Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

* * *

At the end of their colorful meal, Pierre gets the call from their neighbor and they rush home. Thomas flapping and the police haven’t arrived but the neighbor’s security company is there flashing torchlights into the bushes.

“Are you okay, though. You okay, Thomas?” Ata taps his stiff shoulders as he splutters out the whole story, brave enough still to enter the house with them. The security had turned on all the lights and checked it out.

“The TV still there!” Thomas exclaims. “But the VCR gone … Watch what dese fellas do.”

The fridge is wide open and some cupboards too.

“They was eating! And drinks too — all de alcohol gone.”

The computers are still there but the camera, some British pounds, and all the small appliances — blender, toaster, down to hair dryer — taken. The police arrive, blink their siren lights about, point torches up the hill, and say they will be back in the morning to take fingerprints.

Upstairs, Ata walks past the bathroom to their bedroom, feeling the eyes of the men, who must have been watching from the hill, following these same movements, earlier. She goes back down the steps, just as she had then.

“Thank God Fraser wasn’t here still.”

“I say that too. And look how they cut the telephone cord — these fellas see how to do these things on TV.” Thomas can’t stop talking and repeating the story, no matter how much Pierre keeps saying it’s okay, nothing much was lost and he wasn’t harmed.

They lucky. Thomas lucky. But they should have more security measures, the guards told them. Too much risk. When Thomas protests that it was six o’clock in the evening, the place wasn’t even dark yet — he would’ve locked upstairs and turned on lights at seven — what is wrong with this place? Nobody replies. Nobody could say what really had gone awry — what was taken or disappeared. Missing. Ata just feels more empty. Their bed foreign, room full of strangers, their home like trampled grass. The hills’ ever-present stare and their betrayal lumps up, breathing down too close.

* * *

Next morning Ata hears Vernon’s growl downstairs with Thomas. He came at first light, after hearing the news. How could Thomas have slept when she and Pierre hardly did, even in each other’s arms?

“I couldn’ close me eye at all las’ night, boy.” Adrenaline-shaky, Thomas waits for the police to arrive again. He had wanted to put things back in order but they told him not to, till they take the prints. “Watch how de place rample. They could’a do they wuk last night, that’s what they supposed to do. If was overseas, first, they would’a come straightaway and next, they would’a do everything one time. Not here, boy, eh.”

Vernon mumbles something but Thomas don’t quite catch it. His voice just rumbles through the open garage, broad and reassuring. He glances secretly at Thomas’s bloodshot eyes and looks down at the ground solemn, thinking he don’t need to tell Thomas how assish the police really are, and not to bother with them. Vernon leans against the parked car. He spots the hill watching the back of the house, poui trees waving light, morning breeze all wet and happy, but keeps looking at Thomas furiously sweeping the drain.

The police arrive just as Pierre and Ata come down the stairs. Five of them, big and strapping, unfold from the police car. Vernon and Thomas watch them stepping out and looking around the place important-like. The inspector, the one with a little stick made just for police inspectors, walks up to them. “Where is the owner?”

“He coming jus’ now,” Thomas says without budging. “They pass from so, up de hill.” He points, for the benefit of the officers stalking the corners of the yard and looking down the hill.

“Unh huh, we have a full report from last night.” The inspector takes off his hat and tucks it under his arm, with the little stick.

Ata and Pierre appear in the kitchen doorway together. The inspector wipes his forehead and bald head with a kerchief and follows them into the house.

Vernon smiles, watching the man mopping his head even though the morning still cool. Them hats does give they heads some pressure. That’s what must be making them bazodee and stupid so.

The officers make a big show of stamping shoes and wiping them on the doormats before stepping inside. Bits of wet cut lawn grass cling to their polished black boots. One bends down and wipes his off with a rag. Then they set about making a mess with their powder, all over the house. When they finish, and the inspector “concluded inspecting the crime scene,” they head to their car, ready to squeeze back in.

“They not even going to look up de hill!” Thomas exclaims, incredulous. “Last night, they say they will go in the morning.”

“Aren’t youall going to see where they passed on the hill?” Ata asks the inspector.

He pauses, about to get in the front passenger seat, and looks up at the hill.

“If you go to the back now, you will see clearly where they passed to come down—”

“That’s not necessary, ma’am. The grass is wet and I doubt we would find anything. We have the serial numbers of your stuff, so if we come across anything, we’ll be in touch.”

Vernon chokes a cough and Thomas’s jaw drops. They all watch the car reverse, turn, and slide away down the drive.

“Ha! De grass wet! Yuh hear dat, Vernon? De grass wet, so they can’t go up there.”

“Can you believe this?” Ata turns on Pierre. “Their boots might get dirty, or their pants hems might get wet. God forbid, one of them might even slip and fall, because wet grass is dangerous.” Ata raises her voice at Pierre’s silence.

Pierre turns and goes back in the house.

“I know long time, dem fellas is jokers.”

They all know the uselessness of the fingerprinting exercise, since the record of prints at the police stations is so limited compared to the number of criminals roaming about.

“Leh we go up there, Thomas. Bring yuh cutlass.” Vernon heads to the jeep for his.

* * *

When they come back down, Pierre is greeting the security officer, to go over what system they could put in place, and Ata’s on the mobile to the telephone company.

“They was eating and drinking up there on de hill, if you see juice box and t’ing — they had a party, a picnic! You could see clear-clear where they sit down and relax. And where dey come up from — Boissiere Village.”

“At least you know now that they didn’t come from one of the trails further up in these hills.”

“T’ank de Lord for dat,” Thomas breathes.

“Criminals hide out up there. Youall should really fence that side of the property too…”

Pierre instructs them to go ahead with all, no matter the cost. Secure the place, without making it look like a prison, and then they could try to live in peace. They all agree, brave-faced — you can’t live in fear.

Thomas busies himself cleaning up at last and doesn’t even want their help. Do like Sammy, keep busy and moving. Work it out.

Vernon hangs around Pierre and the security man in the yard, listening to fence options being discussed. “Tiger wire,” he rasps.

“Yes, razor wire,” the security man translates for Pierre.

“Dat will ketch any man tail.”

“ I WANT A MAN come and ride me rhydem! ” Allison Hinds screams on the radio but the woman wining down to the ground, sandwiched between two men in the mas camp, shouting “ I want a man come and ride me belly…”

Flat on the ground, juking and grinding in a heap, and the other workers start shouting encouragement. The manager says, enough. “Youall could keep that kind of energy for the fete, please, come on…”