Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  Victims for Sale

  Nish Amarnath

  For Swami, an august originator who thrives in chaos:

  I can never verbalize enough the beauty of how our journey together has lent more authenticity to my journey towards truth. I can’t even begin to make sense of the magnitude of your love and holistic support for my passage through a path to what I believe could be my destiny.

  For my mother, Swati whose spirit has been a driving force for my existence:

  The indefatigability of your fighting spirit can never inspire me enough. I can never hold a candle to your genius and creativity. I can never thank you enough for all that you have ever done at every level, including your enthusiasm to catalyze the fruition of this book.

  For Chinky a.k.a. Nam, my baby sister who is an angel to all who know her:

  This book is most likely a culmination of all of my stories that I read to you every night, including scenes from this book – until you fell asleep, listening to them. The more I read to you, the more I was inspired to write – and tell stories that best reflect who I am.

  For Ish, a paragon of innocence and integrity:

  I am truly blessed for the resilience of our friendship, your unswerving presence as a mirror of my soul, your innocence and integrity, which strengthened the essence of this book, your prodigy and your undying patience with all my histrionics and eccentricities.

  And for every aspiring journalist, every enterprising writer and every voracious reader:

  To all of you, your love flows into the kernels of my own consciousness.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. An Unusual Reception

  2. The Tip of the Iceberg

  3. Reaching Out

  4. The Undertaking

  5. On The Radar

  6. The Hotbed

  7. The Tram Tunnel

  8. Victims of Honour

  9. Fracture

  10. On the Skids

  11. Eating Humble Pie

  12. Unguarded

  13. On A Roll

  14. Horsepower

  15. Steep Gradients

  16. Aylesbury

  17. The Betrayed One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  If I were to draw analogies, I would liken journalism to a photograph and fiction writing to a photo-realistic painting – perhaps, in the style of Picasso’s earlier masterpieces.

  This novel grew out of some of my own, rather extraordinary, adventures as a journalist. And those experiences have culminated into a belief in my combination of distinctly ordinary and real settings with elements that are figments of my own imagination.

  A majority of scenes in this novel, including those ranging from aspects of a police procedural to the dynamics of programme commissioning at the BBC, are based on extensive and full-fledged research on the field.

  References to activities on every site and location, within the BBC’s White City complex, are also based on exhaustive enquiry even as the public service broadcaster was, in reality, intending to shift a majority of its London operations to Salford, a metropolitan borough of Greater Manchester.

  The scenes unravelling against the backdrop of that landscape are purely fictional albeit within starkly realistic settings. I have also exercised some leeway in terms of allowing my imagination to run wild in certain instances – within the contours of what is realistically feasible, of course.

  A classic example of that flight of fancy on my part is the introduction of an international DNA database, which had not existed in reality at the time of my research. Likewise, certain organisations such as EuroFirst, SIGNAL, Topaz, Pinwheel Interactive and the Eric Gregersen Group are entirely fictitious.

  Finally, I cannot fail to alert you to the possibility that not every detail may be entirely accurate, regardless of how remote the probability of such an occurrence may be. This includes the granularities of a hysterectomy, which span different types of procedures – right from surgeries that solely involve tying up one’s fallopian tubes (known as tubal ligation) to those targeting a removal of the ovaries, uterus and/or even the cervix.

  But … as the old adage goes, ‘all is fair in love and war’ – and I shall lend a little twist of my own to rephrase that: ‘All is fair in love, war and fiction.’ Aloha.

  1

  An Unusual Reception

  17 September

  A mass of charred and mutilated bodies spilled out from the mangled remains of the train behind me. The reverberation of ambulance sirens was omnipresent and there were police everywhere.

  The tide of life and laughter that had governed the vivacity of Mumbai was now a mere space in a hellish temporality that would blotch the annals of history in the time to come.

  Looking straight at the camera ahead of me, I was reporting the horror of the Mumbai bomb blasts, for the national multilingual broadcaster ABP News, in a dispassionate tone that takes nerves of steel to put up during such a time. Halfway through my newscast, I froze. Saahil. He was on his way back from a meeting, wasn’t he? That meant he would have been on the Western Line at this time. Oh, God …

  ‘You okay?’ the accompanying cameraperson asked me worriedly.

  ‘Uh, my boyfriend,’ I croaked, whipping out my flip phone.

  I speed-dialed Saahil. Nothing had happened to him. Had it?

  A male voice seemed to be speaking to me. I exhaled in relief. Saahil’s voice? Wait – something was wrong here. For starters, the accent was different. Almost at the same time this intelligent realization dawned on me, my fuzzed brain managed to trace the word ‘unavailable’ somewhere in the message I was listening to.

  The next twenty-four hours blurred before me. All I could recall was clinging to what was recognizable of Saahil’s lifeless form in a hospital morgue as I panted, sobbed, squirmed in anguish and eventually threw up all over myself. The inhaler I clutched in my hand was the only indication that I would will myself to live, to go on.

  I bolted upright in bed, sweating profusely. If I were in my room back in Mumbai, I would probably have caught the glint of a cockroach on the windowsill. Instead, half-parted maroon blinds framed my view of a roseate sky. I’m in London now, I remembered, trying to shrug off my dream. No, this wasn’t a dream. It had happened for real, back in June. And a flashback of that ordeal was haunting me in my sleep. I dived back under my duvet and wept softly.

  The rustle of a dress resonated into my ears from somewhere below me. Then, a pitter-patter of footsteps. The swish of a curtain. Eerie. Hollow. Foreboding.

  It was my first morning as a paying guest with the Sawants, a traditional Indian family living in Britain since the mid-nineties. My phone flashed ‘Thursday. 4.15 a.m.’

  Was one of the Sawants awake already or was I going crazy?

  Throwing back the covers, I padded over to my bedroom door, turned the knob and stepped outside gingerly. A shadow emerged from the study downstairs. But the sounds were coming either from the kitchen or sitting room below. I edged down the stairs and crept into the kitchen.

  A cup of coffee would help. I navigated my way through the darkness and put the kettle on. The footsteps grew louder. This time, I heard laboured breathing behind me. I turned around.

  A dark figure towered over me – a woman in a long Little Bo Peep dress. A pair of bloodshot eyes glowered at me from under a cascade of thick, unruly curls. A wild grimace pinched her lips. I froze. I had never seen her before.

  Dawn light glinted along the edge of her knife.

  I took a step backwards. The woman drew closer, tilting her head this way and that, as though dissecting me with he
r gaze. I backed away further, only to slam against the wall. The woman pointed the knife at my chest, its serrated edge grazing my clavicle.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I—

  ‘ASHA!’ A male voice rang out. ‘Asha! Stop where you are! Stop!’

  A tall, wavy-haired man dashed into the kitchen and grabbed the woman’s arm. Nirmal Sawant, the couple’s twenty-nine-year-old son who had received me from Heathrow last evening, wheeled Asha around. The knife clattered against the floor. Asha started sobbing. The sob turned into a shrill wail.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie …’ Nirmal held her gently in his arms. ‘Don’t worry … go back to bed. I’ll tuck you in. There. There’s my baby … my sweet baby. Come on, now. Come on …’

  His voice lowered as he led her away to a room by the far end of the kitchen. He switched the kitchen light on as he passed. I stared after them. Then, I picked up the knife and placed it back on the cutlery stand. My hands shook as I tried to busy myself with the coffee.

  What the hell has Sri got me into? I wondered.

  My brother, Srivats, or Sri as I call him, works in a real estate development company in Pune, a surging metropolis near Mumbai. We had lost Mom to pancreatic cancer when I was eleven. Since then, Sri had always gone the extra mile to look out for me. So, I was surprised when he initially balked at my desire to enroll in a Master’s programme in media governance at the London School of Economics. In the years following Ma’s demise, it was the first time he opposed my decision – as did my father, or Appa as I called him. Appa’s meagre undertakings as a temple priest in the south Indian city of Tanjore left him indisposed to send me abroad for further studies. However, Sri and Appa eventually yielded to my reassurances – on the condition that I stayed with a decent Indian family, rather than a roommate whom they feared could be a bohemian hipster or worse. That had led to the arrangement Sri made with the Sawants after running into them at a hotel in New Delhi when the concierge mixed up his suite with theirs during a business trip two months ago. And now, here I was.

  Why hadn’t the Sawants introduced me to Asha yesterday, or even mentioned they had a family member who could be … dangerous?

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around.

  Nirmal’s upturned hazel eyes were full of apologies. ‘Are you all right?’

  I managed a weak smile. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Sandhya.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m Nimmy outside the house.’ He looked pained for a fleeting second. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Umm, Asha is my sister. She’s … special.’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘She has a weird habit,’ Nimmy went on. ‘She’s been trying to chop off her bangs. Most mornings, it’s an obsession with her. She doesn’t know the difference between a knife and a pair of scissors. She must’ve tried to ask you to cut her hair for her.’ Nimmy lightly draped an arm around my shoulders. ‘Don’t worry too much about it. You should get back to bed.’

  ‘I’m a little jetlagged.’

  ‘Fancy some tea?’

  ‘I’ve already made myself some coffee.’ I tapped against the rim of my cup on the countertop.

  ‘All right, I’ll get myself a cuppa. Please, make yourself at home.’ Nimmy waved towards a couch by the French windows across from us. I sank into it with my coffee. Nimmy joined me with a steaming cup of tea.

  ‘Been up all night?’ I inquired, thinking about the light in the study.

  Nimmy nodded. ‘Working on a presentation for a consumer markets company I’m eyeing a deal with. I lead M&A efforts for European retail at Deutsche Bank. If this engagement comes through it’ll be a crown jewel for us.’ He grinned wryly.

  I sipped my coffee. ‘Is Asha developmentally challenged?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Sometimes she’s like a four-year-old. Other times, eleven or twelve. On average, she has the mind of a seven-year-old. In reality, she’s twenty-two.’

  ‘Will she ever be able to lead a normal life?’

  ‘Some of her behaviours overlap with one another. It’s hard to say,’ Nimmy said. ‘Asha is capable of basic self-care, but she has other emotional problems. I’m determined to help her find her feet.’

  ‘Does she attend school?’

  ‘She did try.’ Nimmy sighed. ‘But it made her paranoid and she couldn’t cope.’

  ‘Some kind of fear psychosis?’ I asked softly.

  ‘You’re quite knowledgeable about such things, huh?’ Nirmal commented, impressed.

  ‘I studied it briefly at school. Clinical psychology, psychometrics and …’

  Nimmy let out a low whistle. ‘At school? Weren’t you too young for that kind of stuff?’

  I shrugged. ‘I guess I grew up faster after my mother’s death.’

  ‘Oh …’ Nimmy’s expression went from one of somberness to one of empathy. He reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  ‘How’s Asha doing now?’ I asked.

  Nimmy sighed. ‘Right now, she’s attending a workshop in Watford. She helps service books for libraries and she likes it better. She’s able to retain her dignity there and learn life skills that’ll make her more independent.’

  Suddenly, he leaned forward and grabbed my arm. I drew back, startled.

  ‘Please don’t discuss Asha’s condition with anyone else here,’ he pleaded. ‘It won’t be taken well if you ask anyone in my family about it – even if you do so by mistake.’

  I swallowed uneasily. ‘Thanks for telling me,’ I said at last.

  ‘Our family still maintains the taboo when it comes to touchy issues like sex or abnormality,’ Nimmy continued. ‘Please don’t think I see these as taboo too, but everyone else at home is rather conservative,’ he added quickly.

  I drained the last few drops of coffee from my cup.

  ‘I heard you’re asthmatic,’ Nimmy ventured. ‘I hope you’re coping well with it.’

  My brother or father must have informed his parents about my condition.

  ‘If I weren’t I wouldn’t be in London now,’ I pointed out. ‘Well, I should let you get back to work or go to bed.’

  Nimmy patted my head like I was his little sister. I smiled feebly. Nimmy rose and tossed our cups in the sink before returning to his study.

  I headed to the sitting room and flounced onto a leather sofa. Pandy, the family’s Shetland sheepdog was sprawled across a rug, snoring softly. I fought back a sob as I thought about the flashback that had seized my sleep. What was I doing in a new land with an odd Indian family? I idly sifted through a stray magazine until Shailaja Sawant trudged down the stairs fifteen minutes later in a yellow nightgown.

  She mumbled an indistinct good morning before disappearing into the kitchen. I followed her in. Shailaja poured a thick stream of decoction from a filtered Indian brew into a tiny saucepan. The strong flavour of chicory wafted through the air.

  ‘This will freshen you up.’ Shailaja poured me some coffee into a mug with a Tudor rose painted on it. The sense of discomfort in my chest resurfaced as I took a sip. It tasted funny.

  By about 7.30 a.m., the pulse of a headache began thudding its way up my temples.

  ‘You look like a battered boxer. You should eat now,’ Shailaja suggested when she caught my expression. She slid two slices of bread into a toaster for me. I was buttering my toast when another lady waltzed into the kitchen in a lacy white blouse and a pair of grey slacks, which played up her pear-shaped frame. Her shoulder-length ash-brown hair looked stringy and her nose resembled a cloverleaf. Nidhi, Mr Sawant’s younger sister. She guzzled some orange juice and joined me at the dining table.

  Nidhi told me she had been living with the Sawants ever since she lost her husband to lymphoma ten years ago. A former defense solicitor for the Snaresbrook Crown Court in East London, she now worked as a campaign manager for Southall Black Sisters, lobbying for anti-violence measures for women and helping wrongfully convicted individuals prepare cases for appeal.

  Ano
ther woman, whom Shailaja introduced to me as Asha’s caretaker Jyoti, helped prepare lunch until a baby started bawling from the alcoves of Asha’s room near the dining area.

  ‘I have to feed Sunil,’ Jyoti mumbled to Shailaja, hustling into Asha’s room with a bottle of formula. Shailaja nodded to her and sat across from me with a bowl of fruit.

  Jyoti had left her job at a National Health Services clinic after fleeing from her abusive husband two years ago, Shailaja explained once the young woman was out of earshot. Jyoti now preferred live-in work, which would give her and her son, Sunil, a place to stay along with a paycheque. The Sawants were shelling out a pretty penny to keep her here.

  Nimmy joined us at the table in a suit and tie. He wolfed down his breakfast and dashed into Asha’s room adjacent to the kitchen. He kissed a sleeping Asha goodbye and left for work with Nidhi in the Volkswagen that he had picked me up in from the airport yesterday.

  I saw Nimmy and Asha’s father, Ashok, just long enough to hear him tell his wife he would skip breakfast and take the train to Central London. Pandy awoke with a lazy yawn and scurried around until Jyoti placed a bowl of food on the kitchen floor by the door.

  When Asha awoke, Jyoti got her ready for work and saw her off at the door where the chauffeur, Paul, was waiting to drop her off. Shailaja had changed into an over-sized button-down and a pair of trousers. She hastily shuffled some papers in a tote bag and rattled a list of instructions for Jyoti. I remembered she was a compliance officer at City University.

  ‘Paul will be back as soon as Asha gets off at Watford,’ she told me at the door. ‘You can do some shopping at TESCO if you like. Paul will take you in the BMW.’

  Do the Sawants have two cars, then? Their decision to take me in as a paying guest seemed even stranger in light of their apparent affluence. I was too heavy-headed to mull it over further.

  I showered and slept upstairs until about noon, when Jyoti brought me some lunch. I thanked her and ate silently before curling up in bed again. I didn’t know how much time elapsed until I woke up to a loud crash from below.