Mosquito (14 page)

Then the Chief shook Vikram’s hand warmly again.

‘We shall grind this country to a halt,’ he had said, loudly. ‘We have to let the world see that we mean business. Only then, after we’ve taught them a lesson, will they listen. There will be no aircraft, no runway, no way out! What will they do then, men?’

Having glared at Vikram, he smiled suddenly and reminded him once again of his family, and what had been done to them.

‘Don’t forget that, Vikram, not even for one single moment. It is your duty to avenge their memory.’

He told Vikram he would be listening to the news all day. And if it was a success, it would be Vikram’s doing.

‘There will be plenty of rewards,’ he promised. ‘Plenty, plenty, men.’

Vikram began his countdown, slowly, as the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground. He would wait exactly eight minutes. Eight minutes for it to clear itself of passengers and crew. There would be no time for the baggage trolleys. Anything or anyone still on the tarmac after that had only their karma to blame. The passengers began to disembark. From where he was they were merely a collection of unrecognisable shapes of brightly coloured saris, and the tropical suits of Westerners refusing to believe in warnings. Vikram could not see their faces. He counted silently, staring at his watch, his mind perfectly clear now. He did not look up, he did not see if the small boys had cleared the fence. He could not see Gopal or any of the others. He simply pressed the button.

Turning as he reached the airport doors, hearing the noise, feeling the blast of heat, Theo Samarajeeva saw the plane he had just arrived on become a coffin of flames. There was a shout of warning as another explosion went off. And another, and another. People screamed and begun running towards the building in blind panic. Two more explosions followed. Glass and metal were flying in all directions and smoke poured across the runway. In the chaos no one could tell if it was the airport itself that was burning. The revolving doors became jammed with passengers caught in the rush to escape. As more glass shattered the police appeared and began their stampede on to the tarmac, accompanied by firefighters and ambulance men. The public address system pleaded for calm in English and in Singhalese but there was no calm to be had. A wall of black smoke arose, blotting out the sun, muffling the sounds of the screams of sirens and guns and those who were trapped outside.

He was running through the long grass. Four of them were missing already and Gopal was bleeding. Part of his arm had
been ripped off and now hung limply. A piece of metal was embedded in his leg. He was panting and his face was slowly draining of all colour. Vikram was half dragging and half carrying him but he was a deadweight.

‘Try to walk,’ he said harshly. ‘We’ve got to make it to the trees. Then at least we will be hidden.’

‘I can’t,’ Gopal said faintly. ‘You go.’ He was fumbling in his shirt pocket.

‘It’s not much further. Come on. I’m going to put you on my back.’ Vikram hoisted Gopal up. ‘Put your arm around my neck,’ he said with gritted teeth.

But Gopal struggled against him and slid to the ground. There was the sound of something moving in the bushes. Vikram turned swiftly, cocking his gun, looking around him.

‘Vikram,’ hissed Gerard appearing in front of him on all fours. ‘Get to the trees,’ he said. ‘The army has arrived. They’re everywhere. We’ll have to go south to avoid the roadblocks. Quickly, now!’

Vikram turned back to Gopal. He was struggling with something in his mouth. Before he could reach him, Gerard whispered sharply, ‘Leave him, Vikram! He’s finished. Leave him. Come. Now! Before it’s too late.’

Through the sour odour of explosives and sweat Vikram caught the unmistakable scent of almonds, and in that instant he realised Gopal had bitten into his cyanide capsule. And he saw too that Gerard was running towards the covering of trees.

By the time the army helicopters were hovering over the airport, Vikram was already heading for the east coast of the island. It had not been an easy journey and they had changed vehicles three times in order to avoid being seen.

‘You’ve got me to thank for saving you,’ said Gerard grimly.
‘You bloody sentimental fool! A few more minutes and they’d have spotted you.’

Vikram was silent.

‘They would have strung you up,’ said Gerard. ‘You damn idiot! They would have tortured you and made you talk. And then they would have killed you. D’you realise that?’

Vikram was coughing. The smoke had filled his lungs and he was covered in cuts. The bittersweet smell of almonds seemed everywhere, in his clothes, on his hands, in his mouth. The smell came back to him from some place deep within his past. It was now past midnight. He had been without sleep or food for almost a day. Gopal was dead.

‘At least he had the sense to take his capsule,’ said Gerard pointedly. ‘This had better not get back to the Chief. Although,’ he added, as Vikram continued to say nothing, ‘it was a success in spite of the fact that only you survived. I expect you think you’re immortal, no?’

Laughing in a loud and jerky way, his gestures oddly uncoordinated, Gerard turned the radio on. Again Vikram smelt almonds. The news, in Singhalese, was of nothing else except the airport bombing. The runway was unusable. Any refuelling was out of the question; nothing could take off or enter the country. Those foreigners still on the island would be flown from the army airbase to the Maldives where they would wait for any available international flights. Gerard laughed again and switched channels.

‘See,’ he said proudly. ‘My planning and your operation. We’re quite a team!’

Vikram was searching the radio stations. He ignored Gerard.

‘
In Sri Lanka a series of explosions that set fire to seven aircraft in the international airport of Katunayake has brought the country to a standstill. The Foreign Office has advised against travel within
the region. Tamil separatists have claimed responsibility and the Sri Lankan government has declared a state of emergency
.’

‘So the Chief has made a statement,’ said Gerard. He spoke very quietly. His good mood had evaporated and he clenched his fists. His whole body was tense again. ‘He might have told me,’ he muttered darkly. ‘Who made the tape? Who delivered it, huh? Which ignorant Tamil bastard?’

‘What happens next?’ asked Vikram.

‘We go down south,’ said Gerard shortly. ‘I have a job for you. Only you can do it. And, Vikram,’ Gerard said, ‘it won’t involve guns, I’m afraid. Not yet. You’ll need to lie low for a while. Anyway, I’ve already told the Chief you’re working for me. It’s a waste using you as a foot soldier.’

They were reaching the camp.

‘Get some sleep,’ said Gerard.

‘I need to get Gopal’s things.’

‘What?’ asked Gerard. ‘Oh, they were probably dumped. Did you really believe anyone would come out alive from this operation? Count yourself lucky.’ He paused. ‘You’re working for me from now on,’ he said at last. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours.’

And he stopped the car.

S
HE WAS WAITING FOR
T
HEO ON
the brow of the hill, wearing the red dress that she had first worn on her seventeenth birthday. She looked smaller than he remembered. Her dark hair was loose, and he saw she had been crying. He knew then that she had heard of the bombings on the radio. She had heard it and had not known if he was safe. But he was here now, even though it seemed as though he had been away for years. Suddenly all his tiredness, his anxieties for her safety in his absence, the horror of all he had just seen, and the pity, all of it vanished as he hurried towards her. He could see the house in the distance with the late-afternoon sun, warm and golden on the stone lions, the faded blue gate, the bougainvillea that cascaded over the wall, all exactly as he had left it. The weeks in London, the fuss of the film premiere, the press, none of it was of the slightest significance. The sea swung into view, unchanged and unutterably beautiful, and the day became fixed in this one moment, with the view and the black eyes of the girl, as he came towards her. Why had they worried?

‘I’m home,’ he said tenderly, laughing a little, thinking how
like this place she was, unchanged and so lovely. ‘I told you I would be back, no?’ he said taking her in his arms. ‘So why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘And tomorrow,’ he continued, smiling at her, delighting in the words, ‘tomorrow we will speak to your mother.’

She had begun to cry in earnest then, and he had said nothing. Letting her cry, listening to the sound of the terrible desperation that came of living through a war that had torn apart her family. He said nothing, stroking her hair, thinking of all that she had lost in her short life, and all that she might yet lose, of all the hurt that had come too early, and would now mark her for ever. But she had gone on crying, for how could she tell him, after all the horror he had seen, and her terror that he might have been caught up in it somehow, how could she tell him that her mother had died that morning?

Later, he watched her face, silvery pale in the flight path of the moon. She had not slept properly for weeks, he knew, but now she slept, as trusting as a child. Behind them the sea whispered in the darkness, shimmering like wild silk, and the night returned to him in a series of disconnected moments, with all the rush and touch of unfamiliar love. He could smell the sea as he had kissed the pebble smoothness of her shoulder. So close, they had never been this close. Time had unfolded. The palms of his hands had felt calloused and rough against the hollow of her throat, the lobe of her ear, the corners of her mouth. She kissed him back. She pulled his head down towards her and kissed his mouth. Instinct had kept him still when she touched him; it kept him silent as he watched her shed the last remnants of her childhood. He stroked her back; his hands went on forays of their own, until at last she was naked. They lay on the edge of the moon-white bed and he drew her towards him then, and kissed her breasts and the soft places that had
belonged until now only to her young-girl aloneness. He waited, and only when he saw the knot inside her had eased a little did he enter her, moving as though he were a hummingbird, travelling deeper and deeper into the forest. Further and further he travelled until at last, when he could go no further, when all his longings could no longer be contained, when he had touched her deepest, most secret part, he dissolved within her. The lights were out, the darkness was complete and he could hear the sound of the sea rising out of a new distance. The girl had looked up at him with a grave and beautiful smile as they lay on the crumpled sheets and he saw that from now on he would see himself for ever defined by her eyes.

They slept then. And all the sad, terrible events of the day, the bombs at the airport, the hours sitting by her mother’s bedside, the agony of waiting, her brother’s absence, all these things slept with them. And in this way, serenely and at peace, the night had ebbed away, unnoticed as the sea rocked against the shore. When he woke again Theo knew some rain had fallen. He could smell the fresh green wetness of the garden drifting in through the window. Of such moments was paradise made, he thought, smiling in the darkness. He felt as if he had been travelling for ever, through eternity and through many lives. He thought again of the useless weeks in London, his film, the people he had met, the pointlessness of all of it. He would never leave her again. After her mother’s funeral, they would go to Colombo and he would marry her. Sugi had been relieved when he heard. Rohan and Giulia would be delighted. He would ring them again in the morning. Last night had been too fraught, too frantic. Last night he had thought only of her needs. And of his. Tomorrow would be time enough.

The moon had slipped behind a cloud. He had woken and now he was thirsty. The long flight back had dehydrated him.
Something had woken him, some rustle in the garden. He listened, thinking he had heard the gate creak. There were no lights, the moonlight had moved over the sea and the garden. The house was still. But something had woken Theo. Slowly a thread of awareness uncurled itself with the rapidity of a snake. No one could have entered the garden without the light going on, but he decided to check the veranda anyway; and get a glass of water. Outside, the sea breeze moved uneasily with a soft murmur and suddenly he saw a car headlight, thin and sulphurous, on the road. The light was stationary. Sugi too must have seen it for he was up and had moved to the window.

‘It’s her uncle, Sir,’ he whispered.

Sugi was wide awake and holding a crowbar. How long had he been standing there?

‘He’s been back twice in the night already, while you were asleep. He’s looking for her, I think. We must get her out of here quickly. It’s a very bad thing that he should be here at all.’

‘How long have you been awake?’

‘Most of the night. I was worried they would come looking for her. She should have gone home tonight, Sir. Have you hidden the money in the well?’

‘Yes, don’t worry. I don’t think it’s money he’s after anyway. I’m sorry you were woken, Sugi. Go back to bed. I’ll talk to him.’

‘No, Sir,’ said Sugi sharply, alarmed. ‘You don’t understand. If the uncle has come here it isn’t good. You must not let him see you. With any luck he’ll think there’s no one in.’

But Theo had lived too long by different rules. It had made him foolish. Nothing of what he had ever witnessed had changed that. He had smudged the boundaries between what he saw and what he wanted to see. He had been an exile for so long that it had altered his judgement, leaving him vulnerable in
ways he did not understand. And he had underestimated the nature of things. So he would not listen to Sugi.

‘I will go out,’ he said, ‘I will talk to him. I want to marry Nulani; there is nothing for the man to worry about. I will tell him that. It will make all the difference, you’ll see.’

And all Sugi’s whispered pleadings were of no use. Theo went out, unarmed and hopefully, towards the uncle.

There were others there, Sugi knew. He could hear their voices, the uncle and Theo and then the voice of another man. They were out of Sugi’s field of vision, their voices raised and agitated. Then he heard a sound. In some part of his mind he knew it was the crack of a sharp object as it met bone. He heard a long, hollow scream and a shot, then another shot, and then the sound of a car reversing swiftly up the lane. Standing rooted to the spot, Sugi felt sickness spreading coldly through him, his mind bludgeoned with horror. He heard a voice, whimpering from somewhere nearby, but it was a moment longer before he realised that it was the sound of his own heart, crying.

Sugi bent over the girl. He could see the moonlight on her face as she slept, innocent of what had just occurred. That she was in danger, that she was alone once more. That last night was the last carefree moment of her life; that only minutes before she had held everything she ever wanted. Whoever had brought her the news of her father’s death would have known, thought Sugi, how he felt now. Sleep marked her face like a caress as he shook her awake. Three times in her short life, he thought, his whispers fluttering towards her, confused and urgent. In the distance a train hooted, reaching far into the night, a sound of infinite loneliness, hauntingly sad. Sugi could see she was still half asleep. He could see his words shifting in and out of meaning, elusive and insubstantial. He saw that her sleep-filled
limbs were still disconnected from her mind, that she could not yet be prepared to feel Theo’s absence. Perhaps, he thought, with a feeling of terrible pity, perhaps she never would be prepared. So thought Sugi as he finally shook her awake, seeing also, by the way in which his words fixed in her mind, that she understood in the clearest moment of horror that she would not hear Theo Samarajeeva’s voice again.

The moon, like a searchlight, shone relentlessly over the room. It silhouetted the chair, the corner of the wardrobe mirror and Theo’s shoes. Staring at them in the second before the girl’s despair broke open and he put his hand over her mouth, Sugi remembered also, as though it was an ordinary matter, that her mother had died yesterday. He held the passport Theo had left, and told her swiftly what they must do. They had no time to lose. At any moment the men might return. Sir had wanted her to be taken to Colombo, to safety. He had not wanted her uncle to find her here. It had been Sir’s biggest fear, Sugi told her.

‘Quickly,’ he said, helping her to gather her things, locking up the house, hurrying her out of the back gate and across the moonlit beach. ‘There’s a train that passes the level crossing by the next cove. It’s the mail train to Colombo and it passes in twenty minutes.’ Her uncle might be back at any moment. ‘I will come with you to Colombo,’ Sugi said. ‘After I get you to the house of his friends, I will come back with Mr Rohan and find Sir. I promise you,’ he said.

Theo had made emergency plans many months ago, Sugi told her. Should there be trouble Sugi was to take her to Rohan and Giulia. She would be safe there. She
must
come, Sugi insisted, desperate now, for the girl refused to move.

‘They must not find you here,’ he pleaded. ‘It will be worse for Sir. I will come back and find him. I
will
find him. You must believe me. Let’s not waste any more time, please.’

He would find Theo, he told her again and again, cajoling her across the endless stretch of sand. Dead or alive, he thought grimly, he would find Theo. He saw the moon reflected in her frightened eyes, as she protested.

‘I promise, I promise,’ Sugi murmured, holding her cold hands in his, knowing only that he should follow Theo’s wishes. Knowing only that he could not break his promise.

‘Once you are with Sir’s friends, I will go back and find him. I promise. I promise. Please, Miss Nulani, Sir did not want your uncle to harm you.’

The beach was cool and smooth, their footsteps clearly visible as they walked in an endless line of steps towards the next bay. They passed the catamarans half sunk into the sand; the places where the coconut palms bent low and local children had rigged a swing once, long ago. The sea and the sky were joined as one tonight as they walked the beach unheeding, looking neither to right or left. Sugi’s anxiety propelled them on. The girl carried a small bag with a few things; a comb, her earrings, a change of clothes. It was all she had now. Pity flooded Sugi’s heart. He dared not voice his thoughts but he feared Theo was dead.

Memories criss-crossed his mind. Once long ago, when Mr Mendis was alive, before things had become bad, Sugi had seen him take his small daughter out in a fishing boat. They were going out to the reef, he had said. The fishermen had begun to sing a
kavi
and they had waved at Sugi, asking him if he wanted to come with them. The sea was calm, they had said, they could make a fisherman of him yet, they joked. But Sugi had not gone and they had vanished slowly into the night. A few days later he had seen Mr Mendis again. He was walking on the beach with the child. He had stopped to tell Sugi about the trip. He had wanted his daughter to understand the lives of the fishermen who lived here, he had said. Only then, he
told Sugi, only when she understands the traditions of her home will she truly love it. Mr Mendis had spoken with a passion that had surprised Sugi. He loved this land, he had said, and he wanted his daughter to love it too. And now, thought Sugi, his daughter was hurrying away, leaving it all behind.

Sugi walked on, his mind darting backwards and forwards in a confusion of thoughts. He desperately wanted to get the girl to safety and return as quickly as he could. He wanted to get help, to find Theo. Dead or alive, he thought, I must find him. But first they must stop the train. If they missed it as it slowed down at the crossing there would not be another one until the morning. Her uncle, or his friends, anyone, might spot them later on.

‘I promised him I would get you out,’ he said again, in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘But I
will
find him.’

As they rounded the corner of the bay they heard the train hooting. The moon had disappeared as they scrambled up and across the dunes to a place where giant cacti grew beside a cluster of coconut trees. They were almost at the crossing now. The coast road, narrow and completely empty, stretched beside the railway line. Sugi was calling hoarsely to her, urging her to hurry for they were in an exposed and vulnerable position. At any moment the train could come thundering towards them, or an army convoy might appear. The moon reappeared, and at the same instant Sugi saw the signal was still green. He needed to get to the signal box beside the level crossing several minutes before the train reached the first bay if he was to stop it. He ran on the last hundred yards shouting to Nulani to keep off the track. His voice whipped across the breeze telling her to be careful. Hardly had he reached the barrier and lowered it, when the tracks began to vibrate. Instantly the lights changed and they heard the train beginning to slow down. In order to
scramble on to the truck with the mail bags they needed to run back along the line to a point where they could board the train more easily. They had only a minute to do this. The headlights stretched across the tracks and the train roared into view, hissing and slowing down. It would not stop moving completely, Sugi, shouted again. She must wait until he told her to jump. They were crouching beside the giant cacti as the wheels screeched and the brakes locked. All of a sudden two army jeeps careered across the bend of the road and some figures stepped into the headlights of the train. Two men walked over to the crossing. Two more followed them. Out of the corner of his eye Sugi recognised one of them. He was shining a torch on the track, and under the wheels. The lights had not changed yet.