Crybaby - Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two of the blockbuster new novel, Crybaby by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
CRYBABY
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
CHAPTER 22
BROTHERS
Rahul was no longer the leader of a notorious bandit gang; that part of his life had ended in blood and fire. Now, he was simply the mayor of a small, insignificant village. He smiled to himself—a very rich mayor. The gold he had recently stolen from a shipment meant for jewellers was safely hidden, some in pouches strapped tightly around his waist and the rest stacked neatly in a sturdy backpack lying beside him. The weight of it was comforting, a tangible reminder of his survival and success amidst the chaos that had claimed everyone else.
He lounged in a newly strung hammock in the Onion House, swaying gently as he kept to a quiet corner away from the noise of the rangers preparing their kumki elephants for the hunt. Outside, the rhythmic sound of ropes being tightened and commands being barked filtered in, but Rahul barely paid it any attention. The villagers and the rangers had their task: capture Crybaby, the rogue elephant terrorizing the region. And though they thought him an ally in the fight, Rahul’s mind was already leagues ahead of them. He wasn’t interested in capturing it, he would tag along then when the moment was right, he would kill the crazed monster with a bullet to the brain, just like he had killed Rajan. Crybaby’s death was the final thread tying him to this wretched village. Once it was done, he’d be gone.
His gold—his fortune—was his focus now. There was nobody left to share it with. The rest of the gang, his so-called brothers in arms, were dead. Some had fallen to the rangers, others to the task force, and a few to their own panicked missteps. The police had raided the gang’s old hideout and confiscated their remaining scraps of loot, a laughable haul compared to the fortune Rahul carried with him. The gleaming bars of pure gold in his pack and belt were his ticket out of this nightmare—a fortune he had no intention of splitting, even if there had been anyone left to ask.
He shifted in the hammock, feeling the reassuring weight of the gold pressing against his back. Killing the rogue elephant, Crybaby, wasn’t just about revenge for his brother’s death anymore—it was about closure. Once that beast was dead, his ties to this cursed place would be severed for good.
The rangers were the perfect scapegoats. Let them do the heavy lifting, risk their lives, and take the credit. Rahul was content to watch from the sidelines, ensuring the job was finished before slipping away like a shadow. His escape plan was already in motion. He had made discreet arrangements with trusted contacts in a neighboring state to convert the gold into clean money. Once the deal was done, he’d disappear—perhaps to a coastal town, or even overseas. He’d start fresh, unburdened by the memories of this dirty village, its people, or his own violent past.
Rahul stretched lazily, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk. He could already picture it: a life of comfort, luxury, and anonymity, far from the squalor and desperation that had defined him for so long. This village could burn to the ground for all he cared. The people here, with their simple lives and endless complaints, were no longer his concern. They had their rangers, their kumki elephants, their hope. Let them cling to it. He’d outgrown all of it—the fear, the need to prove himself, the camaraderie of fools chasing glory in the jungle.
For now, though, he waited. His eyes drifted toward the activity outside. The rangers moved with urgency, readying the elephants for the hunt. Crybaby wouldn’t survive the coming week, and when the beast was gone, neither would Rahul’s ties to this place. He’d vanish with the gold, leaving behind nothing but the memory of a man who had outlasted them all.
Rahul leaned back in the hammock, the weight of the gold still pressing reassuringly against his body, but his mind wandered far from thoughts of wealth and escape. Instead, it drifted to Nisheed, his brother. Memories surfaced, unbidden and bittersweet, as he stared out at the faint outlines of the jungle where Crybaby still roamed.
Rahul could still picture Nisheed sitting across from him, the glow of the campfire painting his face in shades of orange and gold. It had been one of those rare nights when both brothers found themselves together—Rahul, still a low-level thug, and Nisheed, already working his way up in the police force.
"You know this isn't sustainable, right?" Nisheed had said, poking at the fire with a stick. His voice was steady, not judgmental, just tired.
Rahul had laughed bitterly, nursing the bottle of whiskey they were sharing. "Spare me the lecture, brother. You have your uniform. I have my hustle. We're not so different—you take your bribes, I take my chances."
Nisheed had sighed, the way only an older brother could when he didn’t have the strength to argue anymore. "I don't take bribes, Rahul. I’m trying to do this the right way. Not for me. For Ma. For us."
"Ma doesn’t care about 'the right way.' She cares about food on the table, same as me," Rahul had snapped back. "And don’t act like you’re better. You didn’t say no to the gold bracelet I bought her last Diwali."
There had been silence after that. Just the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the jungle around them. Then Nisheed had smiled—a soft, wistful smile that Rahul couldn’t understand at the time. "Someday, you’ll see that there’s more to this than just surviving."
Rahul had scoffed, but deep down, he had always envied his brother’s sense of purpose, his conviction. Nisheed had believed he could change things. Rahul had only believed in taking what he could before the world took it from him.
Another memory surfaced, this one brighter. Rahul was ten, Nisheed twelve. They had spent an entire afternoon playing cricket on a dusty field outside their village, the sun beating down mercilessly. Rahul had been terrible at it, his wild swings missing the ball more often than not, but Nisheed had been patient, coaching him, laughing at his mistakes in a way that never felt mean.
"Keep your eye on the ball," Nisheed had said, tossing it underhand toward him.
Rahul had swung again and missed, the wooden bat thudding against the ground. "This is stupid," he’d muttered, throwing the bat down.
Nisheed had walked over and placed the bat back in his hands. "You’re not going to get better by quitting, idiot. Try again."
That day, Rahul had finally managed to hit the ball—a perfect, soaring arc that sent it flying into a nearby tree. Nisheed had whooped and clapped him on the back, and for once, Rahul had felt like he’d earned his brother’s approval.
Years later, when their lives had diverged so sharply—Nisheed in a starched uniform, Rahul sinking deeper into secret crime—that memory had stayed with him. It was the last time he could remember feeling proud in his brother’s eyes.
The last time Rahul and Nisheed had spoken was three months before Nisheed’s death. They had met in secret, under the cover of darkness, on the outskirts of a nearby town. Nisheed had heard whispers about Rahul’s growing influence in the region, and he hadn’t been able to stay silent.
"You need to stop this, Rahul," Nisheed had said, his voice low but firm. "This life you’re leading—it’s going to kill you, or worse."
Rahul had bristled, his temper flaring. "Worse? What’s worse than dying, huh? Rotting in this village like everyone else? At least I’m doing something with my life."
"You call this something? Running with bandits? Robbing people? Hurting innocent families?" Nisheed had stepped closer, his eyes searching Rahul’s for a trace of the boy he used to know. "You think Ma would be proud of you?"
"Don’t you dare bring her into this!" Rahul had snapped, his fists clenched. "You’re just like the rest of them. You think that badge makes you better than me, but you’re nothing. Nothing without me."
For a moment, Nisheed had looked like he wanted to argue, but then his shoulders had slumped. "You’re my brother, Rahul. I don’t want to arrest you. I want to save you. But I can’t do it for you. You have to want it."
Rahul had turned and walked away without a word. He’d told himself he didn’t care, that he didn’t need Nisheed’s approval anymore. But now, sitting in the Onion House with his stolen gold, he couldn’t shake the hollow ache in his chest.
The memory of Nisheed’s death was still raw, like an open wound that refused to heal. Nisheed had been trying to save the beggars when Crybaby had charged. The villagers said Nisheed had stood his ground, yelling for the others to run. He’d fired his service pistol, aiming for the elephant’s eyes, but it hadn’t been enough. Crybaby had impaled him, his massive tusk snuffing out a life that had once been so full of conviction and purpose.
When Rahul had seen what was left of his brother, something inside him had snapped. He had sworn revenge, not just for Nisheed’s death but for the gaping hole it had left in his own life. Nisheed had been his conscience, his tether to something better. Without him, Rahul was adrift, consumed by anger and the cold comfort of gold.
Now, as the sounds of the rangers preparing for the hunt filled the air, Rahul clenched his fists. Crybaby had to die. Not just because of the gold, not just because of the villagers. It was personal. Nisheed’s voice echoed in his mind: "You have to want it."
"I’ll do this, brother," Rahul muttered under his breath. "I’ll kill that beast. And then I’m done with this place. Forever."
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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