21 Shades of Night, page 346
The windows and the door to the balcony are open, and the soft breeze from the sea blows in. Moonlight makes his eyes glow. Again, the full force of that amber blast pins me to my seat. I inhale deeply, and it's not from pain.
He blinks. The connection breaks. Now his eyes are back to a dull brown-turning-to-grey-with-pain color.
"Candles." He gestures to the kitchen. "In the drawer next to the range."
I limp to the kitchen. Lighting a candle for the kitchen table, I return, placing two more on the edge of the carpet so it throws light on his face.
He lifts the sodden-beyond-recognition hoodie from his side. The blood has stopped flowing, but the area looks all torn up. My head spins, and I feel a little queasy. It's easier to hurt myself than see him wounded.
"You sure the bullet is not still in there?" I ask, worried.
"I don't think so. I think it just went clean through me," he says through clenched teeth, pushing himself up to a seating position. "Help me to the bathroom. I may as well get under the water to wash this off."
Just the effort of speaking drains him. His color drops further, and he closes his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.
His wound feels more serious than my own.
Shoving off the sofa, I stand behind him, jean-clad legs on either side of his head. I grab his upper arms, and together we get him to his feet. We stagger into the bedroom, into the bath. It's spacious by Bombay standards. Through the open window, I see the whites of the waves. It's a serene twilight. Another day is almost over. Another day in which we have not found Panky.
I clamp down on my panic. Panky is fine. He has to be fine. First Vikram. Take care of him. Then, find Panky.
He stands under the shower, fully clothed, wincing as rusty-red-colored water runs down the drain. Even though there is no power, the water is still running.
For now.
Returning with candles, I light some for the bedroom. I watch as he tries to unbutton his shirt. Fails. Tries once more. Fails again. But does he ask for help? No! Of course not. Pig-headed, stubborn man.
Stepping into the shower stall, I slip into the space between him and the wall and undo the buttons swiftly. His eyes are closed, forehead thrust against the wall as if his neck is too weak to support his head.
I peel the shirt off his shoulders; let it drop on the floor. My eyes widen on noticing the deep crater-like wound puckering the skin just above his left nipple and to the side. A few millimeters either way and …
Life can go in the flick of a second.
Stepping away from the shower stall, I rummage in the shelves below the washbasin, among the folded washcloths. I try to keep to the bath mat to avoid getting water all over the neat tiled floor.
Given this place is most likely going to be the next target on Dr. B's list, it's ironic that I am being this careful, but I do it anyway. I slip back into the space between his chest and the wall of the shower stall.
"This will hurt." I say, "Better take a deep breath!"
Following my own advice, I breathe in deeply and then, using the washcloth, I briskly wipe away the red.
Each time I touch, his body shakes.
The breath whistles out from his lips, stirring my hair, but no sound escapes him. Keep going, do it. Don’t look at his face. I know he's in pain. I can feel it. I bite my lips, to keep from crying out, and feel the blood drain from my face. Damn, why am I feeling faint when it's his blood? His wounds. Not mine.
Vikram softly says, "I can take the pain." His breath whistles.
"I am sure you can." I try to say it like I don't care, but it comes out all breathy. Soft. Is that my voice?
The amber blaze of his eyes flares. A laser ray of heat shoots through my underbelly. A slow burn. Nothing like the volts of electricity that had jolted through me. Nothing even like the violet flames pinging through the lightning tree on my back. It's slow, incessant. Desire curls inside.
This time he holds my gaze, refusing to blink.
I look away. I am not going to show how it's affecting me. Instead, I jab the now stained washcloth into his side with more effort than before. Enough to make him flinch.
Plopping the washcloth on the wet floor, I slip out again, not caring that I drip water all over the tiles. Turning off the shower, he too steps out of the cubicle, and wraps a towel around his waist over his dripping trousers.
"Bandages? Antiseptic?" I ask.
He nods in the general direction of the kitchen.
When I return he is sitting. Trousers off. Just the towel wrapped around his waist, on the side of the bathtub against the wall. I can see his bare legs. His bare, hairy, tanned, legs. Brown thighs. I force myself to look away. Look down and promptly notice his feet.
Hmm! Nice feet too.
They're broad with neat toenails.
Don't step on them now. I bathe the wound with antiseptic—that has to burn. He doesn't move. I blow on the wound. As if that's going to help at all, and smear on antiseptic cream.
"There!" I step back to survey the bandage wrapped all around his chest and over his shoulder. He gets to his feet, holding onto the wall, and sways his way back into the bedroom. Stopping at the worktable holding the computer, he pulls out the drawer and pops off the lid to a bottle of painkillers, and then carries them to a shelf next to it. Snatching up a bottle of whiskey, he washes down two of the pills with a healthy swig.
His room feels a lot more lived in, unlike the sterile neatness of the living room.
He turns to me. "You should see to your wounds too, and get out of those soaking clothes."
"I will," I tell him, only to find he is already leaving the room, heading towards the kitchen. Grabbing Vikram's phone, I walk into the bathroom, locking the door. Not that I don't trust Vikram—of course not. It's just that I don't want to be disturbed.
Pulling out the phone, I go through the directory. There aren't many names saved, which in itself is quite strange. When I flip to the photos album, my blood freezes.
Row upon row of teens.
Each holds up a board with their name on it.
A rogue's gallery.
Or a gallery of recruits?
A list of those enrolled into this kiddie army.
There are more than a thousand pictures—one thousand, five hundred and thirty-two, to be precise. Boys and girls aged from about thirteen to some who look as old as in their early twenties.
As old as Vikram.
Where are they now? How did she recruit them? Is Panky with them? Desperate for some clue, I flip to the videos.
The first I play simply shows the well-tended grounds of a building with a swimming pool. It looks like the garden around a hotel. The next video shows a bunch of the kids playing on the seashore. Is this place they are in by the beach? If so, which beach? As I am trying to work this out, the camera focuses on a familiar sign. The Retreat: a hotel situated at Erangal Beach, one of the relatively less inhabited beaches, set away from the city on Madh Island. It's north of the city, at least a couple of hours by road from her home in South Bombay. Is this where she is holed up now?
On seeing the next video, my hands tremble so violently I almost drop the phone. There he is.
Panky's strapped to a chair. His head hangs down, chin touching his chest. He's motionless. He can't be dead, can he?
He moves then, looking around the room. Cheeks sunken as if he hasn't eaten in days.
He's wearing the uniform of the kiddie army—not his usual colorful hoodie, but a black one. It hangs on him, like he's lost weight.
The door to the room opens. In walks a boy, broad shoulders, a military-style crew cut and wearing a cut-off black T-shirt that clings to his torso. He pulls up a chair, setting it opposite Panky.
Right at his heels is a woman.
It's her of course. No mistaking that loose white flowing shirt. Fresh jasmine blossoms are threaded through her braid.
I can smell them as if she is here in the room.
With me.
Shivering, I fling my free arm around my waist.
Panky does not acknowledge her presence. Not until Crew Cut slaps him. It leaves a mark on his cheek, drawing blood from his lips. I make my palm into a fist. When I get my hands on him—!
Panky' s awake and looking at them, with hatred.
"So you're back then? Ready for more questions?"
I chuckle at that, wondering who's questioning whom here. Seems his spirit is far from broken.
Without waiting for her reply he asks, "You said there was no electricity in this city? How does this hotel have electricity then?"
She purses her lip and looks as if she'd rather throttle him.
"Shut up, Panky, or you are so going to get yourself killed," I speak to the phone screen. I am surprised when she opts to answer.
"Because we have our own generators."
"Yes, but many in the city have their own generators too," he retorts. I groan and close my eyes. Can barely watch now. It's like seeing a tennis match in progress but played with bullets.
She makes a sound somewhere between a growl of anger and a snarl of desperation. "Yes, but for how long? Even the most long-lasting of generators will run out of fuel at some point."
When Panky opens his mouth, she stamps her feet in frustration. "And before you ask, yes, I have a source of fuel supply that will last me for years if not more. Enough of your questions. I only agreed to answer two of them remember?"
It's as if that's a signal for Crew Cut to step forward. He proceeds to hit Panky in the face, to the groin, till he is doubled over in pain, his nose bleeding.
I swear aloud and almost throw the phone at the mirror, stopping myself at the last minute. I grow still as another thought strikes me.
What is this video doing on Vikram's phone? Is he working with her? But how? Why would he do that?
Chapter 18
I SEE THE evidence of it and yet I can't believe it. No, it's not possible. Not the Vikram I am coming to know. But how much do I know him anyway? I just met him a few days ago. And he just mysteriously appeared, out of nowhere.
One thing is clear though, there's no one left to help us. She has broken down the city's support infrastructure. All emergency services are occupied with keeping the city functioning on some level. It's up to me to get Panky out of there. Before she kills him.
I now have no choice but to take Vikram's help to find Dr. B and Panky. He must know for sure how to find them. I am even more convinced about that after finding these videos on his phone.
Getting up from the bath mat, I place the phone down on the shelf below the mirror.
I strip off my clothes and catch sight of myself in the large mirror above the washbasin. On my right side, where the bullet scratched me, the wound is not deep, nowhere as grim as Vikram's, and is already beginning to scar. I have become an expert on scars.
I hold up my left arm and see the very first one: my virgin scar, the one that started it all.
Turning my back to the mirror, I peer over my shoulder. There—a fresh new scar on my back, slashing across the lightning tree.
I turn my left arm and touch the broken skin. This one doesn't hurt as much anymore. Shows no signs of disappearing either. Each scar is unique. Each has a story. I drop my arm and look away. I’m not ready for this.
Stepping under the shower, I let the water flow over me, wash away the blood and the dirt. Stand there until my eyes began to close, and am falling asleep on my feet. The water running out jerks me awake. I look at the last few drops trickling out of the showerhead in horror. Does this mean the city is also running out of water?
Just thinking about it drains me of my remaining energy.
Dragging myself out of the shower, I towel myself dry. I feel old, ancient. I have aged a lifetime in the last few hours. I splash antiseptic over the wound on my side and hiss in pain. It's like acid burning through my bones. I clutch the edge of the basin for support and, closing my eyes, I wonder if I am going to be sick.
After a few seconds, the world steadies back. Breathing out slowly, trying to blow away the black spots that still dance at the edge of my vision, I look at myself in the mirror, my forehead furrowed from the pain.
Life is the true killer.
I dunk the remaining antiseptic on the main bullet wound, as well as the cuts across my underarms, and on whichever part of the scar/tattoo/lightning tree on my back I can reach. Grabbing the remaining bandage, I wrap it around my side, a smaller twin to the one I tied for Vik.
Clad in the bathrobe, I hang the jeans and T-shirt to dry before stumbling out of the bathroom, phone clutched in hand.
I follow Vikram's example of downing a few of my own painkillers with whiskey.
My eyes are fluttering down with exhaustion when a crash from the kitchen jerks me awake. Followed by Vikram's voice. He's swearing. Some of the curses are more graphic than I would have guessed him to be capable of. Clearly, his vocabulary is more extensive than mine. Grinning, I walk towards the kitchen.
At least he's capable of some emotion, when pushed to it. I have seen him bleed. But somehow, Vikram losing his temper makes him a lot more human.
I walk into the kitchen to see Mr. Perfect standing there, leaning against the wall, surveying the scattered slices of bread and tomatoes, eyebrows furrowed in frustration.
For a second I watch, wondering who this guy really is. Is he even a cop as he claims to be. Or just someone she has put up to staying with me. To making sure, he gets me to her with the "artifact."
Then all those thoughts go straight out of my head for even as I watch, his features twist in agony. Swaying a little, he puts his hand out to support himself against the table.
"Umm! Perhaps you should sit down?" I suggest, not unkindly.
"And how are you so steady?" Disgust drips from his voice. I should feel a little put off by that. But I don't. I just feel cheerful. It's good to not be the one losing control for once.
"You mean, how come I, a relative weakling of a girl, am still standing, while you, the big strong man, are all but flat on his back?"
My comment finds its mark. Some color comes into his pale face.
He averts his eyes. "It's not that." He sits down heavily.
"It's just we have very little time to waste, and I can barely stand on my feet."
I kneel down to pick up the dropped food, and am about to throw it away when he cautions, "No, don't, we don't know if—"
"If food is going to be freely available for much longer?" I find it hard to get my mind around it. "You think the situation is that serious?"
Sure, weird stuff has happened, is still happening, including the strange mark on my back. And yes, train stations are being blown up, and perhaps there is a nuclear leak around us. And here we are sitting in the dark, no electricity. And the water just ran out. Perhaps he is right?
He looks so solemn, sitting there, just staring at me. He's looking at me, eating me up with those eyes, and not saying a thing. When he speaks even less than usual, then it's serious, like really serious. This, even I am coming to realize.
Pulling out bread, cheese slices and tomatoes, I quickly slap them together into sandwiches. And pour out water into glasses.
The candles create an intimate environment.
It’s just as if we are dining out at a restaurant, like a proper date? Cheeks growing hot, I avert my eyes slightly.
Why is the thought of being on a date with him such a big deal?
I eat the sandwich; relax into that grey numbness which comes with the painkillers kicking in.
"How long have you known Panky?" Vik asks.
My senses are dulled enough by the painkillers that I don't register this as the first 'personal' question.
"I met him right after I left home. Nearly three years ago. But, I may well have known him all my life. He's all the family I have," I say simply.
Speaking about Panky reminds me why we are here in the first place. I put down my sandwich, unable to eat anymore.
"He’s the more sensible of the two of you."
I look up at that, in time to catch the teasing look in his eyes, and blink.
He’s trying to cheer me up, to take my mind off the task ahead of us.
Silence. A comfortable one.
A flash of lightning outside illuminates his face, haloing him for a second. Then, the unmistakable plop-plop-plop of rain.
We grin at each other and as one, spring to our feet, making for the window, peering out to feel the light drizzle.
Lightning flashes again. It plays with the white-capped brows of the waves before fading off to give the stage to a roll of thunder.
The faint smell of water mixing with parched earth wafts across my nostrils, and I breathe it in deeply.
This, more than anything, is what I identify with this city: the smell of the first rains hitting an Earth which, even though thirsty, seems surprised by the generosity begin showered on it by the skies. There is something deliciously romantic about being trapped in an apartment high above a city where everything is going slightly mental, while inside here it is dark, shot through with mellow light.
"Petrichor," his voice says from somewhere above my ears.
"What?"
"The scent of dust after rain." His eyes are closed, and his throat-chords ripple as he breathes in deeply.
I watch his chest rise and fall. The warmth of his body drapes over my shoulders. In front is the ocean, wide and mysterious.
He has my back. He's been my backup since the moment we met.
"Petros is Greek for stone," he says, "and ichor the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods."
I look up at him and blink as a few raindrops fall on my cheek.
"Wow," I exaggerate my surprise, widening my eyes, "never figured you for a romantic."
For the second time in under an hour, his face reddens. He looks at me then away. "Everyone knows what Petrichor means," he mumbles.
He's embarrassed. It's just it makes him feel vulnerable. Real. I want to hug him, but I don't.
