A Cut-Like Wound (9 page)

No one looked kindly on informers, not even their own families. And Mohammed was scared that if he was
discovered, the wrath of the powers that controlled Shivaji Nagar would descend not just on him but on his biwi and their children. And so, when it had seemed that the ACP was going to keep him there all morning, Gowda had known it was time to speed things up. He grinned, thinking of the play of emotions on the ACP’s face as he walked out of the room.

Gowda saw Mohammed enter the restaurant. He stood by the cash counter, his eyes darting this way and that, swooping on each face and discarding. In the twelve years of their association, Gowda and Mohammed had met only five times, and each time they had spent barely fifteen minutes together. Gowda sipped his coffee and waited. Mohammed would eventually spot him. A few minutes later, Mohammed stood at his table. ‘Sir, I didn’t recognize…’

‘Sit down, Mohammed.’

The vendor hesitated, then, seeing the impatience in Gowda’s eyes, he pulled out a chair and perched on it gingerly.

‘When did he go missing,’ Gowda asked quietly.

A waited sidled up to their table.

‘What will you have?’ Gowda asked.

‘Nothing.’ Mohammed shook his head.

‘Get him a badam milk. You like that, don’t you?’ Gowda said.

‘I…’

‘Our badam milk is very good,’ the boy said, shoving his pencil behind his ear. ‘Nothing to eat?’

Gowda wanted to box his ears. ‘Just get the drink,’ he growled.

Mohammed looked down on his hands that rested on the table top. ‘Sir, I am fasting … it’s Ramzan.’

Gowda nodded. ‘That’s fine. I’ll drink it. So, when did this boy go missing?’

‘I saw Liaquat on Monday night. It was late. I asked him to go home with me. He had been shooting up. The boy seemed unhinged. I was afraid he would get into trouble … he hasn’t come home yet.’

Gowda nodded. ‘But that’s not all, is it?’

‘Someone said they saw him go into the lane near Siddiq’s Garage. It is a small lane with a dead end. I don’t even know why I went there. But I did, and I found this.’ Mohammed laid out a silver talisman on a black thread. ‘This is his. I got it blessed by the mullah at the dargah near my home in Bijapur. Liaquat’s from there. That’s why I feel responsible for him. He’s only nineteen.’

Gowda touched the talisman thoughtfully. ‘You’ll have to come with me. A body has been found. A young boy, of about that age. No one’s come forward to claim it. I hope it’s not your Liaquat but we need to start somewhere.’

Mohammed put his head in his hands.

‘Walk up Millers Road near the Carmel College ground. I’ll pick you up from there.’

Mohammed didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His face was ashen. His lower lip wobbled as he sought to bring some control to his emotions. ‘Why, sir?’ he whispered after a while. ‘Why would anyone do this?’

Gowda shrugged. ‘Are you sure this is Liaquat?’

Mohammed nodded. ‘Liaquat had a sixth finger on his left hand. It was attached to his thumb. There was an extra toe on his left foot too. And he was the same height and build as this…’ He gestured to the nearly charred corpse laid out in the mortuary.

‘No one has come forward to claim the body,’ Gowda said quietly.

‘No one will,’ Mohammed mumbled. ‘Liaquat’s an orphan and Razak’s in jail.’

‘Who? Chicken Razak?’

Mohammed looked away. ‘Hmm…’ His voice dipped again. ‘Liaquat was Razak’s frooter.’

Gowda frowned. Razak’s catamite. That changed things. Was this part of a gang war? The homicide showed all indications of it, right down to the manner in which they had tried to dispose of the body. Yet, somewhere in Gowda niggled a worm of disquiet. What about the manja string? And Kothandaraman, the other victim – what could he have had to do with rowdy gangs? Twenty-four years of police experience had honed his instincts to follow a hunch when he had one. In this case and Kothandaraman’s, that was all he had to go on.

‘What happens if no one claims the body?’ Mohammed asked suddenly.

‘It will be sent to the crematorium.’ Gowda sighed.

‘Would I be able to claim the body?’ Mohammed looked up at Gowda. ‘We are from the same village. He’s a Muslim, sir. He has to be buried according to our customs. It is against our religion for the body to be cremated. We have to bury the body quickly, before it is night. That is what our religion says we must do.’

Nineteen. A boy. His son was the same age. What if it had been Roshan? How would he have borne it? Gowda shuddered. ‘You’ll have to claim some kinship. Tell everyone he’s your uncle’s son and I’ll take care of the rest. The attendant here is a Muslim. I’ll have him wrap the body in a white cloth so you can do the ghusl without having to take the kafan off.’

Gowda took out his wallet and pulled out two thousand-rupee notes. ‘I know this will not be enough but this is all I have with me now.’

Mohammed’s eyes filled. ‘You are a good man, Gowda sir. Our religion teaches us to take care of orphans. We are promised the companionship of the Prophet in jannat. But that you should do this…’

‘Do you think there are separate heavens for Hindus and Muslims, Mohammed?’

‘I have embarrassed you,’ Mohammed said quietly. ‘I just want you to know that God, yours or mine, wherever he is, in my heaven or yours, will remember this. Like he will not spare the devil who did this to Liaquat. Liaquat was a rascal. He was silly and unscrupulous at times. But he was a boy. No one deserves to die like he has. Were they men or beasts?’

Gowda patted the man on his shoulder.

‘Someone will have to tell Razak,’ Mohammed said, as they finished the formalities.

Gowda ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I will have that organized, Mohammed,’ he said on a whim. ‘Ask around, will you? See if anyone remembers anything from that night.’

He watched as Mohammed and the remains of what was once Liaquat drove away in the hearse.

Gowda felt a strange desolation wash over him.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost four. Santosh would be back with the photographer’s statement. Not that either his or Michael’s statements were going to provide any leads.

Gowda scrolled down the contacts in his phone.

‘Ashok,’ he barked. ‘I want you to look up something for me.’

‘How about a hello first?’ Ashok’s indignation bristled through.

‘Hello, Ashok. How are you? How are the babies and the missus? What about your grandmother? Oh, and I forgot, her cow? How’s the postman, and the vegetable vendor?’

‘Gowda, give it a rest.’ Ashok sighed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Tell me everything you know and can find out about Chicken Razak.’

‘He’s in jail. Why?’

‘The truth is, Ashok, I don’t know. I may be wasting your time and mine. But until I have the information you can give me, I won’t know…’

‘Next week then.’

‘No, tomorrow,’ Gowda retorted.

‘What?’ Ashok yelped.

‘Will be there at four. See you then,’ Gowda said and walked to his motorbike.

He stood looking at it with a small smile. When nothing seemed to go right, when everything else failed, when he felt old and wrung out, looking at his bullet brought him succour. God, how he loved this bike!

The world could keep its Harleys and R1 Yamahas. It was only the Bullet that did it for him. Make him feel as if it were an extension of himself. From the smooth curve of the petrol tank to the unflinching tiger-eye lamp that threw light into nooks and corners of the alleyways to the beast-like growl of the 500cc engine producing 41.3Nm of torque.

When Gowda prowled his way through the city on the Bullet, its distinct thump, the Bullet sound, resounded through his very being, flooding him with power, strength
and with the unassailable knowledge that this was who he was: rugged, unrestrained and not afraid to go forth.

H
er thighs brushed against his knees as she found her way to her place two seats away from his. His eyes trailed her. Even in the darkness of the movie theatre, she knew. A frisson of excitement. A heartbeat that slipped. All her womanly instincts told her that a pair of eyes was following her, fondling her … Bhuvana smiled her secret smile of knowing.

She sat in the almost straight-backed theatre seat and placed her hands on the wooden armrests. A musty smell suffused the theatre and the dialogues were muffled as they emerged from the speakers. But no one would complain. The people who patronized Kalinga theatre would continue to come there even if the place smelt like a urinal in a public bus stand. Such was its pull.

The theatre was only half full. Mostly men, with a few women randomly scattered. She pulled the dupatta around her neck and adjusted it so that it fell over her right shoulder, covering her breasts and revealing a bit of her hair so her profile would be that much more striking. On her face was a half smile. She knew she looked like the singer in the Ravi Varma painting. Not the one in the centre, holding the tanpura, but the woman at the far left: mysterious, alluring, with an enigmatic expression in her eyes.

Monday had been a disaster. She had been so hopeful when she set out that evening. But it had all gone horribly wrong and Akka’s disapproval had dogged her every step home and as she wiped her face clean of make-up.

Akka watched as Bhuvana faded out and was replaced by a man in the mirror.

‘I suggest you don’t go out for a few weeks,’ she said.

It was the man who nodded, pretending to agree.

‘You really can’t take chances like this,’ Akka added.

He nodded again. It was best to let Akka believe that Bhuvana wasn’t going to emerge for a few days.

Akka would be furious if she knew Bhuvana had slipped out again. She bit on the fleshy pad of her thumb to stop the giggle from emerging. Bhuvana had a mind of her own. And Bhuvana did exactly what she wanted.

She touched her earlobe. It was a new earring with rubies in it. She missed the pearl earrings. But she had lost one of the pair. Perhaps in that scuffle in the alley or somewhere else. Or it may have fallen off on its own. The hook hadn’t been long enough to take the weight of the pearl. She would have that earring replicated. To feel again the cool touch of the pearl against her skin when she moved her head. She held her head pertly, seeing in her mind how it would be when her pearl earring adorned her ears again.

She gave him fifteen minutes. It was a low-budget flesh flick. The plot seldom changed. The horny sister-in-law. The desperate housewife. The untouched schoolgirl. The film pandered to the average fantasy of the average Indian man. If you wait your turn, everything you want will come to you. The epics taught you this, so did the movie changes at Kalinga theatre.

In fifteen minutes, the bits would start appearing. Inserts of hard porn. When the first bit came on, she stared at the screen in disgust. How could these louts here be turned on by this? The mechanical sucking and fucking; the moaning, groaning and slurping … her stomach turned.

All around her, as if on cue, the louts had begun their groping and fumbling. What was she doing here, she thought as she saw the man across the aisle fumble at the crotch of the man sitting next to him. They were strangers. She knew that. They had walked in separately along with her. Bloody homo cocksuckers.

Two nights ago the goddess had appeared in her dream and said it was time to begin. Friday was assigned as the chosen day when she would have to wait for the goddess’s call and follow instructions on where to go. No more stepping out on other days of the week, the goddess had warned, that doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. For the rest, listen to your inner voice, she had said.

But when the goddess spoke to her, she had to heed what was asked of her. This was where the goddess had asked her to go. And so she had slipped out of the house and brought herself here.

But this theatre that seemed to be filled with rutting animals, why had the goddess sent her here?

As she rose and walked past the row of seats, a hand pulled her back. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he asked. ‘Where are you going?’

A bird rose within her chest. A fluttering of wings in her ears. The tang of an expensive aftershave. Her mouth went dry.

‘I…’ she stuttered.

‘Don’t go, please,’ he said.