The Final Judgement

The Final Judgement is a first tale of mine that somehow found its way from thoughts to paper and got published in UNCANNY TALES, a curated anthology of top 15 crime thrillers of Notionpress Short Story Competition. Many people have been asking about the book, to read this story, and every time I shook my head, saying I had already given to someone to read. Exclusively for them, I decided to post it over here. Hope you'll enjoy it.
 

                                                 THE FINAL JUDGEMENT               

                Rashmi twisted uneasily in her bed. Woolen blanket that cocooned her seemed failing to provide any comforts. To add more distress, the rumblings of thunderclouds kept her awake. But that was not the reason behind her anxiety. 

             Sighing heavily she tossed her blanket aside and picked up her cell-phone, checking its call log. Her brown eyes winched as the screen glowed brightly in dim light of the night-lamp, displaying the last number she received. The memory of her last talk with a stranger stirred instantly as she looked at that number.
  

           “Leave the case,” the stranger had threatened her at dusk. “Or else you will not see the rays of tomorrow’s sun, Advocate Rashmi Sharma.”
 

            Before she could set the trap of her words and compel the stranger to reveal his identity, the unknown caller ended the conversation abruptly. Momentarily, she thought the caller must have sensed her muse. She tried to call him back, but everytime his phone seemed to be out of reach. Threats were no big deal for her because she considered them as a part of her profession. And in her experience of twelve years most of them turned out to be fake ones. But something in that stranger’s voice told her that she should be cautious.
 

            Who can be? The troubling question forced her to leave the fluffy bed. Switching on the lights of her room, she flipped open her laptop laying on her working-table and eased herself over the chair.  While skimming through her case-documents, she stopped at three portfolios – the three main suspects of her case. She had provided enough evidences, presented a rickshawala and a panwala who had spotted these devils carrying her client, Swasti, before they had...She cursed them for what they did to that innocent girl. She would have won the case if that bloody clock had not chimed in time, adjourning the proceedings for two more days.
 

            She almost jumped when a thunder clapped in the sky.
 

            Rashmi pulled the side-drawer for some blank pages. She eyed her licensed revolver lying inside for a while before shutting the drawer. In a country where an ordinary girl feels insecure in the streets, how could a woman of her profession even breathe without a weapon? Snatching a pencil from the pen-stand, she scribbled furiously the three names over the blank page as if she was trying to solve some puzzle.
 

            Varsh Verma. Son of the Mayor. Infamous for misbehavior in late-night clubs. He can be, she mused. Or either can be his father. Politicians are nowadays nothing but criminals in white clothes.
 

            She wrote the second name. Sushan Malhotra. Son of the reputed builder, she remarked to herself. Chances are thick for him too. Everyone knows builders and mafia works together.
 

             Raghav...No surname. That was odd. Rashmi again checked her documents, but they did not prove any helpful. As far as her reliable sources had mustered the information, she knew only few fragments of Raghav’s past. She was aware her third suspect was an orphan and brought up in some asharam. Who are you? She rounded a circle over his and Varsh’s names.
 

            Swasti, her eighteen-year old suspect, had already narrated her incident in the court. She was confident enough to recognize the three faces that drugged her heavily with alcohols. When the prosecutor argued about the clarity of her memory, Swasti did something unexpected. She screamed. A hollow screech of her shattered soul reverberated in the court, begging for justice. Rashmi thought, with the death of his husband, five years back, no grief could melt her heart. But watching that poor girl crying and shrieking moistened her eyes. She was about to interject the prosecutor’s questions when again Swasti surprised the court with a new revelation. The victim admitted her memory had turned cloudy when they shifted her to another place, but only one of them had soiled her dignity. And she was not sure who the culprit was neither she was aware who had admitted her in the hospital. The hospital staff had refused to divulge any information regarding this mysterious helpful person who had also paid Swasti’s treatment bills.
 

            An unexpected yawn made her to suck a mouthful of air. Need a coffee, she desired. She was about to call Meghana, her house-maiden and her only companion, but stopped in mid as the right-bottom corner of her laptop screen caught her attention. 12:30 am. Not a good time to bother someone, not especially for a coffee.
 

            A chilling gust from the window shivered her slender body. Embracing herself Rashmi crossed her room to close the shutters. A lightning flashed and she noticed a shadow shifting in her garden. She peered but could not make out anything in the darkness. Another lightning whitewashed her garden momentarily as if the thunder-god had heard her unspoken wish. Nothing except the rustling bushes she could perceive. I desperately now need a coffee! Closing the shutters she descended to the ground floor and made her way to the kitchen, crossing her lavish living room.
 

            A scratching sound almost spilled the hot coffee from her mug when she was filling it from the kettle. Reluctantly, Rashmi darted towards the switch-board, fearing the worst. She released a breath of relief when lights filled her living room. Her eyes shifted from the closed main door to the long windows and finally rested on her cosy sofas. Over it a mouse squeaked at her as if taunting her.
 

            “You bloody rodent!” Rashmi yelled, feeling foolish at her fear. With another teasing shriek the mouse ran and disappeared somewhere in the room.  First thing tomorrow, she noted mentally, to get that rat out of my house.
 

            Turning off the lights of her kitchen as well as of the living-room Rashmi ascended towards her work, sipping the hot coffee. She could feel the hot liquid flowing down in her throat and dissipating the cold out of her. Her hand stopped in mid from taking another sip, her feet froze as she noticed the downpour out of her window. The window that was supposed to be close was now open.
 

            Rashmi felt a stab of fear.  Putting her mug on the table she ransacked its upper drawer for her revolver. Queasiness churned in her stomach. Her gun was gone.
 

             Before she could swallow the fear of her missing revolver her room went dark. From the corner of her eyes through her windows she was able to see the blur glow of the streetlights. Somebody had just turned off her main line. And that meant only one thing. The killer was already in.
 

            Her instincts acted faster than she had thought.  Her fingers swayed over the touch-pad and the laptop screen flared up with life. In its dull pool of light she searched for the candles and a matchbox that usually she kept in the bottom drawer. With a low hiss the phosphorous of a match-stick burned and she lit one of the candle. It would be idiotic to sneak armless. The killer was fully prepared and there was a faint chance that Rashmi could survive till the dawn. Finally, though a foolish decision, she risked to grab a knife from the kitchen.
 

            Surrounded by flickering light of the candle Rashmi cautiously stepped down the stairs. A feeling grew in her that she was being watched. For a while she tried to shrug it off. Nothing moved or made a sound across her living room; except trickling of rain and grumbling of clouds. But the feeling not only persisted, it grew stronger. The hairs on her back of the neck stirred; her skin prickled as if it itched on the inside.
 

            A tap on her shoulder almost made her shrieked. She turned her head and repented in doing so. There was a light whoosh sound as if someone had blown air and with that her candle doused, leaving her in darkness. Scared she dropped her vanished hope of light.   
 

               Lightning blazed the long windows and she noticed a silhouette moving across the room. A toothed-knife in his hand gleamed fleetingly. Alarmed, she crouched near the sofas, hoping her killer would have not spotted her. Sweat beaded her forehead; her breaths came out in long gasps. She clasped her mouth with hands so no uncontrolled sound of her would direct the intruder. But she could not stay there whole time. She had to move.
 

               After gathering enough courage, Rashmi dragged herself on elbows. Her head struck something hard and a shattering sound of china-clay vase followed.  The killer yelled and struck his knife. Fortunately, instead of sinking into Rashmi’s flesh the blade tore the sofas.
 

            Rashmi paced her breathing to normal; her heart was now pounding frantically in her ribs. If she had not bolted from her last spot in time Rashmi thought she could never make to her kitchen. Now all she needed was to find a knife. Her hopes faded as she heard the approaching footsteps totally from the opposite direction of the killer. Meghana, she gasped. In fear and confusion, she had completely forgotten about her house-maiden. A horrible consideration grew inside her head. What if the killer mistake Meghana as her and slain her? Every idea pushed out of her mind when she dashed to the doorway, hoping to save Meghana. But something about the second shadow made her stopped. It looked more masculine.
 

            There was again a flash and the two shadows noticed each other. Shouts accompanied with thrashing sounds echoed through house.
 

            “Lights!” one of the shadowed men yelled.
           
             For a moment Rashmi stood in bewilderment then she realised what he demanded. Over the switch-board of his living-room, the main-switch glowed red. Hysterically, Rashmi switched on everything and found her two prime suspects – Varsh and Raghav – straining each other over the floor. Killer’s toothed-knife and her revolver lay besides their struggle.
 

            “Stop it!” Rashmi ordered, pointing her gun to them. The weapon seemed to surge a new courage to her. She kicked away the knife so one could harm anyone.
 

            “Shoot him!” Varsh shouted still cuffing his arms over Raghav’s neck. “He is the one who came to kill you.”
 

            “No shoot him!” Raghav said, struggling to get rid off the strangle. But his attempts seemed failing as Varsh punched him and again both rolled, trying to overpower each other.
 

            Rashmi stood confused, her gun-point swinging from Varsh to Raghav. Whom to believe and whom to shoot? The dilemma was now crushing her. The portrait of her late husband over the wall drew her attention for a moment. His simple smile seemed to be guiding her. She triggered her gun and Varsh screamed in agony as the bullet pierced his shoulder. With a strong punch over his cheekbones, Raghav stood up.
 

            “Thank you, Mrs. Sharma.” He looked terrible from the fight.
 

            Rashmi inched backwards, her gun still aiming at Raghav. “If you move a little, I swear, I’ll bore a hole in your skull. Where is Meghana?”
 

            “She’s fine,” he assured. “Call her if you want.”
 

            “Meghana!” Rashmi cried and a short woman, dressed in simple saree appeared from an aside room. “Thank god, you are okay.”
             

            “Its all because of him, madam,” Meghana divulged, nodding at Raghav. “I was taken by surprise and was tied in my room. Sorry, madam I could not warn you because someone stuffed cloth in my mouth. But he helped me and told me to remain inside till everything settles.” She looked horrified when she noticed Varsh twisting in his own blood pool.
             

            “Call Inspector Rathore and tell him to escort Swasti here, now,” Rashmi ordered dryly and Meghana followed. “And you mister, why did you steal my revolver?”
                        “So that you could not kill me,” Raghav looked nervous at being pointed at gun. “Of course, by mistake.” He added quickly.
           

             “And why did you blow out my candle?”
           

             “So that he could not kill you.”
           

            Rashmi thought for a while then said, “Tie him with those curtains. Come on. Be fast.”
           

           “Betrayer!” Varsh moaned “I thought you were my friend.”
           

            “I was, Varsh and I had honored our friendship by remaining silent in the court. But you are not the person I knew. I cannot allow you to kill someone.”
           

            “So Varsh is the real culprit,” Rashmi said with utter bitterness. “And you helped Swasti, right?”
 

            Raghav nodded while knotting Varsh’s hands with curtains.
 

            “My father will not leave you, Mrs Sharma,” Varsh spoke. “He is the Mayor.”
 

            “No, he won’t,” Rashmi snapped. “Stuff something in his mouth. I don’t want to hear more.”
 

            There was a knock on the door and Meghana ushered Swasti inside. Inspector Rathore was well aware about Rashmi’s ways of dealing so he preferred to remain outside.
 

            “What made you to see me at this hour of night, Mam?” Swasti said.
 

            “Your culprit,” Rashmi said blankly. “And your saviour.” Rashmi could not imagine how Swasti had felt seeing her real criminal; the one had destroyed her life.
 

            “And what do you want me to do?” Swasti asked gravely.
 

            Wrapping her gun with a napkin that Meghana provided, Rashmi offered it to her client.
 

            “I can’t do this,” Swasti backed nervously. “I can’t kill him. It’s against the laws.”
 

            “Laws?” Rashmi smiled as if Swasti had cracked a joke. “Do you remember the infamous rape case of 16^th December? Did our laws punish them even they are proved guilty? And what happened to that girl? She died, Swasti. Consider yourself lucky, girl, there are men like Raghav who helped you and you survived.”
 

            “Survived to suffer humiliation from the society,” Swasti’s eyes turned moist. “Everyone comes and showers sympathy, Mrs Sharma. A girl is known for her character in the society. No good person will become my partner and this haunts my parents.”
 

            “I’ll,” Raghav said, rising. “I’ll marry you. I may not be the person you dreamed of. I don’t have a surname to share. But one thing I can assure you and that is I’ll fill your life with every possible happiness. I am your culprit too. I beg your forgiveness.”
 

            Rashmi watched both of them staring each other with complicated emotions. “And, girl, I am not compelling you to shoot him.” She offered her cloth-wrapped gun, hoping Swasti was smart enough to understand why she did so. Rashmi wanted to have her finger-prints on the gun so that she could claim she did in her self-defence, leaving Swasti out of this mess. “Neither I nor our system can understand what you have suffered. The final decision rests upon you, girl. Gun him down or see him roaming freely? Choices are yours.”
 

            Thrusting her gun to Swasti, Rashmi went for her room. She had done what she could do to bring her the justice. She slipped inside the blanket and waited for the final judgement. A gunshot rang from the below living room. 

         Case closed, she smiled and dozed peacefully.

Copyright © Chandrapal Khasiya