Black Rain Falling

by Jacob Ross

  It was close to midnight when Pet called. She greeted me with a yawn. ‘Digger, what you want?’

  She was silent while I briefed her.

  My words ignited something in her. ‘Malan going to call a meeting tomorrow, Digger – soonz he get the news. You call him yet?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘I going to ask Lisa to stay home becuz she will write whatever Malan tell her to write. I want to take the notes. Make sure you come with a case against him.’

  ‘Pet, I ain got no—’

  ‘Digger, you give up too easy! Is two years you been workin with Malan. How much thousands-a-time he break the law to suit imself? Make a case, Digger. Throw it in his face when he talk about dismissing Miss Stanislaus at the meeting – because that is what he going to try to do – ask the dog, how come he never fire imself for doing worse things. Like that man he make take jail, becuz he want stress-free time with the fella woman, or the youngfella he shoot in his foot last month because the boy give im backchat. You got a lot worse things on Malan. Make the case, I write it down, and I goin to make fuckin sure the Commissioner and the Justice Minister get a full record of the meeting. And I will inform Malan of my intention. Let him get me fired too!’

  ‘Pet, you amazin . . . ’

  ‘Say that to my face, Digger. Call me when you done.’ She cut off.

  I didn’t call her back. I phoned Malan and told him I wanted to talk.

  ‘Digger, I at De Flare, come down, nuh.’ Not the usual badman voice and attitude. Malan sounded almost friendly. ‘And bring your woman.’

  Why not? Been a coupla weeks since I last saw Dessie. I composed a long text message, full of apology and honest explanation about why I stood her up the last time. I laid my phone on the table face up and stared at the screen.

  It took Dessie a while to respond – a long while. I submitted to the punishment.

  Uh-huh, she responded finally. Nothing more.

  Dessie and I – we’d been together and apart for two years. I’d laid with no other woman and Dessie said she had no other interest elsewhere. After her marriage failed she returned to her parents’ place and visited me when she felt like it. Once or twice, to keep her happy, I turned up with her at their cocktail or beach parties, dressed up the way she prescribed. I hung around the edges of her crowd, a drink in my hand, and with what I hoped was a pleasant face. I was happy to be her staked-out territory which she defended with a quiet smiling aggression that got the message over to whichever female drifted in my direction and attempted to engage me for longer than a minute.

  Luther Caine, the man she’d married, was never far away, even when he was absent – a big-boned, red-skinned fella who I referred to privately as ‘the mulatto’. Her friends would call his name by accident sometimes then bring a quick hand to their mouths, their eyes swivelling towards me.

  ‘Cruel’ was the label I had for Luther Caine – one of those people who used their relationships to plumb the depths of their own depravity. To see how far they could push another human to self-destruct. It seemed to me that Luther Caine’s special interest in Dessie was trying to make her kill herself. He almost achieved it – twice – by convincing the only daughter of the wealthiest family on Camaho that not only was she useless, she was better off dead. He’d brought her to the point where she actually believed him. To save her, I had to call her parents.

  Her father Raymond ‘Coldfish’ Manille’s punishment was as swift as it was brutal. He took away Luther Caine’s bank manager job and had the post given to Dessie. He had him banned from every one of their private clubs and social gatherings on the island. Now, from what Dessie told me, Luther Caine gave water skiing lessons to tourists on Grand Beach.

  In 2 hrs? Dessie texted.

  n e time, I replied.

  10

  I didn’t mind The Flare, but I hated getting to it. You drove down an almost vertical incline to a bridge that straddled an inlet which flowed in from the sea. High chalk cliffs rose up on either side. Soil crackled under-wheel. My nostrils itched at the man-smell of crabs, manchineel and sun-blasted rocks. I could never get down to The Flare without my nerves flaring with the awareness that I was driving through a place of buried disasters.

  Camahoans called it The Furnace, after the US invaded the island in ’83. The local militia was holed up there. It was the first place the F16 fighter planes dropped their radioactive bombs. More than thirty years on, clusters of cancer still riddled the villages perched on the hills above it. I’d read somewhere of an October night of rain, a couple days before Reagan sent in his Rapid Deployment Force, when fellas in the government had an argument over ideas. They settled it by lining up eight of their colleagues against a wall and shooting them. Eight bodies, bullet-riddled beyond recognition, then brought down here by a crazed militiaman who’d made a furnace in a rock-hollow above the sea, bulldozered their remains, then burnt what remained of them.

  A whitefella, who did the same job that I did now, identified the only female among them from a flared hip bone. The grooves on the inside surface of her pubic bones told him she’d been a mother. A voice on the phone ordered the whitefella to stop the investigation. Couple days later, the hollow was scooped out and covered up, the bones disappeared almost as if they’d never been there. Hardly any difference from what happened to my mother ten years ago. One day, I decided, I would continue that whitefella’s work.

  I pulled myself out of my thoughts as The Flare came up – a pool of brightness against the black backdrop of the ocean. I wondered if the Swiss couple who owned the place, and the Camahoan middle-class males who flocked to it with their young working-class mistresses, had any idea of what they were sitting and drinking on.

  My phone dinged. Woman cum soon. 1 hr. :)

  Man arrive, I replied. Take ur time.

  I parked and stepped out of my car. Directly ahead, a wide wooden platform, dotted with rough-hewn tables, a cocktail bar running the length of one side, candles sputtering in tiny coconut shells. The pillars of the whole establishment were planted in the shallows of a white-sand beach with waves seething under the floorboards.

  Malan had his elbow on the wooden rails, his back against the ocean, his head turned down at a woman. He spotted me and curled a finger in my direction.

  The woman gave me a bright, full-mouthed smile. Almost as tall as Malan in her heels. White culottes, fine silver bracelets that winked in the candlelight. Yellow-skinned and smooth like a ripe Ceylon mango. Night-black hair, closecropped, and eyes that seemed not so much to look at you as to embrace you. Pretty nuh raas, like the Jamaicans say.

  Malan flicked a wrist at me. ‘Dat’s Digger.’

  The woman dropped a hand in mine. ‘Sarona,’ she said. Low, throaty voice that carried. ‘Malan said you both detectives?’

  Malan’s eyes were switching between our faces. ‘Get us a drink, Digger.’ He pulled out his purse, peeled off a hundreddollar bill. ‘Buy yourself one too.’

  I held his gaze. ‘What you want, Malan?’

  ‘The usual.’ He turned to Sarona with raised brows. She laid a silver-ringed hand on his shoulder. ‘Something local? Not too strong?’

  I cocked a thumb and headed for the bar.

  I ordered a lager, then took the bartender through the steps of making a proper Camaho cocktail. I waved Malan over. He spread his palms, frowning. I waved again and waited.

  He came over – sweetman swagger, saga-boy step. Not bad, I thought.

  ‘I didn’t know you like this kinda place, Malan. You upgrade?’

  He tensed, the black eyes narrowing down to pinpricks. ‘Digger, I invite you here—’

  ‘To make the new woman know who’s bossing who – I know.’ I stuffed his change into his shirt pocket. ‘Pick up the drinks. Who’s she?’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘Sweet! Where’s the gauldin?’

  ‘Dessie running late. I ask you a question, Malan.’

  He reached for the drinks, threw me a wink. ‘Laas w
eek, yunno. Woman step in my drinkin place cross de Carenage. I pay for de drink she order. And then, yunno. Man make a move.’ He threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘High class an’ nice arse. An’ . . . ’ He raised a finger at my face. I slapped the hand away.

  ‘You better watch yuh mouth,’ he said.

  Through the hum of voices, the clink and scrape of glass and cutlery, in the near distance I picked up the shout of a woman, pitched high and desperate.

  I lifted a hand. ‘Y’hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’ He’d gone alert, his eyes searching my face.

  I pointed beyond the railings at the beach, pushed myself off the counter and began weaving through the tables.

  I walked out on the low-cut lawn that sloped down to the beach. Fifty yards or so ahead at the northern end of the bay, I picked out three shapes barely distinguishable in the spill of light from the restaurant. Two males and a female.

  The woman’s back was pressed against the bare chest of the shorter of the two men. He’d pinned down both of her hands with his. She was kicking and bucking to break free while the taller of the two – in a knee-length wetsuit – was scooping up handfuls of sand and plastering her face and neck. Both men, mahogany-coloured and muscular. They were chuckling and muttering amongst themselves. Tourists.

  ‘She don’t like it. Let her go.’

  Shortman pushed the woman forward hard. She floundered, regained balance and scooted to the side. He turned to face me, smiling. Thick as a pig, heavy brows, hands like sledgehammers. The skin of his lower face pulled back in a tight gold-toothed grin. The taller man stood back, his arms folded.

  I pulled out my ID and held it up.

  Shortman’s grin widened. He shook his head and brought up his fists, his shoulders hunched, feinting punches in my direction. I slipped off my belt, rolled the heavy leather around my wrist, my grip on the tail. ‘You take another step, I bring you down,’ I said.

  I let the belt hang loose.

  I saw the big punch coming before he threw it – the adjustment of his feet on the sand, the tensing of his back muscles. I swung away from the fist, convulsed my arm. The heavy steel buckle snapped at his ankle, struck bone. He keeled over and hit the water flailing. He struggled to his feet and fell over again. Not a sound came from him.

  ‘Yuh want to dead?’

  Malan’s voice behind me – soft and caressing. I hadn’t heard him arrive.

  The Chief Officer was on the bank a little way above me. I realised that Wetsuit had manoeuvred himself behind me with what looked like a fisherman’s knife in his hands.

  ‘Come an dead.’ Malan stood straight-backed but relaxed, his big Sig Sauer flat in his palm. I’d heard that invitation four times before – throaty and seductive, yet dripping with malice. And it was always when Malan was about to kill.

  If Wetsuit didn’t see what was coming, the shorter man did. He’d pulled himself out of the water, taking his weight on one leg. Fast words spewed from him, some of which I didn’t recognise. He was making urgent circles with his hands at the dinghy bobbing a few yards beyond the foreshore. Wetsuit turned, threw one last glance at Malan before dropping an arm across Shortman’s shoulders.

  They splashed towards the small rubber boat, climbed into it and kicked the engine into life.

  ‘You didn say thanks,’ Malan said. ‘I jus save y’arse, Digger.’ He made a point of slipping the gun back under his shirt. Now there was no sign of it. ‘People tired telling you to wear your fuckin piece. But nuh,’ he glared at the belt in my hand, ‘you behavin like you in a movie with dat fuckin ting. Flim star does dead stupid too, yunno.’

  ‘If you did shoot that fella, you would’ve spoilt the evening with your new woman,’ I told him. ‘And for the other people up there too. That’s what you wanted?’

  ‘So, I the one to tell you thanks? I not tellin you thanks. What dat lil bitch up to now?’

  The young woman was still on the beach, hugging herself and rocking slightly – a light-skinned Camahoan, whip-slim, in yellow halter-back. Jeans as tight as Lycra. Braids pulled up in a high nest on her head. I beckoned her over. She shook her head, turned and waded out into the water towards the boat. She seated herself on the prow, her back towards us.

  ‘Fuckin whore,’ Malan mumbled.

  I slipped on my belt. ‘Mebbe she got no choice, Malan. From what I figure, she got a young child – her stomach still distended from the pregnancy. I guessing – that’s all.’

  A quick flash of Malan’s teeth and that sideways look of his. ‘You even talk like De Woman.’

  ‘Miss Stanislaus would’ve done better – probably get the woman to stay away from those two fellas. Malan, I got a coupla things to raise concerning Miss Stanislaus.’

  ‘I not talkin bout she right now, Digger. My free time is my time, y’unnerstan? But tomorrow, we handle it.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Armed officer without probable cause gone off and kill the fella who done time already for playin wid her. Dat’s bringin de Department into, erm, is disrepute you call it? Anyway, is askin for trouble.’

  ‘Is rape we talking bout, Malan, not playin.’ I realised I’d raised my voice. I stepped away from him. ‘You say Juba done time. Well, s’far as I see, Miss Stanislaus still doing time. She been doing time since she fourteen. You got a wife and girlchild, put yourself—’

  ‘Digger!’ He showed me his palms, then pressed a finger against his lips. He threw a quick glance up at the veranda and dropped his voice. ‘You pushin it right now.’

  What came from Malan was more breath than words now. ‘I got bizness dealing with right now so watch yuh mouth. What I sayin is De Woman went about it wrong. She dig a hole for ’erself and I going make sure she stay in it. I going make sure she never get a police job again. I want ’er father to go with ’er too. I not making no mistake dis time. I calling a meeting with staff tomorrow first thing so I kin inform her ov my intentions. Then I goin demand a hearing. After that . . . ’ He slid his eyes at me and grinned.

  ‘You doubt her, you doubt me too,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s suppose I make meself believe you. How come De Woman always savin y’arse? How come everybody got to save y’arse? If I didn come down here tonight you’d ha been dead too, not so?’ He threw me an evil stare. ‘Who de hell you think you is? Anyway, I not backing de bitch—’

  ‘Don’t call her no bitch!’ I felt the growl rising to my throat. ‘You call her them kinda names again, I go up to that balcony and make Sarona know the kinda fella she dealing with.’

  He stepped back, showed me his palms. ‘Lissen, fella, I know De Woman is your weakness. Dunno what you gettin out of it because is obvious she ’fraid ov man. All I sayin is De Woman stupid! You train ’er but you didn teach ’er no sense. If she did want to take down de fella, she had to set him up de right way. She had to do what I do, y’unnerstan? Put de fella in a position so he make de first move, and is clear to everybody dat she in de right. Den she take him down. Dat’s self-defence. Dat’s actin within de auspices ov de law! We not no American or Jamaican gangster cop. Camaho police oblige to do it legal.’

  He was still for a while, looking out at the water. ‘My advice is to stay clear of De Woman from now. If you stick with ’er, you get pulled down too. You bet me?’ He’d swivelled his eyes in my direction, his whole body a threat.

  He’d become no-nonsense and precise. ‘She got the motive, she got no witness apart from you, and people expect you to lie for De Woman. Case close!’

  I shook my head and smiled. ‘Don’t raise your hopes too high, Malan. I know what happened. I was there.’

  ‘Show me de evidence.’

  ‘I working on it. Give it time.’

  ‘Time is what y’all ain got! By de end of de week, she gone.’

  I could hear the waves sucking against the pillars. People were against the railing, looking down at us. Sarona stood out amongst them like a lily in a garden of weeds.

  Malan glanced up at th
e crowded balcony. ‘Digger, I decide you owe me. Next week, you take over my night duty. I not wastin my night-time in no office.’

  I nodded. ‘You sure you didn set up dis whole thing to impress the woman?’

  A chuckle-hiss came from him. ‘You jokin, right? I gone, night wastin!’

  ‘I getting out of here,’ I said.

  ‘What happen, your bourgeois woman change ’er mind?’

  I didn’t answer him.

  When we got back, people were out on the grass with glasses in their hands and questions on their faces. I skirted the crowd and headed for my car. Malan stood in their midst showing his teeth and gesturing. Sarona’s face was turned up to him as if she were about to receive the sacrament.

  I stood on the bank above The Flare looking out to sea. In the near distance, Kalivini Island, once a sacred burial ground for the people who discovered Columbus on their shores, now floodlit and forbidding, owned by a Frenchman with bodyguards who carried guns.

  I glanced at my watch, then at the sky, pockmarked with stars, becoming suddenly aware of myself in this dry, ghostridden valley, walled in by bomb-struck limestone. I felt like an insect trapped in a dust bowl.

  I messaged Dessie: Still @ home?

  Leavin now.

  4get it. Place dead.

  An emoticon with a seriously distressed face popped up.

  I texted back. Still 1 2 meet?

  No reply.

  I cleared the hill and swung the car for home – in my mind, the image of Chief Officer Malan with the Sig Sauer lying flat in his palm, his death-whisper to the tourist-fella with the fishknife, . . .come an dead . . .

  That was Malan forgetting himself, forgetting about the woman he so obviously wanted to impress, just for the thrill of a kill.

  After all this time working with the fella, I still feared that side of him.

  I texted Dessie, ?

  F-off, she replied.

  11