by Jacob Ross
A small smile creased her lips. ‘Missa Digger, why you lookin at me like dat?’
She was dangling the spoon between thumb and index, her chin raised at the ceiling. ‘You – you think killin criminal people is wickedness? Not so?’
I shook my head. ‘Nuh.’
Now she was looking at me, unblinking. ‘What you thinkin?’
I stood up. Her eyes followed my hands as I cleared the table.
‘I thinking that I know why y’was so upset with me after we left Luther Caine’ place, and why you didn’t want to tell me.’
‘I come here for one thing, Missa Digger – to find out if you see me different after what I done to Juba. Dat – dat matter to me. A lot.’
‘Juba happened weeks ago, why you asking now?’
‘Becuz of tonight. I see de way it make you sick. Like you wuz hatin yourself.’
‘Miss Stanislaus, you save my life and yours that time. I save yours and mine tonight.’
‘That’s not what I asking.’
‘Lemme finish my words, Miss Stanislaus. What I saying is, it ain’t got no Digger or Miss Stanislaus in those circumstances. We not two people: we one.’
She shook her head. ‘I’z my own pusson. I always been my own pusson.’
‘No, you not. In this job, we not.’
She shook her head again.
I sat back, fizzing with irritation. ‘Is so,’ I said. ‘Nuffing you say kin change that.’
I saw the change come over her, the deadening in her face, then the sudden flaring of her eyes. I followed the swing of her arm, angled my head so that her open palm glanced off my jaw.
‘Missa Digger, O God, I – I—’ Miss Stanislaus leaned towards me, the offending hand outstretched. I eased back, lifted a finger at the picture on the wall. ‘Apart from my granny, you the only pusson to ever get away with that. You ready to go home?’
‘You drivin me away?’
‘You ready?’
*
We drove through Old Hope under a cool white moon, past little roadside shops spilling fluorescent light onto the road. Occasionally, one of the young men perched on a crate outside the door shouted my name or waved. I tapped my horn and drove on.
‘You let me hit you,’ she said. The woman was pouting with accusation.
‘Is what a child would say, Miss Stanislaus. Blame the victim.’
‘I know how quick you move, you could’ve stop me.’
‘That’s why you take the chance?’
She tapped her bag. ‘So why you let me hit you?’
‘I shouldn’ve said what I said.’
I pulled over at her gate.
Her house stood in darkness behind its tall hibiscus fence. Ahead of us, the road gleamed bare and empty. No sign of my wrecked car, or last night’s confrontation with Shadowman – apart from the boulders by the roadside.
I angled my chin at her house. ‘You goin be alright on your own in there?’
‘You goin be awright in yours?’ She turned to look at me. ‘Missa Digger, h’was waiting for us.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Shadowman was following instructions.’
‘You work it out?’
‘I’ll tell you when I sure. Not long from now.’
She slid out of the car, closed the door and poked her head through the rolled-down window. I kept my head straight. Picked up her agitation in her breathing.
‘Missa Digger, I want you to know is not a habit.’
‘What’s not a habit?’
‘I never hit a fella before for upsettin me. You believe me?’
‘Yes, Miss Stanislaus – all you do is shoot them.’
‘Missa Digger, I serious.’
‘Me too.’
‘And I decide I never goin strike you again. No matter the provocation.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks.’
‘G’night, Missa Digger.’
‘G’night, Miss Stanislaus.’
55
My watch said 2.14am – the kind of hour that Dessie and I escaped to some secluded beach where we sat in the car facing the ocean, made love or I listened to her talk about the future she imagined for both of us.
Tonight I would not sleep so I mixed myself an eye-opener cocktail because it felt right: egg yolk, crème de noyaux, aniseed-flavoured alcohol, a splash of Martiniquan rhum agricole. Ice. Stir.
Stirred.
Stirred up.
Raging.
Dessie!
I felt as if a stone had lodged in my throat. In one of the houses down the hill someone was running their speakers at full blast, the brassy discordance gnawing at my nerves. I took a few breaths, returned to the kitchen and sat at the worktop with the drink, a notepad and pencil in my hand. I sat back a while and stilled my hands.
I made notes, drew diagrams, reviewed the soundscape of the party on Lavender Hill the night before, my brief time in Luther Caine’s house with Miss Stanislaus, the magic of the woman’s presence in that cocktail party of chattering people. Sarona.
I felt hollowed-out and feverish when I finished the drink, picked up my phone and texted Dessie.
1 2 c u.
She pinged me back promptly. Me 2. U cum? :)
Yh.
I picked her up at the high gates of her parents’ house. She’d chosen a flimsy dress of some fabric that shivered at the slightest twitch of her limbs.
‘New place,’ I said. ‘Up north.’
‘Don’t care.’ She shrugged and leaned into me, dropped a hand on my lap and kept it there.
We drove through Temple Valley, swung onto the Centre Main, cruised past sleeping villages, on lightless solitary roads hunched over by ancient forest trees. Dessie and I could have been the only humans on earth, cocooned by the night outside and the steady hum of the car.
I turned into the road that would take us to the ocean – and already I could hear its thunder against the precipice ahead. ‘Dessie, I want to talk about the case we chasing now,’ I said. ‘You in a mood for that?’
She stirred as if I’d roused her from sleep.
‘I ever tell you about the rape riots and what happen to my mother?’
‘A thousand times, Digger. You not going to talk about that now?’
‘The man that rape the schoolgirl, that make my mother and a whole heap of other women riot, that led to policemen shooting her up so bad – that man who was Justice Minister before the present fool took over. He was your husband’s father.’
‘He’s not my husband any more.’
I braked the car at the top of the rise in the face of a shuddering headwind. Directly ahead, past the narrow headland, the metallic glint of breakers, and above it all, a weak moon.
‘Lemme put it another way, then. I want to know what Luther Caine got on you that you can’t break away from him.’
She took her hand off my lap. ‘Jesus Christ, Digger. You got no reason to be jealous.’
‘Jealous! That’s not the word, Dessie. A couple of nights ago, a man came out of the night to kill me and Miss Stanislaus. He almost succeeded. He knew exactly where to find us and when. That was directly after we came from your husband’s party. Now, only two people knew I was going to that party – Miss Stanislaus and me. So, that makes me paranoid. Y’was up there in Luther’s house that night, not so? Miss Stanislaus knew it. She didn’t tell me how she knew, but she asked me if I invited you. She didn’t look too pleased. Kept doing that nose-pointing thing she does. She asked me twice and I told her, no way, you weren’t up there.
‘It started me thinking back, Dessie. Dora Wilkinson’s account. I asked you where she got all that money from, you said it was a deposit not an electronic transfer. In other words, you lied. I know now that it was an electronic transfer and I happen to know you still manage his money.’
I pressed my head against the headrest and closed my eyes. ‘Okay, so you didn’t want me to know that you still tied up so tight to the fella after all the hate you say you hate him. And you kn
ow my next move would’ve been to find out who the transfer came from.’ I turned to look at her in the face. ‘Luther ever told you where the money comes from?’
Dessie was quiet for a long while. Out there, with the car facing the ocean, and the wind pushing against the vehicle, it felt as if we’d be lifted any moment and deposited into the water.
‘Dessie, I happen to know that a go-fast boat full of drugs will be leaving this island some time soon. We can’t find it here on Camaho but we know it’s here. We been looking for the two fellas we believe are the drivers and we can’t find them either. I convinced now that Luther Caine knows all about that boat – at least! I suspect that he been asked to fix a couple of engines – at least! There would’ve been money transactions between him and the people concerned. If you don’t gimme the information I ask for, I’ll get it still, but I want it from you.’
I thought she was going to tell me she didn’t know what I was talking about. Instead I saw the old fear there – the one that made her look small and pinched and timid when, in the early days, she spoke of what Luther Caine would do to her if he ever found her sitting in a car with me. I remembered it, and resented it.
She was muttering to herself, her hands folding and unfolding around each other. ‘He’ll kill me, Digger; you don’t know Luther. He will.’
‘He can’t! Believe! What you know about the boat?’
‘End of next week – I overheard – it’s all – Digger . . . ’
‘That’s when the boat leave?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s when they make the last payment. That’s all I heard. That’s—’
‘Who’s they?’
I switched on the roof light, reached for her hand, lifted her chin so she could look me in the eyes. ‘Dessima Caine, in all the months we been intimate, I ever deceive you? Is not the fuckin truth I always tell you all the time – regardless of whether you like it or not? Three people dead already becuz ov all this, including Jana Ray – the lil fella you met and liked so much. So why you trying to protect your husband?’
‘Digger, Luther’s got all my savings tied up in his business. I was married to him and I trusted him. I was stupid. And I need my money because I want my independence. He won’t give it back unless I—’ She drew breath.
I dropped my arm across her shoulders, sat in silence while she pulled herself together. She slid wet, wide eyes at me. ‘The payments usually come in from Venezuela.’
‘How often?’
‘Months in-between. The last one was, erm, couple of weeks ago.’
‘No other payments?’
‘One more transaction and that’s it, I think. Digger – I—’
‘End of next week, you say?’
She nodded.
‘What day?’
‘Dunno.’
‘And the boat, Dessie; where they hiding it?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s only the money I know about – no boat. Digger, I want you to believe me.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Dessie, this is what I need from you. Please.’
She nodded.
‘The last payment – you sure it will be the last payment?’
She nodded again.
‘As soon as that money reaches Luther Caine’s account, I want you to message me. Please!’
On the way back she leaned away from me, her head against the door of the car. When I pulled up at Dessie’s gates, she remained in the car, her eyes searching my face. ‘You hating me now, not so?’
‘I can’t do that, Dessie. Call me stupid if you want. Is just that you don’t always have a solid relationship with the truth and right now that’s putting me on shaky ground. You do what you have to do to protect yourself and mebbe to hold onto what you got or value – that makes a certain kinda sense. I dunno. Sometimes I ride with it.’ I turned to look at her. ‘Like you telling me you divorced when you not. You don fink I’d know that? Is easy! All I got to do is check the registry.’ I smiled at her. ‘And yunno, I start making meself believe it too?’
I sat back and took her hand. ‘Now, tell me about Sarona.’
‘What makes you think I know anything about that woman?’ She cocked her chin at me. She’d gone sour-faced, aggressive.
‘I thought I glimpsed her up at Luther’s cocktail party. Y’was up there too. It crossed my mind you know her well enough. In fact, you told me you know her on Dog Island – remember when Malan shot that goat? I wasn’t listening at the time but you told me.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘“I can’t like her. I never liked—” I don’t think you finished the sentence or p’raps I didn’t hear the rest of it. Was an odd way to talk about somebody you meet for the first time, not so? I never liked . . . What you never liked about Sarona, Dessie?’
‘Well, it’s true. I don’t like her.’
‘What she got with Luther?’
‘They’ve been off and on for a couple of years. He’s even gone to Venezuela to see her.’ Dessie sounded bitter. ‘She sleeps with him.’
‘S’far as I know, Sarona is with Malan Greaves,’ I said.
Dessie twisted her mouth. ‘He thinks.’
‘Sarona shouldn’t mess with Malan. He’s a dangerous fella, even to himself.’
Dessie soured her face again, her voice gone sibilant with the venom. ‘Sarona my arse! Her name’s Sandra Fernandez. She’s Luther’s woman and she’s been with him while we married.’
‘How you know she sleeps with him?’
‘I’m a woman, Digger. I know these things.’ She rested bright unblinking eyes on my face. ‘I think you should tell your friend.’
I shook my head. ‘Nuh. But he’ll find out. For sure.’
‘And then?’
‘Your husband will have another man who got it in for him.’
Back home, I threw myself on my sofa, waited through DS Chilman’s sputtering outrage.
‘Digson, what time-a-morning you think this is?’
‘Five past four, Sir, a.m.!’
‘You better have a blaastid good reason.’
‘I have. I want you to have Luther Caine arrested. I requesting a raid of his premises today. I got good reasons to believe he’s connected with the boat we after and may still have the engines we been talking about. And I not ruling out the murder of Lazar Wilkinson.’
‘You got the evidence?’
‘That’s the point of the raid, Sir.’
‘Let’s talk later, Digson. I will have to make a call.’
‘Call who?’
‘Your father,’ he said.
‘The Commissioner? I could ask for what reason? With due respect, Sir, we handle this matter same like we handle every other criminal matter in Camaho.’
‘That’s not the point, Digson.’
‘I taking Luther Caine down. After that, y’all kin fire me if y’all want.’
‘I’ll get y’arse fired right now, Digson! You want to bet me?’
‘Regardless, Sir. I going to finish this.’ I put down the phone.
Chilman called back. ‘Digson, where your brain gone? You stop using it? You with the man wife. Now you want to arrest him.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You even went to the fella house with your other woman to harass him.’
‘Jeezas Christ, Sir!’
‘Digson, if you go after Luther Caine today, or any time, and you don’t have the evidence, a good defence lawyer will tear y’arse to pieces in court about your personal vendetta, and put my department under scrutiny. Learn this: sometimes it take a long stick to catch a snake.’
‘And is like people waiting for the tree to grow before they cut the stick to catch the snake,’ I threw back.
56
A dream woke me – a posse of Camaho youths on Ninja bikes – the expensive type that middle-class youngfellas bought, climbed onto in baking leather suits and rode to a hill above the international airport to look down longingly at the only decent stretch of tarmac on
the island. My grandmother taught me never to dismiss dreams: they were about all the things that threaten us or frighten us. ‘Is the inside-self givin us the answers to all them questions we been askin.’
Engines. I looked at my watch, 3.00am. I dialled Spiderface – our boatman was as crazy about boats and engines as the frustrated bikers of Camaho. A racket assaulted my ears when he picked up. No doubt a beach lime somewhere, full of women, throat-scorching rum and man-food – mainly flour dumplings the size and length of a plump baby’s arm, salt-meat, breadfruit, and any living thing the sea delivered at this time of night. I wished I was there.
‘Missa Digger, come! We in Levera.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘All of us! Even Missa Malan here with his Princess Lady! I bring them here by boat. Better ride than a car, yunno.’
‘What y’all cooking?’
‘Dumplins, saltfish, sea-cat—’
‘Find a quiet place to talk.’
‘Missa Digger, you have to do that to me? Is a whole hill I got to climb to find some quiet.’
‘Climb the hill then. I waiting.’
I listened to him gasping and muttering to himself until I could barely hear the racket.
‘You could stop now, Spider. Noise gone.’
‘Is on top the hill that I reach now.’
I’d taken photos of Jana Ray’s drawing, printed them on A4 paper to carry around with me. I reached for those oddly drawn propellers with the same number written above each one.
‘Spiderface, if I say 7-557 – that mean anything to you?’
‘Seven dash 557? Nuh. What that is, Missa Digger?’
‘I talkin to you about boat, right?’
‘Nuh – ooh, yuh mean 7557?’
‘Same thing, not so?’
‘You say seven dash! 7557 different! Is de alien.’
‘The?’
‘Alien, Missa Digger. V8 powerhead, double exhaust, aluminium block engine, close loop cooling, 557 horsepower, 1.8 pounds per horsepower, ZF transmission, octane scaler, multipoint injection exhaust selector, hydraulic power steering. Weight 1000 pounds. And it cost a lotta money!’
‘I still dunno what that is.’
‘Outboard engine, Missa Digger. Is boat engine you asking me about, not so?’