A Kind of Eden (26 page)

‘She'll be okay. Let's ring when we're finished.'

After fifteen minutes, a police officer appears at the counter and calls them over. Martin feels the eyes of the crowd and the officer leads them through a door marked Private. They follow him down a narrow corridor, to a concrete bunker attached to the main building. The room is tatty, the yellow paint of the walls peeling; it has a ceiling fan, and two cubicles. Miriam and Martin will be held in these separate ‘waiting' areas. Then, individually, they will be taken to view the suspects.

The officer explains that each person will have a number written on the ground in front of them. They must give him the number of any individual they recognise or are able to identify. He apologises for the heat; for some reason the generator still hasn't kicked in. Martin is impressed; the young man must be no more than twenty years old; he is articulate, polite, immaculately dressed.

Miriam looks out at the courtyard. The sun is a fierce white light. Yesterday she told him she was sick of the sun; something he has never heard her say. While the officer talks, she presses her fingertips together—a new habit, she tells him, it stops her hands from shaking. Since they spoke about going back to England, she has been quiet. On the way here, he explained to Miriam that she and Georgia should fly back without him, he will need to stay on, to ensure the boys are charged.

‘Travel back on our own?'

‘If I take my eyes off them, they'll do nothing. Can't you see that? Just for two or three weeks. We want the boys charged.'

‘And what about us? Who'll be keeping an eye on us?'

‘You'll be okay, Miriam. You said it yourself, Georgia needs to talk to someone professional.' Then he said, ‘I have things to sort out. The apartment, the car, Fanta, work. I have a whole life here.'

‘I can see that. But you have a life in England. Or have you forgotten?'

They agree that Martin will go first. Miriam waits in her cubicle, and the young officer leads him into a narrow room where the men are in a line of eight. His body is tense, stiff; he braces himself. The air is thick and hot; sunlight pours in from behind, and he is glad of it. He will be hard to make out. He stands back, away from the men, and runs his eyes quickly over them, scanning, looking for similarities, and he is struck by a mixture of different heights and physiques. And he knows—at once—the boys are not here.

The first man has a round, fleshy face with short black dreads; another is a bearded light-skinned man in his forties; a half-Chinese youth, one has a bleached goatee, light eyes. There are two black men in their mid-twenties, perhaps, and one of them is obese. They look nothing like the boys. There are no teenagers. Most of the suspects look old enough to have children of their own. He wonders, which of these men came from Tobago? What were they thinking? What is Stephen Josephs trying to do?

He says, ‘They're not here. There's no one here that looks
remotely like either of them. It's a fucking joke.'

The police officer says, and his tone is polite, ‘Sometimes it's difficult to remember; would you like to take a break and come back?'

He says, ‘Tell my wife I will wait for her outside.'

He leaves the room, feeling as if his head is about to explode.

In the car park, he telephones Stephen Josephs. Miriam sits beside him; her face is long with worry.

Stephen is cheerful, upbeat. ‘We brought them on the boat last night. It was quite a feat.'

Martin says, trying to control his voice, ‘I told you they were younger. These guys were in their twenties, thirties.'

‘Not all of them.'

His voice is rising. ‘The boys who came to the villa were teenagers.'

Stephen says, ‘It was nighttime and you were distressed; you also sustained a head injury.'

‘I saw them three times. Once on the beach fishing in broad daylight. The night they came with the boat. The second night they came back and attacked my family. I drove the boy in my fucking car. I know what he looks like.' Martin lights a cigarette. ‘Three times.' He can feel Stephen bristling. ‘My wife is very upset. Do you know how harrowing it is to prepare yourself emotionally for something like this?'

‘We tried to get a cross-section; we felt the line-up was representative of the people in your statements.'

Miriam is staring at him.

He asks, ‘The ones you picked up, where do they live?'

‘They live in Scarborough.'

‘But that isn't where the boys lived. I could take you to their fucking village. Usaf spoke with their grandmother. The last I heard they'd gone fishing. What happened?'

Miriam shakes her head; he is losing it.

Stephen says, ‘Just because you dropped them off in the village, it doesn't mean they haven't come from somewhere else. You come from England, but you are living in Trinidad. I come from Trinidad but I am living in Tobago.' Then Stephen says, and his voice is grave, ‘This is disappointing; one of them already confessed.'

Martin makes a strange
ha
sound, a kind of laugh. ‘Well, he was fucking lying. Or someone beat it out of him. That's what you all do, isn't it? Beat them until they admit to something they never did. You must think I'm a fucking idiot.'

Silence.

Miriam covers her face with her hands.

‘For fuck's sake,' he says. ‘This is like the Dark Ages. You people need to pull your fucking fingers out.'

In the background, he can hear birdsong. Tobago birds. He pictures Stephen's office: from the window a postcard view of the Caribbean Sea.

‘We've been making good progress; it would be a pity to start from scratch.'

‘Can't you see, this is not fucking progress. There was never any progress. You should be ashamed.'

‘Martin,' Miriam says, glaring at him. ‘Enough.'

Then Stephen says, ‘If you wish, you can speak to Raymond, or the deputy commissioner and he will explain this to you.
You are not in England now.'

So he is being punished. For being English? Retribution for his behaviour when he first arrived? For putting on some pressure? For wanting his perpetrators caught and justice for his daughter and his wife? This is insane.

‘Fuck you,' he says, and snaps his phone shut; his heart is thumping and sweat trickles down his face. There is no air in the car; there is no air. This heat is insufferable. He has come to loathe this heat.

They drive home in silence. Miriam stares at the passing hills, the sprawling slums below. The light is starting to fade. Ahead, cars fly along the highway, randomly switching lanes. They have escaped before the worst of the traffic, which is a relief. They should talk about their plans. But he cannot bring himself to speak to her.

As they approach the traffic lights, he spots a vagrant sprinting along the hard shoulder, coming towards them. He is wearing tattered shorts, his shirt is open showing an emaciated body like someone from a concentration camp; he is running fast, barefoot, his eyes are big and glaring. He is running as if he is on fire. Like something from a nightmare.

‘What kind of a place is this!' Miriam's face is filled with horror. ‘How can you stand it?'

By the time they collect Georgia from Jeanne's house, it is almost dark. They explain to her what happened at the station. She is agitated; does this mean they have to stay longer? She doesn't want to stay another day. Please say they can go back.

‘Yes, darling; you and your mother are going back just as we discussed.'

‘When?'

‘As soon as you can get flights.'

‘What about you?'

‘There's still some things to do here.'

‘What about Fanta? Can he come back with you? Will he have to go into quarantine?'

‘We'll see.'

‘Please don't worry.'

He needs to reassure her, but he is finding it difficult; he, too, needs reassurance—from where and whom, he does not know. Everything feels shaky, hopeless. He would like to speak to Safiya; she has yet to reply to his message letting her know that the boys had been caught.

He senses in Miriam a heaviness; returning alone with Georgia is not what she wanted. She tells him she will never come back here. This is not paradise; this is hell.

It is late; Miriam and Georgia are in bed. He has been drinking steadily from a bottle of sipping rum given to him by the Training Department when he first arrived. He never realised how good it tasted—the slightly sweet, smoky flavour is smooth and easy to drink. He pours it into a small glass: straight, no ice, no mixer. Just pure undoctored rum—as it's meant to be drunk.

And while he drinks, he watches television with the sound low: a BBC documentary on British coastal birds. At first the pictures calm him: the white cliffs, the sheep, the black and
white cattle, the English countryside with its hedgerows, woods and wild flowers. But then he starts thinking about the day. Playing it over in his mind—the line-up, the conversation with Stephen Josephs, Georgia's pain, Miriam's despair. He wants to speak to Raymond but it is probably too late. When he tried to call him earlier, he did not answer.

He feels a sense of doom, as if he is a tiny island in a state of erosion, splitting off, separating from its continent. It frightens him. His powerlessness frightens him.

The car park is mostly empty and in darkness. It is 5.30 and the sun is rising slowly. He climbs the stairs to the second floor and enters the open-plan office where the strip lights are still on; two or three people are sitting at their desks. They don't seem to notice him. It is familiar, the light green walls, the modern windows, beige vertical blinds. At the far end, he can see Raymond in his office.

Martin makes his way.

‘Hi,' Raymond says, surprised. ‘What's happening?'

Martin is wearing the T-shirt he slept in, his jeans, flip-flops. He is unshaven; there is a faint smell of alcohol.

‘Did you hear about the line-up?'

Raymond closes the door behind him.

‘Stephen Josephs is a fucking idiot. We have to do something. Get someone else on board.' He sits down and checks his pocket for cigarettes; the packet is empty. Raymond offers him a Du Maurier. He fumbles with the lighter. ‘Don't they know I'm not going anywhere? Do they think I'm an idiot?'

Raymond says, and his voice is serious, ‘I had a phone call from Stephen; he's made a formal complaint. He said you were abusive yesterday; you accused him of beating one of the boys
into a confession. He said you've been interfering and if you hadn't been so pushy, they might have been more productive. Now they have to go back to the drawing board. He thinks your head injury might be affecting your judgement.'

‘Well if that's my excuse, what's his.'

‘He had a call from a Chief Officer in England. Nigel somebody. You know anything about that?'

‘Not really. Nigel is my friend. I've known him for years.' Then Martin says, ‘Can't you see what's going on here?'

Raymond gets up. ‘They might be inefficient, but I hate to tell you, you're sounding a little paranoid.'

‘I might well be paranoid but it doesn't mean it's not true.'

‘There'll be more line-ups. You know how it is. We keep going until we find them. We work together as a team. We don't need help from anyone in England. You hear what I'm saying?'

For the first time, he feels that Raymond is not entirely on his side. Or is this part of his paranoia?

Martin feels weak, as if he has suddenly had a drop in blood pressure. He remembers he didn't eat anything last night; he barely slept.

‘I gave them everything they needed to find the boys.'

‘They'll find them. Just let them get on with it.'

‘My daughter needs to go home.'

‘Then go home with her; take two weeks. You'll have my blessing.'

‘I don't want to leave and it all fall apart.'

‘It's not going to fall apart.' Then, ‘It might not be a bad thing to take some time off. There's some rumours around the place.'

Rumours? What rumours?

Raymond half smiles; his tone is light-hearted. ‘Oh, you wanted your wife out of the way because of some Trini girl—Safiya, I'm assuming—and you paid the boys to break in.'

Martin stares at him.

‘Young and Restless. Romance. Drama. It makes it all more interesting. You know how people like to talk.'

Martin looks out of the window at the boulevard, the old-fashioned street lamps, cars lining up at the traffic lights. From here he can see the sea, the Tobago ship in the port. He feels like screaming.

‘Look, I want you on our team, and the contract still stands. But I think you need a break. Go back to England; settle your daughter and wife. Speak to Miriam about your contract. Does she know yet?'

What he tells Miriam is none of Raymond's business.

He says, and his voice is hard, ‘I want them caught.'

Raymond looks at Martin, his eyes steady. ‘This is not your investigation. You need to back off.'

He asks, if, on their last day, Miriam and Georgia would like to go anywhere, or see anything in particular. But they are not interested and he cannot blame them.

Georgia says that she would like to swim next door in Jeanne and Satnam's pool. Jeanne tells Miriam to come too. They can have lunch, sit in the sun and chat while Georgia swims. Take it easy. When they're ready to leave, Martin will escort them back to the apartment.

Through the fence, he watches Georgia dive under the water,
her shape run along the bottom of the pool, then break through the surface; hair smooth and slicked back from her face. She looks free, without troubles, without pain. He watches her swim; a strong breaststroke. He'd meant to tell her how much her swimming has improved. Yes, she is a fine swimmer. The truth is he has never praised her enough. Why? When Beth died, he promised himself he would do things differently. He would seek to appreciate, encourage, applaud. But he hasn't done any of it. He hasn't even been there to praise his daughter. Yes, he has failed on this, too.