The Moors Last Sigh

neither honoured nor desecrated my victim’s body; my thoughts were for myself, my chances of survival and escape. After I had murdered Fielding I turned him in his chair, so that he faced away from the door (though he no longer had a face). I set his feet up on a bookshelf and folded his arms across his pulpy wounds, so that he seemed to have fallen asleep, exhausted by his labours. Then quickly, quietly, I searched for the recording machines – there would be two, to back each other up.
    They were easy enough to find. Fielding had never made a secret of his recording zeal, and his office cupboards – which were unlocked – revealed to me the spools whirling slowly, like dervishes, in the dark. I ripped out lengths of tape and stuffed them in my pockets.
    It was time to go. I left the room and closed the door with exaggerated care. ‘Do not disturb,’ I whispered to Badmood and Sneezo. ‘Skipper’s catching forty winks.’ That held them for the moment, but would I have time to leave the property? I had visions of yells, whistles, shots, and four transmogrified cricketers, snarling loudly as they leapt for my throat. My feet began to hurry; I slowed them down, and then came to a halt. Gavaskar, Vengsarkar, Mankad and Azharuddin came up and licked my good hand. I knelt and hugged them. Then I rose, left dogs and Mumbadevi statues behind me, went out through the gates, and got into the Mercedes-Benz I had taken from the Cashondeliveri Tower car-pool. As I drove away I wondered who would get to me first: the police, or Chhaggan Five-in-a-Bite. On the whole, I would prefer the police. A second dead body, Mr Zogoiby. Careless. The slackfulness is terrific .
    There was an animal noise behind me, except that no animal ever roared so loud, and a giant’s hand spun my car around, twice, and blew out my rear windows. The Murs’deez stalled, facing the wrong way.
    The sun had come out. The first thing I thought of was The Walrus and the Carpenter . ‘The moon was shining sulkily,/Because she thought the sun/Had got no business to be there/After the day was done./“It’s very rude of him,” she said,/“To come and spoil the fun!” ’ My second thought was that an aeroplane had crashed on the city. There were high flames now, and screams, and for the first time I realised that something had happened at the Fielding residence. I heard Sneezo’s voice again: ‘The Tid-bad stobbed by earlier to bay his resbegds.’
    His last respects. His sacked old warrior’s respects. How had Sammy the bomber smuggled this device past the searching guards? I could come up with just one answer. Inside his metal limb . Which meant it had to be pretty small. No room for dynamite sticks in there. What then? Plastique, RDX, Semtex? ‘Bravo, Sammy,’ I thought. ‘Miniaturisation, eh? Wah-wah. Only the best, latest stuff for Mainduck.’ Who would not be giving anyone else the sack in a hurry. It occurred to me that I had murdered a dead man. Even though he had still been alive when I got to him, Sammy had beaten me to the knockout punch.
    It took me a few more moments to work out that there wouldn’t be much left of Mainduck. Sammy was good enough to have made sure of that. It was quite possible, therefore, that I would not come under suspicion of having committed any crime at all. Though, as the last man to have seen Raman Fielding alive, I would no doubt have questions to answer. The car obediently started first time. The air was horrid with smoke and all-too-identifiable stenches. Many people were running. It was time to leave. As I reversed down the street I imagined I heard the barking of hungry dogs who had unexpectedly been thrown large chunks of meat, mostly still on the bone. That, and the flapping of vultures.

    ‘Get out,’ said Abraham Zogoiby. ‘Do it pronto. And stay out.’
    It was my last walk with him in his aerial orchard. I had made my report about the fatal events in Bandra. ‘So Hazaré is a loose cannon,’ my father said. ‘Doesn’t matter. Side-issue. Some supplier is dealing on the side, that will have to be taken up. But, none of your business. Just now you are under no restraint. Therefore, goodbye. Take your leave. While you can do it, go.’
    ‘What will happen here?’
    ‘Your brother will rot in jail. Everything will end. I also am finished. But my finish: that has not yet begun.’
    I took a ripe apple from a basket, and asked him my last question. ‘Once,’ I said, ‘Vasco Miranda