‘Come join me anytime.’
‘I’m only good for sketching,’ Jon said. ‘But if you ever need someone to draw you striking it rich you give me a holler.’
When Song arrived back to the vicarage, Jingy was scrubbing his clothes. He watched her from the fence as she flung a shirt into a bowl of bubbles, raising the garment up to the heavens before rubbing the cloth against itself with clenched fists. He had a sudden surge of sadness, as if he was remembering the scene after Jingy had died. Song didn’t know why. Perhaps it was his way of steeling himself, preparing for all the people he loved to pass on.
She looked up. ‘So when you goin’ off again ?’
‘Who said anything about that ?’
‘I no fool. It’s a fever.’ She rinsed the next garment, slapping it down on a slab of stone, like dough. Her hands gleamed wet and raw.
‘I don’t have the fever, Jingy.’
Jingy let out a laugh. ‘A man’s got to live the life a man wants to live. It’s a foolish woman who chooses to get in the way of that.’
‘Could say the same thing about you, Jingy. What if I got in your way in the kitchen ?’
‘Father Holmes put wisdom and judgement inside a’ you. Now you got to decide your path. Whatever that path may be.’
Song reflected on the path he’d already chosen. Murder. Revenge. He didn’t dare think about that too hard, not with Jingy watching on. She was so intuitive she’d probably figure it out.
‘What do you think he’d have thought about my pork-knocking ?’
‘Ain’t no worse than nothing else.’
Song smiled. ‘I’m going to pay you, you know.’
‘For what ? Saying what you want to hear ?’
‘For washing and cooking and everything.’
She laughed. ‘Sho’ you will. If you got money to pay me, pay me. Some days you can pay me twice over to make up for the days you broke. Tough life pork-knocking. And you won’t need me to remind you a’ that.’
CHAPTER 14
Song had heard that Jesus had a few kids running about the west side of town. He tried to find out but nobody knew, or cared to know. Instead he went to Jesus’ favourite at Ruby Lou’s and put some money in her hand. He closed her fingers around the notes.
‘What you givin’ this to me for ?’ Lila said. ‘I ain’t family.’
‘I’m taking on his boat, his rusty tools,’ Song said. ‘I’ve got to give someone something for his old junk. And since he’s not here . . .’
‘He might yet turn up,’ Lila said. ‘Then he’ll show up on my doorstep wanting his money and I won’t have a penny of it left. You causin’ me more trouble than I already got.’ She reached out as if to give it back to Song.
He pushed her hand away. ‘He’s not showing up again, Lila. Take the money.’
‘Nothing could kill that man, I swear. Hard as greenheart.’
Song remembered Jesus’ hot blood between his fingers and pushing the knife in harder. ‘He owed you more than he paid you, I’m sure of that,’ Song said. ‘Take a night or two off.’
Lila smiled. ‘You’re a good man, Song. I know you’re not taken with visiting us, ’cept for the music, but I’m here if you change your mind. That goes for any of the girls. We like gentlemen. Ain’t many in these parts.’
She leaned towards him and kissed him on the mouth. Song could taste liquor on her lips, and he thought of his time at Josie’s on the bottle. He vowed he wouldn’t let himself fall apart like that again.
She pulled away slowly. ‘If you change your mind . . .’
‘Only for the music, Lila, that’s why I come.’
Song continued to Louis’ store. Song nodded at Bronco, who blinked slowly but gave him no more. He pushed open the door. The store was empty except for a short man buying ice. Louis was shaving the block and chips darted into the dark air.
‘Morning,’ Song said to the men.
Louis looked up. ‘Morning.’
The other man glanced across. Song recognised him by his profile. After all his visits around town with Father Holmes, Song knew most people by sight if not by name. This man was an odd-jobber. Upriver time to time. Didn’t drink much. Pretty wife but the skinny sort. The kind where nobody knew how she had managed to survive so many babies.
‘That’s enough,’ the man said to Louis.
‘Won’t be enough,’ Louis said, ‘but I’ll stop if you want me to. Cheap is cheap. Don’t come running to me when your drinks are warm and you’re breaking a sweat. Cigarettes ?’
‘Nope,’ the man said. ‘That’s it.’
There were two bottles of white rum on the counter. Louis started to wrap the purchases up.
‘Party ?’ Song asked.
The man looked up through a ragged fringe of jet hair. ‘Yan’s sister is in from Berbice,’ he said. ‘Having a few drinks if you’re passing by. Was sorry to hear about the Father.’
Song nodded his thanks. They both watched Louis put the wrapped bottles in a bag.
‘Word is you found something,’ Louis said.
There was a long pause.
‘You talking to me ?’ the man asked.
Louis nodded in the direction of Song. ‘Was talking to him. But he don’t seem to be telling.’
‘Me ?’ Song said. ‘I imagined you were talking to the man throwing the party. Looks like he’s the one celebrating.’
‘Them that don’t care to talk always got something to say,’ Louis said.
‘Not always,’ the other man said. ‘I know plenty of men who don’t find nothing and don’t want to talk ’bout finding nothing.’
Song looked again at the figure by his side in his tattered blue cotton shorts and white vest. He was wiry, but his shoulders looked like they’d been lifting and carrying all his life. His legs bowed out in the shape of a barrel. He looked hungry.
‘You know the river ?’ Song said.
‘Sure I know the river. Know the men on the river too. Some talk, some don’t. Don’t mean nothing. Some just like talking more than some others, that’s all.’
‘You going upriver again soon ?’ Song asked.
‘Upriver, downriver, wherever. Am waiting for work.’
Song liked the man’s unassuming manner. ‘Name’s Song. Not sure I remember yours.’
‘Chi.’ He pulled open the door and sunlight spilled into the store. ‘Come by tonight if you like.’
Song’s eyes followed the man outside.
Louis interrupted his thoughts. ‘You going up again ?’
‘Guess so,’ Song replied.
Louis grinned. ‘Fever burning you up, boy. You just got back. You going again.’
‘It’s just a job, Louis, not a fever.’
‘You found something ?’
‘Not a lot. But I will.’
Song put on a clean shirt and walked over to Chi’s later that night. He could not remember the exact house but neighbours pointed the way. It looked nice in the dark, but most houses did when the cracked paint and slumped roof were disguised by the night. There was a Tilley lamp on the porch throwing buttery yellow light on the damp skin of a few figures who were softly laughing. Song set to turn back. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be taking it easy that evening; he preferred to hide away with his raw memories a bit longer. But Chi caught sight of him.
‘It’s this house,’ he shouted. ‘You got the right one.’
He handed Song a bottle as he stepped up onto the porch. ‘Am I interrupting ?’ Song asked.
‘You’re welcome to join us,’ the other man on the porch said. He stretched out a hand. ‘Gloster.’
Song took it. ‘Song.’
‘I’m Dorothy,’ the woman said, lifting a hand. Her skin was the colour of honey and her hair curled under like Song had seen in advertisements for soap. He thought she was too beautiful for him to be around. Like he belonged somewhere else.
‘Gloster’s a businessman from Berbice,’ Chi said. ‘Dorothy’s Yan’s sister.’
Song nodded at them. ‘Nice to meet you both. How’s Berbice these days ?’
Dorothy spoke first. ‘Breezy,’ she said, with a voice that sounded the same. ‘Ever been ?’
‘Never been,’ Song said.
‘Mangoes and fresh fish. That’s Berbice,’ she said.
‘I’ve heard about those sweet mangoes.’
‘They’d make anyone feel better about life,’ Dorothy drawled.
Gloster continued with his story. Song noticed some kids in the shadows. Then Yan emerged from the house in a white cotton dress. She was skinnier than her sister, like Song remembered, and the dress hung from her shoulders like from a clothes hanger.
‘Hear you’re just back from the river,’ she said, leaning against the frame of the door. ‘You need some help ?’
‘You offering ?’ Song said.
Yan smiled. ‘I’d like that. But take my husband. He ain’t as lazy as he looks. Word is you’ve found a string.’
‘Hush, woman,’ Chi said. ‘Leave him alone.’ He turned to Song. ‘She’s a straight-talking one. No offence.’
‘None taken. Word travels quickly round here.’
‘Defreitas sisters say it as they mean it,’ Gloster said with a chuckle. Song saw him wink at his wife, and they shared a smile. Unexpectedly, suddenly, Song wished he had someone to do that with.
‘We’d be grateful for the money.’ Yan patted her rounded belly. ‘Ninth on the way.’
‘Just not sure I need help right now.’
‘You’ll excuse my fast tongue,’ Yan said. ‘Only thinking of the children and our next.’ She patted her belly again. ‘Chi’s come back from long trips before with nothing. Nothing don’t feed nothing. I’ve a feeling you’re a fair man.’
‘Nobody’s called me fair before.’
‘A fair man don’t have to be fair every day of the week,’ Yan said. ‘That’s too much to ask of anyone.’
Dorothy’s voice was soft. ‘Stop and start like a breeze, that’s more usual.’
‘You seen the red-eyed woman then ?’ Gloster asked.
‘Not sure I have,’ Song replied.
‘You don’t know about her ?’ Dorothy asked.
Song shook his head.
‘She’ll have seen you even if you ain’t seen her,’ Dorothy said. ‘The patron of pork-knockers. She lives in the river. Flashing red eyes. Come close to her, and you catch the fever. She’ll take everything off you that you find.’
‘It’s a story,’ Song said.
‘There’s truth in it though.’
The evening rolled by. It was warm and soft on the porch. Yan and Dorothy brought out plates of crab. The five of them crunched the shells, sucking the juices out of the pincers and spitting aside the splinters. Song wanted to feel at ease but couldn’t, and wondered if he ever would again.
Gloster continued with his tall tales of life on the coast. He had more stories than someone who had lived a hundred lives. He spoke of boats docking in Berbice with a thousand turtle shells for ballast; he explained new schemes for buying sugar in the future that could double your money; he told them about a Lebanese man found swinging on a rope outside his shop after he wronged a drunk seaman with the finest of fingers who could tie every sailing knot in the book with his eyes shut.
Song wanted to listen to all of Gloster’s stories yet at the same time he didn’t want to hear a thing. He looked across at Chi again. Song thought how he didn’t want to be going back upriver on his own right now. Maybe he could do with some company for this next trip.
After he left Chi’s house he wandered down to the river. The moon was up, reflecting chopped-up light on the water. He looked upstream into the darkness. Somewhere up there, he’d killed a man. Somewhere up there he was going to find gold.
As he walked back to the vicarage, he passed Josie’s. There was laughter inside, and shouting. He hesitated and then entered. It was busy. Maia was behind the bar, staring into the distance as she often did, with a misty look in her eyes.
‘Hello,’ Song said softly.
Maia looked his way. ‘You. Took your time. Been thinking about me ?’
Maia could make him feel good with a half-dozen words yet Song didn’t want to be there. ‘Just checking on you, that’s all.’
‘Well, I’m checked.’
‘I’ll be on my way then.’
‘You not staying ?’
‘Maybe another time.’
‘No time like the moment.’
‘I’ll be on my way.’
‘Another time then.’
A week later, Song and Chi left Bartica. They met at first light down at the dock. Chi was there first. He lifted his head as Song approached but continued to pack the boat. Song passed him the last few boxes down from the jetty, a canister of oil and some stacked sieves. Within a few minutes they had shoved off the bank and the boat slid into the river. Song threw back the rope. It landed with a thud, coiled on the jetty. Song felt nervous about returning to the place where he’d killed Jesus, but he had too much to lose to show it. He gripped the oars tight to stop his hands from shaking.
A paleness was arching into the east of the sky and seeping into the dark river water. A layer of mist hovered. The croaking frogs heard only at nighttime were missing a beat now and then, lessening in strength, yet the birds seemed wary to break the day. The river was silent save the water off the two men’s paddles.
They steered the boat close to the bank where the current was slowest as they moved up the Essequibo. Neither man spoke. They were concentrating on keeping the rhythm of their paddling. Chi was at the back, ploughing the water and choosing their course. Song sat at the front, keeping up the speed but stopping now and then to look at his notebook. He plotted any changes, wrote down where they stopped for the night, where the soil was softer or the rock exposed, and any changes in plant life. In between, he scribbled down notes about the birds he saw: dusky parrots and green-and-rufous kingfishers and stripe-backed bitterns. He wrote all day until it was too dark to see. This was how Song wanted it to be. Not random and faintly hopeful. He remembered what Mr Leigh had said to him. ’You’re smarter than all of those pork-knockers put together. You can read and write, you can figure things out differently.’ Song echoed that line to himself: he was going to do things differently.
As the light faded they pulled into the bank for the night. Chi moved around knowingly in the darkness, as if he already knew each place. After the hammocks were strung up, Chi crouched by the fire where the rice was boiling. He dug a spoon into the pot and lifted out some grains.
‘You know it all,’ Song said. ‘Why haven’t you set up on your own ?’
Chi swallowed the hot mouthful before he shrugged.
‘You’d make more money,’ Song said.
‘Sounds like Yan’s got your ear,’ Chi said. ‘Rice ?’
‘Sure.’
Chi passed him a plate. ‘You think I’m here on account of the gold everyone thinks you found ?’
‘Well, that’d be as good a reason as any . . .’
Song heard Chi chuckle in the darkness. ‘I’m smart enough to know that if you were so sure you’d found it, you’d be fetching it yourself.’
‘Maybe sure.’
The two men fell into silence. Song could no longer make out Chi’s outline in the dark folds of the night. But he ignored any jitters he had about Jesus coming out at him of the darkness, the weight on his back, the smell of burning skin.
For nearly a week, Song cross-referenced the notes he’d made on the previous expedition, navigating his way down the smaller channels, trying to remember the way one river bend looked compared to another. There were times when everywhere looked familiar, and others when nothing did. But Song pushed on, trying to ignore his doubts, just like Sammy had taught him. He used Mr Leigh’s compass for directions, and his own rough measurements of distance and time. By the end of the week he had found the site.
‘Here,’ he said, pointing with his paddle at the bank.
‘Turn in here.’
Chi dug in his own paddle to turn the boat. Song leapt onto the bank and tied them up. His hands were trembling. He scanned the trees, out of habit, as if he was looking for birds. He could feel his breathing quicken. Perhaps he should have come alone after all. Perhaps Chi would guess what he had done. Song cast his eyes over the area.
‘Time to unload,’ Song said, trying to ease the tension.
Chi was already unpacking. ‘How long you spend here then ?’ he asked.
‘Not long,’ Song replied. Chi was making him nervous. He was nosing around like a dog.
‘I’ll show you where we’re going to set up camp,’ Song said. ‘Not here but further in.’
Song walked through the area where he had camped with Jesus. He flicked his eyes around, checking to see if there were any remains of the fire, any sign of the scuffle, of the dark patch of blood on the ground.
‘Keep following,’ Song said. The once-beaten trail was overgrown, almost impossible to find. Song cleared the way with his cutlass. It felt good to be doing something physical. He took a swipe at a vine even though it was not in his path. It sliced clean in half but in the thick vegetation the loose stem did not fall to the ground.
‘Rough water,’ Chi remarked as they approached the tributary.
‘It was rougher before. Dead Man’s Bend, I called it.’ Song said. ‘Last place I saw Jesus.’
‘I think it needs a new name. I’m not superstitious but . . .’
‘Been thinking about that myself,’ Song said. ‘Omaia. I have a friend called Maia. Let’s call it Omaia.’
‘I could love this place more than my woman.’
‘Sounds like you’ve always loved the river more than your woman.’
It didn’t take long for the two men to find their rhythm. They spent their days at the river with their battels, swirling around the wet gravel from the riverbed. Song felt like time was passing in the same way, like the hands of a clock moving slowly around and around. It gave him time to think, perhaps too much time. Too much time to relive what he’d done at this place. They were working day in, day out, at the very spot he’d let go of Jesus’ body.
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