If he hadn’t sounded so salacious, I might have laughed.
Both because I am of a certain age and because swimming is obviously not among my better-known skills, it seemed like nothing more than a cheap pick-up line. Moreover, while there were better swimmers than me in the sea, I had been floating about on the waves or sleepily collecting shells. There was absolutely no swimming expertise on display.
His fraudulent appeal made me furious. But present-day India offers little room for arguments on the street, and even less on the beach, especially for single women. I had no illusions about knights in shining swimming trunks springing up to defend me from this watery intrusion. And even if anyone were to prevent a woman from being harassed, the outcome could be fatal. I remembered the recent case of a boy stabbed to death, right next to a police station, protecting an unknown woman on the street of a small Indian town. And even in high-profile Mumbai, two young men had been murderously attacked and killed by goons who had tried to molest their women friends.
Similarly, in the recent gang rape on the Delhi bus, the young man accompanying the rape victim that night had also been brutally beaten up and stripped naked before he was thrown from the bus. The girl, whose intestines had been ripped out with an iron rod, lay unconscious on the street, and the young man lay bleeding next to her for a long time without anyone responding to his cries for help.
Thus, sadly enough, it was better for a woman alone to beat a hasty retreat.
And even more so if she was in a swimsuit.
I had looked around for an escape route and found that Durga had already spotted the danger signals and was swimming towards me with short, powerful strokes. There was little doubt who would have been better at giving swimming lessons.
But at that moment I was glad it had not been her that this man had surfaced next to. Being young, she would have retorted in anger – and then who knew what would have happened?
As she came closer, trying to protect me, I was amused at the reversal of roles.
But I didn’t want her to say or do anything. In fact, at that moment, I was more troubled about her than myself. I started paddling (as best I could) towards her and both of us swiftly and simultaneously got out of the water. We didn’t exchange a single word with the man, who fell about in the water, gesticulating frantically to his friends to come to his rescue, feebly flapping his arms, buffeted by the waves.
We gratefully scrambled over to the deckchairs and to safety.
The incident also reminded me, once again, how unfair and flawed my argument about that girl in the video had been. It was not necessary for a woman to deliberately place herself in a vulnerable situation to be attacked or harassed. It did not matter whether she was clothed from head to toe or was naked, nor did it make a difference if she was stoned, or drunk or sober. Or whether she was a prostitute. She could be attacked at any time and for no reason whatsoever. Once more I regretted what I had said to Amarjit.
The morning’s experience also reminded me how much Goa had changed since I had first come here twenty years ago. At that time women on the beach hardly attracted a second look. And so I had imagined that this state continued to be an oasis of safety. In fact, at the time of my previous visit, flower-children from all over the world were still here. Everyone was relaxed about what they wore or what they did not wear. Even the nudists had been left alone, whereas now, to my embarrassment, I saw groups of men, sometimes individuals, ogling at western women, photographing their bodies. Who knew which website this material would surface on! Some of the women protested, but not everyone was quick enough to object. Many did not even notice that their privacy was being intruded upon.
Pushing these upsetting thoughts out of my mind, I focused on the music which was perceptibly louder since the ‘DJ from Mumbai’ had arrived. Durga and her friends were now on the dance floor, and I watched them with a rare pleasure. I loved seeing Durga in this avatar, a carefree teenager.
As I turned my back firmly on the annoying man at the next table, I found myself staring at a young woman, who was leaning across, waving ‘hello’.
She looked familiar with her dangling earrings, long blonde hair and the ubiquitous short kaftan, but I wasn’t sure if I had met her before. I guessed she was probably British, because different beaches of Goa attracted different nationalities, and there was a large British community on this one.
Certainly the Israelis and the Russians went elsewhere. Everyone preferred to be insulated in a bubble, with their own language and culture. Even the menus and the names of the beach restaurants were in Hebrew or Russian or German or English, depending on which part of Goa you were at. As part of the legacy of the hippie movement that had made its home in Goa in the sixties and seventies, the state had been thoroughly colonized by international travellers in post-independence India. It has been to the credit of the local Goans that they have accepted the changing nature of their state, looking upon it as an irrevocable by-product of being an attractive destination, perhaps.
This inclusiveness had some positive results as well: Goa was now a tiny microcosm of the world, well reflected in the number of languages spoken by Veeramma the beach vendor. Not everything was dire.
‘May I sit here with you?’ the girl across the table asked, and then as I nodded assent, she sat down without further ado. I assumed she had chosen my table because of the three free seats I was keeping for Durga and her friends. There was no room left in the shack, but as Durga was still on the dance floor I didn’t bother to refuse.
She reached over the table, straining to be heard over the music.
‘Sorry to barge in like this. I’m Marian.’
She held out a beringed hand. I noticed that her neck was covered with large and small beads of every variety. A good customer for Veeramma?
I shook her hand.
‘Simran Singh.’
‘Are you in Goa for a few days?’ It was definitely a British accent, though over the music it was difficult to make out anything at all.
‘That’s right.’ I nodded.
‘Having a good time?’
I shrugged. ‘My daughter and I are on holiday. Some of her school friends are also here and we all love the beach.’
‘I love it here, too, though lately it’s been a bit difficult.’ I thought I saw a glint of tears in her eyes.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, remembering my own day, and then to cheer her up, added, ‘Would you like to share a beer with me?’
‘Why not?’ she said, blinking furiously, as though to stop those tears from spilling over. I gave what I hoped was an understanding look and she smiled back reluctantly.
I gestured to the waiter for another glass and then for a while we sat silently drinking and listening to the music, occasionally smiling at each other and keeping time to the beat, if a familiar song came on. Frankly, a conversation conducted through shouting was impossible.
After we had shared a second beer, I leant forward to ask, ‘So, what happened to you? You seem quite upset.’
‘It’s a long story,’ she said. She looked over her shoulder at the increasingly noisy crowd and then continued: ‘Do you smoke? Would you like to step outside?’
‘It takes one to know one,’ I said happily. I caught Durga’s eye, beckoning her to come back and sit down in my chair as I got up. Keep the table, I mouthed across to her, and she reluctantly abandoned the dance floor to walk back towards us, accompanied by her friends.
Outside, the sea roared and whispered, stretching out in dark silky seductive ripples, as we reached its edge struggling to light a match against the warm breeze which blew through our hair. As I inhaled I could taste the salt in the air and on my lips. The foam felt cool as it licked our ankles.
We found a flat, well-compacted knoll of sand which dipped into the water, and sat down, listening to the hypnotic rhythm of the incoming tide. The moon shone down with a watchful gaze. It was an evening full of possibilities.
‘She disappeared on a night like t
his.’ The words just seemed to slip out of Marian’s mouth, as though it was something she had been longing to say.
I didn’t have to ask who she was talking about.
The pattern to this evening suddenly seemed all too predictable. Why hadn’t I guessed it earlier?
I sighed.
‘How long have you known Amarjit?’ I asked her. I should have realized he would have had another plan to surprise me with.
She looked at me apologetically.
‘It was very obvious, wasn’t it? . . . Just a few days. He said not to tell you, or you wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘But he knows how to use a remote control.’
‘How much has he told you about me and Liza?’
I remembered he had said that Liza was the name of the missing girl.
So Marian was probably the sister he had mentioned. Even though she did not look like the girl in the video at all, there was something in the shape of the mouth and the large eyes which reminded me of Liza. No wonder I had thought Marian looked familiar.
‘Just that you’re worried because she’s been missing.’
Since Amarjit had said she hadn’t seen the video, I couldn’t mention it. But I was curious. How much did she know about Liza’s disappearance?
‘So what do you think happened to her?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s all very strange.’
‘Tell me about yourself, then. When did you and Liza come here?’
Marian spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. Obviously this was very difficult for her. I decided I wouldn’t ask too many tough questions or get involved in too many details as I was still uncertain if I could handle this case and enjoy my holiday with Durga at the same time.
‘We came down from London a while ago. Liza had dropped out of school because she wanted to be a hairdresser and was taking some time off. I had just quit my job and decided to go back to university. But I wanted to travel and, like you, Liza loves the beach, so we came here because we could have a cheap holiday. To start with it was fantastic.’
Every now and then Marian would pause and smoke silently, and then without further prompting, continue. She had obviously thought about it all many times, perhaps even the style of the narration. What to reveal and what to conceal. A deliberate vagueness that could be irritating but I refused to let it get under my skin.
‘She made a few friends on the beach, in the shacks, and seemed very busy with them. At one stage I actually thought she was going to get some sort of job here. In a hotel or a travel agency; something to do with tourism. One of her ideas was to explore India more thoroughly. She stopped talking about hairdressing and told me about this very interesting person she had met who was going to employ her. I didn’t really interfere with her plans because she’s been brought up to be very independent. She could be very headstrong – but I must point out that she’s quite an innocent thing, fairly gullible. I did try to guide her as much as I could. But because everyone here is so friendly, I let her be, and do her own thing. Perhaps it might have gone too far, she had too much freedom . . . I don’t know.’
With a sense of resignation I decided to remain courteous and let her tell me the whole story. In her own way.
It was not her fault that Amarjit could be so devious.
‘And was there a special group with which both of you were involved?’ I asked, trying to understand what their life had been like. ‘Or any place where you liked to go regularly?’
‘Not so much me as her.’ Marian paused, remembering. ‘There’s a shack called Fernando’s. She used to hang out there in the evenings.’
‘Drugs?’
She shook her head quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
‘Never. I’m just about to go to Oxford University – managed to get in – and I’m not going to wreck it. I don’t think Liza takes anything, either, except that night when I suspect those guys put something in our drinks—’
‘Which guys and where? Were you together at the time?’
Even in the dull moonlight a shadow passed across Marian’s face. Was she telling me the truth? She seemed to become even more tense. She lit another cigarette.
‘It was the night that Liza disappeared. We were at Fernando’s, and, yes, we were together. But I don’t know any of the people who were there; I met them for the first time.’
‘So why were you there at all?’
‘I know it sounds odd, but these were mostly Liza’s friends. I went along because she had asked me to. I hadn’t seen any of them before. But I don’t think even she knew the guys who gave us the spiked drinks—’
‘Hang on. First you went with your sister to a restaurant where you didn’t know anyone. And then both of you were given spiked drinks – spiked with drugs, I presume – by total strangers?’
She nodded, looking, to be fair to her, quite embarrassed.
‘If they were strangers, why did they offer you a drink, and why did you accept it? Did they force you?’
My incredulous tone made her pause, as though she was trying to remember every detail.
‘No. What happened, as I said, was that there was a comfort level, because we were with people Liza knew quite well. Fernando, the owner of the shack, was with us and a few others. One of them was a friend of hers called Curtis. He was quite helpful to me . . . afterwards . . . you know, when I couldn’t find Liza.’ She stopped again, now taking nervous drags of her cigarette before throwing it into the sea.
‘Then there was a government chap; a minister, I think. We all sat upstairs in a secluded area on the first floor. What makes me feel really terrible is that we were actually having a good time. Liza was keen on staying on, because she had been told that her job was going to be finalized that evening. And that night she would meet some of the people she would be working with in the future.
‘That was when the waiter brought drinks for Liza and me. He said they were from a secret admirer . . . Everyone found it funny and laughed, so I thought it would be stupid to act suspicious. It looked like juice and tasted slightly bitter. But the fact is that, after I drank it, everything began to get fuzzy.’
‘And what did you think it was?’ I asked her.
‘I really thought it was fruit juice with vodka. We had maybe two or three of those and then Liza said she wanted some fresh air. She went out and that’s the last time I saw her. I lost consciousness and when I woke up I was back in my room. And Liza was missing.’
I had heard stories like this far too often. A little too glib, as Amarjit’s had been. No one knew anything, and meanwhile a catastrophe had occurred. And then someone else would come in and clean up the mess.
But I kept quiet.
I looked at the dark shape of the beach. We were not very far from the neighbouring beach of Anjuna, where Scarlett Keeling’s almost-naked body had been found in shallow water when the tide had gone out. Perhaps her murderers had thrown her in the sea not realizing that the waves would bring the body right back.
But, ironically for them, there was a low tide that morning. And the National Institute of Oceanography was to later point out, in response to a query, that when ‘between 0250 and 0750 the . . . waves started moving towards the sea . . . no article lying on the beach would go out with the sea water, with the waves’. Instead, it was noted that, at this time and in these conditions, the sea would have deposited most material within it on the beach. I remembered reading that report. So if Liza had also been murdered in the early hours of the morning, in this area her body might have surfaced later the same morning.
Obviously, since there was no trace of her, it may have given Marian hope she was still alive.
I wondered if Marian knew about the Scarlett Keeling case, but decided not to say anything. It was frightening enough to be in a strange country trying to find a lost sister.
I now had a strong feeling that she actually hadn’t seen the video, because her tone wouldn’t have been as calm. Did she suspect anyone? I decid
ed to test the water.
‘The cops? What do they say?’
‘I only spoke to one person, who is a friend. He’s related to a police officer. He warned me to keep it quiet. He said if we make too much of a fuss it might put her in some kind of danger. And then out of the blue I got a call from Amarjit, whom I have been told is looking at similar cases in Delhi. My friend had told him about Liza. Incidentally, Amarjit also thinks that there may be nothing to worry about and that she might be travelling with a friend, or might have run away just to have some fun. It’s very possible, because she was very adventurous and did have a lot of friends around the beach. I hardly spent any time with her, to be quite honest.
‘I, too, didn’t want to make a fuss and then end up looking like a fool. I knew she wanted to travel around India, and that’s why I didn’t say anything to anyone for quite some time.’
‘So why now?’
‘Well, she’s been spotted around Goa recently and, though I haven’t seen it, someone told me there is a video with her in it. I just find it strange that she hasn’t got in touch with me if she’s around. So I want to know what’s going on.’
Amarjit hadn’t told me that she had been seen in Goa recently. That was odd, because he suspected that she had been raped and then possibly killed and, even though he did not quite say so, he had given me the impression that there was only the slightest hope that she might still be alive.
I decided not to say anything just yet to Marian, either, as I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be involved in this case.
‘Was she likely to appear and disappear, just like that?’
‘Well, she’s quite headstrong. Led her own life, even though she’s only sixteen.’
Marian was remarkably stoic and I admired her for her fortitude. Her voice shook only a little as she spoke. But she looked like she was about to start crying again.
Sea of Innocence Page 4