‘Out to solve a mystery and such, Wonder Woman?’ Ritchie chortled amusedly.
‘Something like that,’ I said wryly.
We found adjacent carrels on the third floor. ‘So, what’s up?’ Ritchie asked seriously.
As I gazed into his eyes, something stirred in me enough to kindle a desire to open up to him.
In hushed whispers I told Ritchie everything, right from my work for Lionheart and the Streetsmart TV show, to the events that had unfolded at Bread Breakers’. I left out my return to the care home as an undercover videographer, since Keisha had warned me against mentioning it.
I spilled out details of my volatile relationship with Nimmy as I recalled our argument over his question about whether I was with him out of guilt or obligation. Finally, I admitted how perplexed I was at the prospect of facing the Sawants now and deciding what to do.
Somewhere along the way, the dam my defenses had carefully cobbled up burst open and I was sobbing hard by the time I finished.
‘I can understand it’s been a lot for you,’ Ritchie said after a spell of silence. ‘For the moment, let’s keep aside your campaign work and take a better look at you. How can you let yourself in for that kind of behaviour from Nimmy?’
‘I slept with him, Ritch.’
‘So he owns you now?’
I sighed. He had a point.
‘You’re here to do what you believe in, as long as you’re mindin’ your own business or helpin’ others rather than harmin’ them,’ Ritchie went on. ‘And this time, I’m afraid you’re only hurtin’ yourself.’
Subconsciously, I knew I would be a fool not to trust Ritchie’s judgement. But the love and affection I had developed for Nimmy and Asha were hard to let dissipate. And what was happening with Asha now would only complicate matters further.
‘About what happened this afternoon, it sounds like this care centre has a surgery clinic that illegally sterilises their female residents. For the life of me, I can’t imagine how your host family got involved in it,’ Ritchie said quietly.
‘You think so?’
‘I think there’s actually more to it than that, San. What are those kids doing in the shed of a home for the mentally challenged?’
I hadn’t thought that the answer to that question might have anything to do with how the Sawants were entangled with them. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ I snapped.
‘Think for yourself, San,’ Ritchie said. ‘It sounds like you stumbled upon a dangerous mystery. And now that you have, you need to be three steps ahead of your antagonists.’
I smiled weakly. ‘You sound like you’re plotting a film.’
‘I’ll leave you to chew on it for a while, then.’
As Ritchie turned back to his computer screen, I harked back to the events of that afternoon. Indications from many children in the playroom-shed pointed to the possibility that their mothers weren’t support workers who left their children in the play area during their work shifts. And the mother of that Hungarian girl, had most certainly been raped and murdered. I recalled my brief interaction with Nila and her screams as the support workers stormed in, gave her an injection and joked about getting her ready for a Mr Pedal Pushers. The sequence of events I had seen began to yield the contours of a horrifying but plausible image. Were many Bread Breakers’ residents the mothers of the children in that shed? If my hunch was correct, there was a story behind their pregnancies: a cold-blooded tale of sexual abuse and exploitation.
But my mind drew a blank. I couldn’t think further.
I signed into my LSE terminal and launched Google Chrome. What was that tranquiliser the support workers had given Nila? Was it ‘chlorophomazin’? I typed out the word in the search tab. Numerous results turned up for chlorpromazine.
An anti-psychotic drug prescribed mostly to treat symptoms of schizophrenia. But Nila had hardly seemed psychotic or schizophrenic. She was just a few years behind her biological age. Why the hell were they giving her chlorpromazine?
I opened a new window and researched on hysterectomy. What did Dr Tahseen mean when he told Shailaja they would have “all of it out”? Given that Shailaja had mentioned the hassle of maintaining Asha’s menstrual hygiene, it was likely that they were considering removing her uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes. An irreversible process that had indelible long-term health effects. Recommended for intractable medical conditions, only if no other treatment options were available.
An email from an unfamiliar address popped up on my Gmail. I clicked on it. The hiss of a rusted harmonica hit my eardrums. It took a second to realise that the sound was a choked gasp from me.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ritchie demanded when he saw my expression.
I wordlessly pointed to the email on my screen. The subject line danced with three ominous words: I see you.
Ritchie leaned over and followed my gaze.
Signorina,
Do what u came here to do. Graduate with respectable grades and go back to ur own fucking country. Don’t forget to mind your own fucking business while u still here. If u do, u wish u were dead. So long, love.
Yours,
Bloodfonso
SMS language. It had come from [email protected]. The time stamp said 6.15 p.m.
‘This looks serious, San,’ Ritchie muttered. ‘Bloodfonso? Who calls himself that? Looks like the chap needs an English lesson too.’
I searched for Bloodfonso on Google. All that stared back at me was a message from Google: No results found. Did you mean: Blood Font?
‘Someone’s kept a screen name to scare me off,’ I mumbled.
‘Signorina is an Italian term of address for an unmarried lady,’ Ritchie told me. ‘Alfonso is an Italian name too.’ He returned to his laptop, wiggled his fingers on the keypad and squinted into the screen before turning back to me. ‘Here we go. Alfonso means “ready for battle”.’
‘Italian?’
‘This seems too much like Godfather to me … I doubt the sender is even close to being Italian,’ Ritchie stated grimly.
‘Well, he can’t be Indian,’ I muttered. ‘I don’t think Indians would use expletives of that sort in the context of their own country.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’ Ritchie warned.
‘There’s not a lot to go on,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure this threat is related to what I did this afternoon.’
‘Methinks you’d have received this threat even if you hadn’t scaled windows and hidden in boxes today,’ Ritchie said suddenly. ‘Whoever it is knows about your Lionheart campaign and is after you ’cause he or she’s afraid you’ll uncover something that isn’t meant to be found. That means this person also knows you recently arrived from India to attend LSE. They probably even know where you live. Watch out, San. It wouldn’t be hard for this person to find you.’
A steady swell of panic squeezed my chest. I began gasping for breath.
‘There, there …’ Ritchie said. ‘Get a hold of yourself now.’
He held me tentatively as I leaned against him. Focusing intently on the steady rise and fall of his chest trounced the mad rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
‘Should I report it? And what I saw in that centre and everything?’ I murmured, calmer now. ‘I can remain anonymous if I talk to Crimestoppers.’
‘Do it right away,’ Ritchie ordered.
Then I remembered that I couldn’t go back on my word to Keisha. ‘Forget it, Ritch … it’s all right. I don’t think it’s worth it.’
Ritchie raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’
I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze on the iridescent glimmer of his eyes. An inner voice reassured me that I could trust him enough to answer that question.
‘I’m not in a position to inform the police, Ritch,’ I whispered, leaning forward. Then I briefly explained my undercover work and the care home footage that sat in the BBC’s alcoves now.
Ritchie’s face puckered into a half-smile. ‘Whoa! You took a hell of a risk. It must’
ve taken a lot of trust and courage for you to decide to share it with me. Let’s keep the police out of it then … at least for now. You’ll need to stay safe though. I don’t imagine you’ll have protection from the BBC at this point, right?’
‘Nope.’
Ritchie stretched his arms and sighed. ‘I think we could both do with a shot of caffeine. All campus cafés are closed. I was going to hop along to Café Nero. Care to join?’
The decadent aroma of freshly brewed coffee sounded like just what I’d need right now.
‘Sure.’ I stuffed my inhaler into my jeans pocket. Grabbing our phones, wallets, coats and scarves, we took the elevator downstairs. A security guard hovering near the turnstiles glared at us suspiciously.
‘Darn! That’s quite a downpour,’ Ritchie grumbled, picking up an old English umbrella from the library foyer on our way out.
It was a cold, windswept and rainy night. Huddling together under the umbrella, we hurried towards the underpass on Kingsway. At the mouth of the reeking tunnel, I tripped over what felt like a hand. A shrill scream fought its way out from the hollow of my throat.
‘What happened? You okay?’ Ritchie cried, pulling me back towards him.
Frozen, I pointed at the ground. We jerked our heads down to see a bedraggled figure sprawled at my feet in a lumpy coat. It was really too dark to see much, but I felt the figure stir as I stood there and hyperventilated.
‘It’s just a hobo, San.’ Ritchie laughed. ‘A drunken one. Let’s haul him away from the frigging dark.’ He tugged at the coat sleeves of the scruffy tramp. A moan escaped the vagrant’s lips.
That voice sounded oddly familiar. A shingle of light reflected on to the tramp’s face from a nearby sidewalk store as we steered him towards the entryway in the direction of the Holborn station. My hands jumped to my mouth on instinct, and the tramp went crashing down to the ground once again with a sad groan.
‘N-N-Nimmy?’ I spluttered. ‘What happened to you?’
I was all over him – brushing the dust off, going around him to see if he had been stabbed or shot, straightening his coat and dusting his trousers. He didn’t appear to be hurt, at least visibly. As if on autopilot, I vaguely introduced Nimmy and Ritchie to each other, standing in the pouring rain. Ritchie, who was not impressed with what he had heard about Nimmy from me earlier that evening and even less so when he saw him in a drunken stupor, shook his hand limply.
Nimmy’s hand flopped in Ritchie’s. Ritchie’s eyes met mine over Nimmy’s shoulder. ‘Sandy, I don’t think he’s even looking at me.’
As Nimmy began to adjust to the lights and sounds of twilight, I leaned forward and brought my lips to his. Ritchie stood by, now looking annoyed.
Nimmy squinted at me in bewilderment. Then, to my horror, he swayed unsteadily and burst into peels of grotesque laughter. I gasped when he turned around slowly to face me. Nimmy didn’t seem like himself at all. His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, rolled upward slightly. Purple bags lined his cheekbones. His arms and legs were loose and wobbly. Scuttling passersby peeked out from their hoods and umbrellas to stare as Nimmy continued cackling like a lunatic.
‘Ritch!’ I panicked. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to him!’
I grabbed Nimmy’s arm. ‘Nimmy? Can you hear me?’
Nimmy’s laughter stopped abruptly. All of a sudden, he clung to me as if he would fall to his death from a cliff top if he didn’t hold on. ‘I can’t feel anything. I think I’m dying,’ he groaned. His disembodied voice rose to a crescendo as his last few words curled into a scream.
‘Nimmy!’ I screeched, looking at Ritchie helplessly.
Ritchie lost no time in dialing triple nine. ‘My friend is in danger,’ he began shakily. ‘I found him spread-eagled in the underpass on Kingsway.’ I could hear only his side of the conversation. ‘No, he’s not visibly hurt … yes, it could be life threatening. I’m not sure if he’s drunk or drugged … yes, like a psychotic … all right. We’ll get to somewhere warm … yes. Costa café. Right next to the Holborn Underground. On the same side as Carphone Warehouse. Thanks.’
As Ritchie hung up, he resembled a little boy who had lost his way in the woods. A veneer of authority replaced his glazed look instantly. ‘C’mon,’ he barked urgently. ‘This rain’s a frigging pest. Let’s wait at Costa till the medics arrive.’
‘Okay,’ I said, forcing myself to remain calm.
I staggered when Nimmy leaned and shifted all his weight onto me.
‘Easy, San!’ Ritchie said, springing forward to give me a hand. We teetered from side to side as we prodded a floundering Nimmy down the road towards the Holborn station. At a height of six feet, Nimmy must have weighed close to two-hundred pounds and egging him along was no mean task.
Someone rapped me on my shoulder. ‘Would you like some help?’ a stocky Asian man in an anorak inquired, shuffling a bundle of London Lite tabloids in his arms.
‘Aren’t you a godsend …’ Ritchie said gratefully.
The bloke placed his bundle of newspapers by the foot of a flower shop across the Holborn station before scurrying back to us. ‘Don’t be sweating, lady,’ he told me kindly. ‘Oye, there! We need a hand ’round here,’ he hollered to a fellow newspaper distributor. Another Asian guy in a sports jacket emerged from a corner. Ritchie and the two men carried a burbling Nimmy towards the Costa around the corner.
‘Sandy!’ Nimmy howled, twisting against the firm grip of the three men who held him. ‘I’m right here, sweetie,’ I called out.
The men set a drenched Nimmy down on a bar stool in Costa a few minutes later. A lone bespectacled cashier at the counter looked on, puzzled.
We thanked the lads. ‘Glad we could help, lady. Now, take care,’ the larger of the two men said before they walked out.
Ritchie retrieved some napkins and ordered three cappuccinos, while I mopped Nimmy’s soaked face and hands with paper towels and coaxed him to tell me what had happened.
‘Um b-b-being …’ Nimmy sniffled, swiping his nose against the back of his shirt. The stuttering that had claimed an otherwise articulate tongue did nothing to quell my escalating anxiety. I looked behind me to ensure that Ritchie was still at the counter waiting for our coffees.
‘Go on …’ I urged gently. ‘It’s only me.’
‘Um b-b-being f-followed …’ Nimmy whimpered.
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Followed? For how long? What happened?’
Ritchie came back with a tray. ‘This’ll make you feel better,’ he grunted, pushing a cappuccino to Nimmy. Nimmy slouched back in his seat and took a long swig.
‘You rem … you … Rick, Sal, Carl … guys?’ Nimmy slurred to me.
‘Tell me everything from the beginning,’ I pressed firmly. ‘Did you take drugs?’
Nimmy suddenly lurched forward. His back arched as he began to tremble.
‘The docs will be arriving soon,’ I said. I sprang from my chair and reached out to touch Nimmy’s shoulder. He violently shrugged me off. The force of his movement sent me flying back against my chair. The chair slid sideways, screeching against the floor. I skidded along with it. Ritchie jumped to my side at once and took me in his arms. ‘You okay, San?’
I nodded faintly.
Nimmy’s growling gave way to laboured breathing. Despite himself, Ritchie gave a brotherly pat on Nimmy’s shoulder. I groped around in Nimmy’s trouser pockets, retrieved his phone and scrolled down his contacts list for Carl’s mobile number. Then I called Carl from my phone.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nimmy blow out his cheeks and double over. My heart twisted in agony to see him trapped in such a gruesome spiral. Ritchie asked the cashier if there was a washroom. The cashier looked at us disgustedly and waved them towards a McDonalds across the road.
Carl picked up on the sixth ring, sounding curt. ‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘Carl, this is Sandy …’ I said. ‘Uh, how’re you doing?’
‘Oh … well, hi!’
‘I found Nimmy sprawled in
the tram tunnel at Kingsway. Dead-drunk, drugged … I don’t know. He isn’t coherent and he’s probably throwing up now …’ I reported.
‘Where are you guys now? Would you like me to come over?’
‘Did you, Rick, Sal and Nimmy meet after work today?’ I inquired.
‘Yep, we met in Corney and Barrow for a round of drinks after work.’
‘Oney and Bara?’ I echoed blankly.
‘Corney and Barrow,’ Carl said. ‘It’s a wine bar on Liverpool Street, around Broadgate Circle.’
‘I’d like to know what happened this evening,’ I pleaded. ‘Every little detail. This is important. Nimmy isn’t even talking coherently.’
‘I … Sal met me after work around quarter to six and we took the tube from Blackfriars to Liverpool Street,’ Carl spluttered. ‘Nimmy and Rick joined us some time later. Nimmy seemed stressed out. He didn’t say what was eating him. But he definitely looked like he could do with some chilling out.’
‘And?’
‘We sat in the patio upstairs. Had a couple of beers, ciders … stuff like that. Nimmy got Prosecco, I think. Then he asked for a refill. We sat and chatted for a while. Rick left early but Nimmy, Sal and I hung around. Nimmy dashed to the washroom after his second drink, I think. He was complaining about a headache and nausea. I offered to accompany him to the washroom, but he insisted he’d go on his own. I imagine he threw up in there. We hoped he would feel better after that, but he just got worse.’
‘What did you guys do then?’ From the periphery of my vision, I saw Ritchie return with a paler Nimmy. Ritchie sat him down and appeared to be engaging his attention in some contrived way.
‘Sal phoned a cab. We all left in about fifteen–twenty minutes. Nimmy was dawdling and unsteady, so we thought the Prosecco really did him in.’
‘Where was Rick?’
‘I told you … Rick left early.’
‘Early? Did he say why?’
‘He had to go see his girl.’
‘Oh!’
‘He, uh, doesn’t know about what happened I guess. He left before any of this shit happened,’ Carl mumbled. ‘We were really surprised. Nimmy usually holds up many drinks. Four spirits, six Beefeaters, a glass of wine and he’d still be good to go. Can’t fathom how two glasses of sparkling wine sent him topsy-turvy today.’
Victims for Sale Page 11