The Bone Readers

by Jacob Ross

  I winked at her. ‘So you see, Miss Lady, we like snail. We leave a trail behind until the end of time.’

  Smooth brown fingers rested on my arm. I caught a whiff of nutmeg and lavender. ‘Missa Digger, come siddown. I sure you not here to talk ’bout snail.’

  I filled her in on my restricted duties, the pending inquiry, the worry I detected in her father and finally the news release.

  ‘As far as they concern, Miss Stanislaus, you were never on that beach. That save Malan having to explain why a woman who not an officer could put a bullet in a preacher with a police gun. That’s the good part; the bad part is…’

  ‘Dey putting it on you.’ She stood up, her bag clutched to her chest. ‘Missa Digger, I have to…’

  ‘Do nothing. Else you make matters worse.’

  ‘But is de truth, Missa Digger. Is…’

  ‘Miss Stanislaus.’

  ‘You wasn even dere…’

  ‘Miss Stanislaus!’

  I laid an arm across her shoulder. ‘Miss Stanislaus, I want you to hear what I have to say right now. Is important. In law, truth is what the facts support. Truth is evidence, y’unnerstand? In politics, truth is whatever people like the MJ decide to make others believe, and sometimes to make that happen, they got to lie. They got to hide the facts. Right now is politics we dealing with.’

  ‘What Malan got against you?’

  ‘I just the ball that Malan use to bowl his bouncer at your father. You should know by now how Malan stay.’

  ‘That’s de problem, Missa Digger. I dunno how he stay. I still workin him out. Missa Malan is like dat swamp-water across dere.’ She pointed past the mangroves. ‘Hard to see the bottom, and the more you stir, the more duttiness you bring up.’

  An abrupt backward tilt of her head reminded me of that first time she confronted Malan in the office. The same slightly puckered lips, and unblinking eyes – now beautiful and disquieting with the reflected flames of the coal-pot licking at her irises.

  ‘S’far as I kin see is trouble dem askin for, Missa Digger. Dem askin fuh people to put some, uhm, how y’all say it again?’

  ‘Fire in their arse.’ I smiled.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she sniffed. ‘A lil bit of that. Or mebbe a lot.’

  ‘By my calculations, I don’t have long to try to save my arse. And even then…’ I decided not to say more – to tell Miss Stanislaus that it was a gamble. That I had to make myself believe she was not wrong about Miss Alice, Nathan and the children she thought belonged to Bello.

  ‘Missa Digger, you say you got restrict from work?’

  ‘Restricted duties, yes.’

  ‘From what time to what time?’

  ‘Nine to five – technically.’

  ‘So after five you kin do as you please, not so?’

  ‘Well, yeh…’

  ‘So you not restrict at all. When we start – tomorrow?’

  ‘Nuh, we start right now.’

  I dipped into the cloth bag I’d brought with me and pulled out the swab kit I’d prepared at home: a dozen little plastic canisters, a packet of cotton buds, a handful of small self-sealing sachets and a permanent marker I’d bought in San Andrews.

  I made my voice more breath than sound. ‘Tomorrow, soon as you get the chance, I want you to take some swabs from the lil ones you say belong to Bello. Find a way to do it without too much fuss. Maybe you ask The Mother to help out?’

  I slipped a cotton bud in my mouth, ran it along my inner cheek, placed it in the canister, closed it, then sealed it in the sachet. ‘Like that,’ I said. ‘A different one for each child. Keep them separate. Is important. If you not sure, throw it away and start again.’

  I looked into her eyes. ‘You could be holding my future in your hands, mebbe yours too. You got all that?’

  Miss Stanislaus nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow, when I come back, I want to talk to all of them about Nathan and Alice.

  I lifted my head at the women. They had doused the coal-pots and lit a bigger fire. A cast-iron pot, large enough to feed a village squatted on three hefty stones in the middle of the yard. Young children had made hammocks of their squatting mother’s laps. Bello had left his mark on every one of them; the whip-strokes that ran the length of Miss Stanislaus’s arms and legs were trivial in comparison,

  I knew them all, not by name, but as part of the clay from which I too had been broken. From the moment my feet supported me, I’d grasped the hem of my grandmother’s dress and followed her drumming feet in those beautiful and terrible dances of fire and release in Old Hope Spiritual Baptist Church.

  I angled my head at the woman Miss Stanislaus called Adora, took in the steady, watchful eyes, the raised chin. I pulled away my gaze, found my eyes colliding with the steady stare of Mother Bello. I smiled at her.

  Deacon Bello’s wife did not return my smile. Instead, the woman lifted a hand and curled her fingers in our direction. Miss Stanislaus excused herself, walked over to the big woman who placed her lips against Miss Stanislaus’s ear.

  She was fanning herself when she returned. ‘Missa Digger, I sorry to say The Modder ask for you to leave.’

  I straightened up, dusted my clothes. A first-quarter moon had broken the hills, stippling the mangroves silver. I started walking to my car.

  I heard my name and looked back.

  Hers was a dainty walk down the path towards me.

  ‘Missa Digger,’ Miss Stanislaus said, peering at my face. ‘Somefing botherin you?’

  ‘Miss Stanislaus, Bello dead; why all them wimmen still so jumpy? What keeping them from leaving this church and going off somewhere else?’

  ‘You not a woman, Missa Digger; these tings take time. Besides you not askin de right question.’

  ‘What’s the right question?’

  ‘Where else they goin to go? You fergettin what some-a-dem lef behind?’

  ‘Adora,’ I said. ‘Where she fit into all of this?’

  ‘Why you ask that question, Missa Digger?’

  ‘Because she not like the others.’

  Miss Stanislaus was silent for a long while. I almost did not hear her when she spoke.

  ‘Adora is the one who kill Bello.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ Miss Stanislaus said.

  Adora had moved to the far end of the yard, arms folded, face shadowed by her headwrap, her neck and shoulders sculpted by the firelight. A young girl leaned against her, hair pulled up in rough tufts and tied at the ends with bits of cord. Their aspects were identical. Faces closed against the world.

  ‘Adora not the kind to take no shit from nobody. Not for long. And seeing that she got a girlchile…’ I left the sentence hanging. ‘What I want to know is why she don’t move on.’

  ‘Mebbe she tired moving on,’ Miss Stanislaus said.

  ‘Miss Stanislaus, you ready to tell me how it happen?’

  Miss Stanislaus said Adora killed Bello for her daughter who’d run off with friends. The day before they left for Sadie Bay, the child had gone missing. Adora thought the girl had left the church, travelled back north to her great grandmother’s place. Her daughter had done that before. When Adora went to get her, she wasn’t there. The woman returned on the Sunday morning with no result, by which time the congregation had left the church for the Sadie Bay baptism. Adora met them on the beach. She asked Bello where her daughter was. Bello told her that she offended him. Adora insisted and he struck her. She hit him back. He knocked her to the ground and she stayed on the ground with a few of the Sisters tending to her. It was then that Bello turned on Miss Stanislaus, accusing her of trying to destroy his church.

  ‘When Bello start draggin me to the water, Adora break loose and throw sheself on him. Dunno where she got the strength. Dunno where she got de stone to knock im down with. She hit im an he never get up.’

  ‘Then you shot him to take the blame; I already work out that part.’

  ‘Nuh, I didn shoot Bello to take no blame; I shoot im to m
ake sure.’

  ‘Don’t tell nobody else that, Miss Stanislaus. S’matter of fact, I didn’t hear you say it.’

  33

  I don’t know how Miss Stanislaus managed it, but she got the samples from the children the same night I gave her the swab kit. She called the next morning, said she was at her place; did I want to collect them tings?

  She was waiting at the side of the road when I got there, the cloth bag in her hand. I opened the passenger door to let her in.

  ‘Missa Digger, you wearin new perfume?’

  ‘Fellas don’t wear perfume, Miss Stanislaus. Fellas wear cologne. Is cologne I wearing.’

  She held out the bag.

  ‘I want you to post them for me,’ I said. ‘How many you done?’

  ‘Eight.’

  I passed over the sample I’d taken from Bello, already wrapped and labelled. ‘This is from Bello. I been keeping it in my fridge. I asking you to go to San Andrews later and post them special delivery to a fella named Ramlogan, Chief Lab Tech in Trinidad.’

  I gave her the paper on which I’d written the address of the Forensic Science Centre. She dropped it in her purse.

  ‘It should be in their hands late afternoon today or first thing in the morning. I’ll call this evening and tell him to expect it. He’ll let me know as soon as they receive it. Then you’ll wire the fee to them.’

  I passed her the paper bag of notes. It was all the money I’d saved, plus the four thousand dollars I borrowed from the bank.

  Miss Stanislaus hefted the bag, dipped in a hand and fingered its contents. ‘Is a lot ov money,’ she said.

  ‘My life worth more than that. ’ I told her about the Watchman in the market square the last time I was there. ‘So you see, Miss Stanislaus, even if they only fire me in the end – I still got a problem.’

  ‘Is not right,’ she said.

  I touched her shoulder. ‘I easy with that, y’unnerstan? Right now, everything make sense. I realise it wasn’t Bello you was seeing when you shoot him; was some stinkin’ fella name, Juba.’

  She went still; her head dropped forward as if I’d struck her.

  ‘You got no right,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You and Chilman drag me into something I didn’t have no control of. Now I know what’s behind all this, I feel better.’

  ‘You still got no right.’ Miss Stanislaus swung open the car door and got out. I sat there a while listening to her rapid footsteps up the path to her house.

  ‘You forget to take the samples,’ I shouted after her. I was answered by the heavy bang of her door.

  The morning sun had just tipped over the Mon Tout Hills, I pulled out my phone, narrowed my eyes against the glare and dialled her number. It rang until voice messaging kicked in.

  ‘I sorry, I upset you,’ I said. ‘But like I say, I had to unnerstan what I dealing with. I’ll be at the church this evening. I need to ask the women some questions. If you not there, I’ll assume you no longer with me on this.’

  I took the bag of samples, and the money she’d left behind, secured them in the glove compartment and headed for the post office in San Andrews.

  34

  On my way up the West Coast Road, I thought of the places that Deacon Bello might have hidden Miss Alice and Nathan – that was, of course, if there was truth in what Miss Stanislaus said.

  I ruled out Bello’s own churchyard and the mangrove forest behind it. There was also the swamp, but he would have been observed by someone.

  Beyond the circle of hills that hid The Children of the Unicorn Spiritual Baptist Church were the lagoons of Fort Jeudy, overlooked by the holiday homes of foreigners. They were tended by a small army of local gardeners. I doubted that Bello would take the chance to discard the bodies there.

  In that state of mind, I saw the island differently – the potential of this buckled landscape for secrecy and hiding: the high mountain ridge that formed its spine; its gullies and ravines and rivers; its long leaf-tunnels created by the tight embrace of trees and ferns and vines.

  It took me an hour to get to Lonnie’s place. A wide sand road bordering the bay led me past wooden houses with their doors open to the ocean. Marais was like another country: closed-in, self-sufficient, its people as unpredictable as the sea on which they made their living.

  Four red steps led up to a veranda on whose walls were potted spider-plants. I nodded at the woman sitting on the high step of the house next door, an aluminium basin of parrot fish between her feet.

  I climbed the steps and tapped the door. Through the slatted blinds I could see the cushioned chairs, and just beyond, the kitchen. A plate lay covered on the table, a kitchen towel and a spoon beside it. Four chairs around the table. The woman on the step didn’t appear to be watching me, but her hands were poised over the fish she’d been de-scaling.

  I tapped the door with my keys and called, sat on the wall of the veranda and stared at the handle of the door. I would have gone in had the neighbour not now been observing me.

  ‘Lonnie,’ I said, ‘if you in there, come out and talk to me. If I done you something, I sorry.’

  No answer. Just the hum of the coconut tree above the house, the slap and sigh of the sea on the beach behind me.

  I stood on the steps a while, staring at the neighbour – all muscles and tendons and tufts of uncombed hair.

  ‘G’d afternoon,’ I said. ‘I lookin for Miss Lonnie. You could tell me if she around?’

  The woman dropped the fish in the basin and made a quick backward jerk with her head, in the direction of the houses further back.

  I stepped onto the path that would take me there, but she shook her head – a vigorous negation. I turned back.

  ‘Tell ’er Digger, her erm boyfriend, came to see her.’

  A chuckle left the woman’s throat. My limbs went heavy and suddenly my mouth felt dry.

  ‘Tell her that Michael Digson passed. Thanks.’

  She turned down her head to her basin.

  I reversed to the road. Sat in my car at the junction for some time, then made a three-point turn for home.

  I was passing through Kanvi Town when my phone buzzed. The number was withheld. All I could hear was low and measured breathing.

  I asked who it was and when no answer came, I said, ‘You left your back door open when you rush out of your house to hide from me. Sorry to make you leave your food, Lonnie. I won’t bother you again.’

  I tossed the phone on the dashboard.

  As I was entering San Andrews, the phone buzzed again. Number withheld.

  I ignored it.

  I was surprised to see Pet sitting on my step, a big brown envelope on her lap.

  ‘What bring you here?’ I said.

  She stood up and dusted her skirt, her round face a mask of concentration. I appreciated Pet; she didn’t bullshit and was not afraid of anyone when pushed. Malan told her once she was like me – pig-headed and insolent. She said she took that as a compliment. I remembered her fiery eyes and pouting mouth at that staff meeting when she responded to what was meant as a put-down.

  ‘What sweeten you, Digger?’ Pet sounded defensive.

  ‘Remembering you and Malan falling out. Staff meeting August 5th last year.’

  ‘Oh!’ She passed me a vacant look.

  ‘I’ll make us something to eat,’ I said. ‘I hope you hungry too.’ I opened the door and let her in.

  Pet sat at the table and watched me for a while, then she began looking about her.

  ‘Check out the house if you want,’ I said. ‘It belonged to my granny. I rebuilding it, or building around it, more like. How you got here?’

  ‘A friend drop me off. I bring you some stuff I think you should hold onto, Digger, just in case.’ She took the papers from the envelope and spread them on the table. Everything that concerned me and my job was there: my employment history, letters of congratulations and commendations I’d received after successful cases; Malan’s communication with the Justice Minister. There was
even a copy of my recent sick note to the department and Malan’s written comment doubting I was really ill. He stated that he had good reason to believe I was off the island.

  ‘I didn tell him anyfing,’ Pet said. ‘I dunno how he find out.’

  ‘Kara Isle is a parish surrounded by water.’ I said. ‘So, technically, I didn’t leave the island.’

  ‘Why Malan want to set you up?’

  I took out Malan’s typewritten letter ‘You know about this?’

  Pet shook her head. ‘Lisa must’ve typed it; is not on record.’

  I shrugged. ‘He’s apologising here. Didn’t intend for things to go this far, but procedures already start and is out of his hands now. He say he prepared to back me up. He want to meet me and talk over a coupla personal matters. He want me in the office.’

  Pet flicked a dismissive hand at the paper. ‘Is not on record; is not signed; no department letterhead. Malan could deny he ever write that.’

  ‘You don trust him?’ I said.

  ‘It don’t feel right, Digger. That’s all.’

  I shuffled a pack of CDs. Turned a couple of albums toward her. ‘How you want it, soft or hard?’

  ‘Soft,’ she said, trying to hide the smile. ‘Digger, the way you talk sometimes…’

  I fed the player a Dennis Brown and Gregory Isaacs compilation, turned down the volume and brought the stewed fish and provisions to the veranda.

  We sat and ate while looking down at the old cane valley. It was rampant with flame-coloured love vines. The air buzzed with the wings of ground doves heading for their roosts further up the valley. The sound of Old Hope rose and settled on the air, along with children’s voices.

  I told Pet about my visit to Lonnie earlier in the day.

  ‘Where she from?’ she said.

  ‘Marais.’

  ‘Marais!’ Pet sounded surprised. ‘You know what they say about Marais woman. They give you cook-rice to eat and you become their slave for the rest of your life because they make you chupid.’

  ‘She done turn me chupid long time,’ I said, ‘and she didn gimme no cook-rice.’