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“You should have seen Ruby grab his gun!” Cynthia said, later that evening.
Nine o’clock. The Hebblethwaites – mother, daughter and father – sat round a square table with a chintz tablecloth in a family dining room set apart from the hotel slightly. They ate a dinner of lamb steak with mushrooms and potatoes, and drank white wine, but there wasn’t much of a celebratory atmosphere, despite Cynthia’s exhilaration. The problem was William Hebblethwaite, a fleshy man with wiry eyebrows above close-set eyes, and grey spiky hair. He kept shuddering and saying, oh yes, he knew what his daughter had only just narrowly escaped and, quite honestly, it really was no laughing matter at all. Although he didn’t actually say so, he clearly blamed Ruby for the whole episode. She and his daughter should never have been together. He didn’t thank her for saving Cynthia’s life, and he even found it difficult to make eye-contact with her.
As dinner wore on, his you should never have been together seemed to become more and more of a fixed idea, to the point where he’d repeated it three times before the company were even halfway through eating. Cynthia didn’t seem to notice, but then she was probably still in shock. To her credit, Camilla did, and looked slightly embarrassed. Before her husband had arrived home, Cynthia had told her mother the whole story, and Camilla hugged Ruby and said thank you, then murmured something about how it was definitely time to go to Miami, or even London, or even the Caymans, and, good God, William would just have to see sense.
But then William came in, and she didn’t mention leaving Jamaica at all. She just relayed the story. William said he’d stop his daughter using the car till the elections were over, then they all sat down to dinner. Camilla’s idea was obviously that Ruby should be guest of honour; but William didn’t latch onto that. He kept shaking his head. You should never have been together.
On one level, Ruby understood him. Her own father would probably have reacted in the same way. Fathers sometimes saw their daughters as the only human beings in the world, especially if they were only daughters. In extreme circumstances, they didn’t necessarily behave rationally or even with dignity. Though she recognised that she and William Hebblethwaite weren’t destined to be friends, she didn’t resent him.
Afterwards, as she was going upstairs to bed, and Cynthia and her father had retired deeper into the house to watch TV, or possibly even go to sleep themselves – Cynthia definitely needed it – Camilla took Ruby to one side and held her hand. They stood together on the first floor landing, beside the bannister.
“I’m sorry about William,” she said. “You’ve got to understand that Cynthia’s the proverbial apple of his eye. That’s not an excuse, I know. By rights, he should have got down on bended knee and kissed your feet. That’s how I feel, by the way. But, well, that’s men.”
“I understand,” Ruby said.
“Apparently, she told you we know you’re a spy. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us. Cynthia can be a bit of a cloth-head sometimes, but she’s not indiscreet. Apart from anything else, she hasn’t many friends, and those she does have, she doesn’t particularly rate. She’s quite independent in her outlook, and not the sort to go currying favour by blurting out other people’s confidences.”
“Can I ask how you found out?”
She sighed awkwardly. “I’d like to tell you, really, but it might involve me interfering in your work relations. People you do business with might go down in your estimation. I didn’t ask to be told, put it that way. The information was offered me.”
“It probably doesn’t matter.”
“Cynthia said we’ll support you, apparently. I second that. Anything you want that you think either of us can possibly provide – obviously, I exclude William: you’ve seen how he’s a law unto himself – we’ll provide. I married into an old family on this island. I’ve got lots of connections. You’d be surprised by how much access Cynth and I can get you to how many circles. And we’d both be glad to.” She squeezed Ruby’s hand. “Don’t stand on ceremony. The moment you need to take up that offer, do. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you.”
They parted without another word. Camilla went downstairs, and Ruby continued up to her room. She was dead beat. Tomorrow, she’d get up early and go into Kingston, hopefully with Marcus or one of his sons – assuming it really was that dangerous, which she doubted: there had to be half a million people living down there: the place would be deserted if it was that bad. No, she’d been in ‘dangerous’ cities before. What happened was a few tiny boroughs, usually in the suburbs, ran out of control for a time, then, because outsiders didn’t know the difference between the different boroughs, and didn’t care, they just traduced the whole place.
Besides, she was black. She’d fit in in a way the Hebblethwaites probably couldn’t.
Providing she didn’t open her mouth.
She went into her room and locked the door behind her. She’d hardly noticed till now, but the heat was unbearable. She took off her clothes and hung them up. Then she showered and got into bed. In a few moments, she was asleep.
She dreamed of the gangsters in the saloon car. They were trying to get the Jeep back on the road, and one of them kept banging with his fist on the bonnet four times and saying her name. She couldn’t seem to get him to stop, even though her gun was trained on him and he was unarmed. She didn’t like him continually rap rap rapping, but it was hardly a capital offence. Why was he doing it?
Her eyes opened. She was here. In Jamaica. Someone was knocking at the door. She felt for the light switch, got out of bed and put her dressing gown on, all in what felt like a single movement. Pretty rubbish spy to fall into that deep a sleep. Maybe it’d be Ivan from the KGB, just to make the moment perfect.
Instead, it was Camilla, also in a dressing gown; also looking like she’d just rolled out of bed. “You’ve a guest,” she said wearily.
For reasons that weren’t immediately obvious to her, Ruby looked out of the window. The moon, yes.
“Er, what time is it?” she asked.
“Two.”
“A guest?”
“He says you’re expecting him. An American, going by his accent. About your age. Name of Josiah Collins.”
It suddenly made sense. “I certainly wasn’t expecting him at this time. My apologies.”
“He’s in the lounge. The dogs almost had him for supper. Or breakfast.”
Ruby thanked her again and they parted.
Bloody hell, two in the morning! Poynter had told her he wouldn’t make first contact till tomorrow evening. Today evening now. But of course: all the warnings she’d been given: The Americans aren’t necessarily on our side. This was presumably the CIA’s way of disorientating her, letting her know who called the shots in the so-called ‘special relationship’.
She tried to think of ways she could get back at him, re-establish the balance. But everything that occurred to her required Camilla as an intermediary. Tell him to go away and come back in the morning; tell him I don’t know a ‘Josiah Collins’; tell him you can’t find me right now, I must have sneaked out ...
On the other hand, what if it was an emergency? Maybe there’d been some new development. She couldn’t afford to be complacent. She pulled her clothes on feeling like her limbs were made of lead and sod Josiah bloody Collins, she just wanted to go back to sleep.
She splashed her face with water, allowed herself one mammoth yawn and looked at herself in the mirror. Yesterday’s clothes, and that made her feel doubly miserable, but it couldn’t be helped. Matching skirt and jacket. Perhaps a touch too formal, but then, this wasn’t a holiday, and Collins was certainly no friend. Not at two in the morning – quarter past now.
If he was playing mind-games with her, he might very well have gone when she arrived in the lounge. You weren’t quick enough, Ruby. You need to be ready to move at the drop of a hat. He’d probably never met a woman who threw good punches before, and he was probably trained in unarmed combat, but next time they met, just let him stop her right hook. He wouldn’t even see it coming.
She put her shoes on and went downstairs as quietly as she could – the stillness in the house was profound: not even the dogs were barking. The door to the lounge was closed. She opened it and went in.
Exactly the same as when she’d met Poynter here, except that the lights were on and the curtains were closed, and sitting where the Briton had been was a slim black man in jeans, an orange T-shirt and a denim jacket. He had a conventionally handsome face, a broad nose and a firm chin. He didn’t look displeased to see her, quite the contrary. He came forward with his right hand extended.
“Ruby Parker,” he said. “I’m Josiah Collins. Delighted to meet you at last. Wow.”
She shook his hand. She’d prepared lots of questions as she’d walked downstairs, most of the indignant variety, but the first she gave voice to was: “What do you mean, ‘Wow’?”
“I mean – don’t take this the wrong way: it’s not meant to sound unprofessional – you’re beautiful.”
It did sound unprofessional. Or rather, like another attempt to disorient her. “It’s gone two o’clock in the morning. I was told to expect you tomorrow evening.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded, as if this consideration was news. “Well, there’s been a development.”
“What sort?”
“We’re going to a party.”
“A party? Whereabouts?”
“Kingston,” he replied. “East Central, to be exact.”
“At this time?”
“This is the party hour. Or one of them. Daytime parties are rare in this part of the world.”
It seemed a reasonable point. But now she really was discomfited. “I’ve nothing to wear. Not to a party. I didn’t expect you now. Had I known you were coming, I’d have supplemented my wardrobe. As it is, I’d set aside tomorrow morning to do that. I can’t go like this. I look like an office worker.”
“You haven’t anything else?”
“Only another skirt-suit. A bit more formal.”
“What if I could get you some clothes? I mean, obviously I’ve got contacts in Jamaica.”
She didn’t like the sound of a stranger, and a man, choosing party clothes for her, but what choice did she have? “Okay, but I don’t want anything too revealing.”
“That might be difficult. People expect women to show a bit of flesh. But we’ll see what we can do. Maybe pretend you’re some kind of Pentecostalist, freshly arrived from the country.”
“What are we going to be doing at this party?”
“Our jobs, right?”
The way he said it, it sounded like a genuine question. “Right,” she said.
“Shall we go? The taxi’s out front, assuming it hasn’t got fed up and left.”
“Sorry I took a long time getting ready.”
“What woman doesn’t? God damn, I can’t get over how hot you are. I was expecting someone much older. And quite fat, if I’m truthful.”
She already didn’t like him. And she didn’t trust him. He still hadn’t explained why he’d come at this time. There must be parties in Kingston every night. He’d done nothing to explain why this one was special, or why, if it was, he hadn’t forewarned her. Just to wake a person up in the early hours and tell her she was ‘hot’ and her presence was required at a party, wasn’t endearing. Poynter was right: they probably weren’t going to enjoy working together.
Yet she also recalled the Englishman telling her Collins was ‘puritanical’.
He didn’t seem to be, not so far. Sadly, as it turned out. She hoped he wasn’t the type who expected her to fall into his arms. She didn’t do sex with colleagues. Or with anyone yet.
Should she go back upstairs and get her gun? Probably not. If they were going to a party, she could hardly carry a revolver round with her, even in a clutch bag. Anyway, they probably didn’t do handbags at a Kingston party. It would probably be full of macho men, trophy women and aspiring trophy women.
She suddenly realised how difficult her job was going to be. As she understood it, she was to get in amongst the women and eavesdrop on their conversations. But they didn’t know her. They weren’t going to confide in her if they had no idea who she was. She might be an undercover cop for all any of them knew.
Unless Josiah Collins already had currency in that community. He had to have. He couldn’t just be turning up there, hoping for the best.
“Who invited you to this party?” she asked as they left the house.
“I invited myself,” he replied.
“Who do you know there?”
“Maybe no one.”
She stopped walking and looked at him.
“You’re not actually inside the taxi yet,” he told her. “You need to keep moving your feet.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “We’re going to a party in downtown Kingston. Since the poorer parts of the city are divided on party-political lines, it’s probably going to be either JLP or PNP. But we don’t know anyone there, and we haven’t been invited. And you’ve got an American accent and I’ve got an English one. Are you trying to get us killed?”
He looked annoyed. Obviously not used to plain truths from a woman. “It’s a PNP bash,” he said irritably. “And no, I’m not.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“It’s a party, that’s all. People drink alcohol; they smoke ganja; their tongues loosen; they tell us things.”
“They shoot us in the head.”
He laughed humourlessly. “Stay here if you’re scared.”
“And come with you if I’m a complete moron, is that it?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Forget it. I’ll go on my own.”
She hesitated. She almost went back into the hotel and tramped back upstairs to bed. It wasn’t the realisation that she wouldn’t be able to sleep now that stopped her. It was the sense of being caught in something. The adventure had begun, and it wasn’t going to wait for her to select the right moment, and yes, right now she might be lashed to 100% of a jerk, but since he was so obviously brain-deficient, she could probably bend him to her will. She’d corralled greater minds than his in the past.
“Please,” he said, unexpectedly.
She smiled. She hadn’t anticipated that her hesitation would have unnerved him, but it obviously had, and the initiative fell unasked-for into her lap.
“If we’re going through with this,” she said, “we do things my way, or we simply don’t do them.”
He shrugged sulkily. “Okay, you’re in charge.” Then he grinned. “God, you’re even hotter than I thought!”
She strode ahead. “Rule number one. Stop saying that.”
He pretended to zip his mouth up.
She sighed. Bloody hell.
“After we’ve been to the party,” he said. “Assuming you’re still au fait with that, I thought we’d go to see Michael Manley speak at a rally. Nine o’clock, Spanish Town.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Then we should split up for a while. I badly need new clothes.”
“Typical - ”
“Typical what?”
“Typical nothing. Typical Limey. Typical person without appropriate clothes.”
She opened the rear door of the taxi for him. He got in and she slammed it shut and got into the front seat.
“Where to?” the driver said.
“Where to?” she asked the back seat.
“One-two-four Dominica Street, Kingston,” came a subdued voice from behind.
The CIA had to be in pretty bad shape, sending someone like Josiah Collins out here. This was set to be one hell of a long night.
