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The Absence of Light

Rachel Sievers

    She had never killed anyone before. Rada was only eight so that was normal even for the slums of India. Her stringy black hair framed her big dark eyes in her hand she held it. It fell weighted in her hand, much heavier than she would have thought. It was her first time holding one, and her first time ever putting her eyes to it. The gold glinted in her palm and she wiped the sweat from her forehead as her eyes feasted on the sight of the coin.
    “What do you know Rada?” The voice above her said. She knew she should keep her eyes on him. He was a dangerous man. Everyone knew him and no one knew him. There were stories upon stories of someone whom his justice had fallen upon.
    Rada pulled her eyes from the gold in her hand up to the man in the black suit. His pale skin was a contrast to the fitted suit he wore. It reminded Rada of the underbelly of the fish. “He visits the house of Madam Vivian.” Rada knew what she was doing by speaking. She knew she was delivering death. Her eyes went back to the gold in her hand, she would not be hungry for weeks.

    The English Man, as most knew him, was named Peter John Williams. His mother had been a strong and good catholic and had named him after the saints in hope that he would be a good man. This hadn’t come to fruition.
    Peter John Williams had been born with a darkness and it had come from his father. His mother might have had a premonition that this would happen and thus imparted the name. Peter John Williams’ mother knew of his father’s darkness when he had taken her, but being a devout catholic she refused to end his life in utero. A fact, that ironically, lead to many more deaths.
    The narrowed and stone allies of Delhi were filled with beggars and street children but when they saw the English Man coming they didn’t approach him like they did others with his skin tone. They slunk back into the walls and crevasses that were afforded them in the densely packed together buildings. As Peter made his way to his sleek imported car his body guard Emile stepped forward and opened the door. Then he walked to the other side and got in himself. Bedesh stepped into the passage front door. “Jor Bagh.” Peter said without moving his eyes from the phone in his hand. The driver left the curb honking and sped through the darkening streets.

    He couldn’t move the bulk of his body. Panic rose in his chest and flooded his mind. His hands rose and found the surface and walls of his cage the panic made him claw and push until he knew it was futile. The ceiling was close to his face and his hands could only move inches out on either side.
    It was dark. There was an absence of light, a completely different type of darkness, one he had never experienced. Rarely in life is there no light. Even in dark rooms when your eyes adjust there is something for the cornea to grab onto and then process as images, but there was nothing and in the yawning nothing he was trapped.
    Breath came quick and he moved his hands to the ceiling again, this time feeling instead of clawing. It was smooth and hard. There was also a coolness to it. That was good. He wasn’t somewhere where he would die of heat stroke. In the warmest months of the year, Delhi became a sauna and being a man of large proportions, he could overheat quite quickly, so it was a small blessing that it was cool.
    He tried to move his legs from the straight position and found that they met the ceiling. He was stuck in the position of lying on his back, his stomach was a bulge in front of him that was nearest to the ceiling and his legs lay out before him in a straight-line only inches to move on either side.
    Panic slipping into his bones and then his world lit up with sound and light. The noise and shock of it made him jump and his head connected with the ceiling. Recovering, he turned his head towards the light. A phone was attached to his cage. He maneuvered his hand just enough to push the button to receive the call.
    “Help! Help me!” He screamed before the person on the other line could get in a word. Then he just started to scream. He couldn’t help it. It bubbled up out of him before he could gain composure.
    When he had quieted he turned towards the phone and saw it was still connected. Then a voice came out the other side a cool and clipped.
    “Are you done?”
    He knew enough that when that voice spoke to say nothing. After a beat the voice started again, “thought you could skim from me and I wouldn’t notice. Thought you could run from me and I wouldn’t find you? India isn’t that big of a country.”
    This time he did speak, “no boss. It isn’t like that. IÉ IÉ”
    The voice waited and he desperately thought of a what to say, but he came up with nothing.
    The voice continued, “thought you could kill me?” There was nothing to say to that one. It was true. He had put a hit out on the English Man. He had done it quietly and to highly skilled men.
    The voice continued, “I just wanted you to know that I forgive you.”
    He started to cry then because despite being a strong and powerful man he knew something horrible was going to happen to him. The English Man never forgave. “I forgive you but I can’t forget what you’ve done so I am giving you a chance to survive. I am not going to kill you. You can escape.”
    He tried to quiet his crying. The voice spoke softer now, “just claw your way through the coffin and dig out the three meters and all will be forgiven. I hope you make it. I’ll give you a little help. I would turn my face away from the phone if I was you.” The voice said as the phone clicked off.
    He didn’t have time as a small burst of light and heat reached his face as the phone burst apart and with it the side of the coffin. Dirt spilled in. His screams were quieted as his mouth filled with dirt.

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