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

black cops. You can kiss my black ass. Kiss my friggin’ black balls, too, kiss de friggin’ grong I walk on.’
    He stared hard into George’s eyes, like any moment he might kiss him savagely or rip out his vocal cords. George tried to struggle, but it was no use. He was decrepit, old and frail, and his body had gone slack.
    ‘Go fuck yourself,’ George gasped. A hot dampness spread from the tip of his prick, a sharp ammonia stench spread with it, lacerating the air.
    Bobby peered downwards and laughed and his eyes glistened.
    ‘Poor man,’ he said, releasing his grip. George slid down the wall.
    For a moment they stood inches apart. Bobby’s face was serene and his heavy goldfish eyelids flickered, as if at something inconsequential.
    ‘Get outta here,’ he whispered. ‘Before I have you arrested for botherin’ me.’
     
    Outside, in the forecourt, George pulled a strip of aspirin from the top pocket of his shirt, bit two pills from the blisters and swallowed hard. A headache like a hurricane in his head. A ball of pain in the back of his skull. The sun beat down and the church, Our Lady of Lourdes up there on the mound, gazed down. Repent , it said. Nice try .

CHAPTER FIVE
    SEBASTIAN
    Piarco Airport, late afternoon. The Tobago terminal was far too quiet. Grim, Communist-style canvas portraits of Trinidad’s five prime ministers dominated the forecourt: Eric Williams, A.N.R. Robinson, Chambers, Panday, Patrick Manning. Above the exit an ageing Sparrow, Calypso Rose in full flow, her kaftan waving in slow motion with her full-bosomed frame. A frieze of stuffed carnival costumes from the previous year crowded a centre dais.
    It was all a bit much considering only a handful of tourists on the big jets to Tobago flew on to Trinidad these days. George liked it so, that this island was uncompromising and hard for tourists to negotiate. Not all welcome smiles and black men in Hawaiian shirts, playing pan by the poolside. No flat crystal beaches, no boutique hotels. Trinidad was oil-rich, didn’t need tourism. Trinidadians openly sniggered at the sunburnt American women who wandered down the pavement in shorts and bikini top. Trinidad was itself; take it or leave it.
    George hid in the café, absorbed in Newsweek . Sabine was overdoing it, as usual, sunglasses like coasters clamped to her face, hovering near the baggage-hall exit, chain-smoking, pressing a tissue to her damp chin.
    George buried his head in the magazine. He wouldn’t be drawn into rows with his son. Not this time. His only son had shunned Trinidad for the metropolis, for brighter lights; fair enough. But Pascale was right, he could be an unbearable know-it-all. George vowed on the letters he’d found to be good. A better man. A better father to his son. Not envious or antagonistic. This visit would be different; this time he’d be thoughtful, careful. He’d watch how much he drank.
    ‘There he is!’ Sabine gasped.
    George got up slowly, folding the magazine.
    Sabine rushed forward as the smoked-glass doors slid backwards, revealing a tall man, craggily unshaven, fortysomething, but still youthful. Clear green eyes, honey-olive skin. Dark curls, hair like a girl and still not at all grey. An etching of the younger Sabine, Sabine’s straight nose, her strong arched eyebrows, her open and direct way of looking. All this was underpinned by a cool reserve George knew and understood; this came from his English way of living.
    ‘Hello, Mum.’ Sebastian enveloped his mother in his arms, hugging her tightly. Sabine melted, her face glistening. George stood back and watched.
    ‘Dad.’ Sebastian reached forward and the men clashed in an awkward half handshake, half hug, slapping each other on the back.
    ‘I’ll go and get the car,’ George replied stiffly. He left Sabine to fawn and fuss and headed out towards the car park, apprehension breaking in waves through him. No use fucking pretending. His son brought on a reaction and it was all