Its a complete fictional story, all the characters were created out of imagination. I hope you find the story interesting and gripping.
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I can hear the annoying alarm blaring from my neighbours room again. I’m starting to wonder if that alarm is meant for him or for me. It’s been like this for the past six months — I’m always the one who ends up getting up to turn it off. I reluctantly get out of my warm bed, feeling the cold floor as winter settles in. I walk slowly to Steve’s room, and the alarm gets even louder as I approach. I knock on his door a couple of times, but there’s no response. After waiting for a minute, I knock again, but still nothing. I consider going in, but I remember when he barged into my room without knocking a couple of weeks ago. I gave him a friendly warning after that, and he avoided me for a week. So, I knock one more time and go back to my room.
I grab my AirPods, even though I don’t really like using them so early. But I don’t have a choice. Steve has his alarm set from 6 am to 7:15 am with 15-minute intervals. The funny thing is, I’m the one who usually wakes up at 6:15 to knock on his door, tell him to turn off the alarm, and then go back to sleep. As for my job, I find myself working in an Indian restaurant. It’s a bit strange because I never planned to be a chef, and I’m not even sure what I really want to do. My dreams are more about traveling the world, learning languages, having casual relationships, and avoiding regrets by the time I’m 60. Some of my friends find this odd, since they all have specific plans. But not having a plan can be a plan in itself — it means you’re always adapting and your mind is open to new things. Why train your mind before something happens? We’re not machines that need test runs once we’re programmed.
I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I decided to take a walk. Glancing out of my window, the London sky looked a bit cloudy. London’s weather always seems to play tricks. I grabbed my umbrella and headed out. Just as I stepped onto the street, a message from my manager popped up: “Could you come in a bit earlier today?” I took a moment, then replied with, “How early?” My manager, Jaya, isn’t Indian; he’s from Sri Lanka. It’s a mystery why he decided to open an Indian restaurant. Once, I almost asked him, but I knew I’d be in for a long tale starting from the day he arrived in the UK. I’ve sensed that he doesn’t like his life. Never married, he abstains from drinking, smoking, and even religion. He seems like someone awaiting the end of his current life to embrace a more joyful one. At least, that’s the sense I get; I’ve never delved too deep into his personal life.
Strolling toward Kensington Gardens, Jaya replied, “Can you come in 1 hr? It’s a bit urgent.” I sensed his nervousness. He’s never messaged me like this before. His messages usually resemble a jailer’s roll call, confirming that I’m alive and en route to work. I took a day off yesterday, so my mind began conjuring thoughts of a chaotic kitchen or broken equipment. All these notions crowded my mind, but I brushed them aside and typed back, “I’ll be there in 2 hrs.” His immediate response surprised me: “No, please, can you make it within the hour?” Then, my phone rang, no time for me to reply. I answered the call.
Jaya’s voice trembled, “Hey, could you come to the restaurant immediately?” The anxiety in his tone sent a shiver down my spine. Why the urgency? “I’ve just woken up and haven’t showered yet. Give me an hour,” I replied. His breath sounded rushed, as if he was in trouble, but I couldn’t fathom what it could be. His response was desperate, “Please, I can’t explain over the phone. You need to be here.” It was clear to me that something serious had occurred, perhaps worse than a mere kitchen mishap. My mind raced through possibilities — a fight, perhaps involving that drunk Bangladeshi customer who always harassed the staff. Or maybe a robbery? But if that were the case, why wouldn’t Jaya just call the police? The sense of foreboding grew stronger. “Are you still there?” he asked. “Yes, I’ll be there in 40 minutes. Is that fine?” He hesitated, then said, “Yes, but please ensure you come alone and don’t contact anyone else,” before abruptly ending the call.
Standing at the garden entrance, I was greeted by the expected drizzle. I retraced my steps to my flat, casting a glance at Steve’s room. The urge to knock once more overtook me, a simple test to see if he had finally roused from slumber. It was a subtle plea to spare me the annoyance of his blaring alarm. Walking up to his door, I knocked twice, my efforts unanswered. Yesterday, in a semi-drunken state, I had returned to my flat, oblivious to whether he was even around. I changed into fresh attire and stepped out. “The Desi Style” marked the place of my employment. How he settled on that name remained a mystery to me. The restaurant’s customers largely comprised dubious characters. It was a curious sight, hardly anyone looked presentable. The irony lay in the fact that despite the restaurant’s theme, a mere 5% of the customers were actually Indian. My culinary creations, though flavourful, barely resembled authentic Indian fare. Jaya, couldn’t afford a skilled chef. His remuneration £9.5 per hour — paled in comparison to industry standards. Despite this, he retained me. Three chefs before me had departed within a month, reasons unknown. I never probed, after all, my idea is not to have a permanent London residency. I aimed to relocate to Ireland in two months. An acquaintance there, a potential visa sponsor, offered a glimmer of hope, though uncertainty clouded the outcome.
En route to the restaurant, Jaya’s message arrived, asking, “How long will it take?” His unease perplexed me, peddling my bicycle left me no room to respond. The persistent drizzle intensified, marking this morning as particularly dismal. I briefly pondered if renting a shared flat had been a misstep, constrained by my budget. The allure of central London was undeniable, even if the reasoning eluded me. I arrived at the restaurant, noting Jaya’s parked car. I secured my bicycle and sent him a message, “Waiting outside.” His swift response was immediate, “Are you unfamiliar with the place? Hurry inside.” Each message seemed to erode my sense of respect, leaving me puzzled by his urgency.
I entered the restaurant, and as I did, I noticed Jaya rushing toward me with an expression of deep concern etched across his face. He seemed out of breath, and my instinct told me that something grave had occurred. I attempted to reassure him, saying, “Hey, calm down. What’s happened? Has there been a robbery?” He responded, his words heavy with gravity, “It’s something far more serious. You need to come with me.” Guided by his urgency, I followed Jaya to the men’s restroom. The moment I stepped inside, a sense of foreboding washed over me. It was evident that something terrible had transpired. Jaya led me to the disabled room, currently under repair. He opened the door, and in that instant, shock and disbelief held me captive. Before me there is a lifeless body of a man, and its Steve’s body. A single word escaped my lips, “Shit.”
Jaya continued speaking, but his words were mere echoes in my ears. My heart raced, the rhythm of panic setting in. It felt as if a heart attack loomed just around the corner. Overwhelmed, I bolted from the restaurant, seeking refuge in the heavy rain outside. Strangely, the rain brought a sense of solace, a need to cool the intense turmoil within me. It was akin to pouring water onto a scorching surface, and I could almost sense the release of steam, a metaphor for my own escalating emotions. Jaya rushed towards me, his words an unintelligible blur in my ears. I stumbled my way into the restaurant, my destination the men’s restroom. My gaze fixed on the cubicle door, my surroundings gradually regaining focus. Amidst Jaya’s urgent shouts, one question stood out: “Hey, do you hear me?” Slowly, I turned towards him, absorbing the uncertainty etched across his features. It was as though a shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes, a suspicion that I held knowledge beyond what met the eye.
My inquiry followed, strained by shock, “Who did this to Steve?” He responded in confusion, “Steve?” A jolt of realisation struck — Jaya was unaware of him. My senses sharpened, the shock receding as I requested a glass of water. Jaya complied, and as I stared at Steve’s lifeless form, a multitude of emotions churned within me. Jaya posed another question, “Do you know him?” With a cleared throat, I confirmed, “Yeah, he’s my flat mate. I thought he was in my room.” Jaya’s quizzical expression prompted me to further explain, “Flat mate.” In a bid to collect my thoughts, I reached for my wet handkerchief, a consequence of the earlier rain. I began searching Steve’s pockets, prompting Jaya’s bewildered query, “What are you doing?” My reply was simple, “Checking for his mobile.” The search yielded no results; no bag, no belongings nearby. As I looked at Steve’s dead body, I could see marks on his neck that clearly showed he had been killed. This made me wonder, “Why would someone commit such a terrible act in the disabled bathroom?” I began to realise that the disabled bathroom was under repair, and it offered more space for such a sinister deed. To be honest, the staff bathroom and the one for female staff were not as spacious in comparison. Steve’s attire, a red shirt and blue jeans, matched what he had worn yesterday morning. A realisation dawned — he hadn’t returned to the flat the previous night. The morning’s unanswered door now made sense. I muttered to myself, “So that’s why he didn’t open up.” Jaya’s suspicion became palpable as he asked, “Do you have something to do with this?” Suppressing my impulse to retaliate, I managed a controlled response, “If I were involved, why would I come here?” Jaya, seemingly convinced, mumbled his agreement. “Furthermore,” I continued, “I was on leave yesterday.” Jaya inquired further, “Did you see him in your flat yesterday?” I recounted, “Yeah, we were both leaving at the same time. We didn’t really exchange words. We’re not particularly close,” I added.
Silence enveloped us, our lack of knowledge an echoing void. I finally broke the quiet with a question of my own, “Why were you here so early today?” Jaya’s response was straightforward, “It’s Wednesday. New stock arrives in the morning. Forgot, did you?” I nodded, “Yeah, Wednesday.” Seeking more information, I queried, “Did anyone else see this?” Jaya answered, “No, I was using the washroom, and the door wasn’t closed properly due to repairs. I saw…” I regarded him skeptically, his explanation seemingly genuine. “I swear to God, that’s what happened,” he affirmed. A nagging inkling of Jaya’s enigmatic nature resurfaced. His somber nature, his solitary existence, all hinted at a darker side. Yet, his interaction with others painted a different picture, just a dumb. “I never accused you of anything,” I declared, acknowledging the complexity of the situation.
Jaya’s suggestions were absurdly misguided — “throw the body in the river” or “burn it.” The illogicality struck me, if we were innocent, why even entertain thoughts of body disposal? Besides, Steve was my friend, anyways not a close one. The thought of carrying the weight of a murder on my conscience, living in perpetual fear, was unfathomable. I strolled about the washroom, my mind racing for a solution. “Close the restaurant for 2 days,” I finally instructed Jaya, my tone resolute. His perplexed expression betrayed his concern for business, “What about the business?” Irritation welled within me, the restaurant’s financial troubles being no secret. It served as a haven for nocturnal debauchery, catering to late-night hookers and clients seeking subpar dishes, the likes of my poorly prepared chicken fry. “Seriously? Which matters more to you?” I snapped, a glare emphasising my point. Reluctantly, Jaya grasped the seriousness of the situation. He called the staff, explaining the necessity for a two-day closure and promising further updates. The decision clearly didn’t sit well with him.
Suddenly, a thought struck me like lightning — reviewing the CCTV footage. I broached the topic with Jaya, who confirmed that one camera was operational; the other had succumbed to electrical issues. Together, we entered the security room, a cramped space housing an outdated Windows 7 PC. With a request to begin playback from 9 pm, I aimed to pinpoint any suspicious activity. Anything earlier would have likely garnered attention, registering complaints. The incident must have occurred late at night, perhaps just before the restaurant’s 11:30 pm closure. By then, the establishment was bustling with its regular nocturnal clientele — betting shop patrons, drug users, prostitutes, and individuals partaking in London’s darker indulgences. As we are watching through at exactly 10 pm Steve entered the restaurant, and sat next to a tall man with a cleave shave. The unidentified man donned a hoodie and cap, concealing his upper face, leaving only his chin visible. They engaged in conversation, and it was evident that this dialogue was far from amicable. Steve appeared to be negotiating with the stranger, a fact made apparent by his expressions. Although I’m not a psychologist, it didn’t take an expert to discern the tension in the room from the surveillance footage. Amidst the anxiety and overthinking that gripped Jaya, he began offering suggestions, “I think we should report this to the police.” I glanced at him, understanding that stress and worry could cloud one’s judgment, a notion I had read about previously. I responded, “If we involve the authorities, they may temporarily shut down the restaurant. Your establishment boasts a stellar reputation and a loyal customer base, and reporting this incident could force you to return to your homeland and start selling coconuts on the beach.” I regretted my bluntness and hastily apologised, “I’m sorry.” Jaya remained silent, fixated on the television screen.
The unidentified individual rose from their seat and made his way toward the men’s restroom, while Steve remained seated, engrossed in his phone. As Steve received a call, he briefly engaged in conversation before ending it and heading towards the men’s restroom himself. A swarm of suspicions clouded my mind, ”Was that call from the same man?” “Did he contact Steve?” or “Could it have been someone else?” Regrettably, I remained uncertain about the events unfolding in that restroom. The timestamp indicated that Steve had entered the bathroom at 10:45 pm, and ten minutes had passed since we began watching the footage. The restaurant staff were now informing the patrons of the impending closure. Unexpectedly, the unidentified person emerged from the restroom, and made a swift exit from the establishment. The clock read 11:15 pm. Then, just as abruptly, he re-entered the restaurant, proceeding directly to the men’s restroom, and emerged a minute later, now sporting his cap.
I paused the CCTV feed, although the lighting within the restaurant was a frustrating shade of red due to Jaya’s unfortunate choice. Upon zooming in, I recognised the face, but its exact origin eluded me. My thoughts raced, pondering whether this man was responsible for Steve’s demise and, if so, what the motive could be. An eerie revelation struck me: When he was strangling Steve, his cap had fallen in the disabled restroom, and he had returned to retrieve it.
Jaya, on the other hand, appeared utterly flummoxed, frantically toggling through the footage, leaving me in a state of bewilderment regarding his motivations. Suddenly, Jaya interjected, “I’ve seen this man before.” I turned my attention towards him and inquired, “Where?” He recounted a recent visit to a pub with some friends a couple of weeks ago. I entered the restroom, only to witness this same individual engaged in an intimate moment with another man. Uncertain about how to react, I had hesitated, and the man had brazenly invited him to join. Feeling uncomfortable, he hurriedly left the pub and made his way back to his flat. Jaya continued, “He has the same tattoo on his neck, a rose.” Suddenly, a revelation struck me, and I exclaimed, “The rose!” Confused, Jaya inquired, “What do you mean?” I recounted an encounter with the same man in our apartment. I had been walking back to my room after a shower when I spotted him emerging from Steve’s room. He had made eye contact, arching his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
I turned to Jaya and said, “I’m going to my flat and will be back.” Jaya inquired, “Is it more important than this?” As I made my way out of the restaurant, I replied, “Yes, it is! I’ll be back in an hour. Just don’t do anything impulsive. Close the restaurant, sit tight, and relax.” Jaya walked beside me, expressing concern, “But what if someone shows up?” I paused briefly, looked back, and assured him, “No one will show up unless you start overthinking.” I retrieved my bicycle, and fortunately, the rain had ceased. Although the sun had yet to make an appearance, navigating London’s bustling streets with numerous traffic lights demanded patience when you had your own bike or car. Along the way, my mind wandered. Was the mysterious man a homosexual or bisexual? Was Steve also homosexual? These were random thoughts with no definite conclusions.
Upon arriving at my flat, I attempted to unlock the door, only to find it already open. My heart raced at 140 beats per minute as I cautiously pushed the door open. I moved silently toward Steve’s room, taking small, deliberate steps. Faint sounds emanated from within. In the kitchen, I retrieved a knife, though I knew I couldn’t harm anyone. It was merely for intimidation, in case someone was inside Steve’s room. I gingerly pushed open the door to Steve’s room, but it appeared empty. Slowly, I entered with the knife clenched tightly in my hand. The room featured two monitors, and the bed was impeccably tidy, a stark contrast to my own. A pleasant fragrance lingered in the air, reminiscent of a fragrant garden. Steve’s room exuded an aura of sophistication. However, my attention was drawn to the wardrobe, which seemed to tremble slightly. Proceeding with extreme caution, I moved closer, gripping the knife firmly.I was on the brink of opening the wardrobe when someone forcefully pushed it open from the inside, making me lose my footing and inadvertently releasing my grip on the knife. However, I managed to grasp the fleeing person’s foot, causing him to stumble and collide with the doorframe, where his head made a sickening impact. Slowly regaining my composure, I approached the figure now lying on the floor, blood oozing from his head wound, presumably from hitting the door’s edge. The person lay unconscious, but his distinctive rose tattoo on the neck confirmed his identity as the same mysterious individual from the CCTV footage.
With careful deliberation, I repositioned the person and did my best to seat him in a chair, proceeding to clean the blood and revive him with some tonic water. As consciousness slowly returned to the intruder, I found myself in an unexpected and perilous situation. I couldn’t claim to be a hero or a movie buff, but having watched numerous Quentin Tarantino films, I seemed strangely equipped to handle this unforeseen turn of events. Anticipating that the intruder might shout upon regaining full consciousness, I rushed to my room and retrieved a roll of tape commonly used for packing. I secured the tape across him mouth and administered more tonic water to expedite their awakening. As I had anticipated, the intruder vehemently struggled to break free. In an attempt to gain his cooperation, I retrieved the knife from my pocket and placed it pointedly between his thighs, in a manner well-known to fans of Tarantino’s work. Sternly, I warned, “If you don’t cooperate, you’ll lose something irreplaceable.” Although I couldn’t fathom where that threat came from, it appeared effective. The intruder began sweating profusely but managed to rein in his agitation. Acknowledging his compliance with a curt “good,” I fetched a chair and seated myself, ready to pose the questions that had been haunting me. I looked the intruder in the eyes and began, “I know you killed Steve, and you came here for something. What was it?” The room was shrouded in an eerie silence, and he remained unresponsive. Unwilling to resort to violence but feeling compelled to resolve the situation, I reluctantly chose to stab his hand with the knife. Predictably, he reacted with pain and distress, but the tape over his mouth stifled any attempt to cry out. Uncertain as to why I had taken such an extreme step, I realised that it was necessary to untangle this web of mystery. Slowly, I withdrew the knife from his hand, eliciting further expressions of pain. Repeating the same question, I awaited to his response, but it remained elusive.
Contemplating another act of violence, I was about to stab his other hand when he began to react more vehemently, uttering words that were muffled by the tape covering his mouth. I conveyed a stern warning, “I’ll remove the tape, but if you shout, this knife will go straight into your groin.” I positioned the knife precisely as described, fully aware of the harshness of my actions, but constrained by the urgency to protect Jaya, who was alone in the restaurant and needed assistance. With great care, I peeled the tape from his mouth, allowing him to exhale. I repeated my question, and at long last, they began to respond, confessing, “I am gay.” Confirmation of his sexual orientation echoed Jaya’s earlier observation, but uncertainty remained regarding whether he was exclusively gay or bisexual. Prompted to continue, the intruder explained, “I had recently gone through a breakup and found myself lonely and depressed. Steve offered consulting services to people like me, given his own status as a gay man.” I couldn’t help but recall various incidents involving Steve’s questionable behaviour, including an uncomfortable encounter where he touched my thighs, resulting in my outburst. These incidents now took on a new, unsettling context.
Though tempted to interrupt, I was compelled to listen as the intruder continued, “But unbeknownst to me, Steve began secretly recording our encounters and subsequently extorted money from me.” I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Good lord!” This revelation had been lurking beneath the surface, and I pressed further, asking, “So, did you kill him because of this extortion?” The intruder hesitated, reluctant to provide a direct answer. In response, I menacingly inched the knife closer to his left scrotum, eliciting a pained cry. I sternly reiterated my query, “What drove you to kill him? Why didn’t you go to the police?”
In the midst of his anguish, he revealed, “Because my family is unaware of my homosexuality, and they would disown me if they found out.” I contemplated the archaic realities of some families still rejecting homosexuality, even in a progressive place like the UK. Seeking more insight, I probed further, “Why haven’t you come out to your family? Have you ever tried?” The intruder’s tears flowed, and I urged him to compose himself, repeating my inquiry. With a tremble in his voice, he explained, “You don’t understand. I came here for my studies, but back in Punjab, my family wouldn’t accept any of this.” While I sympathised with his predicament, I refrained from delving too deeply into the complexities of his situation and asked, “Why did you resort to murder?” Requesting a drink of water, he implored, “If you answer my question, I’ll fetch you some water.” Perhaps it was a somewhat childish tactic, but I couldn’t afford to let my guard down, fearing any potential plans he might devise in my absence. He began, his voice trembling with a mixture of remorse and anxiety, “I had already paid him a substantial amount as per his initial demands, and he had promised to delete all our conversations and the compromising tapes he had recorded. But…” He paused, leaving me hanging on every word, and I prodded him to continue by pressing the knife closer, eliciting a pained reaction. He gasped for air and confessed, “He sent one of the tapes to my brother, demanding more money.” My estimation of Steve’s cunning grew as I realised the extent of his manipulation. This wasn’t his first rodeo, he was a seasoned blackmailer who knew how to exploit people’s vulnerabilities. I inquired, “What did your brother do in response to this revelation?” The intruder shot me an irritated glance and snapped, “What would your brother do if he caught you in a compromising situation?” It was a harsh reality check. After paying Steve his initial sum, he had been betrayed, and Steve had ruthlessly exposed him to his brother. I offered a heartfelt apology for my judgmental remark and urged him to continue, emphasising the gravity of the situation.
His eyes welled up with guilt and remorse as he continued, “My brother called me, and it was chaos. Fortunately, he hadn’t sent the tape to our father. I was at a loss, not knowing what to do.” The trauma was evident in his demeanour, and it was increasingly clear that he wasn’t a hardened criminal but rather a desperate individual pushed to his limits. He went on, “My brother told me to negotiate with Steve. He provided me with an address, but then Steve changed the plan, instructing me to meet him at this restaurant. I don’t know why he changed the location.” The abrupt change of venue raised questions, and I listened intently as he continued his account.
“I arrived at the restaurant, and we began to negotiate,” he divulged. The figure that Steve had extracted from him was astounding, and it indicated the considerable sums Steve had been amassing through these illicit activities. I asked, “Why did you go to the restroom?” He met my gaze and replied, “He wanted to use the restroom, and then he called me, instructing me to meet him in the Diablo restroom in the men’s section.” The sordid details were disturbing, but I refrained from allowing my emotions to take over, instead urging him to continue. “I complied and entered,” he continued. “He propositioned me with a lewd offer, agreeing to accept £10,000 for a certain act.” I couldn’t help but shift the knife slightly, disgusted by the depths of depravity Steve had sunk to. I handed him a bottle of water, mindful of his restraints, and he drank thirstily. Then, I posed the question that had been lingering, “Did you go through with it, as he asked?” He cast a look of shame my way and nodded, confirming my suspicion.
I recoiled at the revelation and muttered, “My God.” However, the most pressing question remained unanswered, “Why did you resort to murder?” He inhaled deeply, his face etched with regret, and confessed, “He demanded I take the next step.” I paused, seeking clarification, “You mean…?” He cut me off with a pained nod, “Yes.” I couldn’t fathom the desperation that had driven him to commit such a heinous act, but I realised that, at times, individuals faced with overwhelming circumstances could be pushed to the brink of desperation. Taking a breath, I asked, “What happened next?” His innocent look and the raw guilt in his eyes were telling. He began, “I started kissing him, and grabbed his neck and strangulated, I am not sure what I was doing until he was dead, later I broke down. I wasn’t sure what I had done, but I had a lifeless body in front of me, and I panicked.” His desperation and fear were palpable. “You came back for your cap,” I stated, to which he responded with astonishment, “How did you know?” I said “the CCTV cameras”, and he nodded, clearly regretting by the circumstances. I pressed further, “Why did you come here?” He explained, “I came here to retrieve the tapes and any other evidence.” I queried, “Did you find them?” He shook his head despondently, “No, I’m not sure where they are hidden.” The tapes, the key to his salvation, remained elusive, and our predicament remained far from resolved.
I am not sure, where Steve had kept them, and I cannot help him either. The one thing I have done, is I one the recorder in my phone and recorded all this conversation. I asked him to sit there and put the take back, despite of his reluctance. The women who I dated when I came to London was working in the police department, she was a analyst there. I called her up, and explained the situation. I am not sure whether this is right or wrong, I clearly know this man is innocent, but he did commit a crime, I cannot save him and put myself at risk. The best I can do is to hand him over to the best people. I wanted to call up Jaya and update him, but I know Jaya’s overthinking capacity, and he called me up while I was thinking about it. He asked, “where are you, I cannot be here all day”, I understand his situation, he came here for a better life and all he got is loss, I replied him “I will be there and everything is under control”. He asked, “did you find the killer”, I wanted him to be thinking and make his anxiety raise up, so I just hung up. I know what I did, if tell Jaya want happened, he will definitely call someone and tell everything, it is better to make him guessing and sit in the same situation. He tried calling me up I didn’t answer them. I wanted to ask this man his name, but, I doesn’t want to know it, I am not sure why, it better to read it in the paper and news tomorrow. The cops arrived as I was thinking all this stuff, I gave them the recording and explained them everything.
Next day
I was with the police last night, they were asking me and Jaya many questions, and finally released us 10 in the morning. We need to go the court, and we are not supposed to leave the country until the court tells us we were clean. The restaurant is closed for 2 weeks, just what Jaya doesn’t wanted to happen, but anyways he would get some time to think over and find a better plan to run the restaurant. I wanted to meet some one and get too close, so that I can tell them all this story, may be I can a little exaggerate the home episode that happened and include a fight there to picture myself as a hero.
Every life is a story, some don’t understand the purpose and end them like Steve, some cannot tolerate the pain and end up like unidentified man, and yeah his name is Ankoor, I am not sure what that name means, but he had a hard time. If he could have handled his break up properly, this would never had happened, but Steve would have found someone else. ]
By the way, I never told my name, I am Charles, probably the world would know about me and at least, hear my name once. Lets meet again somewhere in Ireland, and hope this mess will clear up.
