Holding Street. An apt name if ever there was one. That’s what those old buildings across the road were. Holding pens for slaves. Prisons. You don’t put iron bars and heavy metal shutters on windows to keep chickens and pigs. An unexpected gust of hot air swept up from the harbour and rattled several loose pieces of corrugated- iron on the roof. As they scraped across the broken nails it sounded like a clutch of screams hanging in the air. This did send a shiver up Norton’s spine. He could see the ships and hear the screams of the slaves as they were whipped off the jetty and herded into the holding pens to be left in the heat. Then auctioned off at the town square and sent out to work in the sugar plantations or wherever. That’s where kindly Father Eduardo was making all his money. He was a slave-trader posing as a priest. Okay, so slavery might have been legal in those days. But definitely not the done thing for a compassionate and caring man of the cloth. And if he wasn’t? How come he let it go on right outside his front door? The front door of his shit pot, fibro weekender at The Entrance. Because according to that book, all that land across the road belongs to the church. It’s church land. And everything on it. Oh Ed, Les laughed to himself. You shifty bludger. You had it all sewn up. But I’ll bet you weren’t no racist, Ed. I’ll bet you whipped both the black ones and the brown ones and anything in between. Les smiled around the old building again. What else did it say in that book? You had a fallout with the family. And it seemed funny how the ‘notoriously tight-fisted Nortons’ would put up the money to build you a manse. You didn’t need their money. You had plenty of your own. Plus free labour. Ed, old mate, you might have been a dropkick, but, shit, I like your style.
Family. Tight-fisted. The words hung in Norton’s mind as clear as a bell. Like a cash register would be more like it. His eyes narrowed, he turned away from the window and suddenly looked at the manse with a different perspective again. Eduardo was family alright; he was a Norton. And if he was, he would have had a family trait that probably went back to the bronze age. As well as being tight, Eduardo would have planted money or valuables somewhere. All the Nortons did it. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, whatever. They all planted something and always not far from where they lived. Les was no exception. He had cash and some other goodies he’d accumulated buried in the backyard of his house at Bondi. Eduardo would have been the same, no risk. And you could bet slaves weren’t the only thing he was flogging in Jamaica. A quiver went through Les this time; from the soles of his size ten feet to the top of his rugged red head. Like a human divining rod. This was family. The Norton bloodline, thick as ever, even over centuries. There was treasure buried here, Les could feel it in his blood. In his bones. Forget what it said in the book about mysteries and buried treasure. It was no mystery. There was something buried in here alright, not far from where he was standing. And the clue was in one of Elizabeth Norton Blackmore’s poems. Yeah, but which one? Crumbs! Les grinned as he looked around the old manse. Who gives a stuff which one? I got plenty of time to work it out. His grin got bigger. And I’ve got a couple of things in my favour. Family. Plus I know it’s in here that bad I can almost taste the bastard. Les rubbed his hands together gleefully. I’m starting to like this Jamaica more and more. Especially now there’s a chance for an earn. In the meantime, there’s no hurry to leave and I ain’t got nothing planned. I don’t think old Eduardo would mind if I had a bit more of a look around the place. Les took his camera out of his backpack, pressed the automatic shutter button and started popping off photos from all over the manse, exploring the whole area, sussing it out and surmising where he might bury a big stack of loot if this was his place.
Les wandered around the old ancestral manse, taking photos and exploring the area in general. A few people strolled past, some rag-mop kids with wonderfully cheeky smiles stopped for a look; Les was almost tempted to take their photos they looked that good, but played everyone wide, preferring to concentrate on doing his thing. Les got fully involved in what he was doing and the time flew by; exploring the manse was more fun and more interesting than anything he’d done in ages. After a while he’d discovered one or two things and figured out others that confirmed his theories about the late Father Eduardo Xavier Norton.
The old building was bigger and grander than ever, the size of the material used and the workmanship left inside looked almost impossible without power tools and heavy equipment. What was left of the stables down the back would have accommodated more like twenty horses than a dozen, there were even a few pieces of an old carriage or coach in one corner. At one time there’d been a fountain and gardens, and scattered among the weeds were the remains of a marble sundial. Les couldn’t help but ponder what the place must have been like when it was fully furnished and Eduardo had a party going with his stereo on full blast. Which probably would have been a ten- piece band and over a hundred guests, and you still wouldn’t have filled the main room. Les walked across the road and explored what was left of the slave pens. He surmised Eduardo probably built them away from the house, both for security reasons in case they tried to break out and peace; their moaning and wailing might have disturbed his sleep. This was also probably why Les didn’t notice any slave quarters over at the manse. Why bother when he had a constant supply on tap almost across the road? It looked as if the slaves got even in the end, however. All the pieces of charred beams poking out of the walls suggested they either revolted at some time or came back and burnt the buildings down when slavery was abolished in Jamaica in 1843. Christ! Can’t say I blame the poor bastards, thought Les. Even empty, with the roofs missing and some of the walls knocked down, the rooms were still oppressively hot. Shit! What would it have been like packed in here with the doors locked in the middle of summer? And no air-conditioning and lumping chains around as well? No worse than the poor bloody convicts back home, I suppose. And at least the slaves didn’t have to put up with whingeing bloody abos. Les poked around the buildings for a while but there wasn’t much to see. Just rubbish and gutted buildings that were little more now than monuments to people’s pain and misery. He wandered over to the water’s edge and was reminded a little of Rose Bay in Sydney, only instead of an enclosed harbour it was more a narrow bay and open sea with a patch of dark blue ocean that was probably a safe passage through the reefs. He strolled along the rocks and over the remains of the old jetty, taking some more photos and prodding things here and there. It was kind of sad in a way to see everything so rundown and going to ruin. Though according to that keystone, Eduardo had had around eighty years of fun and profit before all the rich plantation owners legged it both to save their hides from the freed slaves and the collapse of the sugar industry. But Eduardo died in a storm according to the book. Anyway, no matter how sad or melancholy it might have been to see everything crumbling away, if it was to free thousands of people from a lifetime of cruelty and suffering, it was unquestionably all for the best.
Les roamed around some more. In the end he more or less had Eduardo’s psyche worked out. But he was still stuffed if he knew where Eduardo planted the loot. One thing for sure; it definitely wasn’t in the roof. Les had some ideas, but the place to look was in that book of Elizabeth Norton Blackmore’s poems. Anyway, no need to rush into it today. There was plenty of time. But shit, it had been fun, and Les couldn’t wait to get back and start poking around again. He tossed his backpack on the front seat of the Honda and headed back to the hotel. Before he left, Norton wrote down the name and phone number written on the sign nailed to the side of the manse. It was the Laurecian Society of Jamaica in collaboration with the Jamaican National Heritage Trust. Earl Street, Kingston, Jamaica. Looks like I might be taking a drive over to Kingston, mused Les. There could even be some clues over there. Old charts, books, manuscripts, etc. Les was that engrossed in thoughts of treasure, what he’d just seen and other things, he drove straight past the turn-off to Rose Point Resort.
‘Hey! What the fuck?’ Norton was driving down some hill with trees and houses on either side
of the road that seemed vaguely familiar. Next thing Sir Donald Sangster Airport loomed up below on the right. Shit! Where the fuck am I? I’m heading into Montego Bay. Oh well. Why not have a look around. I’m not doing much else today. Les followed the traffic along the narrow road to some intersection, then a roundabout with a park behind it, hemmed with what looked like small Moreton Bay figs and behind that the harbour. He went left at the park then came down into what looked like a mini Calcutta with a two-storey high-rise limit. It was old buildings, crumbling streets and walls, one great congestion of smoke and traffic and swarms of people going in every direction. Les continued with the traffic flow, losing it as he drove into some wider part of the road. Almost immediately all these wild-eyed Jamaicans came running at him, shouting and waving their arms around. Shit! What’s this? I’m caught in a race riot or something. These cunts are gonna drag me out of the car and kill me. Les didn’t notice he’d blundered up a one-way street. Behind the howling mob Les did see a one-way street going right past the post office. He tromped it through the mob, across a short clearing, and forced his way into the swarm of noisy traffic going past the post office, just as it all choked to a smoky, horn-blowing bottleneck of seething chaos. Shit! What have I got myself into? Les was definitely, positively the only honky in town and the looks he was getting from the locals swarming past his car were more than just curiosity. Les knew smouldering resentment, if not outright hatred, when he saw it. He pulled his cap down over his white, honky face as far as he could and stared straight ahead through his sunglasses. ‘You ain’t been round till you been down Montego Bay.’ Yeah. Pig’s fuckin’ arse, scowled Les, wiping some sweat from the back of his neck.
Eventually the traffic began to grind forward. Les followed it through a couple of narrow streets full of rickety wooden buildings and crowds of people either buying or selling. The road came out at what looked like some kind of open-air market, with more people flogging food and drinks from stalls along what passed for the footpath, then another chaotic intersection turned left or right into more traffic. Les went right. The wide, straight boulevards of Siestasota it wasn’t. It was a shit fight and every car was packed with crazy-looking Jamaicans driving with only their accelerator and car horn. Les swung right at some roundabout to try and lose some of the traffic while he sorted out where he was. He went a bit further, the traffic thickened and next thing he was heading back into town again. Les chucked a left past some shops and houses, put his foot down, and four streets later he was halfway up some hill, completely lost. Christ! Where the fuck am I now?
Les had a look around him then got going again; playing it more or less by ear. He drove up a hill, past some reasonably tidy houses and trees and down the other side of the hill. The trees thinned out, the nice houses disappeared and he was in some kind of ghetto. It was absolutely ghastly. Narrow dirty streets full of rubbish, gutted car bodies, mangy dogs, burning garbage and the most miserable-looking people Norton had ever seen. The people walking or loafing around looked up when they saw the Honda and any semblance of a smile on any of their faces quickly evaporated when they saw what was behind the wheel. Oh oh! thought Les. Something tells me this poor lost tourist better not stop and ask the smiling locals directions. Not if he wants to drink Fourex and swim at Bondi again. He did a screeching U- turn and got out of there as quickly as he could. He drove up more hills and along narrow, unkerbed roads, past more houses and a few more skinny trees and hoped he was heading in the right direction. The roads were a shambles, if there were any street signs Les couldn’t see them. After about five minutes he found himself driving back into the ghetto again. Shit! Les swore to himself. A scruffy-looking kid about ten walked past, carrying a plastic shopping bag half full of bottles; Les pulled up alongside him, wound the window down and waved a hundred dollars Jamaican.
‘Hey, mon. You know how to get to Rose Point?’
The kid looked at the money, took it and said, ‘Open de door, mon. Wi ungo deh soon time.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, pal,’ said Les, opening the door. ‘Hop in.’
The kid piled in the Honda and placed his precious bag of bottles carefully at his feet. He didn’t smell but he had to be the greatest chat Les had ever seen in his life. Norton never wore Ermenegildo Zegna when he went to school, but if he’d turned up looking like this poor little kid they would have either sent him back home or had him working at the incinerator all day. He had on a pair of shorts that had been hacked from a pair of men’s grey pants and which were tied round the waist with a piece of cord. His sandshoes were several sizes too big, had no laces and were more holes than canvas, and round his scrawny shoulders were the remains of a shirt that could have been white at one time. He had close-shaved hair and brown, artful dodger eyes set in a world-weary sort of face, and although he didn’t look as if he’d been eating too many T-bone steaks lately, he had a ballsy presence for his size and Les wouldn’t have fancied trying to steal his bottles off him.
He pointed Les back towards town then just before they got to that one-way street again made him take a steep, hairpin left that climbed up and away from the town centre. The kid directed him left and right past more houses and trees and some old white hotel with a sign out the front saying Badminton Club, then onto another street and before long they were on the Queens Drive then the A1 back towards Rose Point. Les told the kid he was okay now, but the little Jamrite said he’d go with him all the way. Fair enough, thought Les, I think I can handle him if he pulls a knife on me, and got a bit of a mag on. The kid’s name was I’rold, he was eleven and lived in Mo’ Bay with his ten brothers and sisters. Les didn’t ask Harold who his tailor was, but out of curiosity he asked how much the bag of bottles was worth. It was about twenty-nine cents and almost his second haul for the day. By the time Les calculated it all in Australian dollars and took a quick time and motion study, on a good week, working seven days dawn to dusk, Harold would net around $3.85. Norton couldn’t help but laugh. Yet at the same time something inside him wasn’t laughing at the poor little kid doing his best.
A little further on, not far from the garage Les had noticed on Saturday, were two young girls hitchhiking. ‘Hey, I’rold,’ said Les. ‘Why don’t we stop and give ’em a lift? What do you reckon, mon?’ Harold gave a noncommittal shrug and Les pulled up. The girls came running up alongside. ‘I’m going as far as Rose Point Resort.’
‘Ire mon. Tenk,’ said the taller one, and they jumped in the back.
Les swivelled round and gave them a quick perusal. They both had short crimped hair, reasonable bodies and faces, though they were definitely no oil paintings. One wore a white Yellowman T-shirt, the other a blue Sugar Minott. Both girls were into supertight black shorts with their teds poking out that far you could have hung clothes pegs on them. Neither would have been a day over fifteen and both looked very, very streetwise.
‘So where have you been, girls?’ asked Les, taking off again.
‘Mo’ Bay,’ replied the one in the Yellowman T-shirt.
No sooner had she said that than they got into a conversation with Harold. Norton would need more than his one book on patois to understand what was going on, they were just too fast. But by picking up a word or two here and there Les figured they were asking the kid about Les and how big a mug was he? The kid said Les was a tourist and he was just getting a lift. They rattled off some more patois and a bit further on Harold turned to Les.
‘Hey, mon. De girls a nen nuf danza. You got, say… twenty Jam?’
Twenty Jam, thought Les. What’s that, about a dollar? Not much of an ask. ‘We’ll see what happens,’ he smiled back at Harold.
A bit further on the one behind Les in the Sugar Minott T-shirt caught his eye in the rear vision mirror. ‘Hey, mon,’ she crooned. ‘Yu lik some swedyang Jamaican tunti? Tri hundrit Jam. Bot us.’
Les smiled back at her. It wasn’t a bad offer. An afternoon’s porking with two little fifteen-year-old girls for about fourteen dollars US. Wouldn’t you hav
e a great time, and wouldn’t you feel proud of yourself afterwards. Not counting all the creepy-crawlies you’d probably finish up with as well. Sick wid heetch and full a fassy. And going by the way the girls’ sweedyang tuntis were poking out from their shorts, Les conceded they might only root for their friends. But wouldn’t have an enemy in Jamaica.
‘We’ll see what happens when we get back to the resort,’ he said.
Young Harold’s ears pricked up. He was probably in on the earn and had just pictured himself as Mo’ Bay’s number one pimp with a nice sideline in bottles as well.
They arrived back at the intersection in front of the resort. Les leant over and opened the back door. As he did, he handed the two junior hookers a fistful of monopoly money.
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