This chap collapses without a cry. What the fuck? I want to jump him right then, but that would be really stupid of me. I am not going to help anyone if I get killed will I? There are six of us left in the room now. One of the younger recruits lets out a sob, at which gunman no 2 holds his gun at him, so he shuts up immediately.
The gunman asks me, "Where are the plans?’
"What are you talking about?" I reply, trying to stay calm, struggling not to show how scared I am inside.
He only grins and in response, and without taking his eyes off me, holds his gun up and I know what what he is going to do and I scream. "No!" But it’s too late. This time he’s shot two more guys in succession. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. These guys are desperate, or crazy or both. Neil stirs on the ground next to me.
The gunman takes a deep breathe, as if trying to calm himself and says, "Don’t pretend to be dumb. If you don’t get me the blue prints of the security arrangements being planned by the force for Bombay; the one that you and your team mates are being trained for, then all the rest of you die too."
Only six of us left now. Four young lives, gone just like that. I feel sick. What the fuck are these guys upto? And … and how do they know about the plans? This is top secret. The only reason I know about it, is because I’ve overheard the training officer speaking with the ACP about it on the phone last week. And only because I happened to be waiting outside his room then. And how does this gunman even know that I know the details?
My head begins to whirl trying to piece this together.
If they want to know about the new security arrangements, then likely they want to intercept it. But if they do that, it will be clear that there is a security breach and all that we’d do is change the arrangements. Unless… unless they plan to kill us all, once they get the information. It’s all the impetus I need. Without waiting a second I hurl myself at the man, using the surprise to slam his gun up, grab it from him and smash the butt in his face. Behind him the other guy raises his gun, but Neil pushes back from the floor like a human catapult and head butts him in the stomach. The man goes down firing shots in the air, one of which bounces off the wall and hits the remaining cadets on the far end. One of the other recruits takes a flying leap towards me trying to help me hold the gunman down. I scream out in fear, in pain, in warning; but already the gun is firing and this cadet too is hit.
I struggle with the gunman and am aware of Neil being hit in the face again and again, by the balaclava clad guy he’s jumped. My phone, hidden below my pillow rings out. It cuts through the sounds of the struggle. Then, suddenly the two gunmen jump up, let us go and we are free. The first gunman nods to my phone. I walk toward it pick it up and my instinct warns me about what is going to happen. No. No. No. It can’t be her. There is a missed call from an unknown number … and a message. Don’t open it, don’t. I read the message which says,
What the fuck? I slam my phone on the ground and look up in time to see both gunmen flee. Chest heaving, the sweat pours down my forehead, down my shoulders, over my back; blood thudding in my ears I look to Neil, who is sprawled on the floor. Around me some of the wounded stir. The first boy who was shot moans, then pushes himself up and blinks.
"Wha-what happened?"
I run to him, drop down and rip apart his shirt to see the wound. Air bullets. Fake bullets. They hurt like a bitch but don’t kill. What was this? A hoax? A joke? Her kind of joke?
Behind me Neil’s voice rings out in surprise. "What the fuck was that all about?"
I sit back on my heels. I know who’s behind this. She’s putting me through the paces that’s clear. Making me a soldier. She’s toughening me up, preparing me. But for what?
It will be many months before the full extent of her plan becomes clear. But only when it’s too late do I get the full picture. Timing. Yes it’s always going to be my problem.
35
Age 23
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER.
It's the—are you kidding? Are you serious? Are you like completely off your rocker?—kind of look which finally does it. I spring to my feet and am halfway across the airless little cubbyhole before I stop. I force myself to turn. I look across the rat-hole of a space, for what passes for the office of the head of Force One. The middle-aged man behind the desk at the far end, the current occupier of that position, has his head buried in the palms of his hands. Chest heaving, his little belly ripples over the belt that he has squeezed around his middle. He lowers his hand to wipe the tears streaming down his pink, fleshy cheeks. Is he crying?
My eyebrows point down towards my nose. I squint through the wormhole of his office, through the dust motes dancing in the twin rays of sunlight, shining through scum-colored windowpanes. What is he up to?
The man looks at me. His Adam's apple dances as he swallows hard, before folding his arms over his paunch.
It is as if, looking at me suspended there, between the door and the desk, sets him off again. With a thump he slams the palms of his hand on the decrepit, teacup-ringed stained table, and this time he does not bother to disguise the full-bellied laughter that rips through from him louder than a fart.
What the fuck? He's laughing at me.
So, here I am regaling the head of the squad that had been cobbled together as a response to the 2008 Bombay terror attacks. Tellingly, just two days short of the first anniversary of the bomb attacks, the bureaucracy had hauled ass and finally gets its act together. No doubt someone higher up in the ranks realized they had to be seen to be doing something about the incident. Years later, the police are still scrambling. They're still trying to get a blueprint together to protect the city. It's into this system, one which doesn't know its head from its arse, that I am volunteering myself for duty.
Me. Former captain of the Oxfordshire County Cricket Club. The one who till a few months ago had lived the life of a normal student. An almost normal life
Now, here I am, in my worst nightmare come true. Back in the home country and at the mercy of its bureaucracy. Knocking on the doors of the Indian Police Service, asking to enrol.
It's ironic that they are headquartered in this imposing Anglo-Gothic building. I may have left Britain behind, but the long hand of the Raj has followed me here. Here I am then, at the meeting point of where my past meets my future, begging them to take me on as a recruit. Pleading with them to take me in so I can become Dr B's scapegoat.
I almost want to fail, so I don't have to do as she commands. But I cannot give up, not now. I don't matter anymore. I am here to save my family, perhaps even my country. And for that I have to swallow the bitterness surrounding me. I will have to drown in this mirage of my making; so I can wake up in a world that is truer, cleaner, one without her in it.
Only brave fools and patriots—like my father—tread the path I am about to go on. But, I am not my father. I never was. And what I am going to do is going to take me down a path of no return.
I stand ramrod straight, in my ancient blue Levis, shuffling my feet clad in faded leather moccasins, which are already wilting after a few days of the searing-through-your-soul Bombay heat. Mirroring the other man's gesture, I fold my arms over my stomach, and almost sneer in satisfaction at the muscles I feel under my skin. It's in stark contrast to the out-of-shape silhouette of my prospective superior. Faint consolation, but I'll take what I get just now.
The sweat runs down my back and I try to ignore my white cotton shirt, which is sticking to my back, lover-like. It brings to mind the embrace of soft arms, palms smelling of lilies, of the moist-green countryside I had walked through with my lover just a week ago. I let it rush over me, breathing in deeply of its comfort before I shove it aside, and watch … as those dreams crash to the floor between the now-silent man and me. He points to my just-vacated seat with his eyes. I walk towards him, standing on the other side of the table, but don't sit.
My wounded pride has shoved a stick up my backside, re
fusing to let me bend. I stay fixed to the spot.
"So you want to join us?" His gravelly, cigarette-smoke-hurt voice scrapes over my skin, making the hair on my forearms stand on edge.
"I want to join Force One." I refuse to give into the impulse to salute in response to the authority in his statement.
"Why?"
Such a simple question. One word. Three letters.
Why?
Why are you offering yourself up as a fall guy?
"I want to protect Bombay." I say it slowly, as if meaning every word. Inside I want to catch the sounds even as they fall from my lips. If I could, I would have taken them all back, turned back the clock, gone back to a year ago, to change the course of my life.
But I can't. So I am here.
And so is this stuffed-shirt bureaucrat, a cop gone to seed. One who I have to convince of my intent. Just enough to get him near enough to me. Just a few steps closer. I look around the room, making sure once more there are no security cameras in the room. I can't see any.
"Mumbai," he says.
"What?" My voice comes out in a forlorn bark which bounces off the walls of the room.
"It's Mumbai," he repeats, a smile threading through the words. "You people who spend time outside the country, you'll have a perverted sense of nostalgia. You insist on calling this city by a name which does not exist anymore. Bombay doesn't exist anymore. It's a mythical city, consigned to the dreams of the cosmos … to nothingness."
Like I will be. Swallowed up in the depths of the monster whose belly I am asking permission to enter. The thought makes me clench my jaw till it hurts; my throat closes up. The band around my chest tightens till I can hardly breathe.
Avoiding eye contact, I say, "Bombay."
My voice comes out thin but firm. Convincing. It should because I mean it. All I can do is cling to the remnants of a dream, whose fragments tear at my conscience.
"It's Bombay," I insist, stretching to my full six-feet-two-inch height. Not for the first time I am thankful to have the weight of my physical presence behind me.
He gets to his feet and walks around the table to stand in front of me. Upright, he looks very different from the overweight public servant who had cowered behind the wall of his desk.
Standing up, the folds of skin stretch and disappear miraculously. The belt around his gut is now stretched, not by a roll of fat, but by the weight of his holstered gun hanging casually at his side. He meets my gaze eye-to-eye, for he is almost as tall as me.
"Suit yourself." He shrugs. "Mumbai or Bombay, the city by any name smells as bad." He throws back his head and laughs at his own joke.
He is at arm's length now. Close enough. The ball of tension I had not been aware of, between my shoulder blades, loosens in response to the shared mirth, and my shoulders sag in relief.
"What's your name again, young man?"
Young …? I have aged a million years in the last week.
"Vikram," I say aloud. "Vikram Roy."
"Okay, Roy. You have some great credentials, as you are well aware. And it's not every day—" His eyes light up with a wicked glint, making them appear almost catlike. I blink. This chap's more intelligent than I gave him credit for. Unbidden, I recall the results of a test for hidden bias, taken at Oxford … Turns out I am biased … towards my elders. Apparently, the older they are, the less respect I have for them; for they are, after all, out-dated, past their sell-by date. Big fucking deal. I could have told them that for free. Still, it had rankled—this problem of mine with authority and experience, as the assessor had clearly pointed out.
"—It's not every day that a student from Oxford—much less one with your talents and abilities joins the force—"
I wait for him to make the inevitable comment about my graduating so early and asking if I was just a little too smart or something to that effect … and I am both surprised and grateful when he just moves on.
"—You may be running away from something … or someone … a broken heart perhaps." He puts up his hand to stop me when I start to protest. "Honestly, I don't care for explanations."
That shuts me up. Not that I care to explain myself. I have other things on my mind just now. Like how to finish the job I have come here to do and get the hell out of this place.
"You have your reasons." He shrugs. "Keep them to yourself. It's just another sob story lost in the vortex of pain this city attracts. And while we do need good recruits."
His eyes scan down the length of my body, and in that subtle gesture he acknowledges my youth, my superior physical prowess. Clapping his palm on my shoulder he continues, "You may have made it through entrance exams of the police force, but you still need to apply and get picked for Force—"
His features meld into a look of surprise as the gun recoils in my hand. He looks down at the growing blot of red on his chest, over his heart. I watch, fascinated, as it increases in size, from the dimensions of a tiny island to a vast continent.
"You … you shot me?"
The words tumble out from between a shower of spittle. Hearing his own voice seems to sap the strength from his legs, which buckle under him. He tumbles towards me and I catch him before he falls on me. Bam! Bam! Bam! My heart slams against my chest. What the fuck have I done? No, don't lose your nerve. Not. Now. You've come this far just see it through. I drag him to his chair and manage to heave him onto it.
Breathless, the pulse hammering in my ears, I place him with his back to the chair. And turn it around so he's facing away from the door. If someone looks in, it would merely seem like he was staring out the window … I hope.
The sweat trickles down my forehead, stinging my eyes. Feeling panic bubble up in me, I take a deep breath and look around the room for something to soak up the blood from the body, to buy me a little more time. Seeing a door leading off the room, I walk into a tiny washroom. Grabbing the towel from the rack, I run back to the man. Balling it, I place it against his chest and fold his arms over it. His hands begin to slip down, even as I rush to the door.
36
Age 23
Pulling out the balaclava from the back pocket of my jeans I slip it on. The irony! A few months ago I was at the receiving end of attack by masked men. Now, I am the one wearing the mask. It’s hot, really hot and I’m breathing so fast it feels like I have run a marathon. Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt, and the blood thunders at my temples. I am sure I am going to be discovered any minute now. My eyes dart around at the security cameras in the corridor and I hope that Dr B's team has come through with jamming them. I resist the urge to run out of there, away from the still-warm corpse.
I walk past cops in the other rooms, to the end of the floor to call for the lift. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Were there security cameras in the lift, and had she said that they would take care of that too? I can't remember. Of course I am masked, my features are hidden, but still I don’t want to risk it. I run down the staircase, taking it two at a time, down five floors, then past the reception and out of the main door.
An alarm sounds behind me and I jerk.
Don't look back.
Don't. Look. Back.
Knees trembling, I force myself to walk … walk one step at a time, through the heat of the midday sun. As I reach the exit, I pull off the balaclava. Stuffing it into the back pocket of my jeans, I step onto the driveway. My instinct is to run out of there and deliberately I slow my steps. Slowly, walk slowly. Stay casual, real casual. That’s it. Keep going. I reach the end of the driveway, out of the gates onto the crowded streets when another alarm goes off behind me. No, no, no. Don’t hurry. Don’t push your feet against the ground and race out of there. Keep walking, one step in front of the other. Don’t look to the sides, don’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead. Around me the crowd of people surge, some of them turning towards the commotion exploding behind me. With a sigh of relief I spot my SUV.
Had I actually made it this far without being discovered? It feels like a dream. I look for the key fob in the
pocket of my jeans … and can't find it.
The sweat trickles down my forehead as the summer heat pours into my cells, trying to blink away the fear that threatens to overwhelm me.
Think, Vikram. Think.
By the time I reach the car, I am still searching the back pockets of my jeans, patting the front pocket of my shirt. But I know already that I will not find it. A man collides with me, and I start in surprise. But he is gone before I can protest. I look around me to find that the crowd has multiplied. They are pushing towards the building I have left behind.
I abandon all pretence of normalcy.
Kicking my way past the man in front of me, I head-butt the next and punch the one after, to clear a path. It's as if the crowd is a single organism. It gives a little and closes in behind me. Like a centipede I inch forward. When I look back, the facade of the imposing building has disappeared out of sight, swallowed by the multitudes who are running up the driveway. Even as I watch, the police finally react, slamming shut the iron gates, and the crowd slam themselves against the bars, like water against a dam.
For once, I am grateful for the idle curiosity of my fellow citizens. I plunge through the crowds ahead, head-butting my way through the last of them, and suddenly I am free. The warm air slaps my face, and the relief of being rid of the human chain weakens my legs. I fall to my hands and knees, crawling the remaining stretch of the road till I reach the pavement. Sitting on it, I let my arms dangle between my knees, blinking away the sweat that stings my eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, I get to my feet and, jumping over the pockmarked surface of the footpath, dart into the alley leading off the road. The sun is cut off by the overhanging balconies of the ramshackle buildings that lean across the alleyway to kiss each other. Water drops patter off my shoulders from the freshly washed laundry hanging overhead, but I pay no attention.
Chosen: Vik's origin story (Many Lives Prequel Book 2) Page 14