The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham

inside.
    Cows might be sacred to Hindus, but babies are sacred to Sikhs, boys more so than girls. Ravi latches on to my finger and squeezes it until his eyes fold shut.
    “She’s so good with children,” says Mama, beaming. Dave should be squirming but he’s actual y enjoying this. Sadist!
    The men are outside in the garden. I can see my father’s blue turban above them al . His beard is swept back from his cheeks and crawls down his neck like a silver trickle of water.
    I count heads. There are extras. My heart sinks. They’ve invited someone for me to meet.
    My mother ushers Dave outside. He glances over his shoulder at me, hesitating before obeying her instructions. Down the side steps, along the mildewed path, past the door to the laundry, he reaches the rear garden. Every face turns toward him and the conversation stops.
    It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, as people step back and “New Boy” Dave faces my father. It’s eyebal to eyebal but Dave doesn’t flinch, which is to his credit.
    I can’t hear what they’re saying. My father glances up toward the kitchen window. He sees me. Then he smiles and thrusts out his hand. Dave takes it and suddenly conversation begins again.
    My mother is at the sink, peeling and slicing mangoes. She slides the knife blade easily beneath the pale yel ow flesh. “We didn’t know you were going to bring a friend.”
    “I didn’t bring him.”
    “Wel , your father has invited someone. You must meet his guest. It’s only polite. He is a doctor.”
    “A very fine one,” echoes Auntie Kala. “Very successful.”
    I scan the gathering and pick him out. He is standing with his back to me, dressed in a Punjabi suit that has been laundered and starched to attention.
    “He’s fat.”
    “A sign of success,” says Kala.
    “It takes a big hammer to hammer a big nail,” adds Meena, cackling like a schoolgirl. Kala disapproves.
    “Oh, don’t give me that look, sister. A wife has to learn how to keep her husband happy in the boudoir.” The two of them continue arguing while I go back to the window.
    The stranger in the garden turns and glances up at me. He holds up his glass, as if offering me a toast. Then he shakes it from side to side, indicating its emptiness.
    “Quickly, girl, take him another drink,” says Meena, handing me a jug.
    Taking a deep breath, I walk down the side steps into the garden. My brothers whistle. They know how much I hate wearing a sari. Al the men turn toward me. I keep my eyes focused on my sandals.
    My father is stil talking to Dave and my uncle Rashid, a notorious butt-squeezer. My mother claims it is an obsessive-compulsive disorder but I think he’s just a lech. They are talking about cricket. The men in my family are obsessed with the game even when the summer is over.
    Most Indian men are smal and elegant with delicate hands but my brothers are strapping, rugged types, except for Hari, who would make a beautiful woman.
    Bada kisses my cheek. I bow to him slightly. He ushers his guest closer and makes the formal introductions.
    “Alisha, this is Dr. Sohan Banerjee.”
    I nod, stil not raising my eyes.
    The name is familiar. Where have I heard it before?
    Poor Dave doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s not a Sikh, which is probably a good thing. If I’d brought a Sikh home my parents would have kil ed a goat.
    Dr. Banerjee stands very straight and bows his head. My father is stil talking. “Sohan contacted me personal y and asked if he could meet you, Alisha. Family to family—that is how it should be done.”

    I’m not meant to comment.
    “He has more than one medical degree,” he adds.
    He has more than one chin.
    I don’t know how much worse this day could get. People are watching me. Dave is on the far side of the garden talking to my eldest brother, Prabakar, the most religious member of the family, who won’t approve.
    The doctor is talking to me. I have to concentrate on his words. “I believe you are a police