The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (5 page)

Jennifer sobbed. ‘Dey
beat
him, dey beat my son. Dey beat him like a dog. Dey beat him up on de hill. Where it so peaceful. Two men held him and two others beat him.’

Sabine held her tight, shooshing, her lips close to Jennifer’s bowed head.

George thought fast: Talbot needed immediate medical attention, so they wouldn’t drive him to the General Hospital in Port of Spain, where stray dogs roamed the wards. No, no, no. Talbot would go to the A & E at the private medical centre in St Clair. To get there, they would need to lay him flat on the back seat of the car and drive with great care to save those lungs. Then he would pay a visit the
Guardian
, take the camera straight to Joel on the news desk.

‘Talbot, would you mind if we took some pictures?’

Talbot’s eyes flashed open, he looked alarmed. ‘Uhhh?’

‘Don’t worry. It won’t make things worse. I promise. These men need to be punished, taken off the force.’

‘Mr Harwood, dey make sure der were no witnesses. Dey take me up to de hill.’

‘Yes. I know.’

Talbot’s face twisted.

‘Talbot, this is
evidence,
’ Sabine cut in. ‘These bruises tell a story. This is GBH. You’ve suffered a serious assault. And your girlfriend on the force will back up your story. We will back you up, too.’

‘Oh gorsh,’ Talbot whispered through his swollen lips. ‘I doh know, Mrs Harwood. No one see what happen. I doh know. I doh want more trouble.’

George cleared a space on the bed, sitting down carefully. ‘Talbot, one of these men threatened you with your life. Do you think he was joking?’

Tears appeared in Talbot’s gummed eyes.

‘Don’t you
see
?’

‘I doh know.’

‘I think you
do
know. They did this because they can, because they assume you won’t dare speak out. Will you let us help you?’

Jennifer sobbed harder.

‘Oh gorsh.’

‘Let us help.’

Talbot nodded.

Sabine left Jennifer’s side, snapping some close-ups of Talbot’s battered face, his ribs, his chest. Flies landed on the forming scabs and she shooed them away. Gingerly, with Jennifer’s help, they lifted Talbot from the bed, helping him into the car, all the while Talbot moaning in pain and Jennifer moaning with grief.

 

At the medical centre the A & E nurse studied Talbot with sombre eyes. They escorted him to a small room with three beds, leaving him there with Jennifer. There would be X-rays, tests.

‘Jennifer, we’ll be back soon,’ Sabine reassured her. ‘You stay with your son. We’re taking these pictures to the
Guardian
. Mr Harwood knows someone who can write about what happened.’

Jennifer nodded. She looked taken upon by a different personality, aged, melancholy, another woman.

 

In the car, George glanced at his wife: Sabine’s mood had turned lethal. For a few moments they drove along in silence.

‘I’m going to beat that man myself,’ Sabine declared.

‘Who?’

‘That idiot should be
shot
.’

‘Who?’

‘That Bobby “Big Balls” Comacho. I’ll do him in myself.’

‘Darling, Bobby’s no man to get on the wrong side of.’

‘Bobby is a thug. He should be locked up. The men on his force are a disgrace. I’m going to make a complaint.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘I’m going to go into that police station and kick up a huge damn fuss.’

‘Please don’t, Sabine. What good will that do?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘The
Guardian
may well run with the story about Talbot. The pictures are very strong. That’s enough.’

‘I don’t think that fat idiot ever reads the newspapers. I don’t think he can read
at all
in fact. Illiterate pig.’

‘Sabine, please—’

‘Don’t Sabine me. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind – if you won’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Sabine stared upwards, out the window. ‘There it is.’

George looked up. The blimp was following them, puttering high overhead. ‘
Please
don’t distract me, Sabine. I’m driving.’

‘I’ll shoot it down one day.’

‘Good. Go out and buy a gun.’

‘Maybe I will. I’ll shoot Mr Manning, too, whilst I’m at it.’

‘Darling, please.’

‘Talbot’s face. If that was
our
son. If the police had beaten Sebastian like that, then there’d be trouble. God. Then there’d be a fight. But the police don’t beat up white people. They beat up each other.’

‘Do you want me to go and beat up Bobby Comacho, Superintendent of the District?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m seventy-five.’

‘Good. Old men are dangerous. Can’t knock an old man down.’

‘You want me to put on my boxing gloves?’

‘If you won’t, I will.’

‘You’re seventy-five, too.’

‘That bloody thing is following us.’

‘Don’t be crazy.’

‘Eric Williams.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all
his
fault.’

George went silent, not wanting this conversation again. Sabine, he could see, was brooding up a storm.

‘Things could have been so different,’ she said in a sullen tone.

Sabine followed George through the maze of desks. The newsroom was air-conditioned and quiet and yet suitably ramshackle, half library, half common room; people with their heads down, on the phone, laughter and ol’ talk, a mostly young staff. She’d always been curious. George had been allowed into this world late in life, when Ray had first asked him to cover the golf tournaments in Tobago. He had retired from his working life long ago – and Ray had given him these odd assignments. Turned out George could write. He was funny, too, fluent and erudite with it – and soon he had a following. More assignments followed. In those days, she typed his articles out from his longhand; she was part of things then, this second career, before he bought a computer and learnt to type.

‘Darling, this is Joel.’ They were at the news desk. Six desks facing each other at the far end of the room. A poster of Malcolm X on the wall behind Joel’s head. Next to it, Fidel Castro biting a cigar.

‘Joel, this is my wife, Sabine.’

The young man stood up and shook her hand. The other reporters all looked up with open interest.

‘Oh, dis a surprise, de ol’ man talk about you a lot.’ Joel winked at George but Sabine could tell he was intrigued, sizing her up. Sabine let him stare into her ravaged face.

‘Likewise,’ she smiled sweetly. Joel was handsome, a dougla, afro hair and Indian features. His eyes were inky black and his skin the colour of cocoa dust.

‘What brings you in today?’ Joel eyed the camera Sabine held like a grenade.

‘Spot of trouble,’ George explained.

Joel grinned at this Englishman’s understatement. He rubbed his chin.

‘Fucking bastards beat up our maid’s son,’ Sabine blurted.

Joel raised his eyebrows. ‘Mrs Harwood, who beat up
who
?’

‘Bloody police. Three of them, beat him half to death. Left him up there to die. Top of Paramin Hill, left him for hours. Days even. You know it gets cold up there. Cold. Damn cowards.
Cochons
. He’s in the medical centre in St Clair.’

Joel whistled. The other reporters were now plainly aware of this white woman with a foul mouth.

Sabine smiled, apologetic. ‘Pardon my French, boys. Wait till you see the pictures.’

‘You have pictures?’

‘Not of the event. Of his injuries.’

‘Will he speak?’

‘I doubt it,’ George cut in. Sabine could tell he’d hoped to handle this.

‘Witnesses?’ Joel pressed.

‘None,’ said George.

‘Just those hills,’ Sabine added. ‘The hills witnessed the attack.’

George coughed, trying to cut her off.

‘Those weaklings threatened to kill him,’ Sabine continued. ‘For a mobile phone.’

‘Policemen bad dese days, Mrs Harwood. We run a story like dis every day.’

‘I stopped reading the newspapers, I’m afraid. Some time ago.’ She shot George a dark collusive stare.

‘We go take a look at de pictures,’ Joel said. ‘We go run de story, nuh. We always do. Our own little campaign.’

‘Good for you.’ Sabine handed over the camera.

‘Thanks, Joel,’ George said.

‘We’ll need to speak to dis fella, aks him questions.’

‘I’ll give you directions.’ George came forward and the pair began to make notes.

On the wall behind, Malcolm X stared right at Sabine. The young men at the news desk looked up under him, their faces young and bright and scrubbed, proud of themselves. They all stared, as if she were a hologram.

‘What about
him
?’ Sabine pointed to the poster.

Joel turned round to see what she was looking at. He raised his fist. His face, like the others’, was open, boyish. ‘Black Power, man.’

‘Really? I’m surprised you say that.’

George sighed. ‘Here she goes.’

Joel’s face was amused, trying to please.

‘What kind of
power
does Talbot have?’

His face fell.

George looked awkward.

‘Yes, Mrs Harwood. The Chief of Police in de pocket of Mr Manning. Everyone know dat.’

‘But you can’t
write
anything about that. Can you?’

Joel shook his head. ‘Mrs Harwood, maybe we should hire you, too. We could give you a news column. Mr Harwood, eh, watcha say?’

George looked appalled.

Sabine fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I’d like that.’

Joel went serious; his voice dropped so he was speaking in confidence. ‘We criticise, we do. We try to. The news speak for itself. Manning cyan law enforce dis country – enforce all he friens at top level? But de PNM cyan argue wid fact. Fact is fact, man. No one can stop me from writing down fact.’

‘Good.’

Sabine felt a dull glow of pleasure. ‘Will that loathsome fuckwit Patrick Manning get in next year?’

Joel erupted with laughter. The boys behind him hooted. ‘Of
course
. Wid all de votes he buy.’

‘Black Power,’ Sabine said. ‘That’s what it’s been since the PNM took over. Black Power for one man only, or for the few.’

‘Sabine—’ George made as if to go.

Joel looked genuinely surprised by her words. He winked at George.

‘See?’ George half smiled. ‘See how I live?’

Sabine made a grim face, unperturbed. Let them think what they liked.

‘Lady, it real nice to meet you at las.’ Joel shook her hand.

‘Nice to meet you, too.’

‘I jus write de news.’

‘I’m glad you do. Thank you, and thank you for helping us.’

 

At the medical centre in St Clair, Talbot was dozing. He’d been expertly patched up. Four broken ribs, a broken nose; two mangled fingers were splinted. No internal bleeding, though. His ribs were bandaged, his head wrapped so heavily his face was nearly hidden behind all the padding. He’d been bathed and his unbruised skin glowed. He smelled clean, medical and citrusy from Limacol. Jennifer had her son back again, in almost one piece. If that had been Sebastian ‒ dear God, what hell then. What would Granny Seraphina make of this, eh? She would turn in her cardboard-box grave.

Talbot lay on clean white sheets, probably the cleanest and whitest sheets he’d ever had. Jennifer sat next to him on one of two metal chairs. Sabine sat down next to her and reached for her hand. Jennifer, usually so verbal, so quick to tease and retaliate, to picong and ol’ talk and giggle and make noise and fun for her and George, was speechless. She looked aged, but somehow dignified, like Granny. Some of that old woman’s resolve set in her face, her shoulders. Some of that slave silence.

‘I told Mr Harwood I’m going to give Bobby Comacho hell.’

Jennifer didn’t stir.

‘Shoot him in the balls.’

Jennifer’s shoulders shook.

‘I mean it.’

‘Yeah, man. Watch out, den dey trow you in a cell.’

‘
What
‒ then they’d have trouble on their hands.’

‘Jesus Lord.’ Jennifer pressed her palms to her forehead. She steupsed in a long miserable way. ‘I wish I could . . . fly away, yes. You know? To another place.’

Sabine put her arm around Jennifer. Tears spilled from Jennifer’s eyes. ‘Dis not fair. It not right. Dey leave him up der, Mrs Harwood. He try to crawl dong on his hands and knees, den a man fine him and bring him down by us. And when I see him in mih house, oh gorsh. I ent recognise mih own son.’

Sabine squeezed her shoulders. ‘He’s better now. He’ll be OK.’ ‘I wish I could fly far away.’

‘I know.’

‘Far away, man. To another place.’

‘Yes. I know.’

Jennifer raised her head and looked at her, harshly. ‘You
shoulda
lef, man. I cyan understand why you never leave.’