Jimmy, do you remember?

Day 6 - Prompt: It was on a night like this, forty years ago . . .


         The mist was just a curl of vapour, a glistening of the air, as the day bade farewell in a lovely violet-rose sky. The wind was barely there but enough to tickle the damp tendrils at the base of my neck, even as a bead of sweat dived down the small of my back. I wriggled a little in the thick uniform; October was always hot and muggy in our seaside town. Pushing back my peaked cap with the back of my hand; I returned my weary attention to the twittering old fuss in front of me.

         Mrs. Manekwala was a Parsi widow living alone and the number of UFO sightings and suspicious characters she saw on a daily basis were legend. She had recently become involved with the local clan of dabblers in the super-natural, her latest fad; one that fed her tendency to ‘see’ what lesser beings could not.

         But, a call was a call, and she might just actually see something important one day – God forbid we wrote it off as one more delusion-painted vision of hers. Today she said she had heard the howling of wolves and seen a grey shape go behind the palm fringe in her backyard.

         Yeah, right, they must have come to the seaside for a nice holiday, ma’am. They probably need to rest up before Diwali!

         I maintained the polite facade however, and took down details in my spiral-bound notebook, waiting for the inevitable to follow. This was the ‘good part’ about attending to Mad Widow’s calls.

         “Care for some iced lemonade, dikra? Wait here, I’ll bring it out.”

         She was motherly as well as scatter-brained, a heady combination that made all of us never refuse to ‘investigate’ any complaint of hers. I knew the lemonade would come in a tall glass, beaded with welcome condensation; regally set on a delicate lace doily. Either wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches or tiny cheese puffs would be placed on the flower patterned bone china dish beside it.

         Mrs. Manekwala came out and placed the tray on a small three-legged rose-wood table, it teetered on the narrow verandah that ran around her colonial-style bungalow. Cheese puffs - good - their delicate flavour was already making little teasing memories revive in my palate. The shadows lengthened to deep violet as I lowered myself onto a chair.

         “I feel so safe with you here, Officer. My heart just isn’t what it used to be, I need a heart transplant I think, a young and vigorous one.” The laugh that accompanied this attempt at humour was more like a bray; oddly jarring in a woman so thin and delicate. She was barely past five feet in height and had screwed her neck at an impossible angle to look up at my perfunctory smile, my only acknowledgment of her sublime jest. Even sitting down, I loomed over her hunched frame; she was sitting perched on the edge of her chair, ankles neatly crossed.

         I swallowed the handful of cheese puffs I had tossed down my throat, the faint tang of pepper and a hint of - aniseed perhaps - accompanied the main motif of strong cheddar. I took a long swig of the refreshing drink, a tad bitter today, even as I made assenting and comforting grunts as best as my industrious mouth would allow.

         “...and then Jimmy always said the two of us would meet again at the full of moon when wolves would cry at the death of Luna.” She looked at me with a sly, almost imbecile, smile on her face. I felt sorry for the still bereaved woman. Everybody knew that her husband had died decades ago, after barely two or three months of marriage; they had married late too - nearly on the verge of forty. Their community was dwindling fast and Mrs. Manekwala was dependent upon police officers for company more than any acquaintances.

         The fringed palm-fronds were outlined in a beautiful feathery black against the pearly golden glow of the moon. Was it dark already? I must be going. Even as my booted feet thrust against the floor in a preliminary to my taking her leave, I found another glass of lemonade thrust into my hand, the chilled glass a blessed relief to my perspiring body. Why the outside seems to have become almost hot. Strange weather we are having.

         I sipped the fluid slowly; my tongue did not like it so much now that my thirst had been quenched. She must have squeezed too hard upon a seed, it is definitely bitter. I can’t hurt her feelings though. I just let in pass over my tongue without tasting it. I could now listen to her nasal droning patter.

         “Dikra, it is almost time for the eclipse, should we go into the house? Or are you brave enough to watch it. Yes, yes you are brave – it is only foolish locals who say the influence is baleful. Here, loosen your tie, that’s right, make yourself more comfortable.”

         I ran a finger under my collar and decided to undo the top two buttons. It was getting unbearably hot – global warning – uh, warming, that guy Gore had said. It was pleasant to lay my head back and look up at the velvety black sky – each star pricked out clear – as the moon’s glowing face was slowly veiled by a drop-cloth of inky black. Inky black was back, dark was back, ink was dark...

         My eyelids felt gummed together and leaden, it was too much of a bother; I’d just leave them closed. But my ears were now hearing something, a strange murmur, in slow cadence, almost a chant. The sound of a jangling bell jerked my eyes open and I was aware of fumes – pungent but sweet from a brazier in the room somewhere. Mrs Manekwala’s voice was weaving in and out of my head again. As I focused upon a spinning world, I saw her seated before the brazier clad in flowing robes of red. She had something in her hand; it gleamed silver and flashed out of sight.

         Now she was at my side, a wave of shame descended upon me, I was lying upon her living room floor and from the tickle of the rich pile underneath me, I was quite devoid of cloth or covering. I am not drunk and passed out, am I? Embarrassed thought gave way to alarm as I realised all my struggles to get up had resulted in a virtual absence of motion.

         “Just relax, dear. In just one moment more you’ll live to be my heart in more ways than one.”

         Dear God, she means to ravish me. Fear coursed through paralysed muscle and shame lent vigour to a drugged mind. She must not have allowed for the dose requirements of my large body; surprise was writ large upon her face as my arm snaked up and clamped upon hers, forcing it down and disarming her. My strength returning, it was simple to let my weight prevent her struggles. A deft movement whipped off the table cloth and she was tied like a bundle of clothes for the dhobi to collect. I stood up and found my clothes folded neatly next to the brazier. As I slipped into my trousers and felt control returning with each item I wore; I reached for the jug of water on the table and doused the glowing embers with one swift deluge. Curses on this folk magic, it actually works – or was there something in the lemonade?

         I looked at the trussed figure now staring at me with feverish eyes and murmuring disjointed phrases; I heard words that horrified me. It was no ravishing but a murder that had been planned; some ritual she believed would give her a glimpse of her loved one, albeit for a few hours only. For that she wanted to kill? With palsied fingers I dialled my police control room.

         I collapsed on the sofa as I listened to the familiar wail of siren to signify back-up arriving, followed by the whoop-whoop of an ambulance. I was only vaguely aware of the bustle thereafter, as competent hands tended to both of us. I winced back into the cushions, looking up to see Mrs. Manekwala’s eyes glittering menace as she was escorted past, now in more conventional restraints. For one free-wheeling moment of time they locked with mine. Frustration and manic desire lurked deep within; a thin stream of spittle trickled down the corner of her lips as they moved to say...

         “Jimmy, do you remember when we first met? It was on a night like this, forty years ago . . .”


Notes:
All characters are purely fictional and bear no resemblance to anyone, living or dead, any resemblance is co-incidental and any choice of name or community is random.

Set in a seaside town in India:

Glossary:

Parsi: A small community of Pharisee origin, travelers from Persia who settled down in India

Dikra: An endearment that means 'child'

Diwali: a festival of lights that comes in late October or early November every year.

Veranda: covered porch like sit-out.

Dhobi: One of a washer-man community, who come to doorstep and take away clothes for washing and ironing.
The bundles are neatly tied up in a square of cloth for easy portability.