by Jacob Ross
‘Nuh, let’s finish.’
‘Tell me about the boat.’
I figured that given what we called the makoness of Eric – the way he took in information and remembered things – I needed to get as much as I could out of him.
After we tracked down Tamara’s home from what we learned from the children we met on the road, Miss Stanislaus told me that children were the real truth-givers of Camaho, because they hadn’t yet learned to lie. Which was why, she said, so many ‘big-people’ – the ones with things to hide – were uneasy in their presence and often feared them. Children, she sniffed, were a completely different tribe. Surely, I thought, chief of that tribe had to be this young boy sitting in front of me with a dislocated right shoulder.
He said it was late at night when the boat arrived. Lazar Wilkinson had knocked on his mother’s door and called him out. He’d never seen a vessel like that before. It looked like two boats in one. It was so unusual, he could hardly find the words to describe the thing. He was certain it was black and didn’t have a proper cabin, just what he called a windshield.
Apart from the carriers like themselves, who else were there? I asked.
He blinked and rolled his eyes as if he were looking into his head.
Jana Ray, Shadowman, Lazar Wilkinson and the two drivers of the boat.
‘What the drivers look like?’
One tall, one short – the taller of the two in a tightfitting wetsuit.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You saw when the boat left the bay?’
‘Nuh. But I hear it from up in dem hills. I ask Jana Ray why it so loud. He say it got six engine.’ He stood up. ‘You finish, Missa Digger?’
I dropped an arm across his shoulder. ‘Come with me, Eric. We go buy some stuff.’
I took him to one of those stores on Cranby Street, whose goods spilled out onto the sidewalk. I pulled some shirts – one white, two blue – from a rack, a couple of T-shirts and two pairs of trousers. Cheap synthetic material, but they were better than nothing. I sent him into the small cubicle that served as a fitting room and waited while he tried them on. Eric came out in a new shirt and trousers both buttoned up the wrong way. He looked helpless and frustrated. ‘Don’t worry, is your hand,’ I said. I knelt in front of him and fixed him up. ‘Where’s the ole-clothes?’
He jutted his chin at the cubicle.
‘You don’t want them no more?’
‘Nuh.’
I paid and stepped out with Eric into a dazzling day. Somebody turned up the music in one of the cars across the street and he cringed.
I drove up the hospital road with Eric sitting quietly beside me. He looked relaxed, even contented.
‘You in school?’ I said.
‘Sometimes – when Mammy could afford.’
‘You got to go to school. Use that memory ov yours to learn. It kin get you far. Y’unnerstan?’
He nodded.
A thought struck me. ‘The car, Eric – the one the Townman was driving. You remember the number?’
‘It didn have none,’ he answered promptly.
I took him through the hospital gates and had a long talk with the doctor who’d come down to reception. The woman examined the boy’s arm and looked appalled. They’d have to keep him in, she said – at least two weeks. They’d have to break the shoulder and reset the bones – she glanced at Eric and shut her mouth abruptly. Then she turned on me. ‘Why you didn’t bring him sooner?’
‘His mother couldn afford it,’ I said.
‘This is the general hospital. It’s free.’ Her voice was tight with accusation.
‘He wasn’t,’ I said. ‘And I have to let you know, Doctor. I just a very concerned citizen – so don’t look at me like that.’
I returned to the office, dizzy with the information I’d extracted from Eric. I grunted a general hello and hurried to my desk. I spent the rest of the morning scribbling what I’d learned from Eric. When I lifted my head it was past noon.
I spent another thirty minutes researching Eric, or rather his particular brand of recall. I eventually found it: eidetic memory – ability to recall images from memory vividly with high precision . . . not limited to visual aspects of memory . . . includes hearing. Found in 2 to 10 per cent of children aged 6 to 12.
I sat back and could barely believe my luck.
I pulled my chair across the floor to face Miss Stanislaus.
‘Miss Stanislaus,’ I said, ‘I discover Eric was a special lil fella. He’s like a video recorder. He give me reasons to believe that we looking for a boat that been here at least two weeks. Eric was one ov them stickfellas that Jana Ray draw carrying up the cocaine base up the mountain. He describe the boat as two in one. I thinking catamaran.’
‘He member de people with de boat?’
‘Yes: Jana Ray, Shadowman, Lazar Wilkinson, the two men that fit the description of the fellas we identify with Miss Tamara – they the ones who drive the boat.’
Miss Stanislaus stirred her shoulders. ‘Lil Eric was among dem?’
‘Yes. And he mentioned a Townman. He didn see much of him because the fella was in a car cussin out Lazar Wilkinson. All he saw was a hand.’
‘A hand?’
‘A hand!’
‘What about the hand?’ She was smiling at me with lifted brows.
‘Fair-skin hand, he say.’
A burst of chuckles came from her.
‘I serious,’ I said.
‘Really?’ And she started laughing again. ‘Is a lil makoman you got there.’
‘The boy talented.’ I pushed back my chair and stood up. ‘First things first, Miss Stanislaus. We got to find Shadowman. Eric say he live Victoria, Miss Blackwood say somewhere on the coast and Jana Ray say he dunno. I think we should do the whole west coast – top to bottom. And then . . . ’
‘And then?’
‘If what Eric tell me is true, Miss Stanislaus, Shadowman not the one behind this drugs bizness. But I want him – I want that fella bad.’
‘You know what he look like?’
‘Big fella, knotty hair, a cloth or bandana tie around iz head.’
41
Miss Stanislaus and I took the Eastern Main, headed for the northern tip of Camaho, then west through the blue foothills of Saint Catherine Mountain. A lazy day, cool because of a covering of clouds that sat like a white lid over the island – the kind of day that reminded me of my childhood and the miraculous light of Easter.
We did not find Shadowman in Victoria. No one admitted to knowing him, although, with some of them, I recognised the fright in their eyes.
Halfway down the coast, in Kanvi, I approached a young man sitting on a culvert over the river that ran through the town from the Belvedere mountains. He looked us up and down, shook his head and strolled off. Miss Stanislaus kept her eyes on his back as he swung towards the rows of houses that faced the beach and disappeared amongst them.
‘He know,’ she said, her voice low and urgent. I followed her into an alleyway. An old man, bone-thin and shirtless, lowered the corn cob he was sucking on and angled his head at the beach. The ole fella even winked.
Miss Stanislaus was hurrying ahead of me. I spotted a man about fifty yards up the beach, on his knees, slapping the side of a boat as if testing it for soundness. All I could see of him was his back, the muscles rippling like live snakes under his skin. A blue bandana circled his head. Miss Stanislaus was almost upon him.
I called out to her and broke into a sprint.
It was then the kneeling man rose with an explosive movement, his hand rising and coming down on the side of her face. He threw her off her feet. Then he was gone, up the beach towards the houses, gliding through the alleyway like a spectre. I plunged after him, remembered Miss Stanislaus and swung back.
She was lying on the sand, her face among a scattering of wood shavings, her shoulders heaving, a thread of blood trickling down the side of her mouth.
I raised her upper body and eased her weight against my chest
. She muttered something.
‘Don’t talk,’ I said. I pressed my nose against her hair and held her close. That cry that came from her – I knew the blow had damaged something. She was trying to move her lips. What came out was a gurgle.
Pet picked up promptly.
‘Miss Stanislaus down. Send an ambulance.’
‘Miss Stanislaus? O’Gord! Digger, you serious?’
‘Get a fuckin ambulance, Pet. Right now. Kanvi Beach.’
I heard the sob in her voice before she cut off.
I cupped Miss Stanislaus’s face with my hands and said the same thing over and over again. ‘You goin be alright, Miss Stanislaus. You goin be alright.’ Said it until it sounded like a lullaby, while I kept my eyes on my watch.
The villagers came running – a thick gathering of children and adults, edging closer by the second. A woman and two young men broke away from the bunch and began approaching.
‘Stay back,’ I snapped.
They backed away, muttering.
My phone buzzed. I picked up. ‘Spiderface there yet?’
I realised what Pet had done. An ambulance meant a forty-minute drive from San Andrews. A speedboat, fifteen minutes or less. I spotted the craft cutting a fast white path towards us from the south.
Spiderface swung almost onto the sand, the big Honda engine growling. He tossed out an inflated bed – the type tourists sunned themselves on. We eased Miss Stanislaus onto it, then into the boat. Spiderface looked mortified. He could barely keep his eyes off Miss Stanislaus while the boat cut water for San Andrews.
The ambulance was waiting on the Esplanade. Pet stood on the concrete walkway edging the sea, a tiny decorated handkerchief pressed against her mouth.
‘I handle it from here,’ Pet said.
‘Sorry to cuss you, Pet. I was—’
‘I don’t care bout that,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s get Miss Stanislaus outta here.’
42
I left Miss Stanislaus at the hospital with Pet fussing over her and stopped off at the market square. I returned home with a bag stuffed with vegetables and a couple of pounds of fresh butterfish. I washed my hands, then showered. I washed my hands again before going to the cabinet and mixing myself a drink. I wanted something strong to take me slightly out of my head – rhum agricole with a few drops of nutmeg syrup.
I unlocked my cabinet and took out my Remington, spent half an hour inspecting it; then cleaning and oiling the weapon. I shoved it in my bag and cooked the food I had bought.
I left home late evening in a thick grey cotton shirt, a pair of trousers and gym boots laced up to the ankle.
Miss Stanislaus was up – a bevy of young nurses around her bed. They’d laid out for her what the hospital could afford: a bowl of tomato soup, a plate of rice with a tiny toss of salad on the side, and something that looked like luncheon meat. I took the bowl from Miss Stanislaus’s hand and placed it on the tray.
‘Sorry, ladies, I bring real food.’
I took out my food carrier, pulled a chair and spooned the fish broth into the bowl I’d brought along with me. We were quiet as acolytes while we watched Miss Stanislaus eat.
‘She your lady?’
I looked up at the nurse who spoke. She was the tallest of the four. Small, deepset eyes. ‘More than that,’ I said.
As soon as Miss Stanislaus finished eating, there was a tissue in front of her, pushed firmly forward by a nurse with an impossibly neat hairdo and direct, territorial eyes.
‘He kin cook,’ Miss Stanislaus told her as if that would stop the stand-off between the boldface woman and me. The left side of Miss Stanislaus’s face was swollen, otherwise she looked fine.
‘Where’s Daphne?’ I said.
‘Fwens,’ she mumbled. ‘Mither Digger, I caan’t thalk.’
I poured a glass of juice and held it out. She shook her head. ‘All kindsa things in this, Miss Stanislaus. Forest fruits from all over the island, y’unnerstan? You grow back muscles straight away, in places you didn even know you had muscles. Just a coupla sips and I leave you alone.’
The side of her face shifted. She winced. Suddenly the glass froze at her lips and she began to do that reading thing with her eyes, taking me in from foot to head.
‘Nuh,’ she said.
I got off the chair.
‘Nuh,’ she said again, pushing herself to her feet.
Four pairs of hands shooed me out of the room. One of them muttered, ‘Dog!’
‘Mitha Digger, stay. Come thalk to me.’
I shouldered my bag and hurried along the wards.
I was at the gate when DS Chilman rolled up in his tin-can. He prised himself out the thing, a plastic bag in one hand.
‘What you got in there?’ I said.
‘Is my business, Digson.’
‘I hope is not food because she done eat mine already.’
‘Digson, haul y’arse.’
‘I just want to make sure you not giving her nothing that will make her more sick, y’unnerstand?’
‘You the blaastid doctor? Is fruits I got here.’
‘That’s alright then.’
‘Thank you, Sir!’
‘Don’t stay too long either. She kinda tired, yunno.’
Chilman showed me his teeth. ‘Whatever you two got, y’all got it bad, is all I can say.’
He ambled off, raised the bag above his head and shook it. ‘Come pick up some tomorrow.’
‘I might,’ I said.
‘Suit yourself.’
I was about to get into the car when Malan pulled up in a spray of gravel. He too came out of his vehicle with a bag. ‘Digger, I glad I see you. I just figuring out how I goin get dese fruits to De Woman.’
‘Malan, you confusing me! She not going to take nothing from you. That’s for sure.’
‘Wait for me,’ he said and strode off towards the gate. I leaned against my car, observing him. Malan said something to the guard and passed over the bag to him.
When he returned, he dropped his back against the car beside me. Night had already fallen, the town below lit yellow with street lamps.
‘Update me, Digger. What go on in de office?’
I filled him in as briefly as I could.
‘I intend to come in to work, Digger.’ He sounded defiant. ‘Y’all can’t keep me out. Gill at Central tell me he don’t want me down there, I should follow you.’
‘You got a key,’ I said. ‘Just don’t expect it to be the same at the office. How’s Sarona?’
‘Saro quiet,’ he said. ‘She love de sea. I got Spiderface taking her about. She prefer it to de road. Saro teach me one thing, Digger. We should use de sea for traffic, not no road. Is faster and is nicer. We don need no cars.’
He’d folded his arms, looking out at the horizon, his voice gone low. ‘I should’ve meet Sarona long time ago. I would’ve been a better fella. She the first woman I ever tell I love – yunno that?’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘First woman ever give me back-chat and I don’t want to shut ’er up. First woman I want round me every minute of de day. Woman bewitch me, and I like it.’
He sucked his teeth and turned to face me. ‘Digger, I decide to keep a foot in Central too. Gill can’t drive me out. Yunno, I overhear Switch bad-talkin you, tryin to get iz new friends to catch you out on your own somewhere. I walk up to im in front of dem. I ask im about de promise he make to me after you straighten he and his pardners out. I tell im to leave tings alone, don push it, else . . . ’
‘Else what?’
Malan went quiet again. ‘I tell im I goin stop im for good. Not for you, Digger.’
‘For who, then?’
‘For de promise he make an’ break.’ Malan jangled his keys and shoved off. ‘I gone.’
43
Every location on the island has its own voice. I told Dessie that once and she laughed at me.
The slope of a hill, the type and thickness of the vegetation made a sound when the wind ran over it, that a pusson heard nowhere els
e in the world. Up here, among the ferns and bamboo and ancient thick-headed trees, the Belvedere mountains sobbed and mourned.
I was a child when my grandmother told me about this world known only to hunters of bush-meat, and those who made the illicit rum she called mountain-dew. The Belvedere mountains – a place of restless spirits, populated once by the ‘People Above the Wind’ – women and men who, before her time, fled the plantations in the lowlands and built themselves whole villages and roadways among the trees. Maroons.
With Jana Ray’s weed-garden a few yards below, its plastic covering ghostly in the moonlight that filtered down on it, my grandmother’s stories were easy to believe.
I sat with my bag in my lap, my back against a tree, the thick shirt buttoned up against the chill.
I must have dropped off because I opened my eyes to watery morning light and the vegetation further down covered in a fine mist. The crackle of the plastic covering had pulled me out of my doze. A blurred shape moved amongst the plants in Jana Ray’s greenhouse, crouching over one row, straightening up and moving to another.
He stepped out into the open, rippling with muscles, dark as the trunk of the gumbo-limbo tree a couple of feet on his left. He hung there a while, lifted his head at the groans of a bamboo grove somewhere in the distance.
He walked around the construction, inspecting the pipework that led into the greenhouse; began gathering leaves and kindling. He made a nest in one of the firepits under the bamboo pipes, doused the mound with kerosene from the yellow demijohn in his hand, then dropped a match on it. The whole thing flared up and sent him leaping back.
‘You’ll never work it out. You ain got the fuckin brains,’ I said. ‘You kill Jana Ray for nothing. You fuckin stupid snake.’
My voice spun Shadowman around, his head switching from side to side. I stepped forward, my gun raised, and in that instant he’d disappeared. Just a rustle in the bushes further down.
I pressed my back against a tree, my head lowered, my heart hammering, my finger tensed on the trigger of the Remington. A grunt behind me. I threw myself flat just as something crashed against the trunk and splintered. He was on me before I recovered my balance. A hammer blow to my head dimmed my vision, the gun slipped out of my hand. Then an arm locked around my throat, dragging me upwards, then backwards, then downhill. My heels digging into the forest floor.