Author Manu Joseph is a voracious reader, and an avid movie buff. He spent his formative years buried in all kinds of stories from grip- ping murder mysteries, to drama, science fiction and fantasy. He works as a Data Scientist in Walmart. But in his spare-time, he writes dark, psychological thrillers.
When he is not crunching data or weaving plotlines, he would be happy listening to music or hanging out with friends and family. His first book, ‘The Artist’ is generating good amount of curiosity. Here is an excerpt from his book.
In the shadowed alleys of Trivandrum to the bustling streets of Delhi, “The Artist” unravels a gripping narrative through the lives of three distinct characters, each entangled in a web of mystery and darkness. In this excerpt collection, we dive into the world of Alex, Manas, and Nasir, whose journeys intersect in a chilling tale of crime, pursuit, and survival.
Alex, also known as The Artist, is a serial killer with a flair for the dramatic, turning each crime into a dark piece of art. An enigmatic figure whose quiet moments of observation reveal a mind as intricate as the crimes he orchestrates, gives us a glimpse into the psyche of a predator camouflaged within the urban chaos. His contemplation under the amber glow of a streetlamp, as described in the first excerpt, paints a picture of calm before the storm.
Manas, a father thrust into a nightmare, races against time and fate in a desperate bid to save what he holds dearest. His frantic chase, marked by physical and emotional turmoil, showcases the lengths a man will go to protect his family, offering a raw, heart-pounding experience of fear and hope.
Nasir, the embodiment of law and order, brings a methodical and relentless pursuit of justice. His entry into the bustling police headquarters, as captured in the third excerpt, reflects the tension and gravity of hunting a ghost who has eluded capture for years, setting the stage for a cerebral game of cat and mouse.
Each excerpt offers a window into the novel’s soul, where the lines between right and wrong blur, and the pursuit of truth leads down a path fraught with peril and revelation. “The Artist” is not just a thriller; it’s an exploration of the human condition, a journey into the heart of darkness, and a testament to the enduring spirit of those who seek light amidst the shadows.
The Artist
Alex drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his blue Alto, idling on the side of the street. The streetlamp casted its amber light, bathing everyone and everything in gold. A bustling crowd, painted in honey-toned light, rushed past the window in its usual hurry to reach places. No one savoured the journey anymore; it was always a mad rush to reach somewhere, and fast. Little ants scurrying to make ends meet. Blind cows meandering through life without purpose. The scratchy glass of his Timex told him it was twenty-seven minutes past seven. Almost time.
A two-storey building with unpainted red bricks and an occasional patch of dark green moss rose to his right. Big block letters, which had faded with age to a grungy grey, branded the building – ‘Bal Bharati Public School’. Alex scanned the horde of people flowing out of the entrance, teachers, and parents after their weekly PTA meeting. She should be here any minute now.
A majestic, chrome metal, lion figurine on the dash glimmered in the amber light. Lion, the king of the forest. The entire forest takes notice if a lion straightened up, fluffed out its mane, and roared. Their lean, muscular body packed enough power to knock out an elephant twice its size. But it’s not the power that makes it dangerous. It was its ability to smell fear. Out of a herd of hundred gazelles, he zeroes in on the weak with ease. Just like him.
Alex surveyed the crowd again. There was no sign of Amrita. Amrita Sharma, or Mrs Sharma, as his mother calls her, was his mother’s best friend. His mother always had friends much younger than her. She was someone who rose out of poverty, fighting the good fight. But she did it all with social grace and a unique feminine charm. A true fighter and a loving mother… except when it came to her son. His lips curled into a sneer.
Manas
“Look out,” Prateek yelled.
Manas spotted a red flash heading his way and dodged it deftly. The brick flew past his face as he crashed into a group of onlookers. He disentangled from the human melee, apologising, when they pointed down the street and yelled out something. He didn’t catch it, but he understood. Alex hurtled down the street away from him; towards Shruti. No! That was not an option.
Manas propelled himself behind Alex, shrugging off minor aches and pain. Shooting pain travelled through his bleeding arms with each swing. With each raspy breath, his lungs cried foul. Breathe. You do this every day. Just inhale and exhale.
Alex turned the corner at the end of the street, towards the right, and disappeared. Manas sped up to the end of the street and turned the corner. He had exited the slum and a set of railway tracks extended to both sides. Alex was a hundred feet ahead of him, running along the tracks. And up ahead a railway tunnel rose out of darkness, like the open mouth of a giant lying on the tracks.
“If he gets to the tunnel, we’ll lose him,” said Prateek, as he ran alongside Manas.
Manas pushed himself harder towards the running man who had his daughter. He had to catch Alex before he disappears into the tunnel.
The distance between them was closing. Ninety feet. His legs were screaming for oxygen. A dull ache pulsed and spread along the lower part of his body. Eighty feet. ‘You’re going to see what I am capable of as soon as I get back.’ Alex’s words echoed in his mind, reverberated and amplified. Seventy feet. Alex was almost at the tunnel, and it was becoming clearer to Manas that he wouldn’t be able to reach him on time.
Just then, Manas heard a soft rumbling, slowly getting louder. He glanced back. No trains there. A dirge of the horn up ahead made it clear; the train was coming from beyond the tunnel. He was pleased with the stroke of luck. With the train coming, Alex would have to stay out of the tunnel and that means he couldn’t slip away in the darkness.
But to his surprise, Alex didn’t slow down, didn’t make a detour. Instead, he sped up and ran straight into the dark mouth of the giant. Manas had made up his mind in a split second and propelled forward. Losing Alex was not an option, train or not.
“Manas, if you didn’t reach the end of the tunnel before the train comes in, you are dead meat.”
“I know,” Manas said as he plunged into the darkness of the tunnel.
Nasir
Nasir marched towards the conference room allotted for them at the police headquarters. The place bustled with activity. Young men in khaki uniforms sped past him in all directions; some balanced stacks of files in their hands, some took orders from a walkie-talkie, and some barked out orders through them.
As he got closer, the low rumble of hushed conversations got louder and overpowered the flurry of activity.
A deep booming voice rose above the din. “-don’t piss off the boss man! It’s as simple as that. Can you do that? And Nasir Ali Khan is one of the best officers in the force. He is one of the very few officers who was sent to the FBI for training in violent crimes. Serial killers especially. So, I would liste-”
Nasir rounded the corner, and Avinash stopped mid-sentence. He was talking to the policeman who was at the receiving end of Nasir’s wrath in the morning; the selfie police. The arrogance on his face was long gone, but an air of defiance still stayed. Nasir acknowledged him with an imperceptible nod.
The room fell silent as he walked in. The who’s who of local police, along with his team were seated around a beige oval table in the middle of the room. A white screen hung from the wall with a projector hanging from the ceiling in front of it. A group of policemen, probably not drawing enough salary to warrant a seat at the table, gathered on the far side of the screen. Saket beamed at him from the crowd with his bright, eager face.
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” said Nasir, setting down a heavy file on the table. “Let’s get right to it. I’m sure you all must have read the briefs we circulated about the criminal who calls himself The Artist. We have been on his tail for a little over four years now, with little luck, I must add. Akshay-” Nasir stepped back and ushered in Akshay into the spotlight. “-will give you an overview and get you up to speed.”
Akshay stepped up to the laptop and put up a presentation on the projector. Three words filled the screen.
’Manipulation. Domination. Control.’
“Three words,” he paused and cleared his throat. “Every violent serial offender has these three words at their core. Their every action, every word somehow ties back to one or all these words. The Artist is no different.”