A Kind of Eden

by Amanda Smyth

  ‘Please go back,’ she said. ‘I don’t like the sound of engine trouble.’

  He tried to reason with her but she was so insistent he gave in and caught a return flight to Trinidad that same night.

  The following day, Safiya suggested they drive up to a Benedictine monastery nestled in the Northern Hills. The sun was slipping away, leaving strips of orange in the pale blue sky. In silence they walked in the grounds of the Spanish-style building; they looked down on the flat lands, out to Tunapuna, and all the way up to San Fernando. There was a quietness about the place that made him feel calm. In the chapel he lit a candle for Beth. Not bad for a non-believer.

  Later he telephoned Miriam, ‘You’ve got to stop catastrophising about everything. The plane didn’t crash. I’m still here.’

  ‘It could’ve done.’

  ‘But it didn’t, darling. And if you carry on like this, you’ll be miserable. You’ll make everyone miserable. I don’t want Georgia to be afraid of things.’

  He flops down on the sofa and browses through the pages of last week’s Sunday Times. This is something else he misses, English newspapers; glancing through the stories of the week, the editorial pages, the magazine. He must tell Miriam. He looks up at his daughter happily eating cake with little Chelsea beside her.

  All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

  Around six Terence appears at the kitchen window, still wearing his work clothes. Usually at this time, he is showered and changed.

  ‘Sir, do you have a minute?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He puts on flip-flops and follows him around the front of the house. Through the window he sees Chelsea watching television, her face fixed, entranced. They walk around the side of the apartment where, along the fence, banana leaves hang low and ginger lilies stick out their red tongues. He notices it is getting dark. Out on the lawn, Georgia is setting up the camera on a tripod. She doesn’t see them.

  ‘Just here, sir.’

  Terence stops where the path bends and the trees start. At first he can’t see anything, just the reddish tree trunk and the shadows of the branches. But then, underneath, he makes out a long dark shape and moves closer. The dog’s mouth is open; there is vomit on the grass.

  Terence squats down and puts his hand on Conan’s head; he strokes the neck, the flat, lifeless ears. The dog is dead.

  ‘Has he eaten something bad?’

  ‘All by the fence is blood and diarrhoea.’

  ‘Poison?’

  Since working in Trinidad he has become familiar with gramaxone. Often used in suicides and murders, he has seen its devastating effects.

  ‘For chasing chickens?’

  Terence shrugs; he looks upset.

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘Maybe all day. He missing since breakfast.’

  He doesn’t want the girls to know. Will Martin help lift the body to the back of the car port? At least it will be out of sight. He will get an old sheet from the storeroom and wrap the dog in it.

  Tonight, before he takes Chelsea home, he will hose down the mess along the fence, and early tomorrow morning while everyone is sleeping, he will dig a hole and bury him.

  TEN

  There is a knock at the door just after 7 p.m. He assumes it is Terence or Chelsea; he thought he heard them leave earlier but perhaps not. It is neither Terence or Chelsea. No. There are three young men standing in the doorway, not where light falls, where a visitor would normally stand, but away from the light and where it is dark. He recognises the older boy from last night.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, ‘I see you came for the boat.’ And then he realises that something is quite wrong, something he cannot put his finger on.

  ‘Yes, we got the boat,’ and without invitation, the brother brushes past him and enters the house. The other two quickly follow.

  Martin says, ‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’

  A moment ago, Miriam was in the kitchen, now she stands in the corridor, her cotton dress floating around her.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  He tells her to go inside.

  Here in the bright light of the living room, he gets a good look at them: the second one is tall and lanky, his green shorts hang low. His front teeth protrude giving him a dumb, goofy look. The third one is shorter, older and very black, with fine features; he wears his hair in thin, short dreads. In his left hand he holds a cutlass.

  Martin says, stupidly, ‘Is your brother okay?’

  Miriam is still standing in the same spot. They exchange a look. Georgia, where is Georgia? Last time he saw her, she was going to take a shower.

  They quickly come around him; he feels a tightening in his upper body, a weakness in his legs. There is a ripe scent of sweat. His heart pounds. He has been here before—he knows the signs: trouble has arrived.

  ‘You can’t just storm into someone’s house like this.’

  ‘We come for money,’ the boy says, looking him straight in the eye. His face is hot, sweating. Then he shows his weapon—a fishing knife, used mainly for filleting.

  He will give them what they want and then they will leave.

  ‘I have cash. There’s nothing else in the house.’ He pulls out his wallet. ‘This isn’t our home; we’re renting it for a few days—take what you want.’

  The boy quickly removes the dollars, driving licence, bank cards. There is not, in fact, much cash; he meant to get more today but there wasn’t time. Now he is glad he didn’t. The other two stand by, their eyes flickering.

  ‘Is this the thanks we get for helping you last night?’

  The boy tells Miriam to fetch her purse; it is on the coffee table.

  Miriam looks at Martin. She walks slowly as if on a precipice, as if her life depends on it.

  ‘Move,’ the boy says.

  ‘Please don’t shout at my wife.’

  He checks the front door, car keys. His mobile phone is on the sideboard. There’s no time. Georgia, where is Georgia.

  The boy tips her handbag upside down and her life spills out: make-up, sunglasses, diary, keys. He quickly empties her purse of notes, coins and cards. He finds a picture of Beth, a Christmas photo they have always loved. He stares at it.

  ‘Where she? Where the young meat?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  The one with the cutlass slaps Martin hard in his mouth.

  ‘Old man is rude, you being rude?’

  Shocked, he presses his fingers to his lips; they sting; they are wet with blood.

  ‘Please,’ Miriam says, creakily, ‘we can give you whatever you want. We don’t want any trouble.’

  He wants to reassure her but he’s no longer feeling confident.

  ‘Listen,’ Martin says, and he sounds pathetic, ‘I work for the police. If you stop now, things don’t have to be so bad.’

  ‘Tobago have no police.’

  The boy looks around, scans the room, the veranda, the passageway. He is getting agitated.

  Martin speaks calmly, slowly. ‘The caretaker’s due back any minute. You should take what you want and go.’

  ‘Where the girl?’

  ‘She went into Scarborough.’

  The boy signals to the others, and takes off down the corridor to the left wing, towards the master bedroom, the kitchen, the den. It is familiar to him; only last night he was here accepting their help and hospitality.

  The lanky one heads in the opposite direction, to the right wing, the storeroom, Georgia’s room.

  ‘Georgia!’ Martin roars.

  Too late. Sliding doors.

  He tries to push the one with dreads aside; his fingers dig hard into the side of his face; they grapple and the cutlass clatters to the floor. The young man is stronger than him; his body is hard like a wall, and for a moment, they are locked together.

  From the corridor, the crash of something, then a high-pitched scream. Georgia.

  ‘Daaaad!’

  ‘Georg
ia!’

  Miriam is on her feet.

  The boy is back; he is wearing Martin’s shirt, the one Safiya gave him for Christmas, open like a jacket, collar up.

  From Georgia’s room, there is scuffling; a sharp cry.

  ‘Please don’t hurt my daughter,’ Miriam says, her hands up in her face. ‘Please.’

  The boy pushes her out of the way and she stumbles back towards the sofa. Martin sees his opportunity and lurches for the sliding doors. But he is not quick enough; they wrestle him down, his legs crumple as if made of sand.

  ‘Georgia!’

  He feels a dull clump on the back of his head, and the floor, like a white sea, rushes up to meet him.

  He wakes, disoriented. The lights are low; the tiles are hard and cool. How long has he been lying here? He can hear voices. He checks himself. The back of his head is sore and soggy. He tries to get up; the floor is slippery with blood. His blood.

  Through the hatch he sees the boy’s profile, his lumpy hair. There’s laughter; the sound of bottles clinking, ice. They are helping themselves to whatever they want; they are having the time of their lives. Georgia, where is Georgia?

  He looks at the front door. Did Terence come back? He must do something; he must get help. What time is it? Where is Georgia. God help us. Help us. He must get help.

  Then in the half light, he catches sight of Miriam. She is lying on the sofa. A sound escapes from him, a kind of gasp. He crawls quietly towards her. What have they done, what have they done. They must not hear him. They must not see him. He whispers her name.

  She opens her eyes.

  ‘Georgia?’

  She closes her eyes. There is blood around her lips. He adjusts her top where it has come away; his whole body is now shaking.

  ‘Hey!’

  The boy has seen him. He makes a clicking sound with his fingers. A black sound, Safiya says: click, click, as the fingers hit.

  He makes for the door; they are on him like dogs. His bladder gives way, a warm, wet rush. They haul him up and push him through the front door and out into the darkness. The lanky one will stay behind with the girls. They will come for him in a while. Right now, they are taking the old man for a ride.

  The yard is dark; Terence’s apartment is in darkness. Everything is quiet. The one with the cutlass shoves him along the gravel path, while the boy lolls ahead, keen to get into the Tucson. Plink, plink, the sound of electronics, the doors unlock. To anyone outside, they might look like friends heading out for a night on the town.

  He feels sick, and his head whirrs like a helicopter out of control.

  ‘Where’s my daughter?’

  They reverse quickly up the drive and pull out on to the track. He must follow their route and pay attention so he can find his way back. Left onto Buccoo Road and they quickly reach the junction. He knows this road. They are avoiding the village; they head across the main road towards Carnbee. They are taking him to an ATM. He remembers a bank on the right. But how far along? There is nothing around this area; no bars or restaurants or hotels; houses are scattered. This is not a place for tourists.

  From here, in the back of the car, he can see the boy’s big feet. He plays with the radio; surfing through the local channels. He turns up the volume—a Safiya song. The bass throbs through the speakers.

  After a few miles, they slow down and pull over onto the side of the road, away from the street lamps. The engine is running, handbrake up. The boy has Martin’s wallet, his bank card. He wants the PIN number. He speaks calmly.

  ‘Boss man, you know if you fuck up, somebody have to die. We will spin back and kill she.’

  Martin’s stomach lifts; he wants to vomit.

  The driver leans in; his little pigtails are alive.‘We not afraid to cut she throat. You remember the number good, right?’

  Their shadowy faces loom.

  He reels off the numbers. Then he says, ‘I want to sit up; I feel sick.’

  The boy reaches over him; he smells foul; his rum breath, his strong, sour sweat. And he pulls Martin up so that he is slumped, half upright, looking out of the windscreen. He recognises the street; he knows where they are. The road is empty, a ghost town. The boy runs across the street to the bank. He uses one of the cards to slip through the security door and he is in, lit by the neon light of the ATM room. Scruffy and out of place; a barbarian.

  A car approaches; its bright lights dim as it comes closer. The white Mitsubishi Lancer pulls over on the other side of the road. A young black woman gets out wearing high heels and a short dress. She is also going to the ATM machine. She glances over at the vehicle, and waits to let the boy out.

  The boy comes running. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s an ATM in the mall. This one have no money left.’

  They swerve out into the road and carry on along this same route, picking up speed as the road straightens out. The boy lights a cigarette, puts his feet on the dashboard. He is pleased with himself, puffed up; more man than boy.

  They swing into the large empty car park. A security vehicle is parked near the entrance; there is no one sitting in it. Tall lamps are dotted around.

  The boy jumps out and disappears into the darkness. The driver turns the car around; he switches his lights on low and keeps the engine running. It is difficult to see. The ATM is built into a wall. The overhead light appears to be broken.

  How long have they been gone—half an hour? Forty minutes? It seems as if hours have passed.

  Georgia, Georgia.

  The boy is back. ‘Ride out!’

  They head in the direction of the house. Trees rush by, the open field, where just this morning, he saw horses grazing. They turn right at the crossroads and drive down the strip that follows the beach along Mount Irvine. From here he can see the lights of the villa. His wife, his daughter? Where is Terence? Is he back yet? They drive past the turning to the private road.

  ‘You’ve missed the turning. The house is back there.’

  The Tucson zooms alongside the bay, up and over the hill as if heading towards Black Rock village. The car slows, he assumes they are turning around. On the left is an area of deserted land. He has seen signposts here with warnings about safety. It is dark; there are no streetlights.

  They drive into this darkness. There is a kind of path. Bush scrapes against the side of the car as it bumps along. And then the path widens out, and ahead there is a patch of land, stripped back and without bush. They pull up and jump out. The boy opens the back door; they reach in for him and throw him on the ground. He can hear the sea; he rolls over, his head next to the wheel.

  He says, knowing it is useless, ‘I gave you money; this is not what we agreed.’ He pulls himself up. ‘Fuck you.’

  The car lights give the boy a glow like there is a fire behind him. The boy kicks him hard in his side. ‘Hush your mouth.’

  He nods to his friend, and they both start to kick him with their big, bare feet. Their legs are strong, quick like animals. Martin rolls onto his front and curls himself up; he tries to protect his head. He groans into the dirt.

  Silence.

  Car doors slam. Lights on full. He hears the vehicle reversing, the twist of the wheels in the earth. He opens his eyes, and he can see only darkness. And within it, white specks float like broken lights. The world has disappeared. He can hear the sea; yes, the sea roars in his ears. A wave is coming; it wants to take him under. He will go with it; he will surrender. The greatness of a man’s power lies in his willingness to surrender …

  Martin is light, floating. There is no pain; the pain has gone. He is aware of the night air, the stillness, and he can see the stars, clear points of light, and they are exquisitely beautiful, and the colours of the cosmos are purplish, like the colours of the hills at the end of the day at the back of his house, and he can see the bright light beyond them, and he knows this to be like the sun, only it is not the sun. The light grows brighter, and it is almost too bright for him to look a
t, and he looks down and sees the sea, the dark sea, and he wants to lie on it. He floats on the sea, and he is carried by its gentle, phosphorescent waves. And the waves become brighter with a strange moonlight.

  ELEVEN

  The sun wakes him. Soft, low rays cutting through the trees. He tastes the powdery earth smudged against his mouth and opens his eyes to a tangle of weeds. Through a canopy of bush he glimpses fragments of a pale, clear sky. Slowly, he raises himself up. Coconut trees reach high, their branches frayed and rotten, diseased. The grassy wasteland is covered with a sprawling vine. Barefoot, he makes his way.

  Where the land seems to stop there are manchineel trees. A painted sign: Be cautious, secluded area. There is a sharp drop, a path of some kind. Below he can see rocks and sand. It looks familiar, this beach; the long stretch of pale sand. Yes, this is where he came with Georgia that first day, where they saw the fishermen, the dogs.

  So they brought him here.

  At the stripped-back place where the vehicle was parked, he looks for his sandals but they are not there. He finds other things: a condom, empty beer bottles, a KFC carton, dirty plastic cups. He gives up; his head is as light as a balloon. Georgia, Georgia. He hears a car; the road must be nearby. If he can just make it to the road. He follows the tyre tracks away from the deserted beach.

  The empty road stretches out. He keeps to the right—always walk on the edge of the road facing the traffic flow—instinctively holding his left and bloody leg as he slowly limps. He cannot see the cut; there isn’t time to stop.

  A car is approaching, its lights on low. He stops and waves like a man drowning. The woman keeps driving, her face turned to him as she passes. He must walk, he thinks, keep walking.

  Ahead there is a turning into a residential area. There will be a telephone; someone will help him. He rests on a low wall by the side of the road. It is here that a young mechanic finds him, lying by this wall, his head in the grass.