DIARY OF A KILLER

I spotted him again, sitting at an outdoor cafe. It was past sunset, and the sky was already darkening. The city was covered in a lovely violet haze, as fog crawled through the streets and markets of Delhi. The end of his cigarette gleamed red-orange, dangling loosely from his fingers, ash sprinkling his chair as he chattered on his cellphone. His eyes passed over me, as I crossed the street. He didn't recognize me as I passed his chair and made my way to the covered section of the coffee shop. I stared at him, forcing his eyes to meet mine, and first bafflement, and then irritation washed over his face. Oh, these Indians, I could hear him drawling in an American accent on the phone, as if he wasn't one of us, they stare at everything.

I wanted him.

I had met him for the first time, two months ago. I had paused, as he brushed past me. I stared at him, masses of black hair curling over a perfect, beautiful face, a perfect, athletic body. Like the Apollo Belvedere, sculpted in mid-stride. Or even like Adam, arrogantly nude on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel, his finger reluctantly reaching towards his Maker. He was beautiful, possessing the impossible, perfect beauty that only artists can imagine, that rarely manifests itself in nature.

But he was here, before me, in the flesh, not in paint or marble.

He had gone upto the bartender and, shouldering his way easily through the queues amassed there, had thumped on the bar, until he caught the bartender's attention and was served his drink.

I could never do that.

He came back to his table, filled with raucous, laughing men and lit a cigarette. I ventured closer, like a moth driven to a fatal flame, and asked for a match. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, handed me a lighter. I scurried away, to hide the cigarette I did not have.

He had forgotten about me, and even about the lighter. I watched him later, after he plucked another cigarette from a pack, his smile dissolve into a puzzled frown as he reached into his pockets and found no lighter.

He didn't remember me then.

Was I that forgettable? That easily consigned to oblivion?

Tonight, though, I followed him from the cafe to a night club. I had been stalking him since I had first seen him, knew everything about him - his name, his job, his girlfriend. Vikram Singh, age 25 years, a high-flying advertizing executive in an American firm that had opened up a branch in Delhi recently. A beautiful girlfriend who was a successful lawyer, with a face that belonged to a pre-Raphelite painting. I had practiced his American drawl for hours, until I had got it down perfect.

I had watched him, shadowed him - and he still didn't notice me.

The crowd parted before him like the waters of the Narmada had parted for Vasudeva, holding the infant Krishna. He walked through, easy, confident. He didn't pay attention to the heated, lustful glances that women threw his way, but he was aware of them. I struggled through the crowd in his wake, as it spilled back into the path it had created, elbows poking my skinny frame, shoved from side to side. No one noticed me, no one smiled at me.

I ordered a bloody mary and had waited until he made his move. I saw him edge past the crowd, lean down and whisper to his friends.

It was time. I followed him to the bathroom, and as the door swung to let me in, and felt the syringe in my coat pocket.

He was standing, his back towards me, facing the urinal. I glanced at myself in the mirror that hung over the washbasins, catching a last look at the face that was so easily forgotten. An unremarkable face, a plain face - the sort of face that your eyes would skim over in a crowd. Not striking nor ugly enough to merit attention - just plain, ordinary.

I hated that face.

I turned to him, forced him to look at me. "Hello Vikram."

He was stunned. "What! how do you know my name..." His eyes widened with surprise I pushed him to the wall.

"Wait!" he exclaimed. Fear began to seep in, he spoke frantically, "What the hell do you think..." I cut off his words, pressed my mouth to his.

He struggled, but I hung on. I pressed my body against his, felt the warmth of desire flare up in my groin, and surge upwards. Slowly, his resistance faded, his lips loosened and my tongue crept in.

It was then that I pulled the syringe out of my pocket, and pressing him to the wall, stuck the needle into the nook of his arm.

He pulled away from me, in surprise, but I pressed my hand to his mouth, as he slipped to the floor. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head, his arms and legs began to thrash about, his muscles started to spasm.

I pulled him into a cubicle. He was still writhing on the floor, as I left, shutting the door behind me.

They found the body ten minutes later, limbs sprawled on the floor of the men's bathroom. MAN DIES OF OVERDOSE AT ELITE DELHI NIGHTCLUB the headlines screamed at me the next morning, as I ate my breakfast.

Time to find another victim.