A House Called Askival (26 page)

THIRTY-NINE

They left immediately for Colonel and Mrs Bunce's house on the back
chakkar
road. Once Leota delivered the story in a breathless rush on the doorstep, the Colonel donned his long black boots and strapped a revolver round his waist.

‘Right then,' he said. ‘Better find some Gurkhas and sort these buggers out.' And with a torch in one hand and a neatly furled umbrella (BUNCE 1) in the other, he strode off into the night.

Mrs Bunce ushered them into her living room where Leota went through the whole story again over mugs of cocoa. As James watched the skin form on the top of his drink, he listened to his mother solidifying what she believed – and what she needed to believe – into immutable fact. The women gasped together over the violence of these people and shook their heads.

Leota was given the guest bed and James a sleeping bag on the couch. He did not sleep, but spent the night staring at the window, flinching at every creak and rustle outside. Before dawn it began to rain, and the rain slowly washed the dark out of the sky, leaving a weak grey that seeped into the ground, the swollen walls of the house, the pith of his bones.

Then Colonel Bunce returned. James heard him stamping in the front
porch and beating the rain off his umbrella. As he came into the living room, Leota appeared, wrapping a borrowed dressing gown around herself, hair hanging in greasy tendrils around her shoulders. Her face was pasty and drawn, eyebrows bunched with worry, mouth half open and gummy in the corners. James, sitting fully clothed in his sleeping bag, tucked his legs up to make space for her. He looked down at his hands, cold and white, veined with silent, sunken rivers.

The Colonel sat heavily in the armchair in the corner, pulling his trouser legs up to reveal startled black hairs above his socks.

‘Well, it's all rather ghastly,' he said. ‘I'm afraid the bastards got the poor fellow.'

A winded sound from Leota as her hand shot to her mouth. James could make no sound; he could barely breathe.

He kept his eyes on his hands as Bunce described how he and the Gurkhas had made straight for Mullingar Hotel where a crowd of Sikhs were refuged, but found only women, children and old men who refused to say a thing. How they'd moved up the mountain and met a triumphant throng coming down, with torches, knives and cries of victory. How they'd marched this lot down to Mullingar, removed their weapons and established a permanent guard at the place. How Bunce and a few of the Gurkhas had gone back up the mountain to scan for others. Which was when they'd found Aziz. Lying in the road, hacked and burned.

‘His face was a ruin,' said Bunce, shaking his head, eyebrows arching. ‘But I knew it had to be your chap because I recognised James' shoes. He was wearing your basketball boots, wasn't he, my boy?'

FORTY

Back at Askival, Leota's first act was to scrub the blood off the veranda steps. James watched her use the same basin and Dettol that last night had held Aziz' bare and bloodied feet. The feet that had slipped into James' shoes and run off into the dark. In his bedroom he took apart the rifle, piece by piece, cleaned it and put it away in the case and into the tin trunk that still jutted from under his bed. The black buck watched him. James would not meet its eyes. All the while he heard Leota scrubbing, and the faint huffing of her effort. She'd asked Colonel Bunce if they should leave everything at the house untouched so the police could inspect and take fingerprints.

‘Oh, I shouldn't worry about that,' Bunce had said. ‘The whole country's drowning in its own blood, the police won't care about one little servant in a sleepy hill station. I'll have a word with the Superintendent for you, but he won't be trotting up to Askival with a notebook, I can assure you. He's got all the other Mohammedans to get safely out of town and these hot-head Sikhs to settle. Quite enough for one afternoon.'

So Leota and James returned to Askival to clean up the evidence that no one cared about and to pack a bag for Salima. Leota put in her own best sari, some shampoo and soap, a small towel and a tub of Vaseline.
James watched her. What can you give a woman in exchange for her husband? She fussed about trying to find something for the baby and eventually settled on a tin of condensed milk. James added his own small teddy bear.

He carried the backpack down the mountain, his mother beside him. He was silent. She could not stop talking:
They would send a telegram to Stanley. And Aziz' family in his home village would need to be notified. But that area of Kashmir – was it still in India or part of Pakistan now? Oh what a mess the whole thing was! If only they could live side by side in peace none of this would be happening
.

They reached the place where Aziz had died. The Gurkhas had put the charred remains of the body into a bag and left it at the hospital morgue, awaiting instructions. The rain had washed everything else away, leaving only a dark stain and the smell of wet smoke.

They stared at the shadow on the ground, Leota now unable to speak. She clasped her arms across her chest, gripping the flesh as if trying to hold the halves of herself together. She kept starting to say something, her mouth dropping open on a suck of breath, but then clamping shut again to stop the wobbling. At last she gave up. James heard her sobs, felt her hand gripping his arm and her body shuddering against his, but he did not look, or turn towards her. He could only stare at the inky patch of ground.

At Rampur House, a young Gurkha with a gentle smile ushered them through the main gates. A short, tree-lined drive led steeply upwards to the white mansion where women were spreading washing on the grass and children swarmed in giggling, bare-foot packs. Leota approached an old woman picking lice from a child's hair and asked for Salima. There was discussion amongst the women and a boy was sent.

James put down the pack, heavier now with food from the bazaar. He shoved one hand down his pocket and held onto his arm with the other, his sides running with sweat. The seven mile walk with a heavy bag in the cloying monsoon air was partial cause, but the imminent arrival of Salima was the most of it.

She appeared, Iqbal on her hip. They'd both been bathing and her long black hair dripped wet down her back and over her shoulders, plastering the thin cotton of her kameez to her skin. James tried not to look at the plump breasts with their nipples rising through the damp. He had been fourteen when Aziz proudly brought home this young wife, and her presence had become excruciating for the boy whose dreams both night and day were invaded by forbidden pleasures. The situation had only worsened when Iqbal was born and James could see her feeding him on the back lawn, a breast fleetingly exposed, swollen, wet nipple extended and glistening in the sun.

And here she was now, skin luminous and fragrant, beautiful face already puckered with the question that would be unbearable to answer. Baby Iqbal bounced on her hip, lighting up at the sight of them, his grin revealing two dimples and a perfect tooth. He threw his arms out to Leota and she took him, pressing a deep kiss into his curly head and squeezing him tight against her.

When Salima screamed and crumpled at their feet, James reached out to catch her, but in the moment his arms pressed around her body, he knew the depths of his error. Not meant to even touch a Muslim woman, far less embrace her, he was only adding shame to her torment. So he pulled back at once and let her fall, and watched miserably as Leota knelt and held her and cried with her, Iqbal between them, adding his infant wails to the terrible din.

Then James ran. He fled to the dense cluster of pines at the side of the house, to the dark cool between the trunks where it smelled of resin and the ground was thick with needles. There he threw himself down and wept.

FORTY-ONE

Nearly forty years later, in the Kanpur hospital corridor, James turned from Gurpreet's burnt body on the floor and ran again, a sour vomit rising inside him. As it erupted, dark spilled over his eyes and he heard the sounds of rushing feet and cries, like a flock of birds. Then hands were leading him, a chair, someone pressing his back forward, his head down. He felt the knobs of his knees, the floor spinning, his eyes pressing shut, an explosion of stars.

Slowly, someone drew his back up straight.

Strong hands, a glass of water.

Go home. Rest today
.

He couldn't reply.

Opening his eyes, he saw the room swimming into place: the speed of things slowing down, the furniture returning, the floor flat. He wiped the back of a hand across his mouth: slime and cold sweat, the taste of sick. Someone extended a wad of toilet roll and he mopped at his damp face and the sticky corners of his lips. The wet wad was taken, a thud in a bin, and a mug of chai pressed into his hands. Whoever it was slipped out, and he sipped the tea, the sweet heat of it easing down his body, settling the visions and the shaking.

He didn't know how long he sat there, willing himself to get up, but
failing to move. The tea was finished, the cup cold in his hand when there was a knock and the door opened.

Ellen. Her face white.

‘I'm all right,' he said, but his voice was a croak.

She sank to her knees in front of him, took the mug and clutched his hands in hers.

‘Oh, darling…' Something caught in her throat and she looked away sharply, but not before he saw the tears.

‘I'm all right,' he repeated, lifting a hand to touch her head.

She started to cry. James lunged forward to embrace her, but his legs gave way. Instead of holding her, he fell onto her, knocking her backwards. They gasped and struggled, but he was like a marionette dropped and could not pull himself off. She pushed at the dead weight of him and rolled him to one side.

‘Sorry,' he whispered. ‘So sorry.'

She dragged her twisted leg out from underneath him and he slumped, cheek on the floor.

‘James,' she said, gripping his shoulder. ‘I have to go tonight.'

His eyes rolled up at her.

‘It's Ruth. There's been a death.'

There came a sound from him.

A bird cry, a shot, a cracking of bone.

FORTY-TWO

When the door crashed open at Askival, Ruth and Manveer knew that what had just begun was already over.

She flinched. He held her closer.

It was Mr Haskell with a torch that ran across the underwear and the ruin of Sita's coat and the fallen hair. It ran up their bodies till it found their faces, Ruth's squinting into the harsh beam, Manveer's raw and strange with his butchered hair.

Mr Haskell's breath sucked in. ‘What have you done?' He ran the light back down to the floor and over the long swathes of black hair, the empty turban, the
patka
. The beam fell across Ruth's handbag with its spilled contents, the brush and make-up, the joints. The circle of light halted there, damning.

‘No!' she said, with sudden realisation. ‘We didn't—'

He bent and picked them up. ‘You stupid little idiots.'

‘No, Mr Haskell,' Manveer tried, ‘we didn't smoke—'

‘Shut up!' he spat. ‘What the hell are you doing? Have you got no idea—?
No
idea what's happening around you? Don't you give a shit about anybody else? What about your parents, Manveer? Yours, Ruth? The show?! You selfish, selfish, stupid
fucking
idiots!'

As he raged at them, Ruth felt the sting of tears and Manveer's hands
tightening. At last, ramming the joints into his pocket, Mr Haskell barked at them to get moving and kicked open the door. They stumbled after him, Manveer grabbing his jacket, Ruth her bag and Sita's coat. The
kirpan
lay forgotten on the mantelpiece and the
kanga
, fallen from Ruth's pocket, lay beside the soiled
kachha
and the shorn
kesh
. Only the
kara
was with them, on her wrist.

Mr Haskell strode ahead, his torch light bobbing along the ruts of the
chakkar
road, his breath jagged as they followed in silence, gripping each other's hands. They passed the graveyard and old Morrison Church and an opening in the trees where they could see the ghost of the snows far to the north. When they got to the steep path dropping below the road, Mr Haskell did not look back at them or speak or offer any share of the light, but plunged straight down, his boots crashing and sending tiny stones skeetering down the
khud
. They slipped and staggered behind him, clinging to each other, erupting in small exclamations when they turned an ankle or stubbed a toe.

‘Mr Haskell!' Ruth called, when they got to a bit that was treacherously narrow, and cut into a sheer slope. ‘Please slow down – we can't – see—!'

But he ignored her and strode on, even faster than before.

Then there was a howl from Manveer as he tripped and knocked his knee against a boulder, all at once losing his balance, Ruth's hand and his footing. And then he fell. Right over the side, crashing through the trees into the darkness.

‘Manveer!' Ruth yelled.

‘What happened?' Mr Haskell spun round and sent his beam back up the path to where Ruth was kneeling at the edge.

‘Manveer's fallen!' she yelled again. ‘Manveer! Manveer!'

There was only silence.

The sickle moon watched, stunned, a veil of cloud drawn over her mouth as the great trees swung and swayed in alarm. A hill barbet wailed and the night's breath was cold.

The
khud
below that stretch of path was so steep and overgrown that they could not navigate it, nor find Manveer in the desperate ray of the
torch. Mr Haskell told Ruth to wait and keep calling while he ran for help.

On her hands and knees on the path she called and cried and shook with fear. Tears stinging her eyes, she flung herself onto the God of her childhood.

‘Please, please, please God,' she cried. ‘Save him. Let him be ok, let him live. I'm so sorry for everything I've done wrong, I'm so sorry, please don't let this be your punishment. Not Manveer, God, not Manveer. He doesn't deserve it. Punish ME, Lord, but not him! Please, God.' And then it hit her: a revelation, a sudden understanding of what this moment was for. ‘Dear God, if you save Manveer, I will believe in you. I will live for you and love you and serve you with all of my heart for all of my life. If you are true, if you are love, then answer my prayer.'

When help came, it included Chaplain Park who joined the search, and Mrs Park, who led the shivering Ruth back to their house and put her straight to bed, where she fell in and out of sleep, the waking as bad as the nightmares.

They did not find Manveer till the grey dawn. He was hanging in a tree, twisted, his head bloody from where it had hit a rock in the fall. A pair of the school sweepers climbed the steep slope, lifted him into a sling and lowered him to the group of staff gathered on the clearing below. Mr Haskell took Manveer's body into his arms and sank to his knees, the boy stretched across him, a tangle of twigs and leaves caught in his hair.

Ruth was at the breakfast table in Mrs Park's pyjamas when Chaplain Park got back and broke the news. That day and night were a confusion of weeping and disbelief, of frantic talk and shocked silences, of hysteria and numbness. God vanished into the vortex, prayer and faith spinning after him, Ruth's whole self teetering on the edge. The only thing she could cling to was the news that her mother was coming. It was like a life-boat, plunging towards her through the storm, and she survived only on the vision of that embrace.

But when Ellen arrived at Oaklands she was taken straight to Principal
Withers' office. He showed her the joints found beside Ruth's bag and relayed Mr Haskell's account of the sex and the smoking and how the teenagers had been so high they couldn't walk straight. Which was why Manveer had fallen. And probably why he'd allowed his hair to be cut. Because the terrible, tragic irony, Principal Withers pointed out, was that Manveer had been an exemplary student and a devout Sikh who had never broken a school rule, nor had a girlfriend nor touched alcohol, tobacco or drugs in his life. Till Ruth. Principal Withers had been obliged to break this appalling news to Manveer's parents and Ellen could only imagine, he was sure, how that had gone. Ruth, clearly, must be expelled.

By the time Ellen arrived at the Park's house, she was white and trembling. Ruth saw only rage, as she did not recognise the heartbreak beneath it, nor did she know James was lying spent and unspeaking in his bed in Kanpur. Ellen was struggling to speak herself but managed, in terse, short sentences with eyes averted, to inform Ruth of her expulsion and their departure that afternoon. When Ruth cried out and reached for her, Ellen turned away.

Back in the dorm, as Ruth silently gathered her things, Ellen packed with brutal speed and none of her usual orderliness. Sheets were ripped off, blankets thrown in trunks, clothes, books and pens tossed in a jumble. Through it all, the pervading smell of mothballs rose from the trunks like a ghost. When Ellen tipped out a drawer of socks, a small paper bag tumbled with them. She ripped it open and five joints fell onto her palm. There was an awful quiet.

‘How could you?' she hissed. ‘How could you…
destroy
that poor boy?'

Ruth, who had not yet heard the official judgement, stared at her, not fathoming. Then the realisation dawned.

‘What? What did they say?!' she cried. ‘Mom, we didn't – I never—!'

‘Mr Haskell
saw
you.'

‘No, no, no – Mom!' Ruth tumbled over herself trying to tell what had really happened, but her mother merely shook her head.

‘Believe me!' Ruth screamed.

‘Believe
you
?' Ellen said, her face twisted with scorn. ‘You disgust me.' And she slapped her. Hard.

Ruth fled to the bathroom. She tore off the false red nails and smashed her glass bangles against the sink, leaving cuts up both arms, blood on the ceramic, glass on the floor. Only the
kara
remained and she pressed it to her mouth as if needing it for breath. Looking up, she saw a face in the mirror so puffy and scratched and bruised she did not recognise it.

Two coolies carried her things to a taxi on the New Road and she watched, motionless, as her entire life at Oaklands was reduced to three tin boxes, a backpack and a bed roll. In all her dreaming of exodus, she had never imagined exile, nor how her yearning for freedom might become banishment.

She and Ellen sat at opposite ends of the back seat, a savage silence between them.

The taxi left while everyone was still in class.

No-one came to see Ruth.

No-one said good-bye.