The Far Side of the Sun

by Kate Furnivall

  “I’m happy to. Always feel free to ask,” he’d responded, but in a way that made her wonder if they were talking about the same thing.

  He’d been hammering in posts for the last couple of hours, much to the delight of Dryden, who relished the unexpected bonus of bossing around a minion who was twice his size. Dan Calder’s blue shirt was patched with dark sweat and Ella wondered whether he would remove it, but he didn’t. When Emerald waddled down with a tray of iced lime juice for them all, he drank his in the shade with Dryden, and when the fence was finished, Ella admired his handiwork and thanked him for his help.

  “This afternoon I’d like to go to the library, if that’s all right with you, Detective Calder.”

  “Of course. Wherever you wish.” He caught her eyes flicking to the sweat marks on his shirt and he shrugged self-consciously. “Don’t worry, I’ll go and wash, and borrow another shirt from Dryden.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” she said, but by then he was striding off toward the tap outside the garage.

  When she looked back at the fence, she saw that Emerald was standing there staring at her, hands on her buffalo hips, mouth pursed.

  “What is it now, Emerald?” Ella sighed.

  “You done went to the library last week. Got yourself four fat books.”

  “Two of them are dreadfully dull. I want to change them.” Ella started up the path.

  Behind her she heard Emerald mutter, “That’s not the only thing you aimin’ to change.”

  * * *

  Nassau Library in Shirley Street was unique. No other library came close. Ella loved to go there, if only because its building was so quaint it made her smile each time she trotted up its front steps. Octagonal in shape and four stories high with a circular balcony around the upper floor and a dome on top, it looked more like a lighthouse that someone had mistakenly stuck in the middle of town rather than a sedate library.

  It dated back to 1798, when it was built as a much-needed jail for the lawless inhabitants who roamed the city at that time. Its dungeons were now bursting with books instead of buccaneers, and normally Ella liked to linger, but not today. Today she smiled at Mrs. Faircourt behind the desk, snatched A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and The Body in the Library off the shelves, had them date-stamped, and hurried back out into the blazing sunlight. Palm fronds hung limply in the grassy square, exhausted by the heat. For two minutes she stood in the patch of shade under one of them and gave herself a serious talking-to, the way she did to Emerald when she was getting out of hand.

  “Get in the car. Have him drive you straight home. No small talk about anything other than the fund-raising party coming up and its good cause—the widows of servicemen killed in action.”

  Right.

  “No personal questions. No laughing or tipping the brim of your hat at him.”

  Right.

  “And no staring at his hands on the steering wheel.”

  Right.

  But the last Right caused a wrench. Like one of her ribs had been yanked out.

  She strode across the square and around the corner to where the Rover was parked in the shade, face stern, books brandished in front of her.

  “Where now?” he asked.

  “To the Berryhead Bar, I think. I need a cold drink. You too, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  They drove to the bar with its terrace of beach umbrellas overlooking the sea and its array of young men and women strolling on the sand that had been swept to a dazzling pristine whiteness. A smiling black waiter in a red waistcoat brought Ella a cool rum and lime and a grapefruit juice for Dan. She was thinking of him as Dan now, no longer Detective Calder. He never drank on duty, he told her. She may have messed up the going-straight-home part of her plan but she stuck scrupulously to the rest of it. She talked about the fund-raiser that was to be held at the Cockatoo Club and the way she had to flutter her eyelashes at the local businessmen to get them to donate luxurious raffle prizes for the cause. She talked about her Red Cross work, she talked about the Duchess of Windsor and her dedication to the children’s clinic, she talked about Reggie’s scheme to get clean water into more homes.

  He listened attentively. She couldn’t tell whether he was just being polite or was genuinely interested. She left gaps in the conversation for him to fill and was surprised when he did so with snippets of the history of the island. He told her a story about the slave ships that the Royal Navy emptied onto New Providence Island. It happened when slave trading was declared illegal in 1807, a time when Britain was by far the biggest transporter of slaves from Africa to the Americas. Altogether, he informed her, about three million slaves were transported.

  “And many freed slaves traveled here from the southern states of America after the Civil War was over too,” he told her, and the pupils of his gray eyes were wide with enthusiasm. She recognized that he really cared about this island. “It changed the population of the islands and formed the basis of today’s Bahamians.”

  “Fascinating.”

  He smiled. “You knew it already.”

  “That doesn’t make it any the less fascinating.”

  When they left the bar, Ella was pleased with herself. She hadn’t asked a single personal question and she told him briskly, “Home now.” But as they were about to climb into the car, he wiped a speck of sweat from his temple and said, “It’s a real scorcher today. Do you mind if I take off my jacket?”

  “Of course not.”

  But she did mind. She minded a lot. Because seeing his bare forearm right next to her in the car, with its dense muscle and wide strong bones and curls of unruly dark brown hair, undid her resolve, so that before they had even pulled away from the curb she asked, “Where do you live?”

  He glanced at her, surprised. “Albert Street. On the east side of town.”

  “Will you show it to me?”

  “Now, why on earth would you want to see my house?”

  “Because I need a context for you.”

  He seemed to understand. Without further comment he turned the car and headed east. They kept the windows down to catch any breeze, but the sky was relentless in its blueness and its brightness as they took the picturesque East Bay Road running alongside the shoreline, rockier here, more rugged. The sea was glinting a deep jade that faded into rich purple off to their left. This was where magnificent wealthy mansions slept quietly behind high pastel walls draped in bougainvillea and banks of tall pine trees, but soon after they passed the yacht club on their left, they swung right, twisting inland. Here the houses were smaller and the streets no longer had a policeman in a white jacket, white gloves, and white topee directing traffic at junctions.

  In a sleepy residential street he pulled up outside one of the houses. They both studied it. It was more modest than Ella had expected but she had no idea how much a policeman was paid. The house was pleasing enough. A two-story place that was painted white with a dark red front door and shutters. There was a tiny parched garden in front in which a spiky yucca was the solitary occupant. Clearly Detective Calder was no gardener.

  “How long have you lived in Nassau?” she asked.

  “Twelve years.”

  “Really? You must like it here.”

  “It’s my idea of paradise.”

  He smiled and something new came into his face that she hadn’t seen before. Something hopeful and earnest, a sudden enthusiasm in him beyond his control.

  “I joined the police force,” he told her, “in Swindon in England as a young lad and loved the work. My father was a policeman in the same town, and his father before him. In the blood, I guess.”

  Ella was touched. By this family that devoted itself to public service through generations but with none of the rewards that Reggie received.

  “So how did you end up here?”

  “Oh, I grew restless, I suppose. I was young and wante
d to widen my horizons. Britain was in a miserable state during the Depression after the Wall Street crash, and I was lucky. I saw an advertisement in the Police Gazette for recruits to police postings here in Nassau and I reckoned this was my chance of adventure.” He shrugged self-consciously, as if she might laugh at the idea of adventure. “I passed the interview and arrived in time to miss the dismal British winter. But now”—he glanced out of the window at a pair of aircraft droning across the blue sky—“I’m wondering if I made the right decision not to swap this job for a military uniform.”

  He sounded unsure. It was the first time she’d heard any hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  “Someone has to stay here to keep the island safe,” she said brightly. “Clearly you’re the man for it.”

  He smiled at her. “I love it here. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Lots of people wouldn’t. It would scare them. Somewhere so different. But I don’t suppose you’re easily scared, Detective Calder.”

  He laughed. “Are you married?” she asked.

  Ella glanced away out the window and could feel her blouse sticking to the back of the seat. Not until she turned to face him again did he answer.

  “No, I’m not married.”

  She changed the subject, but awkwardly. “Is there much crime in Nassau?”

  She saw him relax. “No, not normally. Mainly a few robberies on a Friday night and the usual clutch of drunken fights on a Saturday. But with so many servicemen on the island now, as well as the present unrest among the black Bahamians, the mood has changed. We have to be far more watchful.”

  “What about the murder of the man who died on the beach?” She was aware of his frown. “Everyone is talking about it.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Have they found out anything about Morrell?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, not yet. With no passport and no wallet, he’s difficult to trace, but . . .” He stopped. He clearly felt he’d said enough.

  “Any ideas on who the killer might be?” She made it sound like idle curiosity.

  “Not yet.”

  Neither giving anything away.

  “As a matter of interest,” she said, “I heard gossip about a robbery the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of gold coins. Have you heard anything?”

  She wondered if he could see the word “liar” branded on her forehead.

  “No, nothing has been reported.”

  “Just idle gossip, I expect.” She flicked a hand through the air to dismiss it and just caught the edge of his shoulder. She swore to herself it was an accident.

  He swiveled in his seat so that his whole body was turned to face her. “Mrs. Sanford, it’s too hot to sit like this any longer. Would you care to come inside my house for a cool drink?” He smiled easily, a lighthearted curve of his lips, as though he was happy either way. It was up to her.

  Ella turned her head. Away from him. Away from his house. For a full thirty seconds she didn’t speak. When she finally turned back to him, her smile and her voice were too bright.

  “Not today, I’m afraid. I have things to do. Maybe some other time.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  He started the car, and the purr of its engine was the only sound inside the car. They drove home in silence.

  Chapter 34

  Dodie

  For two hot days and two stormy nights Flynn scarcely left Dodie’s side. He brought her breakfasts of mango and corn bread, in the evening fried up chicken and rice on a tiny temperamental stove. She hardly strayed from the mattress despite the sweltering heat in the shack and gradually she felt her battered muscles start to heal.

  Mama Keel came to call and looked her over, pronouncing her a tough young goose, and after that visit the women up the street drifted in through the open door with a dish of scallops and a heap of banana fritters. Flynn sat on the front step with them in the shade of a squat pine, rolling cigarettes and passing round a beer while she dozed.

  Each morning and each evening he massaged her back. Her head was hot and her thoughts seemed to wade through wet sand, leaving strange unrecognizable shapes behind them, but when his fingers touched her skin and Mama’s ointment glided over the curves and ridges of her back, her mind cleared. They didn’t talk, not while he worked on her. Sometimes he hummed softly to himself, something from Dixie or an old hoedown tune, nothing that she would have expected from him.

  She closed her eyes and learned about him quietly through his fingers. Discovering the strength and kindness in him, the patience and the understanding. She wondered about his history and what world of danger and violence he had descended from. Sometimes she slept and his hands accompanied her into her dreams, as though a part of him had burrowed under her skin and would not let go.

  Once, just once, when he lifted the weight of her tangled hair off her neck, smoothing its knots out with his fingers, he leaned down and she could feel his breath warm on her shoulder blade as he brushed his lips over the nape of her neck. Not a kiss, nothing so brash. But a blending of his skin with hers.

  She wanted to thank him. But her tongue lay too heavy in her mouth.

  * * *

  When Dodie woke, it was night. The kind of night that was so warm and silky that she could touch the dense blackness with her fingertips. She had no idea what the time was, but she could feel that her body had turned some kind of corner. The throbbing in her head was down to little more than a discontented murmur and she could flex her back without too much pain. Carefully she sat up, wearing a loose cotton nightshirt that was one of Mama’s.

  Faintly she could hear Flynn’s breathing. It dawned on her that he must be sleeping on the earthen floor, a place not suited to human bones. She eased her feet off the mattress and sat like that while she waited for the moon to rise. An hour, maybe two, during which her mind picked its way through the maze of events that had occurred since the night she found Mr. Morrell bleeding in the dirt.

  When the floor turned white in the gleam of moonlight, Dodie abandoned the mattress and moved over to the figure of Flynn. He was stretched out on his side, one arm flung out in front of him as though fending something off and his head resting on a folded towel. His skin possessed a metallic sheen and a sudden fear that he might be dead made her fingers seek out his cheek.

  Instantly Flynn’s hand snapped around her wrist.

  “Flynn, it’s me.”

  “Dodie?” He blinked himself awake.

  “Shhh,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t mean to harm you.”

  “I know.”

  She lay down on the floor beside him, her head sharing his towel. Her hand lay on his bare chest and she could feel the force of his heartbeat. What was it like, she wondered, to be this man? One who must watch his every breath. One who hugged God knows what secrets to himself. One who possessed the bravery to launch himself into a fight against two hard-bitten hoodlums for her sake, and who could reduce them to gutter trash, as he called it, and seem to think nothing of it. Yet at the same time he was a man who would lay his hands on her naked back with the gentle touch of a nurse and not once make her feel that it was inappropriate.

  She wrapped an arm around his waist and he pulled her to him.

  “When it’s light,” she said quietly, “I need to speak to Sir Harry Oakes.”

  He didn’t reply. She waited a long time, but eventually she slept.

  * * *

  “Don’t let him bully you.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Dodie said firmly.

  “Good.”

  Dodie and Flynn were standing together outside an impressive mahogany door. They were on a gallery that overlooked a sumptuous foyer. She had never been inside the British Colonial Hotel before. She had heard tales about its splendor but nothing quite prepared her. The building was a huge
construction that had replaced the original wooden hotel burned down in 1922, and it struck her that it was as arrogant and bombastic as its owner, Sir Harry Oakes. Its central tower dominated the façade, its walls a flushed sandy color and its roof a swathe of bold red tiles. But inside, the extravagant foyer, with its coral-and-white marble and wide stairs, was magnificent. The whole place intimidated her. Flynn had vanished from the Bain Town shack early that morning and returned an hour later to say Sir Harry had agreed to see her.

  “Why?” she’d asked.

  “Because he’s curious.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes.”

  “A week ago, if you’d told me a multimillionaire was curious about me, I’d have crawled under a stone; now I take it in my stride. Things have changed.”

  She was tearing strips off a triggerfish for their breakfast.

  “I don’t want you to change,” he said.

  She laughed. “Too late for that.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “Of the changes coming.”

  * * *

  “What can I do for you, Miss Wyatt?”

  He was bigger than she remembered. Or was it the office that made him bigger? From the vast map of the world on one wall to the aerial photograph of New Providence Island on the other, Sir Harry Oakes was a man who did everything on a large scale. Even his philanthropy. His generosity to Bahamian good causes existed on a million-dollar scale. On a shelf sat an array of bulky chunks of rock glittering with quartzite and malachite, as reminders of his prospecting past and indicators to others of their owner’s ability to succeed, to wrest from this world whatever he wanted.

  She extended her hand and it was swallowed up by his thick fingers, his grip fierce.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” she said.

  “Sit down, Miss Wyatt.”

  She sat in a finely carved chair in front of his grand oak desk. He took his seat opposite, rested his elbows on the leather surface of the desk, and inspected her closely. She could see he didn’t trust her.

  But she didn’t trust him either.