City of Ghosts (14 page)

Jeevan nodded as a single tear worked its way down his left cheek. He wiped it away in embarrassment. All he had ever wanted was to feel as though he belonged. Not at the orphanage, with countless other poor souls, but out in the wider world, with a real family – people for whom he was special, just like he had been to his mother so many years before.

Hans Raj looked at Pritam, relieved to have defused the situation. The last thing he needed was a weak link in the gang. It would jeopardize everything he had tried to build. He whispered in his ear, ‘Keep an eye on him.'

Pritam nodded. The older man turned to the others. ‘We will wait until later to dispose of the body,' he told them. ‘In the meantime I'll go and find something to put
it in. Stay here and let Pritam get you food and drink. And be ready for the fight, my brothers. Tomorrow the British will know they are in for a struggle.'

He drew back the bolt on the heavy wooden door, opened it and stepped out into the internal courtyard of the brothel, with Pritam right behind him. Jeevan watched them go and then went to sit in a corner, his back cooled by the stone wall.

‘Are you all right?' asked Bahadhur Khan, coming to join him.

Jeevan nodded.

‘You are from the orphanage, aren't you?'

‘How do you know that?'

‘I know your friend, Gurdial,' replied Bahadhur.

The mention of Jeevan's friend brought back memories of an easier time. Of teasing the girls of the City Mission School; of arriving late for
roti
and receiving a playful scolding from Mata Devi, the only mother he or Gurdial or countless other young men had ever really known. Memories of following Gurdial as he spied on Sohni, and sitting with him in the shadow of the Golden Temple as he composed love poetry, and people bathed in the cool, clear waters that surrounded the holy site, cleansing their bodies and consciences.

And now here he was, having witnessed and become party to an act that went against everything he had been taught. And much more importantly, everything he believed in. Had his simple, lovesick friend been right about Pritam? Was he really the villain that some
alleged? Or was the voice in his heart the most truthful one; the one that told him to respect Hans Raj, to follow him wherever he chose to go? No one else had ever wanted to replace his mother or told him that he was special. Hans Raj and Pritam had taken him in, nurtured him and made him part of their family; could he really turn against that commitment, that love now, and risk losing his family all over again?

‘Are you daydreaming,
bhai
?' asked Bahadhur, breaking into his thoughts.

‘No, no,' Jeevan replied quickly. ‘I'm just tired after today – that's all.'

Bahadhur nodded. ‘Do you think that Hans Raj is right? That there will be much fighting tomorrow?'

Jeevan shrugged. ‘I think he may be,' he replied. ‘He is always right.'

‘Always?' asked Bahadhur.

‘Always,
bhai
.'

‘
BUT THAT, DOCTOR
Satyapal, is the law of this land. And the law shall be obeyed,' insisted Miles Irving, the deputy commissioner of the Punjab.

Dr Satyapal glanced at his compatriot, Dr Kitchlew. They were in Miles Irving's bungalow, on a compound separated from the old city by railroad tracks and a bridge; they had just found out that the government had decided to deport them.

‘I will not add a single word to those I have spoken already this morning,' continued the deputy commissioner.

Miles Irving had only started his posting in February, but already he felt jaded. The interminable politics of the Raj, and of the Punjab region in particular, had worn him out. How he longed for the reassuring smells and sounds of England once more. He'd had his fill of dust and heat; of busy streets and open gulleys and
strange languages and customs. India had left him cold. He turned to the superintendent of police, Mr Rehill.

‘Are the arrangements in hand?' he asked.

Rehill nodded but didn't speak. Aware of Irving's lack of authority, he turned instead to Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, the civil surgeon. The man who had the ear of the Punjab's governor general, Michael O'Dwyer.

‘Sir?'

‘Yes, Rehill?' asked Smith.

‘Are my orders complete?'

Smith told him that they were. Rehill's face darkened. He asked Lieutenant-Colonel Smith if he might speak with him in private. Smith nodded and they stepped to one side. Commissioner Irving struggled to hide his annoyance at Rehill's open disregard for his rank.

‘I'm worried, sir,' Rehill told Smith. ‘Removing these two gentlemen might lead to friction in the city.' He nodded towards Satyapal and Kitchlew.

Smith put a firm hand on Rehill's shoulder. ‘No need to fret, old chap,' he told him. ‘Everything is under control and O'Dwyer is fully aware of our intentions. I don't think we'll have a problem as long as we act swiftly and with the correct degree of . . . secrecy.'

‘Yes, sir,' replied Rehill, although he didn't agree.

The two men turned back and Rehill saw anger and frustration on the faces of the two Indians.

‘This is an outrage!' declared Dr Kitchlew. ‘An absolute crime against decency. Does Mr O'Dwyer know of this?'

Irving sighed. ‘The Governor is well aware of our decision, and besides the Rowlatt Act is quite explicit in its terms,' he pointed out. ‘If you and your compatriots openly breach the law, you shall suffer the consequences—'

‘But we haven't done a thing!' protested Dr Satyapal. ‘You ordered us not to commit certain acts and we've followed your instructions to the letter.'

This time Miles Irving snorted. ‘You have done no such thing, sir.'

Dr Satyapal shook his head. ‘Where is the decency?' he asked forlornly.

Rehill's deputy, Plomer, a rotund man with an unfortunate habit of breaking wind uncontrollably, entered the room. He approached Irving and the others. ‘Sirs, there is unrest in the courtyard,' he told them.

‘Unrest?' asked Irving. ‘Whatever do you mean, man?'

Plomer cleared his throat of the dust that seemed to lodge itself there each day. ‘Their fellow . . . er . . .
persons
,' he replied. ‘Out in the courtyard. They're causing a rumpus and asking to see these two.'

‘Well, go and quieten them down, Plomer,' said Lieutenant-Colonel Smith. ‘There's a good chap.'

‘I . . . er . . . can't, sir,' admitted Plomer. ‘They won't listen to me.'

Smith rolled his eyes and told Rehill to go and help his deputy deal with things in the courtyard. After they had gone, he turned to Irving.

‘I don't know about you, Miles,' he said, ‘but this
damn country drives me insane. I'm taking my first drink earlier and earlier each day.'

Irving smiled and went over to a drinks cabinet made of sandalwood and carved with elephants and peacocks. He took out a decanter of whisky and two cut-glass tumblers. As he set them down on the table, a small lizard ran across the surface, its bright green tail disappearing down the table leg.

‘Damn creatures!' he cried. ‘They get everywhere.' He poured two large measures and handed one glass to Smith. ‘There you go, dear fellow.'

The two Englishmen sipped their drinks. The two Indians might as well have become invisible.

Out in the courtyard Rehill was trying to calm the attendants who had arrived with Satyapal and Kitchlew. There were six of them in total and they were unmoved by Rehill and Plomer and their so-called authority. While Plomer was clueless and dense, Rehill had vast experience of the region and knew he needed to be discreet. If word of the deportations became public too soon, it would lead to chaos on the streets of Amritsar – of that he had no doubt. And Amritsar was a city on the brink. A city that was harder to control than a herd of elephants. Rehill estimated that, on a good day, the British had effective control of about a third of the city, and that was at full strength. But General Dyer, who commanded the troops, was away, as was the governor. Troop numbers were low. Any
disturbances now and Rehill knew that, without reinforcements, the city would have to be handed over to the people. And that just wouldn't do. Certainly not while he was in charge.

The fact that he had to escort Satyapal and Kitchlew to Dharamsala personally was also a worry. That would leave Plomer in charge at a time of potential conflict. Rehill looked at his deputy and sighed. Plomer was a disgrace – unfit, tiresome and uncouth. Just not the calibre of person required to look after the policing of Amritsar at such a time. But Rehill's orders were to oversee the deportations and he would have to carry them out. Discretion was paramount; the last thing Rehill wanted was for the men waiting in the courtyard to find out what was going on. At least not until after he himself was out of the city. After that, he wouldn't be in a position to be blamed.

‘Gentlemen,' Rehill said to the men, ‘I really do need you to leave.'

A very dark man with jet-black, side-parted hair and yellow teeth objected. ‘Not until we see Doctor Satyapal or Doctor Kitchlew!'

‘That simply won't be possible until after they have spoken to Commissioner Irving,' replied Rehill.

‘We demand to see them now!' cried an older man wearing a navy blue turban. His beard was as white as snow.

Rehill shook his head.

‘
India zindabaad!
' shouted yet another of the men.

One by one they all sat down on the dusty ground, their faces determined.

‘We shall sit here until our leaders are brought out,' said the older man. ‘We shall commit no crime nor any act of violence and we shall not break any other laws.'

Plomer turned to his superior. ‘Should I arrest them, sir?' he asked.

‘Arrest them on what charge, Plomer? Sitting down?'

‘Doesn't the Rowlatt Act permit us to—' began Plomer.

‘Oh, do be quiet, Plomer, and let me think,' ordered Rehill. ‘It's that damn act that has caused all this.'

Rehill considered his options. Satyapal and Kitchlew were clever men. They had brought attendants with them in case there was a problem. That way any news could be carried back to the city. If Rehill arrested the attendants too, then no one would return and that would raise its own alarm. Surely it would be better to detain two men rather than eight? As he thought on, Plomer let out a foul smell.

‘Sorry, sir,' Plomer said, going red in the face. ‘It's this bloody food – I just can't get used to—'

‘Yes, yes . . . Is the old storeroom free?'

Plomer nodded.

‘Then go and ask the housekeeper to rustle up some tea and perhaps a little food for these gentlemen,' ordered Rehill.

Plomer's simple face showed that his mind was working overtime. ‘Food, sir?' he asked.

‘Yes, Plomer,
food
.'

‘Any particular kind of—?'

‘J
ust do it!
' barked Rehill.

As Plomer waddled away, Rehill addressed the old man in the turban. ‘If you are intent on staying, then may I suggest a more comfortable arrangement?'

The old man stroked his white beard and looked at Rehill intently. ‘Comfortable?'

‘Yes, sir. Just to show that there is nothing untoward happening here. We have an old storeroom behind the house – there are some chairs and a few tables. My deputy has gone to arrange tea and refreshments . . . Perhaps you and your compatriots would like some?'

The old man shrugged. ‘And there is no game being played?'

‘No, sir – you have my word.'

The old man turned and spoke to the others in Punjabi. After a few moments he stood and the others followed his lead. Dusting off his clothes, he smiled at Rehill. ‘Please do leading the way,' he said.

Rehill smiled back. Now the attendants would be out of the way for a while. And, crucially, they would be at the rear of the house when Rehill brought their leaders out of the front. That would give him a bit more time. Of course, the attendants would eventually discover what had happened and relay news to the city, but by that point Rehill and his prisoners would have a good head start. And once he was out of the city, then it became someone else's problem. Perfect.

THE DRIVER WAITED
patiently for Superintendent Rehill to bring out the prisoners. The sun was already high in the sky, and inside the car, the temperature was stifling. The driver opened his window and sighed as a shiny black beetle worked its way across the passenger seat. Looking out across the driveway to the bungalow, he noticed how well-kept the gardens were. Rose bushes mingled with marigolds and bougainvillea. A freshly cut lawn shimmered. And to the side of the house two banyan trees fought with each other for space, their thick, twisted limbs reaching out across the ground like the fingers of an arthritic giant. The British lived well in their part of the city, away from the overcrowded narrow alleys of the old town.

As he lit a
biri
, there was movement at the front door. Rehill appeared with his deputy, Plomer, at his side. Behind them, looking just a little apprehensive, were Dr
Satyapal and Dr Kitchlew. The driver dropped his smoke to the ground outside his window and stared. What was going on? The doctors were men of influence and power. Why were they wearing handcuffs and where were they going?

The answer came from Rehill, who opened the rear door and spoke to the driver. ‘We're going to Dharamsala,' he told him. He turned to the two doctors. ‘Gentlemen,' he said, gesturing to the car. ‘Please don't make this any more difficult than it needs to be.'

Neither of the doctors replied. Instead they got into the car glumly. Rehill shut the door and got into the front passenger seat.

‘Dharamsala, sir?' the driver asked.

‘Yes. And do hurry. I want to be away from the city as soon as possible.'