climb in, and she would be waiting for him, like Juliet. And she would close the jalousie behind him.
She closed the jalousie.
Then he would want to hug her. Tightly. He always did that. She seized the pillow from her bed, held it in her arms, hugged it and hugged it and hugged it until she became dizzy and overbalanced, falling across the bed, panting, sweat dribbling out of her hair.
Then he would want to touch her breasts. She rolled on her back, gazed at the sloping roof rising above the rafters; as in all West Indian houses, there was no ceiling, the better to allow air to circulate. And sound as well. She must not make a noise.
They must not make a noise. But he would be touching her breasts now, as Prudence had done. As she had done in the past. By accident. She always pretended that. Yet she had to touch them when bathing. She adored bathing.
Her hands came up, and the nightgown moved with them. Hastily she pulled it down again. He would never wish to touch her bare flesh. That just was not possible. She could not imagine what she would do, were he to want that. She drew a long breath, inflating her lungs, closed her hands on the mounds of swelling flesh, crossing her wrists. And was immediately rewarded by a hardening of the nipples, and distracted by a wild desire which raced through her body, calling on her to ... to ... she had no idea. She only knew that after doing that he would want to press himself against her again, harder and harder and harder. She pulled the bolster against her belly, wrapping her legs round it as best she could while they were caught up in the clinging nightdress, still holding her breasts, rolling back and forth, causing the bed to creak, sweating and gasping for breath.
And stopping, in exhausted frustration. There was no rod. Only the beat of the drum.
She awoke to the sound of Hannibal barking, and being joined by Rufus from across the street. She sat up, because the dogs were calling to each other more urgently than usual. And now the cacophony was increased by the sound of human voices, shouting.
She got out of her bed, threw the jalousies wide, and heard the crack of a rifle.
'Got the bastard,' shouted Harry McAvoy.
The street filled with men. Lights came on in most of the houses. The chattering of women filled the air.
Meg dragged on her dressing robe, opened the door. Papa's bedroom door was ajar, and the bed was empty. She went downstairs; there was a single candle flickering in the living room, and Papa's rifle was missing from its bracket on the wall.
She opened the front door, stood on the porch, watched half a dozen men, four overseers and two black watchmen, walking slowly past the gate to the compound, carrying something. Behind them came three more men; Papa, and Harry McAvoy, and Paul Simmonds, all armed.
'Where, do you reckon?' Papa was asking as they opened the gate and came within earshot.
'The mountains,' Harry McAvoy said. 'Had to be the mountains.'
'After the sheep?' Simmonds asked. 'I heard the drums tonight.'
'Had to be,' Harry McAvoy agreed. 'And thought he'd try his hand in the compound.'
'Um.' Anthony Hilton paused at the foot of the steps. 'Well, I'll take your statements in the morning.'
'Statements?' Harry McAvoy demanded.
'A man has been killed, Harry. And I am magistrate for this district'
'But ... you'd have shot at him if you'd seen him first,' McAvoy protested.
'I wouldn't have shot to kill, Harry.'
'Well, for God's sake, Tony, I didn't mean to kill the chap.' McAvoy's voice dropped. 'You don't suppose there'll be trouble?'
'The man was a burglar,' Simmonds pointed out 'Unarmed,' Tony Hilton said, perhaps to himself. 'A black man,' McAvoy insisted. 'Prowling around our compound, for God's sake, prowling around our women, at night And we know he came from the mountains. They worship the snake god up there, Tony, you know that as well as I.'
'I know that,' Tony Hilton said. 'And there'll be no trouble. As you say, he was a black man
She closed the jalousie.
Then he would want to hug her. Tightly. He always did that. She seized the pillow from her bed, held it in her arms, hugged it and hugged it and hugged it until she became dizzy and overbalanced, falling across the bed, panting, sweat dribbling out of her hair.
Then he would want to touch her breasts. She rolled on her back, gazed at the sloping roof rising above the rafters; as in all West Indian houses, there was no ceiling, the better to allow air to circulate. And sound as well. She must not make a noise.
They must not make a noise. But he would be touching her breasts now, as Prudence had done. As she had done in the past. By accident. She always pretended that. Yet she had to touch them when bathing. She adored bathing.
Her hands came up, and the nightgown moved with them. Hastily she pulled it down again. He would never wish to touch her bare flesh. That just was not possible. She could not imagine what she would do, were he to want that. She drew a long breath, inflating her lungs, closed her hands on the mounds of swelling flesh, crossing her wrists. And was immediately rewarded by a hardening of the nipples, and distracted by a wild desire which raced through her body, calling on her to ... to ... she had no idea. She only knew that after doing that he would want to press himself against her again, harder and harder and harder. She pulled the bolster against her belly, wrapping her legs round it as best she could while they were caught up in the clinging nightdress, still holding her breasts, rolling back and forth, causing the bed to creak, sweating and gasping for breath.
And stopping, in exhausted frustration. There was no rod. Only the beat of the drum.
She awoke to the sound of Hannibal barking, and being joined by Rufus from across the street. She sat up, because the dogs were calling to each other more urgently than usual. And now the cacophony was increased by the sound of human voices, shouting.
She got out of her bed, threw the jalousies wide, and heard the crack of a rifle.
'Got the bastard,' shouted Harry McAvoy.
The street filled with men. Lights came on in most of the houses. The chattering of women filled the air.
Meg dragged on her dressing robe, opened the door. Papa's bedroom door was ajar, and the bed was empty. She went downstairs; there was a single candle flickering in the living room, and Papa's rifle was missing from its bracket on the wall.
She opened the front door, stood on the porch, watched half a dozen men, four overseers and two black watchmen, walking slowly past the gate to the compound, carrying something. Behind them came three more men; Papa, and Harry McAvoy, and Paul Simmonds, all armed.
'Where, do you reckon?' Papa was asking as they opened the gate and came within earshot.
'The mountains,' Harry McAvoy said. 'Had to be the mountains.'
'After the sheep?' Simmonds asked. 'I heard the drums tonight.'
'Had to be,' Harry McAvoy agreed. 'And thought he'd try his hand in the compound.'
'Um.' Anthony Hilton paused at the foot of the steps. 'Well, I'll take your statements in the morning.'
'Statements?' Harry McAvoy demanded.
'A man has been killed, Harry. And I am magistrate for this district'
'But ... you'd have shot at him if you'd seen him first,' McAvoy protested.
'I wouldn't have shot to kill, Harry.'
'Well, for God's sake, Tony, I didn't mean to kill the chap.' McAvoy's voice dropped. 'You don't suppose there'll be trouble?'
'The man was a burglar,' Simmonds pointed out 'Unarmed,' Tony Hilton said, perhaps to himself. 'A black man,' McAvoy insisted. 'Prowling around our compound, for God's sake, prowling around our women, at night And we know he came from the mountains. They worship the snake god up there, Tony, you know that as well as I.'
'I know that,' Tony Hilton said. 'And there'll be no trouble. As you say, he was a black man
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