The Tax Inspector

40

Vish knocked on the cellar door, not once, but many times. When he opened the door, still uninvited, Benny was sitting on the rumpled orange sheet on the couch and staring at him. He was the only neat thing in the middle of this stinking mess and he had laid himself out, so to speak, with his hands folded on his lap, as pale and perfect as a wax effigy.

He had changed the lighting since last night. He had altered the direction of those little reading lights which had originally been above the beds in the family home. He had rigged them up so they shone on the webs of handwriting on the distempered wall, on the green concrete ceiling, on anything but where you’d want a light to be. The room was criss-crossed with the shadows of electric wires.

Vish stepped forward on to an empty ice-cream container. He stumbled and put his hand down to stop him falling.

He put his hand on to a living thing. His heart whammed in his chest.

‘Shit,’ he said.

It was a human being, he saw that. He got such a fright he could hardly breathe. He had his hand on a man’s buttocks.

The man was lying on his stomach and had to crane his neck so he could grimace up at the yellow-robed figure to whom he looked like a gypsy at a country show. He had a little wisp of beard under his lip and trousers made from some velvety material. He showed a lot of teeth, like someone about to be cut in half on stage.

‘You left it too late,’ Benny said. ‘I found another brother.’

Vish held his kurta close to his chest and peered down at the poor fellow who had been pinioned in position like a butterfly. The man stretched up his head again and rolled his eyes at Vish. He had white dry stuff in a rim around the edges of his lips. Vish observed this and accepted it like he might have accepted the presence of a goat or a policeman.

‘Anything you want to say to me,’ Benny said, ‘you can say to Sam. He’s my brother.’

‘Help me,’ Sarkis said.

‘He’s only joking. No one needs you.’

‘Please,’ said Sarkis. ‘My legs are hurting.’

‘Is this what you call being an angel?’ Vish said.

‘Do I look like an angel?’ Benny sneered. ‘You think I’d live down here if I was a fucking angel? No, I’m not an angel – I’m an attachment. Isn’t that it? Isn’t that what they call me at the temple?’

Vish smiled and smoothed the air as if he was patting the roof of a sand castle. ‘Even if they do say that …’

‘No, you said that – your guru doesn’t want you to have attachments. So now you’re free.’

‘Who is this bloke?’

‘This is Sam. He’s my brother. He’s going to make two hundred grand a year. He’s going to do an F&I course next week …’

‘Don’t hurt him,’ Vish said. ‘He hasn’t done anything to you.’

‘Don’t side with him. That’s fucking typical. You don’t know what he’s done to me.’

‘You’re an accessory,’ Sarkis said to Vish, twisting his head upwards. ‘Why don’t you phone the cops, before you both get in a lot of trouble?’

‘Listen to him,’ said Benny. ‘He’s smart.’

‘You want me to call the cops?’

‘Don’t ask me. Ask him. I’d like to know myself.’

‘You want me to call the cops?’ Vish asked the man. He came closer to him so he could see the dried white stuff around his mouth and his slightly yellow blood-shot eyes.

The man was quiet for a moment. It looked as though he was trying to swallow. ‘Just let me go,’ he said. ‘I’m losing circulation.’

‘See,’ said Benny. ‘I’m just calming him down. He got excited.’

‘You’re right,’ Vish said. ‘You’re not an angel, you’re an insect. You’ll live and die an insect, a million times over. I’m sorry I ever listened to your stupid story. I’m really sorry I came back down here.’

Benny’s lips opened and he went soft around the chin. He stood up, but he put out his hand towards his brother as if he meant to stroke his sleeve. He took the fabric between thumb and forefinger and held it. ‘You give me dog shit to eat,’ he said softly, ‘I’ll still grow wings. It’s my nature. It’s who I am. I’ll tell you, Vishy, they burn us, they shoot us, they pour shit on us and lock us in boxes, but you cannot trap us in our pasts.’

Vish shook his head again.

‘We could be lying around lighting our farts, or doing Ice or M.D.A.’

‘Help me.’

‘One more peep out of you and you’re in deep shit,’ said Benny. To his brother he said: ‘I need you.’ He held out his hand.

‘I need you too,’ said Vish. He took the hand and held it.

Benny looked at him and blinked.

‘We’re brothers,’ Vish said. ‘It is an attachment, but I’ve got it. I put you here, that’s right. It’s my responsibility. So now,’ he grinned, putting his hand around his brother’s neck, ‘I’m going to get you out of here, tonight.’ He made a move on Benny, trying to get a half-nelson on him, but Benny slipped out and started shouting and flailing with his bony hands. Vish stepped backwards and fell off the plank, twisting his leg and falling backwards into the pool of water. A glass fell and shattered. As Vish rose, his yellow robes clinging wet against his barrel chest, Benny came at him with the power cord from the toaster, twirling it like a propeller. The plug smashed a light globe, and bounced against the back of Vish’s hand, and head. He retreated, holding his hand round an injured ear from which fat drops of blood fell, tracing a dripping line up the perforated metal steps to the world outside.