Totem

Content warning: violence

My mother died due to a botched medical procedure; the intolerable loss and anger drove me to Goa to find myself. However, this intention turned into a life of excess, drugs, and alcohol. Moreover, Depression and violence forced the woman I loved, to leave me alone in Arambol India.

Being constantly stoned and drunk, and having lost all the family I had, returning to England wasn’t in my plans. I was a drug-addled mess and knew I needed help. Anton a new friend I'd met in Goa, recommended the services of a black magic priestess, somehow, she had turned his life around, and he was returning to Russia drug-free sober, and optimistic.

 Full of anger, self-loathing, and desperation for change, connecting with this woman became my mission. After many phone calls and encountering old hippies, con-merchants, and liars, all expectations of meeting the priestess had vanished. While sat on a rickety wicker chair on my beech hut veranda, watching tumbling waves, I was about to crash when a text flashed across my screen. It read, meet me at 3 am, bring five thousand rupees; it had an address circled on Google's maps.

 A location picture of a hut told me everything. It was a shithole, situated deep jungle, hundred and fifty kilometers away. I placed my flick knife in my jeans, as this encounter could be an elaborate scam to roll me. Swigging the last dregs of a bottle of old-monk brandy, I found a half-smoked joint in an old fish can, now used as an ashtray.

 Intoxicated with drink, and pot I staggered, onto my old Baja motorcycle, that like me, had been better than its former state. I began driving into the hot humid night, along dark jungle roads the same size as a goat track, it was not easy driving being stoned, along with a lack of road signs and pitch blackness.

 At two-thirty AM, my phone bleeped, indicating I had arrived, before entering the small hut, a hankering for tobacco and weed, filled me. In the dark my slightly fumbling fingers made a heavily laden joint. As I struck the lighter, a crash of branches sounded. I pulled my knife; a startled cat flew across the road.

 The joint was heavily loaded, rendering me completely stoned, hence, a shuffling and stumbling gate got me to the decrepit house entrance my knuckles wrapped on an off-cream paint-flaked panel.

 As I held the door frame for balance a beautiful young Indian woman, wearing a white sarong with matching top and turban peered around an ajar door. And asked-

John?

I nodded; she opened the door fully, on walking in the smell of chicken, candle wax, and incense hit me, a poor bird scratched and clucked in a wicker basket with a small barred window.

"Sit down, think about, what you want from Djinn."

This sentence spat out of the priestess’s mouth into my muddled brain. As I sat, being stoned made it impossible to concentrate, it was hot and dehydration amplified my feeling of intoxication.

"Do you have a bottle of water?"

Irately, she thrust a lukewarm bottle into my hand; I poured some of it over me, the rest I drunk. Annoyed with my demeanor, her hoarse voice asked,

"Are you ready?"

 It screeched out; ripping into my tripping consciousness. Trying to flirt, I commented on her vocal prowess loudly.

"With that voice, I guess you're single."

Understandingly, the joke fell flat, laughter irrupted from me, as hard as I could, thinking about what I wanted, escaped me in fits of giggles. She Fired another sentence at me.

"Hurry nearly three-AM."

"Ok, I want to be sober, well paid, comfortable, and safe."

 Raising her hands with closed eyes a droning mantra sounded.

 Immediately, a draft gusted from an open window causing glass tears, strung from a red ribbon to tinkle, simultaneously a triangle of three colored candles fluttered, making them spit rivulets of wax that flowed down black metal holders onto a scored and scratched table…

 Spidery plumes of black smoke wafted, feathered, and eventually spiraled towards a goat's skull hung on thin twine. Above it, illuminated by an unseen bulb, a discolored cream ceiling covered in smut and blood from countless ceremonies punctuated the impending violence.

Her slender hand plunged the struggling chicken between the red white and black candles. Feathers along with their smell permutated everywhere, slicing the animal’s neck with an old knife, warmblood spouted covering my face. Deep red, oozed around the candles, as the bird jerked and flapped as it fought for its life.

The bird's eye met mine; it squawked, flapped, and its legs scurried one last time. I saw all the life ran from its pupil leaving it dull, still, and glazed; in my half-stoned state, it looked funny trying not to laugh, my eyes looked away from the dead birds gawking mouth towards a corner of the sparse wooden floored room. A bust of an African goddess covered in dried blood sat on a rugged side table, surrounded by cigarettes, scattered playing cards, and feathers. The offerings seemed to nullify her importance as opposed to venerating her.

The beautiful priestess picked up a fly whisk, made of what looked like horsehair with a gold handle. She said some kind of incantation and rubbed it in the blood of the chicken.

"This is your Djinn for good luck, five thousand as arranged."

I pulled it from my pocket, asking.

"This ritual will work?

I give you back all money no problem if not work."

 Using outstretched fingers and thumb, I passed her the money, she screamed,

"Place my money on Chicken!"

 I balanced the money carefully on the dead bird. Some notes fell off. I reached to grab them, a shrill angry voice told me.

"Leave them alone! The gods want to show me a message."

She looked intently towards a chaotic pile of fallen notes. Some curling others floated in dark burgundy blood. Still staring at the heap, she thrust a blood dripping fly whisk into my hand, without one hint of kindness, or eye contact she shouted for me to go. 

As I left a loud zap filled the air. A moth ended its life in a cloud of smoke, incinerated on a bright blue electronic trap. It made me look back at the old house, through the window of the small ramshackle shack; the priestess stared intently at what was a live chicken covered in money.

Strolling towards my motorcycle crickets filled the humid air, everything seemed normal. Then a dull hum made me look up; a black cloud of swarming insects rotated around a solitary orange post bulb, like rings on Saturn.

I felt hot sticky and unclean, brushing my face covered moist fingers in congealing blood. Swabbing myself with crumpled tissues; It covered them with black streaks that made me shudder and hope I've done the right thing. It felt strange to be alone after raising a spirit in a rural setting at night.

Ambling towards my motorbike, all that went through my mind was an insatiable hankering for a joint, pulling off the machine's battery cover, answered my wants, a reefer wrapped in plastic for emergencies rested next to a quarter bottle of old-monk. Like a child in a sweet shop, both lips alternated between liqueur and pot.

Stoned and drunk, after many attempts, my keys found the ignition, after which, a fumbling finger, pressed the starter bringing a four-hundred CC, engine into life with a loud clunking bark, picking up my foot to the rests resulted in me falling over, and my bike cutting out. I was dead to the world.

Early morning, a stick pushed in my side, followed by two beige-dressed Indian officers manhandling me. Still drunk my hand grabbed and snatched the stick. I got up, both officers tried to wrestle me to the ground. Pulling my knife, it plunged into one of their stomachs, blood jetted everywhere, the other officer lunged at me only to feel the same blade sink into his chest.

Twitching, like upturned tortoises they bled profusely. Without any remorse or sympathy, I spat at them; and walked to their jeep and destroyed their short wave. In Goa, when one rents a motorbike, it is always illegal and registered to God knows who, being caught ran a low risk unless someone saw me?

The priestess ran away from her house; she will keep her mouth shut; a pretty little thing like that would be raped from "here until Sunday" when the police eventually turn up. Besides, judging by the color of their blood, both will be dead in a few minutes. Hence, they won’t be talking to anyone anytime soon.

 Nevertheless, I couldn't resist one last act of payback, these guys regularly rape, extort pensioners, and frame holidaymakers. So, I walked over to them, one had just enough energy to look at me, I laughed and said to him snidely, “Karma.”

 Picking up the bike, fuel ran across the grass, shaking the machine told me I’d needed to top up. Blood covered all over my clothes, and hands; I had to wash, burn and bury my clothes. Driving for a few kilometers a river flashed through the dense jungle foliage. I grabbed the brakes slung the bike behind a tree and walked toward the river; it looked picturesque with a sandy shore lined with coconut palms.

This was not a time to be romantic, pulling off everything that had blood on it left me barefoot and wearing boxers, building a fire out of old palm leaves was easy, burning my clothes even easier, after which I immersed myself in the river's tepid water constantly looking for crocodiles and snakes as clouds of blood would attract them.

 After a while, almost naked, and tip-toeing began the walk back to my bike; it was slow and excruciating; twigs, rocks, and leaves jabbed and cut my feet, eventually, I got to the old machine, and mounted looking like a stripper gram as I returned to Arambol.

Arriving at my hut mid-afternoon, damp pants became exchanged for swimming shorts, which in turn led to me having a late breakfast of muesli. Wandering down to the beach felt good, there was something different about me? I didn’t want a drink or a joint, after a swim, the need to sleep forced a shattered body to collapse in the shadow of a fishing boat.

 A jeep's engine woke me; it was close to dusk. Then I saw the priestess, between two large policemen in the back of their four by four. They had knocked the shit out of her, and she held the ghost eyes of a rape victim. Her hand pointed towards me.

I was caught. Four armed officers walked towards me any wrong movement, and they would shoot, standing offering no resistance still got my face pushed into the hot sand, as well as frisked and hand-cuffed. This action infuriated me, being thrown onto a Jeeps dirty floor forced a torrent of swearing. One of the officers kicked me in the face.

“Where you live?

around and about.”

He kicked again. I heard my landlord's voice, a few moments later. Several officers returned with a rustling bag, that I presumed was my belongings and knife. Laid on the floor after about half an hour, we arrived at Mapusa police station; all the cops jeered at me calling me names. They didn’t process me; it seems I’m going to be a jail homicide statistic. Two burly officers frogmarched me to an underground cell filled with three heavies waiting.  

 Uncuffed and thrown in with the thugs, the biggest guy swung for me. He got thrown head-first into a steel door. A dull click indicated a broken neck, the other assailant, after receiving a straight finger stab, fell grabbing his throat, unable to breathe within seconds all signs of life had gone. The last thug screamed like a baby when his knee cap snapped, and elbow broke, grabbing his hair. I repeatedly smashed his head into cold steel bars until death took him.

 The two police officers watched in disbelief, one of them was too near the cell bars. I pulled his shirt, slammed him face-first against a protruding metal hinge, blood-covered me as his broken nose exploded. The man’s limp body fell. My steel grip tore a pristine shirt to pieces, firing buttons everywhere.

The other officer ran upstairs for assistance. I sat calmly on the room's steel bench surrounded by bodies; minutes later, half a dozen officers ran down steps wearing riot gear carrying a fire hose. Water flooded into my cell violently making the corpses twitch and move.

 Liters of water drenched me. Rough arms pulled and wrestled my body until cuffs, and bounds wrapped every limb. Next, several men dragged and slid me into a pitch-dark space accompanied by a slamming steel door. Like a discarded toy, I was left to rot.

In the darkness, I went straight into a deep meditative state, soon all sensations of time, and my being went. After some period, I think three days? Rough hands jostling me pulled my awareness back to earth, still half dazed, men carried me upstairs into a bare nineteen forties-looking office.

 Behind a beige desk, an Indian man in his thirties sat behind a laptop. He reeked of secret service and looked totally out of place with his designer clothes, glossy leather shoes with an expensive watch.

“Untie him!”

Several voices shouted back at him in Hindi; he spoke once, and all my bounds became released. He pulled out a Long-Barreled Taurus revolver.

“Just in case you have any ideas.”

I looked blankly at him while trying to work out how many were in the room. I wanted that gun, dying didn’t concern me, killing as many police officers as possible did.

“Let’s cut the crap Carl Benjamin, your passport says you are John Christopher a hairdresser. Luckily for you, I realized a hairdresser couldn’t do what you did hence, I researched every part of your supposed profile. So please don’t lie.”

Without one shred of emotion, my eyes looked into his. I understood this was a Cambridge-educated officer with a thing for men. Moreover, I knew from his continence. He had every scrap of information about me.

“I have to say Carl your skills are impressive. You could have stayed in intelligence and had a great career, but here you are a Goa dropout, do you have anything to say?”

Looking past him concentrating on showing no emotion, he understood nothing would pass my lips.

He then looked at the officers.

 Leave us!”

A babble of objection followed. When no reply returned, slowly the men left the room. He clicked back the hammer of his revolver.

“Ok, I will say this once, we need a man like you in Goa. Crime and corruption are rife. The Russian mafia is everywhere, and every now and then we need certain people removing. Let’s face it with your record with the SBS, Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Ukraine, taking a few people out would be a walk in the park, Carl”

I remained silent.

“You’d better start talking Carl my trigger finger is itching; I want to know everything, starting with why you left a promising career?”

I could see in his eyes pulling the trigger meant nothing. Moreover, that thing would make a mess.

“You’re not going to like what you hear,

Try me.

I hated working for you and your types. Ghaddafi was the last straw! He was nothing like what your bullshitters said. After that conflict I wanted out, my mother falling ill was all I needed to take early retirement.

Carl, I can assure you in India were not like that, yes; we have Kashmir, but you’re in Goa.

Your police are scum.

What’s good Carl now and again you’ll get to take out a couple of them?"

I must have let an emotion slip. A glint of confidence showed in him, he smiled wryly. He un-cocked his gun with a seemingly sympathetic demeanor.

“Carl, behind you, is a cell in which you will die without water in six days. With me, you get to excel in your talents. It's quite simple, one choice will kill you, or the other will get you a position where you will be well paid, and comfortable, what’s your answer?”