Restless Coffins

  First published 2018

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Nautical House, 104 Commercial Street Edinburgh, EH6 6NF

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2018

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 158 2 in paperback format

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 189 6 in EPub format

  Copyright © M.P. Wright 2018

  The right of M.P. Wright to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Tony R. Cox, John Martin, Ken Hooper

  and to Abby Jayne Slater-Fairbrother.

  JT and I are indebted to each of you.

  Prologue

  Ginger Bay, St Philip Parish, Barbados

  9 August, 1934

  The boy and girl walked without speaking to each other, each carrying thin bamboo cane fishing rods across their slender shoulders, languidly kicking at the pale, dusty ground with their toes as they travelled from their chattel home out along the edge of the dirt track road, north towards the sea. The midday sun hung high in a cloudless, turquoise sky behind them, its heavy rays already stinging the backs of their heads and necks. The sticky humidity clung to the insides of their T-shirts, the steamy air around their faces, fuggy and still. As they walked, they could hear, lost in the thick hedgerows, the hypnotic sound of cicadas chirping. Above their heads, hanging from the branches of the grizzled gum trees that lined either side of the road, fell long strands of rotting moss. The fecund earthy scent of decay seeped from the flowing green-tinged boughs, its fusty odour drifting downwards towards the sticky haze that skirted out in front of them.

  The children’s daily journey down to the cove where they played was a familiar one and the young boy always set the pace, his barefoot strides quicker than those of his younger sibling. Unable to match her brother’s whirlwind gait, she abruptly stopped on the roadside, defiantly rested her tiny hands onto her hips then yelled out to him. “Will yuh slow down, Joseph?” The boy, accustomed to his sister’s daily request, took no notice of her whine and immediately quickened up, deliberately taking another half-dozen lengthy strides, only stopping and turning around after the girl had bellowed out again for him to wait for her. The boy stroked his chin with the tips of his fingers and began to tap the ball of his right foot impatiently on the ground. He stared back down the road then wiped his thin forearm aggressively across his sweating brow whilst he waited for his dawdling sister to finally catch up.

  The little girl smiled to herself then ran the remaining few yards to reach her disgruntled brother. She came to a weary halt in front of him and stood panting like an overheated puppy. When she’d finally caught her breath, the little girl raised her makeshift fishing rod in the air and defiantly shook it over her head.

  “Joseph, I’m gonna catch me a big bonefish today.”

  The boy looked down at his sister, shaking his head. “Girl, don’t be talkin’ doh’tish. Yuh ain’t catching nuthin’ wid dat tatty rod at all.”

  The little girl shot her brother a pained stare. “Yeah . . . well, jus’ yuh wait, I’m gonna show yuh.” Joseph sneered back at her, spat a thick wad of saliva at his feet then prodded a damnatory finger into his sister’s face.

  “Bernice, quit lick moutin’. Yuh ain’t showing me nuthin’. Pickney, I bin dropping a line in de water since befo’ yuh bin suckin’ on Mama’s titties!”

  Bernice cursed at her brother under her breath then sucked in a stream of warm air through the thin gap in her front teeth. She looked back up at her brother, her eyes squinting into severe slits from the glare of the sun, her face crinkled with childlike anger.

  “Well, yuh look like Mama’s titties!”

  Joseph stared back blankly at Bernice then raised his right hand out in front of his sister’s face, his middle digit fully extended, giving her the bird, then turned sharply on his heels and continued walking briskly along the road.

  The vexed little girl gave a deep sigh then slung the cane rod back over her shoulder and chased after her testy brother, the pair not stopping again for another half-mile until they reached the junction of a crossroads. Joseph took hold of Bernice’s wrist, drawing her close to his side and scanned his eyes diligently along either side of the desolate highway for the remote possibility of an approaching passing car, bike or truck. With no approaching vehicles in sight, Joseph dropped his hold on his sister’s arm and the two of them quickly crossed over the scorching tarmac and made their way along the unpaved sidewalk until they reached a steep, parched soil embankment which fell away from the road. Without turning around to her, Joseph again reached out behind him with his left arm and held out the palm of his hand and waited for his sister’s slender fingers to grasp hold of it.

  The two children climbed down the heavy earth mound into a dense undergrowth of hanging tamarind branches, bright crimson caesalpinia bushes and sweet-smelling magnolia shrub and began to walk through the dense canopy of green foliage until they came to a thin sand-blown track between the shaded arch of a row of bowed silk cotton trees. Above their heads they could hear the loud, discordant cries of flock shearwaters and storm petrels as they flew out to sea. Joseph stopped for a moment and looked up at the swooping birds then let go of his sister’s hand and broke out into a sprint along the remainder of the path and down to a thin row of grassy dunes. He climbed up on to the sandy knoll and stood motionless looking out to sea waiting for Bernice to arrive at his side. When she finally joined him on top of the dune, the two children gazed down on to the white powdery sand and shady swaying palms and smiled at each other, content in an unspoken mutual reverie. They had returned again; back to their secret, hidden world.

  The sheltered bay with its tranquil shoreline was nestled between two imposing limestone coral rock structures which towered up either side of the secluded basin. Joseph and Bernice ran off the dunes on to the beach and across the baking hot sand down to the sea, dropping their fishing rods at the cooling water’s edge. Even at low tide the impressive- looking,small, white-tipped waves had a menacing presence about them. The crystal-clear water gracefully ebbed and fl
owed around the tops of their legs. They both waded excitedly out into the alluring azure-tinted ocean until the sea reached their stomachs then started to swim along a short stretch of the bay, neither forgetting the dangers that lurked beneath them nor the strong currents and dangerous swells and undertows that swept undetected through the cove. The unseen deadly tides were a constant reminder to the two children of their mother’s sombre caution to them each time they left to visit the deserted beach: “Child, yuh mind dem waters . . . De sea, it e’n got nuh back door. It tek yuh; yuh gon’ fo’ever, you ’ear me?”

  They swam and dived in the shallow waters for the next hour, finally returning to the shore after Bernice had begun to complain that she was cold and tired. The little girl followed her brother out of the sea, trooping back up on to the beach then dropping down with a heavy thud at Joseph’s side. She threw her gangly legs out in front of her, accidently kicking sand over Joseph as she shook droplets of water and grit from her feet. Joseph shot her a dirty look. Unruffled by her brother’s irritation, Bernice stuck out her tongue then hitched herself a few inches away from him, pulling her knees up towards her chest, tucking her arms around her shins then resting her chin on top of them. She huffed indignantly to herself then stared solemnly out to sea.

  The two children sat in silence, letting the afternoon sun dry the saltwater from their bodies. Joseph was the first to break the stillness with a question.

  “Yuh ready to go fish, then?”

  Bernice kept looking out at the ocean and slowly nodded her head, then quickly got to her feet, collecting her fishing rod as she did so and began to walk slowly through the surf towards the blue hole caves further down the beach. Joseph shot up off the sand and ran to Bernice’s side, noticing the inch-long crimson scar on his sister’s lower calf as he edged in front of her to take the lead once again. The claret-coloured lesion had been caused by the toxic sap from a manchineel tree which Bernice had climbed the previous summer. The fiery plant juice had grazed her skin, burning the flesh and leaving an ugly welt; a painful reminder that she should never attempt such a foolhardy pursuit again. Joseph looked at his sister and smiled to himself, quietly registering in his mind that it wouldn’t be the last time Bernice did something foolish.

  *

  They stood on the jagged rocks above the caves, on a low promontory that jutted out between a series of deep pools, casting their fishing lines out into the sea. By late afternoon they had caught and thrown back over a dozen bar jacks and mahogany snappers. The sky had begun to turn a darker blue and at the furthest edges of Joseph’s vision he could just make out the portentous darkening heavens of an approaching storm. The gulf waters below were still lime green but had become streaked with threatening whitecaps, darker patches of deep water, like clouds of ink, had begun to drift across the coral reef; another sign to the young boy that bad weather was brewing. Joseph and Bernice collected up their rods and lines and trudged down the steep cliff path back on to Harrismith Beach then headed south towards the coast road.

  They walked quickly over the soggy sand, the seawater washing away their footprints before heading back away from the beach, climbing over rocks which were scattered across a series of interconnecting lagoons. In the distance, Joseph could see the multicoloured fishing boats moored up on towlines in the harbour at Deborah Bay. A thick, fetid odour suddenly blew in off the gathering tailwind. It wafted across the children’s faces, making Bernice grimace.

  “What’s dat?”

  “Probably yuh breath,” snapped Joseph.

  “Yuh shut ya mout’!”

  Joseph cackled loudly, pleased with his cruel jibe and his sister’s tetchy response to it. Bernice retaliated quickly by splashing water at her brother’s back. The two children continued to taunt and sneer at each other as they pushed on, out across the lagoon away from the blackening clouds in the bay behind them. Joseph continued to walk a few feet in front of his sister, the sour smell becoming more intense as they crossed over into an ankle-deep inlet which stood between them and the path across to the next cove. They trod carefully in the shallows, both navigating their footsteps away from the sharp coral and the spines of semi-hidden sea urchins. A floating island of kelp bobbed in the water in front of them as they climbed over a sandbar into another rock pool. That’s when the putrid hum hit and Joseph, out of the corner of his eye, saw a few yards in front of him just what was making all the stink.

  Underneath the overhanging branches of a palm, nestled in a stagnating saltwater-filled depression, was the body of a man. The corpse, crawling with ghost crabs, lay face up and was partially dressed in a tattered blue uniform. The head was snatched back, the eyes sunk deep into his skull and covered in a thin milky film. A thin web of dried algae and seaweed was interwoven through the damp, matted blood-stained grey hair. The skin was as thin as parchment and the colour and texture of tanned, wrinkled damp leather. The arms and hands were liver-spotted and etched with dull, sunken blue veins.

  Joseph held out his arm behind him, the palm of his hand flat as Bernice approached.

  “Yuh stay there!”

  “Why, what yuh seen, Joseph?”

  “Nuthin! Jus’ do as I say.” Joseph swallowed hard then took a couple more steps through the water towards the body. He stared down at the man’s bloated face, which was burnished with heavy, dark bruising, the mouth yanked wide open, a silent scream emanating from ruptured lips, tarnished a deep purple; the colour of rotting hog plums. The throat stretched taut, revealed a gaping slit which had been carved deep into the flesh above the Adam’s apple. Further down the body, barely covering the torso, a buttonless shirt with silver insignia decorated on each lapel was torn open at the midriff, exposing a beaten and bloated stomach which hung down towards the man’s thighs like a water-filled balloon.

  “Lemme see what it is, Joseph . . .”

  Joseph, his mouth dry, hesitated before faltering back to his sister. “No, I said stay there.”

  “But I wanna see.”

  Joseph, without taking his eyes from the distended cadaver, stabbed his finger back at his sister. “No pickney should be seeing dis.” Bernice took no notice of her brother’s warning and rushed through the water, clambering over Joseph’s shoulder, looking down to where the man’s decomposing remains lay. Joseph immediately felt Bernice’s body stiffen then shudder next to his, her voice was muted and crackled with fear when she finally spoke.

  “That fella a redleg, Joseph?”

  Joseph shook his head and took a step backwards. “He ain’t no crook . . . Dis fella, he a po’lice man.”

  Another flurried gust lifted the unmistakable musk of death up from the water-soaked ground at their feet and draped itself over the children’s faces like the cursed cloak of a dark angel. Joseph felt a wave of panic shoot through every fibre of his being, the inside of his head felt woolly and began to spin as he heard his sister repeating the words he’d just spoken. He quickly turned back to look at the foreboding, low grey canopy in the darkening sky, the burgeoning storm was now anchored a few miles out in the bay behind them. The palm fronds whipped in the wind above their heads and the sea had begun to turn choppy, the aggressive tide starting to inch its way further in towards them. The approaching waters carried on its spiky edges a thin, white line of surf, its spray spitting violently up into the air. Lightning suddenly forked out in the distance like a shard of fine glass followed by the faint rumble of thunder which trembled inside the gathering clouds.

  The two children stood over the dead man’s body, a fine sea spray blowing in their faces, the ebony-tinged sky above them growling. The clouds sparked inside, their mantle imbued with a blood-red stain. Joseph dropped his fishing rod into the water and reached down for his sister’s hand. They began to run, never once looking back. They heard the racked screams of the Obeah unleashed from the floor of the rock pool behind them, its tormented howl swiftly gathered up in the squall which blew in across the cove. The cruel wind clawed at their backs like the hands o
f the grasping undead and screeched across their path as they bolted back across the dunes; the hot sand underneath their feet stung at their soles like crushed diamonds.

  1

  The early morning March air was cool and tinged with the unmistakeable tang of the sea. It was a comforting and now familiar scent; a welcoming aroma that would, often as not, greet me as I woke and then gently cosset me as I fell asleep late at night. In the winter of 1967 I had moved out of my digs on Gwyn Street in St Paul’s, and discreetly relocated down by the waterside of Bristol harbour and settled on a narrow beamed Dutch barge, which I began renting from the Avonmouth Port Company.

  The old vessel had seen better days and was now permanently moored out at Nova Scotia Place on Spike Island, close to the busy Cumberland Basin and the bustle of the town. Despite its unusual location, and rusted and haggard exterior, the ancient boat allowed me and the ghosts I carried around a tenuous sense of privacy. It offered a retreat from the outside world; a place I often found to be inhospitable and one I occasionally struggled to understand and cope with. The barge was well over eighty years old and certainly not most people’s idea of the perfect domicile; but for me, despite all its cosmetic flaws, the tatty tub was somewhere I finally felt safe. I’d become happy to call the narrow boat my home; something I’d felt I’d never truly been able to since moving from Barbados to Britain some four years earlier.

  It was the day before Good Friday, just after 8am and the low rising sun was misty and soft in the trees. I’d woken early and was sat outside, barefoot in my vest and trousers on a short-legged, wooden stool at the furthest edge of the bow of the barge, clasping a battered blue and white enamel mug filled with coffee. I took a sip of the fragrantly hot liquid and looked out at the smooth water around me then briefly closed my eyes, the cool ozone-scented breeze touching my face and bare shoulders.

  Herring gulls squabbled in the sky, their choking calls echoing loudly across the dock. I took another swig of coffee, rested my back against the cabin wall and watched a pair of young water voles swimming between my barge and a small tug boat on the opposite side of the dock. Driftwood bobbed and floated aimlessly across the top of the dark water’s surface, its brackish iodine odour mixing with the scent of the Mexican fleabane and bright purple bellflowers which grew in abundance along the harbour walls. A cyclist rode towards me along the towpath. I watched the rider approach, finally recognising a familiar figure distinguished by his well-pressed Royal Mail uniform.