by Amanda Smyth
‘Mister, you okay?’ he says. He helps him into the pick-up truck, making room, shifting his cigarettes, tools, papers. He will take him to the hospital or wherever he wants to go.
Martin’s voice is thick. ‘Do you know the Dials’ house, on the golf course?’
‘I know it. Terence Monroe is watchman?’
‘Yes,’ he says, so grateful he could weep.
The world is still asleep. The land is as clipped and shaped as before; the track, as they turn on to it, is bumpy and rocky. The goat feeds under the mango tree, its rope stretched; the kids are lying in the shade. It is familiar. It is the same. All is as it was, and yet nothing is the same; everything is entirely different.
The electric gates are open. The Tucson is not there, only Terence’s blue car. No ambulance, no police cars. What does this mean? What was he expecting?
The mechanic pulls up and Martin gets out. From his apartment, Terence appears, his chest bare. He runs outside to the driveway, his face stricken.
‘Sir,’ he says.
Martin makes his way up the pathway to the house. Inside the veranda doors are closed and the metal shutters are down; the sidelights are on. Order has been restored—it is clean, tidy, smelling of bleach. And yet the room has the thickness of a morgue. If he were arriving here for the first time, he would know something had happened. He thinks: if the police were doing their job it would be taped, untouched.
He shouts, ‘Georgia,’ and limps through the house, catching sight of his reflection in the mirrored cabinet. One side of his head is covered with blood—a ghoul from the grave. He notices the cabinet is empty; the Swarovski crystals are gone.
Terence says, ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’
There is noise from the end of the corridor.
‘Georgia,’ he calls. ‘Miriam.’
A door is unlocked, Miriam appears and he sees that she is dressed in practical clothes—jeans, shirt and canvas shoes. Behind her is Georgia.
‘Martin,’ Miriam cries, and she throws her arms around him. ‘Martin. Oh God. We thought you were gone; we thought you were dead.’
For a moment they hold one another and he smells her freshness; her wet hair is cold against his face.
God have mercy. If there is a God, have mercy.
‘Come,’ she says, and helps him into their room where clothes are scattered on the bed which has been stripped; suitcases are open on the floor. This room, too, feels different. He drops heavily on the mattress, shivering; she wraps a blanket around him.
Georgia’s damp, tangled hair falls like a veil, and he pushes it back so he can see her properly; he searches her face as if it is a map to get somewhere. He scans for marks, bruises, discolouration. Her eyes are dark, her face is pale, somehow different, somehow younger. He knows he must look horrific, and he smells of piss, blood and sweat. He wants to tell her that he is so sorry for the way he looks—for frightening her.
He hears himself say, ‘Did the police come?’
Miriam says, ‘They’re searching for you right now. They went out looking for the car. I couldn’t remember the registration.’
‘There’s no tape. Did they talk to you both?’
Georgia looks at her mother.
‘Yes,’ Miriam says. Then she says, ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No,’ but he is lying; his head is throbbing as if something has fallen out of the sky and landed on it.
‘Where did they take you?’
‘A beach, a wasteland.’
Miriam looks at him with horror. ‘Why? Why would they do this to us?’
Outside an engine starts up. A lawnmower next door; guests must be arriving.
Life carries on.
He feels sick, and leans to one side and his stomach heaves. Onto the tiles, he coughs up a trickle of clear liquid.
Miriam says, ‘I’ll get you some water.’
I’ll go,’ says Georgia, her voice flat.
He thinks: she wants to leave us alone so we can talk.
‘Keep the door open, darling,’ Miriam says, ‘then we can hear you.’
Georgia’s footsteps flip-flop slowly along the corridor.
They stare at one another. The air is still, as if the world had stopped.
He says, ‘Miriam,’ and a shiver passes through him. ‘What did they do? Tell me.’
Miriam is unable to speak; she starts to cry. It is as he thought, he is sure of it. She puts her hands up to her face; her strong capable hands. Hands he knows well.
‘Miriam.’ Then he says, ‘Georgia?’
She nods, crying.
His head is reeling, vhoom, vhoom, vhoom. He pushes his fingers in his eyes. It cannot be, he thinks, this cannot be true.
No. No. No.
‘Who? The young one, the boy who was here before?’
‘Yes.’
He pictures the boy, his bug eyes, his lumpy hair. Barely out of school. An image flashes through his mind of the boy on the night of the boat incident, the way he’d looked at Georgia. Yes, Martin caught something in the boy’s stare, and he’d dismissed it. Instead of feeling alarmed, he’d felt proud. His daughter was a beauty; why wouldn’t the boy want to gawp at her? But he should have known. His instincts should have warned him. Or did they, in fact, warn him? Was his mind too preoccupied?
Did she see a doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘They took samples, swabs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘A clinic near the station.’
They look at one another. They keep looking.
Miriam puts her head in her hands. He wants to know more; he is afraid.
“How bad was it?’
‘It happened once. Just the boy.’
‘The others?’
Miriam shakes her head.
‘Did they give her medication? There’s HIV.’
‘The Medical Officer gave her tablets. She said they’ll make her feel sick.’
‘They can. But not always.’
Headaches, tiredness, dizziness, muscle ache. All these things and more. His beloved Georgia. His baby girl. He did not protect her. The room is moving around him as if he is on a carousel.
He says, ‘When did Terence come back?’
‘Around nine. We were in the den. We thought they’d all come back. He didn’t expect to be so late; his ex cooked him dinner. He called the police but they took a while to come. Miriam shakes her head in disbelief. ‘They told Terence to clean up the mess.’
‘Clean up?’
If this was England, the room would be immediately taped, samples collected and sent for testing. He must phone Raymond. They must get on to it, now. The boys can’t be far away. Tobago is small. They will find them.
‘Did you both give statements?’
‘Yes.’ Then Miriam says, ‘We have to get you to a hospital.’ The ambulance arrives, its siren whooping. Terence shows the paramedics into the bedroom; Miriam and Georgia stand back while they see to him. The two men are friendly enough. He is strapped onto a gurney and lifted through the house. Terence opens the doors.
They carry him outside into the bright sunlight; he looks up at the sky—a clear, cloudless sky, a perfect day for the beach. The crunch of gravel, the path where they dragged him last night, charged, thrilled with their luck. The doors of the ambulance flip open, and they step onto the ramp, and lower him down into position. It is swift, professional; he is grateful.
And he is glad, too, of the dark, the cool. His eyes are heavy, and he wants to slide down inside himself and sleep; for the blackness to come and take him. He can hear Miriam and Georgia; they are here in the back with him. Good, he thinks, they are with me. We are alive. They are putting on seat-belts. One of the seatbelts isn’t working properly. ‘You really shouldn’t ride in here without it,’ the man says. Miriam says it is fine. She will do without, as long as Georgia is safe. As long as Georgia is safe.
Terence will follow them to the hospital. He hears Miriam thank
Terence. Then, to Georgia, ‘Your dad’s going to be okay. We’re all going to be fine.’ He is glad of the sound of the engine, the motion of the vehicle as they accelerate. He will fall asleep—there is nothing else to do.
He is carried into Emergency on a stretcher. There are forms to fill in. Miriam, where is Miriam? The place is in chaos: an old lady is sitting in a wheelchair and a large pool of urine has been left on the floor underneath her. Chickens run about near the open doorway. A security guard with a machine gun stands nearby. People are looking at them. A beaten-up white man. What has happened here? Miriam signs the relevant forms, and the nurse makes a joke about the number of people today. Busy like Friday’s market. She tells them a doctor will come to the ward within the hour.
Beyond, into what feels like a labyrinth of endless yellow corridors, they carry him. He feels nauseous; they should wheel him on a trolley, not this jerking, jumping motion. He wants to know where his wife and daughter are? Are they following? How on earth will they find him? There is a breeze coming through the open windows and he is glad of it.
‘They’re right behind us,’ the paramedic says.
‘Can’t you put me on a trolley.’
‘They don’t have trolleys. You want a wheelchair?’
No, he thinks, I just want to get where I am going.
He is taken to a small ward with five other beds. An air conditioner throws out cold air and it feels like bitter winter. Better this than heat. A curtain has come away and he asks Miriam to take it down, he will use it for a blanket. There are no sheets. They help him onto the bed.
Miriam has brought clean clothes and fresh towels. She says, ‘I didn’t think to bring sheets. What kind of hospital has no sheets? They need to get you washed, cleaned up.’
For the first time, he notices her left eye is bloody, and there is some swelling. How did this happen? ‘Somebody should look at your eye, Miriam. Ask the nurse.’
Georgia looks around the ward. A man is lying on his side; his trousers are missing and there is blood seeping through a make-do bandage wrapped around his thigh. Why don’t they clean it up? The man looks weak as if he is dying. Opposite, an elderly man with a partly shaved head has a growth dark like a plum.
Miriam says, ‘We need to go and find a hotel—apparently they’re all full. Something to do with Carnival. If we go now, Terence thinks he can help.’
They are leaving? He doesn’t want them to leave. What if no one comes? What if he can’t find his way back to admissions?
‘Isn’t it better if we all stay together?’
‘Once we find somewhere, we’ll wait for you there. It’s best that way. We can’t stay at the villa.’ She nods to Georgia who is expressionless.
He reaches for his daughter’s hand and puts it to his lips, remembering too late that they are thick with bits of blood now hardening like scales.
He says, and his voice is weak, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Miriam puts her arm around Georgia’s back and they shuffle closer to the bed where he is lying now. And for the first time, he sees, just below Georgia’s jaw and at the top of her neck, a band of redness. What happened here? Is it from the boy? The grip of his hand at her throat? Did he hold her down? Filled with more horror, Martin wants to say something; he wants to ask her. But this is not the time. And his eyes fall to her chest, her sparkly belt; her childlike marrow hips. He wants to weep—for her, for Miriam, for himself.
From the corridor, a loud terrible yell. A man is shouting, cursing at someone. Georgia looks at the swing doors. On it goes from the corridor—a vile diatribe—and then it sounds as if the man is shouting the word cunt over and over.
‘It’s okay,’ Martin says, ‘he’s probably just drunk.’
He is still shouting but it sounds as though he is running and it is fading now. Yes, it is fading. Thank God. A madman, a drunk, that’s all they need. Scarborough Hospital. He remembers Raymond saying, you go there to die. Miriam is right, it is better if they leave.
He says, ‘Do you have money?’
‘I have my Barclaycard. For some reason they missed it. I cancelled the rest of the cards. You’ll need to talk to your bank here.’
She will call him later and tell him where to come. He will have to take a taxi. She gives him some cash—from her beach bag. Miriam is being efficient, holding it all together.
‘Is my phone in the house? Did they take it?’
‘No, I have it, but it’s dead. I’ll pick up your charger. If you need me, ring me from Georgia’s phone.’ She gives him Georgia’s bright pink mobile phone.
‘It suits you, Dad.’
‘I thought you might say that.’
Her face is pale; all traces of sun and well-being have gone. She is paler than when she arrived.
Miriam says, ‘I’ll let you know where we are.’
He notices her hands, bare, ringless.
‘They took your wedding ring?’
‘And my mother’s chain.’
He pictures the gold pendant: Saint Christopher, patron saint of travellers. The figure with a staff, and inscribed on the back: Si en San Cristóbal confías, de accidente no morirás. If you trust in St Christopher, you will not die in an accident.
They leave him alone; he watches them disappear through the swing doors; he fixes his eyes on the nearby window and the bony tree outside with its mass of pink flowers. His whole body is trembling. In his mind’s eye he sees—the villa at night, the boy, the flash of the cutlass, the little serrated knife, Miriam’s look of shock. Georgia away in her room, oblivious—doing what? What was she doing before they got to her? His beloved Georgia. If there is a God, if there is a God, then help them now.
At three o’clock, an orderly wakes him. He must get up, the woman says. He is wheeled down a passageway. Christian posters line the walls with rainbows and lakes and eagles soaring over mountains—A wounded spirit who can bear? A merry heart doeth good like a medicine. Proverb after proverb.
The young doctor is on a placement from Nairobi. A tall man with thick glasses. He says, ‘What war were you fighting in?’ Martin tells him what happened, about Miriam and Georgia. The doctor asks about his injuries.
‘Since I came here in 2005, I’ve seen a lot of this going on. The government should be doing more. It’s getting like Nairobi. Nairobi’s a bloody mess. These days they call it Nairobbery.’
Don’t worry, he tells Martin, he is an excellent tailor. He checks him over. He is bruised, yes, but nothing seems to be broken. He may have some internal bruising, a cracked rib or two, but this will all heal in time with rest.
He removes a piece of glass from his thigh; a sharp curve of bottle. It is excruciatingly painful. Martin asks if he can look at it, and he is astonished by its weight, the bloody effect like marble. The doctor washes the cut, carefully patching the torn skin back together. He stitches it quickly, efficiently, and covers it with a large plaster. He examines his head, shaves carefully around the bloody area; cleans the wound, dabbing and wiping, dropping the cotton balls into a plastic dish. In ten minutes he is finished stitching and snips the black thread.
‘You must have a CT scan,’ he says; the machine in the hospital is not working. ‘Go to Trinidad. Mount Hope medical centre will do it free of charge. If something is wrong usually there are signs—dizziness, vomiting, pain. Do you have any of these signs?’
‘No.’
‘It is not always obvious, so you must pay attention to anything different, unusual. It could kill you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Have you spoken with the police? They need to get a handle on these tourist attacks.’
‘I’m not a tourist. I work with the police in Trinidad.’
‘But you look like a tourist. That’s the point. They should be worried. The police do what they want. We had an attempted burglary last week, a policeman took an hour to come from the beach on a bicycle. It is a nonsense.’
The doctor tapes a large, th
ick bandage across the back of Martin’s head. As a precaution, he should probably stay tonight in the hospital for observation. He washes his hands and calls for the nurse. She will give him a tetanus injection, cream for his wrists, antihistamine for his bites, Band-Aids for the small cuts on his face and feet. There are painkillers; they might knock him out, but he will be glad of them later.
He speaks with authority, ‘You should go back to your country. This is not a place for people like you.’
After he has seen the nurse, Martin limps back slowly through the corridor—there’s no time to waste—holding his leg as he walks. He checks Georgia’s phone—a text has arrived. Miriam has sent details of the hotel. They are in room 302.
Miriam, his capable and competent wife.
Outside, music blasts from an old car and a crowd of young people stand around it, dressed for the beach; they eat from a cooking pot balanced on the bonnet. He thinks, This is a hospital, people are sick. Can’t they turn it down? A security guard stands by chatting to a friend. Why doesn’t he say something?
From the taxi, he telephones Raymond who is deeply sorry, as if this is somehow his fault. When news came in of a robbery, he’d tried to reach him. He’d been calling his mobile since this morning, but it was switched off, dead.
‘Tobago never used to be like this. What is happening with these people?’ He called Scarborough police station and spoke with an officer from last night. He understands that they want to keep the part about Georgia confidential, away from the press. Is there anything else he can do?
‘I’m going to the station now to give a statement.’
Martin asks if he will ring Safiya and let her know that he is out of hospital.
‘She probably knows something through the news desk; she might not realise it’s you. We knew there was a robbery, but there were no names yet. There wasn’t much information.’
‘Better that way,’ Martin says.
‘I understand.’
He hears Raymond lighting a cigarette. ‘Did you see them?’
‘I saw them. Clear as fucking day.’
Sergeant Usaf Rochford and Police Constable Curtis Willoughby introduce themselves. They bring chairs and take him into the interview room. He remembers this airless room, its poky dimensions; the framed photograph of the Prime Minister on the wall. The officers look him over—his shorts, the Wimbledon Tennis 2000 T-shirt and his sandals. They rest their A4 notebooks on the table and sit down opposite him. Sergeant Rochford remembers Martin from his visit over a year ago.