A Few Hundred Poppies

17. A Murder

a good bad influence

Having had enough, I meandered through the crowd, not apologising when I stepped on people's shoes or pushed them. When I made it to the front, my blood ran cold. I staggered backwards in surprise, and would've fallen if West hadn't caught me by the waist.

After the waves of shock had passed, a storm of sadness suddenly built up in my chest and I started sobbing, turning around and burying my face in West's chest without much thought. I forced my eyes shut. Sharmaji's dead body on the floor and his blood drying on the bullet wounds remained charred to my sight.

"Aditi!" The woman who'd been shrieking and wailing in a heartbreaking tune called out, making me swivel and rub the tears off my eyes. "Ah! No more new sweets, no more free sweets for you! The halwai is gone, they've taken my halwai, oh lord!" she yelled, and fell unconscious on the gravel road in a miserable heap. Some people rushed forward to help, but I didn't have the strength to.

I looked to the sky, feeling several drops of untimely rain on my face. "Why do you do the things you do, Allah?" I whispered, letting the rain mix with the salt of my tears. "People say that whatever you do, you do for good, but I guess they say it to soothe broken hearts."

"Don't say that," West said softly, making me face him. The raindrops were rapidly becoming larger and harsher, making the crowd prepare to break up. "We're meant to trust in Him, not understand His ways. Life isn't Starbucks. You don't get to choose everything."

I knew that West's words were true, perhaps that's why they were so infuriating. Kneeling down beside Mrs. Sharma, who was now sitting upright on the pavement, I wrapped my arms around her shoulders. She sobbed into the bend of my shoulder, making silent tears roll down my cheeks.

"Aunty, let's go inside," West spoke up, his hand on my shoulder.

The two of us helped her climb the stairs to the quaint apartment above the shop. Everything was wildly messed up, as if somebody had searched through the room in a frenzy. We helped Mrs. Sharma into a brand new blue armchair. "Do your relatives know?" I inquired, making Mrs. Sharma shake her head softly as West disappeared into the kitchen. Picking up her phone, I opened up WhatsApp, dialling the first few contacts one after one and letting them know.

Hari Sharma refused to believe me at first, and once I convinced him that his brother had passed away, he abruptly ended the call in shock. Mrs. Sharma's sister shrieked loudly and chucked her phone at a wall. The rest of the people I managed to call reacted similarly, leaving me more miserable with each conversation.

Around ten minutes later, West emerged from the kitchen, holding a melamine tray patterned with blue flowers, two cups of warm tea resting on it. Mrs. Sharma was now staring passively at the floor. When West offered her a cup, she looked at him in a very startled manner, then started to wail again. West offered the cup to me instead.

Despite not wanting to, I sipped on the tea, knowing that it would calm me down. As West tried to convince Mrs. Sharma to take a gulp or two from the cup, a policeman in his mid-twentys walked in the room. I immediately recognized him from Mr. Fuller's parties, and I supposed he remembered me as well by the firm nod of his head. Ron Walters was tall and stout and impeccable. He had been convivial the few times we'd met - gone so far as to offer me seconds when he'd been serving at the last barbecue.

I wondered if I knew too many adults for a teenager.

He motioned for me to come aside and I obliged, walking away from Mrs. Sharma to him. "Hi," he said, not sparing me a second to reply. "So you know them?"