Sarwat Chadda: Ash Mistry and the World of Darkness

For my family

Be not entangled in this

world of days and nights;

Thou hast another time

and space as well.

Muhammad Iqbal

poet

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication For my family

Epigraph Be not entangled in this world of days and nights; Thou hast another time and space as well. Muhammad Iqbal poet

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Acknowledgements

Also by Sarwat Chadda

Copyright

About the Publisher

Ashoka Mistry tripped over the tree root. A second later he crashed flat on his face, eating leaves as he slid down the muddy slope and landed in a grey, stagnant puddle.

He lay there, in the foul water, groaning.

And this was exactly why he hated cross-country running.

“For heaven’s sake, Mistry,” said Mr Leach, the PE teacher. “Are you auditioning for the circus or what?” He scampered down the slope, moving with what could only be described as cat-like grace. He finished with a controlled skid that brought him to a perfect stop in front of Ashoka. A few boys clapped.

“Sorry, sir,” said Ashoka, slowly sitting up and spitting out leaves.

“Well, get up. Get up.”

Ashoka tried to stand, but his shorts were caught on something. “Sir …”

Mr Leach took hold of his arm and pulled.

“Sir!”

The loud, sickening tearing sound made the whole class erupt in laughter.

“Nice underpants,” said one of the boys.

“Your mum buy you those, Mistry?” said another.

Ashoka stood ankle-deep in the water, smeared with mud and plastered with leaves, his running shorts bearing a long gash down the back, exposing his limited-edition Doctor Who underpants.

Mr Leach sighed then tucked his clipboard under his arm and scrabbled up the slope to where the rest of the class stood waiting. He turned back to Ashoka. “Come on, lad.”

Ashoka stared at the steep incline and the long, brown trench he’d left in it. The entire wood was just a sea of mud and here he was, at the bottom. He tried to adjust his shorts but all he got was a longer tear. He clambered up the slope. Or tried to.

The laughter and the snickering and the catcalls he blanked out. They were the same taunts no matter which sport he did. Football, rugby, basketball, gymnastics. If there was a piece of equipment that he could stumble over, he would. But cross-country was a special type of hell. It was bad enough doing laps around the school grounds, but this, out in Dulwich Woods, brought a whole new meaning to the word ‘humiliating’. This first run of the year was the worst. The snow had barely melted and the earth was a mixture of freezing puddles, slush and deep, thick mud. Ashoka was not a January sort of person. Now he was going to have to jog all the way back with his backside hanging out. And that included going past two girls’ schools.

“Come on, Ash,” urged Josh.

“Ashoka, my name’s Ashoka,” he muttered under his breath. How many times had he told Josh? He wasn’t Ash, not any more.

Gritting his teeth, Ashoka grabbed hold of a fistful of weeds and began hauling himself up. He was going to get to the top, no matter what.

His boots, totally sodden and slick with mud, couldn’t get any sort of grip. He slipped to his knees, panting, but still hanging on.

Mr Leach drummed his fingers on his board.

Don’t rush. Just get to the top.

His arms ached. His grip weakened. The root was damp with dew. With awful slowness, Ashoka began to slide backwards.

He dug his fingers into the ground, but he was too heavy. Sharp stones scraped his shins and knees, but Ashoka didn’t care – he would not fall back. Vainly he tried to find another handhold, but before he knew it he was back at the bottom.

Mr Leach rolled his eyes. “I should have known.” He turned to the rest of the class. “What are you lot waiting for? Get back to the school right now.” The group of boys began to move off, but not before a few of the wits waved goodbye to Ashoka.

“Don’t worry, we’ll send a crane for you!”

Mr Leach, hands on hips, gazed down. “Look, Mistry. Follow the path that way and you’ll come to another gate. Go through that and you’re back on to Lordship Lane. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then off you go.”

Ashoka stood up and wiped the worst of the mud and leaves and blood off his knees. Jeez, when would this ever end? He was hopeless.

He plodded along towards the gate. The clouds had that fat, grey, swollen look about them and he hoped he’d get back before they finally opened up.

Last. As usual. He was just not built for exercise. Or any sort of physical activity beyond handling a games console.

No, not totally true. He was one of the school’s best archers, but then shooting an arrow didn’t require much running and jumping. Still, technically it was a sport and he was pretty good at it. So why did they have to torture them with cross-country runs in the middle of winter? There should be a law against it.

He reached the gates and found them locked. Of course. The gods had it especially in for him. A heavy chain went around the bars a dozen times and the padlock was about the size of his fist. The gates and fence were almost three metres high and topped with spikes.

Ashoka searched for some convenient gap and found one. Unfortunately it was only wide enough for half of him.

He sat down on a bench. He could only think of one other way out, but that was three miles uphill towards Crystal Palace, in totally the wrong direction. He’d be lucky to get back before dark.

Could this day get any worse?

Then he saw the boy. In the hoodie.

Magnificent. Now I’m going to be mugged.

The boy didn’t move. He sat opposite Ashoka on a tree stump, elbows resting on his knees. He could be looking at him, he could be asleep; the hood hid his face. All Ashoka could tell was that the guy was lean and tough-looking. His stillness was like that of a viper or mantis, about to pounce.

Ashoka gazed through the bars, hoping someone might be passing by, walking their dog or something.

I don’t have a mobile, or any money , thought Ashoka. He can see that. Maybe he’ll just let me go.

The boy got up. He moved with sure, athletic confidence. Black hoodie, pair of dark jeans, and all Ashoka could make out was a pair of glistening dark eyes. Trouble with a capital ‘Extreme Bodily Harm’.