A Kind of Eden (22 page)

The bank is busy; the queue is long and slow-moving. He notices people staring at him. His leg is sore and he shuffles along the line; he should probably be at home resting but he is glad to be out. The apartment—a place where he once felt free—captain of his soul—is already feeling claustrophobic.

This morning when he woke he did not know where he was, the light coming through the mustard curtains, the strange yellow glow, and in Safiya's place was Miriam, her arm looped around him. He was confused, and then the memory shot like an electric jolt through his body. He was so angry it frightened him. And at the same time, he felt an overwhelming sadness. Miriam told him, ‘We'll get through this. We've been through worse.'

And he'd thought, yes, losing Beth was worse, but I could do nothing about that. This was something I could have avoided.

In the bookstore, Georgia waits near the door. Lost in her own world, she does not notice when he comes from the bank and stands beside her. He asks about the game on her mobile. She hasn't stopped playing since yesterday.

‘Word Mole,' she says, without looking up.

‘Is it like Scrabble?'

‘Sort of. With a stopwatch.'

Then he says—and he is unsure of his timing, ‘Are you okay?'

She looks up at him, her grey-blue eyes steady. ‘I just want it to be over; I want to go home.'

She lets him put his arm around her. He expected tears, but there are none, and he is relieved, though he knows that they are there and will come later. It is typical, he has seen it many times: in the early days of trauma, a calm, dry-eyed reaction. He has warned Miriam it will not last. And when the tears come, they will arrive like a deluge. If this was England, there would be a family liaison officer, a specialised unit to deal with their case, a twenty-four-hour victim support helpline. She needs to go home soon.

Georgia says, ‘I keep remembering how you helped them.'

‘I know, darling.'

And I keep thinking of how I failed you
.

At the apartment, he telephones Scarborough police station. There is no reply. He tries again. A woman answers. She sounds so vague, he wonders if he has the right number. She tells him, there is no one available to speak to him until tomorrow.

‘Isn't there a single officer on site?'

‘No,' the woman says. ‘They all in a meeting over the road. Try back in the morning.'

The main police station in Tobago and there is no one to speak to. He can hardly believe it. Sherry once told him that she tried to report a stolen handbag at her local station but the police officer didn't have a pen and sent her away. At the time he'd laughed.

‘I'd like to leave a message.'

He hears the woman suck her teeth.

‘I want to leave a message for Stephen Josephs.'

The sound of paper tearing; a scrap for her to write on. She takes his number and he wonders if she will actually give it to anyone.

He asks for her name, but it is too late, she has already hung up.

Later, when they are asleep, Georgia comes into their room.

‘What is it?' He checks the clock, it is 3 a.m.

Miriam says, ‘Has something happened?'

Georgia says she heard something. She isn't sure if she was dreaming; it felt real. He hurries down the corridor to her room. The lights are on, and he checks under her bed; he looks behind the curtains, quickly scans the bathroom. He is reminded of when the girls were young and they woke with nightmares. Georgia was always more sensitive than Beth, harder to console, to reassure. This is how it's going to be, he thinks; her world will be full of shadows; it will never be the same again.

When he comes back, she is calmer, lying curled next to Miriam.

‘You're safe here, Georgia,' he says, ‘nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand? We have iron bars; burglar-proofing. No one can get through them.'

‘They got through electric gates.'

‘Only because they managed to steal the gate opener. Otherwise they'd never have got in.'

He looks into her tired eyes. Why should she believe him?

‘If someone came to the door now, I wouldn't let them in without checking who they are. In Tobago, I thought we knew
them, because they got through the gates. They took my gate opener from the car that night I drove them home. Remember? So I thought it was Terence at the door; I thought it was someone who had an opener. That's not going to happen here.'

‘What if they did get in?'

‘They won't. No one is coming here.' Then he says, ‘I have a gun. Remember that.'

‘Where is it?'

He goes to the bedside table and feels inside the drawer; the gun feels cool and hard. He takes it out and holds it flat in the palm of his hand. Like an offering, he brings it to where Georgia is sitting. It is small, neat, no bigger than a bird. Georgia stares at it.

‘No one is going to come in here. Do you understand?'

‘Why didn't you have the gun in Tobago?'

Miriam looks at him as if to say, yes, why didn't you?

‘Because I wasn't on duty. I was on holiday with my family so I didn't take it with me.'

They all go back to Georgia's room. Miriam will sleep in here, she says. They push the twin beds together. He waits until they are both in bed; he turns out the light.

The telephone wakes him. It is Usaf. Finally, five days after the attack, there is some news—a shard of hope. Yesterday, during their door-to-door enquiries, the officers spoke with a woman in her seventies, a grandmother. Her grandsons, two brothers, are away fishing for lobster since Friday. They left with a neighbour and are expected to return today or tomorrow. There was a photograph of the boys tacked on her kitchen wall. Usaf thinks it could be them. Something about the eyes.

In his underwear, Martin heads into the living room; the curtains are open, Miriam must be up.

‘Where does she live? Did we drive nearby?'

‘Right by where the cow was tied. A little blue house.'

He looks out at the sky, littered with shreds of white cloud.

‘Did you ask about the boat? Is it the same boat? Was it called
Princess
?'

‘She didn't say what the boat was called.'

‘Where exactly are they fishing?'

‘She said they go all about. We think they might be in Englishman's Bay. It's popular for lobster fishing.'

Martin ought to be encouraging but he can't help himself.
‘What are you waiting for? Send a couple of undercover officers down there immediately. Contact the coastguard.'

By now they could be anywhere
.

Then, ‘Have you spoken to the station down there? Is it in Moriah?' He remembers the station. A tatty-looking place.

‘No, sir. Not yet. I wanted to let you know first.'

He makes a
huh
sound at the back of his throat. He must try to be patient; Usaf is doing his best.

‘The lady indicated they would definitely be back today or tomorrow, so we will check back this afternoon.'

Indicated?

Miriam is hovering, trying to figure out what is going on.

Martin says, ‘Look, you need to search the coast. I've described the boat, you know what it's called. It's simple. When they hear the police are asking questions, they'll disappear. We don't have time to waste.' Then he asks, ‘What about the advice slips from the ATM?'

‘Sir, we can proceed without them.'

‘Fingerprints. They'll be full of fingerprints. You need to sift through them. Use Ninhydrin solution.' Then, ‘You have the rape kit, right?'

‘Yes, sir.'

In Trinidad it is common for evidence to go missing—guns, knives, machetes.

‘What about the woman at the ATM?'

‘We haven't yet located the lady, sir. We're still making enquiries.'

He asks to speak to Stephen Josephs. ‘Is he there?'

‘Yes, sir.' Then, ‘Hold a minute.'

He is kept waiting; Miriam is sitting with him now. He puts
the phone on loudspeaker. Eventually, Stephen picks up. He is friendly, as if they are old pals; he is sorry, he says, to hear about their recent trouble.

Martin says, ‘When we left it seemed like a matter of course, just a question of locating the boys. We know who they are, we know where they live.'

‘We might suspect who they are, but we don't know
where
they are right now. That's our problem, Martin. As you know, Tobago is a small island but there are plenty places to hide.'

Stephen's tone is supercilious. Martin had forgotten how irritating he is. He finds himself trying to get him on side. It is uncomfortable.

‘That may be true, but we need to act quickly,' Martin says. ‘They could hide out somewhere for days, weeks. They have money. For all we know they might have gone to Venezuela.'

Stephen chuckles. ‘Venezuela? Why would they go to Venezuela?'

Martin looks out at the yard; Fanta wanders under the tree, his orange coat foxlike.

‘It's only seven miles from here. I told Usaf to contact the coastguard.'

Stephen sighs. ‘Come, come, you should try to relax. You need to take care of yourself and your family. Take your wife and daughter to the beach, give them a tour of the north coast, take them to see the pitch lake, the Wild Fowl Trust. Trinidad is a beautiful country. Who knows when they will come back to the islands.'

He is astonished. ‘They're not here to sightsee, Stephen. They want to get back home to England.'

In the early days as a young police officer, he often despaired at the world around him: the woman who held down her five-year-old daughter so her partner could have sex with her. A man who cut off his wife's fingers for coming home late from a party. The family of four who fell from their rowing boat into the river; the father had been made redundant, and, depressed, took them all out in a boat in a storm. The children were missing and presumed dead for hours. It was Martin who saw the nine-year-old girl's body drifting in the ripples of the water. He jumped in and swam to her, dragged her heavy body through the rapids, and hauled her onto the mossy bank. He put his mouth on hers and started to breathe into her. All the time he could hear the rush of the water, feel her wet, cold skin; he tasted her vomit as he started to clear her passageway back to life. When she opened her eyes, and he knew she was alive, that he had saved her, he felt a profound sense of elation.

Yes, he thought, this is why I do what I do. It was a turning point for him. A kind of epiphany. It gave his life a new meaning.

He wonders if Stephen Josephs has ever had an experience like that. He suspects not.

Later, he tells Raymond. ‘I want to shake the man.'

‘I've known him for years, Stephen has never liked outside pressure. He's always been that way. Try not to take it personally; let them get on with it.'

‘They don't have any kind of strategy. He told me to take Miriam and Georgia to the fucking beach.'

Raymond will speak to the Deputy Police Commissioner. He can, at the very least, give Stephen a nudge. Stephen will realise
that Martin is not about to sit and wait. If the embassy can also make ‘enquiries', it might be helpful. Can Martin speak with them again. The press in England could get hold of the story and make it unpleasant for everyone. The tourist board is keen to avoid any negative publicity involving foreign nationals. It is the last thing Tobago needs; it is the last thing the organisation needs.

‘Leave it with me,' Raymond says. ‘I'll see what I can do. You're going to need to be a little patient. We can't be seen to be offering special treatment.'

The ceiling fan in the living room is inadequate and the sun blasts through the French doors, making it unbearably hot. Miriam complains—they will die of heat. They leave the air conditioners on in the bedrooms, the doors open, in the hope that the cool air eventually makes its way around the apartment. Miriam is surprised by how shabby the place is. Shabby? It has never occurred to him; he has been happy enough here.

‘I never imagined it like this.'

‘In what way?'

‘I don't know, something more sophisticated; something more homely. It doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a bachelor pad.'

A dig, but he doesn't rise.

Since they arrived in Trinidad he has noticed a change in her, an absence of softness, except when Georgia is around. She is hardening towards him and he suspects that she is blaming him. He is not surprised. It was his choice to stay in the villa rather than a hotel, his idea to drop the boys home, and he—literally—opened the door to them—to their violence and rage.

Yesterday, after they got back from town, and while Georgia
was resting in her room, Miriam broke down and told him that one of them—the one with the cutlass—had urinated on the sofa where she lay. It was warm and pungent like the piss of a dog. He was shocked, dismayed. Why didn't she tell him before?