The Mountain Shadow (63 page)

‘And.’

‘When the autopsy was performed –’

No. No
. Lisa, cut open, organs removed.
Don’t think of it. Don’t picture it, in your mind.

‘An autopsy?’

‘It was . . . it was not pleasant,’ Didier said. ‘The police report confirmed that she died from an overdose of tranquillisers. She was alone, when she was found.’

‘Rohypnol?’

‘Rohypnol,’ Didier frowned. ‘Did you ever know her to use it, recreationally?’

‘Never. It doesn’t make sense. She didn’t do tranqs. She hated them, as much as I do. She didn’t even like it when other people did them.’

‘The police called it suicide, at first. They think she took a fatal dose of the drug intentionally.’

‘Suicide? No way. She’s a fighter.’

‘She
was
a fighter, Lin. She is no more.’

Is
hadn’t become
was
, yet. Lisa was still too strong: I could hear her teasing laugh, every time I let my mind go to her.

‘Derelict as I was in my duty, when she was alive,’ Didier said, ‘I ensured that the word
suicide
was removed from the record of her death. Her death is ruled as accidental, involving an accidentally fatal dose of the tranquilliser, Rohypnol. Lightning Dilip made me pay a tidy sum for it. That police station should establish itself as a bank. I would buy shares, if they did.’

‘Who found her? The nightwatchman?’

‘No, Lin, it was Karla who found her.’

‘Karla?’

‘She said that she had a late rendezvous with Lisa, at your apartment. When she arrived, she found the door open, walked inside, and found Lisa. She alerted the watchman, and he called an ambulance, and the police.’

‘Karla?’

The ground was trembling, as if the waves were sweeping over the wall and through the road in murmured secrets.

‘Yes. It was a terrible shock for her, but she was a tower of strength, as the English say.’

‘What . . . what was that?’

‘The police questioned Karla . . . quite physically, in fact. I advised her to leave the city, for some time, but she refused. It was Karla who helped Lisa’s parents through the whole of the thing.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

‘The last time? Yesterday. There was a small service for Lisa at the Afghan Church, and she was there.’

‘A service, for Lisa? Even though Lisa was gone?’

‘Yes. Karla organised it.’

It was too much, too many hits in a single round: too long to the bell and a safe corner.

‘Karla did it?’

‘She did it alone, in fact. When she mentioned the idea to me, I offered to help, but she took charge of it herself.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘Her friends from the art gallery, a few of us from Leopold’s, Kavita, Vikram, Johnny Cigar and his wife, Naveen Adair and Diva Devnani, the Zodiac Georges, and Stuart Vinson and his Norwegian girlfriend. Lisa’s parents had already left the city, with her body, so it was a quiet affair.’

‘Who spoke for Lisa?’

‘No-one spoke. We just sat, silently, and then one by one we all left the church.’

Yesterday, when I should’ve been there, with others who loved Lisa. But yesterday I was staring at a severed head, on the side of the road. Yesterday, I was being warned by my tall, thin contact at the airport not to go home.

You are not in danger
, he’d said. I hadn’t been paying attention. I hadn’t realised that what he’d said was specific to me. He’d hesitated, after the first word, for just an eyelid flicker:
You, are not in danger
.

He was telling me that
I
wasn’t in danger, but that someone else was. Did he know? Did he already know that Lisa was dead, when he met me at the airport?

And then I remembered Blue Hijab’s tears, the sadness in them, the long, silent stare, when she dropped me at the airport. Did she know about Lisa?

It happened days ago. The Sanjay Company knew, for sure: they knew everything that happened in their ward. I guessed that Sanjay was worried I might find out about Lisa somehow, at the airport, and lose control. He sent the thin man, in case I found out about Lisa, and compromised his mission.

‘I have done some research, with Naveen Adair,’ Didier said, examining me closely.

The ground was moving or my knees were moving as if I was back on the deck of the
Mitratta
. I couldn’t focus on what Didier was saying. There was ocean-sound in most of my mind.
Lisa. Lisa. Lisa.

‘Lin?’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I have been checking some facts, with Naveen.’

‘What facts?’

‘It is not possible to determine how the Rohypnol came to be in Lisa’s hands, but we did find out who supplied it.’

‘You did? How?’

‘We examined the pills from the evidence locker, and they have very distinctive markings.’

‘You stole police evidence?’

‘No, of course not. I
bought
police evidence.’

‘Well done. Whose dope was it?’

He hesitated, squinting at me, a net of concern covering his face.

‘If I tell you, will you promise, truly, that you will not kill him without me?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Concannon,’ he sighed.

That slippery slide shivered through the street again. I held the wall tighter, to stop falling. I couldn’t tell if I was dizzy, or the world was unbalanced. Everything was out of sync.

I looked around me, trying to get my head straight. The night was new-moon clear. The stars were paled city light. Behind us cars passed in shoals, as fish passed in shoals before us, in the bay.

‘She was not raped,’ Didier said.

‘What . . . did you say?’

‘When this drug is involved, there is always a suspicion of rape,’ he said softly. ‘The police report said that there was no sign of rape. I . . . thought you should know that.’

I looked down at the waves, lapping and splashing on boulders at the base of the sea wall: waves cleaning shells and driftwood twigs from stony teeth, and soothing granite shoulders with patience, softened in the sea.

The waves laughed. The waves cried. That glorious living second, ending as wind, and sea, and earth: the waves laughed, and cried, calling me. I was falling, hard. I had to get a grip. I had to pull myself together. I needed my motorcycle.

‘I have to go home,’ I said.

‘Of course. I will come with you.’

‘Didier –’

‘Why do you always fight affection, Lin? It is truly your great, personal flaw.’

‘Didier –’

‘No. When a friend wants to do a loving thing, you must allow him. What is love, but this?’

What is love, but this?

The words chanted themselves to me in the taxi, and only stopped when we reached the apartment, and sat down with the nightwatchman to ask about Lisa.

He cried for her, and for what we were for him: always happy, kind and generous, on every festival and name day.

When he calmed down, he told me that Lisa had returned around an hour after midnight, with two men in a black limousine.

One of the men returned to the car, after fifteen minutes or so, and drove away. The other man left about an hour later. Karla arrived a few minutes after, and called the watchman.

‘Did you know the men?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What did they look like?’

‘One was a foreigner. He was the first one to leave. He had a loud voice. He was walking with two sticks, and he was shouting in pain, like maybe he had a broken leg.’

‘Or maybe two fresh bullet wounds in the leg,’ Didier observed.

‘Concannon. And the other man?’

‘I never saw his face. He looked away from me, and he covered his mouth with a handkerchief, coming and going.’

‘Did he have a car?’

‘No, sir. He walked away, very fast, in the direction of Navy Club.’

‘Did you get the number of the car?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He went through his logbook, and gave me the number.

‘I’m so sorry, sir. I should have –’

‘Your job is to guard the gate, not the apartments. It’s not your fault. She liked you. Very much. And I know you would’ve saved her, if you could, just like I would’ve done. It’s okay.’

I gave him a chunk of money, asked him to keep his eyes open for the cops, and climbed the steps to my apartment.

I opened the door, walked through the living room and stepped into the bedroom. That place of quarrel and love, for us, had become a tomb for Lisa, alone.

The mattress she’d bought because she liked the seahorse pattern on the cover was stripped bare, but for two pillows at the head, and a pair of Lisa’s well-worn, well-loved hemp sandals at the base.

After a minute, I stopped staring at the place where Lisa’s breath had faded, and ceased, and stopped, and died, and I moved my eyes away.

The room was clean, and empty. Everything of hers was gone. I looked at the few things of mine that remained.

The red movie poster, Antonioni’s
Blow Up
, art and abandon becoming death and desire, and the wooden horse head on the window sill, my belts, strung on a suit stand in the corner, the sword, in two pieces in the wall unit, and a few books.

And it was all: all there was of me in the apartment. Without Lisa’s flowers and paintings and coloured sarongs, the place we’d called home was cold, and alone.
What is civilisation?
Idriss once remarked.
It’s a woman, free to live as she wants.

‘There is a picture of her, in death, on that bed,’ Didier said, standing in the doorway. ‘It is in the police report. Do you want to see it?’

‘No. No. Thanks.’

‘I thought it might console you,’ he said. ‘She looked very, very peaceful. As if she simply went to sleep, forever.’

We listened to the silence, echoing off the walls in our hearts. Just the thought of that picture, of her dead sleep, made my stomach churn with dread.

‘You are not safe, I am afraid, Lin,’ Didier said. ‘The police are very hot for you. If they come to know that you have returned to Bombay, they will come here, looking for you.’

He was right: right enough to shake me awake.

‘Give me a hand,’ I said, beginning to wrestle the heavy chest of drawers away from the wall.

We pushed the chest wide enough to expose the false back panel. It looked untouched. I released the cover.

‘Have you got a man you can trust to hold my guns, a lot of money, some passports and half a key of the best Kashmiri that ever rolled down the Himalayas?’

‘Yes, for ten per cent.’

‘Of the money only?’

‘Of the money.’

‘Done. Call him here.’

‘I must insist that he brings something to drink with him, Lin. Do you know how many hours it has been, since I last made contact with alcohol?’

‘You drank from your flask three minutes ago.’

‘The flask,’ he sighed, genius to child, ‘does not count. Shall I tell him to bring food, as well?’

‘I don’t want any food.’

‘Good. Food is for people who don’t have the courage to take drugs. And food kills half of the alcohol effect. There was a test done on a drunken mouse, once, or perhaps it was a drunken rat –’

‘Just call him, Didier.’

I stuffed a few bundles of rupees in one inside pocket of my denim vest, and a bundle of US dollars in the other. I cut a piece off the Kashmiri key, and put the rest back in the compartment. I strapped on my knives in their scabbards.

After snapping the cover in place, I shoved the chest against the wall again, in case someone other than Didier’s man entered the apartment.

Didier was in the open kitchen, searching through the cupboards.

‘Not even cooking sherry,’ he muttered, and then he saw me and smiled. ‘My man, Tito, will be here in half an hour. How are you, my friend?’

‘Not-good-okay,’ I said absently.

I was looking at the refrigerator. The photographs that Lisa had taped to the door, photographs of her that she’d asked me to take, were gone. Strips of clear tape remained, framing empty spaces.

She’d insisted on tape, instead of magnets.
I hate magnets
, she said.
They’re such treacherous things
.

‘Her parents,’ Didier said, ‘gathered everything that was hers, and took it with them. There were many tears.’

I went to the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. It didn’t work. I fell forward on my knees at the toilet, and emptied every dark, acid thing that was inside me.