The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (19 page)

Breathless, the pulse hammering in my ears, I place him with his back to the chair. And turn it around so he's facing away from the door. If someone looks in, it would merely seem like he was staring out the window … I hope.

The sweat trickles down my forehead, stinging my eyes. Feeling panic bubble up in me, I take a deep breath and look around the room for something to soak up the blood from the body, to buy me a little more time. Seeing a door leading off the room, I walk into a tiny washroom. Grabbing the towel from the rack, I run back to the man. Balling it, I place it against his chest and fold his arms over it. His hands begin to slip down, even as I rush to the door.
 

TWENTY-THREE

PULLING OUT THE balaclava from the back pocket of my jeans I slip it on. The irony! A few months ago I was at the receiving end of attack by masked men. Now,
I
am the one wearing the mask. It’s hot, really hot and I’m breathing so fast it feels like I have run a marathon. Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt, and the blood thunders at my temples. I am sure I am going to be discovered any minute now. My eyes dart around at the security cameras in the corridor and I hope that Dr B's team has come through with jamming them. I resist the urge to run out of there, away from the still-warm corpse.

 
I walk past cops in the other rooms, to the end of the floor to call for the lift. Fuck. Fuck Fuck
.
Were there security cameras in the lift, and had she said that they would take care of that too? I can't remember. Of course I am masked, my features are hidden, but still I don’t want to risk it. I run down the staircase, taking it two at a time, down five floors, then past the reception and out of the main door.
 

An alarm sounds behind me and I jerk.
 

Don't look back.
 

Don't. Look. Back.

Knees trembling, I force myself to walk … walk one step at a time, through the heat of the midday sun. As I reach the exit, I pull off the balaclava. Stuffing it into the back pocket of my jeans, I step onto the driveway. My instinct is to run out of there and deliberately I slow my steps. Slowly, walk slowly. Stay casual, real casual. That’s it. Keep going.
 
I reach the end of the driveway, out of the gates onto the crowded streets when another alarm goes off behind me. No, no, no. Don’t hurry. Don’t push your feet against the ground and race out of there. Keep walking, one step in front of the other. Don’t look to the sides, don’t look anywhere. Just straight ahead. Around me the crowd of people surge, some of them turning towards the commotion exploding behind me. With a sigh of relief I spot my SUV.
 

Had I actually made it this far without being discovered? It feels like a dream. I look for the key fob in the pocket of my jeans … and can't find it.

The sweat trickles down my forehead as the summer heat pours into my cells, trying to blink away the fear that threatens to overwhelm me.
 

Think, Vikram. Think.

By the time I reach the car, I am still searching the back pockets of my jeans, patting the front pocket of my shirt. But I know already that I will not find it. A man collides with me, and I start in surprise. But he is gone before I can protest. I look around me to find that the crowd has multiplied. They are pushing towards the building I have left behind.
 

I abandon all pretence of normalcy.
 

Kicking my way past the man in front of me, I head-butt the next and punch the one after, to clear a path. It's as if the crowd is a single organism. It gives a little and closes in behind me. Like a centipede I inch forward. When I look back, the facade of the imposing building has disappeared out of sight, swallowed by the multitudes who are running up the driveway. Even as I watch, the police finally react, slamming shut the iron gates, and the crowd slam themselves against the bars, like water against a dam.
 

For once, I am grateful for the idle curiosity of my fellow citizens. I plunge through the crowds ahead, head-butting my way through the last of them, and suddenly I am free. The warm air slaps my face, and the relief of being rid of the human chain weakens my legs. I fall to my hands and knees, crawling the remaining stretch of the road till I reach the pavement. Sitting on it, I let my arms dangle between my knees, blinking away the sweat that stings my eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, I get to my feet and, jumping over the pockmarked surface of the footpath, dart into the alley leading off the road. The sun is cut off by the overhanging balconies of the ramshackle buildings that lean across the alleyway to kiss each other. Water drops patter off my shoulders from the freshly washed laundry hanging overhead, but I pay no attention.
 

Dodging the overflowing gutters, I step right into the path of a man on a bicycle carrying a basket of vegetables on his head. He swears at me and I get out of his way just in time by plastering my back to the wall of the building. Then, I am through to the other side of the narrow passage. Bursting onto the busy thoroughfare, I step off the footpath onto the road and right into the path of an oncoming black-and-yellow taxicab.
 

It screeches to a halt, and its bumper bangs against my knees. Losing my balance, I fall over, hitting my forehead against its bonnet, and I roll over, stunned, to topple over into the middle of the traffic. A truck thunders by, its wide tyres narrowly missing me, the dark smoke from its exhaust filling my face, and even as I cough, I am being pulled to my feet.
 

"Do you have a death wish?" I look down into the angry face of the taxi driver. "Or did you decide to just choose my taxi to fall under this morning and spoil
my
life. You may not care about your family, but I care about mine, you know?"
 

The human contact threatens to cut loose any remaining shreds of my self-control. Shaking off his steadying hands, I stagger to the cab. Wrenching open the door to the passenger seat, I slide inside, collapsing diagonally across the cramped space of the rickety
Fiat.
After a moment's hesitation, he gets back into the driver's seat, shaking his head. He mutters under his breath to himself, but don't pay any attention.
 

"Breach Candy …" I gasp. "Take me to Breach Candy."

TWENTY-THREE

It's funny how quickly one adjusts to a new life. Three months ago, if you had asked me who I was, I would have answered, a student, a born-again Englishman, a county batsman, a one-time lover. Now, I am a cop killer.

One gunshot. That's all it took to reduce a man to dust. Perhaps his soul had stood over us even as I had walked away from the corpse, letting the blood seep into the cracks between the tiles on the dusty floor. I had resisted the urge to look back—a killer's instinct to admire his handiwork. The boy in me had wanted to run away from the scene of my offence. And it wasn't just any offence. It was the murder of a top-ranking official in the heart of the offices of the law enforcement agency of the city. Can I really get away with this?
 

It feels like the half-hour journey home takes forever. I sit at the edge of my seat, peering into the driver's rear-view mirror, trying to make out if we are being followed. Any moment I expect to hear the sound of sirens chasing me. Surely I am going to be found out. If not now, then when I go back to enrol with Force One. I push that thought away. First things first—I need to just get home now.

As the taxi turns off from Pedder Road onto Warden Road, I allow myself to relax a little, only to start when the taxi breaks to a halt.
 

In front of us is a bullock cart. As I peer through the dirt-strewn windshield of the cab, the driver of the cart rises to his feet on the cart, one of his feet on the yoke which chains the two oxen to the vehicle. He raises his arm, and as he coaxes the two, I realise he is trying to turn the cart around, right in the path of my taxi, which rams into the cart. It jolts to a stop so suddenly that I hurtle forward hitting my head on the front seat. Wincing, I sit back touching the already forming bump on my forehead. So, here I am, a murderer who gave the police the slip only to meet his end under the wheels of an ox cart.
 

There is nothing funny about the situation. Except my sense of humour insists there is. When nothing makes sense anymore, only the twisted begins to seem straight. Leaning over, I pay off the cab driver and walk the rest of the short distance to the apartment on foot. When I turn into the driveway of the apartment block, I heave a sigh of relief. Trying to look nonchalant, I force myself to walk slowly past the group of chattering drivers.
 

When I ring the doorbell to the apartment, it clangs through the house. But there is no reply. I ring once more, then I recall that my mother has left to run some errands. Seema has not returned from college yet. There has to be a simple explanation to why they are not yet home. Right?

I pull out my house keys
—
I still have them, haven't dropped them
—
and enter the apartment letting the double doors slam shut behind me. I head straight for my room and into the adjoining bathroom. Opening the tap, I splash lukewarm water over my face, and with the tap running I look at my dripping face in the mirror. Amber eyes stare back at me, and I am unable to meet my own gaze.
 

Pulling off my sweat-sodden shirt, I ball it and throw it in a corner of the bathroom. I should be relieved I managed to pull that off. But all I can think is that if I—an amateur—could walk into the police headquarters and shoot down a top-ranking official then it didn't say much for their security measures. Is this how they had protected my father too? And then it strikes me … Did she have my father killed too? I ram my fist into the mirror, groaning when the pain spears out from the point of contact. My cracked reflection offers littler consolation.
 

I did what I had to do. She had promised no harm would come to my family if I did as she ordered.

So, why aren't Mum and Seema home yet? Please, please, let them be safe, I pray.
 

The ring of the doorbell startles me.
 

TWENTY-THREE

My stomach muscles clench … I am encased in ice. Immobile. I stare at the mirror and see the fear in my eyes. I don't want to go, don't want to find out what's on the other side of the door. The doorbell again, this time more urgent.
 

It's just them returning, yes that's all it is. They'll come through, laughing, Mum clutching her bags of shopping, Seema telling me all about school. Go on take a look.
It'll be okay. Water drips down my face and I move without realising it, putting one foot in front of the other. And then, I am at the door.
 

Hands trembling, I pull it open, to be greeted by empty space. I blink in the dull light of the passageway. Then, I look down. There, in front of me, on the floor, are two large cake boxes.
 

They are stamped with the unmistakeable font of "The Taj Mahal Palace, Bombay" and the picture of the iconic dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel above it.

My heart slams against my rib cage as if it is about to leap out, and, blood pounding at my temples, I reach as if in a dream for the first of the boxes. They are big, almost like the hatboxes I have seen at a department store at Oxford, so I struggle with the first as I carry it inside.
 

The second is lighter than the first, so light … almost as if there's a soufflé inside. For some reason the thought of the light cloud-like cake rings a bell. Suddenly, I know what it is, and my instinct is screaming, Don't! Don't open it. Back away. Turn around and run away from here. But I stay, and of course I open it. There's a face in the box.

Her eyes are half-closed; mouth slightly parted so I can see her teeth between her lips. The crooked incisor I'd often teased Seema about. For some reason, that more than anything else brings home the horror of what I am seeing. Do these things even happen in real life? A horrible, choking sensation overwhelms me. It's as if an inhuman, supernatural hand has me in its hold, weighing down like a mountain on my head and neck. The scene in front of me fades, the box receding into the distance. I fall against the door, and hold onto it, supporting myself against it. I am surprised to find my shaking legs still hold me up. I don't want to see what's in the other box. I open the cover. I know it will carry another severed head. I look at it with a kind of macabre fascination … Look away. Look away now. But I can't.
 

Apparently, in death a severed head still looks just like a live one.
 

I run back to the bathroom, away from those horrible things, away from all that's left of my family and I'm violently sick. My
Legs give out from under me
and I collapse on the cold white-tiled floor.
 

I should have got them out of the country. I should have done more to protect them. I failed. I chose to believe her, and now they are gone and I am going to pay the price for my trust. My stomach heaves once more. I want to move, but my muscles have liquefied. Panic grips me. And as I lie there, ice creeps into my veins. My emotions steel, then cut a path through my thoughts. I cannot let her get away with this. I must beat her at her own game. I will avenge my family.

—To find out what happens next, get your copy of
The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer
here
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The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer

Something wet falls on my face and I wipe it away. It's greasy, dark. Its blood mixed with ... with white blobs of, what can it be? Flesh? Human flesh? I look at Vikram in horror.
 

"Let's get out of here," he urges, and together we turn and run, chased by a grey-black cloud of smoke and rubble.
 

Outside the hotel, the road is mayhem. There's a woman clad in what must have been a sharp red skirt-suit. Her jacket is torn on both shoulders and hangs from her as if a giant has tried to rip it off her and failed halfway. She shuffles along, one heel on, the other foot bare, muttering, "They're doing this, for what? To save the world from what?"