Page 4

Sometime just before nightfall there were more steps in the street. Police in khaki, it seemed to me, though the light was too bad for me to be sure. They went by, then they stopped. Some of them came back a way. Just opposite me, they stopped again. They took their ancient .303 rifles from their shoulders and began to fire up at the windows. None of them made any attempt to take shelter, so obviously no one was firing back. Then they put down their guns and went away. I could hear women’s voices keening.

Just a few minutes after that a few characters with cameras came by. One pointed his camera at me and began clicking, his flash going like lightning. "Don’t bother," said one of the others. "They’ll never print that one."

"It’s for my own private collection," said the one who was still photographing, now the woman on the ground. "It’s not every day one can see this sort of thing." And he laughed.

Nothing at all happened for the rest of that night. In the distance, I could still hear shots and shouts, but no one moved at all in this street. The fires seemed to have burned themselves out. The woman’s corpse in front of me was lost in darkness. I wondered if she was, like me, lying there aware. I dismissed the thought, just as I had a long time ago dismissed all thoughts of my employer, my family, my friends, everyone. We were nothing to the world. We were alone. In our loneliness, we rested.

A light shone suddenly in my face.

"Here’s one," a voice said. Dimly, I could feel hands touching me, trying to lift me. "He’s stiff," the same voice said, with some disgust.

"Not surprising," said another. "He must have been here since yesterday morning. It will wear off. Lift him again, but be careful, or he might break up."

"I still can’t get over how horrible they look," said the first voice. "The less thoroughly they’ve been burned, the worse they look."

"The hell with it," said the second voice, impatiently. "You’re getting paid for it, right? These bastards, they’re all Pakistanis, they got what they deserved. Let’s get going."

I felt myself being lifted. They pulled me up and dropped me on what I determined was the back of a pickup truck. Another charred body landed on me. The head bounced grotesquely on my chest, broke clean off at the neck, and rolled away.

"Damn!" said the first voice. "Look at that. Look what the bastard’s gone and done!"

Someone else laughed. "That’s nothing," he said. "You’ll see worse."

Later, we were pulled off the truck and piled on a hard cold surface in a big room. The room was so full of unpleasant odours it was difficult to identify any clearly. I was placed right at the bottom of a pile, and stayed there for a long time, coils of intestine from someone’s disembowelled body spilling over my face. I could not see a thing.

After a very long time, I was on my back on a smooth cold surface, and, so far as I could tell, alone. I could hear laughter somewhere. Then someone looked down at me. A big round face over a white coat, thick spectacles, and greying hair.

"Muslim," he said. "Look at the circumcised prick. Cause of death, write down injuries sustained during rioting." He moved on and I could hear his voice muttering on.

"Injuries sustained during rioting"? What the hell was this? I never took part in any riot! But what could I do about it?

The next time I saw a human face must have been just hours later. I had not been moved. There was someone hanging over me, staring down at my body. A hooked nose over a hennaed beard, toothless lips trembling in a lined brown face. He shook his head and moved on past.

There were more. Some of them were women in saris or salwar suits, some in burqas. It became routine after a while. I wish someone could close my remaining eye, but I had become aware that the lid had been burned off.

"Yes, this is the one." A young voice, not yet far past the breaking stage. "This is my brother."

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