The Man (5/?)

“Will you stop that?”

“Easy for you to say. Yours is not the face that is known to the wrong eyes.”

“Well…wearing down the floor is not going to wipe that.”

“What will you have me do?”

“I would say that you rest now. They will wait for sundown…I cannot have you slow on your legs or mind then.”

Manikyam drops into the couch at the corner of the room, away from the windows.
“Are you always so friendly?”

“I do my best.”

A small muscle around his mouth flickers. It is there for a moment and disappears soon enough. He sits with his head in his hands. I almost feel bad. But four days of waiting is making even me jittery. I have hunkered down far longer so I cannot understand why this bothers me. My instincts are zapping like nervous synapses and I am loathe to disregard them. Not now. Definitely now.

I am beginning to have a bad feeling about this. There are two SUVs parked down the block every day and every night the light in that no-longer-vacant second floor apartment opposite the field mocks me. What is the plan? I can make out no pattern, no going ins and outs - they probably have stocked up on food, I can pick up no phone frequencies, not for radio either. These are not amateur goondas...These men are thorough, all sleek eelishness as they go around doing their dirty work without leaving any trails. I can feel the electric anticipation in the air. If a life was not at stake, I would call this fun.

Manikyam is not a patient man. He wants this to get over. Till yesterday, he believed that the men had no idea about our location. And then at noon, the yellow piece of cloth – we sought you and found you - was tied to their window. Ever since, I have had a fretting, pacing, obsessing over guilt, Manikyam on my hands. With my nerves a-jangle, I was not exactly being the perfect company for him now.

Slowly, Manikyam slides down the couch and I hope that for his sake, he can get some sleep. He kept awake last night. Despite all assurance that I would wake him if there was a reason to do so. I lectured him on the benefits of sleep for a while. Then realised, the man has the right to worry about the next sunrise. It is his life at stake.

I make myself comfortable on the wooden chair sat near the door of our safehouse.

What is a safehouse with its cover blown called?

I cannot believe myself. Our cover is blown, I have a hunted man on my hands, I do not want his blood on my conscience, I want to get out from this alive, and I am asking myself riddles.

I slump down on the chair and think back to the Wednesday when predictable madness went upside down its head.