Sunday, February 14, 2016

One Mumbai Night


Shoes by Jimmy Choo, attitude by Ms Cranky. Macnee could see her mouth moving but he wasn’t listening. The street lights of Bandra reflected in her eyes and on the rain-slicked pavement stretching along Carter Road. She was shouting at him again. Get the hell out of my life was the essence of it. He waited for her to finish then tilted his head towards a doorway guarded by a damp maitre d’ in a Parsi cap. No, she shouted, she didn’t want anything to eat, she wanted him to leave. Raising an eyebrow, he said he had a job to do.

Macnee glanced up. With more than 1,400 police CCTV cameras in Mumbai, a street struggle between a young woman and a grim-faced man would attract attention. Taking her elbow, he led her into the restaurant.

She took the seat with the best view. Banging a black leather handbag on the table, she asked, ‘I suppose I’m paying?’

Macnee didn’t look up from his menu. ‘You’re the one with the money, Ms Chavan. I’m just …’

‘For God’s sake stop calling me “Ms Chavan”. Call me Anika or nothing at all.’

‘Certainly, Ms Chavan.’

Flicking her fingers at the waiter, Anika called for a berry pulao with an aloo cutlet and an ashtray. ‘I’m hungry now.’

‘Then you won’t need a cigarette … plus, you can’t smoke here.’ He went back to the menu and chose the vada pav before lifting his eyes. He could see her studying him – a man desperately in need of a stylist and a few hours more sleep.

‘I imagine you disapprove of me smoking.’

‘I’m not hired to be your nanny.’

‘A nanny would be less interfering than a bodyguard.’

‘And better paid.’ Macnee ordered a half bottle of Semillon for the kutiya. For him, black tea.

‘Trying to get me drunk?’

‘If it makes you more agreeable. Eat up.’

In silence they pushed food around their plates, avoiding each other’s eyes.

The night skies cleared over the sea, the nearby bars began filling with the not-so-idle rich and now the rain was dampening spirits in Andheri East. It was time to go.

Still silent, they walked past open-fronted bars where small groups of fashionable young men glanced at Anika before noticing the tall man one step behind her. The drinkers turned back to their imported beers.


It was 2am. Or so his alarm clock claimed. It felt like he’d slept only a few minutes. He was still dressed. When she’d complained his clothes looked slept in, she was right. There was that sound again. Rolling off the bed, he pulled open the hotel room door and stood blinking in the bright hallway.

Anika was slumped against the wall outside her room. Crouching over her, a man in a black balaclava swung his head around in time to catch a punch above the right eye. It wasn’t enough. The man’s foot twitched, lashed out and caught Macnee behind the knee, sending him down on top of his client. With an apology and a push, Macnee shoved himself clear and came up into a crouch. The attacker fumbled in his jacket, drew out a long curved knife and made criss-cross slashes in the air.

Smiling, Macnee said ‘Get well soon’ in Hindi. ‘Jaldī se ṭhīk ho jāo.’

Confused, the man swung wildly. The knife missed Macnee once, twice, then a third slash ripped his sleeve. It was his good shirt. Cursing, Macnee hit the attacker across the bridge of the nose. A second, final blow sent the man crashing to the skirting board. There was a satisfying crack of skull on wood.

The diamonds were cold to the touch but then so was Anika. Lifting the necklace away from her throat, Macnee pressed his fingertips against her skin. He counted the soft pulse beats. Drugged.

Crouching over the body, Macnee reached under the woman’s arms, pulled her into a sitting position and began dragging her towards the elevator. Her heels gouged parallel trails across the silk carpet.

Rows of grand cars lined the hotel’s underground parking lot. In a fireman’s lift, he carried her past the polished chrome and out a side door into the street. A dirty white van stood where he’d left it. Edging open the rear doors, he rolled her onto a blanket on the back floor.

Her eyes were partly open, her voice groggy. ‘Hello, handsome. Why aren’t you in Mumbai?’

‘Unfortunately, I am.’

‘A good night kiss?’

‘Not on the first date,’ said Macnee. Rohypnol in her hotel room booze was his guess. He’d take her to the suburban safe house then call her father. What was the time in London?

In the driver’s cabin, he ran his fingers under the dashboard searching for the key. Too late. He saw the raised knuckles in the street before he heard the rap on the side window. The policeman’s cap was flecked with rain drops. The face beneath it was wet, shining and unsmiling.

‘… license’ was all Macnee heard as he slid down the window. He handed over a local driver’s license giving his name as ‘Jeffrey Smart’ with a Juhu address.

The beat policeman passed it back to a second constable.

‘What are you doing?’ came the demand.

‘Taking out the trash,’ said Macnee. Neither constable appeared convinced.

The first was about to speak again when the yee-yaw of a police siren sawed through the night. Two-way radios clipped to the policemen’s belts began to crackle. As the constables turned away, Macnee’s license was flipped unceremoniously through the window. Holding their holsters to their hips, they jogged up the street.

For a few seconds Macnee watched their retreating backs then sucked in a lungful of humid air. For the second time that night he wished he hadn’t given up smoking. At least tobacco had given his life some constancy – as a social prop, a post-coital substitute for conversation and, more than once, a small reward for escaping alive.

He found the van’s key and fired up the engine. A final check of the driver’s side wing mirror. It disintegrated in a shower of glass as the thrown knife tore the mirror from its mountings. The attacker was standing a few metres away, legs braced apart. He was bleeding heavily. The bastard’s indestructible, Macnee thought. Slamming the van into gear, he jabbed the accelerator. The tyres slipped, then gripped on the slick roadway, and finally slipped again – throwing up neon-reflected showers from the street puddles. The man was now running, shouting. Macnee heard a thud at the rear of the van. He’s jumped on the back.

The tyres found traction and the van shot forward. Macnee pulled the steering wheel left then hard right. The van fishtailed. There was a scream and a crash of plate glass. Jamming on the brakes, Macnee looked across the road. The attacker’s legs were projecting from a shattered shop window.

The rear vision mirror revealed Anika still asleep. Shrugging his shoulders to loosen them, Macnee pointed the van towards the East. It was going to be a long night.

# # #

Copyright  2016 GREG FLYNN



Wednesday, February 3, 2016

A Play In One Act


Dramatis Personae 
David – a performer
Angie – David’s wife
Jim – a photographer

ACT ONE
SCENE 1

Curtain up. A reception room in the wing of an Edwardian mansion. The room is as cluttered as a bedsit. Angie is seated in a leather chair reading New Musical Express. David, dressed in a floral-patterned dress and high boots, enters Stage Right, navigates his way past an ironing board and assorted distressed furniture to reach a tall mirror.

DAVID (addresses his reflection): I’m thinking of going commando.

ANGIE (still looking at the NME): Keep your knickers on, David. It’s only a newspaper photo shoot.

DAVID: I meant I’m thinking of something in a camouflage pattern. What would the effect be?

ANGIE: Plausibly lesbian.

DAVID: And currently?

ANGIE (looks up briefly): My grandmother’s chaise lounge.

DAVID: So, I should butch it up? Head-to-toe black, perhaps.

ANGIE: If you want to resemble a Greek widow scaling fish.

DAVID: You’d prefer me in trousers. Say it, Angie. You want something more traditionally masculine.

ANGIE: Now that you ment …

DAVID (cuts her off): How bourgeois. You know I’m non-binary.

ANGIE: That’s not the description they use about you down at The Dog & Trumpet.

DAVID: Barflies. They don’t recognise gender fluidity.

ANGIE: Sap.

DAVID: Are you …?

ANGIE: It’s the first fluid thing that came to mind. It flows then (pause) hardens.

DAVID (turns sideways): I can see myself as (adopting Cockney accent) well ‘ard.

ANGIE: If only I saw that more often.

She rises, crosses to David, takes his shoulders and spins him back to face the mirror.

ANGIE: Perhaps it’s the length. Too long.

DAVID (picks up the hem and raises it over his thighs): Micro-mini? Very London high fashion. Very Anoushka and Veruschka.

ANGIE: Let’s try for very Queen Mother. A sensible hemline, just below the knees with stockings held up by tight elastic.

DAVID: A little too Sainsbury’s shopper for me. The Daily Mirror is coming. I need to sparkle.

ANGIE: For a national red-top?

DAVID: Sssshhh. He could be here any second.

ANGIE: Nonsense.

Off stage sound effect: Knock, knock.


ACT ONE
SCENE 2

The set revolves to reveal a garden. David faces the audience. He practices several poses. Angie and the photographer enter Stage Left.

ANGIE: David Bowie, this is Jim James from the Daily Mirror.

Hands shake, heads nod.

JIM (gestures): Let’s use the house as a backdrop.

DAVID: Will it distract from me?

JIM: Nothing will distract from that dress. It makes you look …

DAVID: Sexually agnostic?

JIM: I was about to say like a …

ANGIE: Coffee, anyone?

Heads shake. The shoot proceeds. The photographer crouches, aims. David poses.

DAVID: Look at me and tell me what you see.

JIM: My grandmother’s chaise lounge.

DAVID: (A sigh) Jim, you strike me as a man of the world.

JIM (pats the long lens of his camera): This gives me instant access to people with outlandish talent.

DAVID: Really?

JIM: Yesterday I photographed a woman who makes dolls out of wooden clothes pegs.

DAVID: Fame of sorts, I suppose.

JIM (pulls a pen and notebook from his coat pocket): Fame, indeed. Which reminds me, Dave. Just for the pic caption. What is it that you do?

Curtain down. Theatre lighting drops.

ANGIE (disembodied voice offstage): Will it be curtains for David?

JIM (disembodied voice): One day.

DAVID (disembodied voice): Never.

THE END
Story Copyright © 2016 GREG FLYNN
Image Copyright © 1971 Daily Mirror

[Please note: the above script is pure fiction.]