The Deep

He had a quick glimpse, through the windshield of the station wagon, of the driver’s shocked face. He heard the squeal of skidding tires.

The station wagon was barely moving when Sanders landed on its hood, so he was not hurt by the concussion. But his momentum prevented him from stopping; he rolled off the hood and struck his face on the pavement. He tasted blood.

Sanders scrambled to his feet and yelled, “Help!”

The station wagon was full of cricketers, all dressed in white. The driver, a young black, stuck his head out the window and screamed, “You crazy, man!”

Sanders pointed to the Morris. “They’re kidnaping us!”

“What?”

The tall man, now standing next to Gail, called, “Don’t pay him no mind, man. He’s smokin’ bad shit.”

“No!” Sanders said. “Help us! They’re-was “Crazy bastard!” the driver yelled. “You gon’ get killed one day.” Then he said to the tall man, “You tourin’ some crazy bastards, Ronald.” He ducked his head inside the window and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Sanders reached for the station wagon as it lumbered by him, but his hand slipped off the steel. The road was empty in both directions. He debated running, but he did not want to leave Gail.

The tall man, Ronald, snapped a switchblade knife open and held it at his waist, pointing at Sanders. “Move!” he said. “Or I cut your ass.” He took Sanders’ arm and roughly pushed him toward the Morris.

Sanders said, “At least let her go.”

“Her, too.” Ronald opened the front door of the car and shoved Sanders inside.

“What do I do with this?” Gail said, holding the handle bars of her motorbike.

“Drop it.”

She released the handle bars, and the motorbike clattered to the pavement. She climbed into the back seat of the car.

Ronald pushed both motorbikes into the underbrush, got in the back seat next to Gail, shut the door, and, cradling the knife in his lap, said, “Okay.”

The driver pulled out onto the road.

V

They traveled in silence. The windows were shut, and the air in the car quickly grew acrid with breath and sweat. As they passed a sign for the botanical gardens in Paget, Sanders rolled his window down.

He felt the point of the knife press at the base of his neck and heard Ronald say, “Up.” He closed the window.

They approached a traffic circle, where signs pointed to the right for Hamilton, straight ahead for Warwick and Southampton. A policeman stood in the center of the circle, directing the early-evening traffic. Sanders wondered if, as the driver slowed for the circle, he would have time to open the door, roll out, and yell for help. Then he saw the driver wave at the policeman, and the policeman smiled and waved back.

It was growing dark, and as they drove along South Road, never exceeding the 20 mph speed limit, Sanders could barely decipher signs for Elbow Beach, the Orange Grove Club, Coral Beach, and the Princess Beach Club.

High on a hill he saw the huge Southampton Princess Hotel and then the Gibb’s Hill lighthouse. They had traveled almost the whole length of the island.

The stuffy silence increased Sanders’ nervousness.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“Shut up,” said Ronald.

They crossed Somerset Bridge, and another fact from his Geographic past occurred to Sanders. He half-turned toward Gail and said, “That’s the smallest drawbridge in the world. It only opens wide enough to let a sailboat’s mast pass through.”

Gail did not answer. Sanders’ escape attempt had shaken her, and she did not want to encourage another confrontation.

Ronald motioned with his knife for Sanders to face front.

“For whatever that’s worth,” Sanders said, turning back.

The car went left off the main road, onto a dirt track, following a sign that said “Public Wharf.” They entered a clearing-a crowded square, filled with flsh-and-vegetable stalls and ramshackle shops. At the far end of the square was a rickety dock to which half a dozen weathered, patched boats were moored. There were no other cars in the square, and children scampered so carelessly in front of the Morris that the driver had to creep along in first gear. He parked in front of what seemed to be a grocery store. Canned goods and fruit were piled high in the window. A penciled placard advertised bait and pork rind. Faded letters on the gray limestone said, “Teddy’s Market.”

Two young black men were lounging by the doorway. One was casually flipping a hunting knife into the dirt.

The other leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, watching the green car; his shirt was open to the waist, displaying a fresh red scar that ran from his right clavicle to below his left pectoral muscle-macho graffiti. There was something familiar about the man; Sanders tried to place him, but couldn’t.

“Yon come quiet,” said Ronald. “No smart stuff, or they fillet you.” He jerked his head toward the men at the door, then got out of the car and held the back door open for Gail.

Sanders opened the front door and stepped out onto the dirt. A breeze was blowing across Ely’s Harbour, and it felt cool as it dried the sweat on his face.