He was one hundred metres away when he came to a wide road that crossed the street at a sharp angle, and the arrow moved back to ten o’clock. Bennett turned left and watched the counter count down: 89, and, seconds later, 80.
He hurried along a wide pavement lined with stallholders and food-vendors, their cries loud and incoherent. To his left was the fa ç ade of an ancient building, to his right the stalls of frying food, stacked fruit and vegetables set up in the gutter. He glanced at the screen: 25metres.
When he judged that he had walked that distance, he looked down at the screen again. The arrow had turned to nine o’clock, pointing towards the monstrous Victorian building to his left, and the counter read 10 metres. He turned and stared up at the imposing stone fa ç ade. A flight of steps rose to the sliding glass doors, above which ran the legend: calcutta police headquarters.
He stood and stared up at the building, buffeted by impatient passers-by, and wondered how to proceed. Nearby was a chai stall, a wooden table covered by a makeshift carbon-fibre awning. He ducked under the cover, sat down on a rickety wooden chair and ordered a chai.
He sipped a glass of the sweet milky tea and considered his options. The softscreen could be inside the police building for a number of reasons: it could be stolen goods, or lost property, or the possession of someone who had it adorning the wall of his office. How best to find out? There was one obvious course of action.
He finished the chai, crossed the pavement and climbed the steps into the police headquarters. He was gratified to see that he was not the only civilian in there: the corridors seemed to be home from home to half the city, squatting on their haunches and looking doleful. He glanced at the screen. Two arrows had appeared: the main one read 3 metres and indicated two o’clock, and the new arrow in the corner of the screen was pointing straight ahead to the words: 6metres, up. So the softscreen was located six metres above him and then three metres in the direction of two o’clock.
He noticed a flight of stairs to his right. Civilians seemed to be using them, so he joined the procession and climbed the steps. When he came to the first floor and glanced down at the screen, only one arrow showed. It indicated three o’clock, and below it 5 metres.
He turned right and walked along the corridor. Offices opened off the corridor, each one bearing a sign projecting from the wall at right angles to the open entrance. The signs were printed with two legends, one in Hindi and the other in English.
He came to an office beneath a sign saying: security. He looked at the screen. It was pointing into the office and reading 2 metres.
A small man in a khaki uniform with sergeant’s stripes sat at a desk behind a com-screen. What now? Before Bennett could think, much less move from the open doorway, the sergeant looked up and saw him. “Yes?” he rapped in English. “How can I help you?”
Bennett slipped the receiver into his pocket, took a breath and entered the room. “I’d like to report the theft of a softscreen,” he said.
The sergeant stared at him. “This is not the correct office to be reporting stolen property.” Then he blinked. “What did you say has been stolen?”
“A softscreen, the recording of a mountain expedition—”
“Please describe the softscreen.”
“Well…” Bennett gestured. “It’s just an old softscreen, showing scenes of an expedition through mountainous territory.”
The sergeant stood. “Please stay here. I’ll be one moment only.” He moved around the desk and left the office.
Bennett slipped the receiver from his pocket. The screen indicated that the softscreen was located directly before him, and less than a metre away.
It was in the sergeant’s desk, then.
He considered looking through the desk while the sergeant was away. But if he was caught… No, better to wait, as instructed.
Two minutes later the sergeant returned and took his seat behind the desk. “If you would care to wait one moment, please. There is someone who would like to see you.”
Bennett nodded and sat back in his chair, confused by this turn of events. The softscreen, which he had travelled from the Rim to find, was less than one metre from him, and he was absolutely powerless to do anything about it.
He wondered who, in Calcutta, might wish to meet him.
20
Rana Rao thought that there were three types of pain. The first was the dull pain of dying, when the injury was so severe that the body shut down and anaesthetised the senses. The second was the sharp pain of recovery, when you often wished that you had died. The third type of pain was the pain of betrayal, and perhaps that was the most agonising of all. She had experienced all three types of pain, from the second Klien fired at her all the way through to being discharged from hospital.
She’d lost consciousness soon after she was shot, then came awake—disoriented and confused—some unknown time later in a private hospital room, abstracted from sensation by sedatives and analgesics. At that first stirring of consciousness, at some lonely time in the dark early hours, she was ridiculously concerned about only one thing. She had never been vain about her appearance, but now she tried to reach up and touch her face. Her arms seemed to be tied down—no, not tied down, but restricted by tubes and catheters, their plastic loops and lengths catching a distant light. She pulled against them and the muscles of her shoulders protested, but she managed to bring her finger-tips up to her cheek and lean forward minimally. She almost wept with relief as her fingers encountered soft flesh. She tried the other side then, and discovered that that cheek was also unscarred.
Then she remembered the shoot-out. Klien had shot the security officers and left her for dead. He’d had no time to scar her.
“You shouldn’t do that.” She was aware of the face swimming into her view, gentle hands on hers, forcing her arms down by her sides. “Close your eyes and rest,” the nurse said. “There, try to sleep.”
When she awoke next it was to a searing pain in her chest, as if a burning arrow had lodged itself in her sternum. She screamed and opened her eyes and saw many green-smocked medics gathered around her bed, staring at her without expression above surgical masks. In that intense second of agony she wished that Klien had succeeded and killed her. Then the pain diminished, and she closed her eyes and drifted off into oblivion.
She seemed to wake up frequently after that, for short periods between long stretches of sedation, and always the pain was a little less intense. Always she tried to remain awake a little longer, without success.
She remembered fragments from these awakenings. Vishwanath sitting beside her, concern etched on his aquiline face, a hand on hers. He was saying something, asking her if she could recall anything, but when she tried to speak she found that the words would not come. The next time she opened her eyes she saw Naz standing next to the bed, a bunch of flowers in his hand. He reached out and took her fingers. “Truce?” he asked, and this time she managed a few words: “Ah-cha, truce.”
The next time she came to her senses, it seemed to her a proper awakening. It was morning, and she was in a different room, with sunlight spilling in through a window, illuminating her bed and so many beautiful, fragrant flowers. She was no longer attached to drips and tubes. She wondered if she were out of intensive care now, if she would live. She looked through the door of her room. An armed guard was stationed there. She closed her eyes, against her will, and slept.
A voice came to her as if from a great distance. “Rana?”