by Amanda Smyth
‘I’m too old to be having a mid-life crisis. Your mum wants the best for you. She doesn’t think I’m good enough. Maybe she’s right.’
He doesn’t know what else to say.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m going to go. I just wanted to make sure you’re alive, and not in the hospital.’
‘Well, I was in the hospital but I’m not now.’
‘Do you know when you’re coming back?’
‘We haven’t discussed it.’
‘Do you think you will?’
How could he not come back? He has an apartment, a car, a job, responsibilities.
‘Of course.’
‘Are you coming back alone?’
‘I don’t know. We have to make plans.’
Below there is a tree and on it, a string of coloured lights. They look like Christmas. He has always liked these trees, their delicate branches, their wide reach.
‘How is your dad?’
‘He died on Tuesday.’
He should not be shocked, but he is.
‘Oh God,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’
And he is sorry, sorry that she has to experience this loss alone. He’d wanted to help pick up the pieces. Selfishly, he’d thought it might bring them even closer together. It will be more painful than she imagined. It is something he has learned, when someone dies, it is always harder than you think. The dead do not go away for a while. No, they are gone from your life forever. You will never see them again.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me know?’
‘I didn’t want to tell you in a text message.’
‘You could have called. I would’ve phoned you back.’
Safiya gives a long, slow sigh. He hears the movement of sheets. She is getting up from her bed. He pictures her wild hair, brown muscular legs, her T-shirt, the top of her thighs exposed. To his surprise he feels faintly aroused.
‘When is the funeral?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Then she says, ‘I wish you could be here.’
‘I know, it’s difficult. We’ll probably leave in a day or two, but there’s a lot to sort out.’ Then, ‘It’s been so traumatic.’ His sadness catches in his throat and he chokes a little. ‘It’s been traumatic for you, too. I’m so sorry.’
The phone call leaves him feeling flat, bothered. Should he ring her back? He must reassure her—her father has gone, and he is there for her. But who’s to say it will make either of them feel better. And how can he really be there for her if he’s with Miriam and Georgia?
The truth is, they were never good on the telephone; it is always better in the flesh.
Breakfast is served in the restaurant overlooking the bay. They find a quiet spot away from the tourists near the pale, clear water, the floury sand and cabanas. Birds swoop in and flutter onto the white linen cloth—black birds, blue birds, sugar birds—looking for crumbs, scraps of fruit. Bold, erect, alive, he is glad of the distraction.
This morning, Georgia stays close to Miriam. Miriam has applied make-up to her eye and the swelling has gone down; Georgia’s bruising is more obvious—the redness has darkened and crept down her neck. He finds it hard to look at. She has borrowed a scarf from Miriam and tied it loosely on one side. Thankfully, no one seems to notice them. It is him they stare at. Today his bruises are starting to bloom. He looks battered, as if he has been in a car accident.
There is a message on his phone from Juliet, telling him how sorry she is. No doubt word is spreading fast in Trinidad. While Miriam selects breakfast from the buffet, and Georgia follows her, he telephones the British High Commission. He explains his situation to the consular officer. A Trinidadian, her voice is high-pitched and thin. He thinks, if a mosquito could speak, it would sound like this.
‘Do you have family in England you would like us to inform? We can help with flights, any urgent medical care.’
Apparently, their story is on a BBC news website. A short piece about the robbery; his daughter and wife were mentioned.
‘What did it say, exactly?’
‘I can send you a link, sir. The report didn’t give names, just the fact of holidaying in Tobago. There was no mention of a rape.’
Rape. The word shocks him.
‘Unfortunately we can’t help with police investigations of any kind. But I imagine you have plenty of support in that regard. Is that so, Mr Rawlinson?’
Georgia picks at her fruit—papaya, oranges, banana.
‘Can I get you something else?’ he asks. ‘There’s French toast. Pancakes, your favourite.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not as hungry as I thought.’
Miriam says. ‘Just eat what you can; you need to eat.’
His head is sore, last night the medication was effective, but he is afraid to take it in the day. He will need his wits about him.
‘Will you be okay if I go to the station?’
Miriam says. ‘We’ll stay here and make some calls. I have to ring the airline about our London flights.’
It is hard to believe they were supposed to leave tomorrow.
Miriam says, ‘I’ll check flights to Trinidad. We only have the room here for one more night; it’s booked till the end of the week.’ Then, ‘I never knew Tobago was such a popular destination.’
She looks upset, and he touches her arm where the skin has peeled and it is dry, flaky, falling away. Miriam, Miriam.
She wipes her eyes, and to Georgia, with a half smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.’
Georgia looks blank.
Then Miriam says, ‘I’m assuming you can travel back with us. They’ll give you compassionate leave.’
He says, ‘We’ll sort something out. The police will want us to stick around. Either here or in Trinidad. They’ll have an ID parade. It could take four or five days.’
Georgia says, ‘I don’t want to go to an ID parade.’
‘You don’t have to, sweetheart. Your mother and I will go. We just have to wait for them to sort it out—which they will.’ He speaks with a surprising confidence. ‘Then we can get you home.’
TWELVE
The old, unmarked police car is hot and the air conditioner is not working. With the windows down, the breeze blows in and he is glad of it. He asks if they can drive back towards the villa, it will be easier to direct them from there.
‘You want the radio on, sir?’
‘No thanks,’ he says, trying to sound friendly. ‘I came here in the dark; it’s not easy to remember. I need to concentrate.’
The dusty road is the colour of old blood and the sunlight is fierce. He tells them to keep driving, and they pass the turning to the village. The grass is tall, and through it he can glimpse the sea, the boats on the horizon. Then the road opens out and, between the trunks of the coconut trees, the sea is there, flat and blue and blurred with the sky. This is where he came with Miriam and Georgia that first day.
‘See that boat out there,’ Usaf says. ‘Morgan Freeman. Every year he come for Carnival.’
He can see the yacht in the distance.
‘Princess Margaret spent her honeymoon in Tobago. You know that?’
‘No,’ he says.
‘The Beatles came in 1962.’
Martin says, ‘Tobagonians should be careful. If these incidents carry on, no one will want to come here.’
‘The problem we have is that these boys have nothing to do. They smoking weed, preying on tourists. They don’t realise Tobago needs tourists for the economy.’
Curtis says, ‘You didn’t find it strange that Mr Monroe was out both times the boys came?’
‘No,’ Martin says. ‘Terence had nothing to do with it. They killed his dog. Let him tell you about that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He remembers a turning on the left. They head up an incline and the road narrows. Despite the lack of rain, the land here is green and lush. They keep driving along the twisting road, and it seems further than he recalls—the car is slow
now, and it judders along, straining against the hillside. On the side of the road a woman, plump and young, sits under a pipe and washes herself; she is wearing a red vest and denim shorts. She stares at the car; they slow right down. Usaf calls out and the woman waves.
There is a wooden church, and they drive down the hill which is covered with long bright grass. He runs his eyes over the landscape—the patched-up houses, the gravestones, the big trees. Usaf keeps one hand on the wheel, the other flops out of the car.
‘This is where we have our heritage festival—in this little town.’ Then he says, ‘You ever played Carnival, sir?’
‘No,’ he says, irritated; he is not interested in making small talk any longer. He is not interested in festivals, or Carnival, or a history of the island and the celebrities who have stayed here. His head is throbbing as if something sharp is lodged inside it.
Now there are shops, a small supermarket. A triangle crossroads ahead. Yes, he thinks, at last, this is familiar. This looks more like it. He feels his pulse quicken—a new drum beat.
‘This could be it,’ he says, looking around. A couple are sitting outside a rum shop drinking beers. A man with long dreadlocks strolls by in baggy yellow shorts, thin legs like branches.
On the left, Spiderman crouched, looking up at the sky.
‘I dropped them somewhere here,’ he says.
On the opposite side, the road forks into a rough trail. He points to the trail and they drive up it and there are two small concrete houses; a cow is tied to a mango tree, its horns white and long, the beige skin stretched over its skeleton. A white bird sits on its head, which is covered with flies.
Martin says, ‘Maybe we can drive around this patch for a while.’
Usaf turns the car and accelerates down to the main road.
‘Slowly,’ Martin says.
For half an hour, they cruise around the area. There is a street market with vegetables and fruit: sweet potatoes, hanging bananas, pineapples, papaya, breadfruit, oranges in large baskets; a post office, a hardware store, a small grocery; a rusty sign for Diamond Dental Surgery. It is a poor place; he wonders how people manage. If this was England, he would send police officers to make house-to-house enquiries.
‘You tell them you’re asking about a spate of car thefts, find out if they’ve noticed anything unusual. Take a note of who is in the house, their reactions, descriptions. We can start to build a picture. It’s simple.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Usaf says.
Curtis is leaning back in his seat, mute.
‘Circulate an artist’s impression of the suspects. Alert other stations on the island. The coastguard. Liaise with the Trinidad coastal authority.’
He feels irritable and weary, but he needs to keep them on side. He must try to be helpful, encouraging.
On the way back, they agree to stop off at the beach. They drive in from a different side, and pull up near the far end of the bay. Coconut trees reach high into the sky, their shaggy heads bob in the warm breeze. In their dark uniforms—knitted sweaters, thick navy trousers, black boots—Usaf and Curtis clomp over the sand. He thinks, they look like they are dressed for winter. How do they work in this heat? They wait for him and he limps along. The sun is burning the top of his head and he feels dizzy with heat as he walks towards the manchineel trees lining the coast. He signals to the rocks, and the sand stretches out like a bolt of white cloth—bare and pure; big waves crash onto the shore. It is rough, this beach, the Atlantic side of the island. Beyond, a turquoise pool of water glistens.
‘Nice,’ Curtis says, and looks out at the view.
‘That’s where they were. Fishing with the others. Someone will know them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Usaf says.
‘Send someone down here first thing. I don’t know what time we were here, but it must’ve been around nine. There were ten or twelve fishermen. Talk to them. Find out everything you can.’
Then, and he almost forgot. ‘There’s a man known as Tin Man, he’s their uncle, I believe. He lives in the village and he owns the boat, Princess. Talk to him.’
‘I know Tin Man,’ Usaf says. ‘We pick him up now and then; he smokes plenty weed.’
‘You need to speak to him. They borrow his boat to fish.’
Usaf nods, but Martin is not convinced.
He tells them, ‘There’s no time to waste.’
‘Yes, sir. We will do all we can.’
They head back to the hotel. Exhausted, Martin looks out at the empty blue sky. He reminds himself, he is not in charge of this investigation; he can make suggestions all day long, but he has no authority over Usaf and Curtis. No. For the first time in his life he is the victim of a violent crime. Raymond has warned him; he must step back and allow them to get on with their job. He must let go.
They pull up in front of the hotel, and he remembers to thank them, and gets out of the car. He is in pain; his ribs feel as if they are bound with barbed wire; his leg is hot and throbbing. He slowly makes his way along the corridor.
THIRTEEN
On the way to the airport, they stop off at the villa. Terence is standing at the top of the drive. He’s been working out here since early morning; clearing the dead leaves, cutting the edges, watering the ferns and shrubs before the Dials arrive. He is angry about what happened. He has lived here all his life. The police came to see him earlier and quizzed him for over two hours, wasting everybody’s time.
‘I gave them my ex’s number.’ Then he says, ‘Just yesterday I see Tin Man in the village talking to the fishermen. I almost tell him something.’ He wipes his face on his T-shirt. His stomach is muscular, dark as tar. ‘Some of your men can’t come from Trinidad?’
‘And do what? They don’t want help.’
Miriam says, ‘Martin showed them where they live.’
Terence shakes his head. ‘They’re young boys. Where the mother? Where the father? Who responsible for them?’
He doesn’t mention Conan; Martin hasn’t yet told Miriam that Conan is dead.
Martin says, ‘It’s possible they’ve gone on the run.’
‘Tobago small. Where they running to?’
They look at one another, and Martin realises there is nothing else to say; he would like to leave. Coming to the villa today was a mistake; it has made him feel anxious—a jittery and unpleasant sensation as if he has drunk too much coffee. In the rear-view mirror, he catches his reflection; his forehead is wet with sweat like butter melting. He wonders if Terence has noticed and dabs it with his handkerchief.
Terence checks Georgia curled up in the back. She is looking out at the golf course—the smooth, shaped mounds.
‘Chelsea ask me to tell you goodbye.’
Georgia smiles faintly.
Martin gives Terence his number in Trinidad.
‘If you see anything or hear anything, let me know. Anything at all.’
From here, with its immaculate garden, elegant Japanese-style roof, the villa looks impressive. And yet for Martin, it no longer holds any beauty whatsoever.
‘Tell the Dials they need new chips in the gate. The boys could come back anytime.’
They land in Trinidad in the middle of the afternoon. He leaves Miriam and Georgia with the luggage and heads off to the car park. He stops for a moment in the shade to get his bearings; he is feeling disoriented. He parked somewhere here. But where? His head feels light, like he is floating.
He finds the car covered in dust: Sahara dust Sherry complains about, blown across the Atlantic from the desert. This morning Sherry will have cleaned the apartment and taken away any evidence of Safiya. When he telephoned, she was surprised to hear about the robbery. She’d heard about an incident in Tobago; she didn’t realise he was involved.
‘What shall I put away?’ she said. ‘Safiya has clothes hanging in the spare room. A couple pairs of shoes. But what else?’
‘Just use your good sense. Anything that looks like it might belong to her—clothes, make-up, toiletries, pack it away in
my suitcase—the one I use when I go to England.’
‘How long they coming for?’
‘I don’t know, Sherry. We don’t know.’
As he drives around the front of the airport, he spots Georgia in her white trousers and pale T-shirt; Miriam, with her cowboy hat strung around her neck, is holding it all together. And he is hit by a huge wave of sadness. Miriam is exhausted, her eye is still bloodshot. She told him she cannot sleep for seeing the boy’s face.
‘It’s like a mask stuck on everyone else’s face. I try to rip it off but it’s always there in front of me. I feel like I’m going mad.’
Miriam has agreed to stay in Trinidad until the boys have been arrested. Their flights to England are on hold. Tomorrow she will telephone Georgia’s school and let them know she won’t be back for the start of term. Georgia is worried about staying too long; she doesn’t want her friends asking questions.
He tells Miriam, ‘If the police do their job, it should be a matter of days. Two or three, a week at most.’
‘What if they don’t find them?’
‘It can’t be that difficult.’
‘Are you going to call Nigel?’
He has thought about this. Nigel Rush could wade in, if necessary. But it would make him unpopular. For the moment he will keep Nigel in his back pocket.
Right now, following his suggestion, Scarborough police are conducting house-to-house enquiries in the town. Despite their laidback approach, today he is feeling more hopeful. He reminds himself, they have enough information; there are three witnesses, and possibly a fourth—if they find the woman at the ATM. His only frustration: Stephen Josephs is in charge of the investigation. But there is nothing he can do about that.
Raymond said, ‘The man is competent enough. He might not be your best friend, but he gets results.’
‘Results? Since when?’
‘Give him a chance.’
Martin said, ‘I don’t have much choice.’
They drive along the highway in silence. By now the sun is softening, hazy. He looks over at the hills, golden in this afternoon light. Everything feels dry, dusty, baked.
