Wait,” Ashok said. “Put your arms round my neck.”

  She felt herself being maneuvered into a sitting position and started to take in her stark surroundings. A small, cell-like room. White, clinical, minimalist.

  “Where the—?”

  “Now, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry? I don’t know if I’m dead or alive, I keep hallucinating, and you say don’t worry!”

  “You’re safely back in Bangalore. In hospital. And you’re not hallucinating. It is Duncan.”

  A few moments passed while Hannah digested this news. She closed her eyes in resigned confusion then opened them to take in the reality of her publisher’s presence.

  “Duncan? You here? But why? You, of all people. You can’t stand the tropics.”

  “Duncan had some important information about Salers, Hannah.”

  “Why didn’t he email it? Oh, Duncan, sorry, sorry. I really don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  Duncan, visibly crestfallen at the damp enthusiasm of Hannah’s reception, seemed to cheer up a little.

  “What happened?” she asked wearily. She took Ashok’s hand in hers. It was warm, alive, loving. Tears welled in her eyes as she relived the horror of the last few moments with Salers. “I remember the door opening. And the gun pointing at me. I remember screaming at you not to come in. After that, it’s all a red blur. I remember the pain stopped. The pain in my leg, that is... My leg! What—?”

  “It’s okay. The bullet’s been removed. Luckily, there’s not too much damage. It’ll be painful for a while, though—and you won’t be running the marathon just yet.”

  “I can live with that.” She smiled with her eyes at her lover. “Thank God. Thank God you’re safe. But how? It’s just incredible. And Willi.” For the first time, Hannah really registered the presence of the Dutch girl. She squeezed Willi’s outstretched hand, unable to articulate the feelings that suddenly overwhelmed her.

  Briefly, Ashok went over everything that had happened. Hannah listened with a mixture of horror and amazement. Duncan sat pale and shocked, eyes downcast, hands folded in his lap. Willi chipped in now and then, helping Ashok to piece together an accurate account.

  At the end of the telling, Willi stood up and took hold of Hannah’s hands. “Hannah, I’ve got to go now. My train leaves in half an hour. I’m off to Cochin. I didn’t spend Christmas in Kerala, so I’m determined to spend New Year there instead. Then home to Holland. Now I know you’re okay, I can go with an easy mind. In spite of everything, I wouldn’t have missed a moment of it. I’ll write.”

  They hugged, and both fought back tears. Hannah’s eyes spoke the words that she was unable to form. I’m so sorry for what you were put through, just because of knowing me. Thank you is inadequate.

  With a final, cheery wave, Willi was gone, leaving a small but poignant emptiness behind her.

  “Duncan,” Ashok said. “Go and get us something to drink, will you? There’s a shop on the corner.”

  A vexed expression crossed Duncan’s face. “If you need to talk to Hannah in private, I’d oblige you to say so, instead of treating me like a fool.”

  He walked out of the room, closing the door heavily.

  “He’ll be a while,” Ashok said. “At least he had the good grace not to argue.”

  “He’s not a fool, you know. Except when it comes to women. He’s not used to being talked down to.”

  “Neither am I, Hannah. It’s tit for tat with him and me.”

  Hannah sighed and shook her head. “What is it, Ashok? You obviously didn’t send him away so that we could make love on the hospital bed.”

  Ashok laughed briefly. “I wish,” he said, meeting Hannah’s eyes and taking her hands in his. It was all they needed, to reaffirm their feelings.

  “Ashok—”

  He stopped her and looked at her gravely.

  “I know what you’re going say, Ashok.”

  “Yes? What?”

  “It’s about the TB, isn’t it? I might be infected.”

  His hand tightened on hers. “How did you know?”

  “I can read your mind. In any case, it’s been on my mind, too. Tell me, if Salers did have a new, resistant strain, does that mean it’s resistant in everyone?”

  Ashok’s face suddenly looked old, weary. “It’s the bug that’s resistant, Hannah, not the person, so I’m afraid the answer’s yes.”

  “So if I’ve got it, I’ll die.”

  “If. That’s the important word. It’s very unlikely that bastard infected you. You’re young and strong.”

  “But,” Hannah insisted, “if he did, nothing can be done.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun. While you were still unconscious, they did a skin sensitization test. Then an X-ray. At the moment, you’re negative.”

  “At the moment? How long does it take for symptoms to appear after exposure?”

  “Good question. No easy answer, I’m afraid. Depends on a lot of factors. Chances that you’ve caught it are fairly remote. You’re vaccinated, of course?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “However,” Ashok continued, “to be on the safe side, I’ve arranged for a six-month course of antibiotic drugs.”

  “I thought you said the new strain was drug resistant.”

  “We have to attack it on all fronts. Try not to worry. I’m pretty sure you’re in the clear.”

  “I’m not worrying,” Hannah said.

  Duncan returned, bearing bottles of Thums Up.

  “You will make sure that Pandi’s set up for life now, won’t you?” Hannah said. “Anything he needs—it’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  Ashok laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve tried. I even offered to buy him a taxi. He just wasn’t interested. He could hardly take in the hundred dollars I’d given. I suppose if I’d suggested a hotrod racer, he might have pricked up his ears. In the end, though, I managed to squeeze out of him that he was worried about a dowry for his daughter. Well, tha
t’s one problem less for him now.”

  “Mm.” Hannah looked thoughtfully at the two men. What a contrast they made. Ashok, a little haggard and disheveled in blue jeans and sloppy chappals, the sleeves of his collarless gray shirt turned up to his elbows, and yet, in spite of this, exuding healthy ease and confidence. And Duncan. Perfectly turned out in crisp, casual LaCoste and smart white trousers, with matching immaculate white trainers. He could have been captain of the England cricket team. And yet, somehow, he looked awkward, crumpled in spirit if not in dress. He’s just lost the Test Match, Hannah thought. She felt a pang of pity. Duncan, like Hannah, was used to being in control.

  “Just explain to me, will you,” she said to both of them. “Felicity? Salers’ sister? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Over to you, Duncan.” Ashok folded his arms and sat back. Was that a smirk of Schadenfreude on his face?

  With excruciating embarrassment, Duncan laid bare the saga of his entrapment by Felicity and its repercussions.

  Hannah avoided Ashok’s eyes. Laughter or tears? She teetered on the brink of both. A black comedy. Poor, gullible Duncan. She recalled Salers’ bitter words as he lay dying. Truth was a slippery prize. Had Maighréad duped them all? In the end, Duncan may not have been any more gullible than they had been, and his uncoerced flight to rescue her was humbling.

  “I don’t know what to say, Dunc. We’ve all been fools. Perhaps I’ve been the biggest of all. But you and Ashok aren’t far behind, you know.”

  “Thanks,” Ashok said.

  “So,” Duncan ventured, “there’s going to be one hell of a storm when Salers’ book gets out. What’s to be done?”

  Hannah was grim faced but fired with new determination. “Nothing. Not until the book’s out, anyway. Then I’m going to write a biography of Mark Salers. I’m going to get to the truth one way or another. Put the record straight as far as he’s concerned. And help to explain my own actions.”