The God with The Very Long Arm

DWIGHT THOMPSON

Clack! went the rattrap in the corner. There was a rattle then a panicky wheeze. “Yes!” Butty hooted, “deliverance come when yuh leas’ expeck it!” Running over, he smiled at Frank’s spasming body, grinning with bacchanalian rage in the throes of death, his whiskers dripping rum cream that had been used to fondue the bait. Butty slapped Genie’s flank. “Genie, we ketch Big Frank.” Big Frank had been terrorizing them for months, fouling everything, even scaring off the cat. Killing the intelligent, resourceful animal had become Butty’s obsession.

         So intense was Butty’s focus that Toto laughed, “Ma, is like Pa was goin’ mad ova Frank.”

         “Now I can sleep in peace,” said Butty to his son standing in the doorway.

         “Peace,” scoffed Genie, “like yuh nevah hear dem killies runnin’ chu de yawd las’ night. Frank is de leas’ of we worries.”

         Butty stooped and remarked to Frank, the panic bright in the rat’s black blinking eyeballs, “I’ve ambishon in me blood. Nobody can call me squatter — I lease dis plot o’ lan’ chu Parish Council. Gawd willin’ I soon buy it. Yuh t’ink yuh, a mere rat, wid yuh long belly an’ t’iefin’ ways, could ovat’row me?” The absurdity of Frank’s effrontery — the fact that he had to explain himself to vermin — so enraged Butty that he hefted his machete and chopped off Frank’s head. “Know yuh place in de order of t’ings!”

          Frank’s head flew and dropped right in the hollow of Genie’s nightie, peering into Genie’s face, his teeth bared and whiskers seemingly moving. Genie sprang from the bed — “Whoi!” — and bolted.

         Carlyle hurried in, grabbing his brother’s elbow. “Toto wha’ppen!?”

         Butty pointed. “Frank dead dis mawnin’.”

         The boys looked almost sad. They’d liked the rat’s courage, to them it was a form of heroism, not a nuisance or terrorism. Frank had carved out a life for himself where he’d dared, among rat-hating humans. His whole life had been defined by a frenzy of survival and near misses.

         Genie returned to the room, ranting, “Butty yuh play too much man!”

         The boys brought Frank beside the outhouse they shared with I-vid, their neighbor, intending to throw him in the cassava patch growing in wastewater. The scummy runoff ran between shanties down to a sour-smelling empty lot where bobo dreads congregated to smoke when killies weren’t hauling females there to rape them after dark at gunpoint.

         I-vid clanked to his backdoor on crutches. He’d been a municipal sewer inspector till he lost his leg. Butty went really quiet after that, he’d been shift supervisor when the rickety cast iron pipe fell and maimed his friend. He’d had an idea the old pipe would collapse but had ordered the men to work anyway. I-vid never blamed Butty, though. He turned Rastafarian, changed his name from David to I-vid, and started collecting employment injury disablement pension. Butty had taken I-vid’s son, Trapper, a nineteen-year-old, under his wing out of a vague sense of guilt.

         Carlyle, eying I-vid’s grimace, grabbed Toto. “Doh trow him in de patch. Le’we bury him.”

         His baby brother looked at him. “Why? He jus’ a rat, Carl!”

         “Yuh plannin’ to stink up de whole broad-yard?” groused I-vid, leaning in his doorway, looking like a grey-bearded buccaneer. “If I get a whiff of dat rat when I inside cookin’, I go tell Genie. Y’hear me, Carl?” He shuffled inside, closed his door. Leaning at the window, he furtively watched the brothers. He was fond of them, liked to present them with little challenges so they could use their brains and engage their conscience, learn how to rise above Canterbury’s squalor with vigilance and intelligence.

         Carlyle slapped Toto’s head and took the corpse from him. “Give it here! Yuh likkle battyman.” Carlyle mimicked his brother’s effeminate voice. “Toto I swear, yuh growin’ to be a chi-chi man more every day. Yuh even know what pum-pum look like?”

         Toto blinked away angry tears. “It look like yeye, Shevanie show me hers.”

         Carlyle looked at him in a mixture of fondness, shame and pity. “Shevanie…stop tell lie pon pum-pum. Don’t yuh know if yuh do yuh’ll nevah get it. Den again yuh doh want it do yuh, Toe?”

         Toto kicked his shin. Carlyle pinched him and glared till Toto went still. Toto knew as much as Carlyle hated his chi-chi man ways, he’d die for him.

         Last summer they’d been playing cowboys and Indians with pear seed guns, the guns made from wire and wood — with such high tensile strength in the trigger mechanism that when fired it concussed some boys. They’d been planning to ambush the Crawford Street boys (the boys liked to hold turf wars, mimicking shootouts between rival areas) when Chigger, one of their friends, noticed that Toto and another boy, Demarco, were missing. “Where yuh likkle faggot bredda?” Chigger had said to Carlyle. They’d searched adjoining yards, hopped fences, till they heard moaning in the woodwork shop. That’s where they’d found Toto on top of Demarco. They’d scrambled to their feet and pulled up their shorts, their eyeballs staring white and panicky in the semidarkness of the hot room filled with sawdust, old machinery and nail boxes.

         “We go nail yuh two buggahs to de wall,” Chigger had threatened.

         “Dis place stinka shit,” another boy had said, “dat’s what yuh two like doin’ eh.”

         Chigger had advanced, loading his popgun, before Carlyle put a hand across his chest and said quietly, “Touch Toto an’ I kill everyone ah yuh in dis room — I doh care what happen to me. Anybody touch me bredda, go feel sum’n. An’ is not pear seed.”

         They’d all stopped and looked at each other tensely, daring each other to make a move to defy Carlyle. Carlyle was a quiet alpha-male, and the boys knew better than to cross him. Later on, the boys had whipped Demarco. Carlyle had taken Toto home. They’d never talked about it. But Toto was careful never to leave his big brother’s shadow. He had a mark on his head.

         After they put Big Frank in the hole, they covered him with dirt.

         “Wait,” said Toto, “I’ve an idea.”

         Carlyle waited about ten minutes till Toto returned with a styrofoam plate, originally from the guesthouse where Genie worked as a maid, decorated with neon puff paint, spangles, tinsel and the words: FRANK. DEAD. RIP.

         Grinning at the headstone, Carlyle rubbed Toto’s head. “Yuh really have a flair fe dis.”

         They planted the headstone and stood solemnly looking at the grave.

         “Carl.”

         “Hm.”

         “Yuh t’ink Frank was eva happy?”

         “What yuh mean, Toe?”

         “All dose months we chasin’ him. All dat time him eatin’ we food, pissin’ in de sorrel an’ shittin’ on de cornmeal puddin’, yuh t’ink him do all dat outta spite ‘cause people so mean to him?”

         “It hard to sey. Maybe if we had lef’ him alone, allow him to live peacefully, den he wouldn’t have been so mean.”

         “I t’ink so too,” agreed Toto, “maybe he could even become we pet.”

         “Doh be fool,” Carlyle laughed. “But yeah, dat’s juss de way it is. They’re pests, an’ we’re exterminators. De roles fixed. Anyway, sey sum’n for Frank.”

         Toto eulogized, “St. Frank. Former Master of Mayhem wid de Breddas an’ Sistahs of Perpetual Mischief. Patron saint of Dumpster Divers, Cellar Dwellers, OCD Han’washers, an’ dose awaitin’ leptospirosis tes’ results, we entomb yuh to eternal rest.”

         I-vid giggled by his curtains. “Amen.”

         Carlyle marveled at his brother’s capacity. “Yuh sum’n else yuh know dat, Toe. Yuh goin’ places. Look yuh here eulogizin’ like Louise Bennett but still wettin’ yuh bed.”

         A tear streaked down Toto’s cheek. He waved at the pretty headstone. “Bye Big Frank.”

         At a nearby lane, the boys saw their pastor distributing tracts to passersby and youths idling on walls. Groover, the one-eyed killy from Stone Crusher gang, along with cronies, ran up to him, saying, “Parson pray fe we, we ’bout fe fuck up some Top Road pussy’ole.”

         The pastor could only look at them.

         Carlyle watched Chigger jump off the wall and skitter along behind the gangsters.

         When the boys got home, Butty was pulling on his overalls in the yard, having a last smoke. “What took yuh two so long? How hard it is to bury a rat?”

         “Very hard,” answered Carlyle, exchanging glances with Toto. “Hardes’ work yuh’ll eva do in yuh life.”

***

         Later that morning, Trapper, I-vid’s son, was saying as they waded through the tunnel, “…Dem roas’ dat hog whole day an’ still unda de belly yellow. Sun an’ fire beat it, an’ inside de damn t’ing stay raw.”

         “De hell yuh sayin’?” chuckled Butty, sweeping his flashlight around, trying to find the blocked drain.

         “When we finally cut it open, worm, snaily shell, plastic, woodlice an’ tyre pieces fall out,” said Trapper. “Butty I tell yuh, I done eatin’ roadside hog.”

         “Yuh insides look de same,” said Butty. “Is juss dat nobody cuttin’ yuh open — ”

         Suddenly they heard gunshots and screams above. They looked at each other then raced towards the noise. When they rounded a corner, young men were jumping down a manhole. As they replaced the cover, Butty shone his light at them.

         The youths held up their hands, their eyes bright with fear.

         “Help us!” one pleaded, his hair in a pink Mohawk and bangles on his wrist.

          Butty slowly passed the light over them; they cowered in uncertainty. At least two of them lived in Mrs. Spencer’s backyard, an old woman who’d been a nurse in England, who grew up in Canterbury when it was middle class, before crime that came with squatters chased decent people away. She’d returned after retiring, didn’t talk to neighbors and acted very superior. People said she was stush.

         “Stephen wounded,” Mohawk panted, “dem cut him.”

         Blood poured down the light-skinned youth’s arm, but the wound didn’t look that bad to Butty.

         “I want no part of dis!” Butty barked, turning away.

         “He’s bleeding, help him at least,” said a strapping one with a knapsack, called Sully, touching Butty’s shoulder.

         Butty spun with the flashlight to hit him.

         “Damn faggot, keep yuh distance!” Trapper warned the group.

         Sully knelt in the untreated sewage; the others huddled against damp rounded walls. “We’ll go back up there, just promise you’ll get Stephen help.” He took off his watch. “Here…we didn’t have time to grab much, not even our cellphones.”

         Trapper slapped it away. “I doh want yuh watch!”

         “Y’all college boys nuh,” Butty said, “goin’ to de extension campus?”

         Stephen, the wounded one, nodded.

         Butty shook his head. “Yuh parents muss be so disappointed.” He shone the flashlight in their faces as if to confirm the shame imprinted there.

         “Our parents don’t know.”

         Up on the street a mob marched through Canterbury, banging gates.

         “Yuh hear dat? Dat’s de soun’ of yuh death waitin’,” said Butty. “Dere’s no way out.”

         Garnet, the chubby one, wiped his tears, ripped his shirt and turned it into a tourniquet. “Right now yuh can choose to help or not.”

         “Doh tell me what I can an’ cyaan do fat bwoy!” Butty was surprised at the youth’s forthrightness. He saw dignity and pride in his expression, qualities he hadn’t associated with homosexuals. He could see they came from decent families but were naïve, stupid enough to rent a cheap room in a slum they knew little about. But then again almost anywhere downtown could’ve got them killed. It made perfect sense that their refuge now was literally underground.

         Sully handed over the watch.

         Butty snarled, “An’ money…”

         Sully hesitated before opening his knapsack.

         Mohawk grabbed his wrist. “What yuh doin’?”

         Sully pulled free. “I’ll handle it, Percy!” Butty shone light on the money.“How much?”

         “Lissen,” said Butty, “dis is how it’s goin’ be. I know dese tunnels bettah dan I know me wife. It’s no place fe yuh.”

         “There’s no place for us anywhere,” said Percy, clutching his pink hair.

         “But me know places it could work,” continued Butty. “For de right price.”

         Trapper flashed his boss a look, but Butty ignored him.

         “Name your price,” said Sully.

          Butty stroked his chin with his grimy glove. “Eight thousan’ a day, dat’s two thousan’ for each of yuh, till I can guarantee safe passage.”

         “Agreed,” said Stephen, holding his wounded shoulder. He seemed like the leader.

         Trapper tugged Butty aside, out of earshot. “If dem killies find out, dem string us up! T’ink ’bout, Genie. Toto an’ Carlyle.”

         Butty was thinking about them. He already knew Toto, his baby, was lean and it sickened and saddened him. Was this why he wanted to help these young men — a subconscious rescue of his own son? Butty shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Doh worry, Trap.”

         But Trapper looked irritated. “De same way yuh tell me fawda doh worry dat day de pipe crush him leg? Yuh overconfidence is yuh weakness.”

         The remark hit Butty like a bullet. They’d never discussed I-vid’s accident, but Butty often wondered how I-vid felt, if he secretly resented him.

         “The young one,” whispered Garnet, “he’ll betray us. Never trust ghetto people. They have no moral compass.”

         “Shut up,” muttered Sully, “you have no choice, and you’re hardly in a position to be prejudiced.”

         Butty covered his mouth. “Trap, we can always turn dem in latah. Firs’, let’s see how much money dem have.”

         Stephen called to the whispering men, “So we have a deal?”

         Instead of answering, Butty said, “Come, I’ll take yuh somewhere safe.”

         They walked a long way down a tunnel.

         “Can we rest a few minutes?” Garnet said, huffing.

         “Stop whinin’ fatty!” Butty barked. They reached a circular area like a cul-de-sac, raised some feet above the effluence, with ledges in the wall where they could rest. “Yuh’ll stay here fe now.”

         “It’s so dirty here,” said Percy, covering his nose.

         “I can hardly breathe…how do you people work down here?”

         “You people?” Trapper sneered.

          Sully handed over some cash. “Here’s half…you’ll get the rest when you bring us bandages, medicine and food. How will we know it’s you when you come back?”

         “Three flashlight blinks,” said Butty, “dat’s de signal.”

         “Here,” said Garnet, handing over a scribbled note, “that’s my Mum’s number. Call and tell her what’s happening.”

         When Butty and Trapper got to the surface, Canterbury was in chaos. Burning tyres and junk blocked the intersection with Williams Street. Further up, at Fish Lane, youth in balaclavas stood sentinel with machetes, slapping fences.

         “Imagine,” shouted a babymother at Trapper, “right undah we nose battybwoys keepin’ house! Havin’ orgy! I always suspeck dat pink hair one funny!”

          Chigger and his ragtag bunch were busy nailing crude REWARD posters on light poles  —  earning pocket change from the gangsters.

         “We nah stop search!” yelled Groover. He tapped his eyepatch. “De one yeye me have go fin’ dem. Even if we haffi turn Canterbury upside down!”

         Smoke stung their nostrils. When they turned into Rose Lane, Trapper gasped. Firefighters frantically worked a hydrant, hosing plumes of smoke billowing from Mrs. Spencer’s white bungalow.

         Groover stepped abreast of Trapper, smiling. “Yuh t’ink we fraid fe firebomb de ol’ gyal house?”

         Trapper’s face tightened.

         “Trappah, why yuh look so frighten? Yuh lose sum’n?” Groover searched Trapper’s face, as if he could smell his fear. “Yuh see any faggots hidin’ down in dem sewers?”

         Shoving past Groover, Butty tugged Trapper along. “We’s workin’ man. We doh have time to be idle burnin’ decent people home.”

         Groover continued hounding them, grabbing Trapper’s overalls. “Tell me if yuh fin’ none down dere. Is yuh duty as a citizen.”

         Trapper walked faster.

         “Decent people?” Groover called out, “decent people nuh give refuge to reprobate! Butty yuh bettah know where yuh stan’. Ah house search nex’!”

         When he got home, Butty collapsed under his ackee tree.

         “Yuh look like hell,” Genie said, taking in the wash.

         “Hawd day…” Butty muttered.

         “Yuh see what happenin’? I doubt dere’s nutten lef’ of Mrs. Spencer’s house, poor woman. An’ dose bwoys…why muss people be so cruel to each odda? Ah tell yuh, Butty, Canterbury ain’t no place to raise pitney.”

         That night, after Genie drew his bath, Butty sat scrubbing in the zinc tub. “Stone Crushah offerin’ reward for turnin’ in de bwoys, settin’ up roadblocks everywhere.”

         Genie soaped his back. “Is dat why yuh so quiet durin’ dinnah? T’inkin ’bout blood money? Gawd will punish de greedy. Doh forget Sodom an’ Gomorrah.”

         Butty stopped lathering his arm to look at her. “But Gawd doh like sodomites…”

         “Gawd hates de sin, not de sinnah,” Genie reminded. She could almost see the angst in her husband’s eyes, she knew him thoroughly. He was a good man. Had married her in a community where women had to make miserable choices, often deciding whom to cohabit with based on gang colors or who could offer them protection.

         Later, when everyone slept, Butty snuck out to the corner shop.

         The sour-faced Chinese grocer, Mei, wisecracked, “Las’ week your wife barely had enough money to cover her Sunday pot, now yuh shopping like yuh having party, Butty. Like yuh get raise from Parish Council.”

         Butty ignored her and pointed to the shelf. “An’ some antibiotics, Mei.”

         Mei took it down, reckoned his change and stared quietly.

         When Butty furtively returned to the sewers, Percy was crying because rats had woken him. “They’re chewing on me!” he said.

         “Keep yuh voice down!” said Butty. “Here, sleep on dese cardboards.”

         “Did you call my Mum?” Garnet asked eagerly.

         “Yes, an’ police too…but it go tek time. Dem need strategy. Here…” Butty said,  giving back Sully’s watch.

 ***

         The third day of the manhunt, police still hadn’t shown.

         Butty couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. As he entered the tunnel and blinked his flashlight, the youths rushed him like hungry mutts. “Hey! Tek it easy,” he said, fending them off. To bypass suspicion, he’d had Carlyle get supplies; he could trust him. He noticed how dirty the youths were, how they smelled.

         “Stop pushin’!” Trapper said, washing their hands and faces from a jug.

         They tore through the food with savage grunts, licking their fingers.

          “Look at dem,” Trapper scowled, “dem turn sewer rats.”

         “I brought yuh dese…” Butty handed out galoshes, cigarettes and small flashlights.

         “Why the police not here yet?” Percy groused between mouthfuls.

         “De situation delicate,” Butty counseled, “police cyaan truss some of dem own wid infomayshon. So de mission has to be discreet. If word reach dem killies dat yuh down here den it’s ova — ”

         “We know you’re putting your family at risk,” said Stephen, “…thank you.”

         “We need to get Stephen out, his shoulder’s infected.”

         “Come,” said Trapper. He led Sully to another section, so low they had to stoop, the water level was lower, stagnant pools of filth. “We’ll move yuh here, it’s safer.”

         “For us or for you?” Sully asked sharply.

         “Lissen college bwoy — doh gimme no lip!” Trapper hissed.

         “People watchin’ us, coworkers, neighbors…we haffi be cautious,” Butty explained.

         Upon returning to the group, Trapper saw Percy blowing cigarette smoke into Stephen’s mouth then giggling and locking lips; it so enraged him, he rushed at them and shoved Percy. “Nawsy faggots!” Trapper exploded, “is dat yuh down here doin’?!”

         “Trappah! Easy man!” said Butty, pulling him off.

         “Leggo me!” Trapper yelled, balling his fists, “I cyaan tek it nuh more! Dis t’ing eatin’ me so bad I cyaan sleep! I doh wa’an nuh more ah dem money!” With that he left.

         The youths looked scared.

         “Doh worry,” Butty reassured them. “Trappah jus’ stress.” He took them to the new spot. “Careful not to cut yuh head on de pipes…”

         “How do we all fit into this shithole?” murmured Garnet, kicking at rats that barely moved.

         “Hey!” Butty said. “I nevah promise yuh de Ritz.”

         “Another thing…” Sully said, pulling Butty aside. He was quiet for a long time.

         Butty intuited what he would say. “De oddas know?”

         “I don’t want them to panic,” Sully replied. “Yesterday’s payment was the last. We have nothing left.”

         Butty took out some cash. “Alright, here’s tomorrow’s payment. Pay me in front-a dem. I doh want dem to t’ink I’m a suckah, doin’ all dis for nutten.”

         Sully was so overwhelmed he tried to hug him, but Butty stepped back.

         Garnet moaned, “It’s so dark you doh know if it’s day or night, Monday or Sunday. My parents doh even know if I’m alive or dead…this is worse than being killed.”

         “Yuh cyaan lose hope,” said Butty, “else life have no meanin’.”

         Returning home, Butty saw the area boys playacting — tying Demarco to a stake below a sawdust pile. Butty sneered in passing. “What y’all doin’?”

          “He’s a witch — we go burn him!” answered Chigger.

         Demarco wore a look of blank misery; the stake rocked with his weight and looked about to fall the more he twisted.

         Two of the boys held unlit torches.

         “Butty yuh have a light?” Chigger asked bravely.

         Butty growled, “Cut him down ’fore I cut all-yuh tail, dis damn place have enough crosses widout yuh eediats formin’ de ass! Ain’t yuh fourteen now, Chiggah? De same age as Carl?”

         They reluctantly obeyed.

         Demarco ran away.

         In the street, the boys deejayed over sound system speakers, “Come out come out wherevah yuh are…!”

         When he got home, Butty collared Carlyle and snarled, “Doh yuh eva lemme ketch yuh idlin’ wid Chiggah dem yuh hear me!”

         Carlyle struggled in his grip. “Pa what I do?!”

         Genie jerked Butty’s arm. “Let him go! Wha’ wrong wid yuh!”

          Butty collapsed like a miserable ghost, his eyes burning with sweat. “Dem out dere out to destroy people property wid dem antics!” He was breathing hard, having a panic attack, gripping the chair. But he couldn’t say any of this — couldn’t reveal what was eating him, this sudden moral panic he hadn’t acknowledged before. He’d felt waves of it after I-vid’s accident, but this was more than guilt over a poor sense of judgment. He’d always been responsible for lives — first as a shift supervisor, now this, but had never really pondered the weight of responsibility.

         “Wha’ppen?” Genie asked knowing  something bigger was going on.

         “Dem string up Demarco an’ playin’ at burnin’ him. Out by de woodwork shop. Nearly ketch de carpenter’s place a-fire.”

         Genie smirked. “Is dat eatin’ yuh — damage to anodda man’s property? Is de bwoys’ danger, dem playin’ wid fire, only incidental to dat? Yuh even care what was happenin’ to Demarco?”

         Butty made eyes with Carlyle, willing him to keep his mouth shut about what was happening in the tunnels. “Genie, is jus’ bwoys bein’ bwoys…”

         “An’ ah guess yuh t’ink dem hooligans only makin’ fun when dem walkin’ day an’ night lookin’ to cut people throat. Yuh know killies come search me house today? My home! Suppose me did in here naked!?” Tears glassed Genie’s eyes.

         Toto said, “Chiggah sey him soon join Stone Crushah.”

         “Shut up yuh likkle queer!” Butty snapped, he didn’t know why he had the perverse urge to hurt his youngest.

         Toto ran from the front room.

         “Man!” yelled Genie.

          “What? Him haffi learn!” Butty said, trying to muster outrage. He felt his grip on his family, his life, slipping as if he were in quicksand.

          “An’ dat’s how yuh teach? By hurtin’ a chile?!”

         “A young sodomite ain’t no different from a big one, Genie.”

         Genie pushed her face to his, spitting her words with hot breath, “Den why yuh doh dash Toto out dere to dem? Since yuh so principled! Why doh yuh gi’ dem yuh own chile to satisfy dem bloodlus’! Go ahead! Tu’n him out so him can have him jus’ desserts!”

         Butty shoved her aside. He felt like he was losing his mind. “Woman doh start wid me! Yuh doh know what I goin’ chu daily!”

         “Hypocrite!” Genie laughed scornfully. “Yuh goin’ chu? Yuh need to stop hide behin’ self-pity. Yuh yet to learn yuh bigges’ lesson. Yes — leave — run!”

         Outside, Butty saw I-vid smoking in the pass, leaning on his crutch. Though they were friends, they hardly spoke anymore. Something unsaid was between them. “Vid, where Trappah?” Butty asked, approaching, lighting his cigarette from I-vid’s spliff.

         “Him inside, doh worry,” I-vid coughed. “Him tell me everyt’ing. Him won’t infawm.”

         Butty dropped his head. “Vid, is like I doh know what I doin’ anymore.”

          I-vid pulled smoke up his nostrils, scratched his beard. “All dem years we workin’, yuh know what we nevah realize, Butty? De tunnels is a place to fin’ yuhself. I had to lose a leg to fin’ Rastafari. Is a sanctuary, but yuh need a violent awakenin’ to realize.”

         I-vid hobbled home.

 ***

         The next day, a Sunday, it rained, but Butty didn’t think anything of it. At least it kept hooligans off the streets, he thought. But while he shared a hymnal with Carlyle in church, he watched the weather getting worse. He whispered, “I’ve to move dem, Carl.”

         Carlyle looked alarmed. “Yuh crazy Pa?!”

         “It won’t be long, juss to check on dem. Mek up some excuse fe yuh modda,” said Butty dashing out into the downpour.

         “Where yuh fawda goin’?” Genie muttered.

         Carlyle didn’t answer.

         As Butty approached the manhole, Groover ran from under the eaves of Mei’s shop. “Butty why yuh run outta church ina hurry? Doh tell me yuh workin’ in rain.”

         “Ah forgot some tools,” Butty lied, loosening his tie, rolling his sleeves.

         “Dem tools muss be worth a lot fe yuh to ruin dem nice clothes in de tunnels. Lemme help.”

         “No, Groovah!”

         “I insis’,” smiled Groover, fingering the gun tucked under his fishnet merino, his eyepatch slick with rainwater.

          Groover entered the sewers behind him but the water pouring in from pipes and gutters was almost up to their knees. Butty waded forward, using his keychain flashlight, till he saw Sully’s knapsack floating by. Butty looked crestfallen.

         “Ah yuh tools dat?” growled Groover, “liad — yuh was tryin’ to save de rats all dis time.”

         Butty struggled forward in rank sewage, choked with sodden debris.

         “Stop!” shouted Groover.

         Butty raised his hands. “If yuh shoot me yuh’ll never find yuh way back.”

         They heard a scream.

         Butty switched off his flashlight and detoured quickly down another tunnel.

         Groover fired blindly in the dark. “Butty mi go kill yuh! I know yuh hidin’ dem faggots down here all along!” The more he spun the more he realized he was lost. All the tunnels looked the same. He panicked, released two more shots in the air. “Butty!” The water reached his waist then quickly swallowed his neck.

         Water poured on Butty’s head, ballooning his jacket, demolishing his orientation, which rarely happened in the sewers. “Our Fawda who art in heaven…” he prayed. As if in response, a gush of water rushed down the tunnel, and Butty lost his footing, screaming as it swept him away. The water pressure torpedoed a manhole and gushed into the street, finding release.

         When Butty woke from his concussion, the rain had stopped and the water level had dropped. He groped around groggily, his hand brushing against drowned rats. He saw Groover’s body in a tangle of debris, he’d died with his back to a storm drain’s grate. Butty staggered over and peered into his open eye. “Yuh de drowned rat, Groovah,” he spat, “look at yuh…” He felt no remorse for the man who’d tried to take his life. He remembered the youths. He crawled through a body-wide tunnel towards where he’d heard the scream, shouting, “Hello!”

         He found them huddled in a corner.

         “It was a miracle, Mr. Butty,” said Garnet, his fat belly shivering, “water was up to our necks…then just went away. So did the rain.”

         Butty was speechless. He broke down in tears and hugged them. “Yuh safe.” He kissed their heads as if they were his children. “Come,” he said, “no more hidin’. Gawd spared yuh lives fe a reason.” He smiled to himself, remembering I-vid’s words.

         “What is it?” asked Stephen.

         “I juss realized dat de sewer watah I took for granted dis whole time, baptized me wid a force dat killed anodda man,” explained Butty.

         They heard sirens then a loudspeaker like the long arm of God reaching into their souls: “YOU DOWN THERE. THIS IS THE ST. JAMES POLICE. YOU CAN COME OUT.”

         When they walked to the open manhole, the youths had to shield their eyes from  the dazzling sunlight.

         Stephen hadn’t realized how much the darkness had weakened his vision.

         A blurred hand, stretched across the round circle of light; Stephen, grimacing at his bandaged shoulder, climbed the sewer steps and grabbed it. When he raised his eyes to street level, looking beyond policemen’s boots, he saw a hazy image of a child running with a pink balloon.

         A policewoman lifted him out; Stephen collapsed against her.

         “Breathe,” exhorted the officer. “It’s all over…you’re safe. Medic!”

         Stephen might’ve woken from a dream or entered a different world. But the illusion lasted only a moment as he looked at stern faces, kept in check only by barricades.

         “Where dem come from?” Mei murmured.

         “From de dead —”

         Garnet’s mother was the only parent present. Instead, green-vested medics shepherded the youths like surrogate mothers. They entered armored jeeps. Another corporal escorted Butty to where Genie and the boys waited. Behind the barricade, Chigger grinned and ran a knife-finger across his throat.

         Fingering her house keys, a tear slipped to Genie’s trembling lip.

         The corporal handed Butty dry clothes. “Yuh did a brave t’ing.”

         “We goin’ back home, Pa?” asked Toto, looking up at him.

         He hugged Toto. “Me home is wid yuh, Toe.”

Dwight Thompson is a Jamaican and author of the novel Death Register (2018) and has published short stories in PREE and the Caribbean Writer where he won the Charlotte and Isidor Paiewonsky Prize. He was shortlisted for the 2012 Small Axe Literary Competition and longlisted for the 2021 and 2022 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. My Own Dear People is his second novel. He works at an international school in Hiroshima.