by Jacob Ross
‘Thanks, what’s your name?’
He shrugged and walked on.
I climbed the only hill on the island they called Top Hill, crowned by a huddle of limestone rocks that overlooked the harbour and the ocean – now so bright in the morning light it hurt the eye to look directly at the water.
My phone buzzed. From Pet: Done. I sent her a smiley face.
When I was at the crest of Top Hill, I realised what brought me there. It was a memory of the time I saw Malan shoot a man.
It happened after a hold-up. Bank robbery was a new import from Vincen Island. It started when big business moved from the capital, San Andrews, to the Flatlands in the south.
With a big white beach to die for, a cluster of plush hotels beside it and enough space to put up cinemas and malls, the banks moved most of their business there.
The first time Vincen Island men walked into one of the foreign banks in broad daylight, pointed submachine guns in the faces of cashiers, grabbed the money and left in go-fast boats, drinking men in the rumshops talked about the robbery as if it were a promotion for the island. Camahoans were now worthy of the kind of heist they heard about on American TV or saw in the cinema. But when they raided the local credit union, it felt as if a first cousin had turned around and spat in our faces. It left Malan making finger circles on his desk for days.
We were having lunch in the office when a call came in. Pet picked up, said hello a few times. Frowning, she made a quick scrawl on the pad in front of her, then passed the handset to me, a finger on her lips. I put the receiver to my ear: very little background noise, just the occasional scuffle and a quick exchange of muffled words from a couple of male voices.
I pressed the secrecy button, lifted a finger at Malan. He hurried over. ‘You picked up the number, Pet?’ I said.
Pet raised the notepad and turned it towards me.
‘422 is area prefix for the Flatlands,’ I told them. I passed back the phone to Pet who kept it against her ear.
I told them what I thought. ‘Some clever person phone us but they can’t talk. They hoping we could figure this out from what we overhear. Hardly any background noise. No traffic, no wind… that mean is likely that the place closed-up: air conditioning, yunno. People in there, though; I hear a coupla coughs and a lil bit of shifting round. Three male voices.’
‘Digger, stop flyin and land!’ Malan said.
‘I believe is a hold up. Could be a supermarket. I don think so though – not enough going on. Is most likely one of the banks down there in the Flatlands. The fellas I hear talking got Vincen Island accents.’
Lisa was already reaching for the phone. Malan lunged and grabbed her hand. ‘Nuh,’ he said. ‘Gemme the Coast Guard. Tell them I want one ov them sprint-boat they seize from dem Guyanese drugs-fellas coupla months ago. Fastest they got. I want Spiderface at the wheel. Tell Spiderface we going to Kara Isle.’
Malan rushed into the back room of his office and returned with a long canvas bag.
‘What about the bank?’ I said.
‘I don’t want the bank; is them Vincen Island man I want.’
In less than fifteen minutes, the wind was pushing into our faces and the go-fast boat with Spiderface at the wheel was leaving a trench of boiling spume behind it. Chilman had recruited Spiderface after we caught him with a bundle of ganja in his hold. He was in an underpowered tub of a boat and yet we only caught him when he ran out of fuel.
‘The boy got talent,’ Chilman said. ‘To waste that in jail is criminal.’
Vincen Island was directly north of Kara Isle. Once the men left the bank, they would take to the sea. The rough waters of Kick em Jenny on the south-western side of Kara Isle was the fastest way back to Vincen Island.
We were on Kara Isle in forty-five minutes. Malan and I hit the jetty running while Spiderface sat in the boat with the engines turning over. We sprinted through the little town and up the chalky slope of Top Hill.
With a full view of the south-western approach in front of us, Malan withdrew his Sig Sauer, laid it at his feet and began to unpack the bag he’d brought with him.
‘We twenty five minutes ahead,’ he said. ‘Give or take five.’ He looked at me. ‘I work it out, Digson. I work it out to the last ‘t’. Let them fuckers come.’
I could not help admiring Malan’s thinking.
The gun was an M24-SWS. I’d only seen this model in the trade magazines that landed on my desk every couple of months. I did not know the Department owned one.
‘Where that come from?’ I asked
‘I had it ordered.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I decide we need it.’ Malan laid the bag at his feet and, without taking his eyes off me, began reeling off the specs while packing the magazine with shells.
‘SWS, that mean Sniper Weapon System, Digson. Bolt action. Five rounds. Twenty rounds per minute. A coupla inches under four foot long. This girl weigh sixteen pounds when you dress ’er up with optical sight, bi-pod and magazine on full load.
‘338 Lapua Magnum bullets is what I feedin she today. Effective firing range just under a mile – that’s what the instruction book say. Instruction book lie. With this,’ he nudged the telescopic sight. ‘I could make it reach a mile. Just watch.’
He settled himself on his stomach the stock of the rifle pressed into his shoulders, the muzzle steadied on the splayed bi-pods.
I spotted a grey dot emerging from around the cluster of little islands we called The Cousins.
‘They coming,’ I said.
‘Digger, shut your mouth.’
The boat grew quickly. By the time I had a full frontal view, it was about three-quarters of a mile away and coming fast.
Malan raised his head just once, threw me a backward glance. Then he slipped a finger through the trigger guard.
The rifle spat once – a harsh metallic bark, convulsing Malan’s shoulder. Malan came to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips. The boat came on, a widening scarf of water trailing behind it. I thought he’d changed his mind or missed. Malan was brushing his hands and attending to his clothes when the boat swung left in a tight half-circle and struck a swell full on. The waters folded over it.
Malan threw a quick dark glance across the water. ‘Good driver,’ he said. ‘I give im that.’ He lifted his chin at the town below. ‘They have nice fry-fish down there, Digger. Ever try Kara Isle fry-fish?’
I remember watching him eat, fingers picking clean the bony fish. He caught me staring at his hands.
‘Digson, what wrong?’
‘I thinking about the report I have to write.’
‘Easy, man!’ Malan licked his fingers and grinned at me. ‘Felons caught sight of us on the hill; they start firing. Me – in my capacity as Chief Officer and upholder of the peace, and in the interest of public safety – I return fire. Besides, where you think they goin find dem in that shark-water there!’ Malan raised a brow at me, ‘Or mebbe you worryin where all dat money gone? Well, fella, money’s ink-and-paper. They could always print more.’
I pushed the incident from my thoughts and descended Top Hill under a blistering sun.
I turned into the guest house, wondering where to start my inquiries on this little island of tight-lipped people who had no time for strangers.
Wilting bougainvillea – a fine coating of sand on their papery petals – lined the dusty driveway. Two arthritic sea-island cotton trees supported themselves against one wall of the building.
The elderly woman who owned the place looked as if she were made for the conditions here: dry-skinned and locked-in, scant words, prickly as a cactus. When she checked me in the day before, she barely looked at me.
She was in the kitchen when I walked in.
‘You didn find them, not so?’ The smile on her face threw me completely.
‘Them?’ I queried.
‘Cuffy say you been lookin for your family?’
She smiled at my confusion. ‘Cuffy the lil boy who
bring me fish most mornings. His father got a boat. They my family. He say them Chilman is your people and you been askin about them?’
‘Yes, Miss… erm.’
‘Bucky. Bucky is my name. Is hundreds-a-years the Bucky famly been here. We blood not mix up and confuse like Camaho people. We blood pure.’ She pulled open the fridge door, reached in, straightened up and put a Guinness in my hand. She nodded at a chair. ‘Nice lookin boy you is. We Kara Isle people make pretty children. So, you say you’z a Chilman?’
‘We connected,’ I said.
Miss Bucky frowned. ‘Well I happm to know that all them Chilman migrate. Long time. De easiest one to find is Chilly because he livin on Camaho, an he’s a big-time policeman.’
She looked at me and smiled. ‘Me an Chilman went same school. H’was one class ahead ov me. Long time before you born, yunno… long, long time. When I see him leave, I was upset.’
I watched her face soften, grow wistful. ‘I was nineteen at the time when he start throwin pretty words at me. I give him a hard time. One time I upset him so bad, I make him cry.’ She chuckled – a young girl’s chuckle.
‘But is only a fool who didn know Chilly had to go. Every time he look across at Frigate Islan, I could just imagine what went on in his mind. Rememberin, yunno?’
Miss Bucky was the kind who didn’t require prompting once she got going. I sipped the Guinness and let her talk. No sign of an ole-fella around the place; no pictures on the wall of offspring either. Earlier on, I noticed that the back of the guest house was a jumble of discarded wood and broken breeze-blocks. Cracked tiles ran the length of the balcony floor. The bathroom tap needed fixing. She’d been balancing two rice biscuits in a saucer when I came in, along with a cup of plain hot water. Lonely, and diabetic.
I realised that Miss Bucky preferred the past; if she could return to it she would. Not only had she left her youth there, but all the things she should have done and did not have the courage to do, like following Chilman to Camaho.
‘Miss Bucky, you been saying Chilman left Kara Isle because…?’
She shook her head. ‘Most people ferget now. Mebbe even Chilly ferget.’
I smiled at her, ‘And you remember?’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said. ‘Is the best ting I got – my memory. I remember like yestiday.’
Miss Bucky told me about a Friday afternoon when six boys left Kara Isle in their skiff to tend their goats on Frigate Island just offshore. There was talk of a minister of government throwing a curry-goat party for visitors from Chile. Problem was the minister had no goats. He dispatched the Coast Guard to Frigate Island. The police took the goats; the boys put up a fight. Their bodies were never found.
Miss Bucky went to the fridge and took out another bottle. Her back was turned to me when she spoke. ‘Three of them boys was Chilman brothers. De other three was cousins. Chilman didn go with them that time because h’was sick with fever.’
Miss Bucky returned and placed the Guinness in front of me. I got lost for a while watching the sweat beads travel down the glass.
‘Y’awright?’ she said.
‘I awright.’ There was a small pulse in my forehead and despite the drink, I felt dehydrated. ‘He had a daughter born here, not so?’
I thought I saw a new alertness in the woman’s eyes.
‘What you know bout de, erm, de daughter?’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘Not much. She’s blood, so I ask. Word reach me that she kinda smart and erm…’ I was about to add ‘beautiful’ but checked myself. ‘She got a child, I believe.’
The grey eyelashes fluttered and when Miss Bucky spoke it was as if she were addressing something in the air. ‘Yes, the lil girl is my granchile.’
I was bringing the bottle to my mouth. I rested it back on the table and cleared my throat. ‘Grandchild?’
The woman worked her mouth into a tight twist. ‘She never let me see de baby. I don’t blame her. She didn ask for it, an Juba didn have no right to force heself on Chilly lil girlchile.’ She dropped her voice – low and plaintive. ‘After all this time people still saying he spoil her. But as far as I see, she not dead and she awright. De woman wouldn lemme see my own granchile. And is not as if…’ – she raised aggrieved eyes at me – ‘Juba didn pay for it. He spend nuff time in jail and he come out and he not causin no more trouble. And yunno, soonz he come outta jail, the woman tek up my one granchile and run off to Camaho!’
I glanced at my watch, stood up, steadied myself then dipped into my pocket. My stomach felt as if a stone had settled in it.
I took some notes from my wallet and placed them on the table. ‘That cover yesterday and today, including tonight, Miss Bucky. I jus got time to catch the afternoon boat.’
‘Everybody blamin me,’ she muttered.
I dropped a hand on hers. ‘My Granny used to say, you make your children; you don’t make their mind. Thanks for the ole talk, Miss Bucky. I gone.’
31
As soon as I landed on the Carenage in San Andrews, my cell phone dinged.
Dregs lukin 4 you. Call me l8r.
It crossed my mind that I should buy a present for Pet.
My bank was a fifteen minute walk from where I landed. I asked for Mrs Dessima Caine.
Dessie came out, swaying like a Royal palm.
When I sat with her she discarded the smile, lowered her voice and leaned forward. ‘What’s happening out there?’ She gestured at the frosted glass wall of the building.
‘That’s partly why I here, Dessie. I want to borrow money.’
All business now, she leaned back on her chair.
I told her the amount I wanted, what I wanted it for and why.
‘It’s a lot of money. Your job not supposed to pay for that?’
‘They wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not in their interest.’
Dessie looked at me for a long time. ‘Digger, this don’t make good business sense. From what you told me, you might not have a job soon.’
‘Add it to the mortgage on the house. Repossess me if I don’t pay back. What’s happening with you?’
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ She fluttered a hand at me. ‘I’m on the job.’
‘I serious. Anything I could do, Dessie – as an officer or as a friend?’
‘Digger!’ she hissed; she looked distressed.
‘Sorry,’ I said and sat back.
Half an hour later, Dessie was seeing me to the door.
I made a quick trip to the pharmacy and hurried out of town.
32
Digger, Malan here. What happen to your phone? We have to talk.
The paper sat on a brown envelope on the top tread of my steps, anchored there by a stone. I unfolded the note. The other side was a typewritten letter from Malan.
A letter in the brown envelope confirmed the date of my ‘hearing’ at the offices of the Minister of Justice, at which the MJ, Commissioner Joseph Lohar, Chief Officer Malan Greaves and two ‘concerned parties’ would be present. I wondered who the ‘concerned parties’ were. That didn’t matter as much as what the Minister of Justice would want them there for – no doubt to rubber-stamp whatever he had in store for me.
He’d given me fourteen days notice, effective from the date of this first letter. I had already lost two days in Kara Isle which meant I had twelve days to prepare.
I called Miss Stanislaus. ‘You still in the bush down there?’
‘G’day, Missa Digger. How are yuh?’ Her greeting was measured, reminding me of my manners.
‘I’m fine thank you, Miss Stanislaus. Are you, perchance, still residing in The Children of the Unicorn Spiritual Baptist Church on the banks of the Kalivini swamp?’
A string of chuckles filled my ear. ‘Eh-heh, I still here. Missa Digger, when you comin?’
‘Lil later,’ I said
‘For true?’ She sounded delighted.
A couple of hours later, I was with her in a corner of the yard in the middle of which two glowing coalpots spat fire at
the dusk. I smelled roasted sweet potatoes and Jonny-bakes. The children were animated shapes at the edges of the space, in a noisy tug of war with Watchman Pike. Pike’s trick was to make them laugh so much at his antics they forgot to co-ordinate their efforts against him. In the end he let them win.
The Mother sat on a stool, an ebony Buddha whose tree-trunk arms were moving over a small mountain of flour in a big enamel basin.
A woman dribbled water from a big tin cup into the basin. I’d noticed her before – tall, high cheekbones, lean-muscled like an athlete – all pride and presence. This one, unlike the others, did nothing to conceal her awareness of my presence.
‘Missa Digger…’ Miss Stanislaus pinched my elbow. ‘You got someting ’gainst de Modder?’
‘What’s the name of the woman pouring the water?’
‘That’s Adora,’ Miss Stanislaus said, but not before I caught the slightest spasm of hesitation in her voice. ‘Missa Digger, I been wonderin where you was.’
‘Miss Stanislaus, we have to talk.’
First, I told her about the findings of the lab. ‘Miss Iona was right; it wasn’t Nathan we found in Easterhall.’
I saw myself again standing over a table of bones, Miss Iona beside me. ‘Dat didn’t come outta me,’ she said, before hurrying out of the mortuary.
‘I want to know, Miss Stanislaus, how a mother could glance at a pattern of bones and know is not her child’s.’
‘Mebbe is the way all that furrin-sick learnin make you see tings, Missa Digger. S’far as I know, a yooman been is more than bone. A pusson can’t break down life to only that. Sometimes a pusson know tings, an they dunno how they know them tings. They just know. An it don’t take no hifalutin learnin to unnerstan dat.
‘Anyway, what make dat Trini place so sure is not Nathan? Trini people always get on like them know everyting. How come a likkle bit ov bone make them know so much?’ Miss Stanislaus sounded fretful.
‘You carry the people that come before you inside yourself. They there in the skin you scrub off when you bathe, in your spit; they even in your tears. Coupla thousand years from now, a pusson could find the part of yourself you pass on to all the children in your bloodline.’