Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

The singers continued in the tent, a few metres away. A crow, out too late or too early, called from a branch above our heads.

Two bright lights strung on a tracery of wires showed the entrance to the singers’ tent. It was an impromptu devotion, assembled from time to time in different places, wherever permission was given, and disassembled without a trace soon after dawn each time.

It was peaceful, and safe, because everyone believed that to disturb such pure devotion, once begun, would bring a curse on seven generations. It was a risk that no-one was willing to take, not even rival gangsters. Sometimes, it’s the unborn generations that protect us.

‘We took contracts from outside our own Company,’ Abdullah began. ‘It was Sanjay’s decision. I think that he had political motives, but that is only my thought. The first job was the killing of a businessman.’

He stopped, and I gave him time. I’d ridden a long way, and it had been a hard day’s nightmare.

‘The Irishman was offering himself to every Company. Sanjay hired him, and sent me with him, to see that it went well.’

He stopped again.

‘But it didn’t go well,’ I prompted.

‘His wife and daughter were at home. They were not supposed to be there. They saw us, and could identify us, but I could not kill them.’

‘Of course not.’

‘But… Concannon killed them, and I let him kill them, and I listened to it, as he did it, and I am cursed by it.’

Abdullah, Abdullah, invincible Abdullah. I felt him slipping away from me, as love does, sometimes, when the bridge is too far, and the earth on the way to it becomes sand.

‘What have you done, man?’

‘He cut their throats,’ he said.

‘Oh, God.’

‘It was in all the newspapers. You must have seen it.’

Husband strangled, wife and daughter killed, money stolen: I remembered the story. I remembered not liking the story.

‘After that,’ Abdullah said, ‘I told Concannon that if I ever saw him again, I would kill him. I cut his connection to the Company, and Sanjay sent our contracts to the Cycle Killers, instead.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? The guy put a contract out on me , for fuck’s sake.’

‘I was ashamed,’ he said.

‘ Ashamed? ’

Ashamed. I knew shame. And he was my brother, and brotherhood has no sky.

‘You should’ve told me, Abdullah. We’re brothers.’

‘But, if you had shunned me, for my shameful acts?’

Fate makes you a judge, as often as you’re judged. I was an escaped convict, doing black market business on the streets, and Abdullah lifted me to the bench, gavel in hand. I wanted to hit him with it.

‘You should’ve told me.’

‘I know,’ he said, hanging his head.

‘No more secrets,’ I said. ‘You and Didier, I swear, you love your secrets, both of you.’

‘No more secrets,’ he repeated.

‘On your oath, as a soldier?’

‘On my oath.’

‘Good. Keep your eyes open. I visited Concannon tonight, and he’ll either back off, or he’ll come out of the cave biting.’

‘You went without me?’

‘I was okay. I had some help.’

‘Did you beat him?’ Abdullah asked, brightening again.

‘It got messy. Keep your head up.’

‘I am proud of you, Lin,’ he said.

‘That makes one of us,’ I said. ‘It shouldn’t have happened, but he’s a hard man to reason with.’

‘Shall we go in, and join in the singing?’ he suggested.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve gotta get home. Karla might be there. See you soon, brother.’

I rode back toward the Island City, swinging through long, wide Marine Drive before heading back to the Amritsar hotel. The road was deserted. The sea wall was deserted. The houses on my left were sleeping, sending peace into the ocean.

Then I saw a man, playing the guitar. He was sitting under a streetlight in the partition on the centre of the boulevard.

It was Oleg. I pulled up beside him.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Playing the guitar,’ he said happily.

‘Why are you playing the guitar in the middle of the road?’

‘The acoustics are perfect here,’ he smiled, infuriatingly. ‘The sea behind me, and the buildings in front. It’s perfect. Do you play guitar? We should play here together. We could -’

I rode away and reached Nariman Point before I turned back, and drew up beside him again.

‘You wanna get drunk?’ I asked, the bike rumbling.

‘With you?’ he asked, suspiciously.

I rode away again and reached Nariman Point before I turned back, and drew up beside him again.

‘Yes! I’d love to get drunk,’ he said.

‘Get on the bike, Oleg.’

‘Can I drive?’

‘Don’t ever talk about my motorcycle like that again.’

‘Okay,’ he said, climbing up behind me, the guitar slung at his side. ‘Just so long as we know where the boundaries are.’

‘Hang on tight.’

‘Are we going to fight someone, when we get drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Not even each other?’

‘Get off the bike, Oleg.’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ll stay sober if we’re going to fight each other, because you fight dirty.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘We Russians can’t fight dirty. That’s why we’re such pushovers.’

‘Oleg, if you say the word Russian once more, I’ll throw you off in a curve.’

‘What am I supposed to say? I’m Russian, after all.’

‘Let’s call them R-people.’

‘Got it,’ he said, holding on. ‘We R-people are quick on the uptake.’

He was a good passenger, and it was fun, riding with him. I was in a good mood as we parked the bike and climbed the stairs to my rooms at the Amritsar hotel.

Just as we approached my door, Karla opened hers, going somewhere else.

She was in a sleeveless evening dress, and high sneakers. Her hair was twisted into a knot, and fixed with a swordfish rib-bone she’d bought at the fish market. She’d cleaned it, polished it, and fixed one of her jewelled rings to the wider end. It reflected the lights of the room behind her.

‘Wow,’ Oleg said, peering into the Bedouin tent.

‘Karla, this is Oleg. He’s a Russian writer, and a good man in a bad corner. Oleg, this is Karla.’

Karla looked me up and down, her head tilting like the woman in the glittering black burkha in the Tuareg’s house of arches. Something was wrong: more wrong than usual. She looked at Oleg. She smiled.

‘Bad corners, huh?’

‘Karla,’ Oleg said, kissing her hand. ‘What a lovely name. I have a special love, and I call her Karlesha. It’s my love name for her. It’s an honour to meet you. And if I flirt with you, your boyfriend says he will cut me.’

‘Oh, he will, huh?’ Karla smiled.

‘You know what,’ I said, ‘Oleg and I came here tonight to get drunk, in my room. It’s been a long night. A rough night. Would you like to join us?’

‘Would I like to, or would I be willing to?’

‘Karla.’

‘It’s a fair question,’ Oleg said.

I looked at him.

‘I’m only saying… ’

‘No, thanks,’ Karla said, switching off the lights, slamming shut the door to her room and locking several locks. ‘But, you know what, I’ve got an offer for you , Oleg.’

She turned to face him, all sixteen queens.

‘What kind of an offer?’ Oleg asked amiably.

‘We need field agents, and you look right.’

‘Field agents?’

‘Let’s open that bottle of oblivion, Oleg,’ I suggested. ‘And get drunk.’

‘We’ve got a bureau, one door along from mine,’ Karla said, leaning against the doorframe. ‘And we need field agents with spike. Have you got spike, Oleg?’