A Kind of Eden (24 page)

It is another day. He has barely slept. But he is determined to make the most of the morning. He has already called the station and spoken to Usaf, who is on his way to a meeting. Did he see the grandmother yesterday? No, Usaf tells him, he will call in this afternoon.

Martin is irritated; what could possibly be more important? Why doesn't Usaf go there now? He tries to stay calm; he has never been so aware of time passing. But there is no point in getting worked up. He tells himself, he will wait; he must wait.

His ribs are still sore; any sudden movement reminds him of his injuries; his bruises are like watercolours on his body—splodgy shades of tapioca, ochre, pale grey. On his leg the scab is growing thick like bark on a tree. When he woke, he felt dizzy, a sensation almost like travel sickness; he wonders about an aneurysm—it is quite possible—and pictures a balloon of blood floating in his head. He should probably see a doctor, have the scan.

He stands at the kitchen window drinking his third cup of coffee of the morning. Outside in the yard, he can see Georgia; she is looking for Fanta. She is wearing her pyjamas, her hair is loose and wet. She is calling the cat, wandering around the
back of the mango tree and peering up into its thick branches. When he first came, it was laden with fruit—hundreds of rosy, sweet mangoes. When the rains come it will bear again. And where will he be? Here? In England?

Martin doesn't hear the clank of the gate when Vishnu arrives. He doesn't see him walk up the drive. No, Vishnu appears in the yard like an apparition; hot from the road, stripped to the waist, his body gleaming with sweat, cutlass hanging from his belt.

He raises his hand to Georgia in a kind of salute. ‘Is your father here?'

Georgia doesn't answer. She freezes, paralysed. Then, slowly, while still keeping her eyes on Vishnu, she backs away towards the apartment.

‘It's okay,' Vishnu says. ‘Don't be afraid, I'm here to work in the yard.' He takes a step towards her.

Georgia screams a loud and terrified scream, and runs inside where Martin catches her—breathless. In the kitchen, she breaks free of him, scrambles into the passageway and runs towards her room. He clambers after her, puts his arms around her and grips her tightly. She pants, struggling for her breath as if she is about to hyperventilate. She kicks at him, and pushes him away.

‘Vishnu is our gardener, I told you he was coming this morning. Vishnu's a good person; he planted the lilies you like.' Then, ‘Talk to me,' he says, ‘let me help you. Tell me what I can do.'

Georgia slumps on the floor.

‘Please talk to me, Georgia. It's the only way we'll get through this. It's important.'

Together, he and Miriam lift her up, help her back into her bedroom.

Miriam waves at Martin, Go, leave us alone. He watches from the doorway as she lays down on the bed beside her, and rocks their daughter gently. After a few moments, he comes to her; sits down on the edge of her bed. She is quieter now.

‘Why don't we take a drive up to the Benedictine monastery. It's beautiful. You can light a candle in the little chapel.'

Miriam looks surprised. She has not known him go to church since they were first married.

‘I went there last year for Beth's birthday. You can see right out to the refinery. We can have tea—the monks make tea, and they sell yoghurt and cheese.'

Georgia shakes her head.

‘Tomorrow?'

‘Maybe,' she says. Then, ‘I'd rather stay here.'

‘You can't stay here all the time.'

‘Why not?'

‘Georgia, you have to talk to us so we can help you.'

‘Martin,' Miriam says.

Georgia says, ‘I want to go home. Please let me go home.'

He tells himself, as bad as things are, it could have been worse. He remembers Asif Mercano, a respectable man in his sixties, whom he met at a neighbourhood watch meeting in 2007. Asif raised funds for security street lights, a patrol car. He said Trinidad was going down the drain. He called it a ‘beautiful, ruined country'. Decorators were working on Asif's family home—a modest house with a small swimming pool—in time
for Christmas. A week after they were paid, they came back, four of them; they tied him up, robbed him, then cut off his head with a machete. Right there on the driveway in front of his wife.

He telephones the station. He speaks to a male officer. Neither Usaf or Curtis are in the office.

‘Can you tell me where they are? I'm calling from Superintendent Raymond Marchant's office in Trinidad.'

‘I'm not sure, sir. They were here earlier and now they're not here.'

‘I'd like to speak with Stephen Josephs.'

‘He's away for the rest of the day.'

The officer takes a message. Somebody will call him back.

He waits.

Nigel Rush is glad to hear from him. Sympathetic, he is horrified by Martin's news; he is not surprised that there are no forensic facilities on the island.

‘A banana republic—my worst nightmare.'

Martin pictures Nigel in his Shrewsbury office, the view from the window of the busy high street; a framed photograph on the wall of Nigel collecting a medal from the queen. Yes, Nigel has done well for himself; he is now a Chief Officer, leader of the West Mercia Police Force. It was expected that Martin would have followed a similar career trajectory if Beth hadn't died. Yes, he'd lost his way for a while.

‘What would you like me to do? Should I call the station in Tobago? Do you want me to complain to someone? The High
Commission? Put some dynamite up their backsides.'

Martin says, ‘What about Scotland Yard?'

‘In my experience, they don't like to interfere unless the Foreign Office or the government want them involved for political reasons. Remember the case of the student murdered in Tokyo? It's a delicate area. Everyone's wary of treading on toes.'

‘I know.'

‘It sounds like you're caught between a rock and a hard place. If you complain, they drag their feet. If I do nothing they still drag their feet.'

Then Nigel says, ‘Maybe you need some press. What about the
Daily Mail
? They'd love a story like this. Of course, you'd have to deal with the fallout. But it might get them moving. You can speak to our media department. They'll know what to do.'

He asks about Miriam. When is he coming back? They must get together. It's been a long time. His new wife, Marilyn, is pregnant. Life has never been busier, he says.

‘How is Georgia? Is she coping?'

‘Not really. She needs to go home.'

‘Let me see what I can do.'

At the Hilton Hotel, the car park is jammed. He drives around for a while. From the signage, he guesses that there is more than one conference. The place will be swarming, which is no bad thing.

The receptionist is familiar. She gives him a key and wishes him a pleasant stay. Does he have any luggage? He shows her his briefcase, and makes his way to the bar. And he is reminded of the early days with Safiya, when he picked her up from Woodbrook and brought her here for cocktails before heading out for dinner. He'd guessed that she wasn't used to restaurants. She saw friends in their homes, drank at the odd sports bar, and mostly ate takeaways. Restaurants gave their meetings a certain romance and sophistication. From the beginning, he'd wanted to give her a different kind of experience; he was clear about that. It also allowed them privacy, and it suited her. It was unlikely Safiya would bump into anyone she knew.

He picks up today's paper and glances through it; he looks up now and then at the entrance. A large arrangement of tropical lilies reminds him he'd meant to buy flowers. He checks himself in the mirror above the bar. The bruising on his face has faded: more yellow than blue; yes, he is on the mend.
Earlier, after his shower, he removed the hospital bandage. Miriam cleaned around the wound, and covered it with a large padded plaster.

‘Isn't it better to let it breathe?'

‘You should keep it protected. Who's going to see it? We don't care what you look like.'

He'd told Miriam that he had to go to the office: a final appraisal for a team of officers he'd been training since last year. There was no one else who could do it. He didn't know how long the meeting would last.

‘At the station?'

‘No, at head office downtown.' Then he said, ‘You can come if you like. I can drop you off at the mall or the cinema.'

‘There's no point in us hanging around in town. I have washing to do; I'm sure Georgia would rather stay here. As long as you're back before dark.'

‘Call my mobile if you need me. I'll keep it switched on.'

At the gate, he quickly kissed her goodbye; her lips were dry and dead as leaves. He thought how pale she looked standing in her dressing gown, her eyes blinking in the sun. At the junction, he felt so guilty he almost turned around. But the closer he got to Port of Spain the less guilty he'd felt.

Safiya strides into reception—yes, she has seen him—her hair is clipped back, its wildness contained. She is wearing jeans, a black cotton top, sandals. She offers her cheek, and kisses him lightly. She looks tired. He tries to read her, but it is difficult.

She says, ‘Shall we go somewhere quiet?'

‘I don't want you to be annoyed, I booked a room. I thought
it would give us privacy and save time.'

‘We could sit by the pool.'

‘There's a conference on; when they break in about half an hour, which they will, the place will be heaving.'

‘My car's outside.'

‘It's too hot for the car. Don't you think?'

She looks at him blankly.

‘Come,' he says, and walks towards the elevators.

She will feel awkward in front of the receptionist. She will imagine that the girl is thinking the worst of her. But if his instincts are right, Safiya is here today to give him a goodbye speech. Let her give it to him in private.

The room is on the fifth floor. A tired-looking room with a king-sized bed; small desk, ensuite. Safiya drops her bag and disappears into the bathroom. Down below, the sprawling Savannah is hazy with heat. He checks his mobile phone; there is nothing. A good sign. From the minibar, he takes out a half bottle of Chardonnay. It is ridiculously expensive.

There is something about hotel rooms that unnerves him; their multiple use—affairs, suicides, misdemeanours; they are soulless, nowhere places. But where else could they go?

‘Look,' Safiya says, in the bathroom doorway. ‘I don't want to drag this out: I just can't do this anymore.'

He opens the wine, begins to pour; his heart is in his mouth.

‘By
this
do you mean us?'

‘I don't want wine. I have to go back to work.'

She fishes in her bag and pulls out her car keys.

‘Can you tell me why? I mean, apart from the obvious reasons.'

She looks away at the painting above the bed—a turquoise tie-dye butterfly. It reminds him of the '70s, before Safiya was born.

‘It feels different with them here. You never mentioned anything about Trinidad.'

‘We didn't plan on getting robbed.'

Then she says, ‘It's not only about Trinidad. I've got to look at the facts. You don't sound like someone who's going to be free anytime soon. I'm tired of being on my own.'

Her voice wavers; he is glad to see that she is finding this hard. She should find it hard.

'Does this have anything to do with your father?'

‘It has nothing to do with him.'

He stares at the Savannah as if it will somehow give him strength. He says—and it is patronising, ‘Sometimes I forget how young you are.'

‘It's not about age, Martin. This would be hard on anyone. Do you know how you sound?'

Her face looks different. From grief, perhaps. Yes, he thinks, grief can change a face.

‘I'm sorry I wasn't there for the funeral. I wanted to come.'

She glances down at her hands; he has always liked them; square, thin fingers. The convent ring, the short nails.

‘I don't want to talk about the funeral.'

She stands up straight, her bag on her shoulder. Soon she will be gone and that will be that.

He says, ‘What I meant about being young—I've been in the world longer than you. In all these years, I've been faithful to Miriam.'

He rarely uses Miriam's name. It has felt wrong, a kind of blasphemy. But now it feels necessary.

‘I would never have fallen in love with you if I didn't think there was a future in it. I'm not a fan of self-sabotage, Safiya. I wasn't looking for a quick fling. Quite honestly, I could do without the drama just as much as you. You would prefer if I was younger; I would prefer if you were older. So what. Nothing is perfect.'

Next door, a television starts up, a theme tune: ‘The Young and the Restless'.

She says, ‘Nothing is perfect. But some things are less complicated. I don't want complications in my life now. I want to give myself a chance; I don't want to be at war with my mother.'

So Marjorie is behind this. Now her father is gone, Safiya is feeling responsible for her mother.

‘The point is, you need a man to take care of you. Not just a playmate, you'll need someone who will love you well. If you're happy, your mother will be glad.'

He knows this is not necessarily true. Life doesn't always work that way. Marjorie will probably never like him even if they marry—he will have robbed her daughter of a normal life. He is old, he has done it all before—children, a home of his own, his career. One day, in twenty-five years or so, he will make her a widow.

Fuck Marjorie Williams
.

‘Pete loved me; he was young.'

He wondered if she would bring him into this.

‘Maybe you missed the boat. We only get so many chances and when they're gone they're gone.'