Free Closure by Jacob Ross Page A

big peepal tree in the middle of our yard. We had the biggest well in the whole area, which never went dry and from which everyone filled their pitchers. It was close to the Pir-I-Dastgir shrine.”
    Kamli Kaur threw her cigarette out of the window, touched my lucky key and went silent for the rest of the journey.
    It was late at night and there was not much traffic so we made good time.
    I pulled up outside the Marriot and said, “Majee, I want no fare from you. I will never forget this journey.”
    She held my hand tightly in her trembling hands and left the car. As I withdrew my hand I noticed there was a key in it, and there was a small pile of one thousand rupee notes on the passenger seat. I picked up the money and drove off, the key in my hand. I stopped a short distance from the hotel, put the light on inside and stared at the key.
    A chill ran down my back. I held it next to my lucky key.
    They were exactly the same.

CHANTAL OAKES

THE WEIGHT OF FOUR TIGERS
    Neon Banks had been working on the piece of performance art for so long, he had begun to wonder if it was actually possible that some sort of butter might be made from tigers. How pungent would that substance be, how feline? Would it be too rich for the human palate?
    George Mbewe, on the other hand, one of the cleaners at Chatsworth Villa, with its museum, park and zoo, where the performance was to take place, felt lucky to have the job as it was so much easier than the succession of short-term contracts involving hard manual work he had been employed in before.
    He now cleaned beautiful wooden floors and hand-woven carpets and rugs in what seemed to him the epitome of peace and quiet. Neither guests nor staff raised their voices as he cleaned the gilt door handles and light switches. He made sure the grand front step was always spotless in case the owners ever visited, and all around him it was as hushed as a shrine.
    As he cleaned he listened to his small radio tucked in his shirt pocket, switched on low. He didn’t like the feeling of dislocation when he plugged headphones into his ears, and he didn’t want to be taken unawares. He listened to talk programmes mostly; today there was to be a live radio broadcast from his place of work. He would listen from his small side room, grateful to whoever the artist was for the extra shifts.
    From the west wing windows of the grand house – modestly labelled a villa – beyond the corridor and the small storeroom where he kept his cleaning materials, he could see the radio station van topped with a large aerial. And there was Harry Cook, the radio presenter, getting out of his mobile changing room, ready to start his broadcast.
    Harry Cook always sounded very jolly on the radio and looked jolly too, even though he wore a suit and didn’t sport a beard as George had always imagined.
    Five minutes later, at 11 o’clock precisely, Harry Cook told his listeners, “Good morning to you all.” George replied, “And good morning to you,” half expecting to hear his voice relayed back to him through his radio. He listened to Harry Cook most work days, and now here he was on the other side of the corridor wall.
    â€œWe are delighted to bring you this live broadcast from Chatsworth Villa with its Zoo and Country Park. The sun is shining,” Harry Cook told his listeners, “but today, I am inside, standing by a purpose-built glass room, manufactured in Germany and constructed on-site in the Great Hall of this palatial house, for a groundbreaking performance featuring the famous American scientist, Charles Draper, and four of the park’s tigers. Here in the room are assembled a large group of interested individuals, many of whom have travelled a great distance to be here. I’m with Neon Banks, who instigated this piece of performance art, and the curator of Chatsworth’s Museum, Susan Jones. Good morning to you both.”
    George only half-listened to the artist