A Kind of Eden (19 page)

‘They expect us to get on a plane and go home. That's what most people do. That's what they count on.'

Miriam says, ‘Apparently, just over a year ago, a German couple were murdered. Did you know? They lived five miles away from where we were staying.'

He remembers the incident well. It happened while he was in Tobago running his training course. Both husband and wife, in their fifties, were butchered in their holiday home for no apparent reason. In the pouring rain, the culprit fled, taking off his boots on the way. When Martin arrived at the crime scene, one of the boots, a tan Caterpillar left foot, was floating upright in a puddle. He alerted a police officer, but before he could stop him, the man took up a piece of bamboo and dragged the boot through the water, eliminating all traces of DNA. It had shocked him. He'd wondered if it was deliberate.

‘I know about the German couple. They lived in a compound near the beach.'

Miriam says, and her face is contorted, ‘So why did you rent a villa if it wasn't safe?'

‘Did it seem unsafe to you? If it wasn't for the gate opener, they could never have got into the yard. The place was as secure as it gets. There was even a caretaker on site. This kind of thing doesn't happen often in Tobago. We couldn't have known.'

She puts her fingers into her hair, a sign of frustration.

‘Maybe Terence had something to do with it?'

Martin has thought about this. Would Terence have killed
his dog for the sake of a share in a robbery? No, he doesn't think so. No doubt the police will want to question him.

In need of air, he pushes back the glass doors and steps outside.

Miriam says, and it sounds strangely cheerful: ‘We even have a patio.'

His heart lurches when he sees Georgia, quiet in her pyjamas. He expects her to come to him, and she does, but only for a moment.
My angel, my poor angel
. A white blanket is wrapped around her shoulders. She puts her hand on his cheek and looks into his eyes.

‘You okay, Dad?' She traces her fingers around his bandage.

‘Yes,' and he strokes her hair, soft as feathers.

‘Good,' she says, vaguely, and she drifts away to the bed and curls up with her blanket. She stares at the television, her expression blank and empty. He wants to say something to reassure her. But he cannot. He is feeble, tongue-tied, useless.

Forgive me. Forgive me
.

‘I hope you're both hungry,' Miriam says.

She has ordered room service and now it is here she is fretting—Georgia must eat something; they have only had breakfast. There is soup, bread rolls, salad. She arranges plates, napkins; she is trying to make everything as normal as possible. He is grateful.

‘Come along,' she says. ‘Let's have it while it's hot.'

In silence, they eat and watch the
Oprah Winfrey Show
; an interview with J.K. Rowling. He is struck by the writer's Englishness; her clipped, clear voice. It is somehow reassuring.
He tries to concentrate, but his head feels sore. It is a dull ache at the base of his skull.

‘Have you read these books, Georgia?'

‘No,' she says, without looking at him.

Miriam says, ‘She's more of a
Twilight
girl.'

‘
Twilight?
'

‘Vampires.'

‘Aha. Black nails.'

He did not know this about his daughter; that she likes books about vampires. There are many things he must not know. For a long time she has been a mystery to him. Just as Beth was, only, perhaps, more so. By living here he has lost out on a part of her life. He knew this would happen but the realisation now makes him feel wretched. What kind of a father is he?

There is a clip from the latest
Harry Potter
film. Young spectacled Harry is wielding a sword. Georgia pulls up her blanket and turns on to her side. And he realizes that she is not watching the television; she is looking to the left of the television at a painting. It is a colourful picture of a woman's face. She is Caribbean; her eyes are glittery. It is not a good painting, and yet, there is something about the woman's expression which feels real to him; a confidence, a particular attitude that is exactly right. Whatever the artist has managed to capture in this woman, he would have wished for Georgia to have this same quality, this same poise and confidence. But she will never have it. Or at least, not for a very long time. Enormous sadness rises and swells in him now and he wonders how he will contain it.

The medication draws him down into deep sleep. Part of him welcomes it, he can slip away from the nightmare. He sleeps heavily; vivid dreams of England and his old life. Twice the boys appear and he is frightened. They are breaking into his childhood home, crashing through the window. His mother is young, and she is screaming. Then again in the woods at the back of his house—with knives and machetes—they wait for him. Above where he stands, Georgia hangs from a tree; Miriam tries to cut her down, stretching up on her tiptoes, her nightdress stained with blood. It is terrifying.

When he wakes, the sheets are soaked; Miriam is there.

‘You're okay,' she says, ‘you were dreaming.' She gives him water.

‘Where is Georgia?'

‘She's sleeping right here.'

In the morning, she will call for fresh linen. She strokes his forehead, pushes back his damp hair with her cool hands. ‘Try to rest,' she says, and her voice is soft. He doesn't deserve her tenderness, but he will take it, he thinks.

Saint Miriam. My good wife whom I have betrayed
. He falls again into his abyss.

It is 5.30; Miriam and Georgia are asleep. He steps outside onto the patio and dials Safiya's number.

‘Can you talk?'

She sounds sleepy. ‘Give me a moment.'

With his blanket wrapped around him, he walks slowly along the path towards the sea.

‘I've been worried sick. I thought you'd call and let me know
what's going on. Are you okay?'

‘I've been better.'

‘We couldn't get much information from the police. Did they hurt you? Did they hurt anyone?'

Her voice is soft; her bedroom voice.

‘Martin.'

‘We were lucky; no one died.'

There is a breeze coming off the silvery water, it is surprisingly cool. The sky is pale pink like new skin; the moon is still there, its left side eaten away.

‘What did they do? Did they take money?'

‘Money. Jewellery.'

‘Anything else?'

He knows what she is getting at.

He doesn't want to tell her about Georgia on the phone.

He lights a cigarette, blows a cloud of smoke.

She says, and her voice is creaky, ‘I can't believe this has happened.'

‘I know. I'm okay, sweetheart. We're alive.'

‘When tourists stop coming to Tobago they'll want to know why. What's the point of all these international flights and new hotels when no one will want to come. Trinidad is like an animal chewing on its own paw.'

He doesn't know what to say. Safiya is, of course, right.

‘We have a donkey running the country.'

‘But there are worse places.'

‘Trinidad isn't your home; I have nowhere else.'

He finds himself in a curious position of reassuring her. This isn't what he expected or needed.

Then he says, ‘You sound angry.'

‘Did your wife tell you I rang?'

‘Yes.'

‘Three times. I hope you had something ready. I didn't know what was going on. I rang the night it happened.'

‘You gave your name?'

‘Yes. I said I worked with you on the press side. I don't know if she believed me. She seemed a bit hesitant, or maybe suspicious. It's hard to tell with an English accent. It can sound so uptight.'

He lets her keep talking.

‘It hit me today when this happened, I can't call you when I want. I can't get on a plane and come find you. I couldn't talk to my mom; in this house we barely mention your name. She says you're having a mid-life crisis.'

He feels himself closing up, shutting down. He doesn't have the energy to tackle this, to reassure. It is unlike Safiya; she has not picked her moment well.

‘I'm too old to be having a mid-life crisis. Your mum wants the best for you. She doesn't think I'm good enough. Maybe she's right.'

He doesn't know what else to say.

‘Look,' she says, ‘I'm going to go. I just wanted to make sure you're alive, and not in the hospital.'

‘Well, I was in the hospital but I'm not now.'

‘Do you know when you're coming back?'

‘We haven't discussed it.'

‘Do you think you will?'

How could he not come back? He has an apartment, a car,
a job, responsibilities.

‘Of course.'

‘Are you coming back alone?'

‘I don't know. We have to make plans.'

Below there is a tree and on it, a string of coloured lights. They look like Christmas. He has always liked these trees, their delicate branches, their wide reach.

‘How is your dad?'

‘He died on Tuesday.'

He should not be shocked, but he is.

‘Oh God,' he says, ‘I'm so sorry, darling.'

And he is sorry, sorry that she has to experience this loss alone. He'd wanted to help pick up the pieces. Selfishly, he'd thought it might bring them even closer together. It will be more painful than she imagined. It is something he has learned, when someone dies, it is always harder than you think. The dead do not go away for a while. No, they are gone from your life forever. You will never see them again.

‘Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me know?'

‘I didn't want to tell you in a text message.'

‘You could have called. I would've phoned you back.'

Safiya gives a long, slow sigh. He hears the movement of sheets. She is getting up from her bed. He pictures her wild hair, brown muscular legs, her T-shirt, the top of her thighs exposed. To his surprise he feels faintly aroused.

‘When is the funeral?'

‘Tomorrow.' Then she says, ‘I wish you could be here.'

‘I know, it's difficult. We'll probably leave in a day or two, but there's a lot to sort out.' Then, ‘It's been so traumatic.' His
sadness catches in his throat and he chokes a little. ‘It's been traumatic for you, too. I'm so sorry.'

The phone call leaves him feeling flat, bothered. Should he ring her back? He must reassure her—her father has gone, and he is there for her. But who's to say it will make either of them feel better. And how can he really be there for her if he's with Miriam and Georgia?

The truth is, they were never good on the telephone; it is always better in the flesh.

Breakfast is served in the restaurant overlooking the bay. They find a quiet spot away from the tourists near the pale, clear water, the floury sand and cabanas. Birds swoop in and flutter onto the white linen cloth—black birds, blue birds, sugar birds—looking for crumbs, scraps of fruit. Bold, erect, alive, he is glad of the distraction.

This morning, Georgia stays close to Miriam. Miriam has applied make-up to her eye and the swelling has gone down; Georgia's bruising is more obvious—the redness has darkened and crept down her neck. He finds it hard to look at. She has borrowed a scarf from Miriam and tied it loosely on one side. Thankfully, no one seems to notice them. It is him they stare at. Today his bruises are starting to bloom. He looks battered, as if he has been in a car accident.

There is a message on his phone from Juliet, telling him how sorry she is. No doubt word is spreading fast in Trinidad. While Miriam selects breakfast from the buffet, and Georgia follows her, he telephones the British High Commission. He explains his situation to the consular officer. A Trinidadian, her
voice is high-pitched and thin. He thinks, if a mosquito could speak, it would sound like this.

‘Do you have family in England you would like us to inform? We can help with flights, any urgent medical care.'

Apparently, their story is on a BBC news website. A short piece about the robbery; his daughter and wife were mentioned.

‘What did it say, exactly?'

‘I can send you a link, sir. The report didn't give names, just the fact of holidaying in Tobago. There was no mention of a rape.'

Rape
. The word shocks him.

‘Unfortunately we can't help with police investigations of any kind. But I imagine you have plenty of support in that regard. Is that so, Mr Rawlinson?'

Georgia picks at her fruit—papaya, oranges, banana.

‘Can I get you something else?' he asks. ‘There's French toast. Pancakes, your favourite.'

She shakes her head. ‘I'm not as hungry as I thought.'

Miriam says. ‘Just eat what you can; you need to eat.'

His head is sore, last night the medication was effective, but he is afraid to take it in the day. He will need his wits about him.