Silence.
“You see all the big red lettering on the big white billboards talking about rapists? Even if you didn’t plan on fucking him, what if he didn’t see it the same way after you dry-fucked him like that?”
“Slow down, Matthew. Slow the damn car down.”
“But he wouldn’t need to drag you down to Burma Road and rape you.”
“Watch out for the—” Another speed bump jarred her.
“Slow down slow down slow down.”
“He had your pussy so wide open I almost fell in and went to the other side.”
“There is a blind curve . . . why are you speeding up?”
“Answer my fucking questions if you want me to slow the fuck down.”
The world whizzed by, Caribbean homes and lush mountains, billboard for Romantic Rhythms music festival, more speed bumps, Matthew switching lanes to pass drivers going forty kilometers per hour, more zooming to the right lane and into oncoming traffic to pass other slow-moving cars and trucks and machines used on construction sites, zooming at drivers in the opposite lane, her heart about to explode, then swerving back into the left lane seconds before a head-on collision, moving at warp speed, the back end of the car hitting the curb in a section of a town that had sidewalks, the car swerving, Matthew almost losing control as she screamed for him to slow down, screams that made him accelerate.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Sorry I danced with that man like that.”
“You’re sorry you got caught.”
She lowered her head, put her hands over her eyes, waited to crash, waited to die.
Then the car slowed, was forced to when Matthew hit the curves in Liberta, droves of people, maybe the entire village was still out, liming on the sides of the roads, street vendors selling food.
She whispered, “You’re crazy.”
“Dancing like you make your money a dollar at a time.”
“You are fucking insane.”
“Would you have fucked him?”
“No, Matthew.” Her voice trembled. “This pussy is your pussy. Nobody’s pussy but yours.”
A moment passed. Matthew nodded. Argument over. For now.
Matthew said, “We have a couple of other issues that have to be addressed.”
“Not now, Matthew.”
“In due time.”
“Slow down before you kill somebody.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot.”
She looked at her hand, the way it trembled.
Fear abating, she swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m hungry.”
Back in Falmouth, as they sat seaside at Zanzibar eating rotisserie chicken and rice and peas, her hunger never-ending, she pondered all of her bad luck, how it followed her.
And it had followed her here, sat in the next booth as she ate, two people reading the paper, a man and a woman, talking about the young boy who had been found dead on the beach.
“He grandmudda say she a go fine out who kill she grandpickney.”
His grandmother says she will find out who killed her grandson.
Those people left, but their words remained in the air, the newspaper left behind as well.
She thought about the days in foster care, the abuse, how she had only one pair of shoes, how she had only a handful of clothing, how she had only one decent dress, how she was forced to wear the same tattered clothing over and over, how she had told herself she would do whatever it took to get away from that abusive lifestyle. The abuse. The last foster parent. The old man who had come inside her room in the middle of the night, told her he needed her to do something special for him.
That type of input, the high drama, the screaming, the cursing, the pain—she wondered if she had gotten used to that over the years, if she was unable to function without conflict in her world.
The idea of opening up to a therapist, talking to a stranger about that, being open and honest, that terrified her more than the insane ride with Matthew. She wasn’t built to face things like that head-on. She had searched for what made her feel good. The shopping. Having things when she had grown up with nothing. The high she got when she was in that mode, it was indescribable.
The Blahniks. Those were a symbol, a statement, not just something to cover her feet.
It told the world she wasn’t a foster-care kid anymore, that she was living better than the ones who had abused her. Things had been going great for her, the best days of her life before the marriage.
Going to New York, meeting the women from
Sex and the City,
it was more than a crazed fan spending twenty-four thousand dollars to see the celebrities. She wanted to see them, thank them.
She had come from nothing, risen from the ashes of abuse and poverty like a phoenix. And she wanted the world to notice her, see her victory, wanted to be part of that upper class that had pissed on her world from the day she was born. She wanted to be special. She needed to feel special. Success was always the best revenge.
Matthew asked, “You okay over there?”
“I’m fine.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing or nothing you want to talk about?”
“Either or.”
The black men. Men the opposite color of the ones who had abused her.
Men who had made her feel good. Men she knew she’d never get too attached to.
With attachment came pain.
Then she met Matthew.
She had an epiphany. Matthew had been her bad luck, the start of her downward spiral.
Matthew reached over, took her hand. “You mad at me?”
“Should I be?”
She pulled her hand away.
He said, “I love you.”
“You love me so much you have me running errands for a bitch you used to fuck.”
He leaned over, kissed her, gave her his tongue.
Her mind was in another place.
She had never missed a shot before meeting him.
She had never had a man follow her down a rugged road shooting at her.
She had never had her car attacked by a mob during a J’ouvert celebration before.
He had been the black cat that crossed her path, the broken mirror in her life.
That stayed on her mind as they headed back to Antigua Yacht Club, as Matthew carried two boxes that had been in the trunk and she carried the bright orange Sunseakers bag, as they walked past security and waved, as the girl who held her secret made eye contact but said nothing, as she and her husband climbed the concrete driveway and went inside the room, as they opened the boxes and took out a dozen nine-millimeters, as they inspected the SR9s, as they inspected the ammunition, as she showered, as she slathered Anthisan cream on two dozen mosquito bites, as she listened to Matthew shower, as he came out naked and wet. She didn’t raise her head, kept putting lotion on her skin.
He said, “I love you.”
“I know.”
“If this is going to work, we have to make it work.”
“I love you, too.”
He stopped her from lotioning her skin. Kissed her like he couldn’t live without her.
He said, “You drive me crazy.”
“I know.”
He sucked her breasts, put fingers inside her, ate her out while she was on a bed surrounded by guns. That used to turn her on, used to get her so hot, the sex surrounded by the danger. She gripped the covers and arched her back, understood this was his way of apologizing. She felt so much love for him, allowed him to lead, knew he wanted to have sex again, knew that if she didn’t have sex again it would become an issue, and she couldn’t handle another issue right now. She mounted him and rode him with her eyes on the nine-millimeters, gave him the erotic asphyxiation he asked for, gritted her teeth and choked him, wished she was a lot stronger.
He moaned.
She felt him. Felt him moving inside her, changing her mood. Felt him making her want this.
She struggled, an intense control struggle, before she moaned.
“Sssshit.”
He had her swimming in fire, about to come, confused.
She thought about the morning-after pills she had taken. About what she had done.
The life she lived, not the lifestyle meant to bring a kid into this world.
No matter how badly she wanted a kid.
She trembled and tears fell, mixed with the sweat that dripped from her face.
Matthew touched her face. “You okay?”
“It feels so good. You’re making me emotional, that’s all.”
“Want me to stop?”
“Keep going, baby. Keep going.”
She closed her eyes and moved, felt her husband swelling, knew he was about to come.
She was about to come again. She was about to come with him.
Coming and crying, thinking her husband didn’t need to kill that man, that she wished she hadn’t been so taken with the boy she had met at Sandals, so taken with his youth, his innocence, his smile.
A rough hand grabbed her, its grip firm, began shaking her, shook her hard.
She opened her eyes and faced an old woman. Tall with dark skin, her hair short and curly, sandals on her work-callused feet. The old woman shook her and shook her until she sat up.
Matthew wasn’t in the bed anymore. He was gone. Had left her on the bed naked.
She looked at the old woman. A woman dressed in a black skirt and yellow polo shirt.
It was one of the workers at the hotel, one of the women who serviced the rooms.
She tried to stand and when she did the old woman shoved her back down on the bed.
Pushed her down hard with her right hand, never let her go, her grip firm.
The old woman, strong, years of labor, hands callused, harder than concrete.
The old woman gritted her teeth as tears fell from her eyes, as saliva drained from her mouth.
Through gritted teeth the old woman growled, “Mrs. Robinson.”
The name she had given the boy when she met him on the beach.
Those two words put panic in her eyes and fear in her heart.
The old woman held her as she struggled to get free, as she fought pain and grabbed the old woman’s hand, a hand she couldn’t move. The door opened and more hotel workers came inside the room, women in black skirts and yellow polo tops, women who closed the door and glared at her.
They all frowned and said, “Mrs. Robinson.”
The old woman. The resemblance was in her face, in her eyes.
It was the dead boy’s grandmother. She had found her.
One of the women walked over, a young woman. She had seen her face in the newspaper. It was her dead lover’s beautiful wife. The young girl nodded and handed the old woman a cutlass.
The cutlass was a beautiful, thick saber, a marvelous slashing sword, its blade slightly curved; its edges looked freshly sharpened. A tool that had been used as the sailor’s weapon of choice, had been used in the sugarcane fields, a tool used in the act of robbery, a weapon used in dismemberment and murder. A cutlass. Cousin to the machete. Its blade as long as a madman’s sword. A blade the old woman drew high over her head of salt-and-pepper hair as the women frowned and moaned that she was a murderer. She fought in vain, fought and looked up in shock, eyes wide and fixed on a blade aimed at her throat, a blade that an old, grieving woman brought down with an indescribable vengeance.
She jerked awake. Heart racing.
Matthew was in the bed next to her, naked, asleep, and unaware of her nightmare.
She went to the kitchen, caught her breath, took out a bottle of water, drank most of it.
Stood there naked, trembling, glad her husband couldn’t see her now.
The guilt subsided.
She watched Matthew. His chest rising and falling. Asleep on a bed surrounded by guns.
The things he had said to her. The way he had driven and terrified her on the roads.
She picked up a nine-millimeter, loaded it, pointed the business end at her husband’s head.
So close to pulling the trigger on the gun.
She dressed and left the room, a loaded SR9 in her bag, seventeen plus one, less than two pounds of weight making her feel comfortable and confident. She took her damaged rental car, drove to town, went to eat at Papa Zouk; stuffed clams baked with cheese, bouillabaisse, pan-fried red snapper.
She wasn’t old. She wasn’t incompetent.
Her hormones had been going crazy, messing with her equilibrium, her balance, her timing. The pills would map her back to being normal. Everything should go back to the way it was.
Her body felt strange.
Felt like Suicide Tuesday was tapping her on her shoulder. The backlash from using E. Body suffered from the depletion of serotonin. Wished she had taken 5-HTP, L-tryptophan, vitamins, and magnesium supplements. Instead of the morning-after pills. But she didn’t have the luxury of time.
Was too late to reduce the depression effect by replenishing serotonin levels.
She’d deal with it.
She had a day. Maybe two. Would be in perfect condition before Gideon arrived.
She had to get her swagger back, a swagger she was losing with every breath.
Gideon. In London she had stared into his eyes. Eyes that were cold, bottomless, the doorway to death. Eyes as powerful as Matthew’s. Eyes that had, for the first time, caused her to hesitate.
Her eyes would be the last eyes he saw. She would kill him. Get her mojo back.
Twenty-nine
a masterpiece of revenge
V. C. Bird International Airport.
Matthew glanced at her as he drove. “You okay over there?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re looking extremely flushed.”
“Turn the A.C. up.”
“I have the A.C. on high.”
“You sure?”
“You on drugs? You on E?”
“No.”
“Why are you sweating like that?”