She goes on as if I haven't spoken. "Well, what will it be then?" Sitting down on the settee, she pats the space next to her.
I don't want to be anywhere near her. But I don't have a choice. Steeling myself, I walk over to sit at the other end of the settee, as far as I can be without falling over.
"Come now, you don't have to be afraid of me." Her smile is patient.
But that only makes it worse. Kindness from strangers is not something I trust. My heartbeat goes up a notch and I swallow down my nervousness.
"What do I have to do? You didn't call me all the way from Oxford for tea, did you?"
Just then, the same skinny boy walks in to place two cups of steaming tea on the table in front of us.
"Why, you read my mind." She smiles, but the sarcasm dripping off the words steadies me somewhat. She didn't like my earlier statement and now I have irritated her more. At least it shows she is human. I hope.
She picks up her cup and to my surprise pours the steaming liquid onto the saucer, drinking it from there as it cools. Without arguing, I pick up mine and sip, cringing at its sugary taste.
"You do me a favour," she pauses between sips, "and your mother and sister will be safe."
Anger wells up inside me, making me choke on the sweetened liquid in my mouth. Setting down my cup and saucer, I walk back to the balcony. If I jumped over the parapet, my nightmare would be over.
Turning to her, I ask, "What do you want from me?"
"Why, I want you to follow in your father's footsteps, of course."
I start.
"You knew my father?" I ask, the words falling out like ice cubes through my lips gone numb.
"Why of course. By the end we were very good friends …"
It's something in the way she says it, a wistful look that flits over her face.
"You were lovers," I say in a flat voice. It's true. I know it even before she nods. It doesn't surprise me. Why should it? Every turn in my life is marked with the milestones of Dad's affairs.
"Is that what they are calling it nowadays?" She lets the saucer fall back on the table with a clatter. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. But it doesn't really matter what we were to each other. What's important is that you do as you are told. And I'll keep your family safe."
I want to throw the cup at her face. Instead, I mirror her actions and place it down on the table. My actions are slow, quiet methodical.
"So what do you want me to do?" I repeat.
"Join the police … Force One to be precise."
"Force One?"
"A specialised counter-terrorism squad set up to protect Bombay." She obliges me with an answer.
"Counter-terrorism—?"
She shakes her head at that. "You've been gone—what—five years? Haven't you been keeping track of what's been happening in the city during that time?"
"You mean the 26/11 attacks …" Dad, too, was on the trail of terrorists who were plotting to blow up the city. Is all this connected then? How is this woman linked to 26/11 and to Dad? Beyond being his lover.
She nods. "This is the half-baked response of the police force to that threat. They took their own sweet time about it too … Just a few years. Still, they are among the smartest cops in the force. And you—" She slides closer and a whiff of that jasmine spiced with something stale—coconut oil—slides over me like a clammy hand. I don't realize I have leaned back as far as the sofa's armrest will allow, not till she puts out her hand and, grabbing my shirtfront, pulls me close. "—You are going to join them."
I am close enough to see the tiny wrinkles fanning out from the edges of her eyes. Her complexion is smooth … Her eyes are dark, glittering black, steely with resolve.
"That's it?" I keep my voice emotionless, flat.
"You get in there, and the first opportunity you get, take out their current head of the force. He's becoming a pain."
"And is that what you do? Kill cops?"
"Not always, he is only the second."
I don't want to know who the first one was. And then I look at her up-close, into those anger-ravaged eyes. And I know where I have seen her. In the picture from Dad's briefcase. The image that I had pushed right back to a corner of my mind, comes tumbling out. It's her all right. I don't want to believe it. It can't be. For, if she is the same woman from those pictures, it means … it means she knew Vishal when he was a little boy. She’s not his mother, no I am sure the blonde woman in the other picture was Vishal’s mother. So, how is she connected to Dad and to Vishal?
I want to punch her in the face, demand an explanation for everything that has happened. I want to ask her if she knows what happened to Dad. Instead, I draw back into myself, pulling my emotions into a cricket ball that I can bat right out of the stadium. Out of sight. I school my face into pools of frozen calm, praying she doesn't see how much I know.
Apparently I succeed, for she goes on, "And it's only because he is too clever and honest. You understand?" She's trying to justify herself and I don't understand why. It's not like I have a choice in this matter. "He's getting too close to uncovering my plans. And I have invested too much of my life in this now to let him get away with it."
"What plans?"
She slides her palm inside my shirt. Her hands touch my skin and I shrivel inside. "All in good time."
"And if I don't do as you say?"
She circles my throat with her other hand, her hold surprisingly strong. "Well, then you'll never see your mother and sister again."
"Where are they now? I need to know they are safe." I almost succeed in keeping the trembling out of my voice.
She leans close, and before I know what she is doing she brushes her lips over mine. My stomach curdles and I feel the bile rush up. I swallow and try to keep my features schooled into straight lines.
She gets to her feet and gestures to the phone in my shirt pocket. "Call them."
With trembling hands I dial them and almost cry with relief when Mum answers the phone. "Mum!"
"Vik?"
I feel like I am five years old again. "You okay, Ma?" I ask.
"Yes, why, where are you? Are you in Bombay?"
"Yes, I am. I'll explain later. You just stay home. Stay safe."
I rise to my feet. "You stay home, Mum, lock the doors. Do you hear?" I disconnect and turn to her. Anger begins to slow boil inside, bringing a bitter cold taste to my mouth.
"So handsome you are," she says, "just like your father."
"Don't talk about him." I bite out the words, try to hang onto my control.
"Ah! We'll save that for another day, shall we? Well then, go on. Run back to your family. But remember, I will be keeping my eyes on you."
I leave knowing nothing in my life will ever be the same again. Nothing prepares me for everything I love being taken.
33
Age 22
THREE MONTHS LATER.
I loathe this chief drill instructor, or whatever the fuck he is called. Passing the entrance exams to the Police Service had been a cake walk; I’d done it with distinction of course. Had been good enough to be among the top 1% of the entrants. In fact I’d stood out enough to catch the eye of the selectors of Force One. And now all I have to do is get through the training course.
So it’s back to classes during the day: training in special laws, criminology, and other special talents the force deems necessary to create a well rounded cop (ha! - what an oxymoron!) You only had to have known my father to realize that the concept of a well rounded cop is notional. It doesn’t really exist. The curriculum itself is quite interesting, fascinating actually. I do want to find out all about how the criminal mind works, their motivations, understanding why they do what they do. In particular it’s the subcultural theory in criminology which fascinates me. This theory tries to explain 'Why small cultural groups break away from the mainstream to form their own values and meanings about life.' It’s exactly what she is trying to do. Form her own army, her own tribe of kids who believe in her p
hilosophy. So, I am determined to read up everything about it. Perhaps it’ll help me get inside her head. So the classes have their use after all. No problem with that. It’s just it doesn’t end there. I also need to get through the physical training before I qualify and that’s proving to be a bitch.
Besides this bloody course is going to last for almost a year. Another eleven months. Fuck! ANOTHER ELEVEN MONTHS during which that maniac has my family in Bombay under ransom. She has them right in front of her. Literally. Given that the current apartment she is living is around the corner from my apartment. Talk about being neighbourly. No love lost there.
"Roy!"
Fuck! It’s the drill instructor. For someone used to be seen as pretty smart almost at the top of class in academics all the way through, it’s a shock on many levels to realize I am not that good when it comes to physical training.
"Dreaming again Roy?"
"Uh! No Sir. I mean Yes sir." I feel my cheeks grow red as the rest of the class sniggers.
"Drop down then Roy. Give me Twenty"
"But … Sir!"
"Thirty."
"I wasn’t—"
"Forty."
"But—"
"Another word and it will be a hundred Roy."
Fuck . Fuck. Fuck.
"What was that Roy?"
Nope. Nothing. Silently, I drop to my hands and feet and push up.
One: Fuck
Two: Fuckity
Three: Fuck
Four: Her.
Five: Must
Six: Kill
Seven: Her.
Eight: How
Nine: The
Ten: Fuck
Eleven: Do
Twelve: I Kill
Thirteen: Her
Fourteen: Anyway?
Fifteen: Not When
Sixteen: she watches them
Seventeen: day and night
Eighteen: as they go
Nineteen: about their
Twenty : lives.
Twenty-One :She’ll
Twenty-Two: likely
Twenty-Three: have
Twenty-Four: given
Twenty-Five: her gang
Twenty-Six: orders
Twenty Seven: to kill
Twenty Eight : them, if
Twenty Nine: something
Thirty: happens to
Thirty One: her.
Thirty Two : So now
Thirty Three: all I can
Thirty Four: do is
Thirty Five: button this.
Thirty Six: Chin up,
Thirty Seven: mouth shut,
Thirty Eight: bottle it in,
Thirty Nine: get through,
Forty: this bloody course.
I collapse on the muddy ground still wet from the last monsoon shower and let the cool moisture soak into my heated skin.
A month ago I couldn’t get past ten push ups. Now I’m managing to hit forty. That’s progress at least. I suppose I should feel happy about it. It does have its fringe benefits this punishing physical regime. I now have muscles where I didn’t have any before. My biceps are thickening, leg muscles getting more defined, I’ve even lost weight on my cheekbones. I’d looked in the mirror that morning and seen a stranger. Can’t recognize myself with this crew-cut; hair’s cut so close to my scalp I can see the skin peek through.
Footsteps march up to me, then a voice from somewhere above me goes, "Roy? If you’re done daydreaming—"
I sigh inwardly, and drop my head down just for a second, letting my nose smell the deep-incense like fragrance of the earth. Then jump up to my feet, and look down at the instructor. Chest—to—chest my six feet two inches tower over his five feet something height. I’m broader than him too. Already my shoulders are widening, my chest muscles too getting bigger so none of my previous shirts fit. Without acknowledging him, I set off at a run following the rest of my team as they run ahead. Another ten laps around the football field to go before I can head home.
From a dorm to a bunk house. Not much has changed. Everything has changed.
Most mornings the alarm goes off at 5 am, and then it’s early breakfast and off again on the morning drill. Today is Sunday so even though my eyes snap open at 5 am, I force myself to shut my eyes and sleep in. I snuggle into my bed only to have the covers pulled off. The next thing I know, I’m being pushed out of bed and onto the floor, my head banging painfully against the ground.
What the—?
"So! You the Oxford dude, the nerd who topped the class right?"
There it is again, my blasted background. I’ve prudently kept my past hidden from the rest. I am aware many of my batch mates come from homes where they’d struggle to get two square meals a day, and then there’s me the one with the privileged Oxford education. Funny how the very things you chase in your teens is the stuff you want to leave behind as a grown up. But of course it all had to come out one day … Just, it could have been some other day right? Rubbing the sore spot on my forehead, I sit up crossing my legs. Dressed in just my boxers, am at a disadvantage here. The guy opposite me is fully dressed … as if he’s been planning this for a while. I look up into the face of the well known bully of this batch of recruits. There’s always one of them isn’t there? And then, others appear from their bunks. They crowd around us, sensing a fight. It’s easy entertainment. And, well it’s what you do when you have only one TV set to share among like fifty of yes. Yep. Can’t accuse the system of spoiling us or anything.
I get to my feet and shake my head to clear it. Mr Hulk in front of me cracks his knuckles, then twists his neck this way and that, so the joints in his neck lengthen and pop. Hmm! I am not as strong as him but I am quicker. Before he can take another breath, I kick his legs out from under him, so he falls on the floor with a heavy thud, and jumping onto him I straddle him and punch him once to the side of his face ignoring the shock waves of pain running up my arm. I hit him again, and again, before he flings me off with a roar. I slide off him as if a wingless insect and across the floor, skidding all the way till I hit the wall opposite with a resounding thud that rattles my bones. My head is flung back against the wall and I feel the world darken around the edges. And then he’s there in front of me raising his fist and is about to hit me, when a shot goes off.
34
Age 22
I freeze, and so does the man in front of me. Awareness comes into the Hulk aka Neil’s eyes the same time as mine. The silence around us is eerie … and deafening at the same time. The TV from the recreational room spews forth the endless, high pitched monotone of the news reader. It’s the only sound we can hear, other than the cawing of the ever-present crows outside. Then another shot has both of us dropping to the ground.
Neil crawls across to me, and mirroring my posture sits with his back to the wall. In a few seconds we’ve gone from adversaries to comrades in arms. I am realizing there’s more to being part of the force than meets the eye. Perhaps being united for a common cause, for the larger good, really does give you a feel-good high. When you stand shoulder to shoulder with your team-mates, it makes you feel as if the power of your self is amplified many times.
"What can it be?" He whispers.
I shake my head and put a finger to my lips. Around me the other recruits have dropped to the floor, all in various stages of undress, but with eyes wary, most hugging the wall or the floor.
I hear the staccato of shots being fired, followed by yells and howls of pain. Then, the sound of something being smashed and everything goes quiet. The TV no longer chatters. I look to the open door. The recreation room is down at the end of the corridor. The sounds of shots get closer. Without giving myself a chance to think I make a run for the door slam it shut, lock it and it’s as if that’s a signal to the rest of the men to jump to their feet. Without a word, the ten of us scram to our bunks, pull on trousers and shoes.We get our hands on whatever weapon we can find. No guns, none of us have guns. So I grab my cricket bat. (As if that’s going to make a difference
?)
Around me the others too are grabbing cricket bats and hockey sticks. Neil grabs an iron rod. An iron rod? Where did he get that from? We drop to the floor, crouch and wait.
Should I hide under the bed? Nope, no way. Like, that is going to help.
And then a crash as the door is broken down, hacked by what looks like an axe till it’s in pieces on the floor and through it step through two men. One holding a machine gun, the other wielding an axe which he drops to the floor and instead grabs the gun slung over his back. They are both wearing balaclavas, so we can’t see their features. Of medium height, they are muscular and dressed all in black: Black jeans and sweatshirts, their hair covered by the hoods. Their backs are to the door. They point their guns at us, signalling to us to put our hands up. I hesitate, not looking around but sense that the others too are not sure what to do. The first gunman points his gun at the nearest recruit … a boy just out of his teens and shoots him in the head.
There is a collective gasp from the room. A chill runs through me. Who are they? How did they break through the security measures of the force base? And then they are foolish enough to barge right into the heart of the training facilities of the force and shoot its cadets? Why? Why would they do that? The gunmen gesture to us and this time we follow their orders. We walk to the wall at the back of the bunkhouse and line up, hands on our heads, staring ahead.
An alarm rings out then. Finally! It’s been almost ten minutes since the shooting started. Still, the reinforcements should be here soon. Now all we need to do is keep these gun men distracted enough so they don’t kill us. As if reading my mind, the guy who’d shot the young recruit moves forward, his gun trained on us. I draw in a breath and hold it. The sweat trickles down my back. My heart is racing so fast I am sure if I look down I can see it leaping out of my chest. The gunman passes me, walks to the end of the line; then back to the middle where I am.
"You have no idea what this is about do you?" He asks.
He sounds young, as if he is barely a man himself. And something in his voice … muffled as it is, it sounds familiar. A faint recollection grabs the edge of my mind, And then I forget everything because he leans close to Neil who is next to me, and smashes the butt of his gun into his stomach. Neil falls to the ground, moaning, holding his middle. I firm up my stomach muscles. I know I am next, I must be. I want to squeeze my eyes shut, but don’t. The gunman leans to the other side, and shoots another man in the head.
Chosen: Vik's origin story (Many Lives Prequel Book 2) Page 13