A Kind of Eden (23 page)

‘What difference would it have made? I told them in my statement.'

‘Did he do anything else? What else haven't you told me?'

‘He said they never came there to rape. It was only the boy. He wanted Georgia.'

Martin lit a cigarette and looked out at the shadowy hills. He felt sick at the thought of the boy.

‘I don't like you smoking,' Miriam said. ‘It's making me feel worse. Please don't smoke in front of Georgia; it's sending the wrong message.'

‘What kind of message would you like me to send to our daughter?'

‘She needs to feel we're in control. When you're smoking it tells her the opposite, that you're anxious, scared.'

‘Maybe I am.'

Georgia plays on her phone. It reminds him of when Beth died; she seemed to slip away then too. She disappeared into books. Sometimes she looks vacant, as if she has been emptied. At other times she seems calm and more like herself. There are spots around her mouth, and her eyes are dull as wood. The bruising on her neck is now a purple and yellow stain. She complains about the heat and says that the only way to stay cool is to shower. But he suspects this is not the real reason for the five or six showers she takes every day, he imagines this is the only way she can feel herself
clean, fresh, free of the boy. She complains of feeling sick and lightheaded. Miriam has given her travel bands to wear on her wrists; they are, apparently, helping with the dizziness. Miriam is worried about her loss of appetite. She is already too thin; she tells Martin: Georgia is disappearing before their eyes.

He telephones Ali's Drug Store. The pharmacist is sympathetic. He says the sickness should last only a few days. Sometimes the nausea is partly psychological.

‘Your daughter must take the medication with her food; even a little bread or rice. Get as much rest as she can. She'll feel tired and achy like she has flu. It's normal. Give it another couple days and it should pass.'

Martin is grateful to Fanta; he seems to be the only thing that makes Georgia feel better. Fanta follows her around the house, as if he knows of her pain; Fanta, his magic cat. Earlier when Fanta wandered outside, Georgia went looking for him. It was good to see her in the garden taking in fresh air, thinking of something else. He knows this much: whatever Georgia is going through, it is the start of a long and excruciating process.

This is just the beginning.

While Miriam and Georgia rest, he calls Scarborough police station. He speaks to the same woman; he finds out her name is Bernadette—the same name as his mother. He decides on a new, friendly approach. Does she know that Bernadette is a name of German origin; that it means brave?

Today she is more co-operative; she makes a note of his questions. He tells her he would like an update on the following: the grandmother, the woman at the ATM, the
artists' impressions of the boys.

Calmly, he says, ‘Ask either of them—Usaf or Curtis—to call me as soon as they're back.'

‘They might not come in this afternoon. We'll most likely see them tomorrow.'

‘Do you have a mobile number?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Perhaps you could alert them on their radios.'

‘Yes, sir.'

If this was England, she would pass his call to someone else. Usaf and Curtis's whereabouts would be written on a white board in the office. She could check their electronic diaries; call them on their mobiles.

On the news there are new murders and, near the local pizza bar, an attempted kidnapping of an American tourist. A young woman with a young child is shot. So far the annual murder rate is up to an all-time high.

Miriam makes a face. ‘Do we really want to see this?'

Raymond tells Martin that maybe he should stop watching the news; that he is noticing these events more because of his experience. Perhaps he should try to put his attention on other things—recovery, his family.

‘I want some information, an update. I feel like I'm being taken for a ride.'

‘I've spoken with the Deputy. For the moment, there's not much more I can do.' Then he says, ‘It might seem like days are dragging but it hasn't been long.'

‘They should've arrested someone by now.'

‘Maybe in an ideal world.'

Martin says, ‘The point is, I spoke to Usaf this morning; he was supposed to ring me back. I rang this afternoon, and no one has bothered to return my call. I left a bunch of questions. They're fucking useless.'

‘Try to keep your perspective. You're looking at things from a British point of view.'

‘Exactly, that's the problem; and I know how they operate. They're on a permanent go-slow.' Then he says, ‘My daughter needs to go home.'

He keeps thinking about a young woman he once knew in Shrewsbury—Georgina Wilson—who was attacked coming home from a disco with a man she had met that night. On one of his first jobs, he was called to her flat above a florist in the town. He was horrified by her statement, and the medical report that followed describing the brutal, humiliating acts the man put her through. After the man was convicted, Martin took it upon himself to visit her. He liked Georgina—her sense of humour, her bright mind. They talked about music, films, politics. She seemed, to him, to be coping well; getting on with her life. But a year later she drove to the Norfolk Broads, parked her car, and waited for the sun to go down. In the darkness, she walked into the cold, black sea, fully dressed—shoes, coat, skirt and blouse. After a week, her body was washed up five miles along the coast. It had shocked him. He was so certain of a mistaken identity, he went to see her body in the morgue.

Georgia, Georgina.

He tries to put her out of his mind.

Jeanne lets them through their electric gates; she walks out to meet them, barefoot, white tennis shorts, a polo shirt. She has done something to her hair; she appears younger.

She looks at his bandage and pulls a face.

‘Ouch! We heard there was trouble in paradise.'

Before they came, he'd reassured Georgia: Jeanne and Satnam know only about the robbery, and not what happened to her.

Martin says, ‘It looks worse than it is.'

He introduces his wife and daughter. Georgia stands behind Miriam who is dour in her jogging trousers, flip-flops. Miriam apologises for their clothes; when Jeanne called to invite them for drinks there wasn't time to change.

‘You're in Trinidad,' Jeanne says. ‘You can wear what you like. No one stands on ceremony here.'

They follow her inside to their open-plan kitchen where she opens the fridge and peers inside. She is easy, relaxed. Earlier she made some dips, she says. They are somewhere here.

‘What
is
happening in Tobago? You're the second visitors we've heard about this year. Remember the German couple? But they were killed. The police never caught the guys.'

From the living room he can hear music. Spanish, music
usually played at Christmas.

‘Go inside and see Satnam, he's hooked his new iPod up to the speakers.'

She rolls her eyes, gives Miriam a look. ‘Technology confuses my husband.' Then to Martin, ‘See if you can distract him.' She holds up a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Coke for Georgia.

‘Great,' he says, and they wander inside following the soft lights into the large American-style living room.

Satnam shakes his hand; he says hello to Miriam and Georgia. ‘We heard the news. What the hell is wrong with these people? Did they take much?'

He looks smart, in a long-sleeved, pale blue shirt and chinos. His grey hair is combed back from his smooth brown face. ‘There were three of them or four?'

Jeanne carries a tray with drinks, potato chips and dips.

‘I'm sure they don't want to talk about it,' she says chirpily.

He is glad of Jeanne's charm, her easy manner. Tonight she exudes a warmth he hasn't witnessed before, as if lit from the inside. Perhaps she is feeling sorry for them. Whatever it is, it is exactly what they need.

To his surprise, she soon has Georgia playing a computer game; Miriam is sipping a glass of white wine by the open patio doors overlooking the L-shaped swimming pool. He feels relieved, grateful. Some normality.

He asks if they often sit here with the doors open.

‘Sometimes we pull in the gates, especially if Jeanne is home alone. But we don't want to live in a prison.'

‘No one does,' he says. ‘That's the trouble.'

‘We always feel safer knowing you're next door.' Jeanne grins.

‘I'm not a policeman,' he says. ‘Not really.'

‘But you've been working with them, right?' Satnam asks.

‘Yes—it's slow progress. I do my best.'

‘They seized a whole pile of stolen ammunition from a station in the East—you remember that? They'd hidden it in the rafters.'

‘Yes, some of them rent out their guns. When I first arrived I thought it was a joke.'

‘Where do you begin with something like that?'

‘Part of the problem is promotion; it comes through years of service. There is little to motivate them. Plus the money is bad. In England it's not much more than a cleaner's salary.'

‘So they should be paid more.'

‘Rewarded better, I'd say.'

He'd rather not talk about work. He says, ‘Have you been to England?'

Jeanne says, ‘He's always promising to take me. I want to see the Crown Jewels.'

Satnam and Jeanne exchange a tender look.

They talk about Miriam's job, her excellent Spanish. Jeanne, too, speaks a little Spanish.

‘Did you live there for a long time?'

‘Five years. I fell in love in Barcelona. You know what it's like when you're young. You think it will last forever.'

Satnam fills their glasses; the wine is surprisingly good. ‘Californian,' he says, lighting a cigarette. ‘A Chardonnay.'

They bring it in from the States. He has a useful contact in customs. If ever he wants to bring in anything, he should let them know.

Martin is surprised that Satnam could suggest he collude with a corrupt immigration officer.

Jeanne says, ‘We kept wondering if you were real, Miriam. Your husband is a busy man.'

He often sees Jeanne driving past the apartment. She must know Safiya's car, the comings and goings, often late at night. She will have made her own assumptions. He is sure that Sherry talks to their housekeeper. But there's nothing he can do about that. This is a place where people talk.

‘You're always in Miami,' he says, ‘living the high life.'

‘Not true!' Jeanne waves her manicured hand. ‘He likes to be elusive. We go to the States every couple months. We have an apartment in Orlando. If ever you want to use it, you're welcome. Disney World is right there. Georgia would love it.'

By nine o'clock he is feeling a little drunk; Georgia is sitting on the floor playing with her phone. He is enjoying the music, the wine, the different conversation. Miriam's legs are curled up beneath her. It is the most relaxed he has seen her in days.

Outside, a car alarm goes off and Satnam gets up. He tells Georgia not to look so worried. Apparently, their vehicle alarm is faulty, oversensitive, easily triggered by a bat or a firefly. Satnam apologises. He is surprised they haven't heard it going off at all hours of the night.

‘You know the car we rented in Tobago was a Tucson,' Martin says. ‘The blacked-out windows didn't do me any favours.'

Miriam narrows her eyes.

Satnam says, ‘Sherry said they were young; opportunists, I suppose. They saw tourists and thought cash.'

‘I should never have let them in.'

‘Any arrests in sight?'

‘We're hopeful.'

Jeanne says, pointedly, ‘Well, thank God it was only cash they wanted. These days they like to rape.'

‘Yes,' Martin says. And Miriam is up, and then everyone is on their feet.

‘Come whenever you like,' Jeanne says, and she puts her hand on Georgia's head. ‘Don't be a stranger. Come and use the pool. We're here most of the time. If I'm not here the maid will let you in.'

He steps outside to lock the gates. Tonight the sky is dark blue like deep sea. He lights a cigarette and looks down the street. The streetlights are on; the houses are lit.

He is thinking of Safiya, when he last saw her here at these same gates; he wonders where she is. Right now, their relationship seems unreal. There is nothing of her in the apartment, only her few belongings which Sherry has hidden away. He misses her sandals slung on the steps, underwear slipped into his drawer; nail polish on the coffee table, a hair clip discarded in the bathroom. There is no trace of her; it is as if she was imagined.

And yet the consequences of their relationship are there for all to see. They have been in love, yes, but love has made him negligent; and negligence like rust always corrodes. If Miriam had felt more secure, she would have waited until Easter to visit. She was insecure because he had unplugged himself from her, from their life as a family. At Christmas he was not himself; he was preoccupied. Yes, Miriam felt abandoned, bereft. She came to Tobago to bring him back.

He needs to speak with Safiya. He wants to talk to her about her father, to tell her he is sorry not to be with her at such an important time. She, too, must feel let down. She is young enough to forget him; that much he knows. She is probably trying to work herself free of him right now. Why wouldn't she? If he was a better man, he would let her go. But he is not. The thought of letting her go fills him with dread.

Miriam and Georgia don't want to be left for long, and he understands this. His outings are restricted to daylight, an hour here and there; he can make excuses—a meeting, an appointment. The traffic on the roads is often dreadful; almost the moment he reaches the capital, he has to turn around and come back. For now, Safiya is out of reach.