Chapter 3

In chaos, the world lives

A guardian stands tall; a beacon, but

His helmet constricts, futilely grasping air.

The beacon’s continued wailing was getting on his nerves. As he sat in his air-conditioned vehicle, he could see the hot air wafting off the asphalt and creating mirages. The sun seemed to be enjoying the summer; he could feel it radiating like a happy clam. The ground had withdrawn downwards, leaving a withered husk of a memory in its place. Even the road was peppered with cracks. It all reflected the afternoon, he supposed. The death of a child needed fit heralds.

He was, however, more concerned (guiltily) about someone else. Perhaps it was a serious lack of professionalism, but it had rapidly become a welcome weakness. Whenever he would close his eyes, and tried to imagine her, he could glimpse it. Those tantalizing flashes, the curve of a perfect shoulder, a salty droplet dribbling down cocoa skin. Her breath in his ears, egging him on. Her voice, more seductive than his imaginations. At first, it had been nothing other than a fling; a uniformed man and a bored socialite. Perhaps it had been the dash of danger that accompanies a police officer in these parts; perhaps it was the uniform. It didn’t really matter to him; he was getting what he wanted – a reprieve from the grind of monotonous. And her attractiveness didn’t hurt either. They did not know when the fling became something more, but it did. They started meeting for things other than sex. They shared intimate moments that did not involve being entangled in a bed sheet, or the sound of their flesh slapping together. Now, they were almost as close as lovers though, a spark become a raging firestorm. He cared for her, and since the incident happened in her charity home, he was worried for her. She could have a delicate nerve at times, and this was one situation that would test her to her limits. He had told her to wait until he showed up, both as official protocol, and out of concern, before she confronts the killer. Apparently, he was handicapped. But the fact that someone so challenged can commit such a heinous crime was shocking. He had always seen them as victims, and it led him to realize that maybe even the innocent are not so pure these days.

As the jeep slowed down and stopped, waiting for the gate to open, he wondered about the crazy day. After all, there was no inkling it would be anything other than a routine day. The clerk had showed up late, the water-filter was not working, and the air conditioner seemed impotent against the heat. As he sat in a wooden chair right beneath the air conditioning vents, going through the days files, there was a ring on his official number. At first, he did not pick it up and let it ring, owing to the bureaucratic inertia that all men of such stature possess. However, when he finally picked it up, the news sent a chill through him. He hurriedly packed up, rung up his staff, and told his driver to prepare his vehicle. He put his holster on, and slamming the door behind up with so much force that the nut came out again and the wooden sign that said “Inspector of Police, Sanchi P.S.” swung up and down; went to his jeep to start the onerous journey to the charity home.