One afternoon a constable came to the cell, put two cane chairs against the wall, and said casually: ‘The Sahibs want to talk to you.’ The ‘Sahibs’ came slapping their putteed legs with their swagger sticks. They were the same two who had arrested him. Sher Singh got up from his chair—more out of fear than out of politeness. He did not greet them because he knew the greeting would not be answered. The sergeants sat down. One of them pulled Sher Singh’s chair nearer him with his toes and put his feet on it. Sher Singh’s only option was to squat on the floor or to keep standing. He kept standing. He was conscious of his arms hanging at his sides as if he were at attention.

‘Well, Sardar, are you still plotting to get the British out?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Great leader this chap, mun. You wouldn’t know looking at him, would you?’

The other nodded his head slowly, scrutinizing Sher Singh from head to foot. ‘One never knows with these niggers.’

‘One doesn’t, does one!’

‘Not unless one sticks a greased pole up their bums.’

They had their eyes fixed on him; they scratched their chins as if contemplating the course of violence. Sher Singh could do nothing except look down at his hands or at their feet.

‘Is this chap also involved in the killing of that fat Sikh lambardar?’

‘No mun! He’s after bigger game. He wants to shoot the Guv or the Viceroy. Don’t you? Speak, you big leader of the revolution! Don’t you?’

Sher Singh felt the blood drain out of his system. Were they going to beat him? Why didn’ t they ask him a specific question and give him a chance to answer?

‘Oi,’ shouted one of them to the constable outside, ‘ask the sub-inspector to juldi karo. We can’t waste the whole afternoon with this fellow.’

The constable ran across the courtyard. The sub-inspector came with a sheaf of yellow files tucked under his arm. They got into a huddle. Sher Singh watched them carefully as they whispered into each other’s ear. The older of the two sergeants pushed aside the file with disdain: ‘Wot you wasting your time for on this chap if the other fellows have already given us all the names?’

‘I don’t know, Sahib,’ answered the sub-inspector feigning surprise. ‘Mr Taylor, Deputy Commissioner, say he Sardar Buta Singh’s son, give him chance to be informer and save his-life.’

‘So that’s it! You hear, mister? The DeeCee wants to give you a chance to save your bloody neck from hanging because of your old Bap. We have all the information we want from your pals. It’s a water-tight case. You confirm what they have said and we might consider granting you pardon. Otherwise you hang with the rest of the buggers.’