by Nirmolika Sangha
A loud clap of thunder boomed across the sky and the man woke up with a start. He looked across the room, at the telephone perched on the windowsill. He stared at it for a full minute, as if willing it to ring. When it didn’t, he looked away, frustrated. How long had it been since he was sitting there, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the call that would solve all his problems? An hour, two hours, two days? He wasn’t sure himself. He had a watch but he couldn’t be sure about the time it was showing. He couldn’t be sure about anything now. He was hungry, dehydrated and exhausted. The supplies of food and water he had brought with him were finished a long time back and he wasn’t carrying more. He never thought he would be stuck in that hellhole for such a long time.
“What is taking them so much time?” he muttered to himself.
It was a simple job, the kinds that those people did all the time. Yes, he knew – he had been a mercenary for 10 years, killing for money and now the very man he served, wanted him dead.
“Guess they’re right when they say karma exists” he chuckled to himself.
But he wasn’t one to sit and wait for death to arrive. He enlisted the services of an old enemy of his employer’s, to take care of the problem. An enemy’s enemy is a friend, he thought to himself.
And now, he was stuck in this room, a safe house, with nothing but that telephone and a rickety, old wooden chair to give him company, waiting for the good news. The rest of the room was bare. A small light bulb hung from the ceiling, which was now swaying in the breeze that was coming in from the window that he had thrown open. In one corner of the room was a wooden door, half eaten away by termites, which led to a dirty lavatory. Flies buzzed all around the door and a terrible stink emanated from the bathroom. The floor was littered with empty food packets and water bottles. He hadn’t even bothered to round them up and put them in the small dustbin that lay in a corner. The dustbin was so small and easy to miss, its colour the same as the wall behind it. He probably didn’t know it was there, or he was too tired to care.
Outside, the world was a completely different place. The streets were deserted, owing to the continuous rain that had been falling for what, two, three days now? He couldn’t be sure about that too. The streets were flooded with water and regular intervals of lightning cast terrifying shadows across the dingy alleys. Somewhere outside a cat was mewling. The poor devil was probably stuck somewhere, waiting for the water to recede.
He looked at his watch again. The position of the needles told him that it was 11 pm. This was getting ridiculous! He hadn’t paid such an exorbitant amount of money to sit here in this filthy room, waiting while they took so long to finish the job.
“Let me get out of here,” he thought to himself. “I’ll show them not to mess with me.”
He went and stood near the window, letting the rain wash over his dirt stained face, letting it refresh him. He peered down into the street below, but it was impossible to see anything. The street was bathed in darkness, the streetlamps extinguished, probably because of the rain. He wondered how the bulb in his room was still functioning. The electricity to the whole block was out.
He decided to take a nap again. He wasn’t exactly doing anything worthwhile, why not sleep? If the phone rang, it would wake him up. He went and sat on the chair and tried to sleep, resting his chin on his chest. But the man was jumpy, he couldn’t sleep, as much as he tried. The smallest of sounds disturbed him, the slightest shift in the shadow scared him. He couldn’t understand why he was jumpy. He was supposed to be safe here. They were out there doing their job. He didn’t have anything to fear. He tried to assure himself with this reasoning, and tried to go back to sleep. But there was still this feeling – that something was not right – that was nagging him. It was at the back of his mind, tugging at his consciousness. After a few attempts, he gave up trying to sleep, and perched himself on the windowsill, staring at the world beyond.
As he sat, staring out the window, he didn’t sense the other presence in the room, didn’t notice the shadow that crossed the room behind him. The loud ring of the telephone suddenly pierced the silent night. He almost fell off the windowsill. He picked up the receiver hastily and put it to his ear.
“Hello!” he said.
He was met with silence on the other end.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” he asked again. “This is ridiculous!” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t been waiting so long for this call, only to be met by silence on the other end.
As he sat, trying to communicate with whoever was on the other line, he didn’t hear the soft sounds of breathing that his otherwise trained ears were accustomed to hearing. In times of stress, even the most trained minds faltered. Had the window been closed, he would have seen the reflection of the man who stood behind him, his face obscured by the shadows, pointing a gun at his head.
“Hello!” he repeated.
“Yes,” finally someone on the other end replied.
“Is it done?” he asked.
The sound of the gunshot rang loud and clear across the room. The mysterious figure in the shadows watched as the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, receiver still clutched in his hand. He walked over to the body, to make sure he was dead. He didn’t have to really, the aim was too good. The bullet had pierced his skull, gone through and through. He had died the moment the bullet entered his skull. As he stood over the body, looking into those lifeless eyes, he answered the man’s question.
“Yes, it is done.”
Pic: https://www.flickr.com/photos/maddiegascar95/
