Free A Cut-Like Wound by Anita Nair

into the middle distance. On the wall behind the ACP’s chair were a few framed photographs. The national leaders at their benevolent best. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ Gowda said suddenly.
    ‘What?’ The ACP tried to fathom Gowda’s expression.
    ‘Why do you have these photographs here?’
    The ACP counted to ten under his breath. ‘Go, Gowda, just leave, will you?’
    When Gowda was out of the room, the ACP pulled out a strip of Deanxit and popped one. How could any man get under his skin with such little effort?
    Gowda glanced at his watch. He had asked Mohammed to meet him at Chandrika, at the junction of Cunningham Road and Millers Road. No one would recognize Mohammed there. Or him for that matter. He smiled as he thought of the expression on the ACP’s face. He had known his question would have the ACP foaming at the mouth. And that he would be asked to leave.
    No one looked kindly on informers, not even their own families. And Mohammed was scared that if he wasdiscovered, the wrath of the powers that controlled Shivaji Nagar would descend not just on him but on his biwi and their children. And so, when it had seemed that the ACP was going to keep him there all morning, Gowda had known it was time to speed things up. He grinned, thinking of the play of emotions on the ACP’s face as he walked out of the room.
    Gowda saw Mohammed enter the restaurant. He stood by the cash counter, his eyes darting this way and that, swooping on each face and discarding. In the twelve years of their association, Gowda and Mohammed had met only five times, and each time they had spent barely fifteen minutes together. Gowda sipped his coffee and waited. Mohammed would eventually spot him. A few minutes later, Mohammed stood at his table. ‘Sir, I didn’t recognize…’
    ‘Sit down, Mohammed.’
    The vendor hesitated, then, seeing the impatience in Gowda’s eyes, he pulled out a chair and perched on it gingerly.
    ‘When did he go missing,’ Gowda asked quietly.
    A waited sidled up to their table.
    ‘What will you have?’ Gowda asked.
    ‘Nothing.’ Mohammed shook his head.
    ‘Get him a badam milk. You like that, don’t you?’ Gowda said.
    ‘I…’
    ‘Our badam milk is very good,’ the boy said, shoving his pencil behind his ear. ‘Nothing to eat?’
    Gowda wanted to box his ears. ‘Just get the drink,’ he growled.
    Mohammed looked down on his hands that rested on the table top. ‘Sir, I am fasting … it’s Ramzan.’
    Gowda nodded. ‘That’s fine. I’ll drink it. So, when did this boy go missing?’
    ‘I saw Liaquat on Monday night. It was late. I asked him to go home with me. He had been shooting up. The boy seemed unhinged. I was afraid he would get into trouble … he hasn’t come home yet.’
    Gowda nodded. ‘But that’s not all, is it?’
    ‘Someone said they saw him go into the lane near Siddiq’s Garage. It is a small lane with a dead end. I don’t even know why I went there. But I did, and I found this.’ Mohammed laid out a silver talisman on a black thread. ‘This is his. I got it blessed by the mullah at the dargah near my home in Bijapur. Liaquat’s from there. That’s why I feel responsible for him. He’s only nineteen.’
    Gowda touched the talisman thoughtfully. ‘You’ll have to come with me. A body has been found. A young boy, of about that age. No one’s come forward to claim it. I hope it’s not your Liaquat but we need to start somewhere.’
    Mohammed put his head in his hands.
    ‘Walk up Millers Road near the Carmel College ground. I’ll pick you up from there.’
    Mohammed didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His face was ashen. His lower lip wobbled as he sought to bring some control to his emotions. ‘Why, sir?’ he whispered after a while. ‘Why would anyone do this?’
    Gowda shrugged. ‘Are you sure this is Liaquat?’
    Mohammed nodded. ‘Liaquat had a sixth finger on his left hand. It was attached to his thumb. There was an extra toe on his