The Emerald Casket by Richard Newsome

gates. They saluted and the Mercedes eased onto a broad avenue. They passed colonial-era mansions surrounded by manicured gardens. The peaceful drive lasted until they reached the corner. Then they swung into the melee of vehicles heading towards old Delhi.
    â€˜Is it always like this?’ Sam asked as the limousine swept along in a torrent of scooters, autorickshaws, cars and motorcycles. Horns blared around them as vehicles tried to navigate through the surge of traffic. Gerald’s eyes bulged as an oncoming bus pulled into their lane and hurtled straight at them. But like pedestrians on a busy city crossing, the drivers swerved, missed each other by centimetres and continued on their way.
    â€˜No one’s hit me yet,’ Miss Turner said, hauling the steering wheel over to the left as an overloaded scooter zipped by.
    â€˜They wouldn’t dare,’ Ruby whispered to Gerald.
    â€˜Good driving is like anything else,’ Miss Turner said. ‘It’s all about control. As long as you’re the one in control, you can be master of the situation. No different from looking after you four.’
    Mr Fry gave an approving nod.
    â€˜I can see you two are going to get on well,’ Gerald said.
    The closer they got to the old city, the more choked the traffic became. There were people everywhere. Along the roadsides sweating couriers pushed handcarts stacked high with bales of goods. Laneways, too narrow for motorised vehicles, were crammed with shops and stalls. They snaked away from the main road into the depths of the marketplace.
    Gerald was mesmerised. ‘There’s just so much… life ,’ he said.
    Sam gawked out the window. ‘Did I just see a cow down that street?’
    â€˜Of course,’ Ruby said. ‘Cows are sacred here. Didn’t you know that, geography boy?’
    Alisha elbowed Gerald in the ribs and winked. ‘Miss Turner,’ she said. ‘It might be a good idea to park and walk from here. The traffic’s getting worse.’
    The governess grunted a response and pulled over to the side of the road. Before Miss Turner could switch off the engine, Alisha had pushed open the back door. She heaved Gerald to get out. The backseat emptied.
    â€˜Okay,’ Alisha called into the car. ‘We’ll see you back here in a couple of hours.’ She grabbed Sam and Gerald by the hand and dragged them towards a laneway seething with people. Ruby glanced back at Mr Fry and Miss Turner sitting in the limo staring open-mouthed at their disappearing charges. She shrugged and dived into the crowd after the others.
    â€˜Come on!’ Alisha squealed. ‘Let’s have some fun.’ She skipped deeper into the throng, pulling Sam and Gerald with her. Ruby gave chase, dodging and weaving, and grasped Gerald’s free hand.
    Like a whirlpool, the crowd swallowed them whole.
    The smell and the heat. That’s what struck Gerald the most—like an overlong Christmas hug from your least favourite uncle. They were pressed in on all sides by the heaving mass and the temperature rose ever higher. A heady mix of aromas assaulted Gerald’s nose: clouds of burning incense, body odours, spices, frying foods, open drains, animals…it was a pungent perfume unique to the marketplace.
    After the initial crush at the entryway, the crowd thinned from oppressive to almost tolerable. Gerald, Sam, Alisha and Ruby found themselves at the start of a maze of alleyways. Weathered buildings stretched along either side of them, some two storeys, others three and four. Sections of mismatched corrugated iron and plywood jutted out at all angles from above the shop fronts. A tangle of home-strung electricity cables stretched overhead. Most of the shops were smaller than Gerald’s modest-sized bedroom at home in Sydney; they stood side-by-side like an endless row of caves worn in a cliff face. The bazaar was bursting with activity.
    Gerald found himself falling