THE RELENTLESS RAIN

THE RELENTLESS RAIN

A Short Story by Suresh Dandapani

The rain had been falling over Whitby for three days straight — a thin, relentless drizzle that blurred the rooftops and turned the cobbled streets into dark mirrors. Thunder grumbled occasionally, like an old fisherman complaining about the weather. A damp wind slipped through the cracks of Margaret’s windows, carrying the smell of the sea.

She closed her notebook and stood up.

When she fastened the latch on the window, she caught sight of the street below. Beyond the iron gate of her small apartment block, a taxi splashed through a puddle and stopped abruptly. Its roof glistened under the streetlamp.

The moment a heavy boot stepped out — followed by the hem of a long black coat — she knew exactly who had arrived.

Behind him, three men climbed out, each one broad‑shouldered, each one unmistakably part of his world.

Four cups of tea. She would have to make four cups of tea. Even now, her writer’s mind wandered: In Yorkshire, they call it a brew or a Cuppa. In London, just tea. In her stories, she always wrote “a steaming cup.” Words lined up in her head even as she moved.

She weighed down her manuscript pages so they wouldn’t flutter in the draft, then hurried into the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil.

The buzzer sounded once. She opened the door immediately.

Rain clung to his thick hair like tiny shards of glass. His eyes were bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept. A silver chain around his neck glinted with every movement.

Across the hallway, doors cracked open. Curious eyes peered out.

“Come in,” she said. “You’re soaked. I’ll make tea.”

One of the new men scoffed. “Tea? Really? Is the money ready or not?”

Margaret swallowed hard.

“Let her make the tea,” the leader said quietly. His voice carried authority without volume. He stepped inside and filled the armchair with his presence.

Margaret escaped to the kitchen like a startled bird.

They didn’t know the truth — these men. They didn’t know the strange, fragile thread that connected her to him. To them, she was just another frightened tenant behind on her payments.

Their first meeting had also been on a rain‑soaked day.

That day, the rain had been harsher — sideways, stinging, merciless.

She had opened the door after hearing the buzzer, and he had walked in without waiting for permission. His men followed, bringing with them the sharp smell of beer and cigarettes that made her heart race.

“Who… who are you? What... what do you want?” she had stuttered.

“They’re asking you,” he said, dragging a chair, turning it around, and sitting astride it. His eyes roamed the compact apartment, measuring it.

“You’ve got a telly, a radio, a clock, a landline… but when the boss asks for repayments, you say you haven’t got it. Then you act surprised when he sends us.”

One tall man muttered a curse and barked, “What show are you putting on here?”

Doors in the hallway slammed shut.

Margaret wiped her sweat. Her voice came out thin.

“The money I expected didn’t come. Next month… I’ll somehow give at least two hundred…”

“For three months you’ve been saying the same thing,” he said. Then he turned to his men. “No more waiting.. Take everything.”

They scattered instantly.

Margaret panicked. “Please… don’t,” she pleaded, but her voice was too weak, too small.

She — the writer who could make readers cry with her words — now cried helplessly as her belongings were carried out one by one.

By the time they finished, the flat was nearly bare.

He came close and flicked her shoulder with a sharp snap of his fingers. The veins on his arms stood out like tight ropes.

“How much do you owe the lender?”

She hesitated. He stepped closer.

“I don’t know the interest calculation. I borrowed five thousand…”

“From what we took today, only a couple of hundreds is our cut. If you don’t pay the next instalment by next month… we’ll have to take you instead.”

He growled and left.

Mud footprints from their boots stained the floor everywhere.

He didn’t even wait for the next month. The very next week, the taxi appeared at her gate again. Fear rose inside Margaret like a cold tide.

She hurried to the drawer, took out the twenty odd pounds she had kept aside for groceries, and slipped it into an envelope.

Before the buzzer could sound, she opened the door.

He climbed the steps with reddened eyes. He had come alone and that sent a chill up her spine. He entered with a small backpack.

Margaret swallowed her panic.

“I… I’ve only got twenty pounds,” she whispered. “I will somehow...”

Before she could finish, he shut the door with his foot.

She stepped back instinctively. His presence — heavy, exhausted, almost animal‑like — made her heart thump like a ritual drum. For a moment, she wished for the impossible: that the floor under her feet open and swallow her so that her life would simply end and release her from this fear.

Then he did something she never imagined.

He dropped to the floor — just like that — at her feet.

He touched her feet and pressed his forehead against them.

She stumbled back, hitting the wall.

“I made a mistake last time,” he said softly. “I didn’t know who you were.”

His voice — humble, trembling — shocked her. Could this man have such softness in him?

“In one of the boxes we took… I found your books. I never knew you were the ‘Maggy’ who wrote ‘The Spineless Towers.’ You may not be aware how I adored every single short story in that collection...”

Margaret’s fear melted. What an unexpected turn! A small, involuntary smile touched her lips.

“I never thought you were someone who reads,” she said.

“You are a gift,” he said. “Why would someone like you borrow from a man like Redding?”

She gestured for him to sit. He obeyed.

She pointed to the framed photograph of her husband near the lamp, with a sigh.

“He had a heavy fall and damaged his spine. Hospitalised. Had to leave his job at the cold storage… His stay in the hospital was not fully covered by whatever insurance we had. The surgery cost a lot. That’s when I had to borrow. One problem led to another and his heart collapsed. Cardiac arrest. With no close relatives or children to support us, I had been struggling to repay several debts alone..”

“You live alone now?” he asked.

She nodded. “What I earn from writing barely covers rent and the pharmacy dues. A TV producer has promised to buy my story. If that works out, I’ll repay Redding without further delay. Can I ask you something?”

“Why did you choose Redding as your boss?”

He reluctantly laughed. “He is not my only boss. I have a collection team under me. He is one of the many bosses I collect repayments for.”

Silence settled between them.

He stood up.

“Until you finish paying the loan, I’ll come myself,” he said, folding his hands awkwardly. He took a portable type-writer from his backpack and settled it near the window.

“It this could be of any use to you...”

Then he left.

After that day, he would call her now and then.

“Why did you kill Emily in your story?” “Couldn’t you let Claire stay with her lover?” “Hasn’t Sarah suffered enough? Give her a dawn, Margaret.” “There’s nothing wrong if Diana marries again.”

He never discussed his profession again with her. Only when he called her on the phone did he show this soft tone. When he came for collection with his associates, he wore his hardness like an armour. He would not discuss her writing. She would also be careful not to open the topic. She would prepare tea for all of them. He would drink it patiently, accept the envelope she handed over, and slip it into his coat without counting. He would mumble the routine warnings about delayed payments, and leave.

One late night, he called her.

“Good news, Margaret. My daughter Lily has won the school’s Young Writers’ Award.”

The next day, he arrived with an invitation — a simple card with the school crest printed on it.

“Her mother would be very proud” Margaret smiled.

“She lost her mother when she was two... well, you must come and bless her,” he insisted. He didn’t stop there — he sent a taxi to bring her on the day of the celebration.

Margaret took a hand‑painted scarf she had made and climbed into the taxi.

His home stood between rows of old fishermen’s cottages near the harbour. When the taxi arrived, he pushed aside others and came forward.

“Come, Margaret.”

Twenty men stood around, watching. Margaret walked carefully along the path he cleared for her.

Inside, the brick walls were damp. She noticed weapons tucked into a steel box in the corner — a crowbar, a chain, a knife.

Paper garlands hung from strings. A lone pedestal fan whirred on the floor. Women with warm faces and shy smiles greeted her.

“Lily, bow to her,” he said.

His daughter, entering her teens, glowing in her neat school uniform and clutching a certificate, smiled shyly.

“Your stories are life to her too,” he said. “She wrote hers because she reads yours.”

The girl accepted Margaret’s scarf with delight and hugged her.

A cola bottle popped open — plup! — and was offered to her.

Feeling the weight of all the eyes on her, Margaret planted a kiss on the girl’s cheeks and whispered, “Be blessed.”

The next month, one of his usual men was missing.

“Where’s Tom?” she asked.

“He won’t come anymore.”

“Why? Did he quit?”

“No. He tried to betray a boss and his men cut him.”

A chill ran through her spine. How casually he said it.

“This… this violence… you don’t need this life,” she whispered.

His face tightened. His eyes reddened. His voice cracked.

“Forget it, Margaret. There is no going back now. Just remember I have a daughter to bring up”

She felt she had crossed a line. After that, she never dared advise him again.

***

The kettle clicked off. Margaret poured the tea. Outside, the rain continued its steady, relentless dripping.

They drank in silence. Only the new man showed irritation, as though wondering why this hospitality was necessary.

After they finished, he said:

“All of you wait outside.”

The men left. He shut the door.

This time, Margaret did not panic. He never shut the door without reason.

“How much have you paid Redding so far?” he asked.

She took out her notebook. He snatched it and tossed it aside.

“Look at this,” he said, handing her an envelope.

Confused, she opened it. Inside were receipts signed by Redding — two hundred, three hundred — on different dates.

She stared at him, stunned.

“I gave only twenty pounds each time. How are there receipts for hundreds?”

He looked at her gently.

“You borrowed only because you didn’t know how else to save your husband. When you shed your own blood and sweat, you earn twenty, thirty — that’s all life gives you. But when I make another man shed blood, hundreds fall into my lap.”

He paused.

“Every time I came here, I took the money you gave and added what I earned through sin… and paid Redding. I wanted at least that much of my cursed earnings to go toward something good. Today, I’ll give him the last payment.”

Her lips trembled. “Why… why would you do all this?”

“So your writing doesn’t rot under the weight of debt. You’re a gift, Margaret. I know the value of your words.”

She stood speechless. Her own brothers didn’t even write her letters. But this man…

“You asked me once why I do this violent work,” he said with a dry smile. “I think… it’s all coming to an end.”

Margaret’s face brightened. “Truly? When will you stop?”

“Before tomorrow’s dawn, if all goes well.”

“What do you mean — if?”

“My work isn’t something I can walk away from easily. Our group and another… there’s a big fight. Men have already fallen on both sides. Tonight, they’ve marked me.”

“Oh God…”

“Don’t panic. Tomorrow morning, browse the newspaper. If my name and photo appear there, it means the game is over. If even a single tear falls from your eyes for me… that’s enough. But if I escape and win…” — he laughed softly — “I’ll kidnap you.”

She jerked her head up, startled.

“Yes. I love your writing. Wherever I go, people ask me, ‘When should we strike?’ But somewhere far away, in a quiet church hall, I want to sit with you… eat the biscuits they give… and talk about poems, about stories, about life, about a hundred things I’ve kept inside me. I don’t know if you’d come if I called. That’s why I said I’d kidnap you.”

Could a man who ruled the town through fear carry such softness inside him? Could someone who lived by blades and battles know the touch of gentleness?

He saw her eyes glisten, tears gathering at the edges. He smiled.

From beneath his worn coat, he pulled out a small notebook.

“Whenever I felt something… I scribbled it down. Read it when you can.”

He stood up.

“If you don’t get a call from me tomorrow morning, look for a news about me in the morning newspaper.”

Even after he left, Margaret stood frozen for a long time.

Finally, she opened the notebook. On the first page was his rough, heartfelt scrawl:

Let the earth swallow me

I can become a tree and give shade

Let the sea swallow me

I can fall as rain upon the soil

Let time swallow me

I can roam around the world as wind…

That night stretched endlessly. Her eyelids refused to close. Her ears strained for the phone to ring, strained until they hurt.

At dawn, the newspaper thudded against the door.

Margaret ran to it.

Without even unfolding it, she tore it — into pieces, — and threw it into the bin.

Then she broke down, shaking, sobbing uncontrollably.

Slowly she collected herself, pulled her rain coat and stepped out. She had to meet Lily and bring her home. She shut the door behind her.

Outside, the rain clouds over Whitby cleared to show the rising sun.

********