A Kind of Eden (29 page)

He gets out of the car, walks slowly up the muddy path. Rain must have fallen last night. When he reaches the top of the road, he sees the second house and a pink curtain blows in the doorway. The cow is tied to the mango tree, its rope stretched, and it is sleeping in the grass. From inside the house he can hear a radio. There are two steps, and under the house, he can see chickens running around. An old fridge is propped up, its door swung open, the wires exposed. Frigidaire. There are empty tins of powdered milk stacked; he wonders what they are used for.

The grandmother's round face appears in the doorway. She peeks around the curtain, checks him, and then looks again. She has grey hair scraped back in small plaits, held at the back in a small bun. Her big face is open, her dark eyes bulge; her lips are blueish, thick. She pulls the curtain back and he can see her nightdress. It is pink, knee-length. She does not wear a bra, and her breasts are big and heavy like bells. He has caught her by surprise, unprepared. She draws the curtain over her body.

She tips her head, ‘Yes, mister. Wha' happen? Who you lookin' for?'

Martin does not speak to her. He walks with certainty towards the steps, and he pushes past her, into the little shabby house, the sitting room which has two chairs, a painting on the wall, a view onto the open space behind the house where sheets are hanging on a line. He looks quickly around.

The woman says, ‘What is this? What happen here.' And he knows that she is about to scream, and he shows her, without trouble, without effort, the 9mm Glock in his hand, and her eyes are bigger now.

‘Edward,' she says, and he thinks: so that is his name. That's his name. Then louder, ‘Edward. Good God. Get up now. Please.'

She puts her hands up to her face and Martin steps quickly into the next room. There is a mattress on the floor and a long figure wrapped up in a sheet. The boy, suddenly awake, sits up. His bug eyes are frightened. Yes, he has seen the gun.

‘Get up,' Martin says, his voice calm. ‘Get up now.'

The woman says, ‘Oh God, no, please don't hurt my baby.' And her voice is high, like a little squeal. ‘He is a good boy.'

The boy is on his feet, his Y-fronts big and floppy, his skinny legs like two sticks. His hair is matted, lumpy.

‘Come,' Martin says, ‘put up your hands.'

He feels his power; his desire to bring terror.

The boy raises his hands; Martin points the gun to the living room.

‘Move it, he says, and he pushes the barrel of the gun into the boy's back; it is moist with sweat. ‘Move now.'

They shuffle into the small living room. Martin tells the woman to sit on the floor. She slumps down, puts her big legs in front of her, her droopy breasts rest on her waist. She looks terrified.

‘I don't want to hurt you,' he says, and his voice is not unkind. ‘I just don't want you to make a noise or go anywhere. You understand. I won't hurt you.'

The boy is looking around; he is thinking of making a run
for it, Martin is sure of it. If it were him, he would do the same. Martin keeps the gun pointed directly at him. His hands are steady, he is calm. He has never felt calmer in his life. He knows what to do, the two-step catch. He has opened the first safety catch. A solid click.

‘I want you to tell your grandmother why I'm here.'

The boy is looking at the woman, looking at Martin. He might go for the window, more of a hole in the wall, it is right there.

‘Tell your grandmother, how you came to our house and stole our money. Tell her what you did to my daughter.'

The boy is silent. He stares at Martin; his grandmother shakes her head, confused.

‘Tell her,' Martin shouts now.

The radio plays a song from the '90s, an old song he recognises. ‘Savage Garden'; yes, he remembers this.

‘You did something to this man?' The woman's eyes are moist. ‘What you did? You bring trouble here to us?' She starts to cry. ‘What you did. Tell me. You were a good boy. I tell everybody you are a good boy.'

The boy is fidgeting; he looks around.

Martin fires the gun once, an astonishing explosion booms through the galvanise ceiling, and the grandmother screams; the boy is startled. Martin too is startled.

‘Tell her what you did.'

Frightened now, the boy says, ‘I rape she.'

‘Say it again.'

He says, ‘I rape she.'

To the grandmother, Martin says, ‘When the police come, you will tell them what he said; that he raped my daughter.'

The woman says, ‘Oh, God.' Then, ‘It's true?'

The boy suddenly turns and hurls himself at the window and he tries to leap out into the yard. Without thinking too hard, Martin fires again, this time he hits the boy in the back of his leg, the slim, young upper thigh. And he falls back onto the floor, his head cracks against the side of the wall; he lands half-slumped, his face blank with terror and surprise. Mouth open, panting.

‘Fock,' he says, ‘fock yuh mudder cunt.'

Martin is shaking now, he knows what he has done. Blood spurts bright and fast from the hole in the boy's leg. And the boy is clutching it, rolling over now, his face twisted with pain, disbelief. Blood pours through his fingers and drips onto the floor.

Martin stands back, looking on at the scene as if it is nothing to do with him. The woman watches him with terror, then she looks at her grandson. Tears pour down her fat cheeks.

‘Doh kill mah baby,' she says. ‘Doh kill him.'

But Martin is not listening. He has already walked down the steps of the house, out into the yard, past the cow now standing up, and back into his car. A few people have come out into the street, and they are looking at him. He drives away towards the main road as if nothing has happened.
Don't sweat the small stuff. It's all small stuff
.

By the time he reaches the airport, he is calm, though he is also hot, and his clothes are wet with sweat. He leaves his car in the airport car park; the key out of sight on the wheel. In the bar, he buys cigarettes, a cold beer, and he waits. If the boy does as he expects, he will go with his grandmother to the hospital and have his wound dressed. The police will come and ask about the man from England who shot him. And the
grandmother will deter them, just in case—
just in case
—it is true that Edward, her grandson, raped the Englishman's daughter.

The flight from London is due in early this afternoon. He tells the reservations clerk that he is travelling light. The departure lounge is full with in-transit passengers, waiting for the plane to be cleaned: Tobago passengers, sunburnt holiday makers with their bags of duty-free. He stands at the small bar. He is sweating, he has changed his shirt; he feels as if he has been on the road for days; it has been less than twenty-four hours. He needs to take a shower, eat something, rest.

The flight is called and the doors open. He sets off along the tarmac, the hot breeze blows and he makes his way to the tall steps of the aircraft. Two baggage handlers in orange boiler suits laugh about something as they drive under the wing. They are having a good time. Young men, enjoying themselves. At the top of the steps he looks back at the car park; he can see his car on the other side of the fence. Someone will notice it tomorrow or the next day. It is not his problem now.

He is immediately reassured by the air stewardess—her red uniform, the south London accent. The engine starts up and he is glad. Cool air pours down from above.

When they cruise to the end of the runway, he looks at the little houses, the trees, the tall grass, the beach at the other side, the water sparkling in the early evening light. Then the engine gets stronger, and the plane turns around. He leans back into the chair, feels the touch of the patterned fabric on his neck. It is all familiar. Then the sudden acceleration along the runway, and finally, lift off, the nose tilts to the sky.

He is going home.