Free The White Woman on the Green Bicycle by Monique Roffey

narrowed and the hills of the densely forested northern range gathered, protecting the coast. The remote village had emerged after the 1783 Cedula, higgledy-piggledy, by the sea, when the Spanish were settling new French Creole immigrants. Some of the colourful wooden creole homes still existed, perched precariously on the black rugged cliffs, above the waves, the spume floating up into their kitchens. Gulls hovered at the windows. The gardens were studded with conch shells. A thin beaten-up road ran past, no shops, no fresh water most of the time. In recent years the coast had turned into prime real estate with gargantuan Miami-style condos and homes blocking the view of the sea. A cluster of canary-yellow apartments were now selling for a million dollars each.
    George had never built a beach house. He visited his plot once or twice a month to gaze out to sea, to walk the dogs, skinny-dip when the sea was calm, paddle about. A narrow sand-spit stretched from one end of the beach out to a craggy rock sprouting with cactus and sea-almond and manchineel trees. Harwood’s Spit, he called it. At low tide he could walk to the island along the strip of sand, observe the frigate birds diving and swooping, stealing what the smaller birds had caught, or watch the terns swinging on air-thermals. The spit’s water was transparent, it was like standing in a pool of gin. Translucent crabs skittered about on the sandy floor. Tiny fish pecked his toes.
    Those letters ‒ was he upset? Hell, yes. At first it had been a shock, a dull weird fact unearthed. But now he was furious and an impotent seventy-five years old. George isn’t here tonight, God knows where he is. I wonder about you all the time, your little girl. I know how you feel now that you’ve lost your wife. I know what that’s like. I wonder if we’ll meet again. Goodnight.
    If only he’d known then . Eric Williams ‒ of all people! Jesus Christ. Williams had died a broken man. He had fucked up. George was like her, though, he could admit that; the same as Sabine, a cheat. He had cheated on Sabine all along, from that very first day, the day they arrived, stepping off the Cavina . It had been immediate, a strong physical attraction. He had fallen, and that was that. Head over heels, with the sounds and smells, with the smiles and shapes, with all the bewitching qualities of another woman called Trinidad.
     
    George drove his truck into the forecourt of Winderflet Police Station. Everyone knew his crud-heap truck, the state of it. Can’t hide in a small place, can’t sin in a village, can’t fart without anyone hearing it and knowing what you had for lunch. Superintendent Bobby Comacho visited Winderflet once a month and George happened to know Bobby came, primarily, to visit his mistress. Bobby dropped round to see the boys at the station after sex, after lunch. He liked to have coffee at the station around four. George walked in to find him right there, sitting at the front desk, relaxed and happy, chatting to the officer in charge.
    ‘Hey, Bobby.’ George grinned.
    Bobby turned. He recognised George instantly and stared with malice. Bobby was a fat man, eyes like a goldfish, sweat patches under his armpits. On his feet he wore caramel-coloured plasticated slide-on shoes, at least size fifteen. He had the balls of a moose, George had heard.
    Bobby looked George up and down. ‘What you doin’ here?’ he growled.
    ‘Been reading the papers recently?’
    ‘Dat why you following me arong?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Go home nuh, Mr Harwood. Go home to your fat ugly lady wife.’ Bobby laughed loudly. ‘When de last time you screw she, eh? You done brushin’ every odder ting rong here. And you comin’ in aksin’ if ah read de goddamn newspaper?’
    George stood his ground. Dear Mr Williams danced inside his skull.
    ‘A friend of mine was badly beaten recently.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’ Bobby’s eyes were blank, his manner icy.
    ‘Yes. He says four policemen took him to the