Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  ‘That’s none of your business!’ he said ominously. ‘I’ve been running this family for years. We’ve had no problems with the arrangements for Asha so far. I don’t want an uninhibited chit of a girl to turn our lives topsy-turvy. As long as you’re here, you pay your rent to Shailaja on time and keep your nose out of our business. Do I make myself clear?’

  I couldn’t believe I was living with people who were deriding me when all I was trying to do was help their daughter. I began to feel stifled.

  ‘I hope you see that I mean well,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Don’t worry about us,’ Nidhi said coldly.

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I fled upstairs to my room, tears streaming down my face.

  I rang Nimmy from my room. He didn’t answer.

  For a while, I sat fuming. How could he tell his parents about my desire to cast Asha in Streetsmart, especially when he hadn’t first told me that he intended to discuss it with them? And what exactly had he told them that elicited such a response from his father?

  I would keep brooding if I didn’t distract myself. I retrieved my laptop and dropped a note to Aiden McLeod at Pinwheel, hoping he would concede to my request for an interview with Lord Bradshaw, given the work I had done for his other client.

  Then I googled Charlotte Hale. I learned that she was a descendant of the wealthy Hale family, known to Hollywood biggies and Broadway junkies as an elite ilk of writer-producers, who were now social impact investors.

  A key turned in the lock downstairs. I tiptoed down the stairway.

  Nimmy tiredly flung his coat and suit over the banister and whirled around – only to ram into me as I placed my foot on the last step. I shrieked.

  ‘What the hell!’ Nimmy exclaimed.

  I stared at Nimmy. I desperately yearned to see the man he had been yesterday when he proposed to me.

  ‘How was work?’ I inquired, trying to sound casual.

  ‘The usual. Meetings, deadlines, bullshit …’ He strode into the sitting room and propped his feet up on the couch. I followed him in and sat on a pouffe. He turned the television on and surfed through channels at remarkable speed, finally stopping at Channel Five. An episode of Bull Run was on.

  ‘Had dinner?’ I asked.

  ‘A cold turkey sandwich from the vending machine.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like much,’ I scolded gently, hoping to diffuse the strain in our conversation.

  ‘What are you doing here, San?’ Nimmy sounded irked.

  ‘Nimmy, we need to talk.’

  ‘Not today, San.’

  ‘Looks like you had a tough day.’

  ‘Yeah, and no time at all … I was running from pillar to post, scrambling to convince some morons in Paris about a darned investment portfolio.’

  ‘No time at all? Apparently, you did have time to tattle to your folks about what I wanted to do with Asha – some time after last night, I suspect.’

  ‘Last night, I told you it wouldn’t be in our best interests to do it, Sandhya.’

  This was the first time he was using my proper name.

  ‘And I didn’t disagree with you, did I? Now, the point is not about involving Asha in the show … it’s about the fact that you told on me to your folks. Have you any idea how they belittled me? What allegiance do you swear by?’ I held up my hand, sobbing. The ring he had given me last night shifted colours as it caught the sparkle of a tableside lamp by the settee.

  ‘Allegiance?’ Nimmy said coldly. ‘Wait a minute, where did that come from? I’m protective of Asha and my family. I’m sensitive to anything that I feel endangers them in any way. I thought I made that pretty clear in the beginning.’

  ‘But how could participating in a show like Streetsmart possibly endanger anyone?’ I wailed.

  Nimmy’s face mellowed. ‘It doesn’t matter. Their welfare is my sole concern.’

  ‘And mine?’ I pouted.

  ‘We just met a couple months ago. You’re talking like we’re married for God’s sake!’

  The searing bushfire in my heart diffused to smouldering splinters, giving way to a tide of discomfort. ‘What did the ring mean?’ I asked quietly.

  Nimmy continued surfing channels. ‘I can’t discuss this anymore.’

  I flew upstairs to my room. Did my final act of acquiescence to our union last night dilute Nimmy’s respect for me? Or had I misjudged the sentiment behind the ring?

  23 February

  ‘Thank you for your story, Linda,’ Charlotte said, leaning over to hug a wavy-haired teenaged girl she was interviewing for Streetsmart.

  Linda was born with cranial anomalies after surviving a saline abortion. With gentle prodding from Charlotte, Linda had just recounted an incident where she was once left behind in a night bus during a school excursion.

  ‘I hear you’re a talented singer. Would you like to sing for us?’ Charlotte urged Linda.

  Linda giggled and nodded. The pulsating beats of a karaoke began echoing across the studio.

  She swayed from side to side and began chirruping. ‘It’s electric, you can’t see it. It’s electric, you gotta fee-eel it. It’s electric, oooh it’s shakin’ …’

  Charlotte sang along.

  Broadcasts had begun mid-January. Today, we were shooting our sixth episode in a BBC Television Centre studio across the Media Village. Over the course of our brainstorming spells for the programme series, I had developed a warm rapport with Charlotte and Keisha. And Keisha and I had now grown close enough for me to call her Kiki.

  When the session drew to a close, Charlotte turned back to the camera and announced, ‘Off-air, we’re training our participants on perception and self-care. Please email us at streetsmart@bbc.co.uk if you would like to sign up for our training sessions or make other inquiries. This is Charlotte Hale signing off. See you next week.’ She finished with a smart salute. The camera lights turned off. Keisha and her boss, Alfred Maynard gave her a thumbs-up.

  A heavyset bearded man in his late thirties, Alfred was a grumpy producer who had surprisingly grown fond of me, over the past month, when we began working together to produce scripts for each episode and ensure that the series stayed on schedule.

  I was disappointed that Asha wasn’t participating in the TV show. Nimmy seemed happier, since I had let go of my insistence on her involvement. On his return from Wales, he had taken me out to West End’s Les Miserables. Despite my better judgement, I continued to sleep with him. Perhaps, I was just lonely for Saahil.

  A rotund, middle-aged woman emerged at Linda’s side and gave her a big hug. Linda’s Aunt, I remembered from my conversation with her before the show. A gopher materialised from our crew and passed around a box of shortbread caramel bites to everyone.

  Charlotte stood in a corner, shuffling some papers.

  I walked towards her. ‘You have a beautiful singing voice, Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh, I used to sing nursery rhymes for Disneyland as a child … back when I was growing up in LA,’ she responded, seemingly unfazed with my lionizing.

  ‘Whoa, Disney’s darling! You should cut an album!’ I exclaimed.

  Keisha joined us. ‘I think this is one of the best episodes we’ve shot so far,’ she commented.

  ‘I’m off to check out this lovely antique shop with Horace,’ Charlotte said. ‘A quick breather from work before I head back for a graveyard shift …’

  ‘Enjoy the timeout,’ Keisha called out behind her.

  I glanced at my watch. Nearly 1.00 p.m.

  ‘Shoot! I have to run too,’ I mumbled, remembering the job consultancy fair I was going to film for the LooSE TV network this afternoon. Keisha and I exchanged quick hugs before I followed Charlotte out.

  ‘How did you two meet?’ I asked her as we strode across the lobby.

  ‘Horace? I featured him on my show about a year ago,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I first spotted him at a jazz bar in Chelsea. He was the guitarist of the band that played that night.’

  Her tone was even-keel,
but her eyes went all glassy as she continued, ‘I was by myself that day – chilling out after work, y’know. So, I walked up to him, said hi and left my card. This guy’s music is a godsend.’

  Huge splotches of rainwater descended on us when we exited the building. Regretting my decision to leave my umbrella behind at home, I tied my hair into a disheveled bun. ‘Is he a savant or …?’

  ‘He was living hand to mouth when I first met him,’ Charlotte said. ‘Working nights in taverns and bars for extra bucks. The combination of that backstory with his talent is what inspired me to get him on my show. It pains me to see all that talent go unrecognised as people slog away in dead-end jobs, live in shacks or fight for their existence.’ She pulled an ivy cap over her head. ‘Anyhow, we lost touch for some time. But …’ A faint smear of crimson appeared on her cheeks. ‘… the bloke reconnected with me a couple weeks ago with a new piece he’d composed. And boy, did I love it! When I wrote back, he invited me for a cup of coffee, and then we met again … and y’know, one thing led to another …’

  ‘… And you’re dating him now, aren’t you?’ I grinned.

  ‘Nope. I’m interviewing him to research on the medicinal properties of cannabis for my next book,’ Charlotte joked. ‘Hell, yeah … well, I guess I don’t quite know yet … I’m just giving it a shot. Speaking of the devil, he’s here now! Bye, San!’

  Charlotte strode towards a tall, lanky man standing near a tree. He sure was the eccentric type, all right. Ripped jeans, orange Harrington jacket and the straps of a guitar across his back. Waves of ginger hair peeked out from the canopy of his bright blue umbrella.

  I chuckled to myself. Who would have thought a critically acclaimed media star like Charlotte Hale could transform into something of a sparkly-eyed teenager caught by the love bug?

  I placed my camera bag on the floor of the Barbican Centre’s sprawling exhibition hall and caught my breath. We had just filmed monologues by starry-eyed career contenders and plain-speaking recruiters from the job consultancy fair’s corporate glitterati.

  ‘We’ve got over two hours of footage,’ fellow buddy Joey Clayworth informed, hoisting the tripod over his shoulder.

  ‘Not bad for a twenty-minute career show, huh?’

  ‘Nope,’ Joey grinned. ‘I’ll take that camera bag. You look bushed.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sure enough, the rhinestone design on the vamp of my ankle-strap pumps chafed against my toes and a dull throb wormed its way through my temples.

  Joey picked up the bag from the floor. ‘It’s a noisy cavalcade in here. Let’s head out and see what we’ve got.’

  Once on the sidewalk, Joey replayed his footage. ‘I should have increased the shutter speed a little,’ he muttered.

  ‘It looks pretty good. I’m sure Mark will …’

  Several yards ahead of me, a pear-shaped brunette walked arm in arm with a tall, slim man in a charcoal grey suit and a fedora hat. I drank in her jazzy haute couture – a sable-collared, midnight blue, mink fur coat over a slinky pink crochet dress that swirled a few inches above her stocking-clad knees. An absurd magenta hat and a pair of black knee-length boots completed the ensemble.

  A distinct memory of the limousine on King’s Road resurfaced in my mind. That wasn’t Nidhi, was it? I was so used to seeing her in understated outfits – mostly tunics and button-downs over trousers or slacks – that I couldn’t even imagine what she must look like in the garb of a bohemian Stevie Nicks get-up from the seventies. Yet, the sway of her hips gave me enough reason to doubt the veracity of my logic. The man whispered something in her ear. I caught her side profile as she nuzzled against his shoulder and giggled.

  Well, it was Nidhi, all right. And it seemed to be the same man I had seen with her in the limousine the other day. But, his face continued to elude my view. If she was dating him publicly, she probably wouldn’t mind me stopping by and saying hello. They were heading towards the Barbican Chimes music shop. ‘I’ll just be back,’ I mouthed to Joey.

  Then I hustled forward. Alas, the pair ambled up a small flight of stairs around the building and disappeared from view.

  I retraced my steps to Joey.

  ‘Everything okay, San?’ he inquired.

  I smiled. ‘Just thought I saw someone I knew.’

  5

  On The Radar

  1 March

  I languidly flipped over the dog-eared sheet before me and gawked in dismay at the squiggly lines of the continuing list on the backside. I had been sitting in Keisha’s cabin at the BBC Broadcast Centre from early afternoon, making cold calls to several centres from this list to enlist their collaboration for our Lionheart tour.

  I was about to call it a night when a peculiar name on the list caught my eye.

  Bread Breakers’. Listed on Royal Street in Lambeth. Was it a delicatessen that had accidentally found its way into this list?

  I squinted at the tiny font in the description tab. ‘We provide nectar to children of a lesser sky.’ I knew that the phrase ‘children of a lesser God’ referred to people born with an impairment or socioeconomic disadvantage. Did ‘children of a lesser sky’ have a similar connotation?

  A Google search on Bread Breakers’ didn’t yield much and the centre didn’t appear to have a website. All I found was a listing of Bread Breakers’ Community Residence on a bunch of search directories online.

  Scrolling through the list of search results on Google, I spotted a link to a catalogue of phrases that listed an expression of breaking bread. I clicked on a link to a portion of the New Testament, First Corinthians, 11:23. The biblical canon reported that Christ, on the night that he was betrayed, had broken a loaf of bread and passed it around to his disciples with some wine, declaring, ‘This is my body for you.’

  Today, the phrase ‘breaking bread’ is associated with strengthening bonds among fellow brethren to make one another feel safe and loved.

  ‘A care centre with a profound philosophy, huh?’ I muttered.

  A search for ‘children of a lesser sky’ brought up the lyrics of ‘World Hold On – Children of the Sky’ from French DJ Bob Sinclar’s album, Western Dreams. I grabbed my earphones and hit the play button. Then I switched back to the calling list and moved my finger along the row to locate Bread Breakers’ contact information. I didn’t see a phone number, but there was an email address.

  I logged on to Lionheart’s inbox from Keisha’s BBC email account on Outlook. A dialogue box jumped out at me. The Outlook server was unavailable due to maintenance work.

  ‘Shoot!’ I grumbled. I was sure an update had gone out to BBC employees earlier today but I couldn’t be mad at Keisha for not warning me about it. She was overseeing a production this afternoon, which was why she had lent me her cabin today, and a disconnected server was going to be the least of her worries.

  I signed into my personal Gmail account. I copied the template of my previous email from Outlook’s Sent Items onto the body of my Gmail message. Since the email went from my personal account, I removed the BBC label from any part of the text and hit ‘send’ before putting my things away.

  Nimmy called as I headed out. ‘I was really looking forward to watching that movie with you on Netflix tonight, like we’d planned, but I’m going to be late from work today too,’ he said exhaustedly. ‘Don’t wait up for me. You get a good night’s sleep alright?’

  ‘That’s fine, sweetie. Don’t strain yourself.’

  I stood on the platform for the westbound Central Line at White City station and munched on a fruit bar. Nimmy and I had both been rather busy these days, and I missed spending time with him. I hoped I would be able to stay up at least until he got home.

  I called Keisha after I alighted at Northolt and hopped on a bus. ‘Hey, Kiki … How was your shoot?’

  ‘I’m beat. Wrapped up a few minutes ago. How’d the calls go?’

  ‘Do all care centres here necessarily run under the auspices of SIGNAL, the NHS, or any other government entity or charity?’ I asked.
>
  ‘I don’t know, San … what’s up?’ she said, sounding a bit irked.

  ‘Something about an entity I shortlisted. Bread Breakers’. I was just wondering about it.’

  ‘Let’s have a detailed update in the office tomorrow, San.’

  2 March

  I was sliding a Belgian waffle into the toaster next morning, when Nidhi appeared in a pair of Khaki trousers and her staple tunic. I hadn’t gone out of my way to chitchat with the Sawants since my showdown with them in December. Nidhi, however, appeared to be in high jinks today.

  ‘Hello, San!’ she exclaimed cheerfully, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘What have you been up to lately?’

  ‘Busy with LSE work. Student’s life,’ I mumbled.

  My waffle popped out. I splattered some butter on it and sat down at the dining table. Asha, seated across me with a bowl of cereal, pointed at my plate and dropped her tongue out.

  ‘You want some of it, don’t you?’ I chuckled. I broke off a piece of my waffle and placed it on Asha’s plate. She crunched down on it gleefully.

  ‘I saw you one evening last week … outside the Barbican Centre,’ I told Nidhi. I had barely seen her at home since then.

  Nidhi raised her brows. ‘The Barbican?’

  ‘Um, yeah. I thought I’d step up and say hi. But I guess I missed you. You were with a colleague or friend, I think. You were in a pink dress and a blue …’

  A snort of laughter caught in Nidhi’s breath. Asha looked up from her plate.

  ‘A pink dress indeed! It must have been someone else, dear,’ Nidhi warbled. ‘I’m swamped with an honour crime case from Greenford. I’ve been shuttling between the office and the courtroom for the past couple weeks. I really haven’t been anywhere else.’

  Asha pointed towards my half-eaten waffle and gurgled again. I slid another waffle in the toaster for her.

  What was Nidhi hiding?

  5 March

  At 1.35 p.m. on Monday, I got off at the Lambeth North station and squinted at a street map as I headed towards Hercules Road and passed through a caliginous tunnel. Creepy place!