The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Read Online Free PDF Page B

gloves?’
    ‘If you won’t, I will.’
    ‘You’re seventy-five, too.’
    ‘That bloody thing is following us.’
    ‘Don’t be crazy.’
    ‘Eric Williams.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s all his fault.’
    George went silent, not wanting this conversation again. Sabine, he could see, was brooding up a storm.
    ‘Things could have been so different,’ she said in a sullen tone.

    Sabine followed George through the maze of desks. The newsroom was air-conditioned and quiet and yet suitably ramshackle, half library, half common room; people with their heads down, on the phone, laughter and ol’ talk, a mostly young staff. She’d always been curious. George had been allowed into this world late in life, when Ray had first asked him to cover the golf tournaments in Tobago. He had retired from his working life long ago – and Ray had given him these odd assignments. Turned out George could write. He was funny, too, fluent and erudite with it – and soon he had a following. More assignments followed. In those days, she typed his articles out from his longhand; she was part of things then, this second career, before he bought a computer and learnt to type.
    ‘Darling, this is Joel.’ They were at the news desk. Six desks facing each other at the far end of the room. A poster of Malcolm X on the wall behind Joel’s head. Next to it, Fidel Castro biting a cigar.
    ‘Joel, this is my wife, Sabine.’
    The young man stood up and shook her hand. The other reporters all looked up with open interest.
    ‘Oh, dis a surprise, de ol’ man talk about you a lot.’ Joel winked at George but Sabine could tell he was intrigued, sizing her up. Sabine let him stare into her ravaged face.
    ‘Likewise,’ she smiled sweetly. Joel was handsome, a dougla, afro hair and Indian features. His eyes were inky black and his skin the colour of cocoa dust.
    ‘What brings you in today?’ Joel eyed the camera Sabine held like a grenade.
    ‘Spot of trouble,’ George explained.
    Joel grinned at this Englishman’s understatement. He rubbed his chin.
    ‘Fucking bastards beat up our maid’s son,’ Sabine blurted.
    Joel raised his eyebrows. ‘Mrs Harwood, who beat up who ?’
    ‘Bloody police. Three of them, beat him half to death. Left him up there to die. Top of Paramin Hill, left him for hours. Days even. You know it gets cold up there. Cold. Damn cowards. Cochons . He’s in the medical centre in St Clair.’
    Joel whistled. The other reporters were now plainly aware of this white woman with a foul mouth.
    Sabine smiled, apologetic. ‘Pardon my French, boys. Wait till you see the pictures.’
    ‘You have pictures?’
    ‘Not of the event. Of his injuries.’
    ‘Will he speak?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ George cut in. Sabine could tell he’d hoped to handle this.
    ‘Witnesses?’ Joel pressed.
    ‘None,’ said George.
    ‘Just those hills,’ Sabine added. ‘The hills witnessed the attack.’
    George coughed, trying to cut her off.
    ‘Those weaklings threatened to kill him,’ Sabine continued. ‘For a mobile phone.’
    ‘Policemen bad dese days, Mrs Harwood. We run a story like dis every day.’
    ‘I stopped reading the newspapers, I’m afraid. Some time ago.’ She shot George a dark collusive stare.
    ‘We go take a look at de pictures,’ Joel said. ‘We go run de story, nuh. We always do. Our own little campaign.’
    ‘Good for you.’ Sabine handed over the camera.
    ‘Thanks, Joel,’ George said.
    ‘We’ll need to speak to dis fella, aks him questions.’
    ‘I’ll give you directions.’ George came forward and the pair began to make notes.
    On the wall behind, Malcolm X stared right at Sabine. The young men at the news desk looked up under him, their faces young and bright and scrubbed, proud of themselves. They all stared, as if she were a hologram.
    ‘What about him ?’ Sabine pointed to the poster.
    Joel turned round to see what she was looking at. He raised his fist. His face, like the others’, was open, boyish.