THIRTY-SIX
Istood behind a water vendor opposite the offices of Askari & Co. The owner of the cart was lying on the shaft slung between the huge leaky barrel of water and an emaciated donkey chewing happily into a bag hanging around its neck. I could hear the cart owner’s snores above the din of the street.
It was almost dark and I was clutching a bulky envelope like it was a comfort blanket.
People were leaving Askari, the clerks, the drones. Back to their homes for meat and rice and tea; a beer maybe. Most of them would live somewhere a notch above a chawl and a visit to Kamatipura or Baba Mama’s would be unthinkable. Why was Raj different, what kept him under? Sunil Askari kept him under: his so-called benefactor, the man who held the purse strings for Preeti and kept Raj in squalor as recompense.
Five years ago, I’d met with Sunil Askari here around this time. The end of a working day: He hadn’t wanted his staff to see him with a lowlife like me. He’d been furious, asking why the hell I’d broughtmy mother. She’d insisted on coming, I’d said. It was my father who was dead, but it was her husband.
Anyway, we hadn’t stayed long.
I looked up at the third floor of the crumbling Victorian facade and scanned the windows. There it was. The statue. A bust of Shakespeare. Horrid thing, my mother had said, reminds me of a classroom.
I was waiting for the light to go off. I’d soon know whether Askari was the creature of habit he had claimed to be.
I shifted the envelope to the other hand; it was starting to darken with my sweat. It had the feel of containing something important, something eagerly awaited by the addressee, a sale agreement maybe, or some massively significant forms to sign. Back then, Askari had given me forms to sign, release papers for my father’s body. He had influence, he had explained. Most people had to sign at the morgue, but he could swing it in his office. The forms had upset my mother. Why all the paperwork? she’d asked; he’s dead and that’s it. Just let us go home. Askari had wagged his finger at her, the pedagogue strong in him. Things had to be done properly, he’d said. He shouldn’t have wagged his finger, he really shouldn’t. She hated that. She hated everything when she was on the wings of her little white pills.
And then she had lunged at him, over the desk and at his throat, elegant and deadly in one swift, grief-induced movement. Askari had tipped out of his green leather swivel chair and lain pinned to the floor. Boy, did he know how to swear. My mother didn’t like that either; she was going to choke the curses from him, silence him. I managed to pull her off before she could kill him, though. It was harder than I’d expected; she had the strength and desperation of a wounded animal. My mother had stared at us both for a moment and then run from the room.
The light in Askari’s office was still on, but the statue was gone. Weird. Did he tuck it into bed every night? Tell it a story, read it a sonnet, maybe?
Then the light went out. I looked at my watch and smiled. Six-thirty, almost to the second.
I crossed the street and walked a hundred feet or so away from thefront entrance of Askari & Co. I then turned into a narrow alley and made my way through the sludge until I hit a T-junction into another alley.
The channel was dark, but up ahead a dull light spread across it and glistened against the mold on its outer wall.
I clutched the envelope tight. It didn’t contain a sale agreement or a massively significant form to sign, but that day’sAmerica Dailyretrieved from the wastebasket in my room.
I walked toward the light.
It was an alcove at the rear of Askari, where mail was delivered, where tradesmen had to go, so as not to mess up the reception area and put off clients. It was here that I’d finally tracked down my mother after her dash from Sunil Askari’s office. She had been huddled against the wall, covered in grime and shit from the alley. Silently sobbing, she had offered no resistance when I had lifted her gently to her feet and we had retraced our steps through the building, followed by the scandalized gaze of employees and clients.
Two men sat on stools, smoking and drinking tea. They looked relaxed, the day’s hustle pretty much over.
“Excuse me,” I said.
They stood up.
“I want to deliver this to Raj Shethia, please.”
“You can please do that at the front, sir,” said one of the men.
“The man at the front said I should come here,” I explained.
They both shook their heads, appalled at the indiscretion of the front desk—what could they be thinking? Heads will roll.
“You can leave it with us, sir,” one of them said. “We will ensure it gets to Mr. Shethia.”
“If you don’t mind, I need to hand it to him personally. It’s very important.” I tapped the envelope as if to prove the point.
Both men looked doubtful.
“Call him,” I said. “Tell him Mr. Findlay is here.”
One of the men got up and went inside the building and entered a small booth full of clipboards where a giant black telephone sat solidly on the desk.
I smiled at his companion. “I don’t want to be a nuisance, but could I have a glass of water?”
He eyed me carefully. I needed a trump. “I won’t get another drink until I see Mr. Askari later tonight.”
The man waggled his head and smiled back. “Of course, sir. I will get you one. In a jiffy.”
The power of the name of Askari.
He went inside and disappeared. The other man was still on the phone, facing away from me.
I breathed hard, starting to sweat.
The floor just inside the building was of uneven wooden planks, the kind that would sound like a drum when a shoe hit it. I eased off my loafers, feeling my socks soak up the bilge, like bread in gravy.
I edged into the building and tiptoed as swiftly as I could along the hallway. I didn’t look behind me.
I was inside and no one was screaming,“Hey you.”
The place was quiet and ill-lit. But I guessed there’d still be people about, cleaners and lawyers working late—although with Askari gone, they might not feel the need to hang around. And the guard, of course. However old his Lee Enfield might be, I still didn’t want it stuck in my face.
My goal was the stairwell, the hub of the building. Using the worn map of my memory, I moved carefully along the hallways that I thought would take me there. I became increasingly aware of the silence of the place. I was expecting to hear footsteps, voices. I was ready to parry anyone who emerged from the shadows or from around a corner. I had my half-baked story prepared, rehearsed. But I saw no one, nothing. Not even the office cat or ghost.
Suddenly, I was at the stairwell. I looked around me, listened hard. Still nothing. I went up the old wooden staircase and entered a carpeted hallway, the start of Askari’s domain. I was holding my shoes, still fearful of the clack of leather against wood, and could feel several splinters working their way into the soles of my feet. I put my shoes back on.
Askari’s office was at the end of the hall. I passed a series of closed doors, no light showing from under them; the other partners must’ve left for the day. I patted my pocket. The souvenir penknife I’d bought from the hotel shop was still there. I might need to pry a cabinet open.
The door to the office was ajar and light spilled through it from the street. I could hear the hum of traffic and shouts of traders drift in from the world outside, but still nothing from the building itself.
I looked around the room. There was something wrong. A desk with two phones, the green swivel chair, a gunmetal filing cabinet, and some shelving. A couple of straight-backed chairs for guests. A portrait of a stern and gloomy Askari on the wall, presented by the Law Society of India in gratitude for services blah, blah, blah.
But the shelves were empty, except for a pewter tankard and a ball of elastic bands. The desk was bare, the floor around it clear; none of the usual clutter of the busy lawyer.
I went over to the filing cabinet. The drawers moved freely when I pu
lled them. Empty. Not a blasted thing. The place had been cleared out. Why?
There was no point in hanging around in there.
I walked back to the stairwell and went down to the second floor. I headed toward the open hangar-like space. In the hollow of the counter that ran its length were files; I’d seen one of the girls rummaging among them as Raj led me through the day before. She had pulled out a buff folder, similar to one that Raj had in his hand. I’d start there in my search for traces of the steaming trail of dung that Ketan Securities, Huxtable, and its grubby shareholders must have left in their wake.
I took out my penknife, and felt it slip through my fingers. Shit, the shakes again.
Then I heard theclack, clackof shoe on wood, getting louder, coming my way. Running would echo badly now I had my shoes back on. I looked around me. A door. I tried the handle. Locked. Theclack, clackwas closing in.
An armchair, an old thing, maybe an orphan from a partner’s office. I pulled it away from the wall and crouched behind it, pressing the back of the chair as firmly as possible into me. It felt like a pathetic hiding place. But the light was dim and maybe, just maybe . . .
I saw my penknife lying in the middle of the hallway, a prize to tempt a passerby to stop and wonder and then see a dumb-ass behind a chair looking like a frightened rabbit. It was too late to retrieve it.
The noise was on me. I prayed. For the first time since I was a child, I prayed.
There were two of them. They were running and I couldn’t see them properly. Maybe they were the same two that I’d foiled out back. If so, they’d been drinking something besides tea in the meantime. There was a strong smell of booze. And the smell of something else, something I couldn’t place.
They were excited, chattering and laughing as they ran, their gritty, breathy voices making them sound like euphoric hooligans who had just roughed up a derelict and were making their getaway.
As they passed, one of them kicked the penknife; I heard it skitter across the floor and clatter into the baseboard.
They checked their pace, arrested by the noise. Then one of them got angry and swore at the other. They continued on their way.
I drew a desperate breath as I heard them career down the stairs, two or three steps at a time.
I emerged from the behind the chair, listening, scouting around for my penknife. The guy had given it one hell of a kick; it could have been anywhere.
A pair of double doors led into the open space. It was so different from the day before. Empty of people, an echoing cavern. And hot. I looked up; the ceiling fans were still. Their blades reminded me of the crossbeam frame used to control puppets. I imagined a giant hand manipulating every move of the room’s occupants. And above the hand, the face of Sunil Askari. But it looked like the puppet master had gone home for the night, and taken his puppets with him.
Directly opposite me was a gap in the counter. This was the only route to and from the workstations.
I went through the gap and saw that the counter had sliding doors. A simple sticker announced:AandB.The client files. In alphabetical order. I yanked at one of the doors. Locked. I dismissed the idea of going back to the hallway and looking for my penknife. There was bound to be something on a desk, a letter opener, maybe. I could improvise and, anyway, the door felt flimsy enough.
The letterHwould be my first port of call. About twenty feet away, I reckoned.
I went back through the gap and walked down the outside of the counter.
I sniffed the air. There was definitely a smell, growing stronger, of burning. And now I could see light flicker at the other end of the room.
A plume of flame, capped by a mushroom of smoke, rose to the ceiling.
The two men. Fire-starters. Now I could identify the other smell: lighter fluid, kerosene maybe. In this powder-dry environment of paper and dust, the place would be an inferno in no time.
I vaulted over the counter.GtoK.Somewhere behind this weedy brown strip of plywood was Huxtable. I glanced around for something with which to pry it open, then the obvious hit me: You fool, this place is going to be ashes any minute. The door shuddered as I gave it an almighty kick, but it didn’t budge.
Looking up, I could see the flames tracing a path down the room; they were happy, crackling and roaring as they gathered pace, gorging on the nourishing tinder. The smoke had snaked up the wall and was now spread over almost the whole ceiling. Soon it would reach the other end, come back down again, and then fill the whole room.
I gave the door another kick. A long split appeared. I stuck my fingers in the narrow gap and pulled. The door flew off in a shower of splinters.
I looked inside at the neat rows of hanging files, all labeled. I ran my finger along them. End of theGs, start of theHs. Horrocks, Hosni Industries. Dammit. The end of that cupboard. That meant Huxtable was in the next one.
My throat tickled; the smoke was getting greedy for space. I coughed. An echo? I could have sworn I heard another cough from nearby.
I stood up. There it was again. I walked around a desk next to me. Nothing. Then the next desk. Another cough. I looked down.
A giant red caterpillar, squirming and writhing. And coughing. A human being, trussed in red treasury tape. Mummified in it.
I knelt down and could make out a few coarse hairs poking from the head end of the package. Raj’s mustache. I could hear him groaning. The tape was so tight I was surprised he could breathe.
“Hold still, I’ll get this stuff off you.”
I pulled at the cotton tape and could see soon enough that it was at least three layers deep. I managed to create a small gap around his mouth.
“Thank you, sir, Fin. Sorry.”
The guy was about to be roasted and he was sorry. I scoured the place for some kind of blade. There was nothing.
My penknife. The flames were near, cackling and popping, having a real party. The smoke was getting thick. There would be no time to retrieve the penknife.
I clawed at the treasury tape. Jesus, they’d done a good job. They must have saved this one for an Olympian red tape merchant, the Bureaucrat-in-Chief.
“I’m going to carry you.” At school, I’d been to an open day at the local fire station and had a fireman’s lift performed on me. It was a piece of cake, I reckoned.
“No, Fin, you can’t.”
Oh ye of little . . .
I pulled at him, but he only rose an inch or two. He was held by guy ropes of red tape. Like Gulliver waking in Lilliput. Dozens of lengths of tape stretched taut to the desks and chairs around us, where they ended in fierce knots.
They really wanted Raj to die.
I started on one of the knots. Difficult, but not impossible. It came loose and I went to the next.
“It’s no use,” Raj moaned.
I ignored him. The second knot yielded and I moved on to another.
The flames were virtually on us; I could feel my hair singe, the salty, gritty taste of ash in my mouth and throat.
“Preeti,” Raj said.
“What about her?”
Another knot fell away.
“Will you make sure she’s all right?” Raj sounded desperate.
“No need,” I said. “I’m getting you out of here.” A rivulet of flame was just about touching Raj’s head and I leaped over to try and smotherit with a thick folder of papers. As I swatted the flame, I noticed the label on the file.Huxtable BV.The cardboard was scorched and as I smashed it down on the flames, dozens of sheets of paper densely covered in typescript numbers flew out, hard copy e-mails by the looks of them, but otherwise unintelligible. As they scattered, an updraft caught them and they spontaneously combusted in midair.
Raj moaned again. “It’s hopeless, Fin.”
My eyes followed the ten or so guy ropes that still stayed anchored to the furniture. Around us, a small semicircle of desks and chairs separated us from the wall of orange flame that popped and shrieked, exalting in its liberty, gnashing on the abundant diet of oxygen, dust, and p
aper. Searing heat proclaimed its approach. The flames didn’t have a particular destination—they were about to consume everything.
Raj was right, it was hopeless.
“How do I contact Preeti?” I asked. “You said she only called you.”
He started coughing; I could see phlegm and spittle gather around his lips, staining the tape. “There is the box address,” he managed. “9735. A place called Bayville.”
“I’ll check her out. You have my word.”
He seemed to relax, like he was ready to burn, ready to die. What had this poor bastard done, except to be employed by a cunt?
“Do you think me a bad man?” he asked.
I let the Huxtable file fall to the floor and held his head, feeling my own back start to burn. “No, Raj. You’re a decent man. In a hard place, you’re decent.” People like Raj were the flattened wildlife under the wheels of ambition’s juggernaut; their passing unmourned, almost unnoticed. And unthanked; their contributions and sacrifices submerged in the euphoria enveloping the successes that they helped create: the successes of Askari and those of his clients.
And this was his reward.
“Thank you.” I aimed the word at where I was sure his ear would be. He had to hear me.
“I’m sorry I took you to Baba Mama’s,” he managed, his mouth a grotesque gash in the tape. “They made me. Askari made me, buteven his hand was forced. And do not be afraid that you did something with the young lady. I forbade it, sir. They are dirty girls . . .”
The dynamic of the fire altered, the rush of heat seeming to still for a moment and then switching directions, pulling, pulling like the undertow of a receding wave.
Then the surge. The room revolved as I traveled on the crest of a blast, flung away from Raj’s tethered body.
I found myself lying in a pile of charred papers, my body crooked against the leg of a table. Ten feet from me was a ball of flame with something resembling a large, blackening hot dog at its center.
I turned away.
The smoke thickened into an impenetrable fog. The flames suddenly seemed to be all around me. If I moved the wrong way I’d end up like Raj.
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