Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

Kimmy was home when he read the article to me. This was the second time for her and she was not going to sit down to hear no CIA samfie bullshit. Not before hissing, yawning and groaning like she was six years old and we had to sit through adult church. This is just JLP right wing propaganda, she said before he finished the last sentence. Total propaganda. How can you have a JLP chairman writing an article like him is a journalist? Is just more politricks and samfie bloodcleet business this. What about free education for everybody all the way up to bachelor’s degree? What about the equal rights for women act? What about all those bauxite companies who now at least have to pay a fee before they rape us? My mother gave her the that-is-not-how-I-brought-you-up look.

Me, I was just happy that she didn’t show up with Ras Trent, bass player in African Herbsman , otherwise known as the son of the Minister of Tourism. My mother called them an item even though he called Kimmy the Babylon princess to her face. Even though as the Minister’s son he would reach thirty before visiting all the rooms in his father’s four houses. But Kimmy needed that somebody who could knock her off whatever platform Daddy placed her, so that she could make a new daddy out of him, and as I said, Che Guevara was dead. Mummy, who never takes a side in the discussion, much less talk, said that she was thinking that we needed a home guard. The Prime Minister himself had been talking about it, what with the crime rate skyrocketing and the people having to take it on themselves to shoulder the burden of safety. The three of us never agree on anything but we all looked at her like she was mad, in fact that’s just what she said, Don’t you all look at me like me mad. My father said there is no way he hiring no Ton-Ton Macoute in him own country.

He asked me what I thought. Kimmy looked at me as if our relationship would hinge on anything that came out of my mouth. When I said that I don’t think anything, they were both disappointed. I prefer to remember than to think. If I think, sooner or later I’m going to have to ask myself questions, like why did I sleep with him, and why did I run when it was over, and why am I out here now and why did I stay out here all day. And what does it say that I can pass the entire day doing nothing. If it means I’m one of those girls that serve no damn purpose. The thing about staying out here all day, the really scary part of this, is just how easy it is. My mother sings One day at a time sweet Jesus , and even Daddy likes to say that, one day at a time, as if it’s some strategy for living. And yet the quickest way to not live at all is to take life one day at a time. It’s the way I’ve discovered to not do a damn thing. If you can break a day down into quarters, then hours, then half hours, then minutes, you can chew down any stretch of time to bite size. It’s like dealing with losing a man. If you can bear it for one minute, then you can swallow two, then five, then another five and on and on. If I don’t want to think about my life, I don’t have to think about life at all, just hold for one minute, then two, then five, then another five, before you know it, a month can pass and you don’t even notice because you’ve only been counting minutes.

I’m outside his house counting minutes, not even realizing that an entire day just ran away from me. Just like that. The light in the room, top left, just went back on.

The thing I should have said, the thing I wanted to say, is that it’s not the crime that bothers me. I mean, it bothers me like it bothers anybody. Like how inflation bothers me, I don’t really experience it but I know it’s affecting me. It’s not the actual crime that makes me want to leave, it’s the possibility that it can happen any time, any second now, even in the next minute. That it might never happen at all, but I’ll think it will happen any second now for the next ten years. Even if it never comes, the point is I’ll be waiting for it and the wait is just as bad because you can’t do anything else in Jamaica but wait for something to happen to you. This applies to good stuff too. It never happens. All you have is the waiting for it.

Waiting. The son of a bitch didn’t even come out to his verandah. But should he come out right now, what? I don’t know if I could move. I don’t know if I could run across the street and shout from his gate. My dirty feet are telling me that I’ve been waiting for so long that wait is all there is. The one time I didn’t wait was when I saw him on the back balcony. I didn’t wait afterwards either. I thought about telling Kimmy. She wouldn’t have expected it of me. Which is why I wanted to tell her that I got closer to Che Guevara than she ever would, the Babylon princess.

Across the road, but a good fifty feet or so from the gate, a car just pulled up. A white sportscar that I didn’t even see coming. I didn’t see the man either, jumping off the wall on my side of the road and walking over to the car. I clutched my bag even though he was already in the car. I don’t know how long was he there, standing by the wall in the dark, only a few feet away from me, watching. I didn’t even see him or hear him, he could have been there for hours too watching me all this time. The white car turned into his driveway and stopped at the gate. I’m pretty sure it’s a Datsun. The driver got out and I can’t tell if he’s light or dark but he’s wearing a white merino. He walks to the side of the gate, to talk to security, I guess. When he turned to get back in the car his eyes flashed. Glasses. I watch the car drive off.

I need to leave. Not just Jamaica, but this place, right now. I need to run, so I do. The house doesn’t look at me but shadows do, up the road and down, shadows moving like people. Men maybe. Men change at eleven when there’s some defenceless woman around. Part of me is thinking that is bullshit and maybe I just need something to get frightened over. My high school teacher used to warn us not to dress like sluts and fear rape all the time. We wrote a note in left-hand writing with crayon one day and slipped it in her desk drawer. It was months before she found it and read, As if even a blind man would rape— before she realized she was reading out loud.

Running is relative. In high heels you can only skip real fast, barely bending your knee. I don’t know how long I’ve been skipping, but I can hear my feet tap tap tapping and my head decides to laugh at how stupid I must look and Wee Willie Winkle runs through the town, Upstairs, downstairs, in his nightgown jumps into my head and stays there. Tapping at the window, crying through the lock, Are the children in their beds? It’s now eight o’clock! Wee willie — cho r’asscloth.

Broke a heel. And the damn shoes was not cheap. Shit r’ass—

— Then hi, a wah dis deh ’pon we? Coolie duppy?

— It h’are the pretty-hest coolie duppy h’eye h’ever see.

— H’is where you coming from little girl, did you just perpetrate a crime?

— Maybe she about to bring her gun into play?

Police. Fucking police, in their fucking police voice. I made it as far down as the Waterloo Road intersection. Devon House, looking like a haunted mansion, is to the left. The traffic light just went green, but three police cars block the road. Six policemen leaning against the cars, some have a red seam down their pants, some have blue.

— Yow, lady, you know say we h’inna curfew?

— I… Me… did have to work late, officer, and lose track of time.

— Time not the only thing you lose. One of you foot longer than one or you break a heel?

— What? Oh cho r’asscloth. Sorry, officer.

— Haha.

They all laugh. Police in their fucking police voice.

— You see h’any bus or taxi running? How you was going get home?