19.2

The hand did not leave the horn as the Hummer barged through the morning snarl on the outskirts of Mumbai.

Marlon gazed out the window. Run-down buildings riddled with rust and peeling paint formed the broken background to a desperate frenzy of human activity.

“You know Marlon – you were once an amazing fellow.”

“Mmm.”

He’s already got you down as a has-been.

“You had everyone in awe. We in India had never come across confidence like that before.”

Marlon sat back.

This is more like it…

Just keep talking Singh old son.

“How old were you then – mid thirties?”

A host of sleeping memories woke in the muddy maze at the back of Marlon’s mind. He saw himself in the cocktail bar…

When you’d turn your head and…

There she was… already entranced by you…

Marlon Sands… the most powerful man in the room – any room.

But from these blurred images nothing real remained. Not one moment, not one woman, indeed, no single event held him in its spell. Nothing, it seemed, had given him any lasting satisfaction – nothing at all, not even his own son.

No…

The divorce ruined any chance of that.

It was all that fucking woman’s fault!

No, it had always been about him – Marlon, alone, the self-made man.

“I had my fortieth birthday in Mumbai,” he said wistfully.

“Really?” Singh said. “So that makes you…”

“That’s right,” Marlon said. “About to turn seventy.”

“Seventy! Well… really, my friend – don’t you think it’s about time.”

Marlon refused to look at him.

“Come on Marlon – you’ve had your go.”

Marlon cringed as Singh’s hand landed on his shoulder like the stealthy claw of death.

“You’ve done great work Marlon… we all know that. It would be a shame to spoil it all by doing something…”

Stupid?

Go on – say it Singh – you piece of shit!

“Something you might live to regret.”