The Exile

Book 3: The Return of Ravana

by David Hair

Genres: Fantasy; YA Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

Ravindra is back, and close to his dream of becoming the Demon King Ravana once and for all - unless Vikram, Amanjit, Deepika and Ras find their own powers, evil will overwhelm the world . . . Bollywood superstar Sunita Ashoka's reality show Swayamvara Live! has ended in bloodshed and disaster, and Vikram, Amanjit and Rasita are on the run, accused of her murder. And just like the heroes of the Ramayana, they soon find themselves beset by the same perils as Rama, Laksmana and Sita. When an unexpected death forces Vikram into the open, they start to despair - but there is some hope: Amanjit's warrior skills are returning, Rasita is beginning to remember her own past lives, and Deepika is awakening to terrifying new powers. But the enemy, Ravindra, has also found allies: the nightmarish Rakshasa army. Memories and legends are coming alive all over India. The fight to the finish has begun . . . 'David Hair hasn't just broken the mould. He's completely shattered it' - Bibliosanctum on The Pyre

Release date: January 11, 2018

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Mumbai, 14 November 2010

Within three hundred yards, Vikram knew he was in trouble. The frigid air streaming over his hands was agonising, threatening to rip him from the arrow he clung to. His fingers were turning numb; brittle sticks that could snap any instant. The lights of Mumbai raced beneath him as he soared past tower blocks and over tangled power lines. While he was still going up this wasn’t too much of a problem, but the arrow’s trajectory meant he’d soon be coming down. Air whipped past his open mouth as he fought for balance, thinking: There are good reasons why hanging on to a two-and-a-half-foot-long arrow hasn’t caught on as a mode of travel.

He clung on for another half a minute through sheer desperation as the arc of his shot began to level and then to fall. By now he was out of Bandra and soaring towards the Point, although there was no time to enjoy the view. Everything blurred past: streaming constellations of streetlights and apartment windows. Don’t look out of your window right now, people of Mumbai – you won’t believe what you see!

He’d lost all feeling in his fingers, but his mind refused to let them untwine from the arrow. The ground was far below and he was travelling faster than one hundred miles an hour. He was mentally and physically spent, but to fall would be to die.

He had a brief second to wonder if Amanjit and Rasita were faring any better. And was Deepika going to be all right? Had he done the right thing in leaving her? Could Tilak – or whatever he was called in this life – protect her? Have I failed them all, yet again? Then the power lines and all the other things he could barely make out in the darkness were flying into his face, driving all other thoughts from his mind. He wrenched at the arrow, making it duck left and right, as if this were some insane live-action video game. He barely evaded a monkey walking across the phone wires and it screeched furiously at him. He whisked past oblivious couples chatting on their balconies, and met the eye of one old man who stared in disbelief, then glared at the whisky bottle in his hand.

A building rose ahead of him and he guided the arrow’s flight towards the tower block as his velocity slowed, aiming at a certain window and desperately hoping he’d counted the floors correctly. The arrow slammed into the window frame and he hit the wall beside it feet-first, cushioning his impact enough that he merely crashed into the detritus that had accumulated in the unused window box, rather than knocking himself out or breaking anything. The breath was punched from his lungs, leaving him gasping as he flexed his frozen fingers back to feeling and tried to work out if he could get up.

I hate travelling like this . . .

He wondered again how Amanjit and Rasita were faring. He’d aimed their arrow roughly towards the glowing tangle of light that was Bandra Railway Station, a shorter flight from Bakli’s mansion – but could they both hang on even that long, especially with Rasita so weak? Her face swam before him and he recalled the final words she’d said to him: ‘I remember everything . . .’

He knew what she meant: that devastating, terrifying rush of past-life memories which he himself had experienced so many times. It must have been worse for her, taking in the past-life memories of the dying Sunita Ashoka at the same time as her own. He longed to speak to her, to learn where she had been in all his lives. She’s my Sita. I have to see her . . .

Suddenly the curtains were pulled aside, washing him in harsh light, and he dimly heard his roommate Jai, with whom he shared this dormitory, swearing in disbelief as he wrenched open the half-rusted doors that opened on to the window box. ‘Vik? Vik! What the f—? Man, they’re saying on the television that you’ve— Uh . . . how did you get here?’ Jai clutched the sides of his own head. ‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’

Vikram tried a reassuring smile as he sat up. ‘It’s all lies, Jai. But they’re pinning it on me.’

‘It’s all over the TV, every channel, bhai!’

Vikram flexed his fingers. The return of feeling to his hands was not very welcome, as they were really hurting. He extended his right hand to Jai. ‘Can you help me up, Jai? Please?’

Jai’s doubts were clear: if something was on television, it must be true, even if that meant his roommate was really a killer, despite all the times they’d spent together at the movies, working on homework, cooking for each other, living as friends. For several seconds neither moved, until Jai reached down and pulled him to his feet. ‘Your hands are freezing, Vik!’ Then he saw the arrow jutting from the window frame. ‘What’s that? And how’d you get up here?’

‘I flew,’ Vikram replied, winking, as if it were a joke. At the far end of the hallway, the lounge door was closed, but he could hear the babble of voices. ‘You’ve got guests again?’

‘Yeah, maybe a dozen – you’re lucky I was the only one who heard you out here. It’s Dipti and her friends, and Nikhil from across the hall and his mates – the usual crew. We’ve all been watching the show – it’s chaos, bhai! That Uma was pretending to be Sunita, and . . .’ His voice trailed off as he looked at Vikram helplessly. ‘They’re all saying you killed Sunita Ashoka.’ His face was a picture of stunned disbelief.

‘It’s not true. But I’ve got to grab a few things and go. You never saw me, right?’

Jai stared at him as what he was saying truly began to sink in. ‘You’re running away? This really is happening? The police will come, won’t they?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll be long gone.’ Vikram offered Jai his hand and said formally, ‘I swear I’m innocent, Jai – but I can’t prove it yet, and I can’t risk going into custody. But I didn’t kill Sunita.’

Slowly, Jai took his hand, making the decision to trust in friendship. ‘Sure, okay. What should I tell the cops?’

‘Tell them you never saw me – that I must have crept in unseen. They’ll be confused about enough things already; this’ll just add to that. Don’t let them bully you.’ He pulled away, trying to smile reassuringly. ‘Go back to your friends, Jai. Keep them out of the hall for a few minutes, will you? And thank you for trusting me.’

Jai backed away, his face torn. Then he took a deep breath and disappeared into the lounge. The cacophony and TV-glare washed briefly over Vikram, then the door closed.

He fought a wash of giddiness. Come on. You’ve got a few minutes, that’s all.

He went into his room, closed the door and chanced putting on the light. He’d been keeping his backpack half-packed since this started, anticipating that he might have to run. He laid his bow and quiver beside it, then began shoving in clothes – not too many; he was used to living light, in other lives if not so much in this one. Then he delved under the mattress and pulled out the most precious thing he owned: the leather pouch containing the ancient journal of Aram Dhoop, Court Poet of Mandore. He pushed some photos in beside it – Amanjit and Deepika, his father Dinesh and his stepmother Kiran, Rasita and Bishin, one of Ras alone, and another of Jai and other university friends partying together. He tucked the pouch in the top of the pack, added a notepad, some pens and his iPod and strapped it closed. He found his leather gauntlets and his thickest jacket and pulled them on, then took one last glance around the room, at the life he was leaving behind. All his lecture notes, textbooks, timetables – his dreams of a career.

Will I ever get the chance to pick this life up again?

He had to will himself to turn away. The sounds of the lounge beckoned him, the noisy camaraderie evident despite the shock of what they were watching. He heard Jai’s voice above the others. ‘He’s innocent, I know he is. It’s all lies.’ He smiled gratefully. Thank you, my friend. Then he turned to the window box, pulled out his arrow and nocked it again.

*

Business had been terrible that night. All of India was watching that game show and no one had come into Rohit Singh’s little mobile phone shop for over an hour. The shop, on a little side street behind the grey stone buildings of the university, usually did well – no one went through mobile phones like students did. But tonight, he’d not had a single customer.

He was about to admit defeat and close up when a young man appeared at the counter. He was wearing a winter coat and gloves and a woollen beanie; he looked vaguely familiar. Rohit eyed him tiredly. ‘Namaste. Just closing, bhai. What do you want?’

The young man leaned over the chewing gum and chocolate bars piled high on the counter. His eyes had a strange lustre, like swaying lights in the temple on festival days . . . oddly fascinating . . .

*

. . . Vikram held the old man’s gaze carefully. It’s okay, Rohit, everything is fine. Just give me what I want.

The old shopkeeper’s face slowly emptied. ‘Yes, whatever you want . . .’

‘Great! Okay, Rohit, I need three new pre-paid phones. I’ve got the cash.’ He’d just emptied his account at an ATM a block away, holding his breath while he punched in the numbers lest it had already been frozen. ‘Give me the forms to complete, quickly now.’ He rushed to fill in the papers with random invented names and details – nothing smart-arsed, just simple, ordinary, everyday names with no connection to each other. Then he fixed Rohit with a stare. ‘You’ve seen the identification details, Rohit, but you forgot to take copies. You will forget that I ever came here. Okay?’

The old shopkeeper filed the papers vacantly.

‘Thank you, Rohit. May the gods bless you and your family.’

The old man smiled gratefully as Vikram left the little shop and vanished down the alley . . .

*

. . . and Rohit jerked back into alertness. Huh? Was there a customer? Did I just speak to someone?

He peered out of the shop, but there was no one close by, just the dark, empty street. The only people in sight were those clustered around the few shops that had television sets in their windows. No doubt they were fixated on that silly Bollywood bridal show. Mind you, that Sunita, she was lovely, no doubt about it . . .

*

Mumbai, 19 November 2010

Deepika Choudhary sat in her hospital bed, propped up by pillows, listening to her heart-stone pounding against her chest. Her left shoulder was heavily bandaged and throbbing, despite the anaesthetic. She hadn’t expected the cobra bite to be so damn painful. Poison was one thing – her body, the antivenin and the heart-stone were fighting that – but the actual bites hurt too. It felt like the fangs had scraped her shoulder blade, they had gone so deep, and the puncture marks were surrounded by huge purplish-yellow bruises.

But I’m still alive. How cool is that?

She glanced across at the policeman dozing in the chair beside the bed. Tilak – no, Tanvir. Weird. He’s the man Vikram told us about, the one who died helping us in Mandore in a past life. How do I even know that? This is so bloody strange . . .

‘Hey,’ she murmured, ‘you awake?’

Tanvir opened his eyes and turned towards her. His round face, pocked by old acne and currently stubbled, was made for smiling; his grin at the sound of her voice lit up his eyes. His head was wrapped in a bandana and his right shoulder, where he’d taken two bullet wounds, was bandaged and in a sling. Except for toilet breaks, he hadn’t left her side in two days. As far as Dee was concerned, he was all that was keeping the world at bay, the only thing keeping her safe.

‘Sure,’ he said groggily. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m okay. What day is it – Tuesday, right?’

‘Nearly midnight.’

‘I think I’m well enough to leave,’ she told him ambitiously. ‘Can we?’

‘Not until we’ve been signed out by the head doctor and my boss,’ he told her. ‘Let’s see tomorrow morning, yeah? We’ll need clearance from both hospital and police if we’re going to move you.’

‘What if that man comes . . . what did you say his name was? Majid Khan?’

Tanvir shook his head. ‘He’s been stood down because he fired his weapon – it’s mandatory. Meantime, I’ve laid an allegation of corruption against him, to keep him from coming down here. I’ve called in the Chief of Narcotics for Maharashtra. He’ll be here soon.’

Deepika frowned. ‘Won’t that get you into trouble?’

Tanvir half-smiled. ‘You bet.’

‘You don’t even know me,’ she whispered. ‘Why help me?’

He looked at her squarely. ‘Damned if I know myself. But that guy with the bow? He told me to. That’s good enough. He must have the gods with him, from the things I saw him do . . .’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘And anyway, I was about ready to blow the whistle on Majid myself. We’d been biding our time, waiting to see who else we could net with him. Narcotics will be happy as long as we nab enough bodies to justify the operation.’

‘Can you give them what they want?’

‘Hopefully. Bakli’s dead and we’re crawling all over his pad, going over his files and computers. And I’ve got names and dates, all the deals Majid did for Bakli – we reckon we can blow his operation wide open.’

‘Great. Thanks for helping me too. It’s really . . . uh . . . noble.’

Tanvir grinned. ‘That’s me: I’m chivalry itself.’

A portly grey-haired doctor pushed his way in and closed the door. He stifled a yawn, looking like he’d been awake for days. ‘Deepika Choudhary, Tanvir Allam? I am Doctor Mohan, the senior registrar here. I worked on your case when you were brought in, Miss Choudhary.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Deepika responded warily.

‘I would be surprised if you did. You were slipping in and out of consciousness. Frankly, I thought we’d lose you.’ His face took on an uneasy expression. ‘I still don’t fully understand how you pulled through.’

Deepika put on a cheery face for him. ‘I’m very resilient, Doctor. I’m famous for it.’

‘No doubt you are! Miss Choudhary, one bite from a king cobra injects between four and six hundred milligrams of venom: to put that into context, that’s enough to kill twenty men. You were bitten three times, and got no medical aid for more than fifteen minutes. Miss Choudhary, you should be dead. I have never seen such a thing in my life.’ Dr Mohan’s voice held all the wonder of a child. ‘We were treating you, but your heart was slowing – one of the nurses found a gemstone inside your left bra cup. She swears it was pulsing to the rhythm of your heart, except that it never faltered, though yours did, time and again. She believes it pulled you back into time with it. I have seen things that ordinary men would call miracles, Miss Choudhary, and most of the time I know it’s just the workings of medical science, which can look miraculous to the uninitiated. But in your case, I have no rational explanation.’

‘Perhaps it really was a miracle, Doctor.’ Deepika thought back to those frantic few minutes: the snake bites, and those weird moments when it felt like someone had died, when light had exploded around her, not once, but twice in succession . . . And then there was the gemstone . . . Had Vikram given it to her? Her memories were dim.

Dr Mohan pursed his lips. ‘I’m not a religious man, Miss Choudhary. I prefer my miracles to be clinically explainable and repeatable.’

She shrugged her shoulders, unable to think of anything useful to say. ‘Does this mean I can go?’

‘Go? No—! You need rest – I need to examine you again . . .’ Almost under his breath he added, ‘There must be some explanation. And my fellow doctors also need to examine—’

‘I’m not a lab rat, Doctor,’ she interrupted, letting a little anger show. ‘I am a human being, and I have a life.’

‘Miss Choudhary, your case is unique. You—’

‘I want to go, Doctor. Now.’ She glared up at him. ‘I am also famed for my temper,’ she added.

Dr Mohan swallowed. ‘But the procedures—’

‘DOCTOR, I WANT TO GO NOW!’

He fled, and Tanvir sat back, chuckling, but Deepika was far from happy. That rage . . .

She looked at Tanvir and said seriously, ‘Sometimes in the last few days, I’ve felt so angry it frightens me. It’s like a volcano, and I don’t know if I’m the lava or the capstone. I don’t know whether I am the fury, or that which holds the fury in.’

He looked at her, his eyes troubled, and slowly shook his head. ‘We all get angry, Deepika—’ he started, but she held up a hand to stop him.

‘Not like this.’ She sat back and tried to calm herself.

*

Chief Superintendent Sunil Gupta, the Narcotics Bureau chief, was quite a different matter to the timid doctor. A call had come through to say he was on his way, and Tanvir insisted they wait for him. He was tall and lean but powerful across the shoulders, with close-cropped steel-grey hair and a face like an axe-head. He left his two guards outside, but filled the room, towering above them both as he paced.

‘What the hell is going on, Detective Allam?’ he demanded, his voice suggesting he’d either graduated from Oxford or was descended from a Maharajah’s line; both were possible.

‘Sir?’ Tanvir replied, feigning confusion.

The chief rounded impatiently on Tanvir. ‘I’ve got Majid Khan on “sick leave” until we square this: he’s claiming he’s singlehandedly blown open the Bakli family, and been witness to this young man, this Vikram Khandavani, murdering one of the most prominent actresses in Bollywood. And Khan went straight to the press, so now the public think he’s a damned hero.’ He jabbed a finger at Tanvir. ‘But you: you say Bakli shot Sunita Ashoka, you say Majid Khan was feeding girls to Bakli and skimming drug hauls for him too, not to mention directing police resources to deal with Bakli’s rivals.’

‘You put me into his team specifically to watch him, sir,’ Tanvir replied.

The chief paused, then said brusquely, ‘True enough. But the stories I’m hearing just don’t add up: half the gangsters we’ve rounded up are claiming Bakli fell down the stairwell: that’s sixty fucking feet, Allam – and then got up again! One says he saw him fly. Two officers say they saw these fugitives – Vikram Khandavani, Amanjit Singh and Rasita Kaur – fly as well? It’s a mess, Allam, a bloody mess, and I won’t have it! So tell me: what happened?’

‘You’ve read my preliminary report?’ Tanvir asked meekly.

‘Yes, I bloody well have, and I . . . well, good God, Allam, what am I supposed to believe?’

Deepika put up a hand like a schoolgirl trying to interject in class. ‘Could you stop shouting, please?’

The chief whirled. ‘And as for you – who are you? What in God’s name were you doing there? How did you survive three cobra bites? What’s your connection to the fugitives? And don’t try and tell me there isn’t one, damn it!’ He thrust a finger at Deepika as if he wished he could plunge it into her brain and pull the answers out.

Deepika sat up, staring at the quivering finger. ‘I’m the innocent victim here and I don’t think I want to talk to you if you’re going to come in here and yell at me like that. Unless you’re going to charge me with something, you can go and find someone else to yell at.’ She glared at him defiantly.

‘Girl, if I want to charge you with something just so I can drag your pampered butt down to the station, I will!’ The police chief leaned over her. ‘So tell me what happened!’

She refused to be cowed. ‘Ask nicely. And say sorry.’

The chief’s face turned purple and Tanvir winced. ‘Um, sir . . . what she means is—’

Deepika spoke over him. ‘What I mean, sir, is that I am just recovering from a near-fatal incident in which I was the victim, let me remind you once again, and I doubt that I am medically capable of talking to you, especially under stressful conditions. Perhaps I’ll just ring for a nurse – in fact, I feel quite unwell . . .’ She reached towards the buzzer beside her bed, pausing her finger above it and meeting his eyes. ‘Well? We talk on my terms, or not at all.’

The chief scowled, then visibly counted to ten. ‘Wait – all right – sorry! Damn it, I apologise.’

She sat back and smiled. ‘There. Who says sorry is the hardest word? Now, how can I help you, Mister . . . I don’t think I got your name . . .?’

‘Gupta. Chief Superintendent Gupta. Head of Narcotics,’ he said through gritted teeth. He pulled over a chair and sat. ‘Is your name Deepika Choudhary? University student of Safdarjung Enclave, Delhi? I believe the Delhi police are investigating your alleged abduction from Delhi. How did you come to be at Shiv Bakli’s two nights ago?’

‘I don’t know,’ Deepika replied, although she remembered it all quite clearly. ‘I was struck on the back of the head and when I awoke, I was in that house.’ She couldn’t stop the nightmare memories of that night washing over her, and shuddered as she admitted, ‘They dressed me in some disgusting clothes – and they put a snake around my neck. That pervert told them to.’

‘By “pervert” you mean Shiv Bakli?’

‘Yes, him, whoever he is.’

He studied her. ‘We’ve been joining the dots, Deepika. You are engaged to a Sikh, one Amanjit Singh Bajaj, yes? Whose mother, Kiran Kaur Bajaj, recently married one Dinesh Khandavani. Highly trained police officers at Bakli’s house claim to have seen three people somehow “fly away” from the roof of the house: Vikram Khandavani, a student, a game-show contestant and son of Dinesh Khandavani and two unidentified persons: a Sikh male and a young woman. And surprise, surprise, we also have an open missing persons case for one Rasita Kaur Bajaj: daughter of Kiran, sister of Amanjit, your fiancé.’ He looked up at Deepika. ‘Can you confirm that these three persons – Vikram, Amanjit and Rasita – are the three people who fled the scene?’

I can’t really deny it when they already know. ‘Yes.’

Gupta leaned forward and said intently, ‘Deepika, how did they do it?’

‘I don’t know.’ You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

‘Where did they go?’

‘I don’t know.’ That’s true, anyway.

‘Who killed Sunita Ashoka?’

‘I didn’t see.’ But I know . . .

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I told you: I was kidnapped. That horrible man – Bakli – was going to—’ She started shaking suddenly as the reality of what she’d escaped hit her again. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then went on, ‘He said he was going to rape me.’ She glared at the superintendent. ‘I’m glad he’s dead!’

‘Do you know Inspector Majid Khan?’

‘No – who is he?’

‘Your family’s maid was found dead at Bakli’s mansion. Why was your maid helping Bakli?’

‘I don’t know.’ You wouldn’t believe me, not unless you believe in ghosts . . .

Superintendent Gupta hissed in frustration. ‘You do know! Damn it, girl, I’m trying to help you – I’m trying to protect you. Give me something to work with—’

She looked him in the eye and said, ‘Then keep this Majid Khan away from me – and stop chasing Vikram and Amanjit and Ras. They’re innocent. I’m tired now,’ she added, truthfully.

Chief Superintendent Gupta rolled his eyes heavenward and glared at Tanvir as he stood. ‘Officer Allam, you are stood down. I’ll assign protection for Miss Choudhary. Go home. Get some sleep.’

Tanvir also stood, but he was shaking his head. ‘I’m staying right here, sir.’

He looked exasperated. ‘Why? You’ve only just met this girl . . . haven’t you?’

‘I met her for the first time at the Bakli house on Saturday, sir. But I’ve promised to protect her.’

‘Promised whom?’

‘Myself.’ Tanvir stood a little straighter, and Deepika remembered Tanvir standing on the roof of Bakli’s mansion, swearing to Vikram that he would keep her safe. He clearly was a man of his word.

‘I’ll send back-up,’ the chief offered.

‘No others, sir, please. I’d only have to watch them too.’

‘What exactly are you implying, Allam?’

Tanvir met his chief’s stare firmly, his expression unyielding. The chief superintendent didn’t look away until his mobile rang. ‘Hello, Gupta . . . Yes . . . What—? He’s—? How many? Damn – well, keep me informed.’

As he hung up, Deepika could see that he was trying to compose himself.

‘Sir?’ Tanvir asked tentatively.

The superintendent collapsed into a chair as if his legs had drained of strength. He stared blankly at the wall. ‘It’s Majid Khan . . .’ His voice trailed away, his face aghast, any trace of composure gone. ‘Oh my God . . .’

Mumbai, 19 November 2010

Ravindra was wearing a mask – not of papier-mâché or wood, but a mask of flesh and skin, made of affability and calm. The mask had a name: Majid Khan. But behind the detective’s face, Ravindra seeth. . .