11

NOW (2009)

Ellie fumbled with the padlock at the side gate. She could feel Sathyan’s eyes on her from the window. She turned when she heard Arjuna swear. ‘What is it?’

‘The car.’ All four tyres were slashed. Arjuna shook his head. ‘I’ve only got one spare. This is coming out of your expense account.’

They looked down the street. It was quiet. She saw glass shards on the ground and looked up. The camera above the wall had been smashed.

‘I’ll call for a car,’ she said.

‘It’ll take too long. We’ll walk. The main avenue is three blocks to the south. We can catch a tuk-tuk from there. I’ll let Sathyan know.’ He set off down the street, his phone already to his ear.

Ellie heard and then saw the white van before he did. It crawled behind them, at a steady, confident pace. ‘Company,’ she said.

Arjuna looked back. He put his phone away and unholstered his sidearm, but didn’t take it out.

‘Who is it?’ She forced her eyes ahead.

‘Talk later. Walk faster. Don’t run yet.’ He picked up his pace.

She could feel her shirt sticking to her body. Her breath shortened, but she forced her shoulders back and down. A receptive position, not a combative one. Her left arm tightened over her handbag, pressing it and the coded message it contained closer to her body.

Arjuna led her off the empty road and towards the footpath. She didn’t like footpaths. They could be pinned against the wall there. But she trusted him.

The van closed the gap between them.

They approached the first crossroad. She exhaled with relief when she saw cars passing. A bus slowed down at the stop as they began to cross. A motorcycle brushed past her and turned the corner. She caught the red flash of a sticker on its tailpipe that looked familiar. She wanted to get a better look at the rider, but Arjuna’s pace was quickening, his body limber and poised to bolt soon.

There was a small park on the other side of the crossing. Mothers, grandmothers and children playing. A billboard of the President smiled benevolently over a stone statue that stood in the middle.

‘Across the park, now!’ Arjuna shouted as he broke into a run and darted diagonally through the gate. He hurdled a manicured hedge and simultaneously pulled out his weapon, keeping it dropped but ready at his side. He wasn’t going to start a gunfight in a playground, but she knew he would finish one if necessary.

The van accelerated. She followed Arjuna through a sandpit and around a beached pirate ship, running towards the statue.

The van sped along the park’s fenced boundary. They would converge at the top corner if Arjuna didn’t change direction soon. They reached the statue.

‘Stay down,’ he ordered, pushing her behind the stone plinth.

‘Give me your back-up.’

‘No, stay down. They want you. Not me.’

‘Which is why they’ll kill you, not me. Give me your back-up!’ He was such a fucking hero sometimes.

The window of the van slid down. The occupants weren’t visible, but Ellie didn’t miss the black barrel poised on the glass as the van skidded to a halt.

Arjuna pushed her back behind the stone.

‘What are you doing?’ she screamed.

‘Testing a theory,’ he answered, raising his weapon. He flipped it so he was gripping it by the trigger guard, not the handle. He raised his hands either side of his head in surrender.

People darted for cover, grabbing their children, ducking and tripping over each other as they ran.

Arjuna pointed up but didn’t take his eyes off the van.

Ellie followed his finger. The statue they sheltered beneath was a life-sized one of Lord Buddha, standing protectively over them, his hand raised in blessing, his eyes closed in prayer.

‘It’s a full moon day today,’ Arjuna murmured. ‘Poya. Bad luck to shed blood on the Buddha’s day of the month, at the Buddha’s feet, no less.’

That’s your theory?’ she hissed at him. Jesus Christ, they were dead. The government’s death squads killed on any day of the month.

‘Have faith, Ellie.’

The barrel of the gun retracted, the window rolled up, and the white van drove away.

The motorcyclist watched the targets rest underneath the statue. The burned man had gambled and won. The American woman was lucky. He watched her lean against the stone plinth and close her eyes for a moment, the relief palpable even from his vantage point across the park. She used her sleeve to wipe her face and neck.

The motorcyclist muttered a resentful rendition of his prayers and called his employer.

‘They visited the boyfriend. What do you want me to do?’ he asked, firing up the bike’s engine again. Fumes charged out of its tailpipe, the Rolling Stones sticker vibrating as though Mick Jagger’s lips were actually singing.

‘Are you certain?’ he asked. Confirming instructions was an important part of the process for his extensive and irrevocable services. He was excited by the answer. It wasn’t creative but it required skill.