by Amanda Smyth
‘Is this rush hour?’ Miriam says. ‘It’s awful.’
In fact, the traffic is no worse than usual; fast cars weave in and out ahead.
‘It starts anytime after 2.30.’
In front, a pick-up truck rattles along and the tray is jiggling around as if it might come away. Two young men without shirts stand in the back, holding on to the sides. They stare into the car as he overtakes.
‘Why do they have to look at us like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘You know what I mean. There’s something lascivious about them.’
‘They’re just bored, Miriam. And they’re probably tired, going home after a long day’s work. They’re not staring at us, they’re just passing time.’
‘They look at us as if they hate us.’
‘We mustn’t get paranoid.’
Miriam covers her face with her hands, and he is sorry.
‘Do you want me to pull over?’
‘No, I just want to get there.’
They drive past the big shopping mall with its multi-cinema screens, shopping, food hall. He has been here with Safiya. It was a Saturday and she was feeling sad about her father. They wandered through the mall holding hands; something Safiya was often shy about. You never know who will see us. What if they tell my mom. But that day she clung to him. He remembers feeling guilty; he was profiting from her pain. They made love that night in a different, less energetic way. There was a breathy, almost spiritual element to their climax, and afterwards she wept like a child. It was a rare thing to see Safiya cry.
He wonders how the funeral went. Before boarding the plane, he had made an excuse to Miriam, and stepped outside to call her. He left a voicemail message; he wanted to let her know that he was thinking of her. She is young to lose her father, he thinks.
He checks the mirror for Georgia.
She stares at the pile of shabby government houses as they head towards St Augustine. A fire is burning on a patch of nearby wasteland. The leaping flames are a bright and brilliant orange. The kind of fire that could spread out onto the road, into the centre of the highway.
‘I used to live near here when I first arrived. It’s pretty rough.’
The fire seems to come from a burned-out car. Smoke rises up in dark swirls. It looks like it might have a long life. He thinks, in its own devastating way, it is beautiful.
‘Will someone come and put it out?’ Georgia asks.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘eventually.’
Sherry has closed up the shutters; the apartment is hot like a furnace. He opens them quickly; unlocks the wrought-iron gates, drags the plastic chairs into their positions. It is a habit of Sherry’s—she cleans the veranda but forgets to put the chairs back. It doesn’t matter how many times he tells her.
‘So this is it,’ Miriam says, and she glances at the pictures on the walls. There is a peculiar wooden shield from Guyana and a wooden dagger, a tribal piece, which he can see she doesn’t like.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘this is it.’
‘And these are the famous hills,’ and Miriam steps outside onto the veranda. She looks at the yard, the trees.
‘It’s like a desert.’
‘Until the rains come. Right now it’s the dry season.’
Fanta springs up from the garden; the cat has spotted him and is making his way through the scorched grass.
‘Hey, Fanta,’ he says, pleased. ‘Come and say hello.’
He strokes his back as he slinks by, and Fanta slows, rubs up against his leg. He squats and the cat rubs against his calf. Yes, Fanta is glad to have him home. He has lost weight, which is no surprise.
‘Georgia, do you remember me telling you about him?’
She gently pats the cat and Fanta tips back his head, shows his white throat. She whispers his name, as if trying it out.
Miriam says, ‘What will you do with him when you leave?’
This is something he’s never considered. Fanta will live with him and Safiya wherever they end up.
‘I’ll find him a home.’
Fanta lies on the floor and rolls onto his side.
Miriam says, ‘Otherwise, he’d have to go into quarantine. There’s rabies here, isn’t there?’
A beetle is lying on its back, legs wildly kicking. He wondered if Fanta has brought it in. He flips it the right way up. Fanta does not notice; he is lying down enjoying the attention.
‘He likes you, Georgia.’
It is the first time he has seen her smile in two days. She pushes back his fur around the mouth, and the cat closes his eyes in a kind of ecstasy. He starts to purr.
‘I’ve never heard him purr so loudly.’
This is true. When he first arrived, Safiya thought Fanta was mute; he had no voice at all.
In the kitchen, he opens the fridge. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ There is juice, water, beers. Sherry has brought bread.
Fanta wanders away. Georgia follows, drifting off down the passageway.
‘Water,’ Miriam says, following her. ‘Actually, if you have long-life milk, I’ll have tea. I don’t want that awful powdered stuff.’
‘Hang on, and I’ll give you a tour.’
But it’s too late; he hears the creaky door to his bedroom. And by the time he gets there, Miriam is already examining a stack of books at the side of his bed, some of which belong to Safiya. Sherry could not have known.
‘Caribbean poetry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know you liked poetry.’
She opens the cupboards and peers inside. Then she wanders into the ensuite bathroom. Sherry has put out fresh towels, she has scrubbed the bathroom floor. It feels fresh, clean.
‘This isn’t so bad, I suppose.’
Georgia stands at the window and looks through the curtains at the yard. The sun ililminates her face.
‘Open them,’ he says. ‘Let the daylight in.’
But she doesn’t. She retreats to the bed and flops down; her face is distraught. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels useless.
Miriam goes to her. ‘It’s okay, darling.’ She takes up Georgia’s hands.
‘What if they find out we’re here?’
Martin says, ‘They have no way of knowing where we are. Remember, we are looking for them—not the other way round.’
Georgia almost whispers—and she sounds defeated, ‘I want to go home.’
He sits down beside her. She looks at the floor where the light makes a yellow column.
‘We just have to be here for a few days to make sure they catch them. We want them to be caught, don’t we?’ He strokes her fair hair. ‘Then you can go home. Okay?’
With the wrought-iron bars, it is safe enough to leave the French doors open, and yet, before nightfall, he finds himself pulling them to, clicking the locks into place; he double-checks the side windows, switches on the security lamps at the back. In his cupboard, amongst his clothes, he finds his pistol, removes the case, and places it in the drawer of his bedside table. He has been thinking—would it have made a difference if he’d had the gun with him at the villa? The boys might have found it and used it on them. Things might have been worse.
The gates to the driveway are padlocked. For the first time, he uses a chain for the sliding lock—an extra security feature. Through the long sheer drapes, he can see the road, the lights of the house next door—Jeanne and Satnam. They must be back from their Miami trip. He is glad of them.
FOURTEEN
Raymond arrives typically early. He leans against the gate puffing on a cigarette. Martin unlocks the back door, flicks on the kettle. He switches off the outside security lamps. Fanta nips through the open louvers, no doubt ready for his food. Outside the sun is already bright and the ground is warm. Martin hobbles along the concrete, his feet still sore, shading his eyes from the brightness. Raymond’s car is running—he likes to keep the air conditioner on. They have spent many hours outside chatting by this gate with the engine running.
‘Boy, you look rough.’ He offers
him a cigarette.
In the last few days, Martin’s been smoking heavily. Georgia would usually give him a ticking-off, but she hasn’t seemed to notice.
Raymond locks up the car—he won’t stay long—and follows Martin through the gates, around the side of the apartment, carrying a sweet scent of aftershave. Whenever Martin is coming from England, Raymond puts in an order for duty-free aftershave and cigarettes.
The girls aren’t up yet. He’ll make coffee, they can sit outside.
Raymond says, ‘Any news? Have they found anyone?’
‘No. I’m giving them a couple more days. Then I’ll be on their backs.’
‘They’ll have their ways and methods.’ Then he says, ‘These boys are so damned bold. There were three of them, right?’
‘Yes, exactly.’
Raymond shakes his head.
‘It should be straightforward enough; we saw their faces, we know where they live.’ Then, ‘I keep thinking I’m going to wake up from the nightmare.’
He looks out at the garden, the wilting plants under the trees. Young Vishnu will come soon and water the yard. Everything is crispy. ‘I just want them caught as soon as possible.’
Raymond gives Martin an envelope: his new contract.
‘If you want to give it some thought, I’ll completely understand.’ Then he says, ‘Remember the British guy from Texaco who was attacked at Mayaro. He took a taxi from the hospital straight to the airport. Left his house, his job, his clothes, his car. Even his dog.’
Martin says quietly, ‘I live here.’
‘Good. They’re taking bets at the office you’ll be gone by the end of the month. I told them you were a sticker.’
Miriam appears in the doorway. ‘You must be Raymond,’ she says. She is wearing her white dressing gown; she looks surprisingly fresh-faced.
Raymond says, ‘I’m so sorry for what happened.’
She leans in the doorway, arms loosely folded. ‘Have you always lived in Trinidad, Raymond?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’m a Trini through and through.’
‘I keep wondering, if we’d stayed in a hotel it might have been different.’
‘These things can happen anywhere.’ Then he says, ‘At the end of the day, you were lucky.’
‘Lucky or unlucky? It depends on how you look at it.’
She looks at the yard, at two birds sitting in the birdbath. There is hardly any water, but they are making the most of it.
Raymond says, ‘Hopefully it won’t be long before they’re caught. I’m sure you’re keen to get home.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Unlike my husband, I can’t say I like your Trinidad. He’s obviously fallen in love.’
‘Well, Trinidad has a way of getting under your skin. For some people. I can understand why you don’t feel that way.’
Martin wonders whether Raymond will say something about his contract. It would be unfortunate timing.
Then Miriam asks, ‘Are you married, Raymond?’
‘No, ma’am.’
There are rumours that Raymond is gay—a criminal offence in Trinidad. He has talked about a girlfriend, a flight attendant who moved to Miami in the late ’90s, but no one else. In Trinidad, if you’re not married by a certain age it’s often assumed there’s something wrong. Gay or straight, Martin couldn’t care less, Raymond has been a good friend.
‘I like my freedom too much.’
Miriam half smiles; she looks disappointed. She probably thinks Raymond is a bad influence, a ladies’ man. It is Raymond who has kept her husband busy and away from his family. She will leave them, she says; she will make breakfast; check on Georgia.
The two men sit for a moment. Next door a radio starts.
Raymond says, quietly, ‘You haven’t told her?’
‘Not yet.’
From inside, he hears the water pump, and he wonders if Georgia is up and having a shower.
‘What have they said about your head?’
‘Watch for dizziness, the usual things.’
‘You should take it easy.’
‘I am taking it easy. I just hope they’ll crack on.’
He flicks his cigarette into the drain; the orange glow burns.
‘I don’t want to see you anywhere near the office until you’re good and ready.’ Raymond gives him a look, gets up and smoothes out his cotton slacks. ‘If you want a beer you know where I am.’
Raymond has known about his relationship with Safiya from the start; he had often joked that there’s no fool like an old fool. Martin suspects Raymond isn’t aware of how serious it is, that they are in love, which is probably just as well. Once when Martin returned from England and was feeling guilty about Miriam, Raymond told him, if you’re unfaithful abroad it doesn’t count. At the time he’d laughed, though he’d sensed Raymond was, in fact, serious.
They wander out to the gate.
‘When does the rainy season start?’ Martin asks. ‘Is it June?’
‘May, June.’
‘It feels like it’s all about to go up in smoke, the whole island. I don’t remember it being like this last year.’
‘Well, it was. You’ve just forgotten.’
There is talk of driving into Port of Spain later that morning. He needs to go to the bank. When he’d called his branch from Tobago, they said he must come in: there are forms to sign, bring proof of identity; his new cards and chequebook will take a few days. He desperately needs cash. What can they do without cash?
Georgia says that she would rather stay at home with Miriam. She is tired. He tells her they don’t have to go for long. He would rather not leave them alone in the apartment on their first day.
‘Remember when we were in Tobago, you said you’d like to see some of the island? It’s not far into town. We can leave whenever you want.’
From the highway, the hills are brown and burned. The place is singing with heat—the light bouncing off the galvanised roofs, the roads dusty and parched. There are lines of smoke, little fires eat away the hillside. At the port, he slows for the traffic lights; a small crowd of vultures are gathered around a dead dog; like men in cloaks, they stick their heads in the ring where the corpse lies.
He drives slowly along the west side, and the sea is a metallic blue simmering with light and heat, the traffic is building up. Lunchtime. The city feels alive. Safiya is somewhere here. He wonders if he might spot her; she is often on this route. He looks for her car. What would they do? Wave? Toot horns? Right now, she feels faraway from him.
They drift into the cool white shopping mall.
‘Would you like to come with me to the bank or would you prefer to have a look around? There’s a bookstore upstairs. It’s pretty good.’
Miriam checks Georgia who is looking nonplussed.
‘We’ll come find you in a minute.’
From the bottom of the escalator, he watches them rise—they look the same, their slim frames, narrow shoulders. And he thinks, they should not be here, they should be back in England, feeling rejuvenated, energised by their holiday. It was not meant to be like this.
The bank is busy; the queue is long and slow-moving. He notices people staring at him. His leg is sore and he shuffles along the line; he should probably be at home resting but he is glad to be out. The apartment—a place where he once felt free—captain of his soul—is already feeling claustrophobic.
This morning when he woke he did not know where he was, the light coming through the mustard curtains, the strange yellow glow, and in Safiya’s place was Miriam, her arm looped around him. He was confused, and then the memory shot like an electric jolt through his body. He was so angry it frightened him. And at the same time, he felt an overwhelming sadness. Miriam told him, ‘We’ll get through this. We’ve been through worse.’
And he’d thought, yes, losing Beth was worse, but I could do nothing about that. This was something I could have avoided.
In the bookstore, Georgia waits near the door. Lost in her own world, she does not n
otice when he comes from the bank and stands beside her. He asks about the game on her mobile. She hasn’t stopped playing since yesterday.
‘Word Mole,’ she says, without looking up.
‘Is it like Scrabble?’
‘Sort of. With a stopwatch.’
Then he says—and he is unsure of his timing, ‘Are you okay?’
She looks up at him, her grey-blue eyes steady. ‘I just want it to be over; I want to go home.’
She lets him put his arm around her. He expected tears, but there are none, and he is relieved, though he knows that they are there and will come later. It is typical, he has seen it many times: in the early days of trauma, a calm, dry-eyed reaction. He has warned Miriam it will not last. And when the tears come, they will arrive like a deluge. If this was England, there would be a family liaison officer, a specialised unit to deal with their case, a twenty-four-hour victim support helpline. She needs to go home soon.
Georgia says, ‘I keep remembering how you helped them.’
‘I know, darling.’
And I keep thinking of how I failed you.
At the apartment, he telephones Scarborough police station. There is no reply. He tries again. A woman answers. She sounds so vague, he wonders if he has the right number. She tells him, there is no one available to speak to him until tomorrow.
‘Isn’t there a single officer on site?’
‘No,’ the woman says. ‘They all in a meeting over the road. Try back in the morning.’
The main police station in Tobago and there is no one to speak to. He can hardly believe it. Sherry once told him that she tried to report a stolen handbag at her local station but the police officer didn’t have a pen and sent her away. At the time he’d laughed.
‘I’d like to leave a message.’
He hears the woman suck her teeth.
‘I want to leave a message for Stephen Josephs.’
The sound of paper tearing; a scrap for her to write on. She takes his number and he wonders if she will actually give it to anyone.
He asks for her name, but it is too late, she has already hung up.
Later, when they are asleep, Georgia comes into their room.
