The Hungry Ghosts (36 page)

I had been imagining the joy, the relief, I would feel if Mili agreed to my plan. But now what welled up was a great sadness. For Sri Lanka was changing rapidly and soon I would not know it anymore. Mili leaned over and lightly brushed his lips against mine, as if he sensed my sadness and shared it. We slept that night curled up together, each sighing in protest if the other pulled away.

We talked more about our plans in the next two days, and a quiet optimism came to us. We allowed ourselves to drift into the somnolence of a beach holiday, the rhythm of the waves rocking us into torpor.

On our third morning we slept in later than usual. Finally Mili nudged me, whispering it was getting late and Piyasena must be making our breakfast.

When we came out on the verandah, however, the table was not laid. I went to the kitchen. Piyasena was not there. “Strange,” Mili said. “I wonder if he got delayed.”

I went through the kitchen cupboards and found a jar of Nescafé. Mili discovered the bread and cut some slices. When he took them out to the verandah, I leaned against the counter, eyes closed, an inexplicable fear thumping at the base of my throat.

Mili returned to the kitchen and I quickly turned away to pour boiling water into cups and stir in the instant coffee. I was being ridiculous, I told myself. Everything was fine.

“I wish I knew where he lived,” Mili said as we washed the dishes after eating. “I would go see.”

“Maybe he had some family emergency.”

“But what shall we do about lunch?”

“Just … let’s give it some time. We can always go to a hotel.”

Mili peered at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

It would soon be too hot for swimming. We changed and went down to the sea. As we swam, I scanned the beach. I wanted to share this unease with Mili but felt articulating my fears would bring them to life.

A group of men approached in the distance, their forms wavering behind a shimmering curtain of heat. I felt a throb of fear. But they were just fishermen. They waved as they passed by, and I waved back, feeling foolish.

Piyasena had not turned up by lunch, and since we were too hot and tired for a trip into town, we dug around the fridge and found some cheese and Elephant House ham, which we had with the remaining bread.

That afternoon Mili fell asleep immediately, but I lay there, the heavy stickiness of his thigh over mine, listening to the sigh of his breath. After a while,
the
thump-thump
of the ceiling fan wore down my vigilance and I closed my eyes.

A clicking sound awakened me. Mili had rolled over to the other side of the bed, snoring lightly. I raised my head from the pillow. Someone was fiddling with the latch at the gate.

I slid into my slippers and crept out of the room. As I walked along the side verandah, I could see a man’s bare feet under the takaran-covered gate. He heard me approaching down the driveway and stopped trying to undo the latch.

“Who is it?”

“Ah, mahattaya, Piyasena, your man, sent me. He is detained. His wife is sick.”

“Oh,” I said with relief, “we were wondering what had happened.” I lifted the latch and pulled the gate back, enough for him to enter.

The man was in his twenties, with the stringy muscled body of a fisherman, dressed in sarong and banyan. He smiled at me. “Are you the mahattaya from Canada?”

I nodded and waited for him to come in. But he stood there smiling, and it took me a moment to realize he was holding a knife inches from my stomach. Its dark blade glinted along the edge where the sun caught it. I let out a grunt of surprise. “Shh, mahattaya,” he said, then gave a low whistle. Some men materialized from behind a clump of trees on the other side of the road. They were carrying heavy gnarled sticks and the short axes used for splitting coconuts. They, too, were dressed in banyans, sarongs hiked and tied above knees, prepared for a demanding task. One of them had a small black gun that looked curiously harmless, like a plastic water pistol. He wore bright blue pleated pants and a garishly pink flowered shirt and appeared to be the leader. He signalled for the men to cross the road.

My aggressor had also turned his head to watch them, and in that instant I shoved him away, leapt back and slammed the gate shut. He cried out, threw himself against it and managed to slip his arm through. I leaned my weight into the gate, his arm waving about like a tentacle, the other men shouting encouragement at him as they rushed over. His fingers brushed my face, my chest, and then he got me by the shirt. With a ripping sound, he pulled me to him, gripping my neckline so tight, the material burnt along my collarbone
and I gasped. In that instant, the man pushed against the gate, I fell back and they charged in.

The man with the knife locked my arms in a hold from behind, hand over my mouth. He pressed the blade against my neck and my entire world was reduced to that cool, sharp point, my skin fragile as tissue paper. “Our quarrel is not with you, mahattaya,” he panted in my ear. “Please don’t struggle. Our instructions are not to hurt you.”

I jerked in shock, understanding who had sent them. The man held me even tighter. His breath had the leafy tang of bulath and he smelt of dried, salted fish.

The men had shut the gate and were darting towards the house, crouched low, their feet a muffled thudding on the sand. I began to struggle, no longer caring about the knife. “Please, mahattaya,” the man said, and now he actually moved the knife away, afraid to hurt me, “please do not make this difficult.”

I broke from him, his nails scraping a jagged seam across my arm, and I ran towards the house.

The other men had already entered, and I heard Mili’s shout of surprise. There was a scuffle, something fell over, the ringing of brass hitting the cement floor. I raced through the house to the bedroom, shoving the door so hard it crashed into the wall. The men turned, startled. As if time had stopped, I took in Mili, half lifted off the floor, arms held splayed by two thugs, another bent to grasp his legs which were out before him, his heels digging down to find some purchase on the polished floor. His shorts had slipped down, revealing his lean hipbones.

“Shivan, get away, get away.”

Mili kicked out and the men came into action. They tried to subdue his limbs, one of them yelling to the man who had the knife, “Grab his legs, you ponnaya. Don’t stand there.” The man gripped Mili’s ankles but he kicked him backwards.

“Let him go,” I cried. “I know who sent you. It was Chandralal.”

Mili started at the name, and in that instant the men took advantage of his surprise and secured their hold. He gave in, limp in their arms.

All this time, the leader had been standing to one side, watching. He gripped his pistol tightly, yet his tongue moved casually in his cheek, making a sucking sound as he tried to dislodge some food from his teeth.

“I will talk to Chandralal,” I said to him. “Let my friend go.”

The leader made a prolonged “ttttch,” through his teeth. “I don’t know who you are talking about. I know no Chandralal.”

“Mili, don’t worry.” I went to him. “I’ll put a stop to this.”

“Shivan, what has your grandmother done?” he whispered, his voice cracking with terror.

There was a wound on his head and the blood was beginning to pulse up, matting his hair. “Mili, I’ll take care of this.”

The leader gestured with his gun and the men began to drag Mili towards the door. I slammed the door shut and stood against it. “Let me talk to Chandralal first.”

The leader pointed to two of the men who were holding Mili and they came towards me. “You don’t understand what you’ve taken on, who you’re dealing with,” I cried.

One of the men pressed his forearm around my neck and I could feel my windpipe harden as I tried to draw a breath. They half lifted, half dragged me across the room and threw me face-first on the bed. The force of it sent a pain fanning out from my nose and across my eye sockets. The rubbery, musty smell of the mattress choked me, yet I struggled, for the men were dragging Mili from the room. He was crying out in protest, his heels squelching along the floor. His cries grew fainter as they pulled him out of the house. Once they were on the verandah, they found some way to silence him. All I heard was the thud of the men’s feet in the sand and the
hoop-hoop-hoop
of a dove. The gate clanged shut, a vehicle started up and I finally went limp.

The men let me go. I turned over, my breath harsh, and gaped pleadingly at the leader. He studied me for a long moment. “We’re just poor people following the instructions of the rich, you understand?”

“Where are you taking him? What are you going to do with him?”

“So be very careful what you do next.” Seeing my incomprehension, he added, “This is not abroad, there is no point going to the police. That will only jeopardize your friend further.” He sat on the edge of the bed and I could smell his cheap flowery cologne, the coconut oil in his hair. “If you want my advice, here it is. Soon, a bus to Colombo will pass in front of the gate. I’ll have one of my men flag it down and put you on it. When you get to Colombo, talk to the people who you think are responsible for this. Agreed?”

“Please don’t hurt him.”

He stood up and checked his pistol to make sure the safety catch was on, a strand of his oily hair falling over his forehead. He slipped the gun into his waistband, nodded for the man with the knife to wait with me and sauntered towards the door. After a short while, I heard the vehicle outside pull away. By now I was shivering. Without even really knowing what I was about, I began to pack my bag. The man gave me a sympathetic look. He picked up one of Mili’s shirts and started to fold it. “No, leave that,” I yelled. In my distress I was possessed by the hope that if I left Mili’s things as they were he would return for them.

When I was done, the man carried my bag out to the road. “You stand in the shade inside, mahattaya. I’ll let you know when the bus arrives.” He gave me a worried look. “And try to stop shaking. It will not do for people to ask questions.”

I waited on the side verandah, trying to control my breathing. I was so cold now, the flesh on my upper arms was puckered. I knew I had to calm myself. The leader was right. There was no point in going to the police or anyone else. The person I had to talk to was my grandmother. Images of Mili’s terror and pain pushed forward, but I held them away. I needed to be as clear as I could. The bus stopped outside. I walked slowly down the driveway, no longer trembling.

Before I went out the gate, I glanced at the beach house. The palm fronds brushed the red tiled roof as they swayed in the breeze. Beyond the back garden, the sand glowed and the sea was brilliant. A gull wheeled and soared over the waves like a white kite.

21
 

D
URING THE TWO-HOUR JOURNEY TO
C
OLOMBO
, I considered my options. My first instinct was to tell Sriyani everything. But if I did she would raise the alarm, and this would force Chandralal to protect himself at Mili’s expense—though what he might do, I would not allow myself to contemplate. I also had to keep my rage contained and play the contrite, docile grandson. I recoiled from the idea but placated myself with images of Mili and me walking the sunny autumn streets of Toronto, the little apartment we would get above some store that would have the cosy, woody, fusty smell of radiator heat. All the while, thoughts of what was being done to him kept bellying forward, like wind pushing against a flimsy sail.

When I was finally at my grandmother’s gate, my hand shook as I lifted the latch, a great sob tightening my chest. I pulled at the straps of my knapsack as if steadying myself, then went up the driveway.

My grandmother had heard me enter the compound, and when I came into the saleya she was seated in a chair pretending to read the newspaper with a severe expression. She was frightened—not for Mili, because she trusted Chandralal, but at the enormous gamble she had taken. This abduction could shake her grandson to his senses or cause him to break from her completely.

“Aacho.” I sat next to her on a stool, putting my knapsack by my feet, revolted by the pious look on her face. “Get them to let him go.”

She folded her paper. I took her hand and stroked it. “Aacho, I was wrong, and I’m very sorry for all the hurt I have caused you. I’m ready to give him up. I’ll never see him again. Just tell Chandralal to release Mili, to not hurt him.”

She patted my hand and I could see her relief that the gamble had paid off. “Ah, Puthey, nothing bad will come to that boy. I just wanted him given a good scare, to stop him corrupting you.”

“But those men, they had axes and a gun. They’re not Chandralal’s regulars. I know all his golayas.”

She tried to look amused at my concern. “Nonsense, they will only rough him up a bit. Nothing worse than a schoolboy fight.” Yet I could see she was beginning to have doubts.

I stood up. “I must go and see Chandralal.”

“There is no need to bother him.” My grandmother flapped her newspaper open. “Everything is alright, Puthey.”

I shook my head and walked towards the kitchen to get our driver.