Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  He strode across the square and pushed on the door. It did not move. He went to the window. It was open. No one would dare steal from this house. He sat on the window ledge and slipped his legs up and over. He pushed off and landed lightly on his toes.

  He pulled a small electric torch from his pocket. He flicked it on and its feeble beam penetrated the dark illuminating the furniture. He moved through the door to the entrance hall and climbed the wooden steps, keeping his feet to the supported edges to minimise the possibility of creaking.

  As he approached the landing, he flicked off the light and allowed himself time to adjust to the dark. There was the steady animalistic grunting of a man, and a lighter tone in response. It filled the air, reminding him of the incident with Amita.

  The room from which the sounds emerged was at the far end of the landing, perhaps ten feet. There were doors on both sides. Valentine reached behind him and pulled a long knife from his belt. He moved to the first entrance and scratched the tip of the knife down the door, making a slight scraping sound.

  Nothing happened. He kept at it, slightly increasing the pressure. The sounds from the far room were reaching a crescendo. All the better.

  The door handle turned, Valentine stepped back, flat against the wall, knife ready. The head of one of the pimp’s heavies poked out. Valentine’s knife slipped smoothly into his neck cutting through his carotid artery, slicing through his oesophagus and trachea.

  He kept the knife in place as the man’s hands groped for the knife and he choked, unable to breathe. He staggered forwards as the creature in the far room reached his peak.

  Valentine grabbed his victim by the arm and dragged him to the floor. He twisted the knife trying to slice between the vertebrae. Metal scraped on bone. Finally he whipped the knife away using the prone man’s arm to shield the burst of blood from the artery.

  The man on the floor shuddered twice, choking on his blood as it filled his lungs, then lay still. Valentine noted he was naked. And then he headed across to the room opposite, and listened at the door; he did not think the death had been heard. From the room at the end came panting that declined in volume.

  “Hey.”

  Valentine whirled round. The second heavy was behind him in the same room. His naked body outlined against light filtering in from a window, his faint shadow across the fallen body in the doorway. Valentine covered the distance between them in moments.

  The big man’s arm hit him across the left side. Valentine fetched up against the wall and tumbled noisily to the ground. He still held the knife as his opponent reached down and grabbed Valentine round the neck: the huge hand squeezing, crushing his windpipe.

  Valentine lashed out but his knife hand was under him, limiting his movement. His lungs cried out for air that could not reach them. Desperate, Valentine pulled his legs in and curled into a ball, pivoting on the hand that crushed his neck he twisted and lashed out with both feet.

  They made contact. His assailant’s legs were pushed from under him and the man fell on top of Valentine, pinning him down, but the pressure on Valentine’s neck was gone. He jerked upwards with his knife, and slid it in deep. But now, with the man’s full weight on him, he could not pull it out. The thug gave a long low groan and vomited blood into Valentine’s face, and ceased to move.

  Valentine lay still beneath the body but there were no sounds of alarm. In fact, no sounds at all. His neck hurt and every breath was a pain. Swallowing felt like trying to force a tennis ball down his throat.

  Making as little noise as possible, Valentine pushed himself out from under the body. There was a thud as the head slipped from his chest and struck the floorboards.

  Wearily, Valentine climbed to his feet. He glanced around the room and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the two naked women in the bed. The moonlight from the window highlighted their curves. They were watching him, but did not seem concerned he had just killed the two men who had, most likely, been their lovers less than five minutes before. He went to the basin and rinsed the blood from his face.

  He ran his finger across his neck and squeezed slightly, testing the bruising. The skin was inflamed and would no doubt bruise terribly. Every muscle in his body was weak and he leaned against the wall breathing deeply.

  In the distance the sound of lovemaking grew in volume again. He was not discovered. He walked to the bed. The women still did not react but stared at him with a dreamy gaze that barely focused. He wiped the blade of his knife on the bed clothes. One of the women reached forward and touched the bloodstain then brought her bloodied fingers to her mouth.

  Valentine watched in horrified fascination. She did it again but this time offered her fingers to the other woman who grabbed her hand and licked the blood from them.

  Then they smiled at him, inviting him.

  He turned away in disgust. He stepped past the bodies and back out into the hall. He sheathed his knife and took out the gun. He crept to the door at the end, timing his footsteps to the moans and groans. He placed his hand on the door handle, and when the next groan floated out he turned it and pushed the door open a little. He took out the torch and ensured he had a firm grip on the gun.

  He kicked the door wide and shone the light in.

  The bedroom was lavishly decorated—out of place in the building they occupied—there were hanging curtains with tassels, furniture with fine quality upholstery, and delicately carved figurines and statues. But there was too much of it; the place was crammed like an Aladdin’s cave of tastelessness.

  In the middle of the room was the bed. It was bigger than any bed Valentine had ever seen and the way the light reflected from the sheets they must have been satin. The bed was piled high with cushions.

  The months Valentine had spent in the underbelly of society had inured him to the horrors that the dregs of society engaged in. Or so he thought.

  The pimp was on the bed, lying on his back, his head was towards Valentine so he had it twisted back and was looking at Valentine upside down. Sitting on the pimp’s hips, in the midst of intercourse, was the girl that Amita had been talking to earlier in the day—who was not a girl at all.

  Though he tried not to look, his gaze was inexorably drawn to where their bodies were joined. The girl pulled herself away from the pimp, terror in her face.

  Sodomites.

  Valentine took three steps into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He waved the gun at the...boy. “You, on the floor, don’t move.”

  She threw herself to the ground face down. Valentine could see her quaking with fear. He looked back at the pimp. Valentine wanted nothing more than to shoot the slime through the head and rip his miserable life from him. He deserved nothing better.

  But Valentine needed information. He crossed the remaining distance and held the gun to the man as he lay on his bed, the barrel placed against the middle of his forehead.

  “Sahib, do not kill me.”

  “That depends.”

  “I give you everything. I give you all I have. You want Shashi, you can have Shashi. I give her to you. No charge.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Treasures, women, men, boys, little girls: you can have them all. Just do not kill poor Jabir.”

  Valentine hit him across the temple with the gun. “I said shut up!”

  The pimp whimpered with pain.

  “What do you know of the slave market?”

  “Slavery is illegal, good sahib.”

  Valentine whipped him across the other temple. This time drawing blood which dripped on to the satin sheets.

  “If you do not give me a straight answer next time,” the words dripped like venom from his mouth, he leaned down close to the man’s ear, “I will rip your manhood from you. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sahib, yes, master.”

  “Where do the slave ships land?”

  “In the hills, near Odiyampathu.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “I do not know.” He cringed
as Valentine raised his gun to strike him again. “It is truth, master, I do not use slaves, I do not know.”

  Valentine hit him again.

  “Why, master?”

  “Because I didn’t like your answer.”

  “But it is truth.”

  “I believed you.”

  Blood seeped from the pimp’s nose. He sniffed and then choked.

  “How do they sell them? By auction?”

  He nodded.

  “Where?”

  “I do not know.”

  Valentine pressed the gun hard into his forehead. The man’s eyes crossed as he focused on Valentine’s trigger finger.

  “Where?”

  “It is truth, I do not know. I do not know. I do not know. In the city by the water, is all I know.”

  “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

  Valentine watched the man’s face as he tried to find reasons but realised with every thought he had that it was not anything that would sway the man who held a gun to his head. Finally he sobbed. “I have family, sahib.”

  “But you sell children on the street and sodomise this boy?”

  “Oh no, sahib, Shashi is not boy, he is hijra. Woman-man.”

  Valentine felt sick. “Your family would be better with you dead.”

  But he could not kill him, he knew that. He could kill someone who was trying to return the favour. But to shoot someone in cold blood, even if he were such an appalling low life. It would make Valentine as bad as the scum in front of him. Besides, he was very tired. The fight had taken away all his energy.

  Valentine could see the pimp was confident he was going to be allowed to live.

  “Get on your knees.”

  The look of horror that came over the man gave Valentine a moment’s pleasure.

  “But, sahib, have I not answered your questions with truth?”

  “Just do it. I don’t have all night.”

  The man held the side of the bed and lowered his ugly frame into a kneeling position. He broke out into a sweat which stank. Valentine grabbed a satin-cased pillow and placed it against the man’s head. He pressed the index finger of his left hand into the pillow, pressing hard against the pimp’s skull.

  He pointed the gun at the sole of the man’s foot.

  “Goodbye.”

  The pimp let out a desperate whimper. Valentine pulled the trigger and shot a hole in his foot. The pimp screamed and went limp, slumping to the floor. Blood flowed from his foot. The boy-girl looked up expecting to see the brains of her owner splattered across the room and stared at the man lying there.

  “If he dares warn anyone or comes after me, I will kill him. You tell him that.”

  The boy-girl nodded.

  Valentine stalked out.

  iii

  Maliha stared into the mirror as Amita oiled her hair, combed it out and plaited it. She knew she needed to stay focused on the dead girl but there was too much happening. It made her uncomfortable.

  It was not that she had any objection to Françoise’s affections, or indeed to returning them, it was just that the woman was probably suffering from the same sort of “pash” as Valentine had. Although how it could be that two individuals could both feel like that about her she really had no idea.

  “The Mistress has asked that you attend her this morning, sahiba.”

  “All right but we need to visit Aunt Savitha again, perhaps without Françoise. I can’t believe she didn’t know about the slave girl hidden in the house.” Which reminded her. “The day of the wedding, did you manage to get any information from the staff?”

  “Very little, sahiba, it was very busy. When I asked about girl, I was ignored. But no question made that she existed.”

  “So everyone knew,” said Maliha. “I may be able to get some of it out of Auntie but she will try to protect anyone she can.”

  “Yes, sahiba,” said Amita. “Can I help you with your sari?”

  “No, you go and get the carriage ready. Do you think you could get the furnace hot and the steam pressure up?”

  “Yes, sahiba, and if I have difficulty I will ask Suraj to help.”

  Maliha looked at her maid in the mirror. “Suraj is one of the gardeners.”

  “He is very skilled with steam engines.”

  Amita put down the brush and comb and tied off the yellow ribbon she had intertwined with the plait. She pressed her palms together and left. The sari that she had put out for Maliha was blue and yellow. Maliha spread it out and found the undecorated end. Even after a few weeks of practice it was not second nature after so many years of English clothing.

  She needed to practise but preferred to do it without Amita hovering and wanting to help. After a couple of false starts she finally got the pleated pallu over her shoulder and headed downstairs.

  Her grandmother sat in a chair under an awning in the courtyard. Maliha stood obediently beside her waiting to be spoken to.

  When she was young, Maliha had not had a great deal to do with her grandmother. Although, on the one hand, a pale-skinned Glaswegian engineer would have once been a fine catch, things were changing. The British no longer looked favourably on such marriages, and the fact Maliha’s mother had gone behind Grandmother’s back and been married in a Christian church over the border in British India did not go down well.

  Grandfather, as far as Maliha could understand it, had mixed feelings. He had not had to hand over a dowry, which he was happy about. But again, while her father may have been a Scottish engineer, he did not have any connections in French India, so did not advance Grandfather’s social standing.

  Not that it had anything to do with Maliha, at least not in theory. In practice, since her parents were no longer around, all their reasons for disliking Maliha’s mother were visited on her.

  “Sit down, Maliha.”

  She placed herself in a chair as far from her grandmother as possible. It was not unheard of for the old woman to lash out with her walking stick. She did not require it but she affected the need.

  “The neighbours are all talking.”

  Maliha bit her tongue to avoid a sarcastic retort. “Oh?”

  “I do not like them talking.”

  A seagull flew overhead, its shadow moving across the courtyard like an arrow. Maliha knew exactly what her grandmother was fishing for and she was not going to escape this interview without suffering through it.

  “What is it they are saying?”

  “They are saying that you are unmarriageable.”

  “That is not something that affects me.”

  “Not affect you?” The anger burst from the old woman like an explosion. “You shame this family with your ways, your disregard for tradition, and with the insults you lay at the feet of those who come to see your suitability.”

  “If you had no regard for what they say, Grandmother, then there would be no shame.”

  “We have a position to think of. How do you think your grandfather can carry out his business if the men he does business with have no respect for him?” Her grandmother lifted up her stick and jabbed the end at her. Maliha was thankful she had chosen to sit sufficiently far that the stick could not reach her.

  “A girl has been killed, a child, grandmother.”

  The old woman waved her hand dismissively. “She was nobody, nothing.”

  Maliha clenched her fists to hold in her anger. She stood and pulled her arms around herself. “What is it you want, Grandmother? If you want me to take part in your attempts to marry me off, then yes, I will be a good granddaughter and I will sit there.” Her vision blurred with tears. “But you will not stop me from finding the truth about the girl.”

  “I will not bargain with you.”

  “Then I will move out.”

  “You have nowhere to go.”

  Maliha shook her head as if by jumbling the logic of her grandmother’s arguments they might fall into a pattern that made sense.

  “Grandmother,” she started with heated passion. Then she stopped an
d calmed herself. “Grandmother, you know I love you. But you must understand, I am able to go anywhere, and do anything, I please.”

  The woman in the chair seemed to deflate. “You will be my death, let alone my shame.”

  Maliha brushed her tears away with the back of her hand and then knelt on one knee before her grandmother. “I will be a good granddaughter and see the families of your prospective husbands. If I like one of them well enough, and I may, then I will not oppose a marriage. But I will not stop investigating this crime.”

  The old woman looked her in the eye. “I am tired.”

  It was a dismissal. Maliha stood, pressed her palms together and headed away.

  “A husband will control your foolishness.”

  No husband of my choosing, thought Maliha as she went inside, she thought of Françoise. Or wife.

  Then she wondered, if two women lived together as lovers, would they both be wives?

  * * *

  Aunt Savitha was waiting for her. The house was full of life, just as Maliha’s grandparents’ house was empty of it. Always there were children running about. Relatives visiting.

  Once more her aunt took them to the room that looked out inland, and over the courtyard. Maliha went to the window and looked down. The part of the building where the hidden door was situated was single story and not wide. It might be possible to enter it from the outside through a window. She would have to check.

  Chai was brought and the two of them sat comfortably on chairs beneath a fan that circulated the warm air.

  “Grandmother is insisting I marry,” said Maliha.

  Aunt Savitha smiled. “She is trying to make up for her failure with your mother.”

  “My father was a good match.”

  “But she did not arrange it; she did not oversee it. She could not boast to her friends about how it was all due to her skill.” Aunt Savitha took a sip of chai. “She was not in control.”

  Maliha nodded. “She does like to be the one that makes it all happen.” She took a drink and then continued. “Renuka said that she and Balaji were born on the same day?”

  “More than that, almost the very same time, and in the same place too,” Auntie said. “That is why the signs were so positive.”