City of Ghosts (34 page)

And then suddenly he was clear of the crowd. He was by the large well, behind and to the right of the stage. Udham Singh was there with some other men. They were talking and passing cups of water to those in need. Udham saw Gurdial and held up his hand. Gurdial returned the greeting. He looked over to the stage and
saw that the Pandit was still talking. Next to him stood a little girl and her mother. Her hair fell in honey-brown ringlets and she held a battered old doll. Gurdial smiled and the girl giggled at him.

A shout went up from Gurdial's left. He turned to see a disturbance taking place in the crowd. People seemed to be running but he couldn't make out what they were running from. The speaker urged them to be calm.

‘
They won't shoot!
' he insisted.

Then Gurdial heard the sound of whistles. And after the whistles, as people began to scream, he heard the first of the gunshots.

Jeevan fought his way clear of the crowd and out into the open to the left of the stage. He was facing the western entrance to the Bagh and noticed that it seemed strangely deserted. The other four passageways were much narrower than the one he faced yet these were heaving with people trying to make their way in. He shivered, recalling what he had seen in the eyes of the ghost, before turning to the task at hand.

On his way to the Bagh he had played things back in his mind: the first time he'd spoken with Pritam; the warmth in Hans Raj's smile. He had felt part of something real and important. And then he'd seen the faces of the bank managers, the fear and desperation in their eyes as they lay amongst the piles of wood, doused in kerosene. He'd replayed the match falling, the kerosene exploding into life. The screams of the burning men had
filled his ears and he'd wept openly, ignoring the strange looks passers-by were giving him. It was too late for Jeevan to worry about his own fate; he knew that now. All that remained was to find Pritam and stop him from turning some other young man into a carbon copy of himself: a vicious, cold-blooded murderer.

Up ahead of him, halfway to the stage, he saw a familiar face, the dark skin pitted with acne scars: Rana Lal. Jeevan felt a surge of energy flow through his body as both determination and fear took hold in his heart. He sprinted towards Rana, hoping he wouldn't lose him in the ever-increasing numbers of people.

‘
Rana!
' he shouted out, straining to be heard above the public address system and the general noise.

For a moment it seemed that Rana hadn't heard, but then he turned round, saw Jeevan and gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘
Bhai!
We thought you had run away.'

As Jeevan heard him say ‘we', he smiled. Pritam was close by. He reached Rana and clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I would never run,' he insisted. ‘Not when there are battles to be won!'

Rana grinned at him again. ‘Come,' he said, ‘the others are nearby.'

Jeevan nodded but didn't have to go far because the others suddenly appeared. Sucha and Bahadhur greeted him excitedly, but Pritam, dressed in his usual black turban and grey kurta, his dark eyes manic, held back. When the four younger men had finished exchanging pleasantries, Pritam took Jeevan to one side.

‘I didn't think you'd be here,' he told him.

‘And why is that,
bhai-ji
?'

Pritam gave Jeevan a sardonic smile. ‘Let's just say I saw something in your eyes after you killed those men.'

Jeevan gulped down air and his scalp began to prickle once more. The very mention of the dead men . . . ‘I needed time to adjust,' he replied quickly. ‘To make sense of things.'

‘And
now
? Are you ready to fight on?'

Jeevan nodded firmly. ‘I'm more than ready. I am willing to lay down my life,
bhai-ji
.'

For a moment Pritam's eyes betrayed his shock but he quickly recovered and held Jeevan's gaze with his cold, dead stare. Jeevan realized that he was searching for something – a sign of weakness that would give the game away. At that moment he heard Heera's voice telling him to remain calm. In his head he answered, but on the outside his eyes gave nothing away.

It was Pritam who looked away first. ‘They say this gathering will be peaceful,' he spat. ‘I say we will make some more traitors pay.'

‘Where is Hans Raj?' Jeevan asked.

Pritam gestured towards the stage. ‘He's over there. I'm waiting for him to give us our orders.'

Jeevan looked across at the wooden platform but couldn't see Hans Raj. Instead he saw Pandit Durga Dass, raging against the Rowlatt Act. He held back a smile as he remembered the Pandit's visits to the orphanage. For a moment his thoughts turned to
Gurdial, but then he heard shouts coming from the crowd. He looked over to the source of the commotion: the
goreh
were coming through the western entrance, carrying guns.

Pritam, who had also seen what was happening, did the last thing Jeevan expected of him. His face changed colour and his eyes melted until they held only fear. They turned this way and that, as though looking for the nearest escape route.

Jeevan realized the time had come. ‘What are you looking for, Pritam?' he asked.

‘Nothing,' muttered Pritam. ‘I think we should make our way over to the stage.'

‘But the
goreh
are over
there
,' Jeevan pointed out.

‘Let's attack them!' suggested Rana Lal.

Sucha and Bahadhur looked from Rana to Pritam and then Jeevan.

He grinned. ‘Do you want to die today?' he asked them calmly.

They shook their heads.

‘Well then,
run
!' he commanded. ‘Run and don't turn back.'

‘What are you—?' began Rana, but Jeevan ignored him. Rana looked to the others and then, his eyes beginning to water, he ran. Sucha and Bahadhur followed seconds later.

‘
Well
, Pritam – what are we waiting for?' Jeevan asked.

Pritam's cold stare was once more in place, but Jeevan
had seen the fear in his eyes, could almost smell his desperation.

‘Are you
scared
?' he asked, taunting the other boy.

Pritam squared his powerful shoulders and threw a punch. Jeevan ducked it and buried his own fist in Pritam's midriff. It caught a rib and made him gasp for air. All around them the crowd began to panic and run as Pritam threw more blows at Jeevan, smashing the bridge of his nose. As Jeevan wiped away blood, he saw again the contorted faces of the men he had killed, smelled their skin and fat as it sizzled and popped. He glared at Pritam, the loathing burning in his eyes. And then the Pandit's voice rang out from the speakers.

‘
They won't shoot
,' he told the crowd. ‘
Stay calm
. . .'

Jeevan turned, knowing that the soldiers would be taking aim. He heard the whistles sound. Realizing that everything he had seen in Heera's eyes was about to come true, he uttered a prayer before grabbing Pritam and holding him tight.

‘Come,
bhai
,' he spat. ‘Help me to free my mother!'

Jeevan waited until the first gunshot cracked out before surging forward into the fray, taking Pritam with him . . .

Rehill was sitting in a car that was trundling along behind General Dyer's. Dyer, in his open-topped car, had Sergeants Pizzey and Anderson with him to serve as bodyguards, with two armoured vehicles at each side, and troops marching to the front and rear. Rehill had
been given Plomer, much to his dismay. The man spent the entire journey parroting General Dyer – talking of teaching the Indians a lesson – Punjabis in particular. He didn't have a clue – he was more likely to chew off his own foot than engage a native in conversation. The man was a buffoon, and the most dangerous kind at that; a fool with a uniform and a gun.

The entourage turned into Jallianwalla Bazaar and came to a stop outside the Bagh. In front was the only proper entry point – the rest were merely narrow alleyways or sewage channels. Dyer stood up and commanded the armoured cars to stay outside and make sure that no one left. Then he turned to Rehill, who grimaced.

‘Rehill, I want you to go ahead with Captain Briggs under the watch of Colonel Morgan!'

Rehill got out of the car and joined Briggs. Morgan, a tall, distinguished man, strode up to them.

‘Come along, men,' he said as the troops fell in behind.

Morgan led them into the passageway, walking purposefully. Rehill took a deep breath and followed, wondering what they would see when they entered the Bagh proper. Dyer had designed his response with a purpose and Rehill felt uneasy about it.

The scene that greeted them sent Rehill's stomach into spasm. There were thousands of people – the vast majority of them men, but women and children too, many of them wearing brightly coloured clothes – pink,
red, blue and orange. To Rehill's left, about eighty yards away, was a wooden platform that was being used as a stage. A man whom Rehill didn't recognize stood at the microphone, addressing the crowd. His hands moved in all directions and his face was contorted with emotion. He mentioned the Rowlatt Act, and sections of the crowd jeered.

‘Good God!' exclaimed Colonel Morgan. ‘These people are angry.'

Behind the troops, General Dyer appeared, his face set like stone. He looked at the crowd and then at the stage. Within seconds he gave the order: ‘
Troops ready!
'

The riflemen filed in, the Gurkhas going to Rehill's right, the others to his left, taking up positions with their backs to the western edge of the Bagh. Dyer stroked his moustache before asking Captain Briggs how many were in the crowd.

‘It's hard to tell, sir,' Briggs replied. ‘At least five thousand – maybe more.'

Most of the crowd were eighty to a hundred yards from where Rehill stood, directly in front of Dyer and the other officers. Rehill looked across at the troops as they prepared themselves, and said a small prayer. There was no way people would be able to escape if the men were ordered to fire. But surely Dyer would never do that. Rehill had heard many rumours about him and his ‘special' way of dealing with unruly natives, but not even Dyer could contemplate such a drastic course of action, could he?

The answer soon came. Some of the people in the crowd saw the troops and began to panic. The speaker shouted for them to remain calm, insisting that the troops would not shoot. But no one listened, and people began to run in all directions. Dyer, with the cold, calculating calmness of a snake, pounced:

‘
FIRE!
'

Whistles sounded, the troops took aim, the firing began . . .

Gurdial heard the screams getting louder as he stumbled through the smoke; unsure of where he was – or where he wanted to go. Beneath his feet were bodies; young and old, male and female. He clambered over them as the fog around him grew denser, and the stench of blood, guts and death made him want to retch. There was another smell – scorched metal and gunpowder – that stung his eyes and prevented him from seeing exactly what was going on. After two or three paces he fell to his knees, the sound of the gunshots still ringing in his ears. He slipped again and fell forwards into a soft wet mass. He reached down and felt something slippery. Looking closely, he realized that it was the stomach of a woman; or more precisely the area where her stomach had once been. Her insides were open and lying on the dusty ground all about him. Gurdial threw up – one, two, three times – before scrambling to his feet, away from the woman. But once again he slipped and hit the ground. Only this time he
stayed where he was as someone ran across his legs.

He turned over and lay on his back, spluttering and choking, trying to think straight. Where had he been in relation to the stage and the perimeter of the Bagh when the shooting started? And how was he going to find Jeevan in the rapidly descending darkness? From somewhere behind him he heard men's voices; someone was uttering a prayer in short, broken sentences. The boot that crunched down onto his head was only visible for the split second before it connected . . .

When he came round, Gurdial sat up gingerly; he felt warm blood trickling down his chin. It was dark now and he was confused; momentarily lost until the smells and sounds of the massacre flooded into his consciousness. He stood up slowly, painfully, and turned a complete circle, wondering which way to go. Suddenly a child appeared out of the gloom, screaming at him. Her face was covered in blood and bits of flesh were woven into her hair. She clutched a ragged doll – Gurdial recognized her immediately as the girl he had smiled at just before the shooting began. He held out his arms and the girl, at first hesitant, ran into them. He picked her up and told her that everything would be fine. She moaned before turning her face and burying it in his chest. Gurdial sucked down air, steadied himself and walked on, hoping that he was heading for one of the passageways that led out to the street.

Moments later he realized that he had gone the
wrong way: he walked straight into Udham Singh.

‘
Bhai!'
Udham cried in a strangled, hoarse voice.

‘What happened?' asked Gurdial.

‘The
goreh
started shooting . . . For nothing.'

Gurdial saw a combination of anger, fear and confusion in the man's eyes.

‘There are many injured . . . Help me take water to them,' said Udham.

Gurdial shook his head. ‘I have to get this little girl out of here. And I want to find Jeevan.'

Udham shrugged. ‘Good luck,' he said. ‘It's hard to see anything here – although I did see Jeevan earlier, near the stage.'

Gurdial prayed that his friend had escaped the carnage. ‘Is the stage this way?' He nodded to his left.

‘Yes,
bhai
.'

‘Will you stay here?' asked Gurdial.

‘Until I can do no more,' vowed Udham.

‘Then let me take this girl to safety and I will return.'