by Sean Russell
“I’m serious, Teddy.”
“I ent stutter, buddy. You plan how you gun do it?”
“Huh?”
“You got to plan it Phil. Or you want to go to jail?”
“Huh? Of course not.”
“Right. But you know that killing someone is bare stress.”
“What stress?”
“Yeah. After you kill she you got to get rid of the body, then depending on how you kill she, there is the mess that you got to clean up and the evidence.”
“Teddy! Are you mad?”
“Me? I ent the one dat gun kill she. You are! I only trying to keep a good friend out of jail. And then ya will need an alabi. I might be able to help you there.”
“Okay, okay. I see your point.”
“So you got the venue planned? How you gun do it? You got a unlicensed gun? I can’t you give mine…
Or you gun chop she up or poison she? I got some rat poison. You could have that. You gun do it late at night, yeah?”
“Teddy… I get it.”
“You sure? ’Cause on the phone it sound like if you did on you way. Now if that was the case the only place you would end up in is Her Majesty’s Prison.”
“You’re right. I was just so angry… I was going out of my head.”
“Phil, wha happen man? Talk to me.”
“Jade has been… unfaithful. She’s been sleeping with another man.” Phil’s face contorted with pain as he made this admission.
Teddy smiled. He appeared to be biting his tongue to keep from laughing. Phil was annoyed and embarrassed.
“Phil, you want to tell me, in all seriousness, that you want to take another human’s life because she had sex and you weren’t there?” This time Teddy laughed outright.
“Teddy. She’s wrong. She can’t do that to me.”
“She did. And furthermore, it happen to better men than you.”
“Wuh? This is my friend I hear talking?”
“Yes, your friend. Teddy… You get horn. You ent the first, you won’t be the last. Get over it. Besides, I know you ent innocent you self.”
“So you mean to tell me that if this happened to you, you would handle it so cool?”
Teddy took a sip of his drink. “Been there, done that.” He smacked his lips.
Phil felt somewhat insecure now.
“But you’re not married. It’s different.” Phil drank nervously.
“A horn is a horn. The Trinis even mek a song ’bout that.”
“I can see I’m not getting any sympathy from you.”
“If you want sympathy go an’ buy a greeting card.
I’m here to be your friend and I gonna keep it real.” Phil looked drained. He played nervously with the ice in his glass. Teddy took the glass away and poured him another drink.
“So what do I do now Teddy? I feel totally fucked.
I going out of my head. I don’t know what to do.” Phil drank from his glass again. He looked like he was about to cry. He was barely holding it together, just barely. Teddy regarded Phil carefully and decided to speak.
“Buddy, I know you’re hurting. But as the old people say, it will pass. This is the hardest time. The wound is fresh, and you real worried ’bout your image.
I mean, you are the Phil Ferguson, attorney-at-law.” Phil’s eyes sparked with life again.
“I know. I’ll divorce the bitch. She can’t be married to me after what she did.”
“That’s a more civilized response. Welcome back to the twenty-first century.”
Phil was animated now; now that he knew he was on a mission. His mind began to work again. Which lawyer would he use protect his assets? After all, he was the main income earner from day one. He would win this one, and he knew how to win.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
Amanda Callender was a bright girl. She was also very pretty, and she had decided early in her life that she wanted it all. She was not going to settle for living at just above subsistence level, working for just enough to survive and little more. Her aunt in Guyana had tried to dispossess her of any notion of being a top model or the like even though she had the look, the potential and the passion. “You will never be on TV like all dem girl. You gon got three children by the time you reach twenty…” was the typical response that Aunt Millie gave to Amanda whenever she talked about her dream.
Amanda had discovered that there were benefits to looking the way she did, and being built the way she was. She discovered that these attributes gave her power over men, and she was smart enough to figure out just how dumb men were and the lengths they would go to get their fantasy female. She also knew how to fight, how to run, and how to survive.
Late one night in the not-quite-suburban town of Albouystown, her life took an unexpected turn. She was 14, but looked like 18. She usually slept on the floor next to her aunt’s bed, since that was where there was room in the small, two-bedroom, greenheart house which she shared with eight other human beings and which she called home.
The house was located on a street with several others much like it—in the same state of disrepair. The living area stood on thin wooden stilts four to eight feet tall depending on the location’s propensity for flooding.
The walls were made of tired wooden lathes, weather-beaten without the protection of paint. They were so warped and sagged that you saw just a semblance of the original structure, much like an old leather shoe which gets round and amorphous, its original beauty and design now invisible. The street was strewn with refuse in many places, garbage collection not being a common occurrence at this geographical point. The fetid aroma blended with the pungent smell of the still water in the open canals that ran parallel to the street and that pooled in the large potholes that littered the street. There were no parks, no playgrounds, no lawns. There was work, there was hardship, and there was pain.
The night in question was one she would never forget. It had started out brilliantly. She had the bed to herself! For the first time in her life she would have the luxury of sleeping in a bed all on her own. She imagined how women like Tyra Banks and Naomi Campbell must feel living the life of luxury. She started to dream again that maybe someday she could make it big. Her aunt had decided to go to Linden, a town nearly seventy miles inland, to see the new grandchild and decided that Amanda’s two half sisters, who were younger, should have a taste of life outside of Georgetown, Guyana’s capital, where they lived. Amanda reveled in her thoughts. It was going to be so nice. She savoured the idea that she would not have to sleep in her usual station on the floor. She would not have to endure the grunts, the scenes and the odour of Tanko’s visits.
Tanko was Aunt Millie’s man. Aunt Millie did not officially have a boyfriend. She was a Christian woman, raising her nieces and nephews. Tanko was a friend who sometimes needed a place to rest his head on his long journey home after his courageous attempts at emptying Singh’s Bar of El Dorado rum at the end of a week of hard toiling. In return for his lodging, he tried to ensure that the place remained in a ‘decent’ state of repair.
Amanda hated Tanko. He was old—about fifty-three—dirty, and skinny with a big belly. What was worse was that he always stank of rum when he visited for his ‘rest’, and he hurt Aunt Millie and called her names like ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’. Amanda hated the way he looked at her, like he wanted to call her names and hurt her too. The worst thing was that he puked on her. That was the most awful thing that ever happened to her. It was not deliberate. He was drunk. He had completed his customary two-minute interlude with Aunt Millie, and as usual had collapsed on the poor woman. She had carefully extracted herself from under him and rolled to the side of the bed. Unfortunately, this was too much stimulation for his rum-filled stomach, so he emptied its contents on the floor beside the bed. Lying on the floor, willing herself to sleep, willing herself not to hear, not to smell, Amanda wondered why people could not turn off their other senses the way you could close your eyes. If she could only close her nose and her
ears, life would be much better; she could get some sleep.
She could not believe the smell as the vomit landed on her after exiting Tanko’s mouth. The stench was unbelievable. Rum with undigested curry struck Amanda on her face. She thought she was in hell. She felt sick immediately. She also felt rage. She cried and threw up at the same time.
Tanko apologized. Aunt Millie gave Amanda twenty dollars the next day. She told her it was from Tanko.
What the fuck was she supposed to do with twenty dollars? Twenty Guyanese dollars was equivalent to one US dime. She hated being poor. She hated being little more than an object. She would never accept this as her lot in life. Never.
Amanda knew what sex was. She had regular discussions on the matter with her friend Vashti.
Vashti was just one year older than Amanda, and had been a seasoned campaigner for two years, initially with her mother’s man. Vashti described the pain, rather the agony, of the ordeal. She also described the fear, the real terror she had for the man who forced himself on her at every opportunity until it became a custom. Then she lost the fear. Sex was nothing to her. She discovered how to use sex to get what she wanted—clothes, jewelry, or tickets to the big soca show at Thirst Park. Amanda took it all in. She also had instructional videos courtesy of Aunt Millie and Tanko. She thought that she would rather die than let a man have his way with her. Amanda thought she was in hell already, and that death could not be worse.
This evening she was not in hell. She was in heaven. She had the bed to herself. Wow! Top Model here I come! Amanda felt on top of the world. This was a sign; this hint of luxury was a signal that her life was going to change. Things were looking up.
Amanda fell into a deep sleep. She was dreaming.
The comfort of the soft divan bed with the lumpy mattress was unbelievable. It was sweet. She was intoxicated. She had wanted to stay up and savour it, but she drifted off to dreamland. She had just gotten a ticket to go to L.A. to be in America’s Next Top Model.
Her absent father had sent the ticket.
Tanko was also dreaming, but his eyes were open.
Aunt Millie had forgotten to tell him that she would be travelling and so not to come. It was 2:00 am, and Tanko was sweet as molasses, in that altered state of inebriation that comes before drunken stupor. That was not by accident. Tanko purposely held back on the rum. He had plans for Millie. He was set for a marathon this time, not a sprint. He was going to show Millie what he was really made of. He got the
‘coffin’ (a Chinese aphrodisiac similar to Viagra, but better) from Shah and he had swallowed it earlier, giving it enough time to soak in.
Tanko walked into Aunt Millie’s room. The boys were in the other room sleeping. They didn’t care; they were accustomed to him anyway. Tanko had a mild stirring in his loins in anticipation of his encounter with Millie.
On entering the room he became immediately aware of the empty space on the floor. No one was there, but then he made out a figure on the bed. He realized that it was Amanda and he became rigid immediately. In fact, he was so hard that he thought he was eighteen again. Oh God, he thought. I must be in heaven.
He had always lusted after Amanda. She was so pretty and that body she had was amazing. He kept imagining what he would do with it. He ignored the fact that she was only fourteen. He dreamed of the day or night when he could catch her alone, away from the protective presence of Millie. God had answered his prayers. Tonight was the perfect night. He had her all to himself and he was ready. He was going to fuck her ‘until the second coming of the saviour’. He was so horny that he could hardly contain himself. He wanted to jump right on her, but he restrained himself. He had to look at her face and body and remember this forever. He would not get this chance again.
Amanda was clueless and unaware of the impending situation. She was not fully back from dreamland. She was about to get on the plane, but somehow she was off balance climbing the steps to board. Oh no. This can’t be happening. Top Models don’t trip, especially in public. Something was wrong. She opened her eyes.
She was on her back now. But how? She usually slept on her tummy or on her side. Somebody had moved her. Recognition set in and with it anger, fear, and hatred. Tanko was on top of her, straddling her. He was distracted for the moment, hurriedly unbuttoning his pants, a task that proved more complicated with rum on board.
He then felt shocked. He had never felt pain like that. It felt like it went to the center of his soul, as if it was time to die. But there was another component that felt like someone had set a fire in his pants, just near his balls and his dick, except instead of flames the area felt wet. He saw the end of the scissors sticking out of his pants and Amanda moving off the bed. He was too shocked and scared to respond in anger. He might die, or worse, he might never fuck again.
Amanda cleared out immediately. She was on the road and running by the time Tanko’s screams introduced themselves to the neighbourhood. She knew she could not stay. The boys could not protect her. She ran to Mickey’s house. Mickey was her mother’s unsavoury friend. Aunt Millie had banned her from there, but it was the only place Amanda could go.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
Phil was feeling better. He did not feel good, but he felt better than he did that morning. Now he could focus. He had a goal. He could do something and stop playing the victim. Teddy was right. Teddy was always right. He was a good man. Phil shuddered just thinking about what would have happened if Teddy hadn’t called. His state of mind was so altered that he was likely to have done something stupid…
something he would regret for the rest of his life. He had not even made it home. He had not been able to contact Jade and it infuriated him. He was not ready to go back to his house. He felt that it would maybe haunt him. It was where he had received the call from Jimmy Cadogan and he just was not ready to be in that environment to feel the palpable reminders.
He took a drive and stopped at one of his favourite beaches—Miami Beach. He always wondered why it was called Miami Beach since it was on the South coast of Barbados. It was coming up to sunset and it was beautiful outside. He found a secluded spot. He got out of his car, took off his shoes and socks and walked onto the beach. The sand felt like silk as it caressed his soles and his toes. It was therapeutic. It had a calming effect on him. He gazed past the sand, past the shoreline over the sea, observing the colour transitions from aquamarine to light blue to deep blue as the water got deeper. In the distance, small fishing boats tethered off the shore of the fishing town of Oistins bobbed up and down gently in the water as if nodding in agreement in their own private conversation.
Phil lost conscious vision as he conversed in his mind. He would have regretted it if he acted on his impulses just hours earlier. Not the kind of regret he felt about his encounter with Amanda Callender, no.
Deep regret, the kind you feel when you get jail time or criminal charges. He recalled the encounter, the memory so vivid that it seemed to be happening all over again.
*****
“Mr. Ferguson. Ms. Callender is here to see you.” Phil was in his office about two weeks after his first appointment with Ms. Callender. He’d had time to think about it. He concluded that as fine as she was and as titillating as her behaviour in the office was, she was a nuisance. He was tempted to tell Sandra to send her away, cancel or give her some excuse about why he could not see her. However, he felt that this would be unprofessional and he at least owed her a face-to-face dismissal. He sighed quietly to himself.
“Send her in.”
Amanda walked in. She was stunning. She looked like she was set to go on a photo shoot for a high-end fashion magazine. She wore a crimson dress designed by Vera Wang. It was pleated below the waist and was above knee length, but not short enough to be a mini. It was narrow at the waist and crossed at the back to run over her shoulders and cover her breasts.
The material sat loosely folded on each breast. Only a woman with perfect breasts could dare to wear it.
/> They had to be firm, upright and just the right size to set the dress off. And set it off they did. It looked as if each one wanted to peek out and say hi, but was tactfully restrained by the red fabric. She wore red pumps by Stuart Weitzman. Her hand bag was to die for—a Coach, red with silver studs. She capped it all with a Sarasota wide-brimmed hat which was crimson with white trimming. Phil was taken aback.
He did not remember her to be so stunning, but he remembered her fragrance. It caressed his olfactory nerve as she stepped towards him and held out her hand. He took her hand and shook it.
“Good afternoon Ms. Callender.”
Phil offered her a seat and then sat down. He had to collect his thoughts. She had caught him off guard.
“Hi Phil. First of all, let me apologise for my hasty departure at our last appointment. I may have been a bit rude and I didn’t mean to be. The call was unexpected.”
“No apology necessary. It was obvious you were disturbed. The funny thing with cell phones is that the calling party often doesn’t know where you are or what you are doing when they call. I mean it could be an awkward time for you. Doesn’t matter to them, they just launch into whatever it is they have to say to you. They should have some courtesy and at least ask if it is a bad time to talk or simply say ‘can you talk now’.”
Phil smiled. He was already forgetting his mission and that Ms. Callender was a nuisance. She was so easy on the eyes… like fine art.
Amanda smiled back—a different smile this time.
Appreciative, not flirty.
“So about this letter you asked me to draft for you.”
“Sorry if I seem evasive. It’s a bit sensitive. You see, the client is a family member and so I feel very awkward with this whole situation.” Phil was a little perplexed. Ms. Callender seemed like a different woman from the one he met two weeks earlier.
“I thought about what you said and you may have a point. Actually, to be honest, I overheard two people discussing a situation in which one of them received a lawyer’s letter and, as you said, the person took it personally and was all hyped up and ready to fight.”
