Black Rain Falling

by Jacob Ross

  ‘You not letting me see it?’

  Lisa wouldn’t look at Pet, whose eyes were fierce on her face. These two were tight as two pegs in an orange – Pet being especially protective of her when Malan, in one of his nasty moods, was giving his PA hell. Right now I sensed that their friendship was on the verge of a meltdown.

  Lisa was shaking her head, her eyes on her keyboard.

  ‘Malan instruct you not to show us the report he make you type for Justice Minister?’

  Lisa said nothing.

  ‘Then you got a choice, not so? You got to decide who’ side you on, because is people living y’all playing with right now. And Miss Stanislaus’ future. I asking you one last time to show us the report he make you type to the Justice Minister, else I want nothing to do with you from now on, y’unnerstan?’

  Lisa printed it out on the office printer.

  Pet picked up the pages. ‘Was Malan’ idea to break us up, not the Justice Minister,’ she said. ‘Thought so!’ She curled her lips at Lisa. ‘If you can’t control it, kill it. That’s what he been thinking ever since. And you love im up so much, you keep it to yourself. Don’t fink I dunno about y’all off-and-on bizness, Lisa Bubb. I know from time.’ She pulled her bag. ‘Digger, you come with me? I got DS Chilman waiting.’

  I hadn’t seen when Pet called Chilman. I suspected that she’d been anticipating this, or perhaps she already knew what Malan was up to but had been testing Lisa.

  We headed for the hill above St Mary’s Convent – a wellordered girls’ school run by local nuns, which produced the top academics on the island. Most would migrate to the United States and excel there. Their love for Camaho would become stronger as the desire to return grew weaker. I didn’t blame them – we were run by fools who were terrified of intelligence.

  There was a cafe up there – a quiet little place on the hill, over which an ancient flamboyant tree arched like a giant awning. Pet seemed to know everyone she met on the road. Women drivers poked out their heads, waved and shouted her name. Fellas tapped their horns and called her Miss P. She took it all in her stride, and I felt myself looking at her with new admiration. ‘Pet, you could be Justice Minister tomorrow. Everybody’ll vote for you, including me.’

  ‘Digger, I love my job. I work hard to be good at it, and now I good at it, Malan Greaves want to send me someplace where I’z a nobody. As if I’z some kinda plastic plate dat he done lick and decide to throw away. Like dat!’ She snapped a finger. Pet halted, looked me in the face. ‘I not goin to let it happen easy so. If I fall, I make him fall too – before me!’

  14

  DS Chilman was in the sitting area outside Pretty Pus. From up here San Andrews town receded downhill in waves of red corrugated roofs towards the Carenage and Esplanade. In the far distance, past the white smudge that was Grand Beach, the international airport – named after a murdered Prime Minister – on the edge of the sea. Chilman looked like a crumpled leather bag on the white plastic chair.

  He took Pet’s hand, guided her to her seat and dropped the other hand on my shoulder. The old man was quiet and dreamy-eyed, his mouth compressed. I felt better in his presence. He ordered us soft drinks and a glass of water for himself.

  We told him everything. Not once did he interrupt, and when we finished he laid his arms across his stomach and leaned back. ‘Y’all thinking wrong. San Andrews CID not done.’ Chilman took out his purse, extracted a hundreddollar bill and spread it on the table. ‘How much this is?’

  ‘Hundred.’ Pet shrugged.

  ‘Is not!’ He pulled out his pocket notepad. Tore a sheet and laid it beside the money. ‘This worth about the same. What’s the difference, Digson?’

  I didn’t answer. I nodded.

  ‘Correct! This is a hundred dollars because everybody agree that is a hundred. Is both paper. Same with San Andrews CID. The Department finish becuz y’all agree it finish. A building is a building. Y’all got phone, y’all not dead, y’all got the same skills and y’all still employed as police. Only difference is where they choose to put y’all.’ He lifted a finger. ‘In the meantime, I going be trying to fix the damage that Red Pig do.’ Chilman said the MJ’s nickname with relish.

  ‘Malan—’ Pet said.

  Chilman stopped her with a look. ‘Put a goat on a cliff, Miss Pet; give it enough rope and it sure to hang itself. Right now, Malan Greaves on a cliff. Y’all dunno this yet, but I happen to learn that he getting a promotion. Justice Minister negotiating a position for him in Central: Chief of Patrol, San Andrews South.’ He leaned back, folded his hands across his stomach and bared his teeth. ‘What Malan just done is what he do to all the women he use up. When he finish with them, he don’ want them to find a life of their own after him. He try to mash them up – make them useless. Digson, get us another drink.’

  I rose, went to the bar and ordered the drinks.

  A dense row of potted yucca plants separated the counter from the sitting area. The conversation between Pet and the old man was a low rumbling affair. I cocked my ear when Chilman said my name. ‘Y’was in love with that youngfella from the first day he join the Department. I think he know it. Two years gone, Miss Pet, and he never done nothing about it – how long you intend to keep your pretty shoes hangin up?’ His voice was warm and gentle – almost like a father to a daughter.

  I decided to tune them out.

  The old DS sat up when I returned. Pet looked distracted.

  ‘Digson, if you kin help it I don’t want you to treat Malan no different. That’s what he going to expect and he done prepare himself for it. Give him rope. Please!’ Chilman threw me a disdainful look. ‘Digson, I ever tell you about the Englishfella and the tiger-puppy?’

  ‘The first part, Sir. And you playing the arse with the rest.’

  A chuckle gurgled out of him. ‘Okay, well the Englishfella call the servant.’

  He reached for his water and brought it to his lips, his eyes bright with playful malice. ‘Right! On with the business of today.’

  ‘Okay, so you playing hard-to-get, I could deal with that! On with the business, Sir.’

  Chilman’s face grew tight with concentration. ‘I’ll tell y’all what I been thinkin. None of this involvement by the Justice Minister making sense to y’all because y’all not seeing it the right way. In Camaho’ law, a Commissioner call the shots for good reason. He stand between politics and the law. In other words,’ the old man said, ‘when an order come from up there,’ he pointed at the sky, ‘the Comissioner’ job is to block that order if it mash-up your rights to life and safety, and tell “up there” why is criminal to give that order. But, yunno, in Camaho, the rightful name for minister is overseer. In other words, we still on the plantation.’

  He pushed himself to his feet. Pet rose with him. ‘Miss Pet, you going to be awright in Customs till I get you out. You, Digson, you know as well as me that San Andrews Central is a snake nest. The officers in Central want you dead. My advice,’ he splayed a hand and showed me his fingers, ‘don’t take on no night duty or go anywhere on your own when you on duty. Stay where other people kin see you, at all times. Whatever office they give you, arrange the room to suit yourself and siddown with the back of your chair against a wall and the door in your line of sight. Wear your piece at all times, y’hear me? Wear your piece!’

  Pet dropped a hand on Chilman’s arms and pecked him on the cheek.

  Chilman winked at me. ‘Digson, where’s mine?’

  ‘Nuh!’

  ‘When they moving y’all out?’

  Pet’s eyes were switching between our faces.

  ‘Next week, Monday.’

  ‘So y’all got six days. We didn’t talk about Kathleen. Digson, I see you got her on Restricted Duties so you got the time you say you need to clear her. I hoping it pay off. My advice – carry on with the job as if nothing happen.’

  The old fella pushed past and nudged me with an elbow. ‘Digson, you’z a rascal!’

  ‘Quite!’ I said, mimicking h
is voice.

  We watched him hobble up the steps.

  ‘Digger, he luv you,’ Pet said. ‘From, erm, the time you join San Andrews CID.’

  ‘He got strong feelings for you too, Pet. He’ll do anything for you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  15

  I was probably the only policeman on the island who didn’t mind the quiet and isolation of night duty. With my nose against the glass of our office window, I stared out at the ocean, speckled with the lights of ships and fishing boats. From the esplanade below, the floodlit jetty shot out like a giant gangplank into the ocean. Miss Stanislaus would still be up, I thought, probably fretting against the restrictions that the Commissioner had imposed on her.

  Malan had, of course, left me to break the news to her and to hand her the letter. She’d taken it from my hand and read it without expression. Camaho’s version of Restricted Duties was torture. The officer was sent home but always had to be on call and was given jobs to humiliate them. They cleaned out the station’s holding cells, opened and closed doors for dignitaries who were quick to insult and put an officer in their place. I’d asked the Commissioner to have Miss Stanislaus answer only to him – not just to save her from the indignities she was sure to meet, but to protect those dignitaries from one or indeed several of her devastating put-downs. It also meant that until the hearing happened, I could call on her.

  Malan had wanted to ‘disarm’ Miss Stanislaus himself. And by disarm, he meant rub her face in it. She was to come into the office and hand over ‘de Department property’. I’d told him to hell with what he wanted. I would get the gun from her.

  Miss Stanislaus had said it was very nice of me to offer, think you, but she would bring it in herself.

  She called mid-morning the next day to say she was on the way. I chose to keep that information to myself. The resentment in the office was palpable, the tension between us brittle. Pet would not look at Malan and she ignored Lisa so completely it was as if Malan’s PA wasn’t there. Lisa kept on trying.

  I sat cross-legged in my chair waiting for Miss Stanislaus to turn up.

  She arrived in a billowing white dress, shoes so pristine you were afraid to look for fear of soiling them. A big handbag hung from her shoulder. She offered us a bright democratic smile, strolled over to her desk and dropped the bag on it.

  ‘The gun,’ Malan said. He held out his hand while remaining seated.

  Miss Stanislaus pretended she didn’t hear him. She took out a long fluted vase and placed it in the centre of her desk. A giant round-headed ixora flower came out next – bloodred, and so perfectly preserved I thought it was artificial. She dropped the flower in the vase. The light from the window struck the glass and made bright patterns on the wall. Pet got up and fetched a cup of water and half-filled it.

  Then Miss Stanislaus retrieved the gun. She did something with her hand and the cylinder dropped open. Another movement and the shells tumbled into her palm. She settled the bullets in a small nest around the vase, fished out what looked like a shallow flower-patterned saucer from her bag and laid the weapon in it. She narrowed her eyes as if she were making some sort of calculation. Then she spun the saucer with a fluid movement that travelled all the way down her arm to her wrist. Miss Stanislaus turned her back on the Ruger, and us. The saucer was still spinning when she walked out of the door, a tissue fanning her face.

  The saucer slowed down and stopped after a final lazy turn.

  I thought I noticed something new on Malan’s face – his mouth partly open, his shoulders pulled back hard against the chair, his eyes on the revolver as it came to a stop with its muzzle pointing directly at him. Fear, I realised. The real thing.

  I gave Malan the sweetest smile that I could muster before settling back in my chair. I felt like running after Miss Stanislaus and asking for an encore.

  That was two days ago.

  Now, my mind drifted to the present. It was Thursday – three days to go before they kicked us out of this little box on the hill and dumped us among people we did not know. The memory of those three officers parked in the middle of Grand Beach Road, their faces stiff with malice, had never left my head. The thought of being amongst them in San Andrews Central made my heart flip over.

  I checked my watch: 4.47am. Thirteen minutes to go before I headed home to my bed.

  The phone rang. I picked up, reaching for my pad to note the time. Heavy breathing in my ear. A babble of voices in the background. The sound of running engines. An accident, probably.

  ‘San Andrews CID. DC Digson here.’

  ‘Sah, I was driving down the road good-good . . . ’

  ‘What’s your name, Sir?’

  ‘Peter Crayton, Sah, but people call me Mokoman. I drive the bus name Reliance. I was coming down the road good-good, and when I reach Beau Séjour, I see someting by de road.’

  ‘What you see?’

  ‘Someting by de road, Sah. I was jus startin me day work, mindin me own business, yunno, but dat thing stop me. I say to meself, “Moko boy, that don’t look good!” So I come outta the bus—’

  ‘What made you come out of the bus, Mister Peter?’

  ‘Something on de side of de road that look like a man, Sah. So, I say to meself—’

  ‘And what it was?’

  ‘A man, Sah! What else? A real man lyin down on his face. The fella lay down wiv his head sideways . . . like . . . like this . . . ’

  ‘We on the phone, Mister Peter, I can’t see what you doing. You been drinking?’

  ‘Drinkin! Drinkin, you say? Naaah, Sah! That fella don’t look like he been drinkin . . . ’

  ‘How the fella look?’

  ‘Laard Gaard, Missa Officer. You ask me how he look?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Dead, Sah – that’s how he look. Dead like a crapaud. You have to come and see for yourself.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I more than sure, Sah. I—’

  ‘You got people around you – right?’

  ‘Everybody here, except y’all, Sah.’

  ‘Okay. Tell everybody to stay away from the body – if it is a body you find . . . ’

  ‘How you mean if is a body I find. I lookin at the fella right now.’

  ‘Nobody is to go near it or touch it or try to move it – not even family. Y’unnerstan? This is a police matter now.’

  ‘Yessah. I was driving me bus, good-good an—’

  ‘Mister Peter, you’ll be kind enough to stop off at West San Andrews Police station and give a statement?’

  ‘But I jus done tell you everyting! I’z a busy man. What I have to—’

  ‘I wasn’t asking. That’s what you got to do.’

  ‘Yessah, but if I did know y’was going to make me do that, I wouldn’ve call’ you.’

  ‘I appreciate it. Go make the report now.’

  Peter sucked his teeth so hard I brushed my ear to check it wasn’t wet with spittle.

  I phoned San Andrews West, passed the details to the duty officer and asked them to get there right away and secure the scene.

  Miss Stanislaus was subdued when she joined me in the car.

  A still, cool morning – the roadside grass glinting with dew.

  ‘I, erm, I not s’posed to stay home?’ she said.

  ‘Not if the Commissioner didn’t tell you that, Miss Stanislaus. You still working, you still got a salary.’

  ‘Until?’ she said.

  ‘Until, we get you off.’

  ‘S’pose we never get me off, Missa Digger?’

  ‘Miss Stanislaus, I used to get beat up in school by fellas twice my size. Everyday I come home bleeding. Yunno why? Because I do what my granny tell me. You don’ just siddown and take no blows from nobody, you keep movin. You keep hitting back. Is what I live by.’

  She raised her chin at the road. ‘Let’s keep movin den.’

  16

  Beau Séjour was seven miles up the western coast – fifty houses or so overlooking the We
stern Main. Across from the road, a clutch of mangroves and seagrape trees fenced a grey-sand beach.

  Five youngfellas were peering into a burnt-out jeep, its insides a mess of wires and roasted foam. The front of the vehicle was buried in a deep trough of muddy water near the entrance to the bay. The naked rim of one rear wheel was a couple of feet off the ground, like a dog with a hind leg raised.

  We elbowed our way through a crowd so tightly pressed together it took all six of the officers already there to clear the way. Silence fell on the gathering when we arrived. All eyes turned to Miss Stanislaus, though the woman was dressed very soberly by her standards: a white frilly bodice with blue trimmings and a navy-blue skirt patterned with yellow canna lilies. The skirt flared off her hips like a Bel Air dancer’s. The sky-blue handbag matched her shoes and frills.

  By the time we got to the high grass verge where the body lay, I’d heard the name Lazar Wilkinson a dozen times. We’d picked him up a few times for affray. Two years ago, the law had given him four months for aggravated assault. When Lazar Wilkinson came out of jail, he went straight to ferrying marijuana between Vincen Island and Camaho with one of those go-fast boats that littered the waters of the coastal villages these days.

  Detective Superintendent Chilman had no time for us when we raised the trafficking with him. ‘If y’all want to make arrest, then arrest the fuckin government who give away all we fishing rights to Koreaman and Chinaman that come with factory ship to suck up all we fish. And what we get for it?’ I could see him now, shaking his half-drunk, salt-and-pepper head and wrapping his mouth around a hot cuss-word. ‘A lil bit of concrete on the public road that get wash away soon as a drizzle fall! So who’s the criminal? Eh? Leave them fellas alone.’

  Someone had thrown a sheet of canvas over the upper half of the body. They said his mother did it, and it had taken twelve men (I deducted nine) to remove her, kicking and cussing, from the scene.

  I turned to the officer in charge. ‘Liam, y’all couldn’t cordon off the place and move people away?’