7.
It’s two a.m. now, in the hotel room, sitting on the cold floor, his back up against the wall, gun pointing at the door. The town is ablaze with noise. Men chanting and roaring. Baying for blood.
Every cell of Ajay’s body is on fire.
He is a killer. He has killed.
He’d staggered from the lane with his bag, machete still in hand, stumbled across the cricket ground, his face and suit jacket spattered with blood, his heart a jackhammer. Should he have fled right then? Straight to the edge of town? No, running was the worst thing to do. That would be his death sentence. Three corpses, and a stranger vanished from his hotel. A stranger who’d been asking about the Singh brothers. They’d have hunted him down. They’d have brought him back and finished him off. Tortured him. Tortured his mother and young sister. He would have failed in every way, and worse.
So he continued through the small streets in the dark until he came upon a hand pump, pumped the water and washed his hands and face, snatched a shawl from a line outside a house and wrapped it round himself, covering the blood. And he walked back into the shuttered town. Walked through the streets, quivering with adrenaline, trying not to be seen.
He had watched the hotel from across the road.
Waited twenty minutes until a large boisterous group emerged from the banquet hall.
Slipped in as they exited the lobby under the bright white lights.
The Weasel was not on duty.
He believed he had not been noticed.
In the room, he ripped off his bloody suit and stuffed it to the bottom of his bag. Then he scrubbed his skin clean under the shower, scrubbed his hair, until the water below him was clear. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the machete strike, the body fall. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vipin Tyagi’s face splitting open like a watermelon.
* * *
—
Now it’s three a.m. and he is staring down the wreckage of his life.
Revenge. He can’t even get that right.
He can hear the commotion in the streets.
Their bodies must have been found.
What is he good for?
He grips the gun.
Waits for them to come.
Should he shoot at them? Or shoot himself?
* * *
—
It’s four a.m. and the horns and cries and engines have begun to fade. There is a lull outside, a pale light in the sky. Maybe at this point he can run? Check out of the hotel, be cool about it, and go. No. No. It would be suspicious. And run where? Back to Sunny? No, they’d find him eventually. And how can he work for this family anymore? Impossible. So, he’ll disappear. Find refuge. In the mountains? In Goa? Or somewhere he’s never been before. He can do it. Just run.
And then it comes to him.
Benares.
He will run to Benares.
He will search for his sister there.
The only thing he has left to hold on to.
He holds on to this thought.
He closes his eyes. The darkness swallows him.
* * *
—
He wakes and daylight is seeping through the glass.
He’s still holding his gun, sitting against the wall.
What time is it?
He checks his watch.
Almost nine a.m.
His body is aching, but daylight brings fresh urgency. He combs his hair, shaves, tries to look like the bland, unobtrusive man of service he has become. There is a scratch on his cheek, a hollow look in his eye. Still, no time to think about that. He must go downstairs and pay. Hope against hope he’s not challenged, questioned. Should he carry his gun? No. Wait until he’s free to go. He removes the metal cover from the rattling AC and hides the gun in there.
* * *
—
When the elevator disgorges him into the lobby he’s greeted by a sea of noise.
A TV is blaring. And the Weasel is there, waving at him with glee. “Full drama, my friend,” he shouts, “high tension, come, see.”
No indication of suspicion at all.
“I heard noises in the night,” Ajay says, averting his eyes.
“How can you sleep at a time like this?” the Weasel cries, oblivious to Ajay’s mood.
“I want to check out,” Ajay says.
“How can you check out at a time like this!? Three of Kuldeep’s workers have been killed, right outside the Hanuman mandir. Can you imagine? I’m sure it’s the Qadari gang.”
He points to the TV hanging in the corner wall. A crowd of men have gathered round. A reporter is standing at the crime scene in the daylight—the bodies of the men are covered with bloodstained sheets. The channel cuts to a group of around fifty men armed with swords, wearing saffron headbands, protesting loudly, marching through the town.