The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (16 page)

And Mum slowly finds her feet again. Even though Seema still runs circles around her. Still, they do okay. For now.

PART 4: RETURN FROM OXFORD

TWENTY-TWO

Beyond the aeroplane's wings, the shantytown spreads out like splotches of black on burnt toast. We fly over patchwork roofs in varying shades of brown; some so dark the plane casts a ghostly shadow as we cross over them to come in on the landing strip.
 

I've been steadily peeling off the outer layers of my clothing—coat, jumper, outer-shirt—over the past few hours. Even the upper layers of the atmosphere seem to reflect the heat from the Earth, the flight path map turning from green to mahogany to a final nutty brown as we approach Bombay. When I left for Oxford, I did not anticipate returning home like this.
 

I've been summoned back by an email that says my mother and sister are in danger unless I do as I am told. A hoax. I had so wanted it to be a hoax. But then I had clicked the attachment—an air ticket to fly out the very next day. A one-way ticket with my passport number and birthdate,
and
my address in Oxford.
 

Whoever it was had done their research. Of course they had.
 

I had reached for the phone, called Mum and Seema, and was relieved when they had both answered. But it'd been a temporary reprieve. For right after I hung up, my phone had buzzed. Incoming text message:

I had hoped they had forgotten about me after all these years, that those text messages had been just a hoax, the ravings of a mad person. But no, here it was again. They were back. The hair on my nape had stood on end. Hands gone clammy, the phone had slipped out of my nerveless hands. The hiatus was over. I had come full circle. Running from the memories of Dad's murder straight into the nightmare of my missing family. As if the five years in between had never happened. The clock turned back to those early days in Oxford, when my father's distorted face haunted me.
 

Vishal's words had wriggled their way into my mind, grown to fill my every waking moment at Oxford. Sometimes I had felt like a fraud, living someone else's life. As if I was surviving on borrowed time. It only drove me harder to prove myself. To bury myself in classes, assignments, cricket … girls. And all along, beneath it all, the dream had never faded … that nightmare about finding them at the mortuary had stayed with me. It had sunk in. Become a part of me. As if my intuition had known all along that it would come to this. That I would return to my life gone completely wrong. And now here I was back in Bombay.

***

Bleary from not having slept a wink on the flight, I join the immigration queue at Bombay airport. I feel lightheaded. The heat of the city outside presses in on the concrete walls of the building. The sultry day waits to embrace me like the arms of an overlooked lover. Sweat beads my upper lip and I wipe it off on the back off my palm. And then, I am at the exit with my single carry-on bag, and inhaling the farts of the city's seventeen million souls. I blink in surprise. It's not what I expected. There are none of the usual crowds at the entrance.
 

No touts offering taxi rides into the city. In fact, it's taken me less than half an hour from the plane landing to getting to my car pickup. A far cry from the two hours it took me the last time. I've landed at the new Terminal 2 of Bombay's international airport. I look around for my pickup and spot my name scrawled across a board carried by a hoodie-wearing guy. When I reach him, he acknowledges me with a nod.
 

The surprise of my painless transit through arrivals must still show on my face, for the hoodie-wearing driver—who seems to be the same age as me—says in a perky voice,
"
Terminal 2 … it's something, eh? One of the few things that seems to work in this city."

When I don't reply, he goes on, "Well, too bad about all the art housed in there. Apparently the largest collection on the continent."

Reaching the parked BMW, he uses his electronic key to unlock the doors, then slides into the driver's seat. I decide to ride shotgun.

"Not that I care about that pretentious arty-farty stuff, but, hey, you know, considering someone somewhere put a lot of effort into it, it's too bad they're not going to be around much longer."
 

I have no idea what he means by that. "What are you on about?" I ask.

"Ah! Dr B hasn't told you yet, has she?" He chuckles.
"
I'll leave it to her then. Better not steal her thunder. Know what I mean?" He holds up the first two fingers of his hand, holds it to his temple in a mock shooting gesture.
 

She? Dr B? Is she the person behind the email?
I want to reach over, grab this boy and ask him the questions that rattle around in my head like bullets. I swallow them down. Whatever is going on, I am sure he has little idea. Keep calm. Patient. Wait till you reach the one who emailed you. The one who texted you. Who's been watching you the last few years.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"You'll see soon enough. What's your hurry?" He joins the heavy traffic heading into South Bombay, and we slow to a crawl.
 

I lean back against the seat, clenching my shaking hands.

TWENTY-TWO

An hour later we pull off the main Pedder Road into a building that sits bang on the side of this arterial highway. The driver takes the car around into the short driveway that runs around the building. The sign over the entrance says "LOTUS BUILDING" over the peeling sign of a lotus flower. I take the lift to the eighth floor.

A thin boy with greasy hair opens the door. He's wearing a faded blue-grey hoodie with a large
GAP
logo on the front. Wordlessly I am ushered into the dingy living room. He motions me to wait, and disappears. Unable to sit, I walk across to the balcony and look down at the traffic-clogged road. It's hard to believe this is one of the main thoroughfares of the city. The traffic heaves and coughs its way forward. Brand new
BMW
s and
Audi
s sparkle with restrained throttle, trying to keep away from the public buses, black-and-yellow taxis, the lowly
Maruti Suzukis
and the occasional family of four on a motorcycle.
 

"So you have come?" a woman's voice cries. I've been dreading this all along. I don't want to turn around. Don't want to face her.
 

"Well?" It's the warning tone in the voice which makes me finally look at her.
 

"Where are they?" I ask softly. Somehow, the angrier I get, the quieter it is inside of me. The rage cuts through the noise in my head and gives me a laser-sharp focus.

"You mean your family, the only remaining members of your
real
family, don't you?" She chuckles.

I know she is trying to get a reaction. I don't even nod, just look at her steadily. Thick black hair waterfalls to her waist. Her large curved eyes glitter black, in a face dewy with regular moisturising. She is voluptuous enough that the long white shirt she wears swells over her breasts and tucks in at her waist. Her toenails are painted a bright red, and as she pushes the hair back from her face, tiny diamonds glitter at her earlobes. She is pretty in a traditional Indian way … and she looks familiar. I am sure I have never met her before, yet I can't get over this nagging feeling that I have seen her somewhere. But where …?

"They are alive. Perhaps. Or they are dead." Her words slice through my thoughts, pinning my attention as if she has thrown a knife at me.

"It's in your hands now, Vik," she says.

"Don't call me that." The easy familiarity with which my name rolls off her tongue disturbs me.
 

She goes on as if I haven't spoken. "Well, what will it be then?" Sitting down on the settee, she pats the space next to her.
 

I don't want to be anywhere near her. But I don't have a choice. Steeling myself, I walk over to sit at the other end of the settee, as far as I can be without falling over.

"Come now, you don't have to be afraid of me." Her smile is patient.
 

But that only makes it worse. Kindness from strangers is not something I trust. My heartbeat goes up a notch and I swallow down my nervousness.
 

"What do I have to do? You didn't call me all the way from Oxford for tea, did you?"

Just then, the same skinny boy walks in to place two cups of steaming tea on the table in front of us.

"Why, you read my mind." She smiles, but the sarcasm dripping off the words steadies me somewhat. She didn't like my earlier statement and now I have irritated her more. At least it shows she is human.
I hope.

She picks up her cup and to my surprise pours the steaming liquid onto the saucer, drinking it from there as it cools. Without arguing, I pick up mine and sip, cringing at its sugary taste.

"You do me a favour," she pauses between sips, "and your mother and sister will be safe."

Anger wells up inside me, making me choke on the sweetened liquid in my mouth. Setting down my cup and saucer, I walk back to the balcony. If I jumped over the parapet, my nightmare would be over.
 

Turning to her, I ask, "What do you want from me?"

"Why, I want you to follow in your father's footsteps, of course."

I start.

"You knew my father?" I ask, the words falling out like ice cubes through my lips gone numb.

"Why of course. By the end we were very good friends …"
 

It's something in the way she says it, a wistful look that flits over her face.

"You were lovers," I say in a flat voice. It's true. I know it even before she nods. It doesn't surprise me. Why should it? Every turn in my life is marked with the milestones of Dad's affairs.
 

"Is that what they are calling it nowadays?" She lets the saucer fall back on the table with a clatter. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. But it doesn't really matter what we were to each other. What's important is that you do as you are told. And I'll keep your family safe."

I want to throw the cup at her face. Instead, I mirror her actions and place it down on the table. My actions are slow, quiet methodical.

"So what do you want me to do?" I repeat.

"Join the police … Force One to be precise."

"Force One?"

"A specialised counter-terrorism squad set up to protect Bombay." She obliges me with an answer.

"Counter-terrorism—?"
 

She shakes her head at that. "You've been gone—what—five years? Haven't you been keeping track of what's been happening in the city during that time?"

"You mean the 26/11 attacks …" Dad, too, was on the trail of terrorists who were plotting to blow up the city. Is all this connected then? How is this woman linked to 26/11 and to Dad? Beyond being his lover.

She nods. "This is the half-baked response of the police force to that threat. They took their own sweet time about it too … Just a few years. Still, they are among the smartest cops in the force. And you—" She slides closer and a whiff of that jasmine spiced with something stale—coconut oil—slides over me like a clammy hand. I don't realise I have leaned back as far as the sofa's armrest will allow, not till she puts out her hand and, grabbing my shirtfront, pulls me close. "—You are going to join them."

I am close enough to see the tiny wrinkles fanning out from the edges of her eyes. Her complexion is smooth … Her eyes are dark, glittering black, steely with resolve.
 

"That's it?" I keep my voice emotionless, flat.
 

"You get in there, and the first opportunity you get, take out their current head of the force. He's becoming a pain."

"And is that what you do? Kill cops?"

"Not always, he is only the second."
 

I don't want to know who the first one was.
And then I look at her
up-close, into those anger-ravaged eyes, which carry a confidence that is almost desperate in its intensity. And I know where I have seen her. In the pictures from Dad's briefcase.
 
The images that I had pushed right back to a corner of my mind, come tumbling out, falling over my eyes like a curtain drawn down. It's her all right. I don't want to believe it. It can't be. For, if she is the same woman from those pictures, it means … it means she is Vishal's mother. This woman, who is looking at me as if she wants to take me to bed, is …
was
my father's lover.
 

I want to punch her in the face, demand an explanation for everything that has happened. I want to ask her if she knows what happened to Dad. Instead, I draw back into myself, pulling my emotions into a cricket ball that I can bat right out of the stadium. Out of sight. I school my face into pools of frozen calm, praying she doesn't see how much I know.

Apparently I succeed, for she goes on, "And it's only because he is too clever and honest. You understand?" She's trying to justify herself and I don't understand why. It's not like I have a choice in this matter. "He's getting too close to uncovering my plans. And I have invested too much of my life in this now to let him get away with it."

"What plans?"
 

She slides her palm inside my shirt. Her hands touch my skin and I shrivel inside. "All in good time."
 

"And if I don't do as you say?"
 

She circles my throat with her other hand, her hold surprisingly strong. "Well, then you'll never see your mother and sister again."

"Where are they now? I need to know they are safe." I almost succeed in keeping the trembling out of my voice.

She leans close, and before I know what she is doing she brushes her lips over mine. My stomach curdles and I feel the bile rush up. I swallow and try to keep my features schooled into straight lines.

She gets to her feet and gestures to the phone in my shirt pocket. "Call them."

With trembling hands I dial them and almost cry with relief when Mum answers the phone. "Mum!"