City of Ghosts (33 page)

‘Do you see?' Heera asked him.

Jeevan nodded.

‘It is your only path to forgiveness,' she added. ‘But no one can make you choose this path. You must want to take it.'

Again he nodded. ‘I
want
to take the path,' he replied.

Heera smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good boy,' she said.

‘There is one thing I would like,' he told her.

‘Name it.'

‘I would like to tell Gurdial that I am sorry . . .'

‘I'll see what I can do . . . Now, do you understand what is required of you?'

‘Yes . . . No more innocent people will die.'

‘Innocents will always die,' she told him. ‘That is the way of the world. But not by your hand – not today.'

Jeevan shook his head. ‘Not by his either . . .'he said defiantly.

At close to four in the afternoon Rehill learned that the meeting at Jallianwalla Bagh had started. Though apprehensive about what the general might do, he realized that he had no choice but to inform Dyer. He found him explaining his plans to two captains, Crampton and Briggs.

‘What is it, man?' the general asked.

‘The meeting at the Bagh has begun, sir.'

Dyer looked into Rehill's eyes for a moment and then turned away. ‘Damn!' he muttered under his breath. He looked as weary as Irving had. His greying hair was greasy and clung to his head, and there were deep, dark circles under his eyes.

Rehill coughed. ‘What would you like me to do, sir?' he asked. ‘Shall I send a patrol?'

Dyer shook his head. ‘It is too late for that,' he replied. ‘There is too much danger. I'm briefing Crampton and Briggs regarding our response. Stay and listen.'

‘Yes, sir,' he replied.

Dyer quickly went over his plans, detailing which troops would accompany him to the gathering. A plane had already been dispatched to fly over the Bagh to give an indication of crowd numbers. There were to be two separate responses. The first Dyer called his ‘special force' – fifty men drawn equally from the Gurkhas and from Indian troops; although the Indians were Baluchis and Pathans, ethnically different from the people of the Punjab. Rehill immediately realized that Dyer was planning something drastic. Non-Punjabi Indian troops were being used for a reason. The pit of his stomach flooded with acid and a sense of dread filled his heart.

‘All the men in this force will be armed with rifles, although the Gurkhas will obviously have their
khukuris
with them too,' explained Dyer.

The men in front of him, including Rehill, nodded.

‘I'll also take forty Nepalis with me as an escort. These men will not require extra arms . . .'

Rehill felt himself sweating. He glanced at Crampton and Briggs but they showed no outward signs of concern. Briggs he hardly knew, but Rehill had stood alongside Crampton during the riots three days earlier, when both men had seen the anger and resentment on the faces in the crowd. Surely Crampton could see that they were heading for trouble.

‘The second detachment needs to control the area outside the Bagh and at the gates of the city. To that end I'm ordering five troops of ten men each – is that clear?' asked Dyer.

‘Yes, sir,' the three of them replied.

‘We are going to
crush
this rebellion, this act of defiance. Stopping them in the alleyways and lanes would have been a problem, but out there in the open – well, out there we can
get
them.'

‘It looks peaceful, sir,' said Rehill, worried now.

Dyer snorted at him. ‘Those who have peaceful intentions will leave when we arrive, Superintendent. The ones who stay choose their own fate. We will send the rest of India a message today. Now, is everybody absolutely certain they know what their orders are?'

All three men nodded, Rehill with deep reluctance.

‘Right then, men – no time like the present!' said Dyer.

Rehill couldn't work out exactly what it was that he heard in Dyer's voice. It was either anxiety or resolve, or perhaps both. Whatever the case, he could sense what was coming and it worried him deeply.

RA–TAT! RA-TAT-TAT!
Suddenly Bissen found that he was alone, running straight at the German defences. Bullets whizzed past, etched with the names of others, not a single one meant for him. Mud and guts squelched beneath his feet as he approached the sand bags. He threw himself across them, rolled over and came up firing.
RAT! RA-TAT-TAT!
The earth shook as a shell
landed not fifteen feet from where he stood. Shrapnel – deadly red-hot slivers of metal – flew about in all directions like fireflies disturbed on a summer's night. But yet again they failed to touch him. He turned to his right and saw Gobar Singh Negi at his side, rifle raised, the back of his head missing. And then, to his left, the boy Jiwan, still smoking his cigarette as blood poured from the bullet hole in his forehead; blackened scorch marks puckering the skin around it like the underbelly of a mushroom. Another shell landed behind them—

RA-TAT-TAT-TAT!
He found himself opening a door; the door to the room he had been given by Uncle Bertie. Lillian stood naked before him, her small upturned breasts flushed with colour. But within the blink of an eye the room disappeared, replaced by a snow-covered field. Bissen felt her hands wander down his back, across his buttocks, the left one settling on his wounds. He pushed against her, losing control as a film of perspiration covered her face and the scent of strawberries clung to the porcelain skin of her neck. Bissen arched his back—

RA-TAT-RA-TAT!
The doors to the van flew open and the Persian brothers ordered Bissen to step out. The stench, foul and rancid, of animals long dead had seeped through the pores of his skin. His clothes were ragged, covered in blood and excrement. He stepped out into a biting cold wind and was led to a gangplank. The ship in front of him stood tall and proud as it bobbed up and down at the quay.

‘You get on!' he heard someone shout. ‘Come quick!'

He looked down at his feet, saw that they were bare and wondered who had taken his shoes. He felt a crack on the back of his head and the world turned to darkness all around him—

RA-TAT! RA-TAT! RA-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Bissen awoke with a start, sitting up instantly. The room was baking hot and sweat fell freely from his armpits. His turban felt wet around the back, where it met his neck, his wounds ached and his loins still burned with desire. He swung his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head vigorously. Images from his dream, still fading, swam before his eyes. He rubbed them and looked down at his bony feet, then stood slowly and stretched out his arms as yet another knock sounded downstairs. Straightening his clothes and turban, he wiped his mouth free of drool and made his way down to answer the door.

The bright sunshine nearly blinded him when it opened, and there, standing with a huge grin on his face, was the weaver, Gurnam Lal.

‘Did I wake you,
bhai
?' he asked.

Bissen blinked a few times before replying. ‘Just taking a nap,
bhai-ji
. . . What can I do for you?'

Gurnam shook his head. ‘No, no,' he replied. ‘Think about what
I
can do for
you
!'

Bissen shook the final remnants of his dream from his head. ‘I do not understand,' he said.

‘I am here, under strict orders from my wife, to
make
sure
that you come to the celebration today.'

‘I'm not sure I want to come,' replied Bissen. ‘I have much to do—'

‘No, no,
bhai
,' insisted Gurnam. ‘It is not a request, it is an
order
! Will you let me return to my wife, accurate as she is with her rolling pin, and admit defeat?
Never!
'

Bissen asked Gurnam why he had been knocking so loudly.

‘That wasn't me,' replied Gurnam. ‘The last knock was mine, I'll admit, but the ones before that were those of a young man—'

‘What young man?' Bissen asked.

‘One of those orphans you seem to collect. He was standing on your step when I came round the corner, talking to an old woman. I asked him if he was looking for you and he said that he was but that he needed to go—'

‘Did he give you his name?'

Gurnam nodded. ‘Jeevan . . . And then he and the old woman left. I turned to knock at your door and when I looked back again, they had vanished.'

‘Vanished?'

Gurnam grinned again. ‘Perhaps they were ghosts,' he joked.

‘I won't be able to get rid of you, will I?' said Bissen in a resigned tone.

‘Just half an hour,
bhai
,' pleaded Gurnam. ‘That's all I ask. And besides, my wife says there may be a pretty young woman for you to glance at.'

The letter! Bissen told Gurnam to give him five minutes. Without waiting for a reply he turned and ran back up the stairs. In his room, lying on the floor by the bed, was Lillian's letter. He looked at it and read it once more, thanking God that it said what it did. Fate had dealt him many blows over the years, agonies from which it had been difficult to recover. If they had been advance payment for this one blessing, this one glorious, glorious blessing, then without any doubt they had been worthwhile.

He tucked the letter into his pocket, then poured some water into a bowl and splashed it onto his face, savouring its cooling effect. He dried himself before changing his shirt and straightening his turban once again.

When he returned to the door, Gurnam was sitting impatiently on the step.

‘You are worse than a woman,
bhai
!' the weaver scolded. ‘Were you making yourself decent just in case there
is
a pretty woman to glance at?'

Bissen, who had experienced Gurnam's efforts at matchmaking in the past, nodded. It made no difference: within weeks he would have all that he had ever longed for, back in that far-off country for which he had fought so hard. He smiled to himself as he set off for the Bagh, with Gurnam chattering incessantly. Soon Lillian's smile would be real again and not some distant memory. The touch and feel of her skin would be with him every night and he would awaken to her scent each
morning. And she would no longer have to hide her secret, as she had done for these past three years or so. He would make sure of that. His time in Amritsar was drawing to a close and he welcomed it with open arms. Each Punjabi sunset he witnessed from this day would bring him one step closer to her.

As he walked along, he had the feeling that he'd forgotten something but couldn't recall what it was. It niggled away at the back of his mind but he ignored it, patting the pocket that contained Lillian's letter.

‘Are you all right,
bhai
?' asked Gurnam.

‘I've never been better,' replied Bissen, smiling warmly. ‘It is going to be a beautiful day.'

By the time Gurdial entered the maze of narrow lanes around Jallianwalla Bagh, the sun had begun to burn blood red, so low that it might have been sitting on the rooftops of Amritsar. The sky around seemed to darken as wisps of cloud were drawn together to form one mass. A sudden breeze dried the sweat on Gurdial's face, making him shiver. He turned into one of the narrow passages that led down to the Bagh, pushing through the crowds on their way to the gathering.

As he neared the entrance Gurdial lost his footing and fell to the ground. Before he had a chance to pick himself up, two strong, calloused hands lifted him out of the dirt. Gurdial looked up and saw the face of Mani Ram, a trader from the marketplace.

‘What's the hurry, boy?' Mani asked with a smile.

‘I'm trying to find my friend . . . Jeevan,' replied Gurdial, stepping to one side to let people past.

‘Well, you won't find him with your face buried in the dust, will you?'

Gurdial shrugged.

‘You look worried,
beteh
,' added Mani.

‘My friend is in trouble. And I'm worried because of the riots—'

‘No, no!' Mani replied, shaking his head. ‘We are here to listen to our people. There is no need for any trouble today, not on Vaisakhi.'

Remembering Heera's warning, Gurdial nodded but knew not to believe Mani. Besides, as he passed through the city he'd sensed the tension in the air. The British would want revenge for the riots, which had left many dead and injured. They would not care that it had been an act of revenge and despair. And as a teacher had once told him, revenge was self-propagating; like a seed that, once planted, flowers each year, over and over. He said goodbye to Mani Ram and walked into the Bagh.

It was full of people; thousands of them. They were listening to someone reading out a poem. A wooden platform had been set up as a stage, with a microphone and speakers. The poet finished and the stage was taken by someone else. Gurdial waded into the crowd, eager to find Jeevan. His short, wiry frame allowed him to duck and weave through the dense forest of bodies. He turned his head to avoid a pair of broad shoulders but walked
straight into a heavily perspiring breast and a clip around the ears.

‘
You dog!
' he heard the woman shout as her scent invaded his nostrils.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I was just passing through the crowd and I didn't mean to—'

But the woman had already turned away. Gurdial looked up and saw the sun once more; it looked as though it might fall right on top of them. The clouds – dark purple and orange – fought for space in the sky. Gurdial shuddered. Something felt wrong but he couldn't work out what it was.

He continued fighting his way through the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend, but there were too many bodies, too many faces. Eager women and smiling children got in his way, and at each turn he saw determined-looking men watching and listening. At one point he spotted the man the crowd were listening to: the newspaper editor Pandit Durga Dass, who was gesticulating wildly as he spoke passionately about the evils of the Rowlatt Act. The Pandit was a man well known to Gurdial – a kind, decent man who had often visited the orphanage bearing sweets.