A Kind of Eden (25 page)

‘Maybe I didn't know what was good for me. Maybe I still don't know what's good for me.'

‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing.'

He gives her a long look. Then he starts to fold himself up, pull his energy back inside. He must not let her see him so exposed. ‘The point is this, I know the world a little better because I have been in it longer; I know its hard edges and sharp corners. And I say these things because I love you. I want the best for you. I would say this to my own daughter.'

He sits down on the bed, suddenly weary, unable to keep up a show. Georgia. Georgia. His beloved Georgia. He feels himself welling up with it all, with the pain of the last few days. Safiya walks slowly over to the bed and sits down. Her eyes are wet and river green. She sighs, a long, heavy sigh. They sit there for a moment. He can feel her heat. The idea that he will not see her again is terrifying and real.

She says, quietly, ‘I'm sorry.'

He feels for her soft springy hair; it smells of her, his beautiful Safiya. She touches the side of his head.

‘Does it hurt?'

‘It's getting better.'

‘They hit you with a cutlass?'

‘Yes,' he says.

Then she asks—and she is tentative, ‘Is it true that one of them raped Georgia?'

‘Yes.'

She looks appalled.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I didn't want to tell you on the phone.'

They look at one another.

Then Safiya says, ‘So you
have
to go back to England.'

‘We're talking about it. Nothing is certain.'

Safiya leans into him—it is all too much—and he lies back on the bed and he pulls her close. She does not resist. Their heads rest together. It is a tender moment.
Safiya. Safiya
. He thinks, if he really loved her he would let her go, cut her loose. She is too young and beautiful to be unhappy. Safiya could have anyone she wants. Marjorie Williams is right, he should know better; he has had his life. He could set her free and go back to England with his wife and daughter. Yes, he should do the right thing.

He puts his lips on hers—her soft pillow lips, and Safiya opens her mouth and lets him in with small biting kisses. He feels her tongue, her strong neck, the hungry push of her head.

Now he works his way down her warm, sticky neck and into her shirt, beneath the collar, peeling back the cotton and probing his mouth into her breasts. They have always been a joy to him, their size, their firmness, her big, dark nipples. She shifts back on the bed, drawing up her legs, unfastening her jeans, pulling them down, and he can see the net of her crotch. He crawls on top of her, slowly now, and with pain.

Safiya says, ‘Are you okay?'

‘Yes.'

And so it goes, as they have done many times before, not as urgently as this, and he wonders if she is surrendering to him for today or for longer. He mustn't think about it. It does not matter. What matters is now. He has her now and he wants to fuck her until he can't fuck her any longer because life is over
in a moment, in the blink of an eye. There is only one life, there is no room for compromise. Naked, he stands to draw the curtains, his cock pointing to the sky, and he catches sight of his mobile phone blinking on the windowsill. It is probably Miriam. He should check it. But he does not.

Safiya is lying with her head on his chest; he can smell her hair, feel her stickiness. His eyes are heavy, sleepy; he must shower and leave before it is too late; the traffic will be appalling. Miriam will be fretting. In the bathroom he checks his phone. In the message from Miriam she sounds anxious; she is wondering where he is; she has made soup. He will call her from the car, he thinks. Right now he must say his goodbyes.

Safiya is turned towards the window. There is a gap where the outside light comes in. She looks so young, her hair tossed to the side in an '80s way. He reminds himself, she was born in the '80s.

‘What are you up to tonight?' he says, reaching for his clothes.

She pulls up the sheet. ‘Nothing much. There's talk of a beach trip tomorrow.'

She seems sad and withdrawn. Is she sad because of him, or is she thinking about her father? He should ask but he'd rather not know. He'd rather quit while he's ahead, even though he suspects he isn't ahead at all.

As he leaves Port of Spain, the sky is soft pink with strips of dark blue smudged over the sea like charcoal. He drives along the hillside, and looks down at the city, glittering, humming
with lights, cars, music. He imagines Safiya making her way home to her mother's house. He thinks, whatever they did today is a bandage, it will hold for a while. But not for long. In a couple of days, she will reconsider their relationship; she will return, in her mind, to the same place she started at today. And there is nothing he can do about it.

Before he reaches the highway, he calls Miriam. He tells her the meeting went on longer than he expected. He is sorry.

‘We missed you,' she says. ‘I don't like being here alone in the dark. Georgia says it's creepy.'

‘Turn on the lights, Miriam. The outside security lights. I won't be long.'

It is Thursday morning; they have been in Trinidad for almost a week. Stephen Josephs telephones. At first he doesn't recognise his voice; it is clipped, less friendly than before. He tells Martin there is good news. Two boys fitting their descriptions have been found in Plymouth, and brought to the police station for questioning.

Martin takes the phone outside; his heart is hammering.

‘How do you know it's them?'

‘They were down that side of the island fishing. Someone heard them talking about buying a boat and flashing money around.'

Martin feels his blood rise. ‘What about the third one?'

‘We don't know yet. They were high like kites when they got here. We'll leave them in the cell for a while, let them come down.'

He pictures the boy, his lumpy hair, bug eyes.

‘How were they when you brought them in?'

‘The usual way; they had no idea why we were arresting them. We took them by surprise.'

Above, in the blue sky, there is a long white line, an aircraft flying high.

‘Any news on the woman at the cash machine? She's another witness.'

‘One thing at a time,' he says. ‘I thought you'd want to know.'

Martin says, ‘We need to have a line-up.'

‘We'll set something up.'

‘When?

‘Within twenty-four hours. Hopefully in Port of Spain.'

‘I thought we might have to fly back to Tobago.'

‘No, apparently these are
exceptional
circumstances. We will come to you. When Mohammed can't come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed.'

Martin is irritated. He would like to tell Stephen to fuck off. No doubt, there's been pressure from somewhere. Raymond, perhaps, or the High Commission. Has Nigel been in touch? Who cares. The most important thing is that they have a result.

Miriam is surprised, pleased.

‘Do we know anything about them? What they were doing when they picked them up? Have they found any of my jewellery?'

‘We don't know very much yet. We only know they've got two of them.'

‘Why are they bringing them here?'

‘Sometimes they do. It's not unheard of.'

He is relieved; the thought of flying back to Tobago to identify the boys was bothering him. Georgia would not have wanted to go. Yes, for them to come here, this is better all round. He assumes they will gather up fillers from Port of Spain and bring the two boys by boat.

For the first time in days, he feels hopeful. He telephones
Safiya and leaves a message, letting her know that there's been some progress; good news might be on its way.

He feels more like himself, less adrift. In his raised spirits, he takes Miriam and Georgia to lunch at the Indian restaurant on the other side of the highway. And he senses that something has lifted for all of them. Georgia, too, seems brighter. She has washed her hair, changed her clothes. Miriam suggests that now they can start to make their plans to go home.

The restaurant is cold; Georgia makes a joke about it feeling like winter and how they all better get used to it because they'll soon be back and spring will not have yet arrived.

‘I don't care if I never come back to the Caribbean again,' she says. ‘It's overrated.'

Miriam says, ‘I was thinking next summer, we could go to Aix. Or stay somewhere near Cannes. The Cote d'Azur.'

He tries to imagine driving their Volvo Estate through France; Trinidad far behind him; Safiya gone from his life, no more than a fading memory. His heart plummets at the thought.

‘Georgia could bring Harriet.'

She looks pleased at the mention of Harriet. ‘Will you come, Dad?'

‘Yes, darling,' he says. ‘Unless I have to work.'

On the way back, they stop off at the supermarket. Within walking distance of his apartment, it is part of a bigger shopping complex with a chemist—Ali's Pharmacy, The Royal Bank, The Golden Palace—a Chinese takeaway, and a pirate DVD rental shop. When he arrived, he was surprised
by the colourful exterior—orange, purple and yellow walls; it reminded him of a theme park. He is used to it now. Once a week he comes here to buy groceries, and rent a couple of DVDs, which he'll usually watch with Safiya on the weekend. Yes, it is familiar.

Miriam is not impressed. He pushes the old trolley while she wanders the aisles and Georgia trails behind. There's a smell he recognises, a mixture of bleach and spices. They buy meat, a few imported vegetables, some tired-looking fruit. Enough for a couple of days. He picks up ice cream for Georgia.

‘You never know,' he says. ‘You might like it.'

It is Safiya's favourite, a local coconut flavour.

The boy at the checkout loads up their trolley and wheels it out to the car park. A plus here in Trinidad, he tells Miriam. Someone packs your groceries and carries them to your car.

He tells Georgia he found Fanta here when he was tiny.

‘How did you get him home?'

‘In my car.'

Georgia says, ‘
Please
can we take him back to England?'

He had a feeling she would ask this.

‘Let's see how long he'd have to stay in quarantine. But in theory, yes. I don't see why not.'

He puts his arm around her back and she nuzzles into him. He feels momentarily reassured. He was concerned that Georgia would be distressed by news of the boys' arrest. But she seems more like herself. It bodes well, he thinks.

They are driving out when he realises there is a roadblock of some kind. He winds down the window. Cars are backed up by the exit barrier. Someone sounds a horn, then another;
a symphony of horns. The sun pours in and the car feels hot. They crawl along.

‘What's going on?' Miriam says, adjusting the visor.

At the crossroads there is a small crowd. There has been an accident: a white Mitsubishi Lancer has gone into the back of a Land Rover; the cars have been moved to the side of the road. But that's not all. Something else has happened here.

Martin winds down his window. A man is selling oranges. He tells Martin, the driver of the white car got out to speak to the other driver and one of the stray dogs went for him.

‘The dog is a maniac,' the man says, shaking his head, looking ahead. ‘Somebody needs to shoot it.'

Further along the road, a young man is cradling his arm and bawling. ‘Oh God, oh God.' The skin of his forearm is torn; the flesh is exposed and bleeding. His shirt is soaked with blood.

Nearby, the dog has turned on a security guard, who is backing away now towards the middle of the road. The dog's teeth are bared as if grinning, ears back and flat. It looks like a small pit bull. The guard is holding up a cardboard box as a shield. Two more security guards are trying to hit the dog from behind with sticks. The crowd stands back, afraid and transfixed. Three or four other dogs are yapping on the side of the road.

At one time Martin would have stopped to see if he could help in any way. But he keeps on driving, slowly at first, then speeding up when the road clears until they are out of sight.

Miriam says, craning her neck, ‘Did you see his arm? Were they stray dogs? What are they doing there?'

Georgia says, ‘Don't they belong to anyone?'

He remembers Safiya's ex-boyfriend, Pete Blanc, picking up strays. He was obsessed, Safiya said.

Martin feels shaky, the sight of the young bleeding man, the gawping crowd—a circus of horror. It could have been him, he thinks; he has come here on foot often enough.

The good feeling he had earlier has vanished.

At the front office of the station, he gives his name, and they are told to take a seat. He thought they would be invited to wait in the offices, but it seems that no one was briefed. They must wait there with everyone else. The waiting room is packed; the benches are full; people are up against the walls. Martin and Miriam stand near the open doorway; Miriam fans herself with a magazine. Apparently, the electricity stopped working an hour ago; it has slowed everything down; the computers are not working, nor the air conditioning. Outside, garbage bags are piled up waiting for collection; a rotten smell drifts in.

Miriam is dressed in trousers, a plain shirt. Her hair is pinned back, and she is wearing little make-up. She looks at her watch, checks her mobile phone. He can see that she is nervous.

Miriam says, ‘I want to call Georgia, make sure she's okay.'

He'd asked Jeanne if she could spend the afternoon at their house. Jeanne was happy to help.

‘She can swim, play on the computer; whatever she likes.'

He is grateful to Jeanne. It is strange to think she has been there all along. He admits to himself that in some ways his relationship with Safiya has held him back. He would have seen
more of Jeanne and Satnam; he might have made other friends. He hasn't heard from her since he saw her at the Hilton. He's tried calling, but she doesn't answer her phone. Right now, he thinks, there are other things to think about.