by M. P. Wright
I swallowed hard, trying to get everything Benny had just told me straight in my head. “What ’bout the Yank, Benny, where does he fit in all this?”
“Where the Yank fits into all this? I don’t give a fuck where he fits in. He goes the same way as the rest of ’em.”
“And by the same way, you mean dead.” I couldn’t believe I was actually talking about being involved in the cold killing of another human being.
“Well, I ain’t gonna slow waltz him outta the joint, cos he gonna be dead.”
“And what do you plan to do with these dead cops? You can hardly barrow ’em down to the village cemetery.”
“The question you need to be askin’ ain’t what we gonna do with ’em, it’s where they’re gonna go.”
Lazarus leant across to me and spoke under his breath into my ear. “Hunter’s Hole, Joseph.”
“Jesus, you mean that damn cave you showed me earlier?”
Lazarus slowly nodded back at me. “Yeah, once they go down there that’s the end of it, there ain’t nobody ever gonna find them.”
I felt my insides turn over. I wanted to be sick, wanted no part in Benny and Lazarus’ butchery. I ran my clammy fingers through my palms and looked back at Benny.
“And Truth, what happens to her after all this murder and havoc has taken place?”
I saw Benny gesture with his head for Lazarus to give us a moment alone. Lazarus quietly got up and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to check on Truth, see how she’s getting on with that mountain of chicken sandwiches I left her with earlier.” The publican left us alone to our conversation, heading for the kitchen, whistling to himself.
Benny waited until Lazarus was out of sight then leant forward and rested his hand on top of mine. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Look, son, you remember how I tole you ’bout Estelle an’ me, ’bout how we lost them t’ree babies of ours? I tole you the Lord, he took those pickneys fo’ we even had chance to hold ’em. Well, I tink the Lord’s just seen fit to give us a child to hold and look after, Joseph. Why don’t you let me and Estelle give Trute a home. We’d love her like she was our own blood, give her the best she could want. Let me do right by the child: give her to me, son.”
I slowly drew my hand from underneath Benny’s palm and sat back in my chair. “She ain’t mine to give, Benny.”
“She ain’t anybody’s, Joseph, that’s the point. She’s an orphan. Even if you thought you could make all this madness go away, get her to some place safe, what’s gonna happen to her then, when you’ve left her, where’s she gonna end up? You gonna let her go back to some hellhole of an orphanage?”
“That ain’t up to me, Benny. It’s not my place to be makin’ those kinda decisions. I can’t just hand Truth over to you cos you wanna give Estelle a kid to love. She ain’t my kin, she ain’t yours. I just gotta do what’s right by the child.”
The muscles in Benny’s jaw tightened; his eyes were hard and unblinking.
“And you tink sendin’ Trute back into care is gonna be right fo’ her? You gone an’ seen what them folk in that orphanage have done to her. You tellin’ me that’s right?
“No, it ain’t right, but me handin’ Truth to you ain’t right either. Say you did take her on. Tell me, how you gonna explain to folks that start askin’ how Estelle and you have come to be parentin’ a little white girl? What you gonna tell ’em, that Santa Claus left her as a Christmas gift at the bottom of your chimney?”
Benny rose out of his seat and walked back over to the bar. When he spoke, he did so with his back to me. His tone scolding, like a parent berating a naughty child.
“Listen to me, I got myself a wedge o’ cash stashed away; I got property an’ a bidness I can sell. Estelle and I got dual citizenship. We’d take her back home, back to Barbados. Nobody be the wiser. She’d grow up in paradise.”
“Barbados ain’t paradise, Benny.”
“Maybe not, but Bim would be a helluva lot kinder place for her to grow up than what she’s bin used to over here. Surely you can see that. What right you got decidin’ on what’s best fo’ Trute? You gonna take her in, be her father? Do the right ting, son, give her me.”
It was hearing the big man say the word “give” that stuck in my craw the most. The idea of handing Truth over as if I was trading her at some slave market just didn’t sit right with me. Just thinking about it brought me out in a cold sweat. But despite all my objections Benny was right in what he had just said about Bim. Truth would certainly have a better life back on my old home on Barbados. If you had cash you could live out a pretty comfortable existence on the island, but money couldn’t buy love. I had little doubt that both Estelle and Benny could provide for the child financially, I believed that with them Truth would want for very little, but would they love her as if she were truly their own? Could they be the parents that Truth needed, that she deserved? Something deep inside me told me that they could. But was my intuition enough? Was handing over Truth to Benny and Estelle based on my gut instinct really the right thing to do? Or was I just looking for an excuse to let others take on a concern I knew deep inside I just couldn’t handle? Was I prepared to wash my hands like Pontius Pilate and walk away, telling myself “It ain’t my problem any more”?
I scratched at the back of my scalp with the tips of my fingers, my head filled with problems I had no answers for. I dropped my head, my chin touching my chest. I could feel Benny’s agitation from where I was sat. I looked down at my hands, opened up my fingers and stretched them. I felt dirty with all the talk of killing I’d just heard. Talking about killing a man was one thing, actually snuffing him out was another, and no amount of hand washing could get the stink of the dead off your skin once the deed was done. I got up without saying another word, my silence telling Benny more than words ever could. I grabbed my jacket and headed back to my room. I needed time to think, to get my head straight and make sense of what was about to go down. Most of all, I needed to get word to Vic about the trouble I was in.
20
Getting hold of Vic wasn’t going to be easy. I asked Lazarus if I could use his telephone and make a call back to St Pauls. I stood by the staircase in the small hallway at the back of the pub with the phone receiver in one hand. I fished out my little notebook from my inside jacket pocket with my other. I flipped through the pages with my thumb, found the number I needed and dialled. The line on the other end gave a dozen rings or so before somebody finally picked up. The voice answering was both intimidating and strangely comforting in equal measure.
“Wuh you want?” Everton “Redman” Innes’ earthy Bajan accent boomed down the phone at me. His tone was impatient, his breathing heavy and laboured after being called away from his punchbag.
“Redman, that you?”
“Yeah, wuh you want wi’ me, man?”
“Redman, it’s me, JT. How you doin’?”
“Hey JT! I’m good, brother, good. You?”
“I ain’t too hot, Redman. Look, I need ya help.”
“Help, what’s up? If you lookin’ fo’ cash you axing the wrong fella.”
“I ain’t looking for a loan; I need to get hold of Vic.”
“Vic ain’t ’ere, he in London.”
“I know he ain’t there. Can you get a message to him? It’s real important.”
“I can try, but you know Vic, he’s one shifty Negro to pin down. I know he’s stoppin’ at some floozie’s joint in the East End. He left me a number so I could give him the nod ’bout a special delivery he got comin’ later this week.” Hearing Redman mention a special delivery gave me a little hope. Vic had illicit booze and knocked-off goods being shipped in from all over the place. My cousin could make a sloth look industrious at the best of times but Vic was never lazy when it came to business. I knew he’d check in to make sure that his cargo was in one piece and ready to roll. If he hadn’t heard from Redman that everything was good, he’d call the gym to find out what was going on himself. I just had to pray that Vic would b
e making the call sooner rather than later.
“OK, Redman. When I get off the phone I need you to call Vic straight away. You got that?”
Redman blew hard down the phone, irritated by my demand. “Yeah, I got it. Look JT, what’s all this shit ’bout? Vic ain’t gonna like me chasin’ his tail like this.”
“You let me worry ’bout Vic. When you get hold of him I need you to tell him that JT is in real trouble and that I need him to get his ass back to St Pauls. Tell him I ain’t foolin’ ’bout and that I’ll call you back with word on where he can meet me. You see a pen anywhere round you?”
“Yeah, there’s one down here.” I heard Redman grunt as he leant across Vic’s desk to retrieve the pen.
“OK, take this down.” I reeled off the address of the Hunters Lodge inn and the number I was calling from. “If you get a hold of Vic in the next few hours, you tell him what I’ve said and give him those details. I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be here; tell him as soon as I can get to a phone I’ll be calling back. Understand?”
“I got it.” Redman blew at jet of air impatiently down the phone at me.
“Thanks, Redman, you’re a gent.”
“Ain’t that the trute. People always be sayin’ ’bout how I’m this gent. Somebody needs to be tellin’ my woman that’s the case next time she badmout’in’ me. I’ll be seein’ ya, JT.” I could sense the boxer becoming impatient on the other end of the line and called out to him before he cut me off.
“And Redman, if the police come callin’, askin’ ’bout me, you tell ’em you ain’t seen or heard from me, OK?”
“Fuck the police.”
The line went dead. I stood for a moment, alone in the hallway, my hand still gripping the receiver of the telephone, a low burring tone humming away in my ear as I mulled over Redman’s defiant last words.
I found Benny sat back on his chair in the bar about to down another shot of rum. When he saw me walking towards him, he smiled and pulled out a stool for me to join him. His serious mood appeared to have receded and he’d returned to being jovial and relaxed, and that put me on edge. It was as if our earlier conversation about Truth had never occurred. He chuckled to himself and poured a small measure of rum into my empty glass. I nodded my head in thanks but left the dark spirit sat in front of me. I’d had my fill of hard liquor for the day. My head was already becoming thick and pained by another unwelcome boozy haze.
Benny nudged me in the side of my ribs, a roguish look on his face. “Estelle and that old hag of a mutha of hers are on their way to my cousin’s in Hartland Quay. It’s remote, but the wife likes it quiet.” Benny chuckled to himself again. “Damn, though, if that poor woman gonna git any peace with that witch naggin’ on her ass like she does. Rather her than me, I say.”
Benny finished his drink and reached for the bottle just as Lazarus came in from the kitchen with Truth. The publican was carrying a small metal tray, which he placed on the table in front of us. He bent down and lifted a couple of plates containing cold roast chicken, pickled onions and thickly sliced wedges of bread and butter, and handed them over to Benny and I. He then turned back to Truth and pointed his finger across the pub towards one of the window seats.
“You come with me, young ’un. Let’s see if we can’t find you something to mess about with while the grown-ups eat their lunch and have a natter.”
The little girl did as she was told and followed after Lazarus. He sat her down on a cushion on the floor, and she watched as he headed over to a small, copper-edged wooden chest that sat next to the hearth. Lazarus opened up the chest lid and brought out a set of ancient-looking skittle pins and a worm-eaten polished oak ball. He set the pins up on the floor beside Truth and gave her the ball.
“Here, you have a play with these, see how many you can knock down.” Truth got up and looked at the ball in her hand for a moment then slung it at the pins, sending them sprawling across the wood floor. Lazarus clapped his hands and burst out cheering then turned to the two of us. “Looks like we’ve got a skittle champ on our hands here, lads.”
Truth, a beaming smile on her face, ran for the ball then began to stand up the pins on the floor again, eager for another go. Lazarus went back to the bar, uncapped a bottle of Corona orange soda, stuck a straw in it and took it over to Truth. “Here, you’ll need a drink. It’s thirsty work is skittles.” Truth took the bottle and stared at it for a moment.
Benny called across the room to the bemused little girl. “It’s OK child, it ain’t poison you got there. Ain’t you ever seen a bottle of pop befo’?
Truth stared at Benny and then shook her head at him. I watched Lazarus’ big shoulders slowly stoop in disbelief when he saw Truth’s response to the soda pop. The jovial publican leant down and rubbed the top of Truth’s head with his hand and smiled at her. “Go on, try it, it tastes gert lush.”
Both Benny and I were bewildered by Lazarus’ remark. Truth, scrunching up her nose, was equally puzzled. Lazarus nodded at the bottle then gently nudged Truth with his elbow. “Have a sip, then.”
Truth reluctantly stuck the straw into her mouth and began to drink. When she finally released the little plastic tube from her lips the look of joy on her face was a picture. Lazarus, pleased with himself, headed back to join us, calling back to Truth as he did, “See, I told you. Gert lush, that’s what that is, bloody gert lush!”
Benny, his chin and lips covered in grease, was sat chomping down on the thick end of a chicken leg when Lazarus sat down next to him. The publican poured the two of them another hefty shot of rum then leant back in his seat, shaking his head to himself, and watched his friend tearing at the rooster flesh with his teeth. “That man loves his food, Joseph. Always been a real hog has Benny.”
Benny, hurt by Lazarus’ remark, sneered back at him as he continued to munch at the chicken flesh like a wild dog. Lazarus went to top up my already full glass with more rum. I bent forward in my seat and placed my hand over the glass. “No more hooch for me thanks.”
Lazarus eyeballed me suspiciously for a moment then shrugged his shoulders and drank the remainder of his rum. He poured another shot for himself and took a sip. I could feel the man’s gaze burning into the side of my face as I sat watching Truth playing with the ball and skittles.
“Joseph, far as I’m concerned, this here rum is Dutch courage, and I get the feeling that we’re gonna be needing a whole barrel of the stuff before this day is through. Take my advice, old son, have another slug of the firewater. It’ll help take the edge off those screaming abdabs you’ve got clawing at your insides.”
Lazarus’ foreboding words felt like a death knell ringing through my ears. A bitter taste rose up into my mouth. I swallowed hard but couldn’t shift the unpleasant lingering tang. I looked pathetically at the shot of rum sat in front of me, hesitated for a split second then reached down for my glass and knocked back the hooch. I let the harsh spirit run down my throat and ignite low inside my belly then felt a dark wave of shame wash over me. I continued to stare at Truth, deep in thought, unable to shake my lingering sense of self-loathing. I felt alone except for the unwelcome presence of fear sat on one side of me and defeat on the other.
*
Heavy black rain clouds had begun to gather in the sky and the air had taken on the musky aroma of damp leaves and freshly mown grass. It was just after five thirty that afternoon when the first of two cars pulled up outside of the Hunters Lodge inn. I stood alone looking through the bay window across the bar and watched as two heavyset men got out of a Rover Coupe. Its mud-spattered olive-green paintwork told me that the heavy-looking car had most likely been travelling across the same inhospitable terrain that we had driven across the night before. The two men, both with sharp military-style crew cuts and dressed in short brown leather jackets and denims, stood surveying the pub and the surrounding area for a moment, neither speaking nor appearing to be in any great hurry. They gave off an aura of depravity and malevolence that I could feel in my bones from thir
ty feet away.
The second motor, a blue Vauxhall Viva, stunk to high heaven as the kind of unmarked police car I was used to seeing patrolling the streets back in St Pauls. The driver’s door swung open and Detective Constable Beaumont pulled himself unceremoniously up out of his seat and leant on the arch of the car door frame for a moment before sticking his head back into the motor. I struggled to see but could just make out a fourth individual, another man sitting in the passenger seat, that Beaumont was talking to. If there were more of them inside both vehicles, I sure as hell couldn’t pick them out. Beaumont finally withdrew his head from the cab of his car, a grey suit jacket in his left hand. He quickly pulled it on then walked across to the two other men. The three of them spoke briefly then headed towards the pub. I leant my back against the bar and waited.
The sound of the iron door latch being lifted out of its cradle trumpeted their arrival. More bent law. Beaumont entered first, dwarfed by the two bigger guys staying back a few feet either side of him. He stood with his hands behind his back, his sandy hair thinning across his scalp. I would have put his age at about forty-five. A smug smirk stretched across his freckled, pompous-looking face. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Beaumont that kicked off the conversation. That pleasure went to one of the thugs stood behind him.
“Joseph Ellington?”
I didn’t answer and waited for the man to say more, but he remained silent. He spoke with an American accent, deep and rich, like molasses falling off the back of a spoon. The man’s voice was filled with arrogant authority. Just from him saying my name I could tell that I was being addressed by the law. Beaumont turned to the man behind him briefly and shook his head to himself before returning to stare at me and offering up another self-satisfied snigger.
“You’ll have to excuse Joseph here, he’s the quiet type. Isn’t that right, Joseph?”