Club You to Death by Anuja Chauhan (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📗

‘Is he maaaad? Does he want her to lose the election?’

‘Maybe he does, Cooks. The size of that man’s ego is inversely proportional to the size of his cock.’

Cookie gives a loud snort of laughter. Unseen to her, her impassive driver winces slightly.

‘I am SO disappointed in you, Rosh!’ She adds a line of bright yellow crying faces for emphasis. ‘How could you not get a video?’

‘I KNOW!’ Roshni punches out a line of little panda bears face-palming. ‘It all happened too fast, ya. Otherwise you know me – would I ever let such a moment go unrecorded?’

‘How come Leo’s still taking his class like this whole kaand hasn’t even happened?’

‘That’s Leo for you! I was SO surprised when he sent the message for the six-thirty class. You’ve got to admire the man’s cheek.’

‘Cheeks, you mean.’ Cookie taps out at once. ‘Butt cheeks.’ She adds a little row of red hearts and panting faces.

‘Dirty girl! Have you reached?’

‘Ya ya, waiting in the parking. Hurry, na. I want to be in the front row today. If he has bruises, I can ask him about it. All innocently.’

And she signs off with an angelic halo face and a wicked wink.

Presently, the two friends emerge from their expensive cars and wave to each other. They are dressed in Nike trainers, Lulu Lemon pants and crop-tops the colour of summer sorbets. Their hair is pulled back from their faces in shiny ponytails and their eyebrows are finely plucked. Though both are in their early fifties, they could be taken, at a distance, for thirty-five.

Ro, the taller, thinner of the two, all tightened skin and nude lipstick, lets out a little scream. ‘Oh my God, you’re glowing! The gold facial has done wonders, babe!’

Cookie, smaller, rounder, pink-mouthed, responds with a wicked grin. ‘This glow isn’t from gold, it’s from the gossip! Lovely, lovely gossip! Tell more!’

Roshni tightens her ponytail. ‘Arrey, I already told you everything. Next episode will play out now. Urvi’s coming for class. She responded with a thumbs up to Leo’s message.’

Cookie gives a little gasp. ‘Oh my God, she’s going to brazen it out, is she?’

Roshni shrugs. ‘What choice does she have? The election’s today! It’s her last chance to suck up to us! But yeah, you’re right – it takes guts to show up like nothing’s happened!’

They run down the pillared veranda to the gym.

‘Leo’s bike is here.’ Cookie nods to the Hayabusa parked on the road on the other side of the veranda railing. ‘Hurry, we’ll get to see him changing shirts!’

They both laugh as they enter the gym.

An EDM track is pumping loudly on the speakers. Leo is clearly in the middle of his one-hour personal workout.

‘Good morning!’ Roshni calls out cheerily, more than usual perhaps – it’s always a bit awkward to act naturally in front of somebody you’ve just been gossiping about.

There’s no reply.

The two women exchange looks, smothering guilty giggles. Usually, when they walk into the gym for this class, Leo’s wrapping up his workout, which he does alone every morning. In fact, there’s been a lot of giggly talk among the DTC Zumba girls about how, if you come early enough, you can begin the day with a blessed darshan of him in all his sweaty splendour, bench-pressing like a beast.

‘Leeeeo?’

No answer.

Bopping to the peppy beat, they look around the various aisles of the gym. The multi-station is unoccupied, and so is the row of treadmills. They swivel around to the rowing machines and ab-isolators but he isn’t there either.

And then, as an insistent, electronic beat drop kicks in on the speakers, they spot him. On the bench press Kashi Dogra had admired the morning before. Lying on the deep-red leather bench on his back, with his legs stretched out on either side, his metallic neon green water bottle standing beside his sneakered feet.

Cookie grips Ro’s arm. ‘He’s wearing the camouflage tracks,’ she whispers. ‘That means he must be wearing—’

‘The tightie-whitie racerback vest!’

They both giggle and tiptoe closer.

Leo is wearing the sleeveless white vest. His smooth, brown, muscular torso is shiny with sweat, the veins on his forearms and shoulders are standing out clearly. His hair is pulled back into its usual samurai topknot. He looks like a life-size superhero action figure – or one of those gorgeous American GI Joe dolls with every muscle lovingly etched and defined.

Except that a gleaming silver barbell stacked with a hundred and twenty kilograms worth of plates is pressed against his windpipe, pinioning him to the red-leather upholstered bench, cutting off all air.

The mighty chest is still straining upwards, fully inflated, but the head lolls sideways unnaturally. The sweaty corded neck is contorted to an impossible angle, and purpling with contusions. There can be no doubt about it – the glorious action figure is pathetically, irretrievably broken.

The dead eyes protrude from their sockets slightly, staring blankly at the two women.

Cookie and Ro emit ear-piercing screams.

‘Leo?’

‘Leo!’

They scramble forward, sobbing a little with shock and horror, struggling with nausea.

‘He’s still warm … oh God, oh shit, what the fuck happened here, Ro?’

‘Help me!’ Roshni’s voice is desperate. ‘Maybe we can still help him – let’s get the plates off …’

They drop to their knees on one side of the prone figure, remove the clips that secure the plates in place and slide them off the bar. The freed bar rises up into the air, and can be pivoted off the broken body.

‘Leo!’ they call urgently as they remove it. ‘Leo!

Cookie lifts one clammy, lifeless forearm to feel for a pulse. After a few moments, she shakes her head.

‘There’s nothing here, nothing. I feel nothing at all!’

Tears fill her eyes as she looks at her friend in the mirrored wall. They are both reflected there, suddenly looking much closer to their actual ages in spite of their girlish clothes and ponytails.

‘He’s dead. Quite, quite dead.’

‘We need to call his family. Where’s his phone? Where’s his phone?’

‘There – oh God, Cookie, it’s asking for a fingerprint ID. Should we