To the north, the horizon glowed red. A false dawn born of the embers of the violence. It was late by the time I got back to Premchand Boral Street and dismissed the driver. The street was quieter than usual, the brisk trade of gentlemen that usually kept the brothels busy had dried to nothing, and the girls, dressed in diaphanous saris, lazed on verandas and balconies while their touts did their best to drum up whatever passing trade they could. They knew better than to proposition me, of course, not if they valued their liberty. But on a night as barren as this, I felt that one or two were sorely tempted to ask me anyway.
I made the long walk up the stairs to the flat, hoping against hope that I might find Suren there waiting for me. The flat, however, was in darkness. I closed the door, switched on the light and called out for our manservant, Sandesh, who appeared on the third time of asking, bleary-eyed and dishevelled.
‘Has Suren come home?’ I asked.
He looked around as though the answer was to be found somewhere in the hallway. ‘No, sahib,’ he said with remarkable conviction for a man who’d probably been asleep under the dining table for the last few hours. Sandesh had his own bed and his own quarters, but nevertheless preferred to sleep under the table in the dining room. It was an idiosyncrasy which Suren and I ignored, mainly on account of him being half decent at keeping the place clean and exemplary at keeping the drinks cabinet well stocked. Such men were hard to come by and especially at such a reasonable weekly wage.
‘Whisky, sahib?’
It was a calculated distraction but I wasn’t about to turn it down.
‘Have we any left in the bottle?’
He grinned. ‘Enough for a razor blade.’
Just enough whisky for the thinnest of measures. He had taken the expression to heart, as he did any English idiom which made no literal sense.
I walked through to the sitting room and out onto the balcony. Leaning against the parapet, I lit a cigarette and looked out into the night. Suren was out there somewhere. I just hoped that whatever trouble he was getting himself into, it wouldn’t be more than I could get him out of.
Behind me, Sandesh coughed gently.
‘Razor blade, sahib,’ he said, passing me the whisky. ‘Also, one chitee is coming for you.’
He held out a white envelope. I downed the whisky, swapped the glass for the envelope and ripped open the seal. Inside was a single sheaf of paper.
Chang’s, Tirretta Bazar. You know the place. Midnight tonight.
Make sure you’re not followed.
I staggered back and all but fell into one of the cane chairs. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? If so, I wasn’t laughing. I checked the back of the letter, then the envelope, for any clue as to who might have sent it, but both were blank.
‘Who brought this?’
Sandesh looked sheepish. ‘Don’t know, sahib. Some persons is leaving it beneath the front door. I am finding it there only.’
I read the note again. You know the place.
I did know the place, but I doubted many other people did, certainly not Suren, whom I’d hoped the note might be from. It was the first opium den I ever visited. I’d stumbled across it within a fortnight of my arrival in the city. That had been almost five years ago and I hadn’t been back there much since. I found myself suddenly perspiring.
‘Sandesh,’ I said. ‘Crack open another bottle of whisky. And make it a double.’