Chapter Three

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Duniya shuddered as the images of what she'd just done swam past her head, giving her a migraine. She felt drained, sitting there in the Police Station, on the hard metal chair with its peeling, sickly blue paint and the ripe smell of rust tasting like blood in her mouth.

Why did this happen?

I am a murderer!

She looked at her stained and calloused hands. They shook violently with the guilt and the sorrow she was feeling.

Raga is dead. He's gone! I killed him!

She leaned back against the chair, stretching her cramped shoulders and grunting with satisfaction when they cracked, releasing the pent-up tension.

The fat officer with the 'guruji' moustache waddled up to her from the inside room. He regarded her with what he thought was a stern and intimidating eye.

'Where is your auntie?' He asked slowly as if he believed all criminals were stupid.

Duniya rolled her eyes. Big, dumb doofus!

'I don't know, Police uncle. She is very busy with her work. I don't know when she will come.' She used her high, squeaky voice complete with the big doe eyes.

The policeman swelled with patronizing benevolence. He reached out and ruffled her short, soot-covered crop with a beefy hand.

'Its ok duwa, don't you worry ok? These nice police uncles and aunties will look after you. Don't be scared. Shall I bring you a cool drink?'

Duniya smiled serenely at the policeman. 'Yes please, police uncle. A Fanta please, police uncle.'

The man smiled and ruffled her hair again. Duniya resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

'Ok then.' He hitched his khaki uniform trousers up his ample waist and waddled away.

Sucker! Duniya watched him go with narrowed eyes. She sank back against the chair and closed her eyes.

What am I?

Alone again, her thoughts overwhelmed her. The police had told her that a broken tap in the boy's bathroom had sparked a fire. Three boys had been there but they had died. What was she doing in a boy's school?

I went to look for my brother.

Did she see anything unusual? Does she know how the fire started?

No.

Does she know the three boys who died?

Yes. Not very well.

How did she manage to survive? Why were there cuts on her cheeks?

Don't know. I fell down the stairs.

Another woman had come in then. Just when Duniya was near tears and doubled up under the pain from her headache. In the harsh yellow glare of the small, dingy interrogation room, this woman looked out of place. For one thing, she was a foreigner. Her light coloured eyes and peaches skin were subtly wrinkled and she wore a dark velvety coat over a long, charcoal dress. The two policemen who were with Duniya showed no surprise at this sudden appearance.

"My dear," the woman said, in precise English and a soft voice that somehow indicated immense power. "The boys who died today died of being electrocuted. They did not feel any pain."

When met with Duniya's shocked, wide stare, the woman added, "It was not your fault." Her eyes held Duniya's gaze and deep in her heart, Duniya felt comforted, like this woman knew exactly what had happened and that Duniya never meant for it.

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