by Judy Nunn
Jealousy stabbed through Jean-François, and he stood frozen to the spot. Of course she glowed. Of course she was different. The two were lovers. She couldn’t hide her sexual awakening and the American couldn’t hide his dog-like devotion.
Marat’s jealousy turned to rage as he realised that his timing hadn’t been perfect at all: he’d left it too late. He should have come to her as soon as he’d heard the news of her wretched husband’s death; she’d obviously been only too eager to jump into bed with the first man on offer.
‘Everyone ready?’ She was bustling them out of the house. Wolf was offering to carry the child. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘thanks all the same. I need to be independent.’
Marat followed them out the door, barely trusting himself to speak.
‘Thank you so much for the flowers, Jean-François,’ she said.
‘May I drive you?’ he asked stiffly.
‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘The walk’s good for me, and it’s downhill.’
‘As you wish.’
He climbed into the Peugeot and watched them for a moment or so as they strolled down the hill.
Jean-François Marat did not return to Chanson de Mer that day. Nor did he return the following day, nor the day after that. He stayed in the small apartment above his office in town. The apartment which was reserved for casual liaisons, and which had not been put to use since his obsession with Jane Thackeray had consumed him.
He spied on her, and that very first night his suspicions were confirmed. The American returned well after dark. Marat watched him from the Peugeot, parked some distance away, well out of sight. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could tell it was Baker: he recognised the athletic build, and the easy confidence of his gait.
He watched the American glance about, then disappear amongst the trees and bushes that masked the path to Jane’s front door, and the venomous anger that had been building in him throughout the day threatened to explode. After all the groundwork he’d put in, he thought, after all the patient planning, the endless waiting games, this cocky young upstart had beaten him to it.
Marat wasn’t sure who he hated most, the American or Jane. She was a whore, he thought, and a stupid one at that. He, Jean-François Marat, had been prepared to offer her his world, to wait as long as it took for her to bore of her spineless husband, and yet she’d jumped into bed with a common young stud. The woman who had obsessed him, who had tantalised him with her grace and style and apparent inaccessibility, was no more than a slut.
He continued to watch the house well into the night, tortured by his imaginings. The passion that he’d sensed in Jane Thackeray was being unleashed at this very moment. He pictured her. As he watched the darkened windows, he could see her writhing beneath the American, moaning, wanton, finally awakened, and the image induced a jealousy bordering on insanity. It should have been his body she was writhing beneath, she should have been moaning for him. He’d been the one destined to awaken her, he’d had it all planned. He’d paved the way, and now this bastard American was reaping the benefits. Marat wanted to kill them both.
It was after midnight when he left, driving the short distance back to his apartment, where the images continued to haunt him throughout his sleepless night.
Marat’s jealous rage did not abate; it grew to all-consuming proportions as he continued to spy on Jane, studying her every movement.
On the Tuesday, she left Mamma Tack’s at around midday, just as she had done on the Monday. She walked up the hill to her home with the child, sometimes carrying him, sometimes encouraging him to walk. Was a rendezvous planned? Marat wondered. But the American did not appear, nor did anyone else. She spent an hour or so alone with the child, as she had the previous day, and then she returned to Mamma Tack’s.
The American arrived again that night, and again Marat watched the cottage in the darkness, his frustration and blind hatred festering.
The Wednesday was the same. Like clockwork, the patterns of her days and nights repeated themselves, and by Thursday Marat could stand it no longer.
Ronnie was playing outside on the verandah and Jane was in the kitchen, ironing the bed linen from the previous day’s wash, when she heard the knock at the door. She walked through to the lounge room and glanced at the wall clock. A quarter past twelve. Savi and Pascal were fifteen minutes early. How unusual. Unlike most islanders, Savi had a meticulous sense of time, as far as his lessons with Missus Tack were concerned anyway. She opened the door.
‘Jean-François.’
‘I thought I’d call by and enquire how you are,’ he said smoothly. There was a moment’s pause and Marat raised an eyebrow at her lack of courtesy. ‘May I come in?’ he smiled.
‘Oh I’m so sorry. Yes of course.’ She had no option but to usher him inside. ‘Forgive my distraction, it’s just that I’m due back at the clinic in five minutes …’
She wasn’t, he thought. She’d arrived home barely ten minutes previously, and she always stayed at the cottage for at least an hour before returning to Mamma Tack’s.
‘… not even time enough to offer you tea, I’m afraid,’ she smiled apologetically. She must get him out of the house at once, she thought, before Savi arrived. It would cause shocking problems for the Poilama family if Marat caught Savi visiting her when he was supposed to be working. ‘It’s very kind of you to call, though.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, seating himself in an armchair. ‘I am most concerned for you.’ He wondered why she was so keen to be rid of him. Guilt, perhaps? Did she suspect he had guessed at her affair with the American? Marat was enjoying her discomfort.
Dear God, he was settling himself in, she thought. Hadn’t he heard what she’d said? And the arrogance that she’d so disliked upon their first meeting was suddenly evident; he was taking no pains to disguise it with his customary charm.
Jane started to worry. At this very moment, Savi was probably walking up the hill with little Pascal. Then she reasoned to herself that of course Savi would recognise Marat’s distinctive black Peugeot. He would never call upon her whilst the Bos’s car was parked outside.
Her worry subsided. Indeed, she thought, it would probably be wiser to entertain Marat long enough for Savi to assess the situation and disappear. If Marat left now he would no doubt see father and son as they walked up the hill.
‘Perhaps I can delay my return to the clinic,’ she said, sitting in the armchair opposite him. ‘I have become so obsessed with work lately, it occupies my every hour.’
Not quite your every hour, slut, he thought. ‘Natural under the circumstances,’ he said.
Jane registered the sneer in his voice. It mystified her, but she chose to ignore it, her worry was for Savi, not herself. ‘I shall make us some tea after all, and you must forgive my rudeness,’ she said. ‘Then perhaps, Jean-François, you might drop me back to the clinic. That is, if it’s not too much trouble,’ she added with all the charm she could muster.
She was humouring him now. He wondered why.
‘I didn’t drive,’ he said abruptly. ‘I walked from my apartment.’ He had. He’d wanted no-one to witness his calling upon her. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know what the outcome of their meeting would be, but he’d decided to play it safe in any event.
No car, she thought, alarmed, no Peugeot outside as a warning to Savi.
‘You’ve not seen my apartment, have you, Jane? You should allow me to show you, it’s very much your style.’ Reserved for sluts, he thought.
She barely heard him as she looked at the clock. Nearly twenty-five past twelve. She rose and crossed to the front windows, although there was little purpose: the street was not visible from the windows, she could hardly signal Savi from afar. All she could do, she decided, was wait for his knock. Then she would open the door just a little and play out a charade for Marat’s benefit, pretend an unwanted visitor was calling. It would probably work. The Frenchman would be flattered that she wished to be alone with him, and Savi would immedi
ately recognise trouble. Pascal would be the problem. As soon as he saw her Pascal would yell ‘hello, Missus Tack’. In fact, if the child saw her at the window, he’d probably yell out before she had a chance to open the door at all. Jane hastily edged away.
She was nervous, he thought. Why? Had she recognised his inference about the apartment? And she was fluttering around near the door, perhaps prepared to take flight. He couldn’t have that.
‘You seem a little edgy, my dear,’ he said, rising from his chair to join her.
‘Not at all. Please do sit down, Jean-François, make yourself comfortable. Would you prefer a drink? The sun’s over the yardarm, as Godfrey Tomlinson would say.’ She crossed to the sideboard. She couldn’t possibly leave him here in the lounge room whilst she went to the kitchen to make tea, he might answer the knock at the door.
How mercurial her behaviour was, he thought. She was being girlish now, even flirtatious.
‘I’m afraid I have only sherry and bourbon,’ she offered.
Of course she’d have bourbon, he thought. Laid in especially for the bastard American.
‘That’s what he drinks, I take it?’ He gestured at the bottle.
‘Who?’
‘Your American friend.’
She was so thankful that he’d followed her away from the door that she failed to notice the irony in his tone.
‘Wolf? Oh yes, he drinks far too much bourbon altogether.’
It was a blatant admission, and Marat was taken aback, momentarily flummoxed into silence.
She picked up the bottle, raised a glass, and when he didn’t respond to the query in her eyes she accepted his silence as a yes.
‘Wolf brought it as a gift for my husband,’ she said as she poured the bourbon, ‘but Martin always maintained it was filthy stuff.’ She smiled as she held the glass out to him, hoping that he wouldn’t ask for any water.
She could mention the name of her husband and her lover in the same breath? Marat was astounded. How brazen. And then the thought struck him: she was openly acknowledging that he knew of her affair. And her smile as she handed him the glass: she was flirting with him.
‘I am of the same opinion as your American,’ he said seductively. ‘It is a man’s drink, do you not agree?’ He took the glass from her with both hands, his fingers encompassing hers. The bourbon was an apt symbol, he thought. Her ineffectual Englishman had drunk tea, but he and the American were made of stronger stuff. He stroked her fingers; he would share her with Baker if he had to.
Jane froze, unable to relinquish her hold on the glass. She was horrified more by the innuendo in his voice and in his eyes and the leer of his smile, than she was by the hideous caress of his fingers.
Marat knew, she thought. All her worry about Savi disappeared. Marat knew about her and Wolf. Quickly she withdrew her hand.
Oh yes, she wanted him, Marat thought. She’d allowed her fingers to linger that fraction too long. It was why she’d been edgy from the moment he’d arrived. Who would have thought it? Jane Thackeray was anybody’s.
He carefully put the glass down on the small coffee table beside the sofa. He no longer wished to own her, she was tainted goods, just another slut, but he was willing to share her, at least for the moment.
‘Don’t worry, my dear, it’s perfectly natural that you should seek some outlet, some distraction from your loneliness. I understand.’
She backed away from him.
‘And I will say nothing, you can be assured of that, no-one will know.’ He reached out his hand for her. ‘I just wish to comfort you, Jane, like your friend Wolf Baker.’
She was sickened. ‘Get away from me,’ she hissed. ‘Get away from me, Marat.’
He could see the loathing in her eyes, the disgust and repulsion, and he knew that he’d been incorrect in his assumption. She had not been flirting with him. She did not desire him. But he’d have her anyway, he decided. What could she do by way of complaint? Who could she go to? If she accused him of rape he’d make it public knowledge that she was a whore who’d dived into bed with the first man available within twenty-four hours of her husband’s death.
‘What’s the matter, Jane, are we locals not to your liking?’ His lip curled scornfully. ‘Are you keeping yourself in reserve for the Americans?’ He lunged at her. She was about to dive for the verandah to make her escape, but she hesitated: Ronnie was out on the verandah.
It was the moment Marat needed, and he grabbed her, ripping at her blouse, dragging her to the floor.
‘You love it, slut,’ he grunted as he hoisted her skirt up over her thighs. ‘Admit it, you love it.’
Jane fought back with every ounce of her strength, clawing at his eyes with her fingers, but he pinioned her wrists against the floor. She kicked out ferociously, sending the small coffee table spinning across the room, the glass shattering loudly as it hit the sideboard.
Then, as if the smash of the glass were a signal, everything happened at once. Ronnie careered clumsily in from the verandah, alarmed by the sound; Jane stopped flailing about, fearful that the child might be hurt in the struggle; Marat smothered her with the bulk of his body; and at the same instant the front door flew open.
Savi dived upon the man who was about to rape Missus Tack, grabbing him under the armpits to haul him off her.
Pascal grasped Ronnie’s hand, and the two of them raced into the kitchen where they hid under the table.
The man was powerfully built, strong. Savi could feel the weight of him as he dragged him clear. But Savi was strong too.
Marat came to his senses as he felt himself hauled to his feet. He was alarmed. Who had discovered him attacking the slut? Thrown clear of Jane, he staggered, off balance, and crashed against the sideboard. Then, as he steadied himself, he saw who it was. His outrage at the audacity of his servant was mingled with sheer relief.
‘Get out of here, Savi!’ he snarled.
Savi stood motionless, staring at the Bos. When he’d dragged the man off Missus Tack, he hadn’t known it was the Bos.
Surely Savi wasn’t disobeying him. Impossible, Marat thought. Then he realised that he’d spoken English.
‘Dehors!’ he ordered. A command he would have given to a dog.
The Bos had been about to rape Missus Tack, Savi thought. Still dumb with shock, he helped Jane to her feet.
The sight of his servant going to the slut’s assistance further angered Marat.
‘Dehors!’ he yelled. ‘J’ai dit dehors!’
Never had Savi disobeyed the Bos, but he stood his ground as he finally found his voice.
‘No, Bos, I will not go,’ and he moved protectively in front of Jane, ‘I will stay here with Missus Tack.’
The man’s perfect English was not lost on the Frenchman, in fact it seemed the ultimate act of insubordination. But Marat found Savi’s stance ludicrous, laughable even. No black disobeyed Jean-François Marat. Least of all Savi. Compliant, subservient Savi, who knew better than to bite the hand that fed him.
‘Now you listen to me, Savi,’ he hissed. ‘You get out of this house and back to your work where you belong.’
‘No, Bos. It is you who must leave.’
Marat was incensed. ‘You do as you’re told, you black bastard, or you’ll no longer work for me.’
‘I do not work for you. From right now I no longer work for you.’ The words surprised Savi as much as they did Marat. All these years he had protected the welfare of his family. Even when he’d known that the Bos was wrong he’d advised Sera, more prone to rebellion than he, that her masta must always be obeyed. But the Bos had been about to rape Missus Tack. There were some things one could not turn away from. ‘You must go now. You must go right now, Bos.’
‘You don’t tell me what to do, you black scum!’
All of Marat’s rage was suddenly centred upon Savi, and Jane, now forgotten, sidled quickly towards the kitchen to protect the children.
‘You hear me? You don’t tell me what to do!’ Marat strode t
he several paces that distanced them and shoved Savi in the chest. Savi staggered a pace back. ‘You get out, boy! You get back to the plantation and you get your family off my property or you’re all dead.’ Another shove, and Savi staggered another pace.
Savi didn’t want to fight the Bos. But he knew it was the only way. He darted a glance towards the kitchen. He could see the Missus peering through the crack in the door. His son was with the Missus, and little Ronnie too, it was the only way to protect them all.
‘You hear me, boy?’ The black was frightened, Marat could see it in his nervous glances, in the whites of his eyes. Each shove sent him another step back, he was nearly at the front door now. ‘Get out, you black bastard.’ One final shove would do it.
They were at the open door, as Savi had planned. He must get the Bos away from Missus Tack and the children. He grabbed the Frenchman and hauled him outside.
‘Fermez a clef! Les enfants!’ he yelled to Jane, unaware that he’d instinctively used his opponent’s language, as he wrestled Marat to the ground.
Jane raced from the kitchen and slammed the door shut, locking it. Then she locked the door to the verandah and held the children close to her as she listened to the men doing battle outside.
They crashed about amongst the trees and bushes. Marat was the stronger and the heavier of the two, but Savi was younger and far fitter.
He landed repeated blows to the Frenchman’s face, dodging nimbly aside when Marat tried to pinion him in a vice-like embrace. On and on he went, jabbing and dodging, catching the Frenchman off balance, infuriating him further. And then finally, when he had him in the perfect position, he used Marat’s body weight to his own advantage, charging him into the trunk of a tree. There was a loud crack as Marat’s shoulder dislocated. Then, as he staggered backwards with a howl of pain, Savi charged again smashing him into another tree, and this time it was Marat’s head that connected.
It was over in less than two minutes. Behind the locked door, Jane listened to the silence, no longer frightened for herself, but terrified for Savi. She held the children tightly, Ronnie bewildered, Pascal crying. Had Marat killed Savi? Then she heard his voice.