Their passage through the various levels of bureaucracy is interminable. Their papers are passed from person to person, checked and re-checked by teams of officials. Someone — it is unclear who — takes their passports and disappears. But fifteen minutes later, the passports are returned with a smile, and eventually they are allowed to board the plane.

For K now, there is a sense, almost, of excitement. A new adventure moving beneath the surface of numb grief. They find their seat numbers, settle in, try to get comfortable. Not exactly easy with a wad of hash up your arse. But it turns out that Abhi has one as well. They laugh about this, in convulsive whispers. They are brothers in arms. Finally, the aeroplane begins to move. It taxies aimlessly around the airport and then, with a tremendous rush, surges forward and lifts into the sky.

Beneath them, India tilts and falls away. Acres of slum shacks pour across the landscape. The black bay is scattered with tankers.

K’s hands ache. His arse aches. His head, too. But it will be alright, he thinks. With Abhi, things always turn out alright.

And many hours later, somewhere above Thailand, K reassumes his old name — Vincent. He whispers the word to himself.

Night comes over the cabin.

Beside him, Abhi is asleep. From his ice-speckled window, Vincent looks out and sees, hanging above the earth, a bright moon.

They went all that way just to touch it, he thinks.

PART THREE

PART THREE