Ashes didn’t say anything; he went and stood next to the less important hostages who were lined up, faces to the ground, behind the speaker’s chair. He decided it was best to keep out of the way of everything and everyone.
Hal returned from the hall. He’d made contact with the army and had an officer on the line.
‘Bring him,’ he gestured to a brother guarding the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister was clearly in pain. His face was bruised and bloodied from the beating Hal had given him. He was still lashed to another minister, leg to leg. One of the gunmen pulled them both from the row of others.
Hal went over to the Prime Minister and knelt very close to his face. ‘Now,’ he ordered. ‘Your troops are stationed outside. You are to command them to stop firing. Do you hear me?’
The Prime Minister looked like he might expire any minute.
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice muffled.
‘Okay,’ said Hal. ‘I have an army officer on the line. He is one of the commanders of your army and he and his men are stationed outside. Okay? Now. Listen, here. I am going to count one two three, and at the count of three I am going to put the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie to your lips. And you are going to tell this officer to call off his men and retreat. Okay?’
The Prime Minister nodded.
‘Otherwise we will shoot every one of you and throw your bodies over the balcony. One by one. Do you hear that?’
‘Yes,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘It will not be a pretty sight.’
The Prime Minister nodded again.
‘Clear?’ said Hal.
‘Yes, clear.’
‘Now,’ Hal said, and he stooped close to the Prime Minister’s head. ‘Right, the officer is at the other end. Tell him what I told you.’ Hal shoved the walkie-talkie receiver next to the mouth of the Prime Minister of Sans Amen, elected by the people for the people, a man who, it was commonly said, was a little stiff, perhaps, a bit like an old colonial. Ashes knew he was from a small village in the north of the island and had old-fashioned habits, old-fashioned ideas. He spoke very formally. He was a little bit out of touch, and he was obsessed with communists.
‘Go,’ said Hal. ‘Say it.’
The Prime Minister of Sans Amen raised his head and bellowed down the phone. ‘Attack,’ he roared like a lion. ‘Attack with full force. These people are murderers!’
Hal’s jaw fell slack. He dropped the walkie-talkie and stood up. He kicked the Prime Minister hard in the ribs. The Prime Minister howled.
Ashes stared. Every one of the brothers stared too. What would Hal do now? Were they to kill everyone? Would the army attack with full force? Ashes decided then and there that he would take no part in throwing bodies over the balcony. He would say ‘no’ to that. That was a crazy idea. There were women hostages. He would not be part of shooting a woman and throwing her body anywhere.
‘You have no concern, then,’ Hal said, ‘for your ministers, those inside here. You will get them all killed.’ And with that he aimed his pistol and shot two bullets, bam, bam, into the Prime Minister’s legs. The man screamed in pain. Ashes cringed. The bullets went through the Prime Minister’s legs, also injuring the minister he was lashed to. Both men groaned in agony, both men shot lame. Blood sprang instantly from their wounds.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Hal threw his pistol to the ground and stormed off, out of the chamber and back down the corridor.
No one said anything. Every one of the brothers went quiet and stared. Some ventured towards the windows to see what the army would do. Ashes went close to one of the windows too. He could see the figure of a burly, very large brown-skinned man dressed in high leather boots and army fatigues, a green beret on his head. He guessed this was the infamous Colonel Benedict Howl, the head of the army. Howl was receiving the news of the Prime Minister’s order to attack from one of his men. He was shaking his head, like this was not the right way to proceed. Howl then gazed upwards at the House and Ashes ducked from sight.
Ashes thought of his wife. Jade wouldn’t like any of this. In fact she would cuss him if she knew he was here in such a mess. How would he ever speak to her about this? His brother had been shot dead in similar action and now this. He wondered too about Fat Clay of Cuba, who had written about revolution extensively, a whole handbook in fact. The guerilla fighter is a social reformer, that’s what he’d said. Fat Clay had been asthmatic, true, so he wasn’t the best soldier around, but he’d been a lot better prepared for a revolution than this.
Jesus Christ was a revolutionary, thought Ashes. He had revolutionary ideas. The last will be first, the first will be last. Jesus Christ was a born socialist. And they nailed his arse to a cross. The Buddha was also a great socialist; Siddhartha Gautama Buddha ran away from his noble palace life, donned saffron robes and wandered about learning how to live from poor men. And they poisoned his arse too, in the end. The world’s great spiritual knights were often socialists on a quest for justice, Ashes had always understood that. And he had also understood that as a socialist too, he was above the average man in thinking, and to be above average was to think of others, not just oneself. That was the sign of a progressive mind. The self was selfish; a more developed man was one who could share his wealth and assets with others. And if he was to take his politics seriously enough, he could end up dead just like those great men. Not quietly dead either. All the world’s great spiritual socialists had been murdered horribly; they’d been tortured and he had come to know that it could be the same for him. River had been gunned down in broad daylight. The coroner said the doctor had picked twenty-eight bullets out of him. Fat Clay of Cuba was shot dead by the CIA and then they cut off his hands so they could prove he was dead. He was that dangerous.
Ashes had made a conscious choice when the Leader had called him up. You in or out? the Leader had actually asked him flat in the end. The Leader was testing him because he knew about River and he assumed he could ask safely. And Ashes had said, ‘Yes, I’m in.’ And he knew in his heart that to be right-minded and to pursue a righteous quest for socialist convictions he would need to make right actions, and sometimes these actions were dramatic and sometimes they involved bravery and bloodshed. And so he agreed to take these risks for a greater society and for others to live well. The Phantom would have made the same decision. Phantom and the Buddha, and Christ and even Frantz Fanon, the great Caribbean philosopher and revolutionary, might have picked up a gun. They were knights, spiritual men.
*
The brothers had gathered around the television again and they were waiting to hear what the Leader would next announce. Ashes was sure he would persuade the army to back off, that they held hostages and that they meant business. This time the Leader didn’t appear so calm on the television and Justin Samaroo next to him looked positively shaken. There was a fine white dust on his face. The Leader seemed tense and he began to read from a script in front of him, his face looking more and more agitated.
‘We, the revolutionary forces, are still . . .’
And then the Leader’s face and voice disappeared, whap, just like that. The screen turned to furious fuzz.
‘Eh, eh,’ said one brother.
‘What de ass . . .’ said another.
Hal made a low whistle.
The fuzz sounded loud, like a chaos from another galaxy.
‘Like he get vapsed,’ said another brother.
Ashes looked at Hal. He was shaking his head and his face was blank of expression, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened and so soon.
‘Jesus, Lord,’ said Hal.
The Leader had just been wiped off air.
*
Hal was on the walkie-talkie again. Ashes could hear the Leader erupting like a volcano down the line. Hal was angry too, and for the first time he looked uncomfortable, even scared. Hal held the walkie-talkie close to the side of his head and put his other hand to his eyes and rubbed them hard. He took off his beret and stuffed it in his army pants pocket and
Ashes thought Hal might cry. Things were that bad. The army had gone up to the big hill out of town, up to the old fort where there was a massive transmitter dish. They’d taken some television technicians with them. They had shut down the transmitter and so now the Leader could no longer broadcast the news to the nation that everything was okay and that the revolutionary forces were in control.
‘Damn them to hell,’ said Hal.
The gunmen looked at each other. Someone said, ‘The Leader gone?’
Another said, ‘Yeah, man. Like he get blocked.’
Ashes decided that it would be a good time to make a cup of tea. He left his post with the less important hostages and went to the tearoom and found some Lipton’s tea bags in a glass jar. Much of the parliamentary crockery was smashed on the floor, which he now realised was a stupid idea. Why smash up all the teacups, what was the point of that? He opened two or three of the kitchen cupboards and searched for a cup which wasn’t broken, finally finding a hand-painted mug. He put a bag in it and flushed boiling water into it from the urn. Cutlery had also been hurled from the drawers and he picked a teaspoon from the pile on the floor, rinsed it off and stirred a spoon of sugar into Hal’s tea. He dared not make himself a cup of tea. That felt too unsoldierly.
He found Hal sitting in the room in the back with the words Praise be to God written in Liquid Paper on the wall. Hal looked upset and tired. Hours now of this. It was 10 p.m. The army had come when they were supposed to be asleep; the Prime Minister had turned out to be brave. Now the Leader had been knocked off air and they were caged up. Even the teacups were smashed.
‘Here,’ he said to Hal, offering the mug.
‘What is that?’
‘Tea.’
‘I don’t drink tea,’ said Hal.
‘You need something,’ said Ashes. ‘The sugar will help.’
Hal looked up at him pensively.
Ashes handed him the tea but felt awkward. Tea was women’s business. He never made himself tea at home. His wife was good enough to make him tea.
‘Your brother done dead,’ Hal said as he took the mug.
‘Yeah.’
‘And so what . . . you come in here with us on some kind of family mission or something?’
Ashes felt embarrassed.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I figure so. You . . . knew River?’
‘No,’ said Hal. ‘But I hear he was a good guy. Wild.’
‘He was my older brother. I was fifteen when he died. I . . . never been the same person since then.’
‘Howyuh mean?’
‘I get sick since River dead.’
‘How?’
‘Wheezin and breathing get bad, and I get a pain right here,’ Ashes pointed to his groin. ‘It never go away. It get worse when it rain.’
Hal looked him up and down, thinking. ‘You two nothing alike. That is what I hear.’
‘Is true, I am quiet. I read a lot. They call me Books, sometimes,’ Ashes said. He couldn’t believe it, but his eyes were glistening.
‘Your brother was a hillsman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Boy, them boys was the real thing,’ said Hal with admiration.
‘Yes.’
‘Hillsmen. Flatsmen. Alluh them get shot in the end.’
‘Yes.’
‘The police shot up the women too.’
‘Just one of them. Bathsheba. She was pregnant, though. So they shot two persons in one go you could say.’
‘Lousy sons of bitches. Your brother was a hero.’
Ashes looked at Hal and he could see a kind of pity in his eyes.
‘Hal,’ he said, and he knew this was risky. ‘We have shot a woman too, you know. That woman next door. She—’
‘Look,’ Hal snapped. ‘Mistakes happen. This is warfare.’
Ashes shut up and tried to stay calm. Hal sipped his tea and looked far away and then his eyes went hard and he steupsed loudly. ‘Fock this is shit,’ he said aloud.
Ashes nodded but nothing felt clear at all. He had been disappointed in some of the brothers and their indecent and uncouth behaviour – and now it turned out that their well-laid plans had not been so well laid at all.
‘Our plans fock up real quick,’ Hal said.
Ashes nodded. Somewhere, he knew he was going to die. Maybe he even wanted to die the same way as River had, a horrible, noble, glorious death, the death of a fighter for freedom. He had achieved nothing much with his life so far. He had two wonderful sons, true, but sometimes he thought he would die from the pain in his groin. Only the beautiful saved him and even then, only sometimes.
Hal steupsed again.
‘What we gonna do now?’ asked Ashes.
‘Ah thinking,’ said Hal.
Ashes rested his rifle against the wall and perched on a desk next to Hal. ‘The army weren’t so loyal last time round. They mutinied and locked up their officers. I guess the Leader figure the same thing go happen again. The army leave us to it. But no. Now they capture us.’
‘We have the PM and we have important high-level hostages. We can negotiate,’ said Hal.
‘You really meant it about throwing the hostages over the balcony? If so, I ent doing that.’
Hal shot him a look of contempt. ‘We going to do whatever we need to do to get out of here. I’ll shoot you first and throw your damn arse over the balcony if you don’t shut up.’
Ashes went quiet. He didn’t feel brave. He was scared and unsure about being here; it wasn’t what he had expected at all. He suddenly remembered a famous spiritual socialist in Sans Amen. He lived in the City of Coffee in the south, but he was a labour man, a trade union supporter and a man of the people. The Leader knew him and liked him too; they had been part of a big leftist umbrella movement. They had marched together only recently, a street march against the cutting of the Cost of Living Allowance. Maybe he might be able to help them.
‘What about Father Jeremiah Sapno?’ said Ashes.
‘What about him?’
‘He could help. You know, negotiate.’
Hal’s face changed. ‘Howyuh mean?’
‘Everybody respect him. He could talk for us. Talk to them for us. You know . . .’
Hal nodded and looked far away again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ And then he reached for his walkie-talkie. ‘Come in,’ he said gruffly. ‘Come in.’
THURSDAY MORNING, 2 A.M.,
THE HOUSE OF POWER,
THE CITY OF SILK
Father Sapno was due to reach the House of Power any minute to help negotiate how the hell they would all get out of there alive. Ashes stationed himself close to one of the large stately windows of the House, and yet partially hidden in the shadows of the long drapes. A ceasefire had been agreed. It was as if they had made the city quiet, all that shooting and noise and then quiet. His groin ached just to see the streets so silent. This was a different city, scared of itself and held hostage. It was clear to him now, and to the others, that the people hadn’t risen up to join them.
Instead, people had already been looting. Out in the quiet dark streets he could see shops and banks and buildings and that everything had been smashed up; he could see towers of smoke down by the docks hanging over the city, still visible in the street lamps. But now these looters had all gone to sleep. There was no one picking about. A curfew had been imposed. A State of Emergency had been declared. Now the city was very still. Usually at night, downtown was lively, especially at the Square of Independence where the vendors sold swamp oysters and barbeque ribs. Now all was quiet and the city smelled of sea breeze and petroleum and burning buildings.
Ashes knew the city well. He was born here, up in the hills to the east. Born and bred son of the City of Silk. He liked it here and had never left the island, no need to. He could see the big wide world on television and he saw nowhere else too different and certainly not any better than Sans Amen. Sans Amen was one of the northern islands of the archipelago; the other islands which ran in an arc southwards were similar, in a
way, but also each one was particular. Some were more mountainous; one was entirely flat – that one was overrun by tourists. Different languages were spoken on the islands, Spanish, French and Dutch; each had its own creole language too. Trinidad, in the very south, had oil and carnival, it was the only island he was tempted to visit. Trinidad had also started the tradition of calypso, and those singers had always been – and some still were – revolutionaries too. They were the great bards of the Caribbean and they sang things like they were. They sang about life in the street and about corruption in their own House of Power. Generally politicians were afraid of them and what kind of songs they brought out around carnival time. Yes, he would like to go to Trinidad, if anywhere at all, and visit a calypso tent and listen to a great old calypsonian like Lord Wellington.
Otherwise, everything Ashes desired was right here. He hadn’t even seen much of the rest of Sans Amen itself. There were remote parts of central and southern Sans Amen he would never know or see, quiet sleepy villages in the old sugar cane belt; places where men still gathered in gayelles on basketball courts to stick fight and bet on who was the best warrior amongst them. There were masjids and churches all over the island, temples to every version of God. There were mountains in the centre, full of deer and ocelots, and there were swamplands full of howler monkeys and anacondas to the southeast, and plains which still raged with fire every dry season, generations after the cane fields had disappeared. There were small fishing villages on the southern and eastern coast he would never know. Leatherback turtles came to nest on the beaches on the north coast, though he’d never seen one. He was a humble town man; so was his family. His wife’s family came from nearby. It was like that – they were a clan, all neighbours. Everyone knew each other.
Then he saw the holy man. Father Jeremiah Sapno was walking towards the House of Power from the north side of town. The streetlights lit him up and it seemed like he was walking out from an orange haze. He had his hands in the air and he had a cross around his neck. He was walking down the street away from the soldiers.
House of Ashes Page 4
