Hillstation (25 page)

I glanced across to Hendrix who was nodding at me encouragingly. ‘Maybe a bit simpler,' he said.

‘The Lord Shiva,' cried Mrs Dong unexpectedly, ‘has returned!'

‘The Lord Shiva!' cried various voices.

‘To slay the Turtle,' continued Mrs Dong pointing at the man with a cravat.

Sharon turned her face to the sky. The man with a cravat cursed under his breath and took aim.

‘Mrs Shiver!' I shouted. ‘There is a man with a cravat pointing his gun at you.'

As the man with a cravat fired, Sharon leaped into the air. For a moment she seemed to hover there, suspended on pillows of smoke, before dropping behind the car.

‘Bitch! Shit! Bloody Bitch!' said the man with a cravat, shooting wildly in her general direction. I noticed that Hendrix was resuming his struggle to stand, though without much success. Sharon, meanwhile, appeared briefly through the smoke, blonde hair flying as she twirled in frenzied circles. The man with a cravat fired again. The villagers flinched again. Hendrix managed to get to his feet albeit bent double. And then the car exploded.

Personally, I was only aware of a dull percussive thud after which everything went oddly quiet. At the same time, the ground beneath me seemed to evaporate as the sky, cars, smoke, flames and people spun into free-fall. I saw Hendrix staring up at me and wanted to say, ‘Hey, look at me I'm flying', but my short trajectory ended rather abruptly in a bruised heap beside the other car.

Whether anybody else was shouting or screaming I had no idea. A flake of soft ash floated down in front of my face. Behind it, a dense swathe of black particles drifted to and fro giving the otherwise invisible air a kind of shape and seeming purpose. In its own way, I thought, it was really quite pretty.

‘Are you okay?' said Hendrix, leaning over me.

‘What happened?' I said.

‘It exploded.'

‘Sharon?' I said.

‘No, the car,' said Hendrix.

‘I mean, is she alright?'

‘I know,' he chuckled. ‘She's fine. Can you stand?'

‘I think so.' It was only when I got to my feet that I realised Hendrix's bent posture was all he could manage for the moment.

‘I'll be okay,' he said. ‘It's just my ribs.'

‘I have an ointment, used primarily by athletes, which has proved most efficacious in the treatment of numerous complaints especially those related to feet which are, of course, a crucial asset in the athlete's physiological repertoire.'

‘Once you got it, you never get rid of it,' said Hendrix cryptically.

The ball of flame that had driven most of the village to its knees had dissipated to reveal a scene of pitiful devastation. The ground was scattered with smoking debris and sprawled villagers moaning softly as they clutched their heads. One of the men in grey suits was sitting, dazed. Two others were curled up, sobbing. The man with a cravat lay close to the remains of his car, mouth moving, a crimson stain weeping slowly through the white cotton of his shirt. Pale slivers of smoke curled from burning embers lodged in the barricade. The only cheerful note in all this was Sharon, sitting on the shoulders of the Buddhist Cook, propped up with a little help from Mrs Dong and some of the younger men, the propriety of whose hand-positions I thought questionable.

‘The Turtle,' cried Mrs Dong, rapturously, ‘is brung to heel and prepare for slaughter.'

Sharon laughed.

The man with a cravat moved a little, the pool of blood under his leg shimmering a flare from the burning car. I knelt beside him.

‘Man with a cravat,' I said. ‘You must try to keep still.'

‘Urgh,' he answered, wiping feebly at the shard of metal protruding from his chest.

I would have preferred to inspect him in my little office with all of its resources. Still, one didn't have to look up ‘bleeding', since bleeding is one of those happy ailments wherein cause and effect are the same, and the cure is simply to stop it.

‘I'm afraid I shall need your cravat,' I said.

He nodded weakly as I removed it from his neck and tied it round his thigh. It seemed to do the trick. With the bleeding stemmed, I could examine his chest more thoroughly, tugging at the piece of metal until I'd worked it loose. It came out quite easily in the end, along with a good deal of blood. Fortunately, the injuries to his head were only superficial, though some nasty lumps were beginning to form. I took his pulse and told him that in my opinion he was a little too portly for comfort and ought to think about his heart, particularly in view of his stressful occupation. He said thank you.

‘However, I'm still worried about your thigh,' I added. ‘Especially if the femoral artery has been severed although, on the bright side, if that were the case you won't have time to develop coronary problems. I suggest you remain here while I call my brother who, you may rest assured, is a Doctor and has been to England.'

The chaise longue was upturned and smouldering. Nearby were the remains of Dev's lunchbox and a forlorn shred of nibbled lime. ‘Dev?' I called, beginning to panic. ‘Dev where are you?'

Mr Chatterjee staggered over, breathing through a fold of his shawl. ‘You call for your brother in vain,' he said.

‘What?' I said. ‘He's dead? Please, tell me it isn't so.'

‘No, no, it's alright, Rabindra, by this I do not mean that he has expired. On future occasions you may call him with a more satisfactory response. To the word “Dev”, he will answer, “yes, Rabindra, I am here” or by some such means acknowledge your request for his attention. Although I should remind you, as your father quite properly and not infrequently does, that the correct appellation, considering your respective statuses, and the fact that he has been to England and was honoured by the Queen, no less, God bless Her Majesty even though we kicked the thieving bastards out many years ago, still it has to be acknowledged they gave us the railways and sanitation, is “Mahadev”.'

‘You mean he's here?' I interrupted.

‘Honestly, Rabindra,' chided Mr Chatterjee, ‘if only you had the patience to listen you would be availed not only of the information you seek but its subject. Since you deal with patients every day, it's a wonder so little of that quality has rubbed off on you.' He chuckled.

‘I know,' I said. ‘Now please, tell me where he is.'

‘Well, by chance I happened to be standing next to him just before the car exploded, but soon realised that he wasn't listening to a word I was saying. In fact he was rummaging around in his lunchbox. Then he glanced up with that far-away gaze characteristic of those who see perplexities beyond the grasp of ordinary mortals and muttered the word, “research”. I then proceeded to impart my long-held opinion that without those prepared, like him, to embark upon the very frontiers of knowledge, to sail the boats of their understanding, as it were, over the uncharted waters of ignorance in search of that rare and precious jewel of enlightenment…'

‘Then he's at the clinic?' I said. ‘Is that right, Mr Chatterjee?'

But Mr Chatterjee was in full flow now, an island of understanding emerging from limpid waters of endeavour, verdant with unknown vegetation and possibly parrots, it was hard to hear above the noise. It worried me that by the time I reached the clinic, the man with a cravat, untended, might have expired. So I asked Mrs Jeenkal, who was nearby, if she would be so kind as to fetch my brother while I remained with the patient.

‘Fetch him yourself,' she answered, to a chorus of malicious laughter. ‘What do you think I am, the Clinic Skivvy?'

I noticed that Mrs Moodi, nearby, had set up an impressive display of sewing materials, along with cushions, curtain fabrics and men's underwear behind which a slender lick of flame was beginning to play.

‘Mrs Moodi,' I said. ‘Would it be possible to have the slimmest of your needles and a length of thread, preferably silk?'

‘Show us your money,' she said.

I fiddled in my pockets.

‘Ha!' she said, ‘I knew it.'

‘This is a medical emergency,' I said. ‘If you let me have these items as discussed, I promise to pay you at the earliest opportunity.'

She tapped a notice above the display. ‘What does this say?' she demanded.

‘‘‘Available In Other Colours”,' I read.

‘“No Credit”,' she retorted.

‘But Mrs Moodi, it distinctly says, “Available in other colours”.'

‘It says, “No Credit”, plain as daylight. Which means if you want something you pay for it.'

I had long observed that the hardest people to argue with are those completely wrong. However, since Mr Vaisvarya barged me brusquely aside to inspect Mr Gupta's cutlery stall, I decided to leave it there. It seemed an odd time to go shopping, although one or two of the villagers were striking bargains along the barricade. I found the man with a cravat surrounded by a small crowd led by Mrs Dong in a chant of ‘Turtle, Turtle'.

‘Let me through,' I announced. ‘I am a Clinic Skivvy.'

But when they parted it was only for Mr Vaisvarya, now in possession of a large carving knife which he handed to Mrs Dong.

‘Death to the Turtle!' she shouted.

‘This ain't gonna be pretty,' said Hendrix hobbling up beside me.

‘They seem to think that the man with a cravat is the Turtle of ancient mythology,' I explained.

‘Wrong place, wrong time,' muttered Hendrix ominously.

‘But why did he come here?' I asked. ‘Surely there is no sensible reason to wave a gun around, strike people over the head, and shoot at Sharon.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Hendrix. ‘He's our Indian co-producer.'

‘Then if you know this man,' I said, ‘you know that he is not a Turtle, and are in a position to convey this information to those under the misapprehension that he is.'

‘Maybe they're not so wrong,' said Hendrix.

I couldn't believe that Hendrix, a man of reason, albeit fish-phobic, would have succumbed to this hysteria.

‘We all need a Turtle,' he shrugged.

‘Why?'

‘Someone to blame.'

‘For what?' I asked.

‘For us. For this. For it. Some people blame their parents. The Spanish lob goats off balconies. Americans drop bombs. Personally, I hate Arsenal supporters. I mean if it wasn't for Arsenal…'

‘The world would be a better place?'

‘I'd have to blame somebody else.'

The chants were growing more rhythmic.

‘I think we ought to stop them before they do something foolish,' I said.

‘He doesn't make a bad Turtle, though, does he?' said Hendrix.

‘You are only saying this because your ribs hurt. But it is never wise to let your wounds dictate your actions.'

‘Okay,' said Hendrix with a sigh. ‘I guess you've got a point.' He walked forward. ‘Listen up!' he shouted. ‘I think this has gone far enough. Yeah, yeah, love, he's a bit like a turtle isn't he, but not really. Yeah? Take a look at him. What do you see? Shell and flippers? Snappy jaws? No, you don't. Madame, I can assure you that you don't. So come on, give us some space. Shift it. You. Out of the way.'

While Hendrix pushed through to the man with a cravat, Mike hurried over to tug at his elbow. ‘You're not thinking,' he hissed. ‘Is this something we actually have a problem with?'

‘He's still got his goons,' said Hendrix.

‘Not anymore,' said Mike. ‘They think she's a god come down for revenge.'

‘I am so sorry,' said Sergeant Shrinivasan, collecting bits of Veena from around people's feet. ‘It was the music. She began to dance and then she became the dance and now she is Shiva. Perhaps I should have played something a bit lighter.'

‘You mustn't blame yourself,' said Hendrix handing the Sergeant some brass inlays and a tuning knob. ‘And I'm really sorry about your banjo. I leant a guitar to Pete Townshend once, next thing it's in pieces. Or was it Kurt Cobain? Or did I make that up?' Hendrix frowned in the manner of one searching his brain for something no longer there.

‘But perhaps it was destined,' said the Sergeant mournfully. ‘For why else were my fingers guided to play the Shivarag?'

‘I'm with you there,' said Mike. ‘Destiny. What else could it be? And, let's face it, a god's got to do what a god's gotta do.'

The god in question was now standing in the centre of a hushed circle, the man with a cravat wriggling at her feet. Mrs Dong handed her the carving knife, its jagged blade flashing the afternoon sun against her face.

‘Sharon!' called Hendrix but even he recognised that she was no longer his wife. She was Shiva incarnate, wielding the sword of justice over the trembling Turtle who had come to ravage and met, instead, his doom.

‘Help!' croaked the man with a cravat, struggling to reach his gun a few inches away.

Sharon was circling him in short, rhythmic steps, her feet lifting the dust, skirt swaying as she hummed the Sergeant's tune.

‘I think we ought to get the gun,' said Mike.

But none of us were able to move.

Sharon stopped. The crowd shuffled nervously, glancing away from her searing gaze and its glimpse of the infinity that all our petty efforts in life are merely an attempt to deny. The man with a cravat curled his fingers round the gun and began to drag it towards himself. He glanced at Sharon as she smiled down at him and, just for a moment, he too lay transfixed by the terrible light of her eyes and the understanding that death and life were merely a thing and its shadow and the dance of his darkness was nearing its end. He pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger.

Click.

‘It's empty,' shouted Hendrix. ‘And she knew it. Ha! Dirty Harry. Brilliant. That's our favourite bloody film, pot noodle anybody?'

‘It does not fire because she wills it so,' said Sergeant Shrinivasan, quietly.