A Deal with Shadows
1067 Words
John sat at the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as morning light slipped through the tin roof’s cracks. The clatter of distant trains echoed through the slum. Martha stood over the stove, boiling water for tea. The boys were still asleep, curled up together beneath a thin blanket.
He hadn't slept. The voices from Room 914 kept replaying in his mind.
“Thirteen. Prime age. Real village beauty.”
His fists clenched at the memory. Not from anger—though there was some of that—but from shame. Because part of him… part of him had listened too closely.
“John,” Martha said, placing a chipped cup of tea in front of him. “You okay?”
He looked up slowly. “Just tired.”
“We’re behind on rent again. And the shopkeeper—he said no more credit.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been thinking…” she paused. “Maybe I could work nights. Wash dishes somewhere.”
“No,” John said firmly. “You’re already working two jobs at home.”
“Then you need to do something. Anything.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t keep watching the boys go to bed hungry.”
John looked at her. Her face was pale, framed by exhaustion. She looked older than she was—like poverty was sculpting her into stone.
That afternoon, back at the hotel, John moved like a ghost. His hands wiped countertops and polished floors, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
He found himself lingering outside the same suite—Room 914—staring at the door.
He shook his head. Forget it, John. You’re not a monster.
But his thoughts betrayed him.
What if I just talked to the guy? Just to understand. Just information. Nothing else.
In the break room, Imran was napping with his cap over his face. On the nearby table lay the VIP guest registry. John stared at it.
He waited.
When the hallway was clear, he opened the book.
Room 914. Mr. Rehman. A handwritten phone number beneath the name.
John copied it down onto a napkin with shaking hands.
That night, back home, the electricity was out. The boys did their homework under candlelight.
John sat outside, on the same broken steps where he and Martha often shared tea.
He took out the napkin.
Rehman – 9898…
He stared at the number like it might burn a hole in his soul. He didn’t dial. Just stared.
Martha came outside.
“You didn’t eat,” she said.
“Not hungry.”
She sat beside him, silence between them.
“We can’t keep living like this, John,” she said finally.
“I know.”
“You’ve been different lately.”
He hesitated. “I just feel… stuck.”
She took his hand. “We’ve been stuck for years. But we’re together. That matters, doesn’t it?”
John didn’t answer.
The next day, he sat on a concrete bench behind the hotel, staring at his phone. His thumb hovered over the number.
Then, almost without thinking, he tapped “Call.”
It rang once. Twice.
Then a click.
“Yes?”
John’s throat dried up. “Uh… I— Is this Mr. Rehman?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“I… I clean at the Royal Palm Grand. I overheard… something. Room 914.”
Pause.
“You stupid or brave?” Rehman asked, his tone unreadable.
“Maybe both.”
Another pause. Then a soft laugh. “You heard something, and now you want in?”
“I want to understand,” John said, heart racing.
“You poor?”
“Yes.”
“Got girls?”
“No. Just… just wanted to know how it works. That’s all.”
Another silence. Then:
“Meet me at the tea stall by New Market. Tomorrow night. Nine p.m. Come alone. And John?”
“Yes?”
“If you’re wasting my time… I’ll know.”
Click.
John stared at the phone like it was a weapon.
That night, Martha sat cross-legged with the boys, helping them with math.
“Papa,” Tim said, “when can we get a new blanket? This one has holes.”
“Soon,” John murmured.
Martha looked at him suspiciously. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been weird all day. You’re hiding something.”
“I’m just tired,” he said. “Go easy on me.”
But the lie sat like a rock in his gut.
The next night, John arrived at New Market early. The tea stall buzzed with late-night traffic—drivers, loaders, college kids. Rehman sat alone at a table in the corner, wearing dark glasses and smoking a slim cigar.
John approached cautiously.
“You came,” Rehman said without looking up. “Sit.”
John obeyed.
Rehman poured him tea. “You’re not the first poor man with desperate thoughts.”
“I’m not—” John began.
“You are,” Rehman interrupted. “And that’s fine. You’ve got a family. They’re starving. You clean up vomit for rich people. And now you’ve seen the other side. The fast side.”
John stayed quiet.
Rehman continued. “We don’t steal. We don’t snatch. We offer opportunity. You’d be surprised how many families offer their daughters themselves.”
John’s stomach churned.
“They get money. The girls go abroad. Some cry, some don’t. Most forget by the time they’re twenty. They live better lives than they ever would here.”
John finally spoke. “You really believe that?”
Rehman smiled. “Belief is luxury, John. This is survival.”
He slid a card across the table.
“When you’re ready. Call this number. No pressure. Just potential.”
John stared at the card. Black background. Gold text. It shimmered.
Rehman leaned in. “You think you're different? You're not. You’ll break. They always do.”
Then he stood and left.
John remained seated, hands shaking.
Back at home, the lights were still out. The boys slept soundly.
Martha watched John come in. “Where were you?”
“Walking,” he lied.
She stared at him long and hard.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but please… don’t do anything stupid.”
He nodded.
But in his pocket, the black card burned like a brand
- Writer
