Scott Mariani - Valley of Death

It wasn’t long before they left the big boulevards behind and came into a quieter, tree-lined residential area. Prem announced with great pride that this district of the city was the most prestigious and select place to live in all of India. Ben had already figured that out from the number of luxury cars and the impressive white houses he glimpsed tucked away within verdant gardens as they passed. Not a crippled beggar, street kid, stray dog, food stall or tuk-tuk in sight. Even the hazy grey smog seemed to have dissipated.

But such opulence had to be protected from the teeming masses outside. Prem stopped at a private security checkpoint while guards checked his entry pass before waving the car through. Ben had visited gated communities before, but seldom one where the guards looked like paramilitary troops and carried sawn-off shotguns and submachine guns on open display.

‘Only the very richest families can afford to live here,’ Prem declared as he moved on at a stately pace through the secluded, shade-dappled streets. ‘The Rays have been here since the 1920s, after Mr Basu’s father made his first fortune in land deals. He had arrived in Delhi just a few years earlier, with only some coins in his pocket.’

At last, Prem turned the Maybach off the road towards a driveway entrance barred by tall ornamental wrought-iron gates that were topped with spikes. Prem produced a small black remote device from his pocket, like a miniature phone with a ten-digit keypad. He pointed it through the windscreen towards the gates, and Ben saw his index fingertip enter the four-digit sequence 4-1-9-8. Which happened to be the same as the formula number for the Improved Military Rifle brand of smokeless gunpowder favoured by Tuesday at Le Val for brewing up his super-accurate .223 custom handloads.

The gates whirred aside to let them pass. Prem steered the limo up a long paved driveway that curved through what appeared to be a country park, filled with fruit trees and ornamental shrubs and a profusion of exotic flowers of more colours than Ben had names for.

He already had a pretty good idea of how wealthy Amal’s family must be, but the sight of the house was the final clincher. It was built on a palatial scale, classically modern and elegant in gleaming white stone with notes of marble here and there, all in the best taste that money could buy. Acres of windows overlooked emerald lawns where peacocks strutted majestically and the jets of sprinklers made rainbows in the sunlight.

‘Here we are,’ Prem said. ‘Welcome to the Ray residence.’

Stepping out of the car it was hard to believe that this tranquil paradise setting was situated right in the beating heart of the most polluted city on earth and the second most populous in Asia after only Tokyo, home to sixteen million people. Prem took Ben’s bag from the back of the car and waved him graciously towards the house.

‘Come, this way, please. I will take you to see Miss Brooke.’

Now came the moment Ben had been so nervous about. Prem, whose duties seemed to include being head butler as well as the family chauffeur, led him into the house. Its interior was as cool as the Maybach, airy and sweetly scented by the flowers that filled every corner. The mosaic floors were marble, the art and furnishings were modern and without a doubt supremely expensive. A rich man’s dream abode, perhaps, but Ben couldn’t understand how anyone could live inside a multi-million-dollar show home.

The house felt empty. Nobody came to meet them as Prem led Ben inside. Ben asked, ‘Are Samarth and his wife at home?’

‘Oh, he will be at the office now. She is most likely taking a nap at this time of the morning.’ Eleven thirty, and the lady of the house was napping. Ben asked no more questions.

The elder brother’s private apartment was on the ground floor of the house, occupying what Prem called the west wing. The separate apartments belonging to Amal and Kabir were upstairs, on the first and second floors respectively. Prem escorted Ben up a sweeping marble double staircase with banister rails capped with gilt, then along about six miles of passages floored with handmade oriental rugs, until they reached the part of the house that comprised Amal’s personal quarters.

Prem said, ‘The apartment has three guest bedrooms. Would you like to inspect them before you choose the one you prefer?’

Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in the house. ‘We’ll talk about my accommodation arrangements later. Where’s Brooke?’

As if in reply, Prem stopped at a door. He was about to knock, but before he could announce the visitor’s arrival the door opened, and there she stood framed in the entrance. Milky light from tall windows filled the room behind her.

‘Hello, Ben.’

‘Hello, Brooke. It’s been a while,’ he said.

‘Yes, it has,’ she replied.

Her hair had been shorter the last time they’d met. It had grown out again now, and hung in rich auburn curls past her shoulders. She’d lost a little weight and her face seemed more sculpted, if anything looking more attractive than Ben had ever seen her, despite the washed-out pallor of her fatigue and the dark shadows under her eyes. She was wearing a loose, sleeveless silk blouse and green satin trousers that matched her irises. She’d been crying.

Ben had known this would be an uncomfortable meeting. It couldn’t have been any other way. The atmosphere was heavy with tension. There was a long, awkward silence. Brooke was the one to break it, by saying politely, ‘Prem, our visitor might like some refreshments.’

Ben was so focused on Brooke that he’d forgotten Prem was still hovering at his shoulder. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Then you can leave us now, Prem, thank you.’

‘I’ll take the bag,’ Ben said, taking it from Prem’s hand. Prem seemed reluctant to go. Ben supposed that he must know, or had guessed, a certain amount about the backstory between them. He might be hoping to see some fireworks if he hung around.

Prem gave a courteous nod, muttered ‘If you’re sure there is nothing I can do for you,’ and took his leave.

They waited until he was gone before they spoke another word. Then waited longer, neither one knowing quite what to say now they were alone together. Ben gazed at her face, so familiar, still sometimes in his dreams. He gazed at the light from the window shining in her hair and the way it silhouetted the curve of her shoulders, and he drank in the well of sadness he could see in her beautiful, tired eyes. They stood just two steps apart, but they might as well have been separated by oceans.

Ben knew the correct and proper thing would be to congratulate her on her marriage. Somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to come out with it. Now that their past history had been sealed shut, formally and officially ended, the rekindled memories of their time together came flooding back more wistfully than ever. He could tell she was thinking the same.