BLOOD RED SARI (15 page)

Then she pushed on past, as if desperately scared and eager to get away.

The sounds behind her that erupted were hugely satisfying. She heard accusations and counter-accusations, shouts and abuses, Bengali swear words and English abuses. India shining: the flat global village that God sat on and polished with his bum, as Gunter Grass might have said now if he’d visited the city in this millennium. She kept moving until she was at the end of the coach and walked straight up to the man with the cap, the blue-eyed blonde.

He glanced up in surprise as she approached. He had been briefly distracted by the ruckus, and the skirmishing passengers had blocked his view for the last few metres. She took the last few steps faster than he could respond to, and lashed out with a sideways kick that rammed the bridge of his nose into his brain and sent his head back against the glass of the coach window, where it struck with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted from his nostrils, but his eyes were already blind and he tumbled off his seat and to the floor in a sprawled heap. There was a smear on the window where his head had struck.

She turned and took stock of the chaos she had engendered. The argument had become a full-blown brawl, barely thirty seconds after she had insulted the first group. That was the nice thing about football fans. They were so dependable. Nobody had even noticed her assault of the unfortunate blonde. They were all watching the fracas with muted Bengali interest.

She had timed her move so that the train was already pulling into Phoolbagan. There was nobody waiting by the door and she got off alone, sprinting quickly to the next car and waving her arms wildly. The man in the adjoining car was already on his feet and he saw her and blinked, then ran for the exit. No more pretence, time to step up. She ran the other way, towards the exit, but only until she saw the third man get out of the coach on the other side. She stopped as he turned towards her, his hand slipping into his the side pocket of his jacket, holding something. She pretended to stop, as if afraid of him, and turned back. The other man was coming towards her from that side. They had her boxed in now, and both men had their hands in their pockets, which suggested they had either seen her attack the blonde or were willing to up the ante anyway.

She pretended to back away behind a pillar. There was only a railing this way, and a view of Phoolbagan, which wasn’t much of a vista, especially at this time of night. The lights of Kolkata proper illuminated the view further ahead.

She waited for them to come to her, knowing they would, then sprinted around the pillar, throwing herself feet first at the nearest man. Because she had the package in her hand and didn’t want to put it down even for a second, she could only use her feet. At the sight of her, his hand holding the gun slipped out of his pocket, barrel turning towards her. But it was off by at least an inch or two and she was already landing on his chest, feet first. She hit him with all her 57 kgs, propelled by the flying leap, and felt his ribcage yield as he was thrown back. He went sprawling backwards across the platform, gun flying out of his hand. She didn’t see where it fell, and was already landing on her feet again and somersaulting, knowing that the other man had had more time and a better line of fire. Right enough, she heard the soft burr of an automatic and saw large dimples appear in the side of the metro train, stitching a pattern over the Bank of Japan and other logos. Then she was sprinting, crouched-over, behind another pillar and around it. The man she had drop-kicked continued his slide across the platform, knocking over a few passengers who in turn stumbled and reached out and pulled down a few more people. Someone cried out in Bengali, but she didn’t catch the word.

She looked around. The lighter-skinned African was nowhere in sight. Smart man. She glanced around and saw a man in a suit with a briefcase standing on the ground beside him, gaping at her. He had a Blackberry to his ear and looked north Indian in that clean cut way. She grinned at him. He grinned back instinctively, absurdly. She picked up his briefcase and tossed it around the pillar, then went around the other side.

The African was caught unawares by the briefcase flying at him, firing at it in automatic response. She came around the other side of the pillar, intending to run low and catch him in the abdomen. But he was quick to adapt and the gun turned to blaze out at her, the muzzle flash blinding her for a second and she was certain she had been shot, but somehow she was still moving – and so was he – and they met in a kind of lovers’ embrace, her hand clutching at his abdomen, his gun turning to follow her. She punched him low and hard before spinning around in a ballet-pirouette, trying to avoid the gun barrel following her ominously. He doubled over, going to his knees, the gun dipping low to fire off a round or two into the concrete floor. She spun and came around again, taking hold of his neck from behind in a garrote grip, and wrenched hard, the gun already turning up and over his shoulder again, about to fire, and this time at such close range, he couldn’t miss. She felt his neck snap and the gun hand and everything else going limp. She let him fall to the platform, his forehead thumping the ground hard.

Then something exploded behind her and she started to turn her head, seeing an ad display kiosk struck by an invisible fist. Without completing the turn, she rolled over behind the nearest pillar. More shots followed from the direction of the train and she guessed that the man she had kicked had either found his gun very quickly or had another one handy. He was too far away for her to take at a run and there were no more briefcases to throw at him, so she did the only other thing she could: she went south.

The railing was only a metre-and-a-half high and she vaulted it easily. It was the landing she was worried about. Ten metres to the street, she estimated, give or take a metre. She fell, knowing that if she broke a leg while landing, there would be a bullet in her brain a moment later, shot from above. But as the man once said, it was the only gig in town and she would rather die trying than try dying.

Chi Kou Ri

Red Dog Day

As per Chinese customs and traditions, the third day after the Chinese new year is known as chì kou, directly translated as ‘red mouth’ or, when the symbol for poverty is added, as ‘red dog day’. Chì kou is also called chì gou rì. Chì gou means ‘the God of Blazing Wrath’. It is generally accepted that it is not a good day to socialize or visit your relatives and friends.

Eight

8.1

THIRUVANANTHAPURAM ZOO HAD BEEN
one of Anita’s favourite places to visit as a girl. But despite her numerous visits, she had only come once with Lalima, and they had held hands and walked around for hours and it had been one of those idyllic days that you remember forever. Unlike most zoos in Indian cities, it was a sprawling enclosed space with woodlands, lakes, large patches of lush green lawns that could have done with more frequent mowing, beautiful old museums with Raja Ravi Varma paintings that had scandalously clad women from Puranic epics, gaping at which school kids giggled while their teacher shushed them, and the animals actually looked like they were alive and healthy. Unlike, say, the Mumbai Zoo where she had felt that the beggars on the streets lived better than the animals, and where crowds stood around haranguing and harassing the creatures all day. She tried not to think about that long-lost summer day, but the image of two young girls, innocent of life and with a universe of possibilities ahead of them, refused to be completely dismissed, and around every corner she saw something that reminded her of it. The lawns were much better maintained now, and the general standard of cleanliness and upkeep was impressive. She spent a moment reading a notice that informed her that due to the increased erosion of forests and fauna, the zoo had changed its mission to focus on conservation rather than recreation. The authorities had even displayed a website URL. She limped slowly around, trying to ignore the pain in her toe that even a handful of painkillers hadn’t been able to numb.

The lawyer was over an hour late and looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His hands shook as he greeted Anita at a bench between the giraffe and zebra habitats. ‘Madam, I cannot stay long,’ he said in a quavering voice. He was dressed in a typical lawyer’s black suit, crumpled and creased with sweat patches around the collar and arms. He was thin and short and wore steel-rimmed spectacles, and a faint moustache darkened his already dark upper lip. ‘It is not advisable to be seen with you, ma’am. You are in lot of trouble. Very serious matter.’

She gestured to the bench and sat without waiting for him. ‘Varkala Police?’

‘Yes. There is a full-state alert for you. I am in contact with department. I enquired after you mobile-phoned me.’

‘What are they saying I did?’ she asked casually, watching a group of nuns and novices by the giraffe enclosure. ‘Committed murder?’

‘They say you are a terrorist. Alert is under “counter terrorist” heading. It is serious matter. There are traffic blocks for you.’

She resisted the urge to quip that gee, golly, gosh, she was thrilled to bits to have traffic blocks.
For li’l ole moi? How rad!
Instead she tried to ignore the throbbing in her right toe and said, ‘Lalima Mukucundan hired you?’

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘She was not my regular client. She was referred through an associate. I only undertook one task for her. Payment was made in advance.’

‘In the event of her death, you were to send me a set of documents by courier?’

He shook his head. ‘I do not know what was in the packages. They were already pre-addressed. I only had to hand them to the courier company and send them.’

Anita sat up straighter, careful how she put her weight. ‘Packages, you said. How many were there?’

He frowned. ‘I am not supposed to divulge details. I only agreed to meet with you, madam, because her instructions clarified that if you contacted me, I was to pass on one more item to you personally.’

Anita blinked. ‘What item?’

He glanced around as if checking to see that no giraffes were peeking over the wall to eavesdrop. ‘This.’ He handed her a small, square envelope. It felt empty but was sealed and the neat hand-written letters were in Lalima’s hand.

She slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans, wincing as the movement pulled at her neck muscles. He noticed her wince but didn’t seem particularly interested in her injuries or pain. He was already starting to stand up. She reached out and caught his arm, pulling him down. He sat abruptly and looked dismayed. ‘Madam, I …’

‘How many packages?’ she asked roughly, keeping her voice low. The nuns and novices were drifting past. A pair of the younger ones stared at Anita and the lawyer – Anita’s hand was still clutching the lawyer’s elbow – and one whispered something to her friend who giggled, covering her mouth. Anita waited till they went past, then said quietly, ‘Answer me.’ She squeezed his forearm hard enough to hurt. It was his turn to wince.

He hesitated, then said almost sulkily, ‘Four.’

She nodded but kept her hand on his arm, tight, as if he were a bird that might flit away. ‘You say you don’t know what was in the packages?’

He shook his head. She believed him. That was the point of using a lawyer, to keep the contents confidential. Lalima must have picked him after checking him out. The very fact that he was so scared told her he was honest.

‘I need the names and addresses of the other three recipients.’

He began protesting but she punched him hard in the left kidney. A group of Asian tourists drifted past. She leaned in closer to the lawyer and smiled at them. One of the men smiled back but then noticed the bloodstain on her tee shirt collar and frowned. She waited for them to pass by. The lawyer had doubled over. When he straightened up, with Anita’s help, his eyes were wet. What a fucking sissy.

‘I …’

‘Shut up and write them down now,’ she said harshly. ‘I don’t have time to fuck around. Do it or I’ll tell the police that you’re involved with me and we’re planting bombs across Trivandrum. You’ll spend the next five years trying to explain your innocence.’