‘I decided to get to know you a little better. Your sisters,’ he said. ‘I stopped by.’
Hari closed his eyes, despair and fury welling from deep inside him. He forced himself to stay silent. He knew this man would talk more.
‘Cute kids,’ Hussain said.
Hari nodded, opened his eyes.
‘Good,’ said Hussain. ‘We agree. So. You can tell me what you know about IPS and I’ll get Kamran to deal with you. Just you. Or you can fight us. Deny everything. Then Kamran gets to visit your sisters too.’ He held up the photo. ‘Like I said. Cute kids.’
Hari forced some deep breaths. He recalled Binici’s words from what seemed like years ago. We don’t deal. Arguing is pointless. Negotiating is pointless.
So Hari found his voice. It sounded like a strangled roar. ‘Wait! This is bullshit! I am not a journalist. I am not a traitor. I am Hari Roy, student, grandson of Indian revolutionaries and proud citizen.’ He cast his eyes around the room – caught Binici’s frown – but his words were for the thug in front of him. ‘I have no idea who you are, sir. I am sure you have carried the struggle with pride but you are wrong. When the fash attacked our group, a radiation attack, it was me they went for. I was in hospital! I can tell you that right here and right now, you have the wrong man.’
Hussain held his gaze. Kept his fist in place too. ‘I think I have the right man. Was it just a coincidence that you joined a few weeks after the Howells boy? It can only be you. Lawson hired you, didn’t she?’ He waved Kamran closer. ‘Ear to ear,’ he said, ‘just like last time. There is nothing else to say.’
‘Wait!’ called Binici. He stepped forward a few paces.
Hussain glanced round. ‘What is it?’ He looked, and sounded, irritated. A man not used to being told to wait. ‘You have something to say?’ The threat was clear: Binici was in the dock too.
Binici looked nervous, adjusted his glasses, put both hands in his pockets. ‘It was us who recruited him. Sara found him on campus. He wanted to join us. We did have a traitor. You are right to be suspicious. But I dealt with him. Two days back.’
Hussain turned to face Binici. ‘Dealt with?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Who was he?’
‘His name was Zachary Bourton-Jones. Zak BJ, he called himself.’
‘How do you know it was him?’ Hussain sounded unconvinced. ‘Tell me. Make it fast.’
Binici took another step forward. ‘He had a history of fascist sympathies. He kept his contacts. And he betrayed us. It is true that Hari was attacked with radiation. He only just survived. Zak was the traitor. No question.’
Hussain turned back to Hari. ‘You look scared,’ he said.
Hari nodded. ‘I am scared, sir.’
‘Scared of being found out?’
‘No. But scared of you, sir, and scared about what we have to do tomorrow.’
‘Convince me,’ said Hussain. ‘Because you may not look like Howells, but you do smell like Howells. If you see what I mean.’
Hari had no time to think. He ran to the stacked chairs, climbed on top. Kamran was at his heels but Hussain called him back, saying, ‘Let him speak.’
A preacher in a pulpit. A sceptical congregation. And the only soul he had to save was his own. Hari took off his shirt. Took a breath.
‘Tomorrow we have a job to do,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what it is yet but we will follow the instructions to the letter. I am a citizen first. I am committed to our revolutionary path.’ From his pocket, Hari produced his knife. His Böhler N690 steel stiletto. The blade was folded.
Kamran made to move forward but Hussain kept him back.
Hari held the knife to his chest. Right where he remembered Collins’ tattoo was. ‘We at Boxer Street were always reminded of the words from that play. Embrace the butcher. Because that’s what we are doing. So …’ Hari was flying, words spilling out of him. Out of control. He flicked the lever. The blade locked into position. He stuck the tip of the knife against his skin and pushed and pierced. Blood pooled, then ran down his chest. ‘Embrace the butcher!’ he yelled, and carved a deep horizontal line into his skin. The pain was blinding and immediate. He stuck the tip in again and cut two more lines, one below the other. It opened his skin like a zipper. Three parallel bloody lines, which he now joined with a vertical.
A capital E.
Next he carved a vertical with a horizontal on top.
A capital T.
Murmurs from the floor. They got it now.
The horizontals bled more than the verticals. They hurt just the same. Hari wobbled. Corrected his stance, restored his balance. His waistband was soaked. He could feel the blood running down his legs. His breaths were becoming deeper. His hands were steady.
One more vertical. Two more quick flourishes. A capital B. He had finished. He stood, ecstatic, agonized, chest heaving, blood running in three streams down his torso.
‘ETB – embrace the butcher,’ he said, his voice catching on the last word. He pointed the bloodied knife at his startled audience. He swung it left and down till it pointed at Kamran. ‘Your turn.’
62
BLOOD WAS IN the air. Gregor’s carnage film followed by Hari’s self-mutilation produced a tidal wave of cutting. Everyone but Hussain and Binici removed their shirts and cut ‘ETB’ into their skin. A new knife. A new blooding. A new bonding. There were no showers, no bandages, no antiseptic creams. The blood dried where it
