Age of Voodoo Read online

  “Being shot at by gangster goons will do that to a person,” Lex said.

  “Yeah, about that...”

  “Don’t apologise. Not necessary.”

  “I wasn’t going to. What I was going to say was: you have a gun.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “And you know how to use it.”

  “So?”

  Wilberforce drew a deep breath. “So, we’ve known each other a while, and I think I’ve been pretty good at not asking you about your past and stuff.”

  “You’ve tried.”

  “And you’ve stonewalled, so I’ve given up. Judging by the way you deal with the rowdies at the rum shack, it’s a safe bet you used to be a soldier or some such. You aren’t scared of anyone. You know how to handle yourself in a fight. But you’re so secretive, I don’t reckon you were just a soldier. Know what I’m saying? Plus, you seem to live pretty well”—he waved a hand, indicating the house—“and I haven’t heard of a military service pension that pays out like this.” An anxious expression came over his bruised face. “I don’t really want to pry, but I have to ask. Who are you, Lex? No. Scratch that. Who were you?”

  The question hung in the air, as good questions tended to.

  Lex was tempted to come clean. He could trust Wilberforce, and the man was already pretty close to the truth. Why not give him the rest?

  Wilb, I’m a former professional murderer. The British government used to pay me handsomely for eliminating people whose activities or politics were inimical to the interests of the Crown. I worked freelance, meaning I was off the books, not employed by any security agency or Whitehall department, utterly deniable. I carried out covert executions sanctioned by the highest authority in the land, and some of those killings were arranged to look like accidents and others were public and splashy and very obviously assassinations—stiletto or hammer, depending on the offender’s circumstances and the message I was supposed to be sending. I was a high-value asset, ex-SAS, trained in the art of homicide, and I served my paymasters with distinction, indeed honour, for the best part of a decade. I have fifty-one confirmed kills to my name, for which I have received neither official recognition nor medals, and I believe my actions have made the world a safer place... albeit at the price of my own peace of mind.

  All this he so nearly said. The words were accumulating on his tongue, ready to pour forth, when Wilberforce’s phone rang.

  “Hold on. Just let me take this.”

  Saved by the bell.

  Wilberforce strolled off into the garden, coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other. Lex tried not to listen in, but he gathered that Wilberforce was talking to a relative of his. The conversation—this side of it, at any rate—became animated and forceful. When Wilberforce returned to the table, he looked flustered and peeved.

  “Who was that?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Which cousin?” said Lex. “Oh wait, that cousin. The one you don’t want me to meet. What’s her name—Alberta?”

  “Albertine.”

  “I’ve never been able to work out why you insist on keeping her and me apart. Is there something wrong with me? Do you not approve of me? If that’s it, I’m hurt. Really offended.”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “So why so protective?”

  “I’m not,” said Wilberforce. “I’m embarrassed, is what it is. Albertine, see, she got this thing—this mad thing. I’m really not sure about her. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love her. We were close, growing up. More like brother and sister than cousins. Now, though...”

  “Not an evangelical Christian, is she?” Lex cajoled. “Bible in one hand, tambourine in the other?”

  “Hell, no. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Wilberforce puffed out his lips and glanced up at the sky. “Probably best you find out for yourself.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Not long. She’s on her way over.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah. She was insistent. She gets that way sometimes, and there’s no arguing with her.”

  “She’s coming here?” Lex repeated. “Why?”

  “Couldn’t talk her out of it,” said Wilberforce. “She knows I’m in trouble, and she says she knows about you, and you’re in trouble too.”

  “But I’ve never met the woman. How can she—?”

  “Lex, enough with the questions. Let Albertine explain it herself when she arrives. Believe me, the shit she’s going to come out with, it’ll be the craziest shit you ever heard. Just listen and keep smiling and try not to blame me.”

  SIX

  ALBERTINE

  WILBERFORCE WOULDN’T BE drawn any further on the subject. He seemed ashamed, as though whatever was wrong with his cousin reflected poorly on him somehow.

  At last a car came up the drive, a Suzuki soft-top off-roader faulty engine timing and a screeching fan belt. Out of it stepped a smartly dressed woman with the crisp, efficient air of a highly-placed, well-respected executive. She carried a large leather Mulberry shoulder bag and her hair was a mass of braided extensions, interwoven strands of gold, copper and bronze arranged in a neat bun at the back of her head. Lex watched her smooth her skirt down, and thought she was just about one of the most elegant and poised women he had ever seen. From the picture Wilberforce had painted, he had been expecting a frumpy wild-haired fruitcake in flip-flops and a kaftan. Not this. The only thing that detracted from her smartness were the trainers she wore on her feet, but they did at least look box fresh and were, on Manzanilla, far more sensible than heels.

  As Albertine Montase climbed the front steps, Wilberforce opened the screen door to greet her.

  “Albie.”

  “Wilberforce. Long time no see, cuz.”

  They embraced and pecked cheeks—warmly on Albertine’s part, not quite so on Wilberforce’s.

  “How have you been keeping?” Albertine asked. A trace of an American accent was folded into her islander lilt, like cream into coffee.

  “Fine.”

  “Those bruises say otherwise.”

  “Tripped and fell.”

  “Onto somebody’s fists.”

  “No. No. Nothing like that.”

  “Yes. Yes. Exactly like that. And this is him.” She turned velvet-brown eyes on Lex. “Your rum shack peace enforcer.”

  “Lex Dove.” Lex extended a hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you. Wilberforce has told me a lot about you.”

  “I bet he hasn’t.” Her hand was dry and firm in Lex’s. “Wilberforce prefers not to acknowledge my existence.”

  “I do not!”

  “You do.”

  “I can’t see why he would,” said Lex.

  “That’s because you don’t know me,” said Albertine. “And also because you don’t know how people like Wilberforce think. Wilberforce is all up-to-date and twenty-first century, the very model of a modern West Indian. There are certain deep-seated cultural factors he simply won’t accept. Our racial heritage is an enemy to him, something he fears would hold him back. He rejects it, denies it...”

  “I reject it because it’s bullshit,” said Wilberforce.

  “No, because you’re scared of it.”

  “I’m not scared of booga-booga tribal mumbo-jumbo.”

  “Calling it names only shows how scared you are.”

  “Scornful, maybe. Not scared.”

  “If you’re not scared, say its name,” said Albertine. “Call it for what it is. Go on, I dare you.”

  “Don’t be silly, woman.”

  “You can’t, can you?”

  “Of course I can. I’m—I’m just not indulging you in this nonsense of yours.”

  “Ahem,” said Lex pointedly. “I hate to butt in on a family row.”

  “Then don’t,” Wilberforce and Albertine both said in unison.

  “But,” Lex went on, “as this is my home, and I’m the host, may I offer you a drink, Albertine? Somethin
g hot? Cold? Alcoholic? Not?”

  Albertine grinned. Her teeth were huge, even and brilliant. “Sure you can. Sorry about me and Wilberforce going off like that. We always did like to squabble. And he can be such a dope at times.”

  “I may be a dope,” said Wilberforce, “but at least I’m an enlightened one.”

  “Shut up, Wilberforce.”

  “No, you shut up.”

  “Tea would be nice, Lex,” said Albertine. “Earl Grey if you’ve got it. Milk and two sugars.”

  THE SUN HAD burned off the mist. They sat at a parasol-shaded picnic table in the garden.

  “So you know nothing about me,” Albertine said to Lex.

  “Beyond your name, no.”

  “Black sheep of the family, huh, Wilberforce?”

  Wilberforce huffed. “Just because some of us have standards...”

  “What can you tell about me, Lex, just by appearances?”

  “Aside from the obvious, you mean?”

  “The obvious?”

  “You’re stunning.”

  She laughed. Wilberforce, by contrast, scowled.

  “Lex,” he growled.

  “Just a statement of fact,” Lex said. “You’ve spent some time in the States. College?”

  “Not bad,” said Albertine. “I did my master’s degree at Cornell. What else?”

  “You have a decent job. Accountant?”

  “IT consultant. I help run and maintain the government systems. The servers, the websites, the software for the power grid.”

  “High flyer.”

  “I do okay.”

  “But you’re careful with your money. You couldn’t have splashed out much on that Suzuki.”

  “What’s the point? Manzanilla roads are so atrocious, only a fool would have a decent car. Better an old banger, something that’s easy to fix when it goes wrong and doesn’t matter if it picks up a few extra scrapes and dents.”

  “You’re conscious about your appearance.”

  “Show me the islander woman who isn’t. Is that all you’ve got?”

  Lex shrugged. “I could go back to telling you how gorgeous you are, if you like.”

  “Feel free,” said Albertine.

  “Don’t,” said Wilberforce.

  “You’ll have to forgive my cousin, Lex. He still thinks I’m the little girl in bunches and spectacles who he had to keep the bullies away from in school.”

  “It’s very sweet, the way he looks out for you,” Lex said.

  Wilberforce gave him a glare that would have curdled milk.

  “It’s very sweet, the way you look out for him,” said Albertine. “Especially last night. I warned Wilberforce not to get into bed with the Garfish. But oh, no, big fat smartypants, he knew better. He thought it would never come round to bite him on the backside. Thank God he has you for a friend. His own guardian angel.”

  Lex was only too happy to take the praise.

  “So you have the measure of me, yes?” Albertine said.

  Lex nodded. “I think so. Unless there’s something I’m missing.”

  “What if I told you I’m into vodou?”

  “Vodou? Is that the same as...?”

  “...what you would call voodoo? Yes.”

  Lex frowned. “What, so it’s a hobby of yours? Something you study for fun?”

  “No. Oh, no. Lex, I’m a mambo. A vodou priestess. I worship the loa—the spirits. I talk to them and they talk to me. And they are telling me that you, Lex Dove, are in the greatest danger of your life.”

  SEVEN

  A MESSAGE FROM THE LOA

  “RUN THAT BY me again,” said Lex.

  “A little context first,” said Albertine. “My—and Wilberforce’s—family hail from Haiti originally. Our mothers came over here in nineteen seventy-seven with our grandparents, fleeing the reign of Jean-Claude Duvalier, Baby Doc as he was known.”

  “A lovely chap, by all accounts.”

  “Not a patch on his father, Papa Doc, but a monster all the same. Baby Doc inherited one of the most corrupt regimes on the planet at the time, his position reinforced by the private militia his father created, the Milice de Volontaires de la Sécurité Nationale.”

  “Better known as the Tontons Macoutes.”

  “You know your Caribbean history.”

  That, and one of Lex’s fields of expertise was dictatorships. “The Tontons Macoutes were some of the biggest bastards ever to walk the earth. They made the Stasi and Pinochet’s DINA look like girl scouts. Twenty thousand Haitians dead at their hands, is that right?”

  “Some estimates put it as high as fifty thousand. Dissidents and opponents of the regime, slaughtered in their droves. People would disappear in the night and be found the next morning, or rather their mutilated corpses would. Anyone who was believed to be an anti-Duvalier agitator, they and their entire family would be killed, utterly wiped out. Rape and extortion were commonplace. All this while Duvalier père et fils helped themselves to Haiti’s sovereign wealth, lining their pockets and becoming obscenely rich while honest citizens scrabbled to make a living and went hungry.”

  “Haiti’s still a shitbox,” Wilberforce opined, “only now it’s at least a democratic shitbox.”

  “Yes, thank you for that, cuz,” said Albertine tartly. “The land of our ancestors, dismissed in a single sentence.”

  “And the earthquake a couple of years back?” Wilberforce added. “That was Mother Nature commenting on the place. She was trying to finish the job Papa Doc started.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Just saying.”

  “The Tontons Macoutes,” Albertine resumed, glowering at her cousin, “sowed terror among the population not only by their actions but by their appearance. They wore denim like Azaka, the loa of agriculture, and used machetes like Ogun, the loa of iron and war. Even their name was designed to prey on people’s fears. Tonton Macoute is a bogeyman from Haitian folklore who kidnaps children and carries them off in a sack. Essentially, they were a perversion of vodou beliefs, just as Papa Doc himself was, with his black undertaker’s suit, hat and heavy sunglasses.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Lex.

  “Papa Doc styled himself after Baron Samedi, the loa of death and cemeteries. His look said, ‘I have power over life and death, and don’t you forget it.’ Although actual practitioners of vodou were not held in high regard by him and his bullyboys.”

  “Because they might point out that he wasn’t all he claimed to be.”

  “Just so. To them, he was a blasphemer. The braver ones said as much, not that it helped. The Tontons Macoutes dealt with them the same way they dealt with all troublemakers. When Papa Doc died in ’seventy-one and Baby Doc took over, things got even worse. More chaotic. Baby Doc didn’t have his father’s charisma or ruthlessness. He fell out with the Tontons Macoutes and was finally forced into exile in ’eighty-six, by which time Haiti was all but ruined. Most of the middle classes and the wealth creators had quit the country long beforehand—the Haitian Diaspora, which took them to places like Cuba, the Dominican Republic, the United States. My grandparents were among them. They came to Manzanilla with my mother and her little sister, Wilberforce’s mother, to seek a better life, but not only for that reason. Also to escape execution. Specifically the execution of my mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she, though only in her teens, was showing signs of becoming a powerful vodou adept. And, being in her teens, she was naturally outspoken and rebellious. The two things in Haiti during those years were not a good combination. Things got hot for my family. My grandparents bought passage on a little fishing boat, leaving everything they had behind, and made their way here to begin again. My mother, Hélène, kept up her vodou training and studies, and within a decade had become a mambo to be reckoned with. Truly one of the greats.”

  “A big woman in every way,” said Wilberforce. He whistled and shook his head. “You should see her, Lex. A metre and a half tall and about a hundred kilos. S
he’s like a ball, almost perfectly round.”

  “Hey, that’s my mama you’re insulting,” said Albertine.

  “Who’s insulting? She is big. You can’t deny it. You could shove Aunt Hélène down a hill and she wouldn’t stop rolling ’til she reached the sea.”

  “Do you want her to put a wanga on you, Wilberforce?” Albertine said. “I can ask her to. A quick phone call is all it’ll take. Steal a washcloth from your house, tie seven knots in it, drop it in a river, and you won’t be able to get hard again, not until you beg her forgiveness. How about that, eh? Your limp little zozo dangling between your legs, no use for satisfying any of those dozens of girlfriends you’re forever boasting about.”

  Wilberforce blanched, then tried to brazen it out. “It wouldn’t work. You can’t cast a hex on someone who doesn’t believe.”

  “But don’t you believe? If you believe even a little tiny bit, it’ll happen. Trust me.”

  Wilberforce seemed about to argue further, but Lex intervened. “I’d leave it there if I were you, mate. Don’t want to go messing around with that sort of thing, especially when it involves a part of you you’re so very fond of.”

  “Wisely spoken, Lex,” said Albertine.

  “I take it the role of mambo is hereditary, then,” Lex said.

  “It can be. In my case it is. My sister Giselle and I grew up watching our mother hold her ceremonies, give gifts to the loa, ask them for help on her own behalf and on others’, be ridden by them during the rituals. Giselle pooh-poohed it as peasant superstition, but I knew it wasn’t. It was more than that. It brought tangible results. It was truth. So when I was old enough, I asked Mama to start teaching me the ways, and soon I was a vodouisante myself, familiar with the loa nachons, the songs, the dances, the drumbeats. I now have my own peristyle—a sacred space, kind of a temple—at home, and in my spare time I offer people consultations and advice. I make candles for them to purify their homes with, cast spells to ward off evil or bring luck, heal them if they have some sickness of the soul...”