Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  ‘Mum was in the surgery clinic there?’ he squeaked.

  I nodded and cleared my throat nervously. ‘I think Sunil is Asha’s son. I’m not sure about it, but it’s a hunch. I need you to tell me if that’s true.’

  Nimmy lifted his face from his hands. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he mumbled more to himself than to me. ‘Tell me this isn’t really happening!’

  ‘Nimmy?’ I prodded gently. ‘Was Asha raped two years ago?’

  Nimmy’s eyes bled with anguish. ‘Good heavens! You’re smart up there, aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s going on, Nimmy? Are you aware of any of this?’

  ‘The Bread Breakers’ and the hysterectomy thing … no!’ he said. He didn’t offer to say more.

  ‘Was Asha raped?’

  Nimmy nodded heavily. ‘None of us knew about it until much later. Asha was losing weight, retching a lot, throwing tantrums and having stomach cramps. Then Mum found out Asha wasn’t having her periods.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, my Mum and Aunt Nidhi took Asha for a check-up and found that she was already four months pregnant,’ he confided. ‘Mum, Nidhi, my grandparents … everyone wanted her to have an abortion … but the doctors said Asha’s life would be at risk, especially when she was almost four months along. So, just going with it, praying for a healthy baby and embracing it into our lives seemed like the best thing to do.’

  Nimmy’s voice dropped a few notches. ‘This incident is a big shame to everyone in this family. Not me, of course. But to everyone else.’

  I came over to his side and took him in my arms.

  His eyes took on a ghostly glint. ‘Mum and Dad are from different states,’ he said quietly. ‘They speak different languages, Tamil and Marathi. They didn’t let that prevent them from getting married to each other. But you know what? They are hypocritical – at least, Mum is. They’re about honour and all that bullshit. No one really understood or cared, that what happened to Asha was something she was vulnerable to. Everyone thought Asha brought shame upon the family. I tried to make them see sense. But they would tell me it was a ‘woman thing’. He paused and gazed unseeingly at a spot on a tree, somewhere behind me. ‘None of them really spoke about the rape and her pregnancy. They didn’t know what had actually happened and didn’t care to find out either. When the time came for the baby to arrive, Asha had a caesarian and nearly lost her life for it.’

  He sighed heavily. ‘Jyoti had just come in as a caretaker then. So, the baby was passed on to her and she’s been calling him her son ever since. I tried to protest but I eventually gave up that battle. Dare I question the so-called beliefs floating round here and I’ll be tagged a misfit. There’s so much I want to do. But I don’t have the courage.’ Nimmy laid his hands on the table and nestled his head in the crook of his arms. My heart went out to him. But there was little I could say.

  ‘Honour is such a big fucking deal,’ he ranted. ‘It eats your soul! It has no beginning and no end. Question it and you’ll be damned forever. Good Lord!’ He looked dead as he said it.

  Tears streamed down my face as I held his hands and stroked his hair.

  ‘What’s the family’s history with Rosie?’ I urged.

  Nimmy had now opened up to me so much that I knew he was being honest when he muttered, ‘I don’t know much, really. Just that Asha first met Rosie at the hospital … Portland hospital I think. It was after she delivered her baby. Asha was in a nursing home for a while – a few years before she got pregnant. Around in Lambeth I think …’

  Oh God! Asha had once been a Bread Breakers’ resident herself! I wondered how long she had been there. But I didn’t dare to interrupt as Nimmy continued, ‘So, somebody from Portland hospital called up that nursing home, for general care and stuff, and Rosie came over from there to visit Asha in the hospital. After delivering her son, Asha went to that nursing home again for a while to recover. Rosie must have seen her a lot more then, I don’t know. I didn’t like Rosie very much. She was trying to convince us to let Asha leave her baby behind in the care home, so that they could take care of him or whatever. Rosie once visited me at home – when Asha was still in that care centre I think – to talk me into letting them keep the baby and put him up for adoption when he was about five or six …’

  My heart skipped a beat as he went on.

  ‘Rosie said their nursing home had a crèche and they’d bear child-related expenses and take care of him in that facility and …’ he pecked at the remains of his lunch. ‘I raised a stink and Dad kind of supported my decision. So, Sunil came right home with us. Everyone at home, except Dad, was miffed about it.

  ‘I think Rosie went to Nidhi’s office in Southall a few months later … my aunt wasn’t too pleased to see her, you know, because she’d just wrecked all that havoc … and no one wanted to be reminded of it. But Rosie insisted on seeing my aunt when she visited the SBS offices and claimed she was being abused where she worked … she had ’nother job I think. My aunt just referred her to another caseworker at Southall. We never saw her again until last November.’

  I exhaled. I was surprised to hear that Ashok had played a role in ensuring that Sunil wasn’t stuck in that little shed at Bread Breakers’. Why wasn’t he involved in Asha’s care then? Or even Sunil’s, for that matter? Was he really upset with Asha? Or was it his way of silently protesting against the family’s anger with Asha?

  Now that I thought about it, it occurred to me that Shailaja hadn’t been deeply involved in Asha’s care either. Not unless there was a crisis, or a major task that required her involvement. It was Jyoti and Nimmy who attended to Asha a lot more than her mother did. Was Shailaja still embarrassed about Asha’s rape and pregnancy? Did Asha have a history with Rosie even before they met at the Portland hospital? Where were all those Bread Breakers’ children sent when they got older? These questions ricocheted in my mind like a haunting echo from the crevasse of a dungeon.

  ‘Asha doesn’t know what happened to her,’ Nimmy growled like a wounded animal.

  I grabbed his arm. ‘Your mum wants a hysterectomy for her now. Based on what I heard, it is most likely a surgery that involves removing her uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes and everything – so that she doesn’t menstruate and never gets pregnant again.’

  Nimmy looked blank.

  ‘Such a hysterectomy is usually done only when there is a serious health issue and there’s no other way to treat it. Asha doesn’t need hormonal imbalances to compound the problems she’s already having … and that’s what will happen if a hysterectomy is done.’

  Nimmy nodded vaguely.

  ‘We want justice for Asha,’ I went on in vengeance. ‘Her rape is a crime and we need to release that news. To the law. To the media. To the goddamned public!’

  Nimmy reached forward and clamped both my hands like a vise. ‘No, Sandy, no! You must do no such thing. No media, no public … please!’

  ‘Why?’ I protested. ‘I love you and Asha. I only want what is best for you.’

  Breathing heavily, Nimmy grabbed my shoulders and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘You received a threatening email and I was being followed yesterday … and my drinks were spiked. I think whoever is involved in that Bread Breakers’ racket is after us now.’

  ‘Keisha showed me that video. Splendid job, San. I reckon the sooner we get cracking on it, the better,’ Charlotte said when we were sat at the BBC Broadcast Centre lobby that evening.

  ‘Alfred saw the video too,’ Keisha said. ‘We’re contacting the Panorama team first thing Monday.’

  ‘Good show! It’ll save those kids and residents if we can get it out soon,’ I said.

  ‘You look beat,’ Keisha remarked as I poured myself some tea. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My boyfriend was rushed to a hospital last night. His drinks were spiked.’

  ‘Gosh!’ Charlotte exclaimed.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Keisha asked contritely.

  I smiled wryly. ‘Getting better. He said someon
e was stalking him. I think it’s related to the Bread Breakers’ events I taped yesterday.’

  Charlotte raised a eyebrow. ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘Well, I got an email last evening too. Just an hour before I found my boyfriend passed out on the underpass outside LSE. It came from alfonso@bloodfonso.com.’

  Keisha frowned. ‘Alonso Bloodfonso?’

  ‘Alfonso. His note said I’ll wish I am dead if I don’t mind my own business.’

  Suddenly, I remembered that I had first contacted Bread Breakers’ from my personal email account because of maintenance issues on the BBC server. The signature on my personal email account mentioned I was a student at LSE. Perhaps, that was why Simon Webb had agreed to meet me. He may have alerted the staff when he learned of the BBC’s involvement during our meeting. And they would have connected my first meeting to Maya Farmah and the lady with the Halloween mask spotted yesterday. Now, it made sense … all of it.

  ‘I think Bloodfonso is aware of my involvement in this campaign,’ I continued. ‘So, I’m pretty sure he knows you two are behind it, too. Not to mention the fact that you both work for the BBC.’

  The momentary cloud of unease on Charlotte’s face dissolved into an amused expression.

  ‘It’s probably nothing to worry about, San,’ she reassured. ‘Must be some nut who watched our show or somehow got tipped off about the campaign.’

  ‘Lionheart’s all over Twitter and Facebook anyway,’ Keisha pointed out.

  ‘That’s the point, Kiki,’ I said. ‘It wouldn’t have been hard for them to figure out that you and Charlotte are running Lionheart too.’

  ‘Many of us have received a menacing note now and then. Turned out to be nothing more than a desperate attention-seeker or a deranged fan!’ Keisha said. ‘It’s all harmless, really.’

  ‘The BBC have enough security to give the FBI a run for their money.’ Charlotte chuckled.

  Keisha ran through our tour agenda and listed all the schools and care homes that had agreed to participate in the first leg of our workshop series. ‘For apparent reasons, we’re leaving Bread Beaker out of this,’ Keisha said as we were wrapping up.

  ‘Bread Breakers’,’ I corrected.

  ‘I’ve got to scoot now.’ Charlotte said. ‘My show’s on in fifteen minutes and I still have to do my hair.’

  We exchanged hugs and parted.

  I spent the next hour in Keisha’s cabin, updating the Lionheart campaign mailing list. Keisha sat at her desk, reviewing some propositions for an onslaught of new kids’ programmes.

  As I packed up to leave, Keisha waved a paper before her. ‘I’ll see if I can speak to Alfred about having you develop content for one of these kids’ shows. I’ve received a compelling proposal on music therapy for pre-teens recovering from brain illness. You interested?’

  My heart jumped at the opportunity. ‘I’d love it! I could discuss it with Alfred on Monday.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then.’

  I hesitated at the door. ‘Kiki, please be careful.’

  12 March

  ‘Char is never late!’ Alfred Maynard grumbled, glancing at his wristwatch as we waited to start shooting the next episode of Streetsmart on Monday afternoon.

  The show guests were getting fidgety and the crewmembers were growing impatient. Keisha had been flapping around like a mother hen, engaging everyone until Charlotte’s arrival – but now, she stood next to Alfred, as tense as the wire rope of a suspension bridge.

  I gazed around me in dismay. Keisha’s promises to talk to Alfred about an opportunity for me on one of those kids’ shows had long since been forsaken. We were running on a tight schedule. Calls to Charlotte’s mobile were going through to her voicemail and she hadn’t responded yet.

  Alfred punched some numbers on his phone.

  ‘Afternoon, Meg,’ he began tersely. ‘Charlotte was supposed to be here at three. She hasn’t arrived yet. I hope she’s okay.’

  I saw Alfred’s face pucker with surprise as he listened.

  ‘Oh … okay, thanks. Beats me. Well, it must be traffic then, right? Cheers!’ He hung up and shuffled uneasily.

  ‘Char’s secy says she left for our shoot with some props over an hour ago,’ he reported.

  Ten more minutes whizzed by. Keisha stepped to the centre of the studio and clapped her hands for attention. ‘We’re rescheduling this episode as our host, Charlotte has had an unforeseen emergency and is unable to be with us today,’ she said into a microphone. ‘We’ll send you an update on the Streetsmart mailing list and keep you posted on when the next episode will be scheduled. Please accept our sincerest apologies.’

  Everyone rose to leave. The videographers were folding their tripods when Alfred’s phone rang. He disappeared through an exit door. He returned two minutes later, white as a sheet.

  ‘That was Meg. She just received a call from Kings College Hospital,’ he informed solemnly. ‘Char has been gravely injured in a car accident.’

  ‘They’ve taken her to surgery,’ Megan reported in a flat monotone as Alfred, Keisha and I ploughed into the waiting room outside an intensive care unit half an hour later. A frightful wheeze jostled its way up my throat. I hurriedly reached for my inhaler and took a few deep breaths.

  Keisha turned to me. ‘You okay?’

  I swallowed my tears and nodded. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I was inexplicably responsible for Charlotte’s ‘accident.’ An hour later, Alfred patted Megan’s shoulder silently and took his leave. I surmised he had shitloads of work to get done. Keisha and I didn’t move. Nearly two hours passed before a doctor came in.

  ‘Your friend is in a coma,’ he stated somberly. ‘It’s premature to say if she will make it … she has skull fractures, a crushed sternum, a swollen brain and other internal injuries. She was in a semi-conscious state in the emergency ward, though barely breathing.’

  I felt faint. Megan and Keisha remained dazed with shock.

  ‘She kept saying something. Sounded like “horse”,’ the doctor added as an afterthought.

  I frowned. Horse?

  ‘Did you say she said something that sounded like “horse”?’ I repeated.

  The doctor nodded. ‘Indeed. Would you know what that might mean?’

  Megan rose unsteadily from her chair. ‘I don’t know.’ She clasped the doctor’s hand. ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ the doctor said grimly.

  Jumping out from a TV screen in the LSE library foyer was the image of a cordoned-off section at Blackfriars Bridge, clogged with a monstrous traffic jam around the scene of a blood-spattered truck with a smashed-in grill and a wrecked Skoda Octavia surrounded by shards of broken glass and amorphous pieces of metal.

  ‘A devastating road accident occurred on the A201 in Blackfriars at two-thirty p.m.,’ an off-camera BBC News commentator reported on the seven o’ clock news. ‘Thirty-two-year-old Charlotte Hale was the victim of this collision. Hale is a renowned education entrepreneur and a popular radio and TV host for the BBC. She was rushed to King’s College Hospital with severe injuries. She is in a coma. Prayers for her speedy recovery are pouring in from across the island. Christina, our reporter at the scene spoke to a few eyewitnesses about the accident …’

  The static image of the wreckage dissolved into a moving scene of frenzied people. I heard a smatter of excited comments.

  ‘I hope she recovers.’

  ‘I was driving through the A201 from Victoria Embankment and I saw a crowd gathered around there. Never expected it’d be so bloody …’

  ‘We need better traffic regulations in this city …’

  ‘She drove into the median and toppled over – right into an oncoming lorry from the other side.’

  A lone female voice emerged from the cacophony. ‘That’s not true! It was a hit-and-run!’

  I stared in stunned disbelief as the reporter thrust a microphone towards the young brunette who had spoken. She appeared to be in her lat
e twenties.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the reporter yelled over the din.

  ‘Harriet Blue.’

  ‘What makes you say it was a hit-and-run?’

  ‘I was just about to get into the Blackfriars Underground when I saw a big black jeep speeding towards that car. The signal at the corner was still a fair distance. I first thought the jeep was just trying to overtake her on the wrong side. But I saw the jeep ram into the side of the Skoda and push it into the median barrier. The car hit the median and toppled over on to the other side – into a lorry. The jeep sped away in a trice and disappeared around a corner. Blimey, I was gobsmacked! I dialed triple nine in panic … there was already a huge crowd by then.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! She drove into the median herself!’ another bystander shouted.

  The newscaster’s sonorous voice came on again. ‘We are being told that the traffic police will record Ms Blue’s testimony. If her story is true, what appears to be an accident might in fact be an act of homicide. We will follow up with more details as they develop.’

  My hand trembled as I phoned Keisha.

  ‘If that eyewitness’ statement is true, it means Char’s car crash has something to do with my Bread Breakers’ investigation!’ I cried breathlessly when she answered. ‘Whoever’s on our trail knows that Char is part of Lionheart too. And it doesn’t help that she’s the face of Streetsmart!’

  Keisha remained silent before bursting out, ‘What a wild theory, San. What would they have against Lionheart or Streetsmart? All this while, the show has been doing well on its own, too.’

  ‘Kiki, your life could be in danger!’ I hissed, struggling to rein in my anxiety. ‘Can you tighten security at home and work? We can lie low on the campaign for some time.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Keisha sighed. ‘It may be a while before Char recovers from her coma. Her Mum is on her way here from LA.’

  ‘What about her Dad?’

  ‘I’ve no idea … the Mum and Dad divorced some time ago.’