to run? But she waited. The two men conversed for the last time and walked towards them. They must have been ten feet away before Deborah and Viviane noticed them.
'Are you waiting for Mr Patel?' asked the guy in a blue shirt. Unshaven for a few days, the guy was well over six feet, built like a bouncer and reeked of cheap tobacco. He must have been thirty-five, black gelled hair, combed back.
'Yes.' Deborah was excited.
'I am Ramesh Patel,' the other guy in check shirt responded. He was older than blue- shirt, but shorter and thinner. He took out his wallet and showed the girls their pictures. 'I got these pictures from Moscow,' he spoke in perfect English.
'Why didn't you come earlier?'
'Had an urgent task to finish. Let's go.' The nightmare had ended.
Or so it seemed. 'Come on now.'
Check-shirt walked in front and blue shirt walked behind the girls.
Patel poked around in his trouser pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit up without stopping. The girls, having met Mr Patel the saviour and their immediate worries over, blithely walked behind him. Dusk had set in, the sun had retired, but as they crossed Colaba, the girls noticed the dressed-up women accosting at street corners, and men stopping to negotiate. Two things never stopped in Bombay; in local parlance they were called khudai and chudai : digging and fucking. The streets were dug up for repairs, laying cables, and the hookers peddled ass at every corner from Colaba to Juhu. No weekends. The difference between Moscow and Bombay was stark enough to be discernible to the teenagers. Strangely, the buildings were beautiful, but not maintained. Theatres and pubs got their attention too.
Now, they were within touching distance of a new, rich, free, happy life. Inadvertently, the three looked at each other and smiled: within touching distance of a dream life, their countenances screamed. Exhaustion and fear were left behind at Gateway of India. If all went to the plan, 24 hours later they would be in London.
They walked to the car park nearby, threw their little bags into the boot of a battered, pale white unrecognisable make of a car and got in. The girls in the rear, check-shirt drove and Mr Patel sat in front.
‘How long is the drive?’ whispered Deborah.
‘Shh… girl, you’re so impatient. We’ve just started. Remember he's got to take us to a safe place,' Viviane explained.
The car turned left from Madam Cama Road into Cuffe Parade Road and the sky-rises started to show. Cuffe Parade was a posh residential address. Land reclaimed from the sea and turned into offices and luxury living for the rich. It had all the hustle-bustle of a lively place, though none of the grandness they had witnessed near the Taj Hotel. Mr Patel glanced back at the girls. The car stopped at the gates of — what appeared to be — an enormous sky-rise residential complex. New and swish. Check-shirt mumbled something, in Hindi, to the building watchman, who raised the barrier for the car to go through. Out of the car, into the foyer, Mr Patel ushered the three girls into the elevator. Check-shirt followed.
'Come,' Mr Patel gestured to the girls who obediently walked into the landing behind him. The security guard — or the doorman or whoever he was — gave a meek smile to Mr Patel, as if he wasn't sure whether he should smile or not. The 21st floor was more ostentatious than what the exterior of the building had promised. There were four apartments on this floor, which seemed to belong to the same owner. Or, perhaps, all the four owners were equally flamboyant. The place stank of stale tobacco and cheap alcohol, and it was only 7:30.
Someone had been informed about their arrival and the door, to the corner apartment, was mechanically unlatched.
The anteroom was even more la-de-la. Nothing was subtle or refined. Every penny spent on the room was garish and loud. The scarlet carpet was thick enough to silence steps taken in any kind of shoes. The shimmering on the luxurious
'Are you waiting for Mr Patel?' asked the guy in a blue shirt. Unshaven for a few days, the guy was well over six feet, built like a bouncer and reeked of cheap tobacco. He must have been thirty-five, black gelled hair, combed back.
'Yes.' Deborah was excited.
'I am Ramesh Patel,' the other guy in check shirt responded. He was older than blue- shirt, but shorter and thinner. He took out his wallet and showed the girls their pictures. 'I got these pictures from Moscow,' he spoke in perfect English.
'Why didn't you come earlier?'
'Had an urgent task to finish. Let's go.' The nightmare had ended.
Or so it seemed. 'Come on now.'
Check-shirt walked in front and blue shirt walked behind the girls.
Patel poked around in his trouser pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit up without stopping. The girls, having met Mr Patel the saviour and their immediate worries over, blithely walked behind him. Dusk had set in, the sun had retired, but as they crossed Colaba, the girls noticed the dressed-up women accosting at street corners, and men stopping to negotiate. Two things never stopped in Bombay; in local parlance they were called khudai and chudai : digging and fucking. The streets were dug up for repairs, laying cables, and the hookers peddled ass at every corner from Colaba to Juhu. No weekends. The difference between Moscow and Bombay was stark enough to be discernible to the teenagers. Strangely, the buildings were beautiful, but not maintained. Theatres and pubs got their attention too.
Now, they were within touching distance of a new, rich, free, happy life. Inadvertently, the three looked at each other and smiled: within touching distance of a dream life, their countenances screamed. Exhaustion and fear were left behind at Gateway of India. If all went to the plan, 24 hours later they would be in London.
They walked to the car park nearby, threw their little bags into the boot of a battered, pale white unrecognisable make of a car and got in. The girls in the rear, check-shirt drove and Mr Patel sat in front.
‘How long is the drive?’ whispered Deborah.
‘Shh… girl, you’re so impatient. We’ve just started. Remember he's got to take us to a safe place,' Viviane explained.
The car turned left from Madam Cama Road into Cuffe Parade Road and the sky-rises started to show. Cuffe Parade was a posh residential address. Land reclaimed from the sea and turned into offices and luxury living for the rich. It had all the hustle-bustle of a lively place, though none of the grandness they had witnessed near the Taj Hotel. Mr Patel glanced back at the girls. The car stopped at the gates of — what appeared to be — an enormous sky-rise residential complex. New and swish. Check-shirt mumbled something, in Hindi, to the building watchman, who raised the barrier for the car to go through. Out of the car, into the foyer, Mr Patel ushered the three girls into the elevator. Check-shirt followed.
'Come,' Mr Patel gestured to the girls who obediently walked into the landing behind him. The security guard — or the doorman or whoever he was — gave a meek smile to Mr Patel, as if he wasn't sure whether he should smile or not. The 21st floor was more ostentatious than what the exterior of the building had promised. There were four apartments on this floor, which seemed to belong to the same owner. Or, perhaps, all the four owners were equally flamboyant. The place stank of stale tobacco and cheap alcohol, and it was only 7:30.
Someone had been informed about their arrival and the door, to the corner apartment, was mechanically unlatched.
The anteroom was even more la-de-la. Nothing was subtle or refined. Every penny spent on the room was garish and loud. The scarlet carpet was thick enough to silence steps taken in any kind of shoes. The shimmering on the luxurious
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