The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

penchant for tax avoidance and hiding profits in offshore accounts. Nothing outright illegal, but shady, and it had troubled Sandeep so he’d requested to be moved to another project. And when Peter Welch became Sir Peter, knighted in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list for services to British business and global relations, he thought the Queen or her people should check more thoroughly before bestowing such honours.

‘Have a good time,’ he said as Barry retreated out the door.

By the time he left at five, Sandeep was frustrated by the slow progress on Ray’s tax backlog. He put it on his to-do list to address the following day, added a couple of other small but pressing items and the half hour for unexpected occurrences. After today’s events he considered extending it to an hour but decided against it – half an hour had always been ample until now and although it hadn’t served him well enough today, he reminded himself of one of Abby’s sayings. One swallow does not a summer make. Everything would be back to normal tomorrow, with the added bonus that he would have told his parents about Abby, and their plan to marry.

Leaving his list under the paperweight on his desk – he always wrote them out by hand for the satisfaction of placing a tick by the finished items – he nodded his farewell to Monica who had her back to him doing something at the photocopier and left the office to spend the evening with his parents.

Sandeep smoothed his hair down as he stood at the front door of his parents’ semi in Hounslow. He felt like a naughty schoolboy waiting to see the principal whenever he visited them these days, these moments on the doorstep full of tense anticipation.

‘Sandeep! What for are you not using your key? You are not a guest, are you? Why always behaving like one?’

‘Hello, Mataji,’ he said, smiling and thrusting the flowers he’d bought for her into her hands. She couldn’t pull him into one of her crushing, incense-smelling embraces if she had her hands full. He’d thought, as a boy, his mother must keep several Indian incense factories in business – a sweet-smelling, smoky haze hung over every room and the furniture and their clothes were impregnated with its cloying odour. Now he lived on his own he didn’t have to suffer the jokes of his fellow pupils, students, colleagues. But Abby always commented on it when he’d been to see his mother. She reminded him each time that she had a sensitive nose.

‘What am I needing flowers for, Sandeep?’ said his mother as she put them on the hall table. ‘Come, come – Abby is here already, waiting, waiting.’

Sandeep gulped. His legs started tingling. First the left, then the right, then his whole body felt as if someone had poured a fizzy drink into it. ‘Abby is here?’ he managed to get out through lips tightening in fear. How could it be? Had she finally snapped and rung his parents, told them everything? She’d been pressuring him for a long time to tell them about her but would she really have taken the matter into her own hands?

‘Whatever is the matter, Sandeep – are you ill?’

‘No.’ He gulped and swung round to look at his mother. ‘No, I’m fine. What do you think of her?’

‘She is a lovely girl. Just right for you. So clever, so pretty-pretty and good family.’

Sandeep felt his heart settle into its proper rhythm again. ‘So you like her?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

He could hardly believe it. Why had he been so reluctant to introduce them all these months? All his mother wanted was for him to be happy, and to her marriage was the key to his happiness. Whether the girl was black, white or blue, Hindu, Christian or Jew was of secondary importance. He should have known. He should never have doubted her love for him.

‘Come, come – she is waiting.’ His mother beckoned him towards the living room.

At the door, she stopped. ‘Now, Sandeep, let me look.’ She put her hands on his upper arms and peered into his face, brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. ‘Make me proud, Sandeep, please.’

He lifted his chin, smiled at his mother and said, ‘Of course, Mataji.’

He calmed himself with a quick prayer and followed his mother into the living room.

He saw his father sitting in his Parker Knoll by the electric coal-effect heater and made his way over to him, stepping over the occasional table by the lamp and leant down to kiss him on both cheeks.

‘Yes, yes,’ his father said, nodding.

Sandeep turned and scanned the rest of the room for Abby. There were two women sitting next to each other on the sofa. The older one wearing a midnight-blue sari and the younger wearing a pale-pink blouse and a dark skirt. Both had long black hair. Neither of them was Abby. Sandeep’s forehead creased in confusion. He glanced around the room.

‘Sandeep, let me introduce you to Mr Devdas Iyer.’ His mother was standing by a tall, thin man with a narrow moustache clinging to his top lip.

It was as if his body remembered his manners and propelled him forward to bow and take the older man’s hand when he offered it. Certainly his head wasn’t working. What was going on? Abby was meant to be there but she was nowhere to be seen, and these people were occupying his parents’ living room instead.

‘Allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs Madhuri Iyer,’ said Mr Iyer, gesturing to the older woman who looked at him without a smile, ‘and my daughter, Miss Abhi Iyer.’

Sandeep’s heart stopped. He could almost feel the colour drain from his face. He swallowed a couple of times and ran his hand down his already straight tie. How could he have been so stupid? Of course his mother would never have accepted Abby – and Abby would never have gone behind his back and invited herself to