What Happened In Paradise?

Second Visit: Did You Follow Me?

Maxwell tries to return the way he came; Detective Guber goes in front of him, blocking his path. Each time Maxwell sidesteps the Detective, he moves his broad body in the same direction.

“What? Are you five?” Maxwell plants his feet in the sand and glares down at the Detective’s bald spot. Detective Guber holds no power here. If anyone is going to bring him to justice for whatever he’s done, it will be the WIC soldiers…and he’s living with them. If he can dwell so closely to those who have the power to confine him, he can stand his ground with Detective Guber.

“I have already told you…I have questions.”

“You have no jurisdiction here. What are you going to do? Drag me back on a plane?”

“You do not know anything about my jurisdiction.”

Extradition. The thought hadn’t crossed Maxwell’s mind until now. Does Water Island have extradition treaties with home?

Detective Guber smirks as if he senses that Maxwell has just come to an important conclusion. Maxwell moves to the side and Detective Guber follows. He has the urge to shove Detective Guber into the sand. The assault of the detective would be added to the list of his other offenses. What will a little battery matter if he’s found guilty of murder? It would give Detective Guber an excuse to shoot him. Maxwell suspects the man isn’t eager to find out the truth; he’s simply trying to close a chapter. He could shoot Maxwell, say that he did it in self-defense, say that the murderer attacked him while he was being questioned. Who would question the detective on his behalf? Would Stephanie’s mother - or anyone else - demand to know why Maxwell was chased by the Detective to Water Island? Would they inquire about the many protocols broken? Or would they accept his death as a form of justice? Patricia isn’t around to fight for him. His death would close the case and that would be enough.

Maxwell darts to his left, he races up the footpath, ignoring the damage he’s doing to the soles of his feet.

“Come back here,” Detective Guber calls after him. Maxwell runs even faster. While he races, he listens for the detective. Is he closing in? After a while, Maxwell doesn’t hear the detective’s voice or his footfalls. He slows to a jog, looks over his shoulder. There’s no sign of Detective Guber. He must have run out of breath.

Maxwell shudders, hugs himself when he gets to the end of the footpath. A large house looms ahead of him; it’s being swallowed by the vegetation around it. The walls are worn; paint stripped by the salt and winds that sweep across the path from the sea. Vines climb up the walls, giving some colour to the weathered walls. Maxwell moves closer; he feels drawn to this place. He pushes the gate open and enters through the back (he assumes the entrance to the sea is the entrance to the back. He climbs the stairs and walks a length of the corridor. Dead and dying palm trees are in the centre of the building, their grey trunks seemed to have been broken by the weight of fronds that are no longer present at the tops. The leaves of the palms have all fallen to the ground where they’ve dried like the hedges and other shrubberies in the yard.

“What are you doing here?”

Maxwell turns; his head spins from the speed of his movement. He is face to face with an old woman who is charging towards him.

“Why are you back here? You should not be here?” She grabs Maxwell by the shoulders and shakes him. “You must leave. It is not like before. I will not be able to protect you this time.”

“Who…who are you? What are you talking about?” Has he been here before? In this dump? Protect him from what?

“Leave! Leave at once!”

She’s stronger than Maxwell would expect her to be. Her face and arms are filled with age spots; her skin is thin and soft. He grabs hold of her small hands, tries to lift her fingers. She holds firm.

“Leave!”

“Let me go!” Maxwell grabs her hands and pulls his shoulders free. He runs to the opposite end of the corridor, trying to escape. He escapes into the bushes. Trees and shrubs in the front have devoured the house more successfully than in the back. Maxwell runs to escape the woman, runs to escape words he doesn’t understand. He finds himself on a road. He tries to stop the cars that veer past him, but the drivers all speed past him. He walks for hours. Eventually, he finds himself at The Inn.

Maxwell is exhausted when he arrives at The Inn. He carries the exhaustion from his day, but he needs to know about his first trip. When he walks in, yet another WIC soldier is at the front desk. This one, a lean young man; a hair shorter than Maxwell and the same complexion as the woman who’d checked him in.

“Can you help me?” Maxwell walks up to the desk, hands shaking, face wet from worry and exhaustion. “I think you can help me. Please…”

“Has your stay been good?” the young man asks. His facial expression hasn’t changed and his tone doesn’t suggest any care for Maxwell’s stay or his current state.

“Can you tell me what happened the last time I was here?”

The soldier narrows his eyes.

Everyone seems to remember the trip that Maxwell doesn’t, perhaps this soldier does too.

“I was here before. Do you remember me?” Maxwell brushes curls from his eyes and pushes his hair away from his face. He never wears his hair this long, but so many things have happened since he awoke in his apartment, a haircut hasn’t been on his agenda.

The soldier continues to stare; he looks through Maxwell, beyond him. He’s not trying to remember Maxwell’s face. He has no interest in the memory game Maxwell has tasked him with.

“The other one…the other soldier. She says I was here and she remembers me. Do you remember me? Can you find her for me? Maybe she can tell me what she remembers.”

The soldier shuffles papers on the desk. “It’s not her- our place to remind you of your trip.”

“Please…” Maxwell grabs the part of the desk where the wood curves outward; the tips of his fingers pulsing against the polished wood. “Please…” His voice is urgent, pleading. “I came with friends. I need to find them. Please. I need to know what happened.”

“I am sorry, Sir, but I cannot help you.” More shuffling of papers.

Maxwell slaps the desk. “At the very least there has been a crime…or four crimes. Isn’t it your job to investigate crime?”

“Yes, Sir. It is. But there is no crime for us to investigate.”

“Then where are my friends?”

The papers are finally in the order the soldier requires. He takes up a pen, writes on the sheet at the top.

“Please,” Maxwell pleads. “I need to know.”

“There is nothing I can tell you.”

“Can you get the soldier who checked me in? Or Marfus…Get me Marfus.” Marfus is the only soldier that has treated Maxwell with something more than annoyance or indifference. He provided Maxwell with a name. Short of describing their physicality, Maxwell has no way to seek out individual soldiers, except for Marfus. He can seek out Marfus.

There is no soldier here by that name.”

“Marfus…He’s tall. A little taller than me.” Maxwell lifts his hand over his head to show how tall. “He’s dark, much darker than me or you. And he has a lot of muscles.”

“There is no Marfus.”

Maxwell slaps the desk; pain shoots across his palm. “He’s a WIC soldier. He dropped me off at the beach.”

“No Marfus.” The soldier returns to shuffling his papers. Maxwell launches across the desk, the soldier backs away, gluing himself to the wall behind him. Maxwell tries to swing his legs over, but the desk is too high. He uses his arms to pull himself up onto the large desk. Before he reaches the soldier, someone grabs him by the back of the neck and drags him off the table.

“You are not thinking clearly, Max,” Detective Guber says as he releases Maxwell. “I wonder if it is this rage that killed your friends.”

Maxwell isn’t thinking clearly. How can he try to harm the soldier? He's living among them. They, like Detective Gruber, can cause him to disappear and use his death to answer all their questions. Maxwell shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head…his body, then heads to his room, making sure to bump into Detective Gruber’s shoulder on his way to the staircase.

“I look forward to our time together,” Detective Gruber says as Maxwell ascends the staircase.

Maxwell steps into his room, only it isn’t his room. There are a few makeshift board buildings before him; behind him is the plantation house. The huts he’s looking at resemble the shanties of Water Island, but he’s never seen a shanty this side of Water Island. He’s never seen the lack and opulence of the island co-existing so closely. Drumbeats and a strange song pull him behind the shacks. He follows the unsteady gait of a slender woman. The white dress she wears hangs off one shoulder. The fabric is ripped, tattered, and has brown stains which match the mud on his shoes. She’s fair, much fairer than Maxwell. Her skin is delicate in the moonlight. Her arms are smooth; her back is a collage of ripped flesh. Her back is filled with tears and welts from which blood bubbles and drip, drip, drips, onto the tattered frock.

“Do you need help?” Maxwell reaches out to her; his hand falls short of gripping her. The woman walks to the well behind the plantation house. She widens the tear at the top of her dress, rips it open. It falls, hangs over the bindings at her waist. Her full breasts are also bound, held firm by white wrappings. She reaches up under the breast wrap. Just as Maxwell is about to turn, allowing the woman some privacy, a glass vial glints in the moonlight, catching his attention. Maxwell reaches for the vial, catches air. The woman empties the contents into the well, then disappears. Or he does.

Maxwells is once again behind the shanties. More drumbeats. More chanting. Bodies lie on their backs: arranged in a circle - corpses hand in hand. In the centre of the body circle is the old woman that chased Maxwell from her house. Her eyes are closed; her lips are moving. She’s the one chanting; Maxwell searches for the source of the drumming. The woman’s cries grow louder and louder, wailing building to some sort of c****x. At the end of her unintelligible song, the bodies rise in unison. Maxwell can’t contain the scream that rises from his belly. They look at him, every last one. The risen bodies; the old woman; each with eyes eager to devour. Maxwell screams; runs. He’s back inside the plantation house, in a room that looks familiar.

Maxwell is seated by the open door. He can’t muster the energy to move or close the door. Truth is, he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to be alone. He sits where the light from the hall shines upon him, and where the sounds and smells from the other rooms of the house are able to reach him. Detective Guber finds him there, shaking and weeping.

“What are you doing?”

Maxwell looks up. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.” Maxwell buries his wet face in his hands. Detective Guber’s breath is steady, even; he’s waiting for more.

“This place scares me.”

Detective Guber sits down next to him. “It is a strange place.”

“No, I mean…I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“Or not. You should hear the stories the locals tell.”

Maxwell sniffs.

“Listen Max…Maxwell, I’ve been digging around. There is something off about this place. I do not think that you are responsible for whatever has happened to your friends.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“You would…if you had my knowledge.”

Where has Maxwell seen that smile before?