In Darkness

by Nick Lake

  Jeers and catcalls went up from the English soldiers on the parapet as the pathetic troops advanced, unsteady on their feet, their weapons barely raised.

  They think we’re an army of péquenots, he thought. Untrained peasants. And that’s all to the good.

  He was surprised that the English had not yet noticed that to all appearances his army was not black.

  But then, just as he began to despair of their intelligence, a cry of alarum went up from one of the town’s defenders.

  At almost the same time, the men in the front ranks of his army began to clamor, the fear of the guns bristling on the parapet outweighing the fear of the bayonets and machetes and guns behind them, which had been forcing them forward.

  It doesn’t matter, thought Toussaint. The more chaos the better.

  — We’re English! the ragged front line shouted.

  — Don’t fire!

  — Don’t shoot – we’re English!

  The English prisoners, captured by Toussaint’s men at other port towns and reserved expressly for this purpose, began to wail, and their line broke. An over-exuberant black, one of Toussaint’s army who was herding the English prisoners forward, stabbed one of them in the back and he went down. Then there was confusion and a mêlée. There were black soldiers in amongst the English captives, too – Toussaint had made sure of that – and whilst the men in the town would not fire for fear of killing their compatriots, these black soldiers, hidden within the mass of captives, were shooting upward. Toussaint saw a body fall from the ramparts, two, three . . .

  This is awful, he thought. But if we win, it will be worth it.

  He glanced up. The sun was halfway through its progression over the sky.

  Any moment now. Succeed in this and the bloodshed can stop.

  His army continued to press forward the English sailors they had captured in Cape Town and Port-au-Prince. Ragged, walking as slowly as they could, the English prisoners were pressed against the walls of the town. They never stopped calling for mercy from the troops above, and indecision continued to reign amongst those troops. They began to fire tentatively, even as Toussaint’s cannon regiment came close enough to hail down balls on their position. Simultaneously, the advance guard pushed through and began to climb the mounting bodies of the English prisoners, nearing in this way the top of the town walls.

  Just then, there was a sound so loud it seemed to rip the day apart, and the ground shook. Toussaint felt an unaccountable terror, and a sense of overwhelming déjà vu. For one terrible instant, he was in bed in a strange place of white walls and machinery, from which came regular, high-pitched noises, as of baby rats squeaking. There was a tube of some kind stuck into the back of his hand, as if he were part machine himself. The ground shook violently, and then there was only blackness. He blinked. Then he was watching a metal vehicle on rubber wheels explode, tearing apart the people standing too close to it.

  Where was that? he thought, as he opened his eyes. Was that hell?

  No. Hell is what I’m looking at now.

  A second sun had appeared, and it was burning in the center of Guildive, a fierce fireball beneath the sky. A great cloud of smoke was rising from this blazing fire, and shrapnel and cannonballs flew screaming through the air in all directions, as if the town had been a great repository of trapped spirits and vengeful ghosts, which now careered out in flaming arcs.

  The ammunition store had exploded.

  Toussaint breathed a sigh of relief. He could only imagine what Jean-Christophe had been through to achieve this; how he would have had to convince the guards on the gates that he was a poor downtrodden mulat, reviled by the French for his part in the original uprising, condemned by the blacks as a turncoat and an agitator for both sides. How he must have handed over the riches stolen earlier from the carriage as a bribe for his safety. How, on gaining entry, he must have waited for the darkest moment of the night to sneak to the ammunition store, and found his way in.

  It was remarkable how so many events had conspired to put Jean-Christophe there. And lucky, too, that the cache of ammunition was as great as Toussaint had hoped. He had known of the hoard even before the English took the town – and had projected to capture Guildive himself in order to avail his forces of all those weapons. Then, fortuitously, the English had added to them, bringing their cannon and their powder and their shot from all those ships.

  It had been the largest store of gunpowder on the island, and it was spitting fire all over the English forces.

  I hope Jean-Christophe got out, Toussaint thought. I hope he used a long fuse as I suggested.

  He saw movement on the ramparts and raised his spyglass to confirm that the English were finally waving the white flag.

  He turned to the commanders behind him.

  — Everyone is to lower their weapons, he said.

  — Should we destroy them? said one of them.

  — No, said Toussaint. They are proud of their ships. Let them go to their ships.

  Now

  I’m close in the story now to where I was when everything fell down. A few days away. I saw Marguerite at that shoot-out by the sea only a month before I ended up in here, before here turned into a coffin.

  I feel like if I tell my story to you till the point when I came to hospital, then that will be the point when I break through into the light. It sounds dumb, I know, but that’s what I’m doing. I’m digging and I’m telling you this shit, and I’m throwing the stuff I’m digging behind me, just like I’m throwing my story behind me.

  It’s dirt, my story. I don’t need it anymore.

  I no longer notice the pain in my hands, either. To begin with, the pieces of concrete were slick with my blood, and now I suppose I must’ve developed calluses, cos it barely hurts anymore. I don’t know if I’ve moved, really, or how long I’ve been digging. It feels like hours, but it might be longer.

  An hour ago, maybe, I heard someone calling again. This time in English.

  — . . . anyone down there?

  I don’t like hearing the word down. I was on the fifth floor. If I’m down from where the people are digging, then things are pretty bad. I call back, but as usual no moun replies. Either I’m dead, or my voice is bouncing off the concrete.

  — I can’t come there, said Stéphanie.

  She wasn’t in the car with us, she was on the other end of the phone – Biggie liked to talk on speakerphone when he was driving. He was cruising around the slum, and he was trying to get Stéphanie to come and pick up Mickey, this soldier who was wounded, only she didn’t want to come into the Site anymore.

  — It’s not safe for me, she continued. I’m staying in my hotel.

  Biggie grinned.

  — Steph, he said. Steph, chérie, ma copine chou-chou. Chill. Everyone knows you – I tell all my soldiers about you. They know I love you, they know not to hurt you. Écoute – quand je serai riche t’auras une belle maison. T’auras tout ce que tu voudras car je t’aime, tu sais?

  — Yes, said Stéphanie. I know you love me, I know you’ll buy me a big house – you’re always telling me that. But it’s not so simple, Biggie. They shot at us when we were distributing fucking food! Tu comprends ça? It’s crazy. I can’t come to the Site anymore.

  — Please, said Biggie. I got a soldier been shot in the foot. I need you to take him to hospital.

  — In the foot?

  — Yeah, in the foot.

  Stéphanie sighed down the phone. She’s the only person I know who can sigh on a phone and get the right effect. That sigh, it’s one of the things I really remember about her.

  — Someone from Boston shot him, I take it? she asked.

  — No, said Biggie. I shot him.

  Silence for a moment.

  — You shot him? Why?

  — He was disrespecting me.

  This was true. The guy – he called himself Mickey – was saying how if it was Route 9 who had shot people up and killed Boston soldiers, then Boston would have hit back alread
y. He was implying that Biggie was weak, that he wasn’t dealing with his shit. This kind of thing is always happening – Biggie says that when you’re a leader, people always got to challenge you. That’s part of being a leader, I get that.

  But Stéphanie laughed, a hollow laugh.

  — Jesus, she said. You gangsters with your respect.

  — I’m not a gangster, said Biggie. People come here, they call me a gangster, but they don’t know shit about the Site. No moun want to help with the education here, no moun want to give out food – apart from us. People here got anyen to eat, anyen to drink, but they got guns. What you expect gonna happen?

  — Shut up, Biggie, said Stéphanie. I’m not some documentary maker for you to recite your poetic bullshit to. I do know the Site. You’re a gangster. You sell drugs and you kill people.

  — Yeah? said Biggie. Good. Yeah, I’m a gangster. G-star in the motherfucking hood. This is what I’m saying to Mickey – too right I’ll take Boston down.

  Biggie started rapping then:

  — Can’t get them with a gun, get them with machetes. Chop their asses up, fuck them up with baseball bats.

  — If he disrespected you, said Stéphanie, why do you want him to go to hospital?

  Biggie looked at me and shook his head, like, how can this bitch be so stupid?

  — He’s my soldier, man, my frère chou-chou. I love him. I just had to teach him some respect.

  Stéphanie sighed again.

  — I’ll see what I can do, she said. But listen to me, Biggie. I like you, you get that? I want you to be OK. I don’t want you to die.

  — I don’t want to die, either.

  — Then listen. I was in a bar last night. Lots of aid workers go there and some MINUSTAH soldiers were there, too. They say they’re going to hit the gangs in the Site, hit them hard. Some journalist got photos of the shoot-out the other day. MINUSTAH have to look like they care.

  — Pfft, said Biggie. If they spent as much on hospitals and drinking water as they do on tanks, maybe we’d believe them.

  I stared at him. Sometimes he didn’t sound like he was in an American ghetto. Sometimes he said things that weren’t completely stupid.

  — I agree, Biggie. You know I do, said Stéphanie. But listen, these guys are serious. They’re going to come after you soon. They want to capture some gangsters, show some piles of confiscated guns on TV.

  I could hear real worry in her voice, real concern, but Biggie made that dismissive noise again.

  — MINUSTAH haven’t done shit in the Site since they killed Dread Wilmè, he said. All they do is sit at their checkpoints. They even let us through when we go out to sell drugs if we pay them.

  — I’m just warning you, said Stéphanie. That’s all.

  There was a click – she hung up.

  — Girls, man, said Biggie and he did that turny finger thing next to his head. Sa ansent, that’s why she worry so much. She thinks I ain’t gonna care for her. I keep telling her I’ll be a rich rapper one day. That record company gonna snap my shit up. I’ll be like Wyclef.

  Now I was staring at Biggie.

  — She’s pregnant? I asked.

  — Sure, he said. My sperm are super sperm. Super soldiers.

  I already told you Biggie had a three-year-old with his baby manman Valerie. Making Stéphanie pregnant, it was incredible. How he thought he was gonna raise the kid, I don’t know. And what did he think she was gonna do? Did he think she’d move into the Site, play house with him? I couldn’t believe he had been so stupid – like, hadn’t he heard of condoms or some shit?

  — She’s French, I said. She works for the UN. What’s gonna happen?

  — I told you. I’ll be a high roller one day, shot caller, full bank, motherfucker.

  I gave up. I leaned back in my seat. There was fresh sea air coming in through the open window, and I had my hand wrapped around a sawn-off shotgun. I felt good. I had a lungful of weed, too – Biggie had just handed his blunt to me. But even though I felt sweet, I still had my sister in my mind. Me, I wanted a war. But you wanted Biggie to do something, you didn’t just tell him. That was how Mickey got a bullet in his foot.

  — Boston came too close this time, Shorty. They shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have messed with our community work like that.

  — Word, I said. We need to hit them back hard, man.

  I was thinking about Marguerite, though I didn’t tell Biggie that. But that’s what I wanted – I wanted to hit Boston so I could draw out my sister, grab her from the Boston fuckers, and bring her back to live with me. Shit, maybe I could find her a dog, or something, maybe the dog Tintin nearly ran over. She could look after it, feed it. Then we’d get her into the school, help her to be a doctor one day. She always said she’d get out of the Site. I wanted to help her get out more than anything in the world.

  — Yeah, said Biggie. But first we’re going to see the houngan. I want more spells. More protection. I want the lwa of war.

  — The lwa of war? I said.

  — Yeah. Ogou Badagry. Niggers got to respect that motherfucker. You right – Boston come into our territory, we got to hit them back hard. That houngan gave me Dread’s bones to wear, but now we need some deeper vodou: black maji. You get me?

  — There’s going to be a war? I said.

  I was thinking about Marguerite. I was thinking how if I go into Boston territory on my own, I’m dead. But if we all go to war, then maybe I have a chance to find her, bring her back.

  — Cool, I said.

  The houngan, he lived in this van down a side street. It wasn’t on the map I drew, so I guess Biggie didn’t want people knowing where the guy lived. The van didn’t have wheels. One side of it was propped up on magazines, the other side on bricks. The windows were broken, but there were curtains in them. They had flowers on. I thought it was a pretty weird set-up for a houngan, but I didn’t say anything.

  Biggie knocked on the door. I’d never seen him knock on a door. Usually, he just opened up and walked in, or he stopped outside with his music blaring and he expected you to come out to him. An old man opened it. I saw that he wasn’t the same houngan who did Dread’s funeral; maybe that houngan died, or something. This one had got dirty shorts on, no top. His body was scrawny and there was gray hair all over it. His stomach hung over his shorts. It was like it wanted to hide his crotch. There were heavy bags under his eyes and big red veins on his nose, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  — You got whiskey? he said. You got kleren?

  Biggie shook his head.

  — I’ll get one of the shorties to bring you some, he said. Anyway, it’s not Baron Samedi I want.

  The houngan smiled at me. Actually, it was more of a leer. I saw his crooked teeth, the gaps where some of them had fallen out. There was a smell of rot and alcohol from him. He was old. Like, forty, at least.

  — It’s not Baron Samedi he wants, the houngan said, so he doesn’t bring whiskey. Little asshole.

  I couldn’t believe it. Biggie, he once shot someone in the foot for saying his hair looked stupid with cornrows. Now the houngan was calling him an asshole.

  I pulled my Glock.

  — You watch what you’re saying, houngan man, I said. You disrespect Biggie, you get a full metal jacket in the eye.

  Biggie put a hand on my gun, made me lower it.

  — Chill, he said to me.

  Then, cool as brushed steel, he turned to the houngan.

  — I told you, Biggie said. I’ll get you some. You gonna let us in, or what?

  — Depends what you want, said the houngan. You want maji? You want charms to put on the crossroad to protect your territory?

  — I want Ogou Badagry, said Biggie.

  The houngan’s eyes went big and wide. Biggie took out this bundle of notes, like, two months of drug money. He handed it to the houngan.

  — We’re going to war, he said. We need serious maji.

  — You need a shrink, said the houngan.

  But
he opened the door and he let us in.

  Inside, it was a tip. There were magazines everywhere and a few books, too. There were dirty clothes, a few cups, and plates lying in the mess. On the sides of the van were shelves that looked like they were made out of bits of corrugated iron and wood the houngan had found in the street. There were jars on them, with powders and stuff. Veves were drawn on the floor. There was a rattle in the shape of a skull, drums. I could smell sweat and whiskey and rotting food. It was like how you’d imagine a houngan’s place, if you knew the houngan was a tramp, or mental.

  The houngan gestured at a mound in the dirt that might have been a couch. Biggie didn’t hesitate, just sat down. I started to sit down, too, but I must have made a face or something, cos the houngan laughed and gave me a push, so I got down on my ass on the shirts and magazines and stuff. I caught my breath and I tried to slow down my heartbeat.

  The houngan took a proper look at me.

  — You got a pwen, he said. I can feel it.

  I put my hand to my pocket, to the smooth pebble that Dread gave me.

  — Yeah, I said.

  — Good, said the houngan. That shit will protect you. Someone must like you, kid.

  Biggie smiled.

  — My soldiers got to be protected, he said.

  The houngan laughed.

  — None of them as protected as you, my man.

  He pointed to a jar on the shelf opposite me. It was nearly empty, but there was a bit of gray powder left at the bottom.

  — That’s Dread Wilmè, he said. What’s left of him. The rest is on Biggie here, keeping him safe from bullets. You want I should put the dust on you, too? There ain’t no gun will kill you, then.

  — That’s Dread Wilmè? I said.

  It was, like, the stupidest thing I ever said, cos he just told me it was, but it was all I could think of.

  — Yeah. All I do is I call Baron Samedi and he rides me, and he takes the ashes and sprinkles them on you. That way he’ll recognize you when you’re about to be killed. When he sees you all covered in that dust, he knows not to take you. He leaves you alone, for sure. Dread Wilmè is sacred, man.