KAMARANG…Lucille calls me into the night

Jul 29, 2019 News

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By Michael Jordan

Michael awoke from deep sleep, blinking from the sudden glare of the bedroom bulb. At first, he thought that it was near dawn, somewhere around five, and he stifled a groan at the thought of having to go to work. Yet he sensed that something was different about this dawn. For one thing, his mosquito net wasn’t down, he was lying crossway on his bed, and what was his light doing on, anyway?
He propped himself up in bed. Now he heard music outside his bedroom. It was an instrumental version of My Favourite Things. And that, too, was strange, because that was the theme for the programme Music to Remember, and Music to Remember came over at—
He stretched towards the ledge by his bed for his watch. He squinted at the time in disbelief. Nine o’clock? Nine P.M? … And now some of his fuzziness cleared and he remembered.
It was nine P.M. He’d already worked for the day. But he had come home early, because he’d felt so awfully tired…
Now bits of the day came back to him.
He had awoken this morning with the drained feeling that had bothered him last week; dragged up from deep sleep by his mother’s insistent rapping at his door. He had gone through the rest of the day in a fog of exhaustion. He had left work around three, caught a car home, bolted down his dinner, tumbled into bed… And had apparently slept for six whole hours.
Michael yawned, then smiled ruefully as he thought of his bitter-sweet meeting with Lucille. It all seemed so unreal, as if it had happened to someone else. Had they really talked about a dead boy named Leon? Had she really wept on his shoulder? Made love to him in her lamp-lit room? He touched his chest, his fingers lingering over a spot where she had bitten him deep.
Now he realised that he was ravenous, too. He went downstairs to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Two loaves of bread, a nice slab of Dutch-head cheese, an open pack of C&F salami. He’d have to eat the salami cold; warming it up would only alert his mother that he was raiding the fridge.
He made four salami and cheese sandwiches, mixed a mug of Ovaltine, and was heading back to the bedroom, when something on the kitchen table caught his attention. It was a copy of the Citizen. The large black headline at the top seemed to jump out at him.

SKELETONS OF MISSING WOMEN FOUND AT KAMARANG…
He stared at the paper for a moment, then picked it up and returned to his room. He sat on the bed, reading as he ate. He read the story twice. His tiredness was gone. The story had a dreamy, sinister ring, an element of something vaguely familiar.
He thought of Lucille, sitting on her bed, eyes filled with tears.
I would never hurt you, Michael…
And despite his dread, he now felt a yearning to see her; whatever, whoever she was. He’d seen her only last night, but now he missed her awfully.
The light was off in his parents’ room. So was the radio.
Just for an hour. It would be just like those times when he felt restless and went for a midnight run. …Running … that was something he hadn’t done in ages…but he could see Lucille tonight, and then get back to working out, and his studies…
But now he heard a stirring in his parents’ bedroom. Heard his father clear his throat. Now the door opened, and he heard his dad’s heavy tread, heading towards the inner stairs. The footsteps stopped momentarily, and his father, as was his habit, tapped his hands once on the banister, then headed downstairs. After a few minutes, Michael thought he heard the toilet flush. Shortly after, his father came back upstairs.
The tap of palms on the banister, and Michael waited for him to go back to bed. Instead, to his consternation, he heard his father head for the living room…heard him sit in his favourite chair by one of the windows. His dad, like himself, was a late-night reader. He recalled seeing him, a few days ago, with a Louis L’Amour novel … Down the Long Hills or something like that.
He lay down on the bed in resignation. He’d just have to wait another night. It was for the good, really. He couldn’t let this thing control him. Exams were a few months away and he—
He caught a whiff of her smell on his pillow. He had brought this scent home with him last night on his fingers, on his lips, on his clothes. He pressed his face to the pillow.
Just for an hour….
No!
One hour…
But that would mean that he would have to wait until dad went back inside. He knew the old man’s reading habits. He would be at it for maybe an hour and a half, nod off, the book would maybe drop to the floor, and he’d wake and go to bed.
So, what to do in the meantime? Well, he could comb his hair. His afro was in a mess…
He found his afro comb and went to work. He looked at himself critically after. Not bad…but he felt itchy…needed a bath. He could spray on some cologne…no, that might alert the old man. Underarm deodorant would have to suffice…
Only thirty minutes had passed when he was finished. But now the sound of his dad’s occasional shifting in the chair had ceased.
He walked cautiously to the door, drew the blind aside. His father was already in dreamland; feet on sofa, head back, book on the floor.
His father was asleep, and he was sneaking out to meet a girl who the old pork-knocker said wanted to kill him; he himself knew that this thing with Lucille would not end well, wake up dad, wake up man, help me, help me, let us talk, alright dad? I am so sorry, dad, I am coming to talk to you…
Instead, dressed in a pair of Buffalo jeans, a white tee-shirt and windbreaker, and with the spare keys in his pocket, he sneaked past his tired father, down the stairs, into the night.
Tonight, though, as he stepped into the doorway, he was gripped by the feeling that something was different. It was so intense that he paused at the foot of the stairs, trying to figure out what was wrong. Usually, he would hear the tinkling of glass, and the women’s shrill laughter from the stairs. Tonight, though, there was just a strange tension, and something in his heart told him he had made a mistake in coming.
Some of the stragglers glanced up as he entered the hallway. He sensed a wariness in their stares, and that, too, was different. Desmond the barman was passing a bowl of ice to the prostitute called Marilyn. He glanced up at Michael. For a moment, he just stood there, holding the bowl and staring at Michael, with a pasted-on smile on his face. Then he passed the bowl to the prostitute, who was babbling away at the barman. She collected the bowl, turned, and saw Michael. She averted her eyes, then hurried over to a table near the punch-box.
The prostitute had been acting weird around him since that embarrassing night with her friend, Abby. Ah, to hell with her, he thought, and turned back to the bar.
“Yuh visiting late tonight,” the barman said. Again, he sensed that the man wasn’t pleased to see him.
“Just passing through,” he said. He ordered a beer, though he didn’t really feel like drinking. He stole a glance at the corner near the bar, wondering if she was there.
“She upstairs in she room,” the barman said. “Ain’t come down for the night.” He looked at Michael as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he headed for the freezer, then returned with Michael’s beer. Michael waited for him to break into his usual banter. But the man just sat on his stool, sipping his beer and scowling. The barman’s manner made him feel uncomfortable, so he shifted away and stood bracing the rail. He scanned the crowd, picking out a few familiar faces: a thin, middle-aged prostitute he’d seen a few times; a chubby, bearded man who was an ex-government Minister.
There was no sign of the pork-knocker.
A drunk who had been slow-dancing by himself was now peering into the punch-box. He pressed a few buttons, then resumed dancing as Helen Shapiro’s husky voice filled the old brothel.
Somewhere, beyond the sea
Somewhere, waiting for me
My lover stands on golden sands
And watches the ships that go sailing…
Michael smiled, remembering that first time. She had gone over to the punch-box and selected this song. Then she had returned and just sat there, that wistful, far-away look in her eyes, a half-smile at the edge of her lips….and why was he standing here when she was upstairs? He took one last sip at his beer, put the half-empty bottle down on the counter, and saw that the barman was staring at him.
“You really dig that woman, nuh?”
Michael stared at him, saying nothing, but the barman nodded in drunken understanding. “I know how yuh feel.” He glanced towards the corridor, then leaned forward, dropping his voice. “But buddy, take a tip from a old whore-monger: you need…to stop…coming…here.”
Staring at the barman, Michael felt an aura of malevolence around him. It was so intense that he glanced around. He caught Marilyn staring at him from her table. She averted her gaze and made a pretence of refilling her glass. He turned back to the bar.
“Why you telling me this?” He realised that he, too, was almost whispering.
“Because…” Again, that furtive glance towards the corridor. “Because you just need to, friend.”
“Why?”
But now the barman picked up a rag, and began to wipe the counter; keeping his eyes riveted there.
Michael looked at him, then, with a sigh of frustration, shifted away from the bar.
And though every instinct told him to leave, he found himself walking down the corridor, the barman’s warning, and Helen Shapiro, echoing in his head…
DESMOND THE BARMAN watched the boy disappear down the corridor. He sighed in frustration. He really should have told the boy what they were saying about him and the girl, and her freaky aunt.
And now some of the girls were no longer coming around, and those who still came, no longer wanted to stay the night. Just when things had seemed to be picking up. A damn shame! He had wanted to prove that this place wasn’t blighted.
She was going to give him another two pennyweights at the end of the month. He didn’t want it. He just wanted her gone. That aunt or grandmother or whatever, too.
He’d had some really messed-up nightmares lately, and he was not the only one. I can’t sleep here anymore. From tomorrow, I shutting up at midnight, sending everybody home, and bunking somewhere else. And after the month ends, I am collecting that two pennyweight and I am out of here.
Tonight was really the last straw.
At around eight-fifteen, while taking a piss, he had heard a scream that seemed to come from that top flat. Or had he?
He thought he had, and something had drawn him up those dark, creaking stairs; his torchlight and his damn chopper left underneath the counter.
And even before he reached her door he heard heavy breathing.
It sounded like the deep, ragged breathing of a woman who was either in pain or in the throes of romance. But he knew that no man was with her.
Mingling with that breathing was a thin, cracking voice, and he knew that he was hearing the woman with the twisted foot, and all the hairs on his body stood on end.
He was thinking, to hell with this nonsense, and was turning to leave, when he stepped on a loose board.
The breathing stopped. The silence was more frightening, so he had called out: “Everything alright in there?”
After moments of silence, a voice that sounded nothing like the girl’s answered: “Everything…is…alright.”
He was no coward, but he was glad to leave it at that.
(Taken from the Guyanese supernatural novel, KAMARANG by Michael Jordan. Cover design by Harold Bascom.)
KAMARANG IS NOW ON AMAZON.
You can also purchase a copy from Austin’s Book Store, or Gordon’s Copy Centre in New Amsterdam, Berbice.
You can also contact Michael Jordan for an autographed copy on +592 645 2447, or on email address [email protected]

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