With a muffled click, the lock turned. I pressed down on the handle and pushed open the door, only to find myself face to face with Surrender-not. He looked as though he was about to leave for Lal Bazar, and for a moment we both simply stood staring at each other. I watched the gamut of emotions play out on his face.
‘Dawson’s men accosted me,’ I said. ‘I spent the night at Fort William.’ The words sounded feeble, even to me.
The anguish on his face was palpable. I went to move past him, towards the door to my room.
‘Sam,’ he said quietly. It was rare for him to use my Christian name and it stopped me in my tracks. ‘I can smell the afeem on you.’
And suddenly a wave of something – guilt or self-loathing possibly, but more a sense of weariness – swept over me. I was tired of it all. Tired of the deception and the constant need to maintain the charade of normality in front of the natives: the need to maintain a stiff upper lip at all bloody times, that unwritten rule that decreed it an indignity to share one’s weaknesses with someone because of the colour of their skin, that to me was the real white man’s burden, not whatever nonsense that fool Kipling might have penned in one his doggerel poems. Forget India, Surrender-not was the closest thing I had to a friend anywhere. If anyone deserved to be taken into my confidence, it was him.
He turned and headed for the front door.
‘Wait,’ I called after him. It was time to set down the burden. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Sandesh was in the living room, making a show of wiping down the coffee table with a rag that smelled of antiseptic. There was little point to the exercise, but wiping down the hard furnishings was part of his daily ritual. What’s more, it seemed to make him happy, and neither Surrender-not nor I had ever seen any purpose in curtailing his fun. This morning was different and a stern word from Surrender-not sent him scurrying off to carry on with his chores elsewhere.
I walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured myself a whisky. It might have been seven in the morning but time had lost much of its meaning over the last twenty-four hours, and in any case, I needed a stiff drink to get me through what I was about to do. No Englishman finds it easy discussing his situation with anyone, and coming clean to Surrender-not was something I relished as much as losing a limb, but sometimes you reach a point where either you bend with the wind or you break. I knocked back the whisky, poured myself another and turned to find Surrender-not still standing near the door. Walking over to my armchair, I dropped into it and waited for him to take the chair opposite, and with another sip of whisky, I proceeded with the tale of my descent into hell, from my addiction to morphine while recovering from my war wounds, to finding a corpse in an opium den with an oriental knife in its chest, to winding up in a cell in the Black Hole of Calcutta the previous night.
‘You must seek help,’ he said finally.
‘Yes, the thought had occurred,’ I replied drily, ‘but there’s no time at the moment. What matters right now is what Section H are up to. Why their sudden interest in our murder case up in Rishra.’
‘You are in no condition to worry about matters like that. The first priority is to obtain a cure for your addic—’
‘I give you my word,’ I said, ‘I’ll see to it as soon as we get to the bottom of this case.’
‘Your word?’
‘Absolutely.’
Surrender-not slowly rubbed the side of his face. He protested some more, but each time I brought him back to the matter of the dead nurse in Rishra.
‘It would seem to me,’ he said finally, ‘that the more pertinent question relates to their interest in your opium den in Tangra, not their curiosity with our case in Rishra.’
‘What?’
‘They merely want you to keep them abreast of developments up there,’ he continued. ‘They’re happy enough for us to keep investigating, whereas with the opium den, not only was the raid initiated at their behest, they also maintained surveillance on the building thereafter. It would seem likely that your corpse has something to do with it all. Why else would they hide it?’
I stared hard at him. ‘Maybe we should go back so you can take a look at it?’
His face dissolved in shock. ‘No,’ he said vehemently.
‘Why not?’
‘Because Section H spent half of last night warning you not to. And they’re bound to still have it under surveillance.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we’ll just have to find a way to outsmart them.’
I dispatched Surrender-not to his desk at Lal Bazar and Sandesh to whichever bazaar he needed to go to in order to track down enough kerdū gourds to last me at least a week. I wasn’t keen on going through the trauma of running out again. Once they’d left, I retreated to my room and collapsed fully clothed onto the bed.
Waking some time later, I showered and shaved and was back out on the street by 10 a.m. Picking up a cup of tea from a stall en route, I headed for the office.
Surrender-not was waiting for me. His face suggested bad news.
‘Lord Taggart wants to see us,’ he said.
‘What about?’
‘Das.’
We were back in the commissioner’s office, seated across the desk from him.
‘Surely he’s the military’s problem,’ I said. ‘They’re the ones who arrested him after all.’
Taggart took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘It seems he’s our problem again. The press have been asking questions and apparently the London papers have picked up on the arrest. There’s even a piece in today’s Times about it. The viceroy and his mandarins in Delhi are worried about the impact on the prince’s visit. I take it I don’t need to remind you that His Royal Highness arrives in less than twenty-four hours.’
‘So they’re going to release Das?’
Taggart shook his head. ‘Nothing quite so simple. Releasing him would also send the wrong sort of message.’
‘What then?’
‘He and his aide, this Bose fellow, are to be transferred to the civilian authorities and placed under house arrest. And you two gentlemen’ – he gestured across the desk and Surrender-not and me – ‘are the ones who are going to fetch them. I want you to take custody of them at Fort William and drive them to Das’s home.’ He turned to Surrender-not. ‘En route, Sergeant, I want you to emphasise to Das that this is his final warning. If he causes any more trouble prior to, or during the prince’s visit, he’ll be admiring the view out the window of a jail cell in the Andaman Islands.’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Surrender-not.
I squirmed in my seat.
‘With respect, sir,’ I said. ‘There’s the case of the woman murdered in Rishra. Surely we should be focusing on that, not acting as a taxi service for Das.’
‘Oh, you’re much more than a taxi service, Sam,’ said Taggart. ‘Think of yourselves as providing a chauffeur service with menaces.’
EIGHTEEN
The morning mist still clung to the trees as we drove through the Maidan towards Fort William. A murder of crows watched warily from their perches as Surrender-not and I sat in silence. I was busy brooding. I’d no desire to see Major Dawson again. The thought of bumping into him so soon after vomiting in his office wasn’t something I relished. As for Surrender-not, I suppose he was still coming to terms with everything I’d confessed to him that morning. I expect it’s not easy making small talk with a superior officer shortly after they’ve come clean about being an opium fiend.
To break the tension, I decided to tell him about Annie’s new American friend, Stephen Schmidt. Indeed, if there was one thing guaranteed to cheer him up, it was tales of my attempts at reingratiating myself into the lady’s affections.
‘You met him?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday evening. He was at Annie’s house when I got there.’
‘I’ve heard he’s extremely wealthy.’
‘Where’d you hear th
at?’ I asked.
‘Word travels’. He shrugged.
‘Judging by his car and his cologne, I wouldn’t disagree,’ I said.
‘What is he like?’
‘Like an American.’
Surrender-not was wide-eyed. ‘Is he a cowboy?’
‘No. He’s more of a chai-wallah.’
‘A rich chai-wallah,’ marvelled Surrender-not. ‘That’ll be a first.’
‘He just sells an awful lot of it,’ I said, as the ramparts of Fort William came into view.
Even with our police identification papers, negotiating the check-points at the entrance to the fort took longer than it had the previous evening, when I’d been in the company of Dawson’s goons. We passed our orders, signed by Lord Taggart, to a flat-faced sentry with the personality of a brick, who took them and disappeared into his guardhouse. After what was probably five minutes but felt longer, he returned and waved us through.
‘Head towards St George’s barracks,’ he said.
‘Is that where the demonstrators are being held?’ asked Banerjee.
The guard shook his head. ‘No, but trust me, you won’t fail to spot them.’
We drove past the block containing Section H’s office, towards the church of St Peter at the centre of the fort, and on towards St George’s barracks. It turned out the sentry had been correct. A short distance from the barracks, an area fenced off with barbed wire had been set up. Within it several hundred natives, some dressed in khaki, most in Congress white, milled around.
Surrender-not ordered the driver to a halt. We got out and walked over to the holding pen. The entrance, nothing more than a gap in the loops of barbed wire, was guarded by a couple of boredlooking Sikhs. I handed the orders to the one with a stripe on his shoulder and explained that we were looking for Das.
He scrutinised the papers then marched off to the barracks, returning minutes later with a boyish-looking ginger-haired officer, who introduced himself as Captain MacKenzie of the Black Watch.
‘Rather apt, eh?’ he quipped. ‘Given I’m tasked with overseeing that lot.’ He gestured at the compound with a nod. ‘Your man’s in there somewhere. As for where exactly, your guess is as good as mine.’
He led us through the gap in the wire and into the throng of natives.
Surrender-not looked uncomfortable. ‘What’s going to happen to these men?’ he asked.
‘They’ll be processed,’ said MacKenzie. ‘The ringleaders’ll be rooted out and separated from the fellow travellers. We’ve orders to charge anyone in uniform. As for the others’ – he shrugged – ‘that’s for better paid men than me to decide.’
The air was heavy with the stench of sweat and urine, and around us, men sat on the ground wrapped in grey, military issue blankets, huddled together in groups against the cold. Further in, beneath the relative shelter of the tented roof, lay others, bruised and bandaged, with some receiving medical attention from one of a few overstretched orderlies. A chorus of hacking coughs arose from grizzled and bristled faces. Sanitation consisted of a hastily dug pit at one end of the compound, part of which was being raked over and covered with lime by a number of the detainees under the direction of a British sergeant.
‘Das!’ called out MacKenzie. ‘The officer is looking for C. R. Das!’
Off to one side there was a minor commotion.
‘This way,’ said MacKenzie, heading towards it like a fisherman alerted to the location of a shoal by eddies in the water.
The knot of Indians melted in front of us, revealing Das, sitting crossed-legged on an army blanket. Around him was gathered a group of younger men, some standing, some on their haunches, and among them stood the bespectacled figure of Das’s lieutenant, Subhash Bose.
Das smiled and beckoned to Bose to help him to his feet, then greeted us like long-lost friends.
‘Captain Wyndham, Suren,’ he said with more good humour than is natural for a man of his age who’s just spent a winter’s night outside, ‘I admit it is a surprise to see you both here, albeit a pleasant one. I hope you have come to tell me that the viceroy has acceded to our demands to quit India.’
‘I’m not sure he’s making plans to vacate the Viceregal Lodge just yet,’ I said. ‘At least I haven’t received any orders to that effect. For now I’m instructed to take you and Mr Bose to your home.’
‘You’re freeing us?’
‘Not exactly. You’re being placed under house arrest.’
‘And what of my friends here?’ he asked, gesturing to the throng.
‘I’ve no orders pertaining to them.’
Das mulled it over. ‘And what if we refuse to go?’
‘The matter’s not up for debate,’ I said. ‘Either you come with us or the military will drag you over there in the dead of night and in handcuffs. That would take slightly longer and be less dignified, but the result will be the same.’
‘I’m not concerned about my dignity,’ he replied.
‘Please, kakū,’ implored Surrender-not, ‘another fifteen hours sitting out here will not achieve anything.’
Das looked at Surrender-not, then to his lieutenant, Bose, then to me.
‘If you don’t mind, I would like to confer with Subhash babu for a moment.’
I nodded my assent and he and Bose moved off to one side, conversing quietly in Bengali.
Das returned a few moments later. Bose, however, hung back.
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Das. ‘We are at your disposal.’
‘What are the terms of my house arrest?’ asked Das as we drove back through the gates of the fort. I was seated between him and Bose, with Surrender-not and the driver up front.
‘They’re quite straightforward,’ I said. ‘You make no effort to stir up any more trouble prior to or during the Prince of Wales’s visit.’
‘And what if I refuse to comply?’
It was a good question. In normal circumstances if you broke the law, you went to jail. But Gandhi, Das and their acolytes had subverted the whole game. They wanted to be thrown in jail, to show that the threat of a British prison, and by extension, British justice, meant nothing to them. It was as though they viewed incarceration as a moral victory, and so we in turn were placed in the bizarre situation of having to do our damnedest to justify keeping them out of prison, without acknowledging the whole thing for the farce it really was. Fortunately, in Das’s case, Lord Taggart had already worked out a fall-back position.
‘You’ll be moved to Darjeeling,’ I said. ‘I understand you have a house up there too.’
That was the beauty of arresting a man with as many homes as Das. When it came to choosing a place for his incarceration, we were practically spoilt for choice.
‘Will I be afforded access to newspapers?’ he asked.
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Not that there’s much to read in them these days. You won’t find anything about yesterday’s demonstration, at least not in the English-language papers, and probably very little in the Bengali ones too.’
I omitted mention of the foreign press or the London papers. My job, after all, wasn’t to give him an accurate portrayal of the state of play, but rather to dissuade him from any future action which might make the job of the Imperial Police Force – and by extension, my life – any more difficult than it already was.
Das stared out of the window. I’d a fair idea of what he might be thinking. The streets seemed no different from yesterday. The shops were open and the trams were running. Calcutta was going about its business as though his demonstration of the previous evening had never taken place. The truth was that people were tired. Protests, like opium use, suffered from the law of diminishing returns. The more you did it, the less effect it had next time round. Das and his cloth-burning were old news. He and his people had done it many times before and there came a point where people stopped chanting the slogans and began questioning the value of burning garments that could have better kept them warm on a winter’s night. As for the arrests, what were
a few hundred more when set beside the tens of thousands already in jail?
‘Maybe stronger action is required,’ Das mused. ‘Maybe I should go on hunger strike?’
In the front seat, Surrender-not swivelled round, looking like someone had slapped him.
‘Please, kakū,’ he protested. ‘A hunger strike could kill you. And what of kaki-ma and your children? You cannot call on them to sacrifice their husband and father.’
Das smiled at him with all the beatific idiocy of a saint looking forward to his day in the colosseum with the lions.
‘Nothing worth obtaining is ever achieved without sacrifice, Suren,’ he replied.
Most Bengalis have a streak of martyrdom about them, and Das was no exception. It seemed it was up to me to burst his bubble.
‘I’d imagine you’d need Gandhi’s permission for something like that. And I can’t see him allowing his chief lieutenant in Bengal to sign his own death warrant.’
Das came down to earth with a bump as the reality of my words hit him. Surrender-not, meanwhile, looked like a man who’d just avoided being run over by a bus.
There was a coterie of policemen discreetly stationed around Das’s house, as discreetly as possible, that is, for armed policemen to be while still maintaining a visible menace.
‘What happens now?’ asked Das as the car drew to a halt.
‘Now, we hand you over to the tender mercies of our colleagues from Bhowanipore thana, and as long as you abide by the conditions of your house arrest, there’ll be no need for further action.’
I hoped he’d heed my words. The last thing I wanted to do was to ship the old man off to Darjeeling in December. Calcutta at this time of year was cold enough for any Bengali, but Darjeeling, in the foothills of the Himalayas, would have felt as frigid as the North Pole.
Something told me that was wildly optimistic. As he’d said, the purpose of non-violent non-cooperation was to provoke a reaction, and it was more likely he’d be plotting his next move before he’d even had breakfast.
Das’s wife, Basanti Devi, stood as the gate, flanked by the durwan and a young woman in a white sari. Her relief at seeing her husband’s face through the car window was palpable.
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