Mosquito. Roma Tearne
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that confused him. He felt as though she might ask him for something he could not give. He saw she was still smiling at him and again he felt an urge to run away. Then he noticed that close up she was even prettier than she had appeared from a distance. Tongue-tied, he continued to stare at her, hardly aware she was still speaking.
‘Has your brother gone to the UK?’ he asked finally, with some difficulty, not understanding and wanting to distract her.
The girl shook her head. ‘Not yet,’ she said.
She smiled again, but this time it was she who hesitated. Then she seemed to withdraw slightly. He thought she appeared older than he remembered, and he saw her eyes were very dark and deep and sad. They seemed full of other puzzling and unnamed things. He stared at her for a moment longer and nodded. Then, making up his mind, he loped off.
That afternoon, after he had finished his target practice with the silencer on the gun, Gerard told Vikram he had something important to say.
‘First,’ he said, ‘well done!’ He took the gun from Vikram. ‘Congratulations! You’ve worked hard and as a reward I shall take you on a little operation with me at the end of the month. If you do well at that, there will be bigger and more interesting assignments ahead, OK? And then, in a few months’ time you will go to the Eastern province for something extremely important.’
‘What?’ asked Vikram. ‘The Eastern province? Isn’t that where the Tigers are trained?’
‘Vikram,’ said Gerard, ‘you must learn not to ask too many questions. You’ll be told everything. But, all in good time. Don’t ask questions. You aren’t going to be an ordinary member of the Tigers, believe me. You are both intelligent and a good shot. So now you’re going to be trained for something top class. Trust me, men.’
‘When?’ demanded Vikram.
‘Patience, patience,’ said Gerard, holding up his hands mockingly, shaking his head. ‘Patience is what’s required now. We’ve both waited a long time to prepare you for this. Don’t ruin things. I promise you the time is coming when you will avenge your family. I fully understand how you must feel. Just wait a little longer. And for heaven’s sake, Vikram,’ he added, ‘do me a favour. Go back to school for your exams. You don’t want to attract any notice at this stage. If the Mendis girl knows you’re absent, then others will too.’
Vikram picked up the gun and held it below his crotch. He stroked the tip of the barrel. He laughed, a high-pitched out-of-control scurrilous screech.
‘That’s enough,’ said Gerard sharply. ‘Put it down. It’s not a toy. You can have all the things you want if you show restraint. You’ve been earmarked for great things. Now, go back to school.’
Gerard was aware that underneath his silent exterior Vikram was coiled like a spring. He knew whatever simmered in Vikram was dangerously near the surface. And that it was best to keep a tight control over him. Just in case.
A few days after his exams, Vikram saw the Mendis girl once more. She did not see him. She was hurrying in the direction of the beach. Interested, he decided to follow her. He watched her body move darkly beneath the lime-green skirt, in the sunlight. Her hair was tied up and it swung to and fro as she walked. Where is she going? Vikram wondered curiously.
The road went nowhere in particular. In fact, it was not possible to reach the beach this way without scrambling over the giant cacti. Then the road curved, and suddenly it was possible to see the sea. The beach was completely empty and scorched. Just before the road came to an end, there appeared a long, low house, surrounded by a flower-laden wall and flanked by two stone lions. The top of the wall was covered in barbed wire. Vikram remembered now. It was the house where the UK-returned writer lived. He had seen the man once when he had come to the school. The teachers had shaken their heads, saying he was a Singhalese who was pro the wretched Tamils. What kind of a Singhalese was he? they asked. Still, they had said, he was famous. Misguided, but famous. So they had invited him because of that.
A large jackfruit tree overhung Theo Samarajeeva’s garden wall. Its leaves were thick and succulent, and the girl, stopping outside the gate, began to draw in her notebook. She had no idea she was being followed. Nor did she seem to notice there was no shade. Nulani Mendis sat on the withered grass verge absorbed in her drawing, as the low hum of mosquitoes and the drowsy buzz of other, more benign, insects slowed to a halt in the baking air. Across the sun-drenched garden Vikram could just make out the writer, in his pale linen trousers and his white shirt, working at a table on the veranda. The veranda had been bleached white by the sun and appeared dusty in the dazzling light. Then the manservant came out to fetch the girl in for lunch, and shut the gate. And that was all Vikram saw of any of them that day.
* * *
Nulani had almost finished the portrait. In a week she would be ready to show both Theo and Sugi.
‘I will cook kiribath, some milk rice, ‘Sugi said. ‘And buy the best fish.’
‘I shall decide where it must be hung!’ said Theo.
An air of gaiety descended. Sugi replaced the lanterns in the trees. And Theo declared the day of the unveiling a holiday from his writing. His work was progressing slowly. In October the film of his second book would be out. He would have to go to London for the premiere.
‘For how long will you be gone?’ asked Nulani, her eyes suddenly anxious. ‘Will they let you come back?’
Her hair was coiled against the back of her neck and a frangipani blossom quivered just above her ear. Theo watched it shake as she moved her head, wondering when it would fall. Once, he nearly put his hand out to catch it. How could he explain to her that no one could stop him coming home? When had he started to call this place home again?
His agent had rung him complaining. It was impossible to get a call through to him, did he know that? The lines were always down. How could he live in a place with no access to the outside world, where the lines were always down? The agent hoped he was working. Through the crackle on the line the agent sounded like a peevish nanny. The summer in London, he told Theo, was disappointing. Wet, cold and miserable. The only consolation, he supposed, was that the telephones worked!
Because the curfew was not in operation just now Theo walked openly on the beach. The sand, ivory and unblemished, seemed to stretch for ever, smooth and interrupted only by his footsteps. One evening Nulani went with him. She had told her mother she was working late on the painting. They walked the wide sweep of beach without seeing anyone, with only the slight breeze and the waves for company. It felt as though they had walked this same beach for an eternity. She walked close to him, like a child, her hand brushing against his arm. He felt her skin, warm against him. He had an urge to take her hand and cradle it in his two hands. He knew she was worrying and he wanted to tell her to stop. But he felt helplessly that he had no right to intrude.
‘I feel as if I have known you for ever,’ the girl said suddenly. ‘D’you think we knew each other in our last birth?’
He swallowed. Her eyes were large and clear. They seemed to mirror the sky. Looking at her he could not think of a single thing to say. Twenty-eight years between them and still he was lost for words, he thought, amazed. They walked the length of the beach and he watched the frangipani in her hair, marvelling that it did not fall; half hoping it would, so that he might catch it.
‘WHEN CAN I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE?’ asked Theo impatiently. He sat squinting at the sun. His white shirt was crumpled and the light cast purple shadows against the creases of the cloth.
The girl smiled. ‘What if you don’t like the painting?’ she asked, teasingly. ‘What if the money you are paying my mother is wasted?’
‘I will love it,’ he said, certain. ‘No question. I can’t wait. Don’t forget, I saw it when you began. And another thing, while I remember, I want the money to be kept for your work only. Should