Underground from Brixton

PROLOGUE

Parish of St. Mary

Port Maria, Jamaica West Indies

Early Fall 1978

Her crumpled body was the center of attraction in a grisly, disheartening tableau. Broken and twisted, with limbs bent at grotesque angles, she lay motionless against the rough stones and splinters of wood, the edges of which clawed and scraped her skin like a rendering of nature’s serrated edge. She found it progressively difficult to breathe and through the vertigo of her death spiral, Theresa understood that her life was coming to a precipitous end. She could feel herself slipping into that mysterious realm of the beyond, of which songs of faith and salvation were offered by her neighbors and fellow parishioners in their tiny, country village each Sunday morning. Strangely, she remained unaffected by those thoughts, but instead was hyper aware of the abrasions on her face and the misaligned, broken bones of her jaw. She also had a vague sense of being wet and cold – but surely it was not because the sea had claimed her, for with her good eye she could still make out the frothy outline of splashing, receding ripples, some fifteen yards beyond the point where the fall had placed her. It was impossible to move, or for that matter, to make a visual assessment of her position. But she did have a distinct sense of anomaly and disorder, comprehending rather than actually feeling the punctured flesh and misshapen bones that had formerly made her whole. With regret, she thought of the little one, saddened by the fact that she would no longer be there for her. In the face of that devastating acknowledgement, she braced for a rush of tears – but there were none. Her remaining eye was not working properly and what little vision it allowed remained blurry and unreliable. She knew Mum would take care of everything; of that she was certain. But it would be difficult for the old woman to manage all alone and that harsh reality induced another wave of regret and tearless mourning. She knew she should have taken better precautions, but allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security by the calm assurance of the stranger’s voice and the implicit promise contained in his offer. So she’d gone with the Badman and his companions, hopeful that the Minister had buried his anger and was truly prepared for peace. But the enforcers were clever and she couldn’t have imagined the danger that awaited her as they led her to the edge of the abandoned dock. By the time she realized her mistake it was too late – the loose rocks and soil had already given way and then she was slipping downward in an awful gust of wind and cracking timbers as the platform wrenched from its foundation. She hurtled towards the bottom for what seemed like an eternity; but strangely she felt neither pain nor fear in spite of the guarantee of certain trauma rushing up to meet her. Only now, as she lie twisted and broken among the piles of stones and rotting planks, did she finally comprehend what they’d done. She thought about it for several seconds and then struggled through an impossible inhalation as a rush of tears finally blinded the visibility in her damaged eye. Can’t see…the tears are so thick…or was that blood? Of that, she could not be certain and by then, she really didn’t care. Soon, the crushing numbness would swallow her completely. Then there would be nothing; no moisture…and no more cold; only the darkness, which was closing in tight and promising to squeeze out everything around her. In those waning moments, she was able to marshal some measure of empathy towards the one who’d triggered her demise. It wasn't her first reaction, but hating him would serve no useful purpose now and with effort, she forced herself to forgive – determined not to carry his anger with her to the grave. But still, she worried about the others…especially the child. Facing that final anxiety, she prayed for the new life that was about to begin – a life that with Jah’s favor would be blessed with promise and an opportunity for fulfillment that she herself had never known. That’s what Theresa was thinking as she drew her final breath. Please bless mi Pickney, Lord. Just bless mi Child. Then the world fell silent as her remaining eye fluttered…then stilled. And as the Peenie Wallies and Crickets mourned her passing in a burst of illumination and sound, Theresa’s body released her spirit, as the warmth and the beautiful light carried her away.

Parish of St. James

Montego Bay, Jamaica West Indies

Two days later…

Meticulously groomed and wearing a Huntsman light grey summer weight suit, the Minister moved with purpose as he stepped up on the curb to collect his equally expensive leather duffel. The drive to the airport had tested both his patience and his nerves, as reminders of the country's ongoing political troubles announced themselves with accusing regularity. More than once, he'd glimpsed the ominous barricades siphoning access to and from a particular street; and the Jamaican police, empowered and emboldened by recently legislated crime reduction measures, swarmed the airport like locusts - scowling and gripping their Uzis as if the Prime Minister's State of Emergency was still in effect. On the A1, just before they reached the roundabout that guarded the Airport entrance, workers were busy removing Green over Orange spray paint from an Air Jamaica Cargo sign. That colorful, two-dimensional palette and the affiliated acronyms represented therein, was a vivid reminder of his own complicity in the island's troubled state of affairs. He really needed to extricate himself from that duplicitous cycle, but feared he had already embedded himself way too deep. Coughing loudly, the weathered driver lingered...and was rewarded for his troubles when a Twenty JA note was pressed into his calloused, grease stained palm. He smiled when the colorful paper made contact, not noticing the pained expression on the face of the one who'd brightened his day. The Minister barely suppressed the urge to wipe his now defiled hand on the leg of his pants and bent instead to retrieve his luggage and rush through the sliding doors in the direction of the British Airways counter. It was 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday and Donald Sangster International Airport was bustling with activity, thanks to the hordes of Brits, Yanks and Canadians streaming into Mo-Bay for the start of tourist season. It seemed as if these contributors to Jamaica's economic engine existed everywhere at once; restricting his movement and causing a general atmosphere of delay, as their swelling volume increased the wait times for every queue – from the duty free shops and coffee stands, to the rental car counters and boarding gates. This was the primary reason he preferred to use the airport in Kingston, he thought with rising annoyance, since the indigenous-friendly capital typically only greeted travelers who belonged – or at the very least, were reasonably familiar with their surroundings. He definitely counted himself among that group, yet today he welcomed the sight of the North Coast invader's pasty complexions and vacuous smiles. The vast majority were dressed in tank tops and casual shorts; with sandals or flip flops slapping rudely against a sea of dirty linoleum as they rushed to claim their luggage, or secure seats on the vans that would shuttle them East (primarily for families and couples), or further West (for those seeking more hedonistic endeavors). By comparison, the Minister was conspicuously overdressed, but he welcomed the proximity of the burgeoning crowd as it swallowed him into anonymity; because more than anything else, that's what he needed most just then - that...and a physical distance between himself and the scene he’d recently witnessed. He repeated private assurances inside his head, trying to convince himself that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. And now, after more than twelve hours of agonized second guessing, he'd positioned himself in a new and darkened corner of his mind. One that encouraged him to place his faith in the loose constructs of those shaky embellishments. It had been difficult at first, but he'd fought through his revulsion and went about the task of executing the parameters of his hastily concocted plan. He remembered the blood laced mud and splintered timbers...rotting and hollowed out by an assortment of insects, leaves and dirty stones. A sacrificial altar for the wreckage of flesh and bone that rested on top of them. That had been two days ago and now…now, the necessary deed was done. With his secrets buried, he planned to leave the horrors of the past few weeks behind as he plowed ahead with his future plans – free and unencumbered - the way he'd been before everything went wrong. He'd been assured that no blowback from the incident would reach his core following, or anyone else that might be associated with the ministry - a fact he took pains to remember when the crippling anxiety threatened to crack his resolve. There were times... He paused, in order to structure the thought properly in his mind. Times...when extraordinary measures are called for. In the days and weeks that followed, he would call upon the mantra often, clinging to its promise with the desperation of a drowning man. But the emotional cover it temporarily afforded him would not sustain him in the long run, because the Minister would continue to prove that he did not learn from his repeated mistakes. His Ego - and a failure to exhibit any real kind of courage - would put him right back where he started; toying with the lives of others and assuming risks that were not his to take. He would be oblivious to the destruction wrought by his actions until it was too late...and that same tide of devastation had already circled back to its unsuspecting source.

Parish of St. Ann

Ocho Rios, Jamaica West Indies

Spring 1986

She sat alone in the far corner of the room, trying as best she could to not make any discernable sounds. Mum had stated in no uncertain terms that on this trip, she was to be on her best behavior and even now, several hours later, her grandmother’s threats pealed like thunder inside her head with each of the woman’s hard, scrutinizing stares: Marcy, yu gwine mind mi nuh. Mi naa raise facety Pickney…don mek mi haffi tell yu more dan once, yu hear? Yu undastan? Marcy dis and Marcy dat…on and on she went, like ray-ray people dem Marcella thought, obstinately. Her face burned hot with frustration from the effort of holding her tongue and she tried not to frown as she pressed her lips tightly together. Her natural instinct was to say something, but she'd learned early on what a fatal mistake that could be. By then, she knew better than to give voice to her agitation, or to disregard one of Mum’s indisputable directives. Yes, Mum…mi promise fi mind, was the only required response. She pronounced it Moom, the way she’d always heard it used; like she imagined her mother did before her and everyone else that lived in their tiny mountain village. Upon first entering the nicely appointed cottage, she’d chosen the Ironwood bench to stake out temporary roots for the duration of their stay. It was long and smooth, with elaborate carvings of Sapodilla, Jack Fruit and tropical Ferns that flowed along its polished surface. Because it sat low to the ground, it was better acclimated to her adolescent frame than the other furniture positioned around the room. This included a rickety pair of curved rattan chairs with bright Orange cushions and a Gold Velvet, Queen Ann settee - conspicuously out of place among the wooden shutters and slatted floors that defined the interior's distinctly tropical decor. Marcella knew better than to speak unless a question was specifically directed to her, so she swallowed her complaints and sat on her impatience, trying to be as quiet as was humanly possible for a soon to be eight year old who would rather be spending her afternoon climbing the Ackee tree that occupied the front corner of their yard; or playing Dandy Shandy in the roundabout at the top of the hill that served as the village square, dodging the incoming newspaper stuffed juice box as the throwers groaned in frustration, repeatedly outdone by their more agile competitor. The type of afternoon, she realized with acute juvenile distress that was currently passing her by. Her earlier excitement had tapered off significantly, prompting her to all but dismiss the latest episode of her recurring fantasy – the one where her father had finally come to collect her. She’d been anxious and tense - from the moment Mum closed the front yard's gate and through each successive, interminable stop until their bumpy progression placed them at the outer reaches of Ocho Rios. Maas Helton from the top of the lane had agreed to take them in his peeling, rust toned Toyota, but there were others who'd also secured passage for the trip - each with their own schedules and destinations which for Mum and Marcella, translated into a series of preliminary stops. Annotto Bay signaled the first layover, for it was here that Miss Marie, the gentle soul who sometimes visited relatives in Canada and had the most abundant garden of any of their neighbors, periodically worked at the Green Castle Estate, harvesting Papaya’s and Coconut Oil for shipment abroad. Marcella liked Miss Marie and looked forward to her occasional visits inside the Caramel colored woman’s gate, where awesome discoveries were always waiting to be made. It was there that she learned about the different species of flora and their taxonomies, including the ability to distinguish toxins from those coveted for their medicinal, healing powers. Mum understood the uses and functions of herbs better than anyone in their village, often sending Marcella on collection errands for clumps of dried berries or bundles of leaves. But it was Miss Marie who bestowed her with special tutelage honors - in deference to the naked wonder that could always be detected in the little girl’s eager, sparkling eyes. Oracabessa marked the location of their next stop and it was here that the two man-boys - teenagers Marcella really didn’t know but had seen from time to time, talking and sipping bag juice with their cadre of friends near the village roundabout - hoped to hire on with one of the local Banana Cooperatives. You couldn’t miss them coming in or out of Ochi and the fields stretched for miles along the coastline; a natural border between the main road and the sea - only occasionally interrupted by the narrow, dirt paths that provided access to a sliver of beach, or an extension of rock from which a line could be cast into an abundance of Doctor Fish, Sea Bass and Grouper that thrived in the temperate waters that abutted the coast. The confirmation of each passenger’s destination had only been made once all six of them had settled comfortably inside their dusty accommodations. Marcella imagined it to have been bright red at one time, but years of punishing sunshine, bumpy mountain roads and dust from the nearby bauxite mines had consigned its finish to something that more closely resembled the dirty clay that washed down from the hills and spilled across the roads during heavy rains. Due to their tender ages, the old woman and young child were provided first class accommodations inside the cab with their driver. Truth be told, Marcella would have loved to ride all the way to Ochi on the back of that truck, but under the circumstances she knew better than to even suggest it. But the ride was pleasant none the less; Maas Helton’s spicy, talcum powder-smell serving as the perfect consolation; plus, she was buoyed by the persistent hope that something spectacular was destined to take place once they arrived in Ocho Rios. Such was the adventure that sustained her for the next three hours until they rolled beneath the covered entrance of an unfamiliar seaside Bed and Breakfast. It was smaller and more private than the other resorts where Mum sometimes worked and even though Marcella didn't remember it, she felt as if she should have. Maas Helton had business to take care of in town and told them that it would be evening before he could return to pick them up. Mum told him not to worry. They appreciated the ride and would be fine until he could make his way back for them. With their agreement in place, he wrenched the door shut and kicked up clouds of gravelly dust as he turned and sped across the lot, through the gate and onto the main road. Marcella heard but did not see Maas Helton’s exit, because as soon as she'd stepped down from the cab, her attention had been trained on a stand of trees that stood some forty meters beyond the wide, porticoed entrance of the main building. It was a section of the grounds that sloped downhill and away from the elevated parking lot in which she stood. Two children played quietly among the trees – Andrew and Stacey Ann, according to the names used by the man who stood in the doorway of an adjacent cottage. Marcella wasn’t sure if she knew him, but something about his face and voice seemed familiar. Was it that…or the way he looked at her? Or maybe it was simply their current setting that teased her with a vague sense of recognition. He actually waved at them before stepping outside to round up the children and that simple, proverbial move made Marcella feel as if she must know him from somewhere. They’d vacated the area by the time she and Mum made it to the bottom of the hill, slipping quietly inside their cottage. And now Marcella was sitting next door, impatient and painfully curious, wondering about the man and his two children. Of that she was certain - that the boy and girl belonged to him; and somehow without being told, she also knew that he was not her father. But she realized there was a connection nonetheless and so she sat...watching and quietly waiting...until a strong knock sounded at the door and the handsome man stepped inside. Glances were exchanged around the room and when he spoke, Marcella found something restorative in the way he crafted his words and projected his voice; and in spite of her natural inclination to view him with suspicion, she felt herself liking him instantly. It would be the first of many encounters between Marcella and Neville Gibson and through the patronage of her future mentor and his family, she would come to experience the type of familial commitment and support that almost allowed her to forget about the ghost in her recurring fantasy - the one who spoke to her in her dreams and answered all the questions she ever had about who she was and where she came from.

CHAPTER 1

Mayfair, Central London

Monday, 08th August (Present Day)

Marcella kept her eyes glued on the conference room door, anxious that maybe someone had in fact been paying attention when she tried to slip off unnoticed from her post. They’d already moved beyond the half hour mark, certainly increasing the chance that a detailed review of the hotel’s phone records would alert someone in Accounting to the fact that a substantial overseas call had indeed been placed from that room. They all did it from time to time – an unspoken, but understood benefit available to the regular staff; but she seriously doubted that anyone dared talk for more than a few minutes at a time. Other than the one located in the main office, it was the only other phone in the building not routed through a trunk line by the hotel’s central computer – and therefore not subjected to a daily enumeration of charges due for every second of every call. But she’d been on the line for forty minutes and frustratingly, was getting nowhere with the unyielding bureaucrat. Officially, it was her day off, but it would have been quite simple really, for anyone to discover that she and Gemma had exchanged shifts; her colleague having been obliged to attend a cousin’s wedding in Kingsmarkham. Marcella now regretted it, because she was doing her friend a favor at the expense of not convening with her regular study group. Final exams would be administered in one week’s time and if she didn’t flub them and could successfully pull off the Thesis that was due later that Fall, she would finally obtain her MsC Certificate from Kings College London – which at the moment, seemed like a slow road to eternity as she sat there enduring the deliberations of someone who clearly was in no particular hurry. She was trying so hard to keep her frustration in check, but the other woman’s lack of cooperation had nearly exhausted what little patience she had left.

Couldn’t you at least check with someone in your department?

Miss, as I’ve already explained to you, there’s no one in this office that goes by that name.

"And three months ago? You’re absolutely certain no one named Ms. Fraser was working there then?"

I’ve only started within the last month…

Which is exactly the point I’ve been trying to make…

…so I could not say for certain who you did, or did not speak with during that time.

But is it too much trouble for you to simply ask?

Again, as I’ve already explained, that’s really not necessary as an updated directory of all current staff… Marcella stifled a scream as the woman launched into another scripted excuse for the dreadful level of service she was bound and determined to provide. The woman named Fraser was not a figment of Marcella’s imagination. She’d spoken with her on two separate occasions; the first time back in April, when she called with questions about her Mother’s birth certificate; then again in June, after she’d worked up the courage to inquire about her own. Suddenly, she swung her head towards the door, startled by unfamiliar voices that grew louder on advancing steps. But just as she was about to break the connection, the sound began to fade and finally drifted away as the pair moved farther down the hall. Precious seconds ticked by and still, the woman wasn't making any sense. The quick-burning fuse on Marcella's temper had run its course. She finally lost it.

Mi naa give a djam bout dat! she barked impatiently, her final vestiges of self control melting in irritation. "Is foolishness yu talk. Mi naa waan fi document additional form – naa hear rhattid procedural steps dem. She paused and swallowed hard. Took a deep breath, then swallowed again, shocked as much by the Patois-infused ferocity of her anger, as by her regrettable inability to keep it in check. Silence reigned for a few awkward seconds before either woman said anything further. Then, somewhat calmer but not entirely back under control, Marcella continued in a sharply enunciated tone. I spoke with a representative who identified herself as Ms. Fraser. I submitted a Genealogical Request form via email and was further assured that my birth records were on file. Waiting to make sure that Marcella was finished, the woman on the other end of the line took a moment to collect herself before smoothly and patiently completing the recitation of her lines. Her voice was steady and still courteous; albeit with just a hint of newfound caution that managed to soften her overall delivery. Under no circumstances was it permissible for department staff to become belligerent with customers, but her inflection and delivery were undoubtedly affected – the result of a new awareness that she was not speaking to some posh, naive Londoner - spoiled and overdramatically fretting from her South Kensington Flat. Then tell me please Marcella asked when the woman had finished, Why it is that I cannot rely on you to make a painfully simple inquiry with someone else in your office about Ms. Fraser? Surely there must be some record of our conversation, or a file that was being prepared on my behalf. I’ll be in Kingston this December and I spoke with Ms. Fraser about stopping in personally to pick up the materials she was to have prepared." She had no idea how she would manage it, but Marcella wanted dearly to travel home in time for Christmas. So for the past few months she’d started making tentative plans – which not surprisingly included a stop at the Registrar General’s office at Twickenham Park in St. Catherine. Marcella’s outburst and the mention of her pending travel plans had a considerable loosening effect on the government worker - a Ms. Dickerson this time - who was smart enough to realize that remaining inside her box of standard department protocol would likely be wholly inadequate under the circumstances. So she stepped up her efforts to be more cooperative, albeit sounding discomfited and less sure-footed than she’d been before - the familiarity of her script less reassuring in the face of Marcella’s implied threat. I will be in Kingston this December...would you like me to come find you, so we can discuss this in person?

"Ms. Scott, I’m so sorry for all the difficulties you’ve recently endured and it’s apparent that your background and preparation on this matter is much more extensive than I first realized. I’m not aware of a Ms. Fraser who previously worked in this office, but I will speak with my supervisor this afternoon to see what information, if any, can be obtained for you. Please understand that for reasons of confidentiality, it’s debatable that I will be able to tell you much if anything at all. But rest assured I will certainly try my best." Finally. Was that really so difficult?

Thank you said Marcella sincerely. "I would really appreciate that."

As for the matter of your missing records – let me first say, that without submitting a specific request for information to our archives department, I can only speak to what I see in our online database.

And what does that show you, exactly?

Two things: First, we have no record of a Birth Registration for Marcella Jeanette Scott for the year Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Eight.

"But that’s impossible, Marcella whispered to herself, her annoyance giving way to an increasingly helpless state of confusion. And…so. What…what else does the computer say?"

That the research initiated as a result of the Genealogical Request form you submitted through our website came back empty.

Empty? Marcella asked. What does that mean?

Essentially, that no Genealogical links were established using the information you provided. Marcella was struck mute – not with anger or frustration, but by a terrible cloud of miscomprehension; that and an accompanying sense of dread that something was seriously amiss.

No links… she mumbled softly.

What this tells us, Ms. Dickerson explained, is that none of the information you provided to our department could be verified as a vital event. Ms. Dickerson waited for Marcella to respond, but continued sympathetically when she didn’t. The letter you mentioned…the one that arrived in July? That’s why you received it. It’s auto-generated when a flag in our system is set – an indication that the research we conducted on your behalf came back empty. We employ a rigorous method of analysis and validation to trace all Genealogical requests to their source. So either the details you specified on the forms were inaccurate… And this last bit, she spoke softly and with a trace of apology, ...or they do not exist. Marcella’s mind raced through the data she’d provided and the import of what Ms. Dickerson was saying – Her Mother’s full name, date and place of birth; her Grandmother’s full name, date and place of birth – while the lines on the form requesting Paternal information remained glaringly empty. Djam, it wasn’t much but it was the only thing she had. How could this be possible? Mum didn’t have a copy, but was emphatic that both their registrations (Marcella’s and her Mother’s) had been filed in Spanish Town – the location of the Registrar General before it moved its offices and archives to Twickenham Park – not to mention the verbal confirmation she’d already received from Ms. Fraser…who it seemed had now gone missing and inexplicably had left no indication that she had ever worked there in the first place. What the hell was going on?

Ms. Scott? the clerk asked tentatively.

I’m sorry…yes?

Well…is there anything else that I can do for you? Consulting her watch, Marcella felt ill with the realization that she’d been away and on the phone for nearly fifty minutes. Her scheduled lunch break was twenty minutes away – clearly she’d be skipping that. She had so many questions she wanted to ask and she suffered from the irrational fear that if she let Ms. Dickerson go now, she too would disappear, never to be heard from again. But let her go she must. And where Marcella went from there was anybody’s guess.

I suppose not, she admitted reluctantly. But if I have any further questions…

As you might expect, each call is routed to the next available representative…but when you call, just ask for Pat, she instructed soothingly in light of their earlier debate about Ms. Fraser. Marcella thanked her for her assistance, apologized for her earlier outburst and then after double-checking the department’s numbers and hours of operation, finally hung up the phone. For a minute she just sat there in the darkness of the shuttered conference room, puzzled over this latest turn of events, dismayed that what had begun as her little project had blossomed into something more closely resembling an obsession – which for the moment, had run into a serious dead end. After going public with her plans, her decision to search for her father’s identity had been met with several different reactions and opinions - influenced primarily by the degree to which the other person understood, or could identify with Marcella’s situation. Her grandmother pretended not to be concerned, but Marcella understood at once that something intense was going on behind Mum’s watchful, laser beam gaze. But to her credit, during the entire period that followed – which for the most part, coincided with the approximate amount time she’d been in the UK, the old woman had never once questioned her about what she was doing. Sure, she’d answer questions if any were asked, but Marcella would have to initiate them and even then, Mum claimed (or pretended – Marcella was still trying to figure out which description was more accurate) not to have much to go on where the possible identity of her father was concerned. Nadine Scott was a strong, proud woman, but any discussion of Marcella’s father necessarily involved the topic of her mother, Theresa; and after more than twenty five years Mum had yet to fully come to grips with senselessness of her beautiful child’s death. Was many boys dem, Mum had explained. But when pressed, her daughter confessed that she could not be certain who had fathered the child. She hadn’t been abused – or so she’d claimed, but Theresa had worked as a domestic in both Kingston and along the North Coast, at the various resorts in and around Ocho Rios and in both locales, there had been lots of men: Tourists and Students…Diplomats and Politicians…not to mention the Rude Bwoys…with thick bundles of Greenbacks and false promises whispered sweetly in an unsuspecting country girl’s ears. Over the years, Marcella had cycled through the endless list of possibilities, wondering what it must have been like for a poor, naïve girl from the St. Mary bush to find herself alone and afraid – a new life growing inside her, with no resources or viable opportunities that could sustain either one of them. Had she lived, what explanations could her mother have provided, she wondered for the thousandth time. Certainly the suspects could have been filtered down, with exact names and locations of who did what for how long and exactly when… But even then the task would have been daunting…which qualified what she was attempting