He lands with a bump on the ground.
In time with the thumping bass.
A dreadlocked hippie is juggling fire to his left.
The fire elongates in Sunny’s mind.
Says good things about the world.
Tells him it’s going to be all right.
He jumps to his feet, starts to dance, throws his arms in the air.
They’re all watching him.
Calling out his name.
Sunny Wadia is returned!
SUN-NY!
SUN-NY!
And above them, unseen by all, Vicky Wadia takes out his mobile phone.
* * *
—
“One second, please,” Peter Mathews says, removing his battered Nokia, holding a finger in the air. “Yes?” he answers pleasantly. “I see. I see,” he sighs. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try.”
He hangs up the phone, slips it back into his pocket again.
And Ajay’s finger flicks off the safety around the Luger’s wooden grip.
“Is everything all right?” Brother Sanjay inquires.
Peter Mathews says, “Ev . . .”
But before he finishes speaking, he’s on his feet, wrapping his arm round Sanjay’s neck, pulling him to his feet, grabbing the old priest’s sausage knife from the table as he goes, dragging Sanjay at knifepoint toward the rear pantry behind.
It happens so quick, and Ajay is slow.
By the time his gun is out, Mathews and Sanjay are gone.
The old priest shouts, “What the hell is going on!?”
In the pantry, Mathews drags the protesting Sanjay toward the outer door. As Ajay turns the corner in pursuit, Mathews smashes Brother Sanjay’s head against the wall, shoves him forward through the air so that Ajay can’t take a shot. And when Ajay stumbles over him, Peter Mathews is gone.
* * *
—
A three-story guesthouse rises behind.
Ajay hears footsteps up the stairwell.
Hears the cries of the cook.
Looks up to see Mathews turning the corner of the stairs on the first floor.
* * *
—
He’s in pursuit, racing up the stairs, as the cook dashes out with a cleaver in hand.
On the first floor, all the doors are closed on either side.
And he hears footsteps going higher.
He runs after them, stumbles in his haste.
When he scrambles up to the second floor, he sees an open room.
Without thinking he lurches in.
Runs across the threshold gun drawn, ready to fire.
But there’s no one there.
By the time he hears the footsteps again, it’s almost too late.
He turns to see a metal pipe crashing down toward his face.
He raises his left hand.
The crack of bone.
And now Mathews is on top of him.
They tangle, grapple, Ajay holding the gun for all he’s worth while Mathews tries to prize it from his right hand.
“You’re ruining everything,” Mathews yells.
Ajay’s left hand is in agony now.
So he kicks up with his legs instead, tries to throw Mathews off, but Mathews is disturbingly strong. With no choice left, Ajay steels himself. With all his strength, he jabs his throbbing left hand into Mathews’s throat.
The terrible pain shoots straight up Ajay’s arm.
But the deed is done.
Mathews falls back, choking.
Gasping for air.
And now Ajay has the freedom to put this monster in the sights of his gun.
All he has to do is pull the trigger.
But he can’t.
“Wait, wait!” Mathews cries, tears in his eyes.
And Ajay waits.
That’s all it takes. Mathews’s lips start to curl into an eerie smile.
And Ajay says: “You’re Sunil Rastogi.”
Mathews nods.
“I am.”
Ajay watches as Rastogi comes to the fore. The remnants of meek Mathews evaporate.
Now Rastogi glances toward the door, at the growing commotion downstairs. “They’ll come for you,” he says, “you know this, yes? You better shoot me now, or you better run.”
“I have to shoot you,” Ajay replies.
“Then do it.”
Ajay’s hand trembles.
“I can’t,” he says.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I know why.” Rastogi smiles.
Ajay’s voice is a whisper. “Tell me.”
“You don’t want to be a slave anymore.”
“But I have to kill you,” Ajay says. “I have no choice.”
“You’re in pain.” Rastogi smiles. “I can see it in your eyes. I’ve been there too, we’re like brothers, you and I.”
“I have to shoot,” Ajay says.
“Remember downstairs,” Rastogi says, “what I talked about. Imagine a universe where you didn’t need to kill. Where would you be?”
He can see Ajay’s hand losing focus, shaking.
“Home,” Ajay says.
“Home?”
Ajay closes his eyes. “In the mountains.”
“So go back there.”
“I can’t!” Ajay cries.
With great distress and searing pain, Ajay slides his fingers into his jeans pocket and pulls the photo he’s been carrying for so long.
He holds the photo pinched in his swelling hand.
Rastogi takes it from him, brings it to his eyes. He devours the image, the girl in the bed, in the brothel, so fierce, so afraid. Rastogi looks from the photo to the man before him.
“Who’s this?” Rastogi says, his voice softening, conciliatory.
“My sister!” Ajay sobs. “My sister! I have to kill you to save her.”
“Brother.” Rastogi begins to laugh. “That’s not your sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they lied to you.”
“What do you mean?!”
“I mean to say, that’s not your sister.”
“How?!”
“Because I know this girl. I know her only too well. She hails from Bihar, my friend. Her name is Neha. This is a brothel in Benares. I know because I used to work there.”
“No. That’s not true! She’s my sister.”
“Maybe she is and I’m wrong,”
“She is!”
“Or maybe they lied to you, brother. Listen, I know this girl. Look at her! She doesn’t even look like you.”
Rastogi holds the photo to Ajay’s face.
Ajay looks at the girl as if for the first time.
And his whole world falls away.
Maybe it’s true. Maybe this is not her.
And what if that’s so?
“Yes, they lied to you,” Rastogi says. “Like they lie to everyone. They promised to save her, didn’t they?”
Ajay looks up. “Yes.”
“But really they sent you here to die.”
Ajay’s head throbs and pounds, the mandrax comedown, the shock, the agony of confusion, the agony of his swollen hand.
From downstairs, the sounds of a mob.
Rastogi points to the open window behind.
“You can wait here for them to catch you. Kill you. Turn you in. Or you can run. You can run and be free.”
* * *
—
Up the stairs, the cook leads the way, followed by several neighborhood boys wielding cricket bats, hockey sticks, kitchen knives. They huddle together, move forward fearfully, shouting among themselves. There! They yell at the door, stumble in.
* * *
—
Peter Mathews lies sobbing on the ground.
“He tried to kill me!” he cries. He points at the window. “He ran.”
The cook darts to the window, slashing his cleaver at the night.