Free The White Woman on the Green Bicycle by Monique Roffey Page A

top of Paramin Hill. Only last week. Beat the crap out of him.’
    Bobby raised his eyebrows. ‘Dat a very serious allegation.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Which policemen?’
    ‘My friend could identify them. Says they came from Winderflet.’
    ‘Oho . . . an’ who , apart from your friend, see dis happen? Eh?’
    ‘No one.’
    ‘No one see dis serious ting happen apart from dat lying lazy good-for-nuttin Talbot up der on de hill?’
    ‘I didn’t say it was Talbot.’ George smiled with relish. ‘But now you mention it, yes, I mean Talbot. Four broken ribs. A broken nose. He was in the St Clair medical centre for days.’
    ‘Dat son of an ass have plenty enemies.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ George snapped. ‘Talbot isn’t a criminal . He’s a young man, a poor illiterate young man; he’s too stupid to have enemies. He stuck his neck out and complained. One of your thugs took his mobile phone. He wanted it back. And he got it back all right.’
    Bobby rose from the chair, standing to his full height of six foot four, peering down at George. ‘And you run straight to de goddamn newspapers, widout checkin’ your facts, print one setta nonsense?’
    ‘I didn’t write the story. I’m sure the news boys tried to check the story out, talk to someone here. No one is ever here, though.’
    Bobby’s face hardened. That look came at him, from out of the centuries, blatant, powerful. Bobby, a giant black man glaring like he could kill, just with his eyes.
    ‘Talbot not so innocent,’ he breathed. ‘He a damn fockin ’ tief. Bad as de resta dem. He mixin’ with some of de badjohns up der on de hill. We catch him in all kinda business. He runnin’ errands, he drivin’ car for dem ruffians. We watchin’ him all now and you come here tellin’ me how to do my job, eh ? You wid your hoity-toity English accent, expekin’ me to jump to your attention, eh? Catch me off guard?’ Bobby steupsed long and loud, looking about.
    The officer in charge nodded in passive agreement. The room pulsated with a garlicky odour: Bobby’s breath, Bobby’s lunch.
    ‘You some chupid ignorant white man. Dat Talbot had it comin ’ to him. He dare complain? He up der laughin’ at us all now. He have you runnin’ circles. You asshole. How long you live in Trinidad?’
    ‘Long enough,’ George spat. ‘I’ve lived here long enough. Seen enough. You’re a disgrace. Your badge is a child’s toy. Your hat is a clown’s hat. You’re ridiculous. Justice? Serve and protect? Serve yourself. That’s your game, just like Mr Manning. You’re pathetic. Tiny-minded. So what if Talbot is in with the wrong sort. Your men have no right to bludgeon him. No right. You and those thugs. Your police force. He could’ve died up there on the hill. Those men should be had up in court .’
    Bobby glared, incensed. He squared up to George and peered down into his face. He held his large hands high, as if proving to George that he had hands, letting George have a good look. He spread his long strong fingers into a fan in front of George’s nose, smiling, before slipping them under George’s armpits, squeezing his ribcage tight. He grabbed George hard, lifting him up against the wall, his toes barely touching the ground. ‘Why ent you fock off, eh?’
    George felt the blood rush to his head. No words could come out.
    Bobby looked like he was vividly alive, glowing with blood-lust. George fought the urge to urinate, copiously.
    ‘Eh? Mr Harwood. SIR. Why ent you leave long time? Wid de rest of dem? Eh? Leave we to run tings. Eh?’
    George stared. He heard a dangerous interior sound, the porous creak of his ribs. His breath was short inside his lungs; he could hardly breathe. The garlic odour swam up into his nostrils. Bobby’s eyes were dilated, his lips swollen and parted.
    ‘You tink allyuh white man done any better ? Eh? When allyuh run tings, you ent beat de black man? Eh? Allyuh superior? Better? Whiter? I sick an’ tired hearing all dis about