A Kind of Eden (18 page)

‘You must have a CT scan,' he says; the machine in the hospital is not working. ‘Go to Trinidad. Mount Hope medical centre will do it free of charge. If something is wrong usually there are signs—dizziness, vomiting, pain. Do you have any of these signs?'

‘No.'

‘It is not always obvious, so you must pay attention to anything different, unusual. It could kill you. Do you understand?'

‘Yes,' he says.

‘Have you spoken with the police? They need to get a handle on these tourist attacks.'

‘I'm not a tourist. I work with the police in Trinidad.'

‘But you look like a tourist. That's the point. They should be worried. The police do what they want. We had an attempted burglary last week, a policeman took an hour to come from the beach on a bicycle. It is a nonsense.'

The doctor tapes a large, thick bandage across the back of Martin's head. As a precaution, he should probably stay tonight in the hospital for observation. He washes his hands and calls for the nurse. She will give him a tetanus injection,
cream for his wrists, antihistamine for his bites, Band-Aids for the small cuts on his face and feet. There are painkillers; they might knock him out, but he will be glad of them later.

He speaks with authority, ‘You should go back to your country. This is not a place for people like you.'

After he has seen the nurse, Martin limps back slowly through the corridor—there's no time to waste—holding his leg as he walks. He checks Georgia's phone—a text has arrived. Miriam has sent details of the hotel. They are in room 302.

Miriam, his capable and competent wife
.

Outside, music blasts from an old car and a crowd of young people stand around it, dressed for the beach; they eat from a cooking pot balanced on the bonnet. He thinks, This is a hospital, people are sick. Can't they turn it down? A security guard stands by chatting to a friend. Why doesn't he say something?

From the taxi, he telephones Raymond who is deeply sorry, as if this is somehow his fault. When news came in of a robbery, he'd tried to reach him. He'd been calling his mobile since this morning, but it was switched off, dead.

‘Tobago never used to be like this. What is happening with these people?' He called Scarborough police station and spoke with an officer from last night. He understands that they want to keep the part about Georgia confidential, away from the press. Is there anything else he can do?

‘I'm going to the station now to give a statement.'

Martin asks if he will ring Safiya and let her know that he is out of hospital.

‘She probably knows something through the news desk; she might not realise it's you. We knew there was a robbery, but there were no names yet. There wasn't much information.'

‘Better that way,' Martin says.

‘I understand.'

He hears Raymond lighting a cigarette. ‘Did you see them?'

‘I saw them. Clear as fucking day.'

Sergeant Usaf Rochford and Police Constable Curtis Willoughby introduce themselves. They bring chairs and take him into the interview room. He remembers this airless room, its poky dimensions; the framed photograph of the Prime Minister on the wall. The officers look him over—his shorts, the Wimbledon Tennis 2000 T-shirt and his sandals. They rest their A4 notebooks on the table and sit down opposite him. Sergeant Rochford remembers Martin from his visit over a year ago.

They have good news, they say: they have found the Tucson burned out in a lay-by in Plymouth.

‘Was it a rented car?' asks the younger one. ‘We noticed the number plate was private.'

‘It wasn't an officially rented car. The guy's somewhere here in Scarborough. Island Car Rentals. I have documents.'

Then he says, ‘I know who they are. I could identify them in an ID parade tomorrow. That's what we need to have here.'

‘Yes, sir.'

They have been briefed; it is obvious by the way they speak to him with a slightly deferential manner.

Deferential is good.

‘They looked high, sir?'

He remembers the boy's face when he realised Georgia was there. Excited, yes, not high. They knew exactly what they were doing.

‘Their eyes were normal, no sign of dilation.'

He gives a thorough description of each of them, and they scribble away on their notepads.

‘My wife must have told you, one of them came to the house the night before it happened. We'd seen them before. You'll probably find them on the beach tomorrow.' Then he says, ‘They don't know who they're dealing with.' He sounds arrogant and a little foolish.

The other officer, whose face is also familiar, says, ‘Don't worry, sir, we will do all we can to find them.'

‘Did you take fingerprints? What about my daughter's dress? There's the sheets in the house. Has anyone taken the sheets?'

He offers them his bag of clothes.

‘We have everything we need.'

He is not convinced. He wants to ask why the area wasn't taped. But there is no point. He feels himself getting angry; he must try to contain himself. It will not help the situation. The most important thing is that they have all the relevant information.

He says, ‘There'll be CCTV footage at the cashpoint.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I can take you to the town where they live.'

‘We don't have a car on the premises.'

He should not be surprised. In Trinidad, police officers are often short of vehicles; they are known to loan their cars to a cousin or an uncle on a Friday night. For a small fee, some
rogue officers may hire them out to criminals.

‘We could take a taxi,' he says.

The two officers look at one another.

‘When will you have a car?'

‘Tomorrow, sir.'

In truth, as much as he would like to go now, he is exhausted. It might be better to wait until daylight. He needs to see his daughter. His daughter and his wife need him at the hotel. They should not be alone.

‘There was a woman—dressed up, high heels; she came while the boy was getting the cash. She could be a witness.'

He describes the woman and her car.

Then he says, ‘It's a good idea to collect the advice slips; there's one with every transaction. You must collect them from the booth and fingerprint them. At the mall, too.'

‘A lot of people use these machines.'

‘Yes,' he says irritably, ‘it might take a couple of hours' work. It could save you time later on.'

He is exhausted and dehydrated.

‘Are you staying in Tobago for a few days, sir?'

‘I'm not sure. We have this room for a couple nights. I won't be going far, only to Trinidad. You have my mobile number.'

‘Yes, sir. We have your number in Trinidad. We explained to your wife and daughter that it would be helpful if they didn't return to England just yet.'

He says, and he sounds angry, ‘We have to catch these animals. Do you understand?'

Usaf stares at him for a moment. ‘We will do our best, Mr Rawlinson.'

Their hotel is near the airport. As he limps into the palm-tree-lined entrance, the mosaic tiled floors, the open white reception are familiar; yes, he came here for dinner with Safiya. He remembers the sea, calm like a pond, the tinkling steel pan music at night, the generous buffet. It was romantic, and expensive, one of the better hotels on the island. In the lobby, he halts at the sight of his reflection. His bandage is like a strange half turban; there are several gauze plasters on his face. A graze on his left cheek is a bloody patch. His leg is bandaged, and he hobbles along. People are staring.

Let them look, let them look
.

Miriam's face is red and puffy from crying. She looks relieved to see him.

‘I thought they might want to keep you overnight.'

The room is cool and pleasant. The curtains are closed and the lamps cast a homely light. It is big enough—a double bed, and a single divan. A tall arrangement of flowers stands on a table along with a bottle of wine and a basket of oranges—gifts of arrival.

‘Where's Georgia?'

‘She's in the bathroom.'

‘How is she?'

‘I'm not sure,' she says, her voice hushed. ‘I keep expecting her to break down.'

‘We'll have to watch her carefully.'

‘I know.' Miriam's eyes fill up.

Martin carefully lowers himself into a chair. He is full of
pain—his back, his ribs, his left leg, the back of his head. And he is weak as a lamb; he hasn't eaten since cake at the villa yesterday. A lifetime ago.

‘I need to talk to her about what happened.'

‘Let her come to you when she's ready.'

She pushes back her hair; it is wispy with heat.

‘Has she told you everything?'

‘Yes, I think so; mostly.'

‘Then why can't she talk to me?'

‘Maybe because I was there, or because I'm a woman; her mother. You can't push the river with this, Martin.'

‘I want to know.'

She rubs her fingers across her forehead, as if trying to erase something, and he can see that it is difficult for her.

They look at one another.

‘I
need
to know, Miriam.'

She walks over to the bathroom and knocks on the door.

‘Georgia,' she calls. ‘Everything okay?'

Georgia says something he can't quite make out.

‘Okay, sweetheart. Take your time, don't rush.'

Now Miriam comes to him; perches on the arm of his chair. He should touch her, he thinks, try to comfort her. But he does not. She speaks softly quickly, as if wanting to get it over with.

‘The boy told her that if she didn't do what he wanted,' she stops, ‘he'd rape her with his fishing knife and she wouldn't be able to have babies. He said she mustn't scream because it would put him off. At first she tried to get away but then she knew it was pointless. She was calm as if it was happening to someone else. As if her soul had left her body.'

‘What about the marks on her neck? He did that?'

Miriam nods.

‘Where were the others?'

Martin's voice is steady; inside he is on fire.

‘They were waiting for him to finish. When I saw him, I knew what he'd done. It didn't take long. He wanted to let them know. I felt like it was some kind of initiation.'

‘Initiation of what?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Did she stay there in the room?'

‘She locked herself in the bathroom and sat under the shower. She thought she was going to die. She was terrified. She thought we were all going to die.'

He cannot bear it.

‘Where was I?'

‘Lying on the floor.'

The father, the protector, incapacitated
.

He remembers the cold tiles, the sight of Miriam on the sofa. By then it must've been over; the boys were in the kitchen celebrating.

‘I told them they should make sure you were alive, they'd be done for murder. They weren't bothered.'

‘When did you get to her?'

‘After they'd gone.'

‘What happened to the other one, the one they left behind?'

‘He waited for a while and took off. She thought I was one of them. She was screaming.'

‘When you came out, he'd gone?'

‘Yes. We went inside the TV room and phoned the police.'

Martin gets up and goes to the window. The day is ending; night is starting to fall. His mind is turbulent, as if a grenade has gone off and blown to bits his entire way of thinking. He must gather himself, his scattered, broken parts. He must be strong for Georgia, for Miriam.

‘They found the car. It was burnt out. They set fire to it.'

Miriam looks surprised. ‘Why would they?'

‘Because they can. They've been watching too much TV.'

‘Did they find anything else?'

‘No.'

She holds up her hands. ‘We could've stayed here—we didn't need a villa. There's a swimming pool. Guards.'

They stare at one another. He knows what she is getting at. What can he say?
I wanted a villa so I could keep away from you; so I could have my space, my freedom
.

‘But you liked the villa. We all liked it.'

His mind jumps to Safiya. He says, ‘Do you have my phone?'

‘Yes,' she says.

‘I need to call Trinidad.'

‘Somebody rang for you. A woman, she rang three times. She was keen to speak to you.'

His heart skips a beat.

‘Sapphire. Or something like that. She said she works with you.'

‘Okay,' he says, trying to sound casual. ‘I'll call her later.'

Miriam says, ‘Terence thinks he knows who they are.'

‘We know who they are. If we drive through the village where I dropped them the other night, we'll see them sitting by the side of the road. They probably live ten minutes from here.'

She sits down on the bed. ‘I don't understand why they let us see them.'