The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Read Online Free Page B

is…’
    ‘Fellow told me 10 at Taj Presidential Suite,’ I say, pasting a smile on my face to mask my terror at being surrounded by women in various states of undress. We elbow our way through the corridor, glancing at the populated rooms. In some, people are sitting on rugs and puffing on teapots made of glass. In others, strobe lights are flashing reds and pinks and a man with headphones is scraping a table.
    ‘You wan tequila?’ She is Chinese and blonde and wearing boots and shorts. Her friend looks East European and is wearing no bra.
    ‘Tequila. Tequila. Gimme. Gimme,’ says the Russian. She looks at us.
    ‘Uncle. Ko-he-ma-da?’
    ‘Kohee-meedi…’ mimics Marilyn Ming-Roe. They both giggle.
    Ari and I down the shots.
    ‘You no take lime and salt?’
    Unsure what to do in these situations, I look her square in the breast and grin like a goon.
    Ari takes charge. ‘Is Graham Snow here?’
    ‘Ah, you friend of Graham? We take you,’ says the Russian.
    ‘Graham is not in good mood,’ says her companion, sucking on a lime.
    We pass through rooms where expensive bottles of vodka are being emptied down unappreciative throats. Where young men and younger women wiggle to bone-rattling noise. I fancy I spy some famous faces, many, like me, much too old to be here. The Russian leads us up a spiral stairway to a garden on the roof.
    Gusts of cool breeze take the sweat from our shirts. To our left is the open space of Galle Face Green with the Indian Ocean curling at its feet. To our right, a troubled city of lights and silence. A more spectacular view of Colombo I am yet to see.
    Perched alone next to a table of bottles, puffing on a crumpled cigarette, is Gatsby himself, Mr Graham Robin Snow. He raises a solitary eyebrow.
    ‘Oh right.’ He rises. A giant in a batik shirt and a straw hat.
    ‘Sirisena! Bring another chair.’
    He squeezes our hands and avoids our eyes. He motions for us to sit and looks down at his slippered feet. ‘Didn’t know there’d be two of you.’
    ‘This is Ari Byrd. My statistician.’
    Unimpressed, Snow begins pouring vodka. ‘Drink?’
    A man with muscles in a white T-shirt enters carrying chairs.
    ‘Siri, bring some ice, will ya?’ Snow’s voice rises with each sentence. ‘Siri, I can smell fucking dope. I caught two of them having it off in these bushes. Tell Upul no fucking dope and no fucking fucking! I’ll kick everyone out.’
    Rambo scrambles down and barks orders at an unseen security guard.
    We sit with our drinks, next to one of the greatest English cricketers of the 1970s.
    ‘Are you married?’ he asks. We both nod.
    ‘Happily married?’ Ari nods slightly more vigorously than I do.
    ‘It’s easy for you chaps. No offence. But you don’t have women throwing themselves at you all around the world.’
    I look at Ari, who looks at me.
    ‘I just didn’t think she’d leave.’
    And then the man who demolished Kim Hughes’s Australians in ’81 begins sobbing into his vodka tonic.
Nineteen Eighty-five
    The very first time I see him bowl is on Jonny’s massive TV during the 1985 Benson & Hedges World Series. That’s when Pradeep gets me sacked from the Island.
    I can blame it on the stakes.
    On Jonny’s coffee table stands a bottle of Chivas, a bottle of Gordon’s and a bottle of Old Reserve. The winner gets all three, certainly a prize worth fighting for, but perhaps not worth losing one’s job over.
    Jonny Gilhooley, Cultural Attaché at Colombo’s British High Commission, receives his stipend in pounds. He donates the Chivas. Ari receives rupees like I do, and a meagre sum at that. But he does not wish to appear ungracious and pledges an expensive gin. I have little money and less grace. The arrack is my contribution.
    Jonny refuses to discuss his life before Sri Lanka. We secretly suspect he may be a Cold War spy in hiding.
    ‘Jonny, are you a Cold War spy in hiding?’
    After four pints of ale, Ari tends to forget what is secret and what