And what will be left when he’s done?
Will they even pull it off?
No, he’s so unfit for this.
He looks at Bunty at his table, cigar in mouth, as well-wishers clap him on his back, whisper in his ear.
He can’t do this.
He can’t even breathe.
Sweat is dripping down his forehead. Oh God.
It’s one thing to privately nurture grudges, another to throw them out at the world.
Can he reach for his phone, call it off?
No. No.
Bro, it’s done.
And what if Farah’s right?
You’ve got everything you could ever want or need.
Why can’t you be happy?
Why?
Then he remembers.
The sonogram.
The floating image of his floating child, lost forever in space and time.
He’s submerged in an instant into the cold black ocean of his mind.
To the sand, the sea, the fire. The moment he believes his child was conceived.
Can’t he stay here?
No.
He’s taken to the night of the crash.
Blood. Whisky. Coke. Rage.
The smell of metal and petrol.
Ajay’s bloodied face.
Neda’s broken face.
And his father’s words that have followed him all his life.
Ruthless.
You have to be ruthless.
Well, father, here I am.
Oh God.
Father.
Yes, he’s drowning.
Drowning.
All I ever wanted was that life.
He clenches his fists.
Tells himself to stay calm.
That’s when he sees Ram and Dinesh Singh arrive.
Fuck this.
He turns and flees toward the woods.
* * *
—
Farah is gazing into the water of the lake, the moon reflected above.
She doesn’t look up.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I need something,” he says, stumbling forward, pulling off his shades to reveal his frightened eyes.
“Something is always better than nothing.” She smiles.
Her voice soft, reassuring.
She takes him by his clammy hand and pulls him into the trees.
Back toward the mansion, the party is glowing. And from the hidden hollow, the thudding bass of psytrance drifts on the wind.
But here, it’s just the two of them.
He shivers. “I need something.”
“Shhh.” She strokes his cheek, takes a baggie of coke from between her breasts. He considers it, shakes his head. “I need something more. I need . . .”
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need . . .”
“Tell me.”
His voice starts to break. “To be happy.”
“Honey,” she whispers, putting the coke back and bringing one hand down toward his cock. “I can make you happy.”
He closes his eyes.
Holds back the panic.
With practiced fingers she finds her way in, runs her thumb gently up and down his lifeless shaft.
“With me,” she says, “happiness is guaranteed.”
“Not that,” he says. “I need something more.”
“I’ve got what you need.”
With her free hand she unclasps her purse, reaches in for a pill box.
“Open it,” she says. She feels his cock going soft as his attention goes to the box, so she gives it a little squeeze. “Ah, ah, ah, you only get the good stuff if you’re good to me. Concentrate.”
But it’s no use.
“What is it?” he asks.
Six big bombs of MDMA.
“The happiness,” she replies, “that you seek.”
3.
Ajay stands on the edge of Kashmiri Gate, the bus terminal lit bright behind him, with its many families wrapped in shawls, sleeping among their bags, waiting for their departure in the cooling night as other buses pull away. This is the place he arrived full of hope, with the card of Sunny Wadia in his hand. Now he holds Tinu’s map of the grounds he must infiltrate, the gun he must use, and the sketch of the man he must kill. One way or another, he’s come a long way.
He looks out over the road toward Nicholson Cemetery, the flyover under which the junkies live off to the right. He dashes out, dodging the traffic, leaps over the divider, clears it to the other side. He buys a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches and enters the colony of Civil Lines.
* * *
—
At the reception, Ram and Dinesh Singh take their tables with their entourage.
All talk of a rift between father and son has been put to bed. Dinesh brokered a deal with the farmers that left everyone satisfied. Their dynasty is heading into the next election weakened but still strong. Ram Singh makes a beeline for Bunty while Dinesh sips a soda and does the rounds.