Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  A fresh bout of coughs and sobs gushed out from my bosom. ‘I dunno …’

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me right away?’

  ‘R-r-ran out of credit …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear you talk anymore. Give the phone to the cabbie, NOW!’

  I nearly lost my grasp of the phone as I passed it on to the amused cabdriver.

  ‘We were heading to Holborn, Sir … we’re on Euston Road at the moment. I have to take a detour to come to your place …’ he complained. After a few moments: ‘All right. Through Camden High? Spot on. And the postcode?’ He punched some buttons on a navigation device before him. ‘NW5 4QA. All right. I see that I have to take the A4200. I’ll be there in twenty–thirty minutes, depending on the traffic.’ As he handed the phone back to me, it blacked out with a huge beep of protest. The battery had died out.

  ‘You look like crap,’ Ritchie commented when I tumbled out of the cab at Gilden Crescent. I vaguely noticed he had changed his hairstyle again. The blue highlights were gone. The sideswept bangs over his forehead made his face softer and fuller, giving him a preppy, little-boy charm. When I caught myself goggling at him, I lowered my gaze in embarrassment. He was seeing me at my absolute worst. I fought through the cloud of disorientation and fumbled for my wallet.

  ‘That’ll be sixty-two pounds,’ the cabbie said crisply.

  I didn’t even flinch at the fare. All I could think of was a comforting hug.

  ‘Could you, uh, help me please?’ I requested, pointing towards my luggage in the trunk.

  ‘It’s not customary for us to do that,’ the cabdriver said matter-of-factly.

  Ritchie gave him a thumbs-up. ‘No worries, mate.’ I spun around to see him hauling out my luggage from the boot. The cabdriver hopped out as an afterthought and assisted him.

  ‘Half an hour ago, she had no clue who the hell she was and where she was going,’ the cabdriver told Ritchie as we waited for the elevator. ‘I’ve never faced such a bizarre situation before.’ He gave me a swift nod and retreated to his car. ‘Take care, lady.’

  The elevator opened out into a narrow hallway. Ritchie placed an airbag on one of my suitcases, slung my other airbag on one of his shoulders, grabbed my grocery bag and two stray overnight bags with one hand, and wheeled the suitcase with the other. I listlessly followed Ritchie down the hallway, taking long deep breaths with my inhaler as I dragged my other suitcase. Somewhere en route, I tripped on one of the wheels of my suitcase, lost my balance and smacked my hip into a wall beside me.

  Ritchie turned around. ‘Jesus, San … drop the bags!’ he growled.

  I left my suitcase on the corridor and hobbled along. Ritchie dropped my bags, unlocked his door and retraced his steps to fetch my other suitcase. A flood of soft amber light greeted me when I stepped in. I shrugged out of my cumbersome coat and let it fall to the floor. Ritchie pointed to a comfy old plaid couch in a carpeted living room.

  I staggered in and sank into it. He arranged all my bags by the hall closet, picked up my coat from the floor and brushed it before placing it in the coat rack. I was half-dozing when I felt a hand on my forehead. Then, Ritche’s voice. ‘Christ, San, you’re burning up.’

  My chest began constricting once again. An unpleasant sensation of soreness scratched the back of my throat and all my joints ached. I reached for my inhaler and gasped into it.

  ‘D’you want to go to the doc?’ Ritchie asked.

  I waved my hand to indicate that I didn’t want to go anywhere.

  Ritchie disappeared for a few minutes. I was nodding off to sleep again when I felt a gentle shove on my shoulder. ‘Sandy!’

  ‘Ouch!’ I grumbled when sprinkles of cold water splashed my face.

  ‘Have this,’ he ordered, thrusting a glass of hot water before me. ‘I put some garlic in it. It should bring down the fever.’ He pointed to a mug on the coffee table before me. ‘And that’s a glass of warm milk. I put some honey in it. It’ll help your wheeze.’

  I drank the water and reached for the glass of milk. I hoped he would sit next to me but he bounded into his room and closed the door behind him. I didn’t realise I had begun crying again until I reached out to brush a few tendrils of hair off my face.

  Ritchie reappeared with a book bag on one shoulder, a comforter on the other, and a bundle of pillows in his arms. ‘I’ve straightened out my room for you,’ he told me shortly. ‘I have coursework reading to do and a tonne of emails to catch up on. There’s a bowl of curry in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Goodnight!’

  I tried to process what he was saying, but all I could think of was how cold and aloof he sounded.

  ‘Wh-where will you sleep?’ I rasped.

  ‘On the couch here,’ he said curtly. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said in a small voice.

  I gathered my shoulder bag, waddled into his bedroom and plugged my phone into a port near the fireplace. A set of unfamiliar clothes lay at the head of a round-design bed. Satin blue pyjamas and a matching nightshirt with a nude-shade free-size bra to boot. Were these for me? What was the bra doing here?

  For a reason that defied all sense of logic and gratitude, I wondered if he had a girlfriend. Before I could brood further, the intensifying pressure on my bladder drove me to the washroom.

  I relieved myself and peered into the mirror. The first two buttons of my blouse had fallen off, presumably during my scuffle with the Sawants. My face was swollen and puffy, my hair was half undone, my nose was runny and purple rings circled my tear-streaked eyes. I opened a maple raised-panel door on the front-side of the bathtub and found a bathing gel. I ran a bath, sat in a tubful of warm, foamy water for a while, then fell into bed and switched my phone on.

  Nimmy hadn’t called me yet. I pressed a random number on the speed dial. The bar on my outgoing calls had been lifted by now. I punched a local access number and called my father in India, mollifying myself with a recollection of the old-fashioned green rotary dial phone that had been around for a long time at home in Tanjore, until a maroon push-button telephone replaced it, four years ago.

  ‘How are your studies coming along, Sandhya?’ Appa greeted chirpily.

  ‘I’ve submitted three papers this term, Pa. I have two more due in …’

  Appa’s tone changed. ‘Sandhya, what’s wrong? You don’t sound good.’

  ‘Things have been a little strange here,’ I began euphemistically. Then, I let my floodgates open and filled him in on all the events unfolding in my life, excluding only the portion where I was receiving death threats; I didn’t want Appa hyperventilating at the prospect of my personal safety in jeopardy.

  He was silent for a long time. Then he sighed heavily. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘I’m in good hands – for now, at least,’ I replied diplomatically.

  ‘We sent you there with so much faith, Sandhya,’ he said softly. ‘We arranged a good family for you to stay with. You shouldn’t have interfered in their personal affairs and …’

  ‘But, what the Sawants are doing to Asha …’

  ‘Sandhya, I understand what you’re saying. What you did wasn’t wrong – but, look at the mess you’re in now. Having moved to a different country, you should have concentrated on your studies and saved money, wherever possible. Graduating with flying colours and getting a good job in the UK should have been your main priorities. You can’t pay off your loans with the salary you would get as a media professional here in India, if you even do get a job at that. And I can’t help you repay your loans. Not with my earnings as a priest. Sri has to pitch in and it’ll take a huge toll on his health. Or we’ll have to forfeit this house we pledged for your loan.’

  Tears swam over my face as I listened.

  ‘By the looks of it, I’m not even sure you’ll complete your degree. Your decision to attend LSE carries far more risks for Sri and me than it does for you. It was a decision we took on the soil of my home and the foundations of our blood, sweat and desire t
o see you thrive and be happy. I can’t really do much from here, except pray ardently for you. I hope you’ll come to your senses soon.’

  ‘I hope to make you and Sri proud one day,’ I choked out.

  ‘It’s raining heavily in Tanjore right now. Your mother is crying piteously for you from the skies,’ Appa said sadly. ‘She sees where you are now and she’s deeply saddened with the turn of events, your lack of focus, your impractical and over-ambitious nature, your emotional immaturity and vulnerability, your sufferings and the toll it is taking on us here. You’ll realise the impact of your foolishness only when I’m no longer here.’

  I threw myself facedown on the bed. ‘Don’t say that, Appa. I love you!’

  ‘What are you going to do about your accomodation now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I explained the general housing situation in London – the expensive rents, the council taxes, the fees for letting agents, the challenge of squeaking through checks on the rental history of prospective tenants, and everything else that made house-hunting difficult for an international student on a shoestring budget in the middle of an academic year.

  ‘I left the government years ago, dear. Since joining the temple, I’ve lost contact with most of my ex-colleagues,’ Appa said. ‘Even if I make inquiries about whether any of the temple’s hereditary trustees knows someone in London who can take you in temporarily, they will be preoccupied with activities far more important than helping a priest’s daughter find a place to stay in London because she mismanaged her affairs there. You should inquire within your own networks.’

  ‘I understand. I …’ A tight ball of shame clutched my entrails. ‘… I need some money. For a fresh rental deposit and such. And I don’t think the Sawants will refund the 800-pound deposit we wired from India … maybe Sri could talk to them and request them to pay it back.’

  ‘We have too much dignity to approach them for that money especially after what they did to you,’ Appa cut in. ‘We’ll send you more money from your loan account here. You’ve used up nearly 80 percent of it, but you can discuss the details with Sri. I’m leaving for the temple now.’

  Fumes of guilt seeped into the morass of loneliness and despair in my heart. I had let my family down badly. And here I was, selfishly upset with Nimmy’s betrayal – a man I had met just months before. Hadn’t I betrayed my family? Nimmy’s betrayal was my karma.

  Ritchie was probably the only rock in this tempest. I yearned for him now, but I was too spent to call him to my side. I lay in bed and waited for ages, willing Ritchie to check in on me – but to no avail. In spite of the abuse my lachrymal glands had seen all evening, fresh tears crisscrossed my face until I curled into a foetal position and drifted off. I must have been out cold for hours when I felt a caress on my face and a pair of strong, gentle hands stroking my hair. Through a film of hazy consciousness, I saw Ritchie gazing down at me with unspoken fondness. That sublime moment was fleeting. The lights in the room turned off and the door closed with a gentle thud. I was alone once again. But this time, the darkness brought with it a faint glimmer of hope.

  23 March

  My mobile phone shrieked from somewhere near me. I smacked a pillow over my ears. then sat up slowly and stretched. My head throbbed as I flipped open my phone.

  ‘Sandy, where the hell are you?’ Nimmy’s frantic voice.

  ‘Hummph,’ I grunted, my voice unidentifiably thick with sleep. And then fragments of last evening’s drama ricocheted off my mind, like a salvo of hailstones bouncing off a frail vineyard roof. ‘Uh, I’m in a friend’s place. He took me in on short notice.’

  ‘How could you sleep over in another man’s house?’ Nimmy snarled.

  I yanked the phone away from my ear, aghast.

  ‘Answer me!’ Nimmy growled.

  ‘What the hell? Are you real?’ I rasped.

  I heard Nimmy swallow. ‘I was so worried. You suddenly vanished. No one at home would say a word. It was as if you never existed.’

  ‘You know what you did. And now, you’re questioning my character because I’m staying over with … I mean, how dare you?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Sandy, please.’ Nimmy begged. ‘I had no idea they would toss you out like that. I’ve spoken to them and sorted things through. Please come back. Give me the address and I’ll fetch you right now.’

  ‘What do you mean “sorted things through”? You just said your family behaved as if I never existed.’

  ‘Well, I’ve tried to make them understand. And …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Nimmy cried. ‘Something came up at work yesterday. I couldn’t leave soon enough.’

  ‘What you did to me wasn’t fair,’ I said through gnashed teeth.

  ‘Oh, Sandy!’ The tone of Nimmy’s voice simulated the whimper of an injured puppy. Something stirred in my being. Suddenly, I wanted to console him, see him, and fly into his arms. Then I reminded myself that this deadly charm of his was what I had fallen for. I wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for him.

  My eyes hardened. ‘I think we’re done here. It’s over. You hear me? It’s fucking over. I don’t care anymore. Don’t call me again. Ever.’

  I hung up and stared at my palms for a wretched moment. The nerve of him! He had hit me and he hadn’t stood by me but he couldn’t bear the possibility that another man could. Or would.

  I freshened up in the bathroom and shuffled outside to find Ritchie at the dining table with his PowerBook. He looked up at me and smiled benignly. ‘You look more like yourself today, San. Please help yourself.’ He made a sweeping arc with his arm. ‘The coffee is there … the cereal boxes are on top of the fridge. There’s a loaf of bread and a couple eggs in the fridge. With butter and jam, if you’d like. There’s the fruit basket there.’ He pointed to a small teakwood dining table in the far corner of the sitting room near the kitchen. ‘And some yoghurt in the fridge. I’m afraid I have only whole milk. It’ll do you some good though … you’re fading away.’

  He paused to take a sip from a cup of coffee that I guessed had grown cold.

  I sank into a chair across him. ‘Why did you call me last evening?’

  ‘I was working on a public service broadcasting paper and I wanted to check something with you,’ he admitted.

  I helped myself to some coffee and a bowl of Cheerios in the kitchen.

  ‘You have a way of somehow seeking me out whenever I’m in trouble,’ I mentioned.

  Ritchie shut down his PowerBook and eyed me intently. ‘What exactly landed you in this mess?’

  I briefly explained the unexpected turn of events last evening. Ritchie remained unfazed when I was finished. ‘Sure, you were foolish, San, but don’t beat yourself up over it,’ he said. ‘One day, you can write a book from these experiences. Or make a film, you know?’

  I stared down at my lap.

  Ritchie shoved his PowerBook into a bag. ‘I need to bounce. Here’s a spare set of keys for you.’ He thrust a piece of cool metal into my palm and sprinted towards the coat-rack. ‘Be careful, San,’ he pleaded as he buttoned his coat. ‘With this turn of events, your life truly could be in danger.’

  I managed to arrange a number of room viewings once it became clear that student housing was beyond my reach. After seeing a single studio flat in Purley that afternoon, my third viewing for the day, I was on a train back to Central London when Sergeant Dennis Wheeler called me.

  ‘Dario De Luca was turned in this morning,’ he informed breathlessly.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘De Luca was trying to flee to New York. He was found at Gatwick airport in the wee hours of dawn today,’ Wheeler said tightly. ‘He’s in our custody now. We’re testing fingerprints and collecting DNA to find out if he was behind the murder of Keisha Douglas and the attempted murder of Charlotte Hale. But right now, we’re not sure if it’s the same person.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, we think there might be an alibi o
r an accomplice involved,’ Wheeler admitted.

  ‘Yes, Inspector Davenport cautioned me,’ I remembered.

  ‘And I’m cautioning you again. We think there are one or more unknown persons lurking around, looking for trouble.’

  I swallowed uneasily. ‘Thanks for the update, Sergeant. Any news on that flash drive? The one with that Bread Breakers’ film I videotaped.’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ Wheeler said. ‘We’ve searched every corner of Ms Douglas’ apartment and office, and poked into her gym locker at Fitness First. No one we’ve spoken to has it either. We’re hoping that changes soon.’

  I submitted my application for the Gregersen International Scholarships that night, grateful that Aiden McLeod and two LSE professors had stepped in to provide references.

  Around 11.00 p.m., I exited the LSE library and strode towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields through Portsmouth Street, a small alleyway near the library building. I was on Sardinia Street, leading to Kingsway, when I heard a scuffle of feet behind me. I turned around. No one was visible in my line of sight. I recalled Sergeant Wheeler’s warning earlier that evening.

  Panic seized me. My weak ‘hello?’ ricocheted back to me in the waves of a faint echo.

  I considered ducking into The Old Curiousity Shop, a shoe-and-cloak depot en-route. But a glance over my shoulder found the shop closed for the day. The steady patter of footsteps behind me resumed. I picked up my pace. I contemplated screaming for attention, but realised I was the only soul on this side of the campus at this hour.

  Instinctively, I moved closer to The Old Curiousity Shop. A tall shadow emerged from behind me. I froze in my tracks and gazed in unrestrained horror.

  12

  Unguarded

  From the illumination of a lamppost overhead, I identified the contours of a rain hat and a long flowing robe with its cape billowing triumphantly in the air. I didn’t dare turn around. I edged back into the campus towards Portugal Street and dialed Sergeant Wheeler from my mobile. My call went through to voicemail. ‘Sergeant!’ I yelped into the answering machine. ‘I’m at LSE. S-someone’s following me. Call me. I’m scared.’