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Don’t let Parton get away. Kill him, if necessary. That was all she had to do, the one thing she’d been left in Jamaica for. Everything depended on it, and yet she couldn’t kill a man for something so abstract as the possibility that he might go to the Russians. He probably wouldn’t: not if he was working for a narcotics cartel. So not only was she going to fail, her failure had somehow already happened. She sat on the bed with Vilma and Walker, looking at the carpet and waiting for the call to action. They all wore fatigues and looked and felt depressed.
“I don’t even know how I feel about this,” Walker said. “I’ve lost sight.”
“What will you do afterwards?” Vilma asked. “You going to spin a feature out of it?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t even know what angle to give it. I could do a now-our-kids-can-sleep-safe-at-night piece, but no non-Republican editor would give it a second look. This is just a tiny, insignificant battle in a war – the drugs one - that’s hardly begun. Most people in Miami aren’t interested in the Jamaica Defence Force anyway.”
“What happened to us three being in charge, Ruby?” Vilma asked.
“You’ve got to know when to step down,” Ruby replied. “This isn’t a game. Major-General Patel’s perfectly happy to put himself between me and a bullet and, since I don’t have a death-wish, I’m happy to let him. You should feel the same.”
At 9.30pm, the phone rang.
“If you’re dressed, the Major-General requests the pleasure of your company.” his adjutant said. “We’ve informed the caterers. Follow instructions to the letter, and we’ll rendezvous in about an hour for drinks and cocktail snacks.”
They took the stairs because the lift wasn’t working, and arrived in reception to be met by three officers in combat gear with machine guns. Handshakes were exchanged, firearms were distributed, along with instructions on how to use them should an emergency occur, and they went outside. Ruby felt her heart somehow slide up into her mouth. She knew the whole thing would go off like a military exercise, but even so, something felt wrong. Very wrong. In front of her, the terminal was spot-lit in a mixture of white and sickly yellow. Cranes loomed in the darkness above containers and ship hulls in unnatural colours. Scraping and creaking noises filled the night. The air smelt strongly of diesel, and it was cold, like a chilly night at Bristol Harbour.
She suddenly realised she could kill Parton. After all the suffering he’d caused, even in cold blood. It hit her like a revelation, a sudden new level of understanding. She wasn’t the liberal she’d always taken herself for. She was someone else, and she didn’t mind clinical executions, providing she was convinced the perpetrator was beyond the pale. Maddison had known that, but he’d had to force her to see it.
Her epiphany cast the whole world in a new light. Now she could see what was wrong. The Major-General’s plan worked only on the assumption that Parton had nothing new up his sleeve. But Parton was master of keeping one step ahead, and he knew enough to know that, ordinarily, it meant upping the stakes. He wouldn’t have brought in a rag-tag bunch of second-besters to buy his weapons. He’d have brought in the best. An army. Where would he get an army?
Colombia. She stopped in her tracks. “My God.”
The soldiers had taken the lead. They heard her and turned round.
“What’s going on?” Vilma said.
“You’ve got to withdraw,” she told the soldiers. “It’s a trap. You’re going to be ambushed.”
They smiled awkwardly, as if this wasn’t really the time to be humouring a guest. They looked at each other. The most polite way to put her in her place?
Then there was an explosion. Ruby grabbed Vilma and Walker and pulled them down. They were shielded partly by the soldiers who fell involuntarily, swept over by the blast from behind.
After the first blast, there were others, all coming from where the Major-General and his troops were holed up. Machine-gun fire quickly followed. Ruby checked her friends were okay – she didn’t have time to do the same for the soldiers: she wasn’t in a position to help them anyway – and gestured at the hotel. Bullets were ricocheting all round them. Another detonation. They crawled back along the route they’d come, expecting to die at any minute.
When they finally regained the hotel, they had a choice. They could use it as a fort – the way it was built it would probably withstand even the Colombians’ RPGs – and mount a last stand rear-guard action. Or they could just hide.
The explosions stopped, and so did the gunfire. The sound of running, exclamations of triumph. It was over.
“Colombians,” Vilma said, confirming the obvious.
Ruby checked her gun. She didn’t know much about firearms, but she knew a machine gun when she saw one. This was a good one. She removed the safety, and ran to the first floor, where she could get a better view of events as they unfolded. Vilma and Walker followed.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Walker whispered frantically. “What the hell did you just take off that safety for? I hope to God - ”
“Remember Vernon Johns,” she replied. “If you haven’t found something worth dying for, you haven’t a reason for living.”
“Who the hell’s Vernon Johns?” Vilma said. “Put that gun down, Ruby. Just wait!”
Parton would be along in a minute. She’d take him out. It didn’t matter what happened afterwards. There must be lots of hiding places in this hotel. If need be, they could even retreat to the roof and do a Horatius at the Bridge as the Colombians attempted to break through the skylight, killing them one at a time until they got the message.
It was completely quiet outside now, only the mounting sound of self-congratulation and relief. But they must know they hadn’t long. This was Kingston. You set off a series of explosions that loud in its only container terminal, it wasn’t as if no policeman, or coastguard, or concerned citizen would hear. Hordes of people were probably on the line to the emergency services right now. Someone would be along, and soon. The Colombians had to move fast, and they’d know it.
Parton suddenly appeared. Ruby aimed and fired.
And missed.
“Bloody hell!” she half-whispered, half-screamed. She looked at the gun and threw it on the ground as useless. Then changed her mind and picked it up. She looked out of the window.
Bloody hell was right. They were on their way over, about twelve or thirteen of them. The others had dived for cover.
“Well done,” Vilma said bitterly. “We were safe. Now we’re going to die.”
“Upstairs,” Ruby said.
The least necessary instruction she’d ever issued. They almost fell over themselves to obey it. By floor twelve, they were finished. Too much energy spent over too short a time.
Then there was an explosion downstairs. At first, Ruby thought maybe they’d decided to dynamite the building. Then she heard Vilma utter the word, “finally”. With that word, she ran downstairs, leaving Walker and her behind, and firing wildly.
The sound of Colombian panic. The sound of Colombian retreating footsteps – maybe. More gunfire. Colombian imprecations. Ruby hauled herself up and went to join the new assault. Walker took up the rear. Suddenly - she had no idea how – they were winning again.
The key to this sort of situation was not to get carried away. Suppress the euphoria, shoot rationally. When tables turned at the drop of a hat, they could just as easily turn back.
The trouble was, the Colombians were retreating faster than anyone could pursue them.
“Come on!” Vilma yelled. “We’re losing them!”
“For God’s sake,” Ruby replied. “We’ve already lost Walker - ”
“I’m here, I’m here!” Walker screamed, pulling up alongside her.
“It could be a trap,” Ruby said, grabbing Vilma’s arm to stop her careering down the stairs. “Think!”
“Why would they need to set a trap?” Vilma said. “They’ve got us cornered already Besides, they haven’t had time to come up with anything like that.”
She was right. But then, what was going on? If it wasn’t a trap, then what? Thirty or forty men with machine guns don’t just run away for no reason. Maybe the explosions outside?
Someone was trying to raze the building, yes.
But it wasn’t rocking – and they wouldn’t dynamite their own men -
She rounded on Vilma again. “So what do you think’s going on?”
“Look outside, but hurry!”
They all went to the window. A gun battle between two groups of men. She recognised some of the Colombians from earlier, and their side seemed to be getting the worst of it. A grenade exploded in their midst. In the distance, sirens.
“I knew your guys would probably be too complacent,” Vilma said. “So this morning, while Poynter was outside showing you his pretty little rose garden, I took the liberty of calling my guys.”
“Cubans? I thought you said - ”
“Not Cubans, dummy. Workers’ Party of Jamaica. Errol’s guys. The same guys who got you out of the house that day when Parton came a-calling. If what we planned this morning worked, they’ll have taken charge of Parton’s weapons while the Colombians were celebrating victory. Now the boot’s on the other foot. Come on.”
The charged down the stairs and through reception to find the battle over. The Colombians ran for the shelter of cars and lorries and pulled away while the Jamaicans bombarded them from behind containers with bullets and bombs.
Parton. He might already be dead. “I’ve got to find Parton,” she told Vilma.
The Jamaicans were taking to cars as well now. Whether that was to pursue their enemies or to escape the police wasn’t clear.
“What do you want him for now?” Vilma said. “He’s finished.”
“I’ve got to kill him.”
Vilma looked at her as if she was mad. Then her face stopped judging. “Okay. I can kind of like that. Where’s Andrew? – There he is!” She pointed frantically.
Ruby looked along the line of Vilma’s finger, expecting to see Walker. Instead, she saw Parton in the distance, clambering into the back of a moving Chrysler. Four hands pulled him from within and the car accelerated.
“We need a car!” Ruby exclaimed at the departing Jamaicans.
But no one took any notice of her. She saw it now. They weren’t running away from the police. They were chasing the Colombians, and their bloodlust was strong. She’d seen the same thing on the battlefield, years ago. Quite rational men overtaken by the euphoria of killing and determined to bring it to its logical conclusion: the enemy’s utter annihilation.
There was a loud screech behind them. They turned round to find Walker behind the wheel of the Chevette. “Get in!” he yelled.
They didn’t need telling twice. They leapt onto the back seats and Vilma squeezed Ruby’s hand. “Who said you had to kill Parton?” she asked. “That your idea, or the great Mr Maddison’s?”
“Bit of both,” Ruby said.
“These guys came here in cars, so they must be running to an airport somewhere. In all your future contact with Parton – if you’re lucky enough to get any – he’s going to be running away. Are you absolutely sure you can shoot him in the back?”
“If there’s no alternative.”
“I don’t think you can.”
“I didn’t either. But I was wrong.”
Vilma scoffed. “You don’t know that till you’ve done it.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“Because if there’s any doubt in your mind, give me the gun and I’ll do it.”
“You’re a doctor!” Ruby exclaimed.
“Oh, now you realise.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Listen,” Vilma replied angrily. “I can let Parton off the hook so that he can kill, and wound, and load a lot of guys with drugs. Then I can spend a big chunk of my life mopping up after him. Or I can kill Parton, in which case, I save myself a lot of time, and all those guys a lot of grief. I’ll go with Choice Two if that’s okay. I’m an atheist. I’m not necessarily bound by religious crap like the Hippocratic oath.”
“It’s not religious.”
“It is.”
“I can’t concentrate if you two are going to argue!” Walker yelled. “Be quiet!”
“Typical man,” Vilma muttered.
Ruby hadn’t really noticed, but they were careering round corners and skidding and accelerating and gearing up and down like they were in The French Connection chasing that train. It wasn’t just them, though. There were hedged in by other cars, before and behind. Probably more like the 24 Hours of Le Mans than any film. They roared through Central Kingston as if it was a racetrack. People jumped out of the way; one or two threw things; cars and buses tried to take evasive action and sometimes failed. One was hurled halfway down the street at an intersection, as four Colombian cars jumped a red light. One of them flew off the road in response to something Ruby never saw, and demolished a shop. She wished Walker hadn’t told them to be quiet. She’d been okay before, rolling from side to side, gripping the seat in front. Now she was scared.
A minute later, they left the town, still in hot pursuit and being pursued. Walker geared up and put his foot on the accelerator, and now it really was like a race. They began to climb towards the mountains. Whereas previously, their main fear had been hitting something, now it was leaving the road.
A Colombian car came parallel and made three attempts to shove them off the road, each harder than the last. Vilma calmly wound her window down and shot the driver in the head.
“You’d think he’d have anticipated that,” she remarked.
Another car came up behind. A bullet snapped through their rear windscreen, passing in between Vilma and Ruby and out through the front.
Walker sped up and overtook someone. “This is crazy!” he yelled, as if he was enjoying it. Their pursuers overtook the car behind. Another bullet whizzed through.
Vilma and Ruby leaned over the back and fired their machine guns. The car in pursuit lost control and drove off a cliff. There was something weirdly laughable, and also grotesque, about the whole thing. A normal car chase, but with all its confrontational tension resolved by a few bursts of helpful gunfire.
They rounded a corner at speed into a wide open plain. The airfield – it had to be. The Colombian cars had stopped in front, and men were hurling themselves from them and running for their lives. A few tried to cover their retreat by shooting behind them, but mostly they seemed to have lost their guns. One or two dragged wounded colleagues. The Jamaicans pulled up and annihilated them as they fled. This wasn’t a victory for anyone. Not any more. It was a massacre.
Walker screeched to a halt. They got out behind the line of fire and crouched behind the car, although there was hardly any danger now. Somewhere in the darkness they could hear planes ready for take off. If this had been a movie, they’d have probably chased them across the airfield, and someone would have tried to leap from his car onto an undercarriage. Something completely stupid like that.
Thirty seconds later, two airliners roared overhead, one after the other. The Jamaicans shot at them and cursed.
Then the firing stopped. For a moment, deadly silence, then men laughed and slapped each other on the back and exchanged incredulous one-line anecdotes. Someone switched reggae on. One or two men began dancing. Shooting began again – at the sky this time - as they celebrated.
“I have to find Parton,” Ruby said. In response to Vilma’s quizzical look, she added: “his corpse.”
“What makes you so sure he’s dead?”
“Why would they take him with them? He’s exhausted his usefulness, and they probably blame him for what happened.”
Vilma shrugged and sighed. “Come on then.”
“Count me out,” Walker said.
“Hey, Marlon’s brought beer!” someone yelled. “Come and taste Marlon’s beer!”
“Point your car at the airfield and switch your headlights on,” Ruby told Walker. “Is there a torch in the glove compartment?”
“Doubt it. I’ll have a look.”
“Hey, guys!” Vilma shouted. “Everyone switch your headlights on! We’re going out to take a look!”
A few men grumbled, as if this was exactly the sort of prissy thing they’d expect from a medic, but they obliged.
“Be careful,” Vilma told Ruby. “Some of them may still have a bit of fight in them and a gun to hand. Don’t take any chances.”
They split up and waded through the bodies. Many were still alive, though clearly fading fast. Groans and gasps and tears were what they found, and the earth beneath their feet flowed blood. After a few seconds, Walker joined them. By this time, they’d stopped looking for Parton. Horror had completely overcome them.
“I’ve found him!” Walker exclaimed. “Come over here! I’ve found him!” Even shouting, his voice shook.
They stepped over the mass of dying bodies until they stood over Parton. His face and upper body and even his scalp were all drenched in blood. He wore a rictus grin and looked pleadingly at Walker. His eyeballs bulged.
“Ruby,” he wheezed. “Please, kill me ... Please kill me ... Kill me ... Kill me.”
“He thinks I’m you,” Walker said.
Ruby put her hands on her temples. It was like the worst nightmare she’d ever had. He didn’t even know where he was. She’d vowed to kill him; he was begging her to. And yet, she couldn’t. More than that, nothing could make her. Not like this.
She strode over to where the party was going on and switched the reggae off. Everyone turned to look at her.
“We need to get these men to the hospital,” she said. “We’re not animals. We scored a victory, but we don’t have to celebrate now. We can - ”
“Baby, you’re hot!” someone exclaimed. Everyone laughed.
Vilma came and stood next to her. “If we don’t do as she says,” she said, “we’re not worthy to call ourselves Communists. We’re just gangsters. This is our chance to show the world we actually stand for something. For God’s sake, most of you have brothers and even children who might someday get involved in something like this. Do it for them, and be grateful!”
One by one, they groaned and stopped partying. It wasn’t anything she said that made them comply. Somehow, it was because she was Vilma.
