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We often saw him returning on his motorcycle late at night, often with bulging bags dangling from the handlebars—the exploits of his nightly toils.

But we did not realise then that, being a thief, Lulu was also privy to all our secrets: he knew our roles in the Organisation; he knew where we ate, drank, pissed, and even where we tortured and killed our opponents and stashed our weapons. I hated the fellow.

She wore an abaya, but we assumed her private life was rather different from the image she presented. In my long association with the Organisation, I had encountered only two types of people: those who began to run, weep, and beg when they saw the muzzle of a gun pointed at them, and those who turned into statues of stone—silent and cold.

Lulu's lover belonged to the second category. On that night, she had gone cold all over when I caught her hand in the dark, dingy recess outside the shuttered shop where an old butcher sold the meat of aged cows and buffalo calves.

She had not uttered a word apart from a suppressed groan in that dark corner, where the smell of her cheap perfume commingled with the rotting smell of blood and discarded meat scraps.

I was sure that she had not recognised me—it was very dark in there, and even in the shadows I could tell that she had avoided looking at me during and afterwards.

The Organisation did not approve of such behaviour, and if my conduct were discovered, it could land me in serious trouble. I could not sleep that night, and the next evening I stationed myself near the spot where Lulu usually dropped the girl off, just to find out whether she had recognised me.

I heaved a sigh of relief and soon forgot the ugly couple altogether. The months that followed were extremely turbulent as the government launched another crackdown, and the Organisation ordered us to go underground. It was during this operation that the forces raided the place where I was hiding.

It took me a few minutes to realise that two other members of the Organisation were already groaning in that room. We denied everything during the nightly interrogations, but at, when they pushed us out of our cell, we found that they had already lined up a dozen people in the courtyard, their faces distorted by terror, torture, and lack of sleep. Suddenly the gates were flung open.

Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. The writer can be reached at farrukhkamrani@gmail.com. Pages.

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