City of Ghosts (31 page)

‘A proclamation concerning what?'

‘Concerning protests and gatherings of more than four men. They're banned.'

Smith nodded. ‘Good job too, after the other day,' he said.

‘There may be a slight problem, sir,' ventured Rehill.

‘And what's that?'

‘It was read out in Urdu, sir.'

Smith raised his eyebrows in consternation. Urdu was just one of many languages spoken in the city.

‘There were translators with the troops,' added Rehill.

‘Ah, well, that'll help.' Smith smiled at the superintendent – clearly a fine man who could be called upon in time of trouble,
unlike
Miles Irving. ‘What is your assessment of the situation, Rehill?' he asked him.

Rehill shrugged. ‘I've only just returned from Dharamsala.'

‘Yes, yes – how are the two doctors? I take it they didn't give you any trouble?'

‘None at all, sir,' said Rehill. ‘But as far as the city is concerned, I've spoken to some of the men and had a quick scout around and I'm a little worried.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, sir. Since the riots there have been a number of lesser incidents. There is talk of rebellion and I doubt if they'll stop this afternoon's gathering because of the proclamation. The deportation of the doctors has angered people, and news of Gandhi's exclusion is adding to the flames.'

Smith nodded. ‘A city in turmoil . . . And our deputy commissioner has gone home for a nap.'

Once again Rehill held his tongue. It was one thing to agree with Smith about Irving; it was another thing entirely to air that agreement – not about a superior.

‘And the gathering will happen – you're right about that,' added Smith.

‘How do you know, sir, if you'll pardon the question?'

‘No need to apologize, young man,' replied Smith. ‘Let's just say that we have a man on the inside . . .'

‘Yes, sir.' Rehill wondered why Smith would
need
such a man.

Smith sensed his puzzlement. ‘There are many things that help keep our Empire together,' he told him. ‘Sometimes we have to engineer certain . . . er . . .
situations
so that we continue to prosper.'

Rehill nodded but still didn't understand.

‘It's nothing for you to worry about, young man,' added Smith. ‘Just the machinations of the political beast. The Governor is well aware of the situation.'

He went and poured himself a brandy. ‘Go and check on the situation as regards Dyer,' he ordered, ‘and get back to me.'

‘On my way, sir.'

As he left, Rehill wondered what the rest of the day would bring. His sources in the city had warned him that things were balanced on a knife edge; one slip and it would erupt. And the man in charge was not Michael O'Dwyer but General Dyer, not exactly a shrinking
violet when it came to the use of force. No attempt was being made to stop the meeting at Jallianwalla Bagh, neither by Irving nor by Dyer. No police or army patrol had been sent to prevent people from gathering. The only effort to try to avoid further trouble had been the proclamation. And then there was Smith's man on the inside, whatever that meant. It was as if those in charge
wanted
the gathering to happen. Much as he wished he was wrong, Rehill could foresee only one outcome: disaster.

Sohni held onto Gurdial's hand as if it was her life.

‘I don't want you to go,' she told him. ‘Stay here . . .'

Gurdial shook his head. Much as he would have liked to remain in the comfort of Sohni's house, he knew that he had to find Jeevan. ‘I won't be long,' he replied. ‘I'm just going to the orphanage to see if he's been back – or maybe I'll call in on Bissen Singh and ask him if he's seen Jeevan.'

‘You heard what my . . . my mother said,' warned Sohni.

‘I heard,' answered Gurdial, ‘but I still have to go. Please understand.'

‘Not to the gathering –
promise
me,' she insisted.

Gurdial shrugged. ‘I
have
to find him. I won't be able to forgive myself if something happens to him. He is my brother and I can
feel
that something is wrong.'

‘But she warned us not to go.'

‘I'll be fine, I promise,' said Gurdial. ‘You can't get
rid of me that easily. I'll be back before you know it.'

Sohni let out a sigh and then nodded. ‘If you must, then go. But not yet . . .'

Neither of them had ventured out of the house since Heera had left the previous night. Sohni in particular was too full of shock and other emotions. Her eyes had seen everything but they were unwilling to communicate with her mind. Too much had happened; too much had been left unexplained. Her father and stepmother were gone, along with Mohni, and her mother had returned to her. She was no longer a virtual slave; she was now free to follow her own path – all in what seemed like the blink of an eye.

‘I feel cold.'

Gurdial wrapped his arms around her and whispered into her ear. ‘It
will
be all right,' he promised.

‘I can't get it out of my head. Each time I close my eyes it's still there . . .'

Gurdial pulled her closer. ‘Try to stay calm; we are together now, just as we wanted,' he said, his words acting as a soothing balm.

‘I know,' Sohni whispered. ‘I know.'

‘Everything we have always wanted is right here,' he told her, ‘right now. The rest is like a dream; it happened and we will never forget it, but
their
fate was not designed by us . . .'

Sohni nodded. ‘They did it to themselves.'

‘Yes, they did,' said Gurdial.

He stood and held Sohni for another few minutes
before leading her to her bed. He watched as she undressed and lay down. Once she was settled he leaned across and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I will be back before you wake,' he told her.

‘How do you know that I'll sleep?'

Gurdial smiled as he looked into her red and weary eyes. ‘I know,' he said. ‘Dream of beautiful things and forget about the events of last night.'

He stood and watched her as she sank into a deep, deep sleep, occasionally whispering words of love. Only when he was sure that she wouldn't wake up did her leave her side. He had promised her mother that he'd look after her and he wasn't about to break that promise. He walked around the rest of the house, making sure that the windows and doors were shuttered and bolted, then left the house by the kitchen door, locking it behind him.

From somewhere up ahead, out on the street, he could hear people talking. A few whistles sounded in the near distance alongside the
pap-pap
of a car horn. As he reached the street, he saw crowds of people walking towards the Golden Temple complex and, beyond it, Jallianwalla Bagh. It was Vaisakhi, and Sikhs from across the region had come to the city to enjoy the festivities. Only this year, with all the violence of the past days, there was something else in the air: a sense of unease and foreboding. Touching the concealed knife that he'd taken from Sohni's kitchen and tucked into his waistband, Gurdial turned and made his way towards Bissen Singh's.

On his return from another fruitless trip to the post office, Bissen felt a growing unease. Parts of the city were almost deserted, which was strange given that it was the Sikh holy festival of Vaisakhi, and there seemed to be no sign of the military presence he had seen over the previous three days. Here and there he passed people going about their business, and in the more crowded streets all seemed normal. But down the quieter back alleys, things had taken on a funereal feel. He remembered hearing the English talk about the calm before the storm, and the
pheme
that was still running around his system only added to his sense of dread. Something was wrong; he could
feel
it.

He went across the railway line and into the streets around Gole Bagh, hoping to catch the priest at the local
gurdwara
. Bissen had many things on his mind; thoughts that were weighing him down. And his dependence on opiates was drowning him. He knew that he had to get mind and body clean, summon up his courage. Deep inside, he knew that his destiny lay elsewhere. His return to Amritsar had always been a stopgap. Not so much a homecoming as a temporary retreat. There was only one place he wanted to be. Only one person he wanted to be with. Both were a long way away.

The priest sat cross-legged on a straw mat, his royal blue turban sitting high on his head. He asked Bissen if he needed some water.

‘
Nay, gianni-ji
,' replied Bissen, taking in the aroma of rose incense.

‘This woman – is she truly what you want?'

‘Yes.'

Bissen was sitting opposite the priest, his eyes focused on a terracotta-coloured water gourd that sat beside him. Part of him felt foolish for bothering him with his own troubles, and this prevented the soldier from meeting his gaze. Instead he looked at the ripples in the rough clay finish of the gourd.

‘And she is a
goreeh
– an English nurse?'

‘The one who took care of me,' replied Bissen, hearing an insect buzz past his ear. ‘She wrote to me for a while, but then the letters stopped and now I am in despair.'

‘Perhaps her love was not as strong as yours?' suggested the priest.

Bissen shook his head vigorously. ‘There are not many things of which I am sure, but Lillian's love for me is certain—'

‘Is that her name?' asked the priest.

‘Yes,' replied Bissen.

The priest stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. ‘There will be many people coming into the city today,' he said, changing the subject. ‘Vaisakhi will bring them streaming in.'

‘The streets seemed oddly calm this morning.' Bissen didn't comment on the change of subject.

‘Not for long,' replied the priest. ‘And with all the
trouble of the past few weeks . . .'He shook his head sadly, his brow furrowed.

‘There is more trouble coming,' added Bissen. ‘The talk around Amritsar is of rebellion. This Rowlatt Act has upset many people.'

The priest nodded. ‘The riot would not have happened if the two doctors hadn't been sent to Dharamsala.'

The two doctors, Kitchlew and Satyapal, had been deported without trial three days earlier – the spark that had ignited the powder keg.

‘There will be a great deal more bloodshed,' Bissen told the priest.

‘God willing they will show caution,' he replied, more in hope than anything else. The mood on the streets of Amritsar was ugly. Godless even.

‘The weaver told me that Mahatma Gandhi was also barred from entering Punjab,' said Bissen.

‘I heard that too – just when his presence is most required.'

‘I'm not sure that I believe in his methods,' admitted Bissen.

The priest grinned, laughter lines etched deep into his seventy-year-old face. ‘What else would I expect from a soldier?' He chuckled, showing yellowing teeth.

Bissen looked him in the eye for the first time. ‘There is something else that has taken a grip of my mind,' he said.

‘
Pheme
.'

‘But how—?' asked Bissen.

‘From the beads of sweat on your forehead to your sunken cheeks,' the priest told him. ‘Sometimes you look like a ghost.'

‘I don't know what to—' began Bissen.

The priest tried to comfort him. ‘You need say nothing. With your injuries and the nightmares you suffer I am surprised you don't look worse. Like the real addicts who crawl around the seedier districts.'

‘I must get free of it,' said Bissen. ‘I have to go back . . .'

‘To England?' asked the priest.

Bissen nodded, his grey eyes glazing over with longing. ‘To
her
. . .'

Gurdial was sitting on the steps of Bissen's lodging house when he returned. Bissen hadn't seen the boy for a while, but the moment he saw his face he knew something was wrong.

‘What is it this time?' he asked. ‘Is it about Sohni again?'

‘No!' insisted Gurdial, his young face twisted in angst. ‘It's about Jeevan – I think he's going to get into trouble.'

Bissen sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulder. ‘What makes you think that?'

‘I tried to get him to listen but it was no good,' continued Gurdial. ‘He's in danger. I can feel it.'

‘Do you know where he is?' asked Bissen.

Gurdial shrugged and calmed down a little. ‘I have
not seen him for three days,
bhai-ji
– he took off with his new friends.'

‘And you're still worried about them?'

The boy nodded. ‘He is so distant. Always standing in little groups with Pritam Singh and those others.'

The ‘others' were angry young men, recruited by agitators and used to carry out attacks on the British. Bissen had no doubt that Pritam in particular had been centre stage during the riots. There was something missing from inside him – a lack of humanity that showed itself in his cold, dead eyes. It reminded Bissen of some of his fellow soldiers, back in France; those who had grown to love the death they'd been ordered to inflict.

But Bissen had never seen it in one so young. At barely nineteen years of age, Pritam was far from being a war-weary soldier. Nor was he an orphan like Gurdial Raj and Jeevan Singh; motherless young men who yearned to belong, to find new families. Pritam came from a wealthy family – and had no more reason to hate the British than anyone else. In fact he had less: his merchant family had made fortunes out of the increased prices that recession and British taxes had brought. Yet, despite all this, hate seeped through his pores in the way that sweat did with other people. Bissen had smelled it on him.

‘Was Jeevan involved in the riot?' he asked.

‘I think so, but he only
watched
. My friend Bahadhur Khan told me what happened. Jeevan didn't hurt anyone.'