by Amanda Smyth
They have good news, they say: they have found the Tucson burned out in a lay-by in Plymouth.
‘Was it a rented car?’ asks the younger one. ‘We noticed the number plate was private.’
‘It wasn’t an officially rented car. The guy’s somewhere here in Scarborough. Island Car Rentals. I have documents.’
Then he says, ‘I know who they are. I could identify them in an ID parade tomorrow. That’s what we need to have here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They have been briefed; it is obvious by the way they speak to him with a slightly deferential manner.
Deferential is good.
‘They looked high, sir?’
He remembers the boy’s face when he realised Georgia was there. Excited, yes, not high. They knew exactly what they were doing.
‘Their eyes were normal, no sign of dilation.’
He gives a thorough description of each of them, and they scribble away on their notepads.
‘My wife must have told you, one of them came to the house the night before it happened. We’d seen them before. You’ll probably find them on the beach tomorrow.’ Then he says, ‘They don’t know who they’re dealing with.’ He sounds arrogant and a little foolish.
The other officer, whose face is also familiar, says, ‘Don’t worry, sir, we will do all we can to find them.’
‘Did you take fingerprints? What about my daughter’s dress? There’s the sheets in the house. Has anyone taken the sheets?’
He offers them his bag of clothes.
‘We have everything we need.’
He is not convinced. He wants to ask why the area wasn’t taped. But there is no point. He feels himself getting angry; he must try to contain himself. It will not help the situation. The most important thing is that they have all the relevant information.
He says, ‘There’ll be CCTV footage at the cashpoint.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I can take you to the town where they live.’
‘We don’t have a car on the premises.’
He should not be surprised. In Trinidad, police officers are often short of vehicles; they are known to loan their cars to a cousin or an uncle on a Friday night. For a small fee, some rogue officers may hire them out to criminals.
‘We could take a taxi,’ he says.
The two officers look at one another.
‘When will you have a car?’
‘Tomorrow, sir.’
In truth, as much as he would like to go now, he is exhausted. It might be better to wait until daylight. He needs to see his daughter. His daughter and his wife need him at the hotel. They should not be alone.
‘There was a woman—dressed up, high heels; she came while the boy was getting the cash. She could be a witness.’
He describes the woman and her car.
Then he says, ‘It’s a good idea to collect the advice slips; there’s one with every transaction. You must collect them from the booth and fingerprint them. At the mall, too.’
‘A lot of people use these machines.’
‘Yes,’ he says irritably, ‘it might take a couple of hours’ work. It could save you time later on.’
He is exhausted and dehydrated.
‘Are you staying in Tobago for a few days, sir?’
‘I’m not sure. We have this room for a couple nights. I won’t be going far, only to Trinidad. You have my mobile number.’
‘Yes, sir. We have your number in Trinidad. We explained to your wife and daughter that it would be helpful if they didn’t return to England just yet.’
He says, and he sounds angry, ‘We have to catch these animals. Do you understand?’
Usaf stares at him for a moment. ‘We will do our best, Mr Rawlinson.’
Their hotel is near the airport. As he limps into the palm-tree-lined entrance, the mosaic tiled floors, the open white reception are familiar; yes, he came here for dinner with Safiya. He remembers the sea, calm like a pond, the tinkling steel pan music at night, the generous buffet. It was romantic, and expensive, one of the better hotels on the island. In the lobby, he halts at the sight of his reflection. His bandage is like a strange half turban; there are several gauze plasters on his face. A graze on his left cheek is a bloody patch. His leg is bandaged, and he hobbles along. People are staring.
Let them look, let them look.
Miriam’s face is red and puffy from crying. She looks relieved to see him.
‘I thought they might want to keep you overnight.’
The room is cool and pleasant. The curtains are closed and the lamps cast a homely light. It is big enough—a double bed, and a single divan. A tall arrangement of flowers stands on a table along with a bottle of wine and a basket of oranges—gifts of arrival.
‘Where’s Georgia?’
‘She’s in the bathroom.’
‘How is she?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says, her voice hushed. ‘I keep expecting her to break down.’
‘We’ll have to watch her carefully.’
‘I know.’ Miriam’s eyes fill up.
Martin carefully lowers himself into a chair. He is full of pain—his back, his ribs, his left leg, the back of his head. And he is weak as a lamb; he hasn’t eaten since cake at the villa yesterday. A lifetime ago.
‘I need to talk to her about what happened.’
‘Let her come to you when she’s ready.’
She pushes back her hair; it is wispy with heat.
‘Has she told you everything?’
‘Yes, I think so; mostly.’
‘Then why can’t she talk to me?’
‘Maybe because I was there, or because I’m a woman; her mother. You can’t push the river with this, Martin.’
‘I want to know.’
She rubs her fingers across her forehead, as if trying to erase something, and he can see that it is difficult for her.
They look at one another.
‘I need to know, Miriam.’
She walks over to the bathroom and knocks on the door.
‘Georgia,’ she calls. ‘Everything okay?’
Georgia says something he can’t quite make out.
‘Okay, sweetheart. Take your time, don’t rush.’
Now Miriam comes to him; perches on the arm of his chair. He should touch her, he thinks, try to comfort her. But he does not. She speaks softly quickly, as if wanting to get it over with.
‘The boy told her that if she didn’t do what he wanted,’ she stops, ‘he’d rape her with his fishing knife and she wouldn’t be able to have babies. He said she mustn’t scream because it would put him off. At first she tried to get away but then she knew it was pointless. She was calm as if it was happening to someone else. As if her soul had left her body.’
‘What about the marks on her neck? He did that?’
Miriam nods.
‘Where were the others?’
Martin’s voice is steady; inside he is on fire.
‘They were waiting for him to finish. When I saw him, I knew what he’d done. It didn’t take long. He wanted to let them know. I felt like it was some kind of initiation.’
‘Initiation of what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did she stay there in the room?’
‘She locked herself in the bathroom and sat under the shower. She thought she was going to die. She was terrified. She thought we were all going to die.’
He cannot bear it.
‘Where was I?’
‘Lying on the floor.’
The father, the protector, incapacitated.
He remembers the cold tiles, the sight of Miriam on the sofa. By then it must’ve been over; the boys were in the kitchen celebrating.
‘I told them they should make sure you were alive, they’d be done for murder. They weren’t bothered.’
‘When did you get to her?’
‘After they’d gone.’
‘What happened to the other one, the one they left behind?’
‘When you came out, he’d gone?’
‘Yes. We went inside the TV room and phoned the police.’
Martin gets up and goes to the window. The day is ending; night is starting to fall. His mind is turbulent, as if a grenade has gone off and blown to bits his entire way of thinking. He must gather himself, his scattered, broken parts. He must be strong for Georgia, for Miriam.
‘They found the car. It was burnt out. They set fire to it.’
Miriam looks surprised. ‘Why would they?’
‘Because they can. They’ve been watching too much TV.’
‘Did they find anything else?’
‘No.’
She holds up her hands. ‘We could’ve stayed here—we didn’t need a villa. There’s a swimming pool. Guards.’
They stare at one another. He knows what she is getting at. What can he say? I wanted a villa so I could keep away from you; so I could have my space, my freedom.
‘But you liked the villa. We all liked it.’
His mind jumps to Safiya. He says, ‘Do you have my phone?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘I need to call Trinidad.’
‘Somebody rang for you. A woman, she rang three times. She was keen to speak to you.’
His heart skips a beat.
‘Sapphire. Or something like that. She said she works with you.’
‘Okay,’ he says, trying to sound casual. ‘I’ll call her later.’
Miriam says, ‘Terence thinks he knows who they are.’
‘We know who they are. If we drive through the village where I dropped them the other night, we’ll see them sitting by the side of the road. They probably live ten minutes from here.’
She sits down on the bed. ‘I don’t understand why they let us see them.’
‘They expect us to get on a plane and go home. That’s what most people do. That’s what they count on.’
Miriam says, ‘Apparently, just over a year ago, a German couple were murdered. Did you know? They lived five miles away from where we were staying.’
He remembers the incident well. It happened while he was in Tobago running his training course. Both husband and wife, in their fifties, were butchered in their holiday home for no apparent reason. In the pouring rain, the culprit fled, taking off his boots on the way. When Martin arrived at the crime scene, one of the boots, a tan Caterpillar left foot, was floating upright in a puddle. He alerted a police officer, but before he could stop him, the man took up a piece of bamboo and dragged the boot through the water, eliminating all traces of DNA. It had shocked him. He’d wondered if it was deliberate.
‘I know about the German couple. They lived in a compound near the beach.’
Miriam says, and her face is contorted, ‘So why did you rent a villa if it wasn’t safe?’
‘Did it seem unsafe to you? If it wasn’t for the gate opener, they could never have got into the yard. The place was as secure as it gets. There was even a caretaker on site. This kind of thing doesn’t happen often in Tobago. We couldn’t have known.’
She puts her fingers into her hair, a sign of frustration.
‘Maybe Terence had something to do with it?’
Martin has thought about this. Would Terence have killed his dog for the sake of a share in a robbery? No, he doesn’t think so. No doubt the police will want to question him.
In need of air, he pushes back the glass doors and steps outside.
Miriam says, and it sounds strangely cheerful: ‘We even have a patio.’
His heart lurches when he sees Georgia, quiet in her pyjamas. He expects her to come to him, and she does, but only for a moment. My angel, my poor angel. A white blanket is wrapped around her shoulders. She puts her hand on his cheek and looks into his eyes.
‘You okay, Dad?’ She traces her fingers around his bandage.
‘Yes,’ and he strokes her hair, soft as feathers.
‘Good,’ she says, vaguely, and she drifts away to the bed and curls up with her blanket. She stares at the television, her expression blank and empty. He wants to say something to reassure her. But he cannot. He is feeble, tongue-tied, useless.
Forgive me. Forgive me.
‘I hope you’re both hungry,’ Miriam says.
She has ordered room service and now it is here she is fretting—Georgia must eat something; they have only had breakfast. There is soup, bread rolls, salad. She arranges plates, napkins; she is trying to make everything as normal as possible. He is grateful.
‘Come along,’ she says. ‘Let’s have it while it’s hot.’
In silence, they eat and watch the Oprah Winfrey Show; an interview with J.K. Rowling. He is struck by the writer’s Englishness; her clipped, clear voice. It is somehow reassuring. He tries to concentrate, but his head feels sore. It is a dull ache at the base of his skull.
‘Have you read these books, Georgia?’
‘No,’ she says, without looking at him.
Miriam says, ‘She’s more of a Twilight girl.’
‘Twilight?’
‘Vampires.’
‘Aha. Black nails.’
He did not know this about his daughter; that she likes books about vampires. There are many things he must not know. For a long time she has been a mystery to him. Just as Beth was, only, perhaps, more so. By living here he has lost out on a part of her life. He knew this would happen but the realisation now makes him feel wretched. What kind of a father is he?
There is a clip from the latest Harry Potter film. Young spectacled Harry is wielding a sword. Georgia pulls up her blanket and turns on to her side. And he realizes that she is not watching the television; she is looking to the left of the television at a painting. It is a colourful picture of a woman’s face. She is Caribbean; her eyes are glittery. It is not a good painting, and yet, there is something about the woman’s expression which feels real to him; a confidence, a particular attitude that is exactly right. Whatever the artist has managed to capture in this woman, he would have wished for Georgia to have this same quality, this same poise and confidence. But she will never have it. Or at least, not for a very long time. Enormous sadness rises and swells in him now and he wonders how he will contain it.
The medication draws him down into deep sleep. Part of him welcomes it, he can slip away from the nightmare. He sleeps heavily; vivid dreams of England and his old life. Twice the boys appear and he is frightened. They are breaking into his childhood home, crashing through the window. His mother is young, and she is screaming. Then again in the woods at the back of his house—with knives and machetes—they wait for him. Above where he stands, Georgia hangs from a tree; Miriam tries to cut her down, stretching up on her tiptoes, her nightdress stained with blood. It is terrifying.
When he wakes, the sheets are soaked; Miriam is there.
‘You’re okay,’ she says, ‘you were dreaming.’ She gives him water.
‘Where is Georgia?’
‘She’s sleeping right here.’
In the morning, she will call for fresh linen. She strokes his forehead, pushes back his damp hair with her cool hands. ‘Try to rest,’ she says, and her voice is soft. He doesn’t deserve her tenderness, but he will take it, he thinks.
Saint Miriam. My good wife whom I have betrayed. He falls again into his abyss.
It is 5.30; Miriam and Georgia are asleep. He steps outside onto the patio and dials Safiya’s number.
‘Can you talk?’
She sounds sleepy. ‘Give me a moment.’
With his blanket wrapped around him, he walks slowly along the path towards the sea.
‘I’ve been worried sick. I thought you’d call and let me know what’s going on. Are you okay?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘We couldn’t get much information from the police. Did they hurt you? Did they hurt anyone?’
Her voice is soft; her bedroom voice.
/> ‘Martin.’
‘We were lucky; no one died.’
There is a breeze coming off the silvery water, it is surprisingly cool. The sky is pale pink like new skin; the moon is still there, its left side eaten away.
‘What did they do? Did they take money?’
‘Money. Jewellery.’
‘Anything else?’
He knows what she is getting at.
He doesn’t want to tell her about Georgia on the phone.
He lights a cigarette, blows a cloud of smoke.
She says, and her voice is creaky, ‘I can’t believe this has happened.’
‘I know. I’m okay, sweetheart. We’re alive.’
‘When tourists stop coming to Tobago they’ll want to know why. What’s the point of all these international flights and new hotels when no one will want to come. Trinidad is like an animal chewing on its own paw.’
He doesn’t know what to say. Safiya is, of course, right.
‘We have a donkey running the country.’
‘But there are worse places.’
‘Trinidad isn’t your home; I have nowhere else.’
He finds himself in a curious position of reassuring her. This isn’t what he expected or needed.
Then he says, ‘You sound angry.’
‘Did your wife tell you I rang?’
‘Yes.’
‘Three times. I hope you had something ready. I didn’t know what was going on. I rang the night it happened.’
‘You gave your name?’
‘Yes. I said I worked with you on the press side. I don’t know if she believed me. She seemed a bit hesitant, or maybe suspicious. It’s hard to tell with an English accent. It can sound so uptight.’
He lets her keep talking.
‘It hit me today when this happened, I can’t call you when I want. I can’t get on a plane and come find you. I couldn’t talk to my mom; in this house we barely mention your name. She says you’re having a mid-life crisis.’
He feels himself closing up, shutting down. He doesn’t have the energy to tackle this, to reassure. It is unlike Safiya; she has not picked her moment well.
