A Kind of Eden

by Amanda Smyth

  ‘What is it?’ He checks the clock, it is 3 a.m.

  Miriam says, ‘Has something happened?’

  Georgia says she heard something. She isn’t sure if she was dreaming; it felt real. He hurries down the corridor to her room. The lights are on, and he checks under her bed; he looks behind the curtains, quickly scans the bathroom. He is reminded of when the girls were young and they woke with nightmares. Georgia was always more sensitive than Beth, harder to console, to reassure. This is how it’s going to be, he thinks; her world will be full of shadows; it will never be the same again.

  When he comes back, she is calmer, lying curled next to Miriam.

  ‘You’re safe here, Georgia,’ he says, ‘nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand? We have iron bars; burglar-proofing. No one can get through them.’

  ‘They got through electric gates.’

  ‘Only because they managed to steal the gate opener. Otherwise they’d never have got in.’

  He looks into her tired eyes. Why should she believe him?

  ‘If someone came to the door now, I wouldn’t let them in without checking who they are. In Tobago, I thought we knew them, because they got through the gates. They took my gate opener from the car that night I drove them home. Remember? So I thought it was Terence at the door; I thought it was someone who had an opener. That’s not going to happen here.’

  ‘What if they did get in?’

  ‘They won’t. No one is coming here.’ Then he says, ‘I have a gun. Remember that.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  He goes to the bedside table and feels inside the drawer; the gun feels cool and hard. He takes it out and holds it flat in the palm of his hand. Like an offering, he brings it to where Georgia is sitting. It is small, neat, no bigger than a bird. Georgia stares at it.

  ‘No one is going to come in here. Do you understand?’

  ‘Why didn’t you have the gun in Tobago?’

  Miriam looks at him as if to say, yes, why didn’t you?

  ‘Because I wasn’t on duty. I was on holiday with my family so I didn’t take it with me.’

  They all go back to Georgia’s room. Miriam will sleep in here, she says. They push the twin beds together. He waits until they are both in bed; he turns out the light.

  FIFTEEN

  The telephone wakes him. It is Usaf. Finally, five days after the attack, there is some news—a shard of hope. Yesterday, during their door-to-door enquiries, the officers spoke with a woman in her seventies, a grandmother. Her grandsons, two brothers, are away fishing for lobster since Friday. They left with a neighbour and are expected to return today or tomorrow. There was a photograph of the boys tacked on her kitchen wall. Usaf thinks it could be them. Something about the eyes.

  In his underwear, Martin heads into the living room; the curtains are open, Miriam must be up.

  ‘Where does she live? Did we drive nearby?’

  ‘Right by where the cow was tied. A little blue house.’

  He looks out at the sky, littered with shreds of white cloud.

  ‘Did you ask about the boat? Is it the same boat? Was it called Princess?’

  ‘She didn’t say what the boat was called.’

  ‘Where exactly are they fishing?’

  ‘She said they go all about. We think they might be in Englishman’s Bay. It’s popular for lobster fishing.’

  Martin ought to be encouraging but he can’t help himself. ‘What are you waiting for? Send a couple of undercover officers down there immediately. Contact the coastguard.’

  By now they could be anywhere.

  Then, ‘Have you spoken to the station down there? Is it in Moriah?’ He remembers the station. A tatty-looking place.

  ‘No, sir. Not yet. I wanted to let you know first.’

  He makes a huh sound at the back of his throat. He must try to be patient; Usaf is doing his best.

  ‘The lady indicated they would definitely be back today or tomorrow, so we will check back this afternoon.’

  Indicated?

  Miriam is hovering, trying to figure out what is going on.

  Martin says, ‘Look, you need to search the coast. I’ve described the boat, you know what it’s called. It’s simple. When they hear the police are asking questions, they’ll disappear. We don’t have time to waste.’ Then he asks, ‘What about the advice slips from the ATM?’

  ‘Sir, we can proceed without them.’

  ‘Fingerprints. They’ll be full of fingerprints. You need to sift through them. Use Ninhydrin solution.’ Then, ‘You have the rape kit, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  In Trinidad it is common for evidence to go missing—guns, knives, machetes.

  ‘What about the woman at the ATM?’

  ‘We haven’t yet located the lady, sir. We’re still making enquiries.’

  He asks to speak to Stephen Josephs. ‘Is he there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Then, ‘Hold a minute.’

  He is kept waiting; Miriam is sitting with him now. He puts the phone on loudspeaker. Eventually, Stephen picks up. He is friendly, as if they are old pals; he is sorry, he says, to hear about their recent trouble.

  Martin says, ‘When we left it seemed like a matter of course, just a question of locating the boys. We know who they are, we know where they live.’

  ‘We might suspect who they are, but we don’t know where they are right now. That’s our problem, Martin. As you know, Tobago is a small island but there are plenty places to hide.’

  Stephen’s tone is supercilious. Martin had forgotten how irritating he is. He finds himself trying to get him on side. It is uncomfortable.

  ‘That may be true, but we need to act quickly,’ Martin says. ‘They could hide out somewhere for days, weeks. They have money. For all we know they might have gone to Venezuela.’

  Stephen chuckles. ‘Venezuela? Why would they go to Venezuela?’

  Martin looks out at the yard; Fanta wanders under the tree, his orange coat foxlike.

  ‘It’s only seven miles from here. I told Usaf to contact the coastguard.’

  Stephen sighs. ‘Come, come, you should try to relax. You need to take care of yourself and your family. Take your wife and daughter to the beach, give them a tour of the north coast, take them to see the pitch lake, the Wild Fowl Trust. Trinidad is a beautiful country. Who knows when they will come back to the islands.’

  He is astonished. ‘They’re not here to sightsee, Stephen. They want to get back home to England.’

  In the early days as a young police officer, he often despaired at the world around him: the woman who held down her five-year-old daughter so her partner could have sex with her. A man who cut off his wife’s fingers for coming home late from a party. The family of four who fell from their rowing boat into the river; the father had been made redundant, and, depressed, took them all out in a boat in a storm. The children were missing and presumed dead for hours. It was Martin who saw the nine-year-old girl’s body drifting in the ripples of the water. He jumped in and swam to her, dragged her heavy body through the rapids, and hauled her onto the mossy bank. He put his mouth on hers and started to breathe into her. All the time he could hear the rush of the water, feel her wet, cold skin; he tasted her vomit as he started to clear her passageway back to life. When she opened her eyes, and he knew she was alive, that he had saved her, he felt a profound sense of elation.

  Yes, he thought, this is why I do what I do. It was a turning point for him. A kind of epiphany. It gave his life a new meaning.

  He wonders if Stephen Josephs has ever had an experience like that. He suspects not.

  Later, he tells Raymond. ‘I want to shake the man.’

  ‘I’ve known him for years, Stephen has never liked outside pressure. He’s always been that way. Try not to take it personally; let them get on with it.’

  ‘They don’t have any kind of strategy. He told me to take Miriam and Georgia to the fucking beach.’

  Raymond will speak to the De
puty Police Commissioner. He can, at the very least, give Stephen a nudge. Stephen will realise that Martin is not about to sit and wait. If the embassy can also make ‘enquiries’, it might be helpful. Can Martin speak with them again. The press in England could get hold of the story and make it unpleasant for everyone. The tourist board is keen to avoid any negative publicity involving foreign nationals. It is the last thing Tobago needs; it is the last thing the organisation needs.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Raymond says. ‘I’ll see what I can do. You’re going to need to be a little patient. We can’t be seen to be offering special treatment.’

  The ceiling fan in the living room is inadequate and the sun blasts through the French doors, making it unbearably hot. Miriam complains—they will die of heat. They leave the air conditioners on in the bedrooms, the doors open, in the hope that the cool air eventually makes its way around the apartment. Miriam is surprised by how shabby the place is. Shabby? It has never occurred to him; he has been happy enough here.

  ‘I never imagined it like this.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know, something more sophisticated; something more homely. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a bachelor pad.’

  A dig, but he doesn’t rise.

  Since they arrived in Trinidad he has noticed a change in her, an absence of softness, except when Georgia is around. She is hardening towards him and he suspects that she is blaming him. He is not surprised. It was his choice to stay in the villa rather than a hotel, his idea to drop the boys home, and he—literally—opened the door to them—to their violence and rage.

  Yesterday, after they got back from town, and while Georgia was resting in her room, Miriam broke down and told him that one of them—the one with the cutlass—had urinated on the sofa where she lay. It was warm and pungent like the piss of a dog. He was shocked, dismayed. Why didn’t she tell him before?

  ‘What difference would it have made? I told them in my statement.’

  ‘Did he do anything else? What else haven’t you told me?’

  ‘He said they never came there to rape. It was only the boy. He wanted Georgia.’

  Martin lit a cigarette and looked out at the shadowy hills. He felt sick at the thought of the boy.

  ‘I don’t like you smoking,’ Miriam said. ‘It’s making me feel worse. Please don’t smoke in front of Georgia; it’s sending the wrong message.’

  ‘What kind of message would you like me to send to our daughter?’

  ‘She needs to feel we’re in control. When you’re smoking it tells her the opposite, that you’re anxious, scared.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  Georgia plays on her phone. It reminds him of when Beth died; she seemed to slip away then too. She disappeared into books. Sometimes she looks vacant, as if she has been emptied. At other times she seems calm and more like herself. There are spots around her mouth, and her eyes are dull as wood. The bruising on her neck is now a purple and yellow stain. She complains about the heat and says that the only way to stay cool is to shower. But he suspects this is not the real reason for the five or six showers she takes every day, he imagines this is the only way she can feel herself clean, fresh, free of the boy. She complains of feeling sick and lightheaded. Miriam has given her travel bands to wear on her wrists; they are, apparently, helping with the dizziness. Miriam is worried about her loss of appetite. She is already too thin; she tells Martin: Georgia is disappearing before their eyes.

  He telephones Ali’s Drug Store. The pharmacist is sympathetic. He says the sickness should last only a few days. Sometimes the nausea is partly psychological.

  ‘Your daughter must take the medication with her food; even a little bread or rice. Get as much rest as she can. She’ll feel tired and achy like she has flu. It’s normal. Give it another couple days and it should pass.’

  Martin is grateful to Fanta; he seems to be the only thing that makes Georgia feel better. Fanta follows her around the house, as if he knows of her pain; Fanta, his magic cat. Earlier when Fanta wandered outside, Georgia went looking for him. It was good to see her in the garden taking in fresh air, thinking of something else. He knows this much: whatever Georgia is going through, it is the start of a long and excruciating process.

  This is just the beginning.

  While Miriam and Georgia rest, he calls Scarborough police station. He speaks to the same woman; he finds out her name is Bernadette—the same name as his mother. He decides on a new, friendly approach. Does she know that Bernadette is a name of German origin; that it means brave?

  Today she is more co-operative; she makes a note of his questions. He tells her he would like an update on the following: the grandmother, the woman at the ATM, the artists’ impressions of the boys.

  Calmly, he says, ‘Ask either of them—Usaf or Curtis—to call me as soon as they’re back.’

  ‘They might not come in this afternoon. We’ll most likely see them tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you have a mobile number?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps you could alert them on their radios.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  If this was England, she would pass his call to someone else. Usaf and Curtis’s whereabouts would be written on a white board in the office. She could check their electronic diaries; call them on their mobiles.

  On the news there are new murders and, near the local pizza bar, an attempted kidnapping of an American tourist. A young woman with a young child is shot. So far the annual murder rate is up to an all-time high.

  Miriam makes a face. ‘Do we really want to see this?’

  Raymond tells Martin that maybe he should stop watching the news; that he is noticing these events more because of his experience. Perhaps he should try to put his attention on other things—recovery, his family.

  ‘I want some information, an update. I feel like I’m being taken for a ride.’

  ‘I’ve spoken with the Deputy. For the moment, there’s not much more I can do.’ Then he says, ‘It might seem like days are dragging but it hasn’t been long.’

  ‘They should’ve arrested someone by now.’

  ‘Maybe in an ideal world.’

  Martin says, ‘The point is, I spoke to Usaf this morning; he was supposed to ring me back. I rang this afternoon, and no one has bothered to return my call. I left a bunch of questions. They’re fucking useless.’

  ‘Try to keep your perspective. You’re looking at things from a British point of view.’

  ‘Exactly, that’s the problem; and I know how they operate. They’re on a permanent go-slow.’ Then he says, ‘My daughter needs to go home.’

  He keeps thinking about a young woman he once knew in Shrewsbury—Georgina Wilson—who was attacked coming home from a disco with a man she had met that night. On one of his first jobs, he was called to her flat above a florist in the town. He was horrified by her statement, and the medical report that followed describing the brutal, humiliating acts the man put her through. After the man was convicted, Martin took it upon himself to visit her. He liked Georgina—her sense of humour, her bright mind. They talked about music, films, politics. She seemed, to him, to be coping well; getting on with her life. But a year later she drove to the Norfolk Broads, parked her car, and waited for the sun to go down. In the darkness, she walked into the cold, black sea, fully dressed—shoes, coat, skirt and blouse. After a week, her body was washed up five miles along the coast. It had shocked him. He was so certain of a mistaken identity, he went to see her body in the morgue.

  Georgia, Georgina.

  He tries to put her out of his mind.

  SIXTEEN

  Jeanne lets them through their electric gates; she walks out to meet them, barefoot, white tennis shorts, a polo shirt. She has done something to her hair; she appears younger.

  She looks at his bandage and pulls a face.

  ‘Ouch! We heard there was trouble in paradise.’

  Before they came, he’d reassured Georgia: Jeann
e and Satnam know only about the robbery, and not what happened to her.

  Martin says, ‘It looks worse than it is.’

  He introduces his wife and daughter. Georgia stands behind Miriam who is dour in her jogging trousers, flip-flops. Miriam apologises for their clothes; when Jeanne called to invite them for drinks there wasn’t time to change.

  ‘You’re in Trinidad,’ Jeanne says. ‘You can wear what you like. No one stands on ceremony here.’

  They follow her inside to their open-plan kitchen where she opens the fridge and peers inside. She is easy, relaxed. Earlier she made some dips, she says. They are somewhere here.

  ‘What is happening in Tobago? You’re the second visitors we’ve heard about this year. Remember the German couple? But they were killed. The police never caught the guys.’

  From the living room he can hear music. Spanish, music usually played at Christmas.

  ‘Go inside and see Satnam, he’s hooked his new iPod up to the speakers.’

  She rolls her eyes, gives Miriam a look. ‘Technology confuses my husband.’ Then to Martin, ‘See if you can distract him.’ She holds up a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Coke for Georgia.

  ‘Great,’ he says, and they wander inside following the soft lights into the large American-style living room.

  Satnam shakes his hand; he says hello to Miriam and Georgia. ‘We heard the news. What the hell is wrong with these people? Did they take much?’

  He looks smart, in a long-sleeved, pale blue shirt and chinos. His grey hair is combed back from his smooth brown face. ‘There were three of them or four?’

  Jeanne carries a tray with drinks, potato chips and dips.

  ‘I’m sure they don’t want to talk about it,’ she says chirpily.

  He is glad of Jeanne’s charm, her easy manner. Tonight she exudes a warmth he hasn’t witnessed before, as if lit from the inside. Perhaps she is feeling sorry for them. Whatever it is, it is exactly what they need.

  To his surprise, she soon has Georgia playing a computer game; Miriam is sipping a glass of white wine by the open patio doors overlooking the L-shaped swimming pool. He feels relieved, grateful. Some normality.