Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

‘Goodnight, my sweetie pie.’

  The scarlet filters of light streaming in through chinks between the window curtains indicated it must be well past twilight. ‘Sleep tight, Appa. It must be past midnight your time.’

  After I hung up, the sudden physical distance from home made it more real and intimidating than the carefree independence I had manifested while in Mumbai.

  I saw that the soundproof wooden door to my room was tightly shut. I felt lonely and closeted. I tried to reach for the intercom, but the pain was unbearable. As I struggled to gather my bearings, the door swung open and Nimmy walked in.

  ‘Sweetie, you’re up! How’re you feeling?’ he inquired. His brow furrowed in concern as he strode towards me and felt my forehead for signs of a fever.

  ‘You fainted,’ he explained. ‘You’re badly hurt. Just checking in on you.’

  ‘How’s Asha?’ I asked.

  Nimmy sighed. ‘She’s a little shaken up, but doing fine,’ he said. ‘She got really scared. She tottered towards the front side porch and wandered away. A family driving down that way saw her lost. Asha couldn’t identify herself when they tried to talk to her. So, they did the decent thing and took her to their home on Ovesdon. Nice folks, the Andersons. They were debating on whether they should call the police to help identify her, but a neighbour-friend happened to call on them. She knew where we lived. Her son and I used to play tennis together. I called you as soon as they came down here with Asha. They were still around when I returned with you. They were horrified to see you like this …’ Nimmy visibly shuddered. ‘They were appreciative of your courage, San,’ he added. ‘Now, let me bring you something to eat. What’ll you have?’

  My stomach revolted at the thought of food. ‘I’ll pass.’

  ‘You’ll get weak. Trust me, a bowl of soup will do you good.’

  He was out the door before I could protest. He returned in a few minutes with a bowl of steaming hot soup on a plastic tray.

  My mind was whirling. ‘Why was Asha scared? Was it anything to do with Rosie?’

  Nimmy placed the tray on the nightstand next to me.

  ‘I guess so,’ he said, suddenly looking fierce.

  ‘Do you know Rosie from before?’ I prompted.

  Nimmy didn’t seem comfortable answering that question.

  ‘Tell me, Nimmy. I’m concerned about Asha.’

  Nimmy looked pained. ‘What can you possibly do, San?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  I winced as he slid an arm around my waist, helped me to an upright position and fed me the soup. Then he gingerly reached out for my hand, careful not to disturb the sheets around me.

  ‘Oh, San!’ he murmured. ‘You’re one of the bravest women I’ve met. You’ve been here less than two months and you’ve looked out for my sister just like Mum and I have.’

  No mention of his father there.

  ‘I fell for you right at the airport when I first saw you,’ he continued. ‘Beauty, intelligence, courage and character … it’s a rare combination. But you’ve got all of that. I realised it when you put yourself on the line today. For Asha.’

  Nimmy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed with some difficulty. That’s when it hit me hard. He was entirely serious about what he was saying. This wasn’t about Asha. It was about him and how I made him feel.

  ‘Nimmy.’ Surprisingly, my voice rang out loud and clear. ‘I just got here. I’m still recovering from Saahil’s death.’

  ‘I understand that.’ Nimmy said.

  Goosebumps rose up my arms as he tipped my chin gently. ‘Your success is foremost for me, San. Clinging to the past is an impediment to your future growth. I want you to be able to enjoy and grow through this new chapter in your life. And I would like to be part of that journey.’

  He placed the empty soup bowl back on the tray.

  I closed my eyes and tried to envision Saahil. This time, his face seemed so far away. In the image that swam across my mind, Saahil was a pure silver shaft of light that brightened or darkened under the sway of high or low emotions. This time, the halo around him brightened. He was granting me a blessing.

  Reclining against the headboard, I drew in a sharp breath and regarded Nimmy tentatively. I caught a glimpse of the anguish he must have borne as a child, when his younger sister had had all the care and attention, even at times when he might have needed it. Yet, he had grown to love Asha with all his life. A sliver of empathy diffused my senses. I felt my resolve weaken as Nimmy’s eyes searched mine. I forgot the pain that engulfed my body when he held me with a tenderness I had never known before.

  Later that night, I leaned back in my bed and examined the teddy that Rosie had left behind. I had discreetly retrieved it from the conservatory. It had a lilac bow tie and a heart-shaped ‘I love you’ pendant dangling from a periwinkle satin ribbon around its neck. I couldn’t find any letter, post-it or sticker on the teddy that could have served as some kind of a warning to scare Asha away. I absently blew the fur around the teddy bear’s padded bluebell paws and sat it by my side. Why would Rosie gift a teddy bear to a twenty-two-year-old if she didn’t know that Asha had the mind of a child? Did she share a special acquaintance with Nidhi? Why had she worn a wig and feigned distress? Could Asha have been afraid of the bear? She already had many that she played with. That could mean she likely associated this purple teddy with something that scared her. My mind went blank beyond a certain line of thought. Nothing really made sense to me. All I was aware of was an imminent sense of unrest in this house.

  My phone buzzed. It was Lanong.

  ‘San, have you checked your email?’ Lanong gushed.

  ‘Not since this morning. Should I?’

  ‘We got the grant! They’ve invited us to a Gala Awards Dinner on Eighth November – next Wednesday.’

  I limped over to the desk, flipped open my laptop and clicked on the tab for my LSE account. There it was:

  ‘Dear Miss Sandhya Raman,

  Thank you for your application to the EGG Young Journalists Grant Programme.

  Based on the merits of your chosen topic and the originality of your video, we are delighted to inform you that LSE has been selected as a recipient of the £5,000 award.’

  ‘This is a great start, Lan!’

  ‘You sound like you have a cold,’ Lanong said. ‘Is it the flu?’

  I sighed. ‘No. I might catch the flu, though … I’ve been out in the freezing cold all afternoon.’ I briefly relayed the events of that afternoon to him. When I was done, all I heard was silence. ‘Lan?’

  ‘I’m here,’ he assured. ‘The whole scene sounds fishy to me, San. You don’t have to live as a paying guest with such a strange family. You have a lot to get on with right now and you’ve spent shitloads of money getting yourself here. Wouldn’t you rather enjoy the zing of community life in a student hall than put up with some family drivel that’s affecting you, your safety and, possibly, your commitment to LSE?’

  It was my turn to remain silent now.

  ‘Why do you say it’s affecting me?’ I asked finally.

  ‘You’re not that hard to figure out,’ Lanong said firmly. ‘You told me the circumstances under which you moved in. Don’t tell me you don’t think about why the Sawants never told you they have a mentally challenged daughter before you moved in or inquired if that would be all right with you. Don’t tell me you aren’t thinking about cracking the mysterious turn of events this afternoon! Look after yourself and get a move on, San.’

  ‘Maybe they took me in because my rent payments would come in handy for Asha’s care.’

  ‘When their son holds a senior post at Deutsche Bank? Come on, San. You’re being a fool.’

  I began to feel squirrely. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d run for the hills if I were you.’

  I sighed. If I applied to a student hall, I would be on the waiting list forever. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave Nimmy, especially after that moment we shared.

  ‘I’m not bei
ng judgmental,’ Lanong said. ‘But I think the Sawants are hiding something from you. Seems that they’re keeping you here for some other reason. Ain’t worth the trouble, babe.’

  A wave of fatigue washed over me. Could what Lanong was suggesting be true?

  3

  Reaching Out

  8 November

  ‘It’s a shame Melvin Bradshaw couldn’t make it. I was hoping to discuss the possibility of an interview with him,’ I whispered to LooSE TV’s president Mark Leatherby as the audiences broke into applause at a speech by an Emmy award-winning actor.

  ‘I do like the idea of getting EGG’s CEO to talk,’ Mark replied. ‘We can always chase him down offline. Meanwhile …’ He swept an arm to indicate the motley group of journalists, lawyers, business magnates, policy leaders and fellow grant recipients at the black-tie Gala Awards Dinner in the Drawing Room at Claridges. ‘… have your eyes peeled for other doyens too, you know? You never know who else you could meet!’

  It turned out Mark wasn’t entirely wrong.

  We confabbed with other delegates in the ballroom as we sipped the best varieties of Bordeaux – I decided to give the claret a try and pecked on crispy canapés and hors d’oeuvres. I felt rather frumpy in this bubble of peplums, silks, tuxedos and diamonds swishing and tinkering in glistering gaiety around me. I was discreetly adjusting the upturned frills of my piebald wine-rose blouse when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Miss Raman,’ a tall man with curly, strawberry-blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses greeted in a Great Lakes accent. ‘Aiden McLeod, account director at Pinwheel Interactive. EGG is one of my key clients. My team put this event together.’

  We shook hands. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr McLeod! Pinwheel is … based in London, right?’

  ‘The PR agency is headquartered in Brussels,’ McLeod said. ‘I’m the country head in the UK. Quite a video you folks got up there. Futuristic, but something to think about.’

  I smiled shyly. ‘Thanks.’

  We sat at a large, round table at the banquet and helped ourselves to an assortment of salads, fillets and parsley potatoes. ‘Do you work closely with Lord Bradshaw?’ I asked.

  McLeod spread a napkin on his lap. ‘It depends. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m executive head at the LSE television network … we would love to air an interview with Lord Bradshaw on …’

  McLeod was already shaking his head. ‘Lord Bradshaw isn’t giving interviews to the media at this time, Ms Raman.’

  ‘The network is student programming. It isn’t mainstream. We’d like to hear his tips for aspiring business leaders. That’s the kind of interview I have in mind,’ I said.

  McLeod ran a finger down the stem of his champagne flute and eyed me intently. ‘I work with Lord Bradshaw mainly for speaker arrangements, public statements, crisis response planning … that sort of thing. And he’s pretty hard to get –even for me.’

  I averted my gaze, disappointed.

  ‘I could, however, use you for a project I have in mind,’ McLeod said suddenly. ‘From the video, I gather you have some knowledge of the telecom space, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A white paper needs finishing,’ McLeod said. ‘The client is paying a handsome fee but we’re a bit short-staffed at the moment. Is that something you can assist with?’

  ‘What is it about?’

  McLeod handed me his business card. ‘Meet me in my office at three tomorrow.’

  I ran into Lanong in the cloakroom at Claridges later that night as I prepared to leave. ‘This guy from this PR agency says Lord Bradshaw is incommunicado …’ I said.

  ‘That’s how it all begins.’ Lanong chuckled. ‘Let me walk you to the station.’

  We strode out. The blustery night seemed to have done little to intrude upon Mayfair’s variegated bustle of diners and carousers.

  ‘Have you thought about moving out of Harrow?’ Lanong inquired.

  I sighed. ‘Yes.’

  Lanong raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m moving out right now,’ I replied hesitantly.

  Thankfully, I didn’t get any more lectures from Lanong.

  ‘That Rosie girl isn’t a threat, is she?’ He joked instead.

  ‘Guess I’ll find out,’ I said at length.

  Although a complaint had been registered, the police said they couldn’t do much since I didn’t have the full license plate of the car I had seen Rosie leave in. The next day, I had tried to talk to Nimmy in the privacy of the lawn to find out what Rosie had to do with his family.

  ‘Why do you want to get involved, San?’ Nimmy asked exasperatedly.

  ‘I’d like to help Asha.’

  In a frenzied moment, Nimmy swiped against a tall glass on the lawn table and let it smash to the grass below. ‘We’ve all been trying to help her, haven’t we?’ he snarled, leaping up from his chair. ‘You suddenly barrel in and play the Samaritan. What’s this new stuff about your desire to help her? If we haven’t been able to do anything, what can you possibly do?’ He pounded hard on the table with his fists to emphasise the significance of those last five words.

  I sat still, shell-shocked. I realised that Nimmy, who seemed to be the genteel sort, possessed a violent streak.

  Nimmy stormed into the house.

  ‘I thought you were having a row of some sort in the garden. What was that about?’ Nidhi hissed at Nimmy during lunch shortly thereafter.

  Shailaja turned to me with a worried look.

  Nimmy looked appropriately puzzled. ‘I was just showing Sandy a funny scene I once did for a play at school.’

  That seemed to convince everyone. It seemed prudent to give it a few more days before I chatted with Nidhi. But I tried to talk to Asha that evening. It was difficult to get an opportunity to be alone with her. Even if the other Sawants weren’t around, Jyoti was always in the vicinity, fluffing pillows, checking up on things and generally fussing over Asha like a mother hen. It was the first time I got irritated with Jyoti. She did eventually leave Asha for a few minutes to bathe Pandy upstairs. I pressed a slab of Green Black chocolate into Asha’s hands.

  ‘Why did you run away yesterday?’ I whispered.

  ‘Run, run, run!’ Asha echoed, opening the wrapper gleefully.

  ‘You were scared, weren’t you?’ I reminded her gently. ‘Who is Rosie? Do you know her?’

  Some recognition flowed in Asha’s eyes.

  ‘Rosie …’ Asha repeated deliberately. ‘Rosie, Rosie …’

  I leaned forward expectantly.

  ‘She bad,’ Asha said finally, scrunching up her face, as if ready to cry. ‘Bad, bad.’

  I smoothed back Asha’s curls.

  ‘Some more chocolate,’ Asha pleaded.

  ‘Only when you tell me why you ran away.’ But I was already passing extra chocolate squares to her. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Asha to say more.

  Lanong’s voice drew me out of my reverie. ‘You’re on the Central Line right? I’m on the Jubilee. So, here’s where we part ways.’

  I hadn’t even noticed that we’d passed through the turnstiles in the Bond Street Underground. ‘I’ll have to change for the Piccadilly at Holborn,’ I groaned. ‘It’s a long ride back.’

  Lanong snorted. ‘Be careful in Harrow, San.’

  9 November

  I stepped into the swish lobby of Gregersen Tower at a quarter to three on Thursday afternoon. The building was a massive glass and steel structure with a pyramid pinnacle and a curving frontage overlooking St Paul’s Cathedral. A sleek online video art installation on the wall ahead flashed intermittently with a stream of images, which I imagined came from state-of-the-art consoles. I stared at the screen image of a young man jumping over the bulwarks of a condominium, his outstretched palms faced forward. On a stretch of azure sky above him were the words, ‘If you don’t live your life on edge …’

  The picture dissolved into the scene of a crowded sports stadium. The words ‘there’
s no space on earth’ flashed over the image.

  A few minutes later, I sipped tea in a meeting room in the Pinwheel offices on the fifth floor, as anxious as a contender of a bullfight in Spain. McLeod walked in after half an hour, wearing a grey Sharkskin slim-fit and a checkered tea-rose tie that struck a perspicacious balance between the image of a barrister and the wardrobe of a news anchor.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was held up in a call. Thanks for coming by,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me. This building is regal!’

  ‘Oh, the Gregersen Tower is owned by EGG, but many bigwigs have leased office space here, including Haymarket and Novartis,’ McLeod grinned. ‘It originally belonged to an English real estate company. EGG bought the property later.’

  McLeod got right down to business. ‘There’s a CEM Summit in Barcelona next month. My client, Ericsson, is dishing out some announcements there. We’re scrambling to put together a white paper on trends in customer experience management solutions. It needs to go for production next week. One of our key researchers has fallen ill and the other one is in a conference in Shanghai. The client is panicking.’

  ‘Well, I have written product reviews and other assorted tech stories for ABP News Online,’ I informed. ‘I’ve scripted a bunch of comedy sketches and interviews, too.’

  Aiden McLeod rubbed his palms together. ‘Very well, then. This is a one-off project. It’ll involve some research and information synthesis. That’s about it, really. I’ll have my account manager email you research materials and a blueprint for the white paper. She’s your go-to person for any questions, clarifications and follow-ups.’

  I cleared my throat hesitantly. ‘How does, um, the compensation work …?’

  McLeod snapped his fingers. ‘Oh yes, the fee. For external contractors, we have a separate pay-grade commensurate with experience. For you, it’ll work out to about fifteen pounds an hour, I think. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘Good. Let’s see what you can do.’ McLeod rose from his seat. We shook hands again before he saw me out.

  I wondered why I didn’t really like Aiden McLeod all that much. I was indeed grateful for the opportunity but there was something about him that bothered me.