Dishonored (32 page)

He embraced his love, encircling her with his arms, with his blood and finally he closed his eyes. The water swirled up around
their bodies, it slowly turned red and Rami was united with Jane for all eternity.

Dr. Hayes watched the small boat in the center of the river as it gently floated downstream. The sun sank low in the sky and
it became difficult to see properly, the whole scene perfused with a glorious golden light. He turned away for a moment as
a shout drifted across the air from the colony and when he turned back the boat had disappeared. He ran down the steep, rocky
slope toward the river, staring at the watery horizon but after several hundred yards he gave up and slumped down on a rock.
It was pointless. He shook his head, put his hand up and gazed out once more. The boat had gone. He watched the moving river
for some time, thinking about Bodi Yadav, thinking about India, then he stood and turned back toward the colony. He was sad
but he was also elated by the power of the love he had witnessed. He would keep his promise to Bodi. No one would ever know
what had happened there, the life and the death would go unregistered and the secret would be kept.

It would be kept until it was ready to be revealed.

1967

Delhi

S
HIVA
R
AI WALKED DOWN THE STEPS OF THE
B
RITISH CONSULATE
offices at the High Commission and toward his waiting car. He nodded to the driver who held the door open for him and
climbed inside. He was tired, weary of the whole business and he laid his head back against the leather seat, closing his
eyes. He had found what he wanted, found Brigadier John Bennet, found where the baby would be, if, and only if it had survived.

“Where to, Shivaji?” The driver looked back at him.

“To my solicitor,” he answered, without opening his eyes. “In the old quarter.” He felt in his top pocket for the papers.
They were all there and he sighed with relief. He had left everything to his cousin, what remained anyway, along with the
debts. Now he had to lodge the papers, put them away, not to be opened until his death. He patted the pocket again, superstitiously.

He was too old to do it, he didn’t have the energy now but his cousin, a greedy, malicious man, he would do it, he would complete
the cycle, finish the job. Shiva was certain of it, that was why he had chosen him. He would do it. Finally.

He opened his eyes and looked out at the wide streets of New Delhi, the monuments, the state buildings and he smiled. It was
the thought that he could the peacefully and respectfully that cheered him. That he could the knowing he had laid the course.

And oh, what a course!

He saw the streets narrow, the buildings increase and the people on the pavements suddenly start to appear as they entered
the old quarter of Delhi. This was his India, old India, the India of honor and dishonor, of justice and revenge. The India
he knew hadn’t died, he had simply laid it to rest until the right time. He had taken care of the future, and he had made
sure, quite, quite sure, that he had buried it in the past.

June 1989

Bombay

J
IMMY
S
TONE WALKED INTO THE EXECUTIVE LOUNGE IN THE
S
EA
R
ock
Hotel and gave his name to the waiter on the door. He was directed to a table and asked to wait—his contact had not arrived
yet. Sitting, he ordered a large gin and tonic, crossed his legs and glanced down at his new shoes, handmade and paid for
by the advance on this deal, crocodile-skin loafers with a gold buckle. He bent and wiped his handkerchief over them, removing
a faint smear on the glossy black surface, then he sat back, smug and content, and looked around the room.

His contact saw Jimmy from the door. He smiled. Jimmy Stone had taken a while to find but seeing him now, the Indian realized
that he was perfect: good-looking, charming, an expert liar and dispensable. He walked forward and joined him at the table.

“Jimmy.”

“Yes, that’s right!” Jimmy stood up, grinned and offered his hand. The Indian shook it briefly, distastefully, then dropped
it, taking a seat. He clicked for the waiter, ordered himself a drink, then placed his briefcase on his lap and took out an
envelope.

“Everything that we discussed is in here,” he said, handing it over. Jimmy took it and went to open it. “Please,” he placed
a restraining hand on Jimmy’s arm. “Open it in private.” Jimmy nodded and, folding it in half, he slipped the envelope inside
the top pocket of his jacket, tailormade in light gray wool, also paid for by the deal.

“So, all I have to do is sign and you get all the bills, is that right?” He smiled and popped a peanut confidently into his
mouth. “Whatever I spend?”

“That is correct.” The Indian glanced away. Stone was an arrogant fool, the worst kind. He looked back. “You must do what
it takes,” he said. “We have complete confidence in you.”

Jimmy continued to smile. “And the final payment?”

“When you return to India, as we agreed.” The Indian stirred the drink that had just been placed in front of him. He held
it up.

“To a successful trip,” he said.

Jimmy clinked his glass against the other man’s. “Yeah,” he answered. “And all that lovely money.”

June 1989

Sussex

John Bennet poured boiling water into two mugs of instant coffee, added milk, then sugar and reached for the biscuit tin in
the cupboard. He laid the biscuits out on a plate and placed all the coffee things onto a tray, leaving it on the side while
he went outside. He walked out of the back door into the garden, down along through the roses, just coming into bloom, and
across to the new potting shed he’d had built next to his old one. He knocked on the door.

“Indi! Coffee’s ready!” He waited. It was drizzling, a damp, chilly, summer day, and he wanted to get back inside. He knocked
again, this time loudly and impatiently. “Indi!”

The door flew open.

“Hi, Gramps!” Indu Bennet stood blocking the door, smudges of dirt on her face, her hands thick with soil. She wiped them
on her jeans and John tutted; he did the laundry.

“What are you doing in there?” he grouched, digging his hands in his pockets. She had become very secretive of late and it
was beginning to annoy him.

Indi smiled. “Nothing.” Then she laughed. “Don’t be such a grump, you’ll know soon enough!” She came out into the drizzle
and hooked her arm through his. “Did I hear the word coffee?”

“Hmmmm.” John peered around her into the shed.

“Grandpa! Don’t!” Indi slammed the door shut. “It’s a surprise! Don’t spoil it for me.” She narrowed her eyes and smiled.
“You’re a wily old bugger sometimes.”

John burst out laughing. “Less of the old, Indu Bennet.” She was outrageous but her energy, her wit and intelligence never
failed to inspire him. “Coffee’s ready inside,” he said. “Come on.” He turned back toward the house and patted Indi’s hand.
“I’m stuck on the crossword,” he remarked as they walked on in. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look at it?”

“Yup, no problem!” Indi was a crossword fiend. “It’s the quick one, is it, Gramps?” And she laughed at the look of horror
that crossed John’s face.

The sitting-room had faded over the years, the colors of the chintz roses were muted, the velvet had paled and worn but the
wood was still highly polished, the rugs in perfect condition, the grate swept and the fire relaid every morning. Caroline
Bennet had been dead ten years and John ran the house with military precision.

As she plumped down into the sofa and put her feet up on the stool, Indi watched John carefully place the tray on the side
table and reach for the biscuit plate, offering it across. He was a good-looking man, her grandfather, he didn’t look his
seventy-two years, he was fit and capable, strong still, with an active life. Indi adored him.

She took a biscuit and crunched, still looking at him, still thinking and absent-mindedly dropped crumbs on the floor. “Sorry.”
She bent to scoop them up.

John shook his head, then smiled. Silently, he handed her a plate.

“Thanks.”

He sat opposite her, crossing his long legs, relaxing back with his coffee. He looked at Indi. “So,” he said, “what are you
going to do with your summer vacation?” He drank, then placed the mug on a mat, on the table at his side. “You have to do
something, Indi, you can’t just sit around in Sussex and waste the opportunity. Once you start your internship you might never
see the light of day again, maybe not for months…” He smiled. “Years perhaps.”

Indi smiled back. She pulled her legs up under her, long and slim, like John’s, like her mother’s and nursed the mug of coffee,
silent for a few minutes. “To be perfectly honest,” she replied, “I don’t know what to do.” She swirled the brown liquid round
and round in the cup. “I’m quite happy here,” she said, glancing up, “I’ve got the choir, the garden.” She grinned. “I’ve
got you, Gramps. What more do I need?”

John said nothing. Indi Bennet was twenty-three years old, she had just passed her medical exam and would start at St. Thomas’s
Hospital in September. For as long as he could remember, she had done nothing but study: science, maths, medicine. She sang
with the Bach Choir in London and she had a passion for roses but that was as far as it went No boyfriends, no rebellions,
no fashion, a pair of precious faded Levi’s and a collection of John’s old shirts, no makeup, no hairstyles, just her crop
of dark brown curls and her clear, honey-colored skin. She had a small circle of close friends, all girls, and she read the
Spectator, Private Eye
and the
British Medical Journal
.

John took up his coffee and finished it before he spoke. He didn’t want to push Indi into anything, he loved her company,
loved having her around, but he worried that she hadn’t seen enough of life, that she was too naïve. He wanted her to go away,
to Florence maybe or Venice, he wanted her to travel Europe, to do something, anything, before she ended up working sixteen
hours a day in an NHS Hospital.

“Had you thought about staying with the Frasers in Tuscany at all, Indi?” A couple from John’s regiment had retired to Italy.
“You know they’d love to have you and you’d be free to do what you wanted; they have a nice studio apartment in their farmhouse
which you could have.” He smiled reassuringly but saw that Indi wasn’t looking at him, she was fingering the petals on a rose
in the bowl behind her.

“Is this the Binton Silver Medal rose?” she asked, turning back.

John sighed heavily. “Yes, Indi,” he said, “you know damn well it is.”

“Lovely perfume.” She rubbed the petal she pulled off between her fingers and then sniffed. “Almost peppery.” She smiled across
at her grandfather. “That’s one of your best I think, Gramps, don’t you?”

John shook his head but he couldn’t help grinning. She was headstrong and fiercely determined but she was never unpleasant,
never rude, she never had been.

“All right, Indi, conversation closed,” he said. “Aunt Clare is coming on Sunday for lunch, perhaps she’ll persuade you.”

Indi pulled a face. The only thing Aunt Clare had ever convinced her of was that shopping was a jungle. She shopped like an
animal stalking its prey. Indi stood and drained her mug.

“Don’t bank on it.” She stepped around the table and leaned down to kiss John’s cheek. “Please don’t worry about me, Grandpa,
I like it here, I always have.”

“I know; that’s why I worry.”

“You’d worry more if I ran around London with a ring through my nose, unemployed and changing boyfriends more often than I
change my knickers.”

“Indu!”

“Well, it’s true!” She smiled. “Count your blessings, Gramps.”

John reached for her hand. “I do,” he said, squeezing it, “I do.”

I
NDI STRETCHED HER HANDS BEHIND HER BACK, TWISTED TO
the right, dipped her shoulder and finally caught hold of the zip. She yanked hard, it gave way and the back of her dress
opened up.

“Jeeze! Thank God for that!” She wriggled out of the sleeves and let it drop to the floor, stepping out of it and bending
to pick it up.

“If you insist on wearing the same dress you’ve worn since you left school, Indi,” her friend Mary said, “it’s hardly surprising
it feels tight.”

“Tight! I can only just reach top C in it!”

Mary smiled and shook her head. “Here.” She took the long black dress and zipped it back up, slipping a hanger inside while
Indi pulled on her jeans and a striped shirt. She threw a big wool jumper over her head and slipped her loafers on, then turned
to Mary and took the dress, stuffing it into a carrier bag.

“You going straight home, Mary?” she asked.

Mary, her dress neatly wrapped in cellophane and hung over her arm, stood watching Indi with exasperation. “Yes, I am,” she
answered. She tutted, then turned toward the coat-rack. How Indu Bennet managed to turn up at concerts with a crumpled dress,
no makeup and hair that had a mind of its own, and get away with it, she had no idea. Mary hung her dress on the rack while
she put on her raincoat, fastened all the buttons and belted it tightly around her waist. She took her dress and again hung
it over her arm, smoothing it as she did so.