Hunter

Kavan listened to his footsteps echo against the quiet walls. The houses on either side of the dimly lit street gave little light to his path. Dusk had fallen two hours ago, and the shadows were growing longer, as he made his way home. He kicked an empty can, watching it skid across the naked tar, tracing it’s path in his mind. He nudged it with his foot, and watched it swivel into a rusty garden gate. Number five. A dog barked, from within. That’s when he heard it. Just a little murmur, a gurgle. Kavan checked his watch. Eight thirty eight. No curfew for at least another twenty minutes.

Mindful of the time, he quickened his pace. But really, there was no need for alarm. They hardly ever came to this part of town. It was a peaceful neighbourhood. All respected families. Doctors, Engineers, even a few Lawyers. The murmur grew louder, and by now he was sure it was the sound of an engine. Surely, no one would dare be on the main road at this time. Especially in a vehicle. Kavan looked back, and saw the distant headlights, on the other side of Galle Road. He kept walking, but they kept coming. They were no longer on the main road. They were coming down Fraser Avenue, directly at him. He had reached his destination by now. Number Fourteen. Dark green letters, painted neatly on yellow plywood. His father had painted it, before he died. Kavan now lived with his mother and supported the both of them with his day job – reporting for a weekly newspaper in Colombo. He had passed his exams well, and had a spot waiting for him at the University of Kelaniya next year. Faculty of English, just like his father. His hand caused the gate to tremble, the green letters shaking like his old mother’s hands. The headlights were blinding by now, but even then he could make out the Pajero. Unmarked, unnumbered. And for a trembling second, Kavan wished that it would pass his gate. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, the hum of the engine blared against the still Dehiwala night.

“Mr. Kavan Seneviratne”

“Y… yes that’s me” he stuttered, as his hands grew weak. He lowered the latch and closed the gate. He was not going home.

“Please come with us sir, we need to ask you a few questions..”

Kavan climbed into the jeep. The tinted windows cast an eerie blanket of shadows, and as he sat in the dark his mind raced. Yes, the article, it had to be. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could make out two figures, on either side of him. Black, from head to toe, with a glint of steel at their sides. The silence was deafening, with only the murmur of the engine punctuating his train of thought. The engine stopped, and Kavan waited, ears picking up every little detail. The back door opened and Kavan felt the cool evening air hit his face. Then, it was the gravel. The little stones embedded themselves in his cheeks, scraping off the residue of the day. The blowing was much more forceful outside the jeep. He must be near the sea, he thought.

“Do you know what this is?” asked the burly man who dragged him to his feet. He hung there limply, his eyes unable to focus. A sweep of an arm across his face. Stinging flesh, glistening in the light from a far away streetlamp.

“Answer me!”

Through blurry eyes, Kavan looked at the piece of paper. The date was scrawled untidily across the top of the note. Septmber 18th, 1988.

“Yes, it is mine.”

His arm was being twisted steadily from behind, and it was getting harder to breath. His right arm flailed into somebody standing just to the right of him. He felt another blow across his face, and felt his nose slowly blocking up. He knew he must be bleeding slightly. He could just about taste it, as it trickled onto his upper lip.

“Do you know what happens to scum who write such filth?” asked a voice from behind him. Kavan didn’t have the presence of mind to turn around, much less to answer. He was twisted around and thrown to his knees. He felt the gravel tear through his new grey trousers. What a waste, he thought. His mother had bought them for him at Hameedias, for his birthday last month. He stared intently ahead. His hands went to his face, running over each swelling scar. No, this is not me, he thought. He was looking in his bathroom mirror, looking at the spot where he had cut himself. Must buy a new razor.

“…..happens to them?” a voice boomed from the doorway. Kavan licked his lips. He had always liked the taste of blood. Whenever he brushed his teeth, he would always try and nick a little piece off his own gums. It always felt good. But this didn’t feel right at all. Someone was pulling his hair. He was on his feet again. Staring at face. He had seen it before, yet couldn’t quite place it.

“Kavan you sorry bastard, can you hear me? You’re fear has sent you insane.” Kavan heard every word. He was not insane. Just detached. His mind raced. This was wrong. His father would never call him a bastard. He looked intently at the face once again. No, it was not his father.

“You piece of shit. Listen to this. The president does not like this at all. Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

He was sitting on his haunches now. The soft morning sunlight showed his father reading the papers on the porch. His mother was sitting next to him, on the floor. She was reading what he had written, his first story. Then, she was smiling, and holding out the half page to his father. His head was hurting now. He was looking at gravel again. A foot was hitting him repeatedly on his left shoulder. “Get up, idiot!” He was dragged to his feet. The same face, only angrier, the features more pronounced.

“Kavan, you may not understand this, but we are going to kill you now.” Kavan jolted. He looked at the face. The man was smiling. He had seen that smile before. Suddenly it all made sense. Why shouldn’t he kill? He had done it so many times before. Except now, no one would be there to write about it. The media would be free from the hassle of the truth. He was running now. They had asked him to. The sea was somewhere ahead. He could taste the salty air. He was with his parents, at the beach. Mount Lavinia, on a Sunday morning. The waves lapped at his hands and feet as he dug for the elusive crab. His mother was sitting in the shade, his father was a little way off, taking a swim. He had found a bottle top, he was holding it up and shouting for his mother. But then, the face was standing over him again, broadened by a big smile. Kavan looked down at his crimson chest. How funny it was that digging for crabs could make someone want to shoot him. He felt the sea sand in his hair. His mother would scold him for that. No amount of scrubbing was enough to get rid of sea sand, she often said. He heard retreating footsteps, and shouted commands. Army boots, violating the soft sand. Kavan felt angry. How dare they ruin his Sunday morning. He licked his lips, feeling the salt burn his tongue. And then, looking up, he saw the stars. Millions and millions of them. His was sitting on his father’s shoulders.

“Thaatha.. show me Orion.”

“Not at this time of year putha, remember the world revolves. I will show it to you in January.”

For Kavan, January never came. And when the Hunter did shine down on Mother Lanka, she was sans another son. Nobody told Kavan’s mother. She didn’t even have the satisfaction of seeing her son buried. She never understood why. Perhaps she never will. Yet sometimes, sometimes when she looks out her window at night, she cant help but wish that she had never, taught him to write.