The India Spy by J.S. Monroe

Author:J.S. Monroe [Monroe, J.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788548649
Publisher: Head of Zeus

13

The man on the jetty was Priyanka’s father. He bent down to take our rope and helped Priyanka to step ashore. I was left to disembark on my own but I didn’t sense any coldness towards me.

“This is Raj, the doctor who has been helping me with a couple of stories in Delhi,” Priyanka said to him, with impressive composure. “And this is my father,” she said, turning to me.

Her father nodded as we shook hands. “Raj Nair,” I said, looking at him for a moment, conscious of how the name resonated in Kerala. His face looked creased and tired with worry.

“Raj was the one who arranged the interview with Macaulay,” Priyanka said, stepping in. We were both waiting to see his reaction, wondering if he had seen us in the dark. But he had not come here to chastise us, or to pass judgment. His worries lay elsewhere.

“Priya, your mother has been taken ill,” he said quietly. “You must come quickly. We have been trying to contact you all afternoon.”

“What’s the matter with her?” Priyanka asked anxiously. The whole tone of the conversation had shifted.

“She’s had a stroke.”

“Mummy?” Priyanka said, bewildered.

“A minor one but she’s not well.”

“Can I be of any help?” I asked. “I’m a doctor in Britain.”

“We’re not short of good doctors in Kerala,” he said, opening the door of a white Maruti for Priyanka. She climbed in without looking at me, trying to hide the tears that were welling.

“Ring me at the Casino if there’s anything I can do,” I said as she pulled the door closed. A moment later and they had gone, leaving me alone on the jetty.

I looked out across the water and watched the dredger, which was turning around slowly in the harbour mouth. The Chinese fishing nets, still now and silhouetted in its arc lights, were like petrified limbs, clawing at the night sky. Fatman row-row was standing next to his boat, fiddling unnecessarily with the bow rope. I went over to him and gave him a tip, fifty rupees, which he slipped into the top of his lunghi with the deftness of a street magician.

“I tell nobody,” he said, grinning in the direction of the car, which was far away now, turning onto the main road, its headlights sweeping briefly across the water.

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