The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (16 page)

‘Your wife aks dat?’

‘Yes.’

Lara bit his lip, silenced for a moment. A shadow fell over his face and he became serious, even more glamorous, somehow. ‘It not what people think.’

George nodded.

‘It not watching the bandits.’

‘No.’

They both gazed out across Port of Spain. The blimp hung languid, stupid.

‘What then?’

‘It watchin’ the coast, man. It watchin’ the oil installations.’

‘Yes.’

‘If the blimp see something it don’t like. Then it go call in the helicopters.’

‘The Americans are scared of Chávez, his influence,’ George chipped in.

‘Yeah, man. That is the point. They think he the new Castro in the Caribbean; they hate the way Chávez and Castro are friends. Imagine if Manning and Chávez paired up, too, eh? Then trouble for the US. Two oil-rich countries and a big ol’ mudder-arse Communist like Fidel ‒ that would be something to worry about.’ Lara steupsed and smiled mischievously.

‘You think the Americans asked ‒ or even forced ‒ Manning to buy it?’

Lara shrugged, but his eyes twinkled.

‘It may even be American-funded,’ George suggested.

‘Maybe.’

‘George Bush must be shitting it. A raving socialist lunatic so close to all the oil in Trinidad.’

‘
Exactement
,’ Lara chuckled. ‘They say they get the choppers from Israel, man. Israel! They say they even have Mossad and alluh dem boys in the jungle up so.’ He pointed to the hills surrounding the city. ‘Waitin’ to stage some kinda attack.’

‘Wow. Where did you hear
that?
’

‘I have my sources.’ Lara grinned.

The tape recorder pulsed against George’s hip.

‘It not just that, man.’ Lara pointed again. ‘The blimp change the view, man. It stick up in de eye and it stick up in de stomach. Chilren growin’ up with this kinda nonsense hangin’ over them? Like the crime problem is their fault? Their Daddy’s fault? How it go help dem? How it go make them proud, break out?’

‘Like you did?’

‘Yeah, man.’

‘What does a boy from a poor village do if he can’t play cricket?’

‘Go to Foreign, man. Take a trip.’

‘Or shoot his way out.’

‘Or shoot down the blimp.’

‘Quite.’

‘Hot air. That what keep it up.’

‘Do you ever go back to the village where you were born?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘When you see a cricket match set up in the street, or on a vacant piece of land, all little boys, all that talent, what do you think?’

‘I pray they all have a father like mine.’

‘We know there’s only one of you. But actually there could be many more. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Mr Lara, but in my time, I’ve seen many as talented as you, little boys playing in the streets. This whole island is crawling with boys like you once were. Imagine what your life would have been if your father hadn’t had the gumption to put you forward.’

‘I would be vexed,’ he nodded.

‘Disappointed,’ George added.

‘The kinda man the blimp suppose to be watchin’ all now.’

Lara made a gun with his finger and pointed it at the blimp, pressing the trigger. ‘Pow.’

 

At home, Sabine was watering dog shit off the grass. Jennifer vacuumed up a live gecko from the wall. The dogs stared up at the coconut tree, waiting for the iguana to fall. Sebastian was at the computer, emailing a colleague in London. Lunch would soon be ready and after lunch George would write up the Lara interview. Forget the cricket World Cup, the future goals of the West Indian team. The blimp ‒ Brian Lara and his strange ideas. Spot on. Bravo. George had his sources, too; he’d check the facts. But if Lara was right . . . Wow.

Brian Lara: the truth about the blimp.

Mossad agents in the jungle.

A spy ship for the Americans.

Sabine thought George was acting odd. He’d grown thinner; his shorts were hanging around his arse a little. He was more secretive than usual about his work. But then he’d left the Sparrow interview spread open at the right pages on the kitchen table, as if to show it off. Something was going on. And she felt bad about the dog. Beating it like that ‒ for what? Her arm still ached. She went out to the garage and stared at her newly polished green Raleigh bicycle; it had started to gather rubbish again, newspapers piled on the basket, laundry folded and left on the saddle. George had loved her on that bike, riding down to the dock to greet him after work, weaving through the hot dusty streets of Port of Spain. Charlotte Street, the great open air market, buzzing with life, mountains of fruit. No market now. They couldn’t afford to buy fish these days. She’d been brave and free on that bike. But something was up with George. George had always been so confident; he’d never suffered the classic male crisis mid-life. He’d never had any self-doubt. Maybe he doubted something now? Had the letters given him a jolt? She vowed to be nice. To
try.
To find more common ground. A great commotion broke out on the other side of the house: the dogs barking and gnashing, great stems falling from the coconut tree.

‘Oh gorsh, dat damn lizard,’ shouted Jennifer.

George stripped off his clothes and struggled into his trunks. He went out onto the balcony, and surveyed his oasis. The sight of the pool water brought a need for the peace it promised and he went quickly down the stairs. He stood poised at the pool’s edge, arms raised above his head in a V. Hovering for a moment, as was his custom, he took a huge breath before launching himself, with the grace of a hippopotamus, across the blue surface, hitting it with a mighty
crack,
slapping the water into shock, sending waves crashing to the side of the pool. Katinka flew out to attack the tsunami. The keskidees scrambled a party of fighter jets out to dive and swoop. George surfaced, strands of long wild hair plastered to his face.

There’ll be water in heaven, he promised himself.

Gabriel Chowdry was a good lawyer and an old friend. He listened carefully to the story of Talbot and the police thugs who beat him up, of Bobby Comacho and his garlicky breath, his threats. When George finished his story, Gabriel leant back in his wing-backed leather chair and clasped his hands together.

‘You’re pissing in the wind, George.’

‘Why?’

‘No witnesses.’

‘What about the photos we took?’

‘No witnesses to the injuries. No witnesses, no case.’

‘Bastards. They knew what they were doing.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I still want to go ahead. It’s important to at least
try
to make a case against them.’

‘George, I advise against it. You’re not alone in this. A few others have tried. Not many, but one or two. And you know what ‒ sometimes the police don’t even answer letters sent to them by lawyers. Letters get lost, go missing. It’s like cat and mouse. No one can touch the police. These police assault cases get
nowhere
. You’re asking me to take on a closed case. And ‒ it will cost you a lot of money. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, even. They will find ways to stall the case. Then you’ll lose. Talbot has no case. No proof. Now ‒ if you had witnesses, photographs ‒ then ‒ I could help. Even then . . .’

‘But I could make sure it would be all over the press.’

‘So what? Think they care? George, even so ‒ it could take years.’

‘I still want to do it. It could encourage debate. Embarrass those fuckers.’

‘George Harwood versus the Chief of Police. Harwood versus the present reigning PNM government elected by the people? Why?’

George coughed. He knew why. Maybe it was the wrong reason or maybe it wasn’t, or maybe he just wanted to do one thing right. One final thing. ‘To impress my wife.’

Gabriel laughed. ‘What?’

‘Something like that.’

‘George. Go home and drink a rum.’

George stared at his friend; his neighbour when they first arrived in Trinidad. Gabriel’s wife Helena had been an educated woman, also East Indian, a lawyer, too, serene and aloof; she hadn’t lasted long in Trinidad, no place for women like her. She had left him, disappeared without even a note.

‘I’m lucky Sabine never . . . left me.’

Gabriel nodded.

‘Have you had any news?’

‘No.’

‘Sabine was right about it all. I wanted to stay, I’m selfish. Now she barely speaks to me. And Talbot’s face. He was almost killed up there on that hill. Left to die. This sort of thing is common now.’

Gabriel pursed his lips. ‘So you think you’re a white man with money, contacts, that you could help him?’

‘Yes.’

‘George, impressing your wife is the wrong reason to pursue this.’

‘Sabine or no Sabine, I want to do this. Someone should. I have money in the bank. What else am I going to spend it on?’

‘I want you to know that as your friend I strongly advise against it.’

‘I want you to know that I still want you to go ahead. Please.’

Gabriel managed to look confused and disapproving and amused and happy all in one face. He shook his head. ‘OK,’ he said, slowly. ‘OK.’

 

On the hill, Talbot was up and about, bandages still wrapped around his ribs. His eyes were brighter, the bruises were fading. Jennifer was in the kitchen, making callaloo. Conscious music boomed from across the road. George hovered in the doorway behind her. Talbot sat down at the kitchen table.

‘I saw a lawyer this morning, Talbot. We can proceed with your case. I just wanted to come up and let you know. You can relax, though. It’s going to take some time.’

‘Mummy say she see a police car cruise past de house two night past. She say de car stop an’ park up just dong de road, dat dey watchin’ us.’

‘Is that so?’ He turned to Jennifer.

Jennifer shrugged. ‘Police car park up fer an hour or more, not far from here. Dey never come up here fer no reason. What dey doin’? Makin’ joke?’

‘Tell me, Talbot, are you
sure
no one saw what happened to you? It would make all the difference if there was a witness.’

‘No one, Mr Harwood. Just de hills up der.’

‘The hills,’ George mused. Sabine had said that, too. Shacks in those hills. Squatters, Rastamen, simple folk, dotted all over those hills. Some of the shacks were very far away, across the valley, but the sound would have carried.

‘Talbot, there are shacks, people living in those hills.’

Talbot nodded.

‘Is it possible? You know, that someone at least
heard
?’

Talbot shook his head. ‘Even if dey hear somptin, no one go speak out.’

Jennifer came forward. ‘Dey mus have already tink of dat and go rong to dese people to treaten dem.’

‘Do you know any of these people?’

Talbot shook his head.

‘Dey is bush people,’ Jennifer said. ‘Simple bush people. Dey ent sayin’ nuttin.’

‘Potential witnesses,’ George pressed.

Jennifer looked at him with large calm eyes. ‘Mr Harwood. Dis a small place, eh; you watch out who you go and visit. Everyone know everytin goin’ on up here. You tink people ent talk about you comin’ all de time to see Talbot?’

‘I’ll stay away from now on, then.’

‘Das de best ting fer now.’

‘Or maybe we should move Talbot?’

‘No,’ Jennifer insisted. ‘He staying right
here
in de house where he born.’

‘OK, OK.’

‘Mr Harwood, wait till people find out about de lawyer and ting. De court case. Den . . .’

‘Then what?’

Jennifer steupsed. ‘Den dey go find out. Nuttin scarin’ me away . . . and dem across so . . .’ She nodded at her nephews out the window. ‘Dey go be our family bodyguards. We had our own police force.’

 

Sabine lay horizontal on the sofa, chain-smoking, staring into space. Sebastian had flown back to London the day before. She smoked and stared, voluminous in her mourning, in her sack-dress. His son was right: Sabine was dripping, melting.