LAST WISHES

Mr.Banerjee found himself behind iron gates. The

old corrugated ones one may find in the so-called

collapsible gates. The back of his skull was aching.

As he helped himself onto his feet, he slowly

started to recall the events of the last hour. He

looked at his grey tuxedo, which was now soiled

with some grime. He recalled looking at his

reflection in the mirror of the liquor store

bathroom. He had ordered a scotch, and was slowly

gulping his drink on a cold January evening in one

of the premier bars in the Park Street Sir Hog’s

market. He was interrupted by a man. He was tall,

judging by the length of his dark brown trench

coat . It was not the habit of a retired high court

judge to trust strangers, but something about the

man was striking. Soon, Mr.Banerjee and the person

were talking. He even bought a drink for the

elderly man, remembered Mr.Banerjee.

“Then what?”, Mr.Banerjee could not remember

anything after that. Now that he finally had got up,

he looked around himself, trying to understand

where he was at the current instant of time. All he

could see was darkness. The pale moonlight of a

1935 winter night came in through the only outlet

for air in the vicinity. Those iron gates. The

smell of roaches and stacked rubbish made the air

detestable, if not unsuitable, for breathing.

Slowly, he made his way towards the streaks of

light which were visible, hoping to catch a breath

of fresh air, as well as make his way out from

wherever this place was. “Darn it! These gates are

locked.” Mr.Banerjee was puzzled.

He held onto the iron contraptions. Rusty, un-oiled,

creaky metallic jingles arose from the same.

Shaking them with the utmost energy he could muster,

he roared “Let me out! You scoundrel! let me out

right now !”

Not a soul answered. Ten minutes later, Mr.Banerjee

was still in the same place. His roar had grown

into a meeker “Help!”, and the dose of adrenaline

his body had managed to secrete , was no longer

working. For the first time in life, he felt

trapped and alone. And he could do nothing about it.

He turned around and now realized where he was. He

was somewhere in Hog’s market. Somewhere in the

labyrinth of shops and lanes and by-lanes. The

smell around him must be from the remains of the

farm produce sold during the entire day.

“ But how did I get here? Didn’t anyone

notice ?” pondered Mr.Banerjee. he found it

illogical to believe that he was , actually inside

a deserted market which was closed and shut down

for the night. And the fact that no-one had noticed

him, not even the night guard when he would have

closed the gates, seemed unlikely. “Then again,

” he said to himself “ If I was lying there

beside that heap, and in the dark corner , it is

reasonable that no-one might see me.” Satisfied

with is logical conclusion, Mr.Banerjee decided to

wait for a few more hours till the shops re-opened.

“Then I will see to it that the watchmen of this

place are taken to task!” he murmured in his mind.

A logical argument failed to calm his nerves.

Mr.Banerjee was not as composed as he wanted

himself to be. The knowledge that he was the only

living soul within a hundred paces of this place

didn’t allow him to be totally carefree. Solitude

wasn’t a thing which Mr.Banerjee was not

acquainted with. But solitude in a dark chilly

alley, with no food or water , and little access to

air and light was surely something he didn’t like.

A muffled slam was suddenly heard. As if somewhere

in the labyrinth, some door had been flung open.

Mr.Banerjee could feel his hair standing upon the

back of his neck. “What was that?” the more he

pondered the more illogical his thoughts became. He

reached a point where he didn’t want to know the

cause of the sound. Even in the cold, his forehead

had small beads of sweat. A definite surge of

adrenaline in his body made his heart beat faster.

There was silence, which lasted for two agonizing

minutes. Then again something could be heard.

A heavy repetitive thud: not too loud. Emanating

from somewhere in the far end of the alley in which

Mr.Banerjee found himself. The wooden floor and the

chilly winter air added a dimension to the element.

The wood adding echoes to the sound and the air

making it sound clearer. “ Who goes there ?”,

deep in his heart , Mr.Banerjee was , actually,

afraid.

A figure was approaching, with a slow and

measured step. The figure was leaning on a stick.

“ Impossible …………”

FLASHBACK

“ The High Court of Calcutta is at session for the

trial of the notorious ‘Gentleman’. Let the

prosecution begin”, Justice Banerjee announced in

a solemn voice.

“ My Lord”, the public prosecutor began, “this

person standing here is a criminal of the highest

degree. His crimes , when summed up, remain the

most brutal and serial homicidal acts in the

history of a hundred years of British Calcutta.”

He paused to catch his breath. Justice Banerjee

flinched in his chair. His powdered wig needed

change , he thought to himself.

The prosecutor continued, “ This man , Richard

Alphonso Wicker , also known as ‘Gentleman’ is

hereby charged with the murder of thirteen servants

of Indian origin throughout a period of six

months.” Justice Banerjee looked at the man. He

was a man with a sickly constitution. Greyed hair.

Eyes which were sunken deep inside their sockets.

Unshaved cheeks. Marked characteristics of alcohol

abuse. His hands were crooked and every aspect of

him made one feel detestation. He stood in a eased

fashion , leaning to a side, as if calmly composed

about his surroundings. The prosecutor continued,

“The mode of murder was grotesque. That was the

murder weapon ,” , he said, pointing to a stick.

Justice Banerjee looked carefully at the object of

interest. It was made from strong ebony , and was

perfectly black. The handle was made with silver.

Heavy and sturdy. “No doubt that this was an

effective murder weapon”, thought Justice Banerjee.

“Does the defendant have anything to say ?”

A meek wry smile formed on the lips of Gentleman.

“ just one thing. There were fifteen. Fifteen

servants who had entered in my service and suffered

death at my hands.”

With eyebrows raised , amidst a shocked courthouse,

Justice Banerjee managed to mumble “Anything

else ?”

“yes, every native I can lay hands upon will

survive a similar fate. You too will die you dog.

Kala kuta !”

With such a cry he jumped, and dashed at Justice

Banerjee. The federal marshals were quicker though.

They apprehended him. And then subdued him.

An hour later, Justice Banerjee was speaking again.

“ By the power vested in me by Her Majesty, the

queen , I hereby find you Richard Alphonso Wicker

guilty of murder of fifteen helpless individuals.

And hereby I condemn you to be hanged to death. To

be hanged, till Death.”

PERIOD

“It can’t be!”, logic agreed with Mr.Banerjee. a

dead man couldn’t walk, and if he had broken out

of prison, Mr.Banerjee would have come to know. The

alley wasn’t as long as Mr.Banerjee had thought it

to be. But there was no mistake. There was the same

back heavy wood stick with the same silver embossed

tip. The same gait Mr.Banerjee recalled from that

day when the court marshals had led him away.

Thirty five years of being a high court judge, and

he had sent only one man to the gallows. It made

Mr.Banerjee spend many a sleepless night before.

But this night was not something he imagined that

would happen.

A muffled hiss like voice could be heard. Now

Mr.Banerjee noticed that this was the same attire

that the tall man in the bar had wore.

“I told u cur, that u would die ….” Jeered the

voice.

“No. this is madness ……………..”

A loud sharp thud. Ripples of the same sound echoed

in the passage: followed by a fainter sound of

something collapsing. Then everything was silent

again.

“This isn’t possible. How does the murderer

manage to bring the dead body in here ?” the

police inspector told the other man. He too was

dressed in the same attire. “Grotesque , if u ask

me” , replied the other, “well something

challenging for you huh ?” the former managed a

smile. All that ranting about monotony, in the

restroom of the police cafeteria, was going to be

tested , this time.

“Wait what’s that !” he exclaimed as he pointed

to a thing. A thin long piece of black wood with a

silver embossed handle lay at the side, as if

someone had tossed it in the corner. He recognized

it immediately. At the academy , every police cadet

had studied that case. Without wasting an instant,

he set out for the correctional facility. He

accessed the records with his own hands. He found

it.

Richard Alphonso Wicker 1930 November 5th

DEATH BY HANGING

Ordered by

Justice K.Banerjee

Status: Carried out as instructed