JOHN AWOKE FROM a shallow, fitful sleep and lay listening to the wind moaning forlornly through the shutters of his room. At 8.00 a.m. the clouds above the town were as black as night. He ate a breakfast of saltfish, eggs and fried bananas, a dish that Catherine said she usually only prepared on Sundays for privileged guests, then ventured out onto the street.
For the rest of the morning he searched aimlessly through the town, visiting the place names he had found in Ixora’s diary. He did not know if he would find her. He only knew what to do if he did. At noon he stopped by one of the large American hotels and placed two telephone calls, one local and one to London. Then he headed back into the centre of Castries.
The dark sky had forced an eerie light on to the buildings, causing colours to jump out in sharp relief. The fruit and vegetable market at the end of town was a riot of unfamiliar shapes and tones. Christophenes, artichokes and okras were displayed beside yams, eddoes and sweet potatoes, all of them stacked in neat piles on mats and blankets.
The incessant wind had dried the morning rain from the streets, although the gutters still splashed with rushing water. Felled palm fronds, many of them taller than a man, had been blown across the side roads. Everyone seemed to be moving with a purpose, as if the populace was anxious to be indoors before the winds became too much to stand.
He found himself in front of the sealed-up house on Grass Street once more, looking up at the charcoaled shutters of the upper floor. The slats nailed over the front door had rotted through, and proved easy to remove. Behind them, though, was a heavy steel lock which prevented any further advance. As the rain returned with renewed vigour, he peered in through the boards which covered the single ground floor window, his vision thwarted by darkness.
Stepping over the rotting rubbish which filled the alleyway at the side of the house, he found a window at the rear which looked as if it would allow him admittance. Behind these boards the shutters were forced back from their hooks and lay twisted on the floor. Climbing inside proved easy enough, but the sponginess of the floor within told him that it would be dangerous to stray very far from the edges of the room.
As his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw that the room was bare but for a stack of high-backed velvet covered chairs in one corner. Striations of dim light crossed the walls and reflected dully from the remains of an iron chandelier hanging from the high wooden ceiling. There was a feeling of faded grandeur here, of a life once comfortably led. An intricately carved balustrade, part of the now collapsed staircase, had pulled away and lay sunken in the rotten boards. Light seeped through the gaps in the floor above and partly lit the landing. Perhaps the roof had fallen in.
As he approached the stairs, rats paused in their search for food and wriggled off, their claws rattling across the boards. He tested each step as he climbed, listening for creaks above the sound of the falling rain.
Something scraped against the wall above his head. He froze on the fourth stair, listening. The temperature had fallen steadily since the start of the storm, and now his breath clouded before him in the dark. Perhaps a bird had flown in through a gap in the shutters and had become trapped. His pulse picked up its pace as he climbed towards the landing. He could see the corner of the room above, a whorl of settling dust marking the recently disturbed air. Suddenly a section of shadow divorced itself from the wall and came at him, broadening into a human figure, a wailing scream rising in its throat as he found his own voice, shouting in fright.
The figure nearly toppled him through the brittle banisters as it fell against him. Ixora stared up, her body in darkness, her emerald eyes flashing wildly in a single sidelong strip of daylight. Her cry fell to a racking sob as she clutched at his body, and he sank down with her, supporting her weight as she crumpled to the floor.
The cool rain revived her, washing the streaks of dirt from her face, staining her crimson dress, muddying her sore bare feet. Together they looked up at the house as lightning flashed softly out to sea.
‘Why did you come here?’ she cried, pushing the wet strands of hair from her eyes.
He had planned the words for this moment, should he find her. Now they had deserted him. ‘I had to find you, Ixora,’ he explained. ‘I needed to know where you’d gone.’
Although she tried to free herself, he held tightly on to her left wrist. Nothing could make him let go now.
‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘I can’t live without you. I want to marry you. Not just words. I mean it.’
Realising that he would not free her arm, she stopped trying to pull away and angrily turned to him. ‘Why do you think I ran away, John? It wasn’t because you wouldn’t trust me, it’s because I finally knew that you would.’
‘You’re not making sense. It was what you wanted all along.’
‘It’s all gone so wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.’
‘What do you mean?’
She did not reply, but looked away to the dark hills, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. John reached his decision. He steered her along the pavement, forcing her to keep pace with him.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see when we get there.’
As they reached the rainswept marketplace he called to an elderly driver who was sheltering under a store awning, and aimed Ixora in the direction of the taxi. ‘I have a lot of questions I have to ask you,’ he said, opening the rear door of the Ford and pushing her inside, ‘but first just answer me one thing.’ The driver slipped into his seat and watched him, waiting for directions. ‘Just one truthful answer, yes or no.’
‘What?’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Yes, I do, John, with all my heart.’
‘That settles it.’
The taxi took off and drove back through the town, past a harbour filled with thrashing boats. Rain squalls rippled across the main thoroughfare which ran beside the darkened sea, buffeting the side of the car. Ahead rose the pale concrete towers of the American hotels. As they drew into the Hyatt Regency, John spoke with the driver, then gave him a handful of bills. The old man jumped from his seat and ran into the foyer of the hotel.
‘John, what’s going on? Where is he going?’
‘He’ll be back in a minute.’ He raised himself from the seat and drew a small box from his trouser pocket, passing it to her. ‘This is for you.’ She studied the object in the palm of her hand, as if afraid of it.
‘Well, go on, open it. You look like I’ve asked you to defuse a bomb.’
She prised open the lid and withdrew a slim diamond ring. He didn’t dare to tell her how much he had paid for it.
‘Well, go on, put it on.’
It fitted perfectly. She was still nervously admiring it when the driver returned. ‘All set,’ he said, holding open the passenger door. ‘Just go right through.’
John took Ixora’s hand and gently led her from the car.
‘Congratulations,’ called the driver.
Suddenly Ixora realised what was going on. ‘Oh no,’ she said quietly, then louder, ‘no, John!’ She removed the ring and shoved it back at him.
‘It’s just a short service,’ he said, tightening his grip on her wrist.
‘But you’re still married!’
‘Oh no, I’m not. My divorce became official two days ago. Helen couldn’t wait to get shot of me. I spoke to the solicitors this morning.’
‘But not this – this is wrong.’
‘The vicar even comes with his own witnesses. The maids here are hardened professionals, they help out like this all the time.’
The idea had come to him when he had spoken to the travel agent. It was all the rage, he had been told, very romantic. And with a current drop in clientele due to the unseasonal weather they were having at the moment, it would also be inexpensive. John was more concerned with maintaining discretion. The travel agent had coughed into his hand. That, he had admitted, would cost a little more.
The pink marble reception area was a monument to the vulgarity of mass tourism. It was fitted with large brass sharks and starfish, and was open on two sides. There was no point in having large panels of glass fitted to West Indian hotels. The foyer and the manicured gardens beyond were windswept and deserted. Ixora’s bare feet slipped on the wet floor as she tried to pull herself free, but John merely tightened his grip. On the stairs, a pair of whey-faced tourists in banana-leaf hats watched as they passed.
‘I’m not going to let you do this, John,’ she warned, close to tears now. ‘I’ll scream.’
‘You can scream all you like,’ he replied evenly. ‘The amount of money this guy’s being paid, you can slash your wrists and he’ll carry on with the service.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she screamed. ‘Why can’t you just stay away from me?’
‘You say you love me, then you beg me to leave. You don’t know what you want, Ixora, so I’m deciding for you. You demanded proof of my love, total commitment, that’s what you’re getting.’
‘I don’t want it any more!’
Ixora made a monumental effort to stand her ground, but slipped over. As he pulled her to his feet she managed to slide her wrist free of his fingers. His nails had cut purple crescents deep into her flesh. As she scrambled from his reach, he seized her around the waist and pulled her back to him.
They reached a half-flooded stone walkway at the rear of the hotel. The heavy white breakers which pounded the beach sounded like distant gunfire. Within an arbour of windlashed bushes they found a tall pink pagoda of scrolled baroque ironwork, like a prop from some forgotten musical. Beneath it, sheltering from the rain, stood an old white man dressed in a black suit and dog collar, and two bemused teenage housemaids, still in their uniforms.
‘I won’t go through with this, John.’
He shoved his fist in her face. ‘We’re getting married whether you’re conscious for the ceremony or not.’ He jerked Ixora in front of him, presenting her to the vicar, who had clearly been drinking. He scratched the patchy grey stubble on his chin and held out an unsteady hand.
‘Congratulations, young lady. What a shame we couldn’t have had better weather for you.’
‘Help me, I’m being kidnapped.’ She ignored his hand and turned to John. ‘You’re crazy if you think I’m getting married.’
The vicar smiled vaguely, ignoring her pleas. He reached down to turn on a small cassette player and nearly failed to make it back up. Then he turned to the groom, his eyes distantly focused. ‘Do you have the ring?’
Ixora had dropped it into his top pocket, tearing his shirt in the process. He fished it out and presented it. The witnesses smiled. At last here was something they could identify with a normal wedding. Ixora batted the ring from his hand, and it fell with a ping into the surrounding flowerbed. One of the maids retrieved it. In the background, church bells had begun to peel wonkily from the tape deck.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ said John, tightening his grip on Ixora’s arm as she began to cry again. He watched her from the corner of his eye, wishing he could simply take her in his arms and rest her head on his chest, telling her. that everything would be fine, but he didn’t dare release her until after the service.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered today in the sight of God . . .’
‘Is everybody around here crazy?’ Ixora screamed, ‘I’m not getting married, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Is she all right?’ asked the vicar, concerned.
John nodded and revolved his right hand, indicating a faster pace. A fresh squall of rain hit the side of the pagoda.
‘I’m not marrying you, John,’ Ixora whispered, ‘not like this. Please don’t make me.’ For a moment when she looked at him he saw the agony in her eyes, and his resolve wavered. Then he forced himself to remember how their life together had been in London.
‘I’m doing this for both of us, Ixora. Trust me, it will change everything. There’ll be no more dark men in your dreams. I’ll always be there to protect you.’
‘I can’t let you do that.’ She turned to the vicar. ‘Please, stop the ceremony.’
‘It’s no good,’ said John apologetically. ‘He’s stone deaf.’
‘If there is anyone who knows of any just reason why this couple should not be joined in holy wedlock,’ intoned the vicar, not bothering to glance at his prayerbook, ‘let them speak now or forever hold their peace!’
‘I object!’ said Ixora, John tightened his grip on her arm until she cried out.
‘He doesn’t mean you,’ he said. Behind them the wind split a bough from a tree with a sharp crack. The witnesses looked up, frightened. On the concrete deck beside the pool, metal sunchairs cartwheeled over each other.
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ The vicar was forced to shout above the wind. ‘You may kiss the bride!’ One of the maids threw confetti, but the wind whipped it away. Then the three of them were off, running across the ravaged garden, propelled by the gale as thunder rent the air with an ear-splitting bang and the storm broke all around them.
The groom remained hanging on to the canopy railing, his face smeared with dirt, his shirt torn and flapping. Slowly, he released his grip on his brand new bride, who fell to her knees in her tattered crimson dress and began to sob with all her heart.