Bond heard splashing away to his right. He thought of the girl. And who, for the matter of that, was Honeychile Rider? That, he decided, as he climbed out on to dry land, was at least something that he ought to be able to find out before the night was over.
Bond pulled on his clammy trousers and sat down on the sand and dismantled his gun. He did it by touch, using his shirt to dry each part and each cartridge. Then he reassembled the gun and clicked the trigger round the empty cylinder. The sound was healthy. It would be days before it rusted. He loaded it and tucked it into the holster inside the waistband of his trousers and got up and walked back to the clearing.
The shadow of Honey reached up and pulled him down beside her. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’re starving. I got one of the cooking pots and cleaned it out and we poured the beans into it. There’s about two full handfuls each and a cricket ball of bread. And I’m not feeling guilty about eating your food because you made me work far harder than I would if I’d been alone. Here, hold out your hand.’
Bond smiled at the authority in her voice. He could just make out her silhouette in the dusk. Her head looked sleeker. He wondered what her hair looked like when it was combed and dry. What would she be like when she was wearing clean clothes over that beautiful golden body? He could see her coming into a room or across the lawn at Beau Desert. She would be a beautiful, ravishing, Ugly Duckling. Why had she never had the broken nose mended? It was an easy operation. Then she would be the most beautiful girl in Jamaica.
Her shoulder brushed against him. Bond reached out and put his hand down in her lap, open. She picked up his hand and Bond felt the cold mess of beans being poured into it.
Suddenly he smelled her warm animal smell. It was so sensually thrilling that his body swayed against her and for a moment his eyes closed.
She gave a short laugh in which there was shyness and satisfaction and tenderness. She said ‘There,’ maternally, and carried his laden hand away from her and back to him.
11. AMIDST THE ALIEN CANE
IT WOULD be around eight o’clock, Bond thought. Apart from the background tinkle of the frogs it was very quiet. In the far corner of the clearing he could see the dark outline of Quarrel. There was the soft clink of metal as he dismantled and dried the Remington.
Through the bushes the distant yellow lights from the guanera made festive pathways across the dark surface of the lake. The ugly wind had gone and the hideous scenery lay drowned in darkness. It was cool. Bond’s clothes had dried on him. The three big handfuls of food had warmed his stomach. He felt comfortable and drowsy and at peace. Tomorrow was a long way off and presented no problems except a great deal of physical exercise. Life suddenly felt easy and good.
The girl lay beside him in the sleeping-bag. She was lying on her back with her head cradled in her hands, looking up at the roof of stars. He could just make out the pale pool of her face. She said, ‘James. You promised to tell me what this is all about. Come on. I shan’t go to sleep until you do.’
Bond laughed. ‘I’ll tell if you’ll tell. I want to know what you’re all about.’
‘I don’t mind. I’ve got no secrets. But you first.’
‘All right then.’ Bond pulled his knees up to his chin and put his arms round them. ‘It’s like this. I’m a sort of policeman. They send me out from London when there’s something odd going on somewhere in the world that isn’t anybody else’s business. Well, not long ago one of the Governor’s staff in Kingston, a man called Strangways, friend of mine, disappeared. His secretary, who was a pretty girl, did too. Most people thought they’d run away together. I didn’t. I …’
Bond told the story in simple terms, with good men and bad men, like an adventure story out of a book. He ended, ‘So you see, Honey, it’s just a question of getting back to Jamaica tomorrow night, all three of us in the canoe, and then the Governor will listen to us and send over a lot of soldiers to get this Chinaman to own up. I expect that’ll mean he’ll go to prison. He’ll know that too and that’s why he’s trying to stop us. That’s all. Now it’s your turn.’
The girl said, ‘You seem to live a very exciting life. Your wife can’t like you being away so much. Doesn’t she worry about you getting hurt?’
‘I’m not married. The only people who worry about me getting hurt are my insurance company.’
She probed, ‘But I suppose you have girls.’
‘Not permanent ones.’
‘Oh.’
There was a pause. Quarrel came over to them. ‘Cap’n, Ah’ll take de fust watch if dat suits. Be out on de point of de sandspit. Ah’ll come call yo around midnight. Den mebbe yo take on till five and den we all git goin’. Need to get well away from dis place afore it’s light.’
‘Suits me,’ said Bond. ‘Wake me if you see anything. Gun all right?’
‘Him’s jess fine,’ said Quarrel happily. He said, ‘Sleep well, missy,’ with a hint of meaning, and melted noiselessly away into the shadows.
‘I like Quarrel,’ said the girl. She paused, then, ‘Do you really want to know about me? It’s not as exciting as your story.’
‘Of course I do. And don’t leave anything out.’
‘There’s nothing to leave out. You could get my whole life on to the back of a postcard. To begin with I’ve never been out of Jamaica. I’ve lived all my life at a place called Beau Desert on the North Coast near Morgan’s Harbour.’
Bond laughed. ‘That’s odd. So do I. At least for the moment. I didn’t notice you about. Do you live up a tree?’
‘Oh, I suppose you’ve taken the beach house. I never go near the place. I live in the Great House.’
‘But there’s nothing left of it. It’s a ruin in the middle of the cane fields.’
‘I live in the cellars. I’ve lived there since I was five. It was burned down then and my parents were killed. I can’t remember anything about them so you needn’t say you’re sorry. At first I lived there with my black nanny. She died when I was fifteen. For the last five years I’ve lived there alone.’
‘Good heavens.’ Bond was appalled. ‘But wasn’t there anyone else to look after you? Didn’t your parents leave any money?’
‘Not a penny.’ There was no bitterness in the girl’s voice – pride if anything. ‘You see the Riders were one of the old Jamaican families. The first one had been given the Beau Desert lands by Cromwell for having been one of the people who signed King Charles’s death warrant. He built the Great House and my family lived in it on and off ever since. But then sugar collapsed and I suppose the place was badly run, and by the time my father inherited it there was nothing but debts – mortgages and things like that. So when my father and mother died the property was sold up. I didn’t mind. I was too young. Nanny must have been wonderful. They wanted people to adopt me, the clergyman and the legal people did, but Nanny collected the sticks of furniture that hadn’t been burned and we settled down in the ruins and after a bit no one came and interfered with us. She did a bit of sewing and laundry in the village and grew a few plantains and bananas and things and there was a big breadfruit tree up against the old house. We ate what the Jamaicans eat. And there was the sugar cane all round us and she made a fishpot which we used to go and take up every day. It was all right. We had enough to eat. Somehow she taught me to read and write. There was a pile of old books left