Frostbitten: The Complete Series (29 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
A HOPEFUL MORNING

Tarun and his father had more money than their family had ever had. To a lot of people, three thousand dollars didn’t seem like all that much. Sure, it could buy you a nice computer or a television—maybe a new dishwasher or an oven.

But to the Mumbars, getting three thousand dollars was like winning the lottery. They could stretch a dollar in ways most people didn’t think possible.

They never bought anything new, and they never bought anything for the marked price. They haggled every single thing they bought—which was the norm in India, where they came from. But in The West, people found it strange. One time, Tarun’s father, Vish tried to barter with the cashier at the local Walmart. He refused to get out of the line until he got the price down. Even the security they called in couldn’t move the stubborn Indian man. Eventually, they had to call the Walmart manager, and somehow—Vish left the store with an unbeatable bargain.

The Mumbars refused to pay anyone to do work that they were physically capable of doing themselves. Vish refused to pay a mechanic to fix the cheap little car that he bought. Instead, he tinkered with it himself for a week until it ran. It couldn’t go faster than thirty kilometres an hour, but it ran—and he saved one or two hundred dollars doing it himself.

They practically lived off of rice, which was practically free when bought at the right place, with enough bargaining.

All of the things that were on the Mumbars’ back-burner were suddenly coming to fruition. The moment he saw the money, Vish ran to the second hand building materials store and bought a whole car-full of pipes, couplings and elbows. By the end of the day, he’d pulled down half of the drywall in one of the empty suites, and had begun to replace the old plumbing. He had no idea that, in every first world country you needed to get permits, engineer approvals and inspections completed before you could renovate a simple closet—never mind an entire building. He didn’t know—but he also didn’t care. He would never in one thousand years pay someone to walk through his building just to sign some piece of paper. Tarun tried to explain to his father that these kinds of things needed to be approved, but Vish was too stubborn to listen.

Vish was up bright and early that morning, replacing the building’s piping. His handiwork was aesthetically dreadful but it was surprisingly functional.

The sun was finally peeking up over the mountainous horizon, and Kane was returning from his extremely long  and exhausting day. He’d only gotten a single hour of sleep in the past forty-eight hours, and his eyes were heavy. Since he gave Tarun the money, he’d only been home briefly with Brittany. He had no idea of the undertaking Vish had suddenly taken on.

Kane stopped as he walked into the building, noticing the large pile of old pipes and the old insulation, which was likely made from asbestos.

“Tarun, come here!” Vish yelled in Hindi, from within the under-construction suite. “I need you to come hold this while I pour on the cement!”

Tarun, adjusting a tie around the neck of his collared shirt came running down the stairs. “Dad—I can’t! I have my meeting with the college!” he yelled back in Hindi. Then, he noticed the tired Kane looking around the torn up complex. “Oh—Hey Kane,” Tarun said, in English.

“What’s going on?” Kane asked.

The building became suddenly loud with the sound of borrowed bargain power tools.

“Dad is replacing the plumbing!” Tarun yelled over the loud renovation.

“He is?” Kane yelled back.

“Your kindness inspired him. For the first time in years, he’s alive again.”

“I’m glad, but I need to get some sleep, Tarun.”

“Tarun! What are you doing right now? I can’t cement these pipes alone!” Vish yelled in Hindi.

“What’s he saying?” Kane asked.

“He’s asking me for help,” Tarun said. “Dad! I have to go to my meeting! I’ll help you when I’m back!”

“Tarun!” Vish yelled again. He emerged from the suite, black from the old dirty insulation in the walls. He noticed Kane. “Oh—Kane!” he said with excitement. “How are you? On your way to school?”

“Just coming home, actually.”

“Good, good. I wanted to thank you,” Vish started.

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“No, no—I must. Not many people would take the time to do what you did. It makes me so glad to think that someone would go out of their way to get my son a scholarship.”

“A what?” Kane asked.

“Yes,” Tarun said. “You called your friend at the university and got him to consider me for that scholarship.”

Kane looked at Tarun, confused. After a moment, he realized that there was something up—and he was expected to play along.

“Right—It was nothing. A little phone call, that’s all,” Kane said. “I barely remember doing it, it was so menial.”

“Well, it means the world to us. And to be accepted so quickly! I knew that my son was talented, but wow!” Vish said.

Water was leaking out of the suite.

“Dad! The water!” Tarun said.

Vish turned around. “Oh! I have to go!” he yelled as he ran back into the apartment.

Tarun turned to Kane. “About that—If I told my dad that you gave me the money, he wouldn’t have accepted it. He’s a very, very proud man. If he thought he was getting charity, it would destroy him. I hope you understand.”

“It’s fine, Tarun—Really.” Kane turned around to go up to his bed.

“He’s going to totally renovate this place—open up a hotel, just like we had in India—Of course, we’ll let you keep your apartment, Kane.

Kane smiled as Vish revved up a handsaw in the other room.

“I need to go. I’ll see you around,” Tarun said.

“See you.”

Tarun eagerly made his way across town, wearing his best (and only) suit jacket and dress shirt. He took deep, nervous breaths—repeating a mantra silently over and over to try to keep himself calm. “You will do great,” he told himself in Hindi.

He walked past the scene of the latest crime. There were about a dozen people standing behind the police tape, curious to see what had happened. All of the other passers-by, on their way to their morning shifts and their morning classes turned their heads to see what was happening.

Tarun slowed down only for a brief moment, and then continued on his way to his important meeting.

“Hey!” a male voice called out.

Tarun turned towards the call. A police officer was walking towards him, motioning for him to stop.

“Yeah, you,” the officer said.

“Me?” Tarun asked.

“Yes. I need you to come with me.”

“Why?” Tarun asked.

“I need to ask you some questions.” The officer took Tarun aside while all of the curious heads turned to see what was happening.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
SIMPLE IGNORANCE

What is it?” Tarun asked.

“Can I see a piece of identification, please?” the officer asked.

Confused, Tarun reached into his pocket and retrieved his licence. “What is this about, officer?”

The officer didn’t respond as he took the piece of ID and read it. “India—You’re from India?”

“Yes.”

“Are you visiting?”

“I’m a landed immigrant.”

“Can I see your Landing Paper?”

“Um—Yeah, hold on.” Tarun didn’t generally carry around his Landing Paper, but thankfully, he figured he might need it for his meeting with the college administration. There was no law saying that he needed to carry it around—he was, after all, an official Canadian citizen, thanks to the work of the Walker family years back. He handed the cop his papers.

“What are you doing in Canada?”

“I live here.”

“No kidding,” the officer said with a tone of cruel sarcasm. “Why here—why Snowbrooke?”

“It’s—It’s just where my family moved.”

The officer stared at Tarun, trying to intimidate him.

“I’m sorry officer, but I’m in a bit of a rush. I have an important meeting at the university.”

“That’s going to have to wait,” the officer replied. “I’m going to need to ask you some questions.”

“Am—Am I a suspect? I’m confused.”

“Did I say that?”

“No—I’m just confused as to why you singled me out.”

“Sir, are you accusing me of something right now?”

“No, of course not. I—I’m just confused.”

The officer pulled out a little notebook and a pen, and began to take notes.

“Where were you between the hours of 3AM and 6AM?”

“I—I was sleeping until five. Then I helped my father with some housework.”

“What kind of housework?”

Tarun was about to tell him about the renovations, but then stopped when he realized they didn’t have permits. “Just cleaning up an empty suite. He’s a landlord.”

“Cleaning up?  At five in the morning.”

“He’s a morning person.”

“Can your father verify this?”

“Yes.”

“Is the address on this id current?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any criminal record in India, or here in Canada?”

“No—I’ve never broken any law.”

Tarun looked down at the watch on his wrist—the watch he borrowed from his father. His meeting was soon.

“Could you wait right here, please?” the officer asked.

“Sir—I really need to be going.”

“Just wait right here.” The officer walked away and joined another officer near a police cruiser. They spoke for what felt like an eternity, occasionally looking over at Tarun with suspicion.

Tarun’s meeting started in less than five minutes. He was cold and nervous. His hands were starting to shake and his mind was quickly becoming less clear.

Finally, the officer returned. “Tarun, was it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m having a hard time understanding your time-line this morning. You say that your father was doing housework at five in the morning, when you woke up.”

“Yes—That’s right.”

“I just find it strange to be doing housework at five in the morning, when the Strata Property Act Noise By-laws restrict work before seven.”

Tarun was nervous. He thought for a moment. “He was just sweeping up—nothing major.”

“Mr. Mumbar, you know that lying to an officer of the law is a serious offense, right?”

Tarun was nervous—shaking from the cold. “Yes, officer.”

“You also realize that, by visiting the scene of the crime, you can be considered a suspect in a criminal case?”

“What? I—I wasn’t visiting. I was just walking by.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t make these decisions.”

“But you picked me, when there are a dozen other people standing here!”

“What exactly are you accusing me of, sir?” the officer asked.

Since arriving in The West, Tarun had become all too used to being a victim of racial discrimination. A strong character, he tried his best to ignore it, hoping that it would get better as him and his father became more versed in Western culture. But no matter how much effort he put into conforming, the intolerance didn’t end.

It could have been worse though.

In India, there was a lot of animosity towards Pakistanis, as well as prejudice towards the smaller black community. In India, it wasn’t uncommon to hear about victims of racism being beaten up in the streets or worse—murdered. Some intolerant people would throw stones at certain minorities, fully intending to injure them. Having seen it happen first hand for so long, Tarun felt blessed to only have to suffer through the occasional racial comment from the occasional ignorant pig.

But no matter how strong you are, it is always emotionally draining to watch people cross the street just so they don’t have to walk near you, or to be picked out of a crowd, to be “randomly” accused of a murder.

“Sir?” the officer prodded.

“Nothing, officer. I’m just—I’m just late.”

“I’m sure that this is more important that whatever you’re late for.”

“Please officer—I’m just trying to get to a meeting. I didn’t kill anyone.”

The officer stared at Tarun. “How did you know someone was killed?”

“I—I don’t. I just assumed.”

“That’s quite the assumption.”

“There’s six cop cars, and police tape everywhere. Not to mention, the coroner is here.”

The police officer looked down at his notepad and began to scribble in some more notes.

Tarun wanted to scream, but he kept himself composed. He was officially late for his meeting, which didn’t bode well for his hopeful acceptance.

“We’re going to be in touch with you and your family, Mr. Mumbar. I recommend you don’t leave town any time soon.”

Tarun looked into the eyes of the racist pig. “Thank you, officer.”

The cop turned away. Tarun turned around and continued walking towards the university campus. He wanted to run, but he knew that would look suspicious.

Once he was far enough away from the scene, he started to run. His joints were cold and rigid from standing at the police scene for too long, and his blood circulation was practically non-existent. As he ran into the administrations office, he was shaking. His fingers were dark-blue and numb, and he couldn’t feel his nose.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked the cold, tired Tarun.