When the crowd of hollering black men in blue shirts makes its move toward us, many swinging machetes above their heads and holding long sticks, I grab Michelle by the back of her T-shirt and pull her away. I don't care that she's going to be angry for my ruining her shot. This isn't the time for amateur photography.
I force her to run with me down the shabby street, little bright parrots taking flight above us. Our driver, Anthony, disappeared on us with the excuse he'd find me a cold beer. I've no idea where we're going and don't care, just as long as it's away from the mob. We go deeper into this shantytown, my shirt sticking to my back in the heat.
“My shin splints,” Michelle cries. “We have to slow down.” Is she kidding? A Christmas vacation in this tiny island country was her idea, and now we're facing possible death.
I squeeze her hand harder and speed up, the shouting not far behind. “We won't be around to see New Year's,” I yell at her, my chest wheezing, “if we can't find somewhere safe to hide.” Goddammit. This is Anthony's fault. I don't trust him, haven't since the moment a few days ago when I first saw him trawling for fares in his beat-up Subaru at the tiny airport.
We round a corner, almost tripping over a mangy dog that darts out from beneath our feet, tail between its legs. It stares back fearfully over its shoulder at us. My chest is tight and my head pounds, and as I raise my eyes from the dog, I skid to a stop, Michelle whacking into me, her camera digging into my sunburned lower back. A block away and moving our direction, another gang of angry and sweating black men approach, these in red shirts, shouting and swinging more machetes above their heads.
Pushing Michelle back around the corner, I pin her against the wall. “This is not good, honey,” I whisper, looking to my left along the street we've just run down, knowing that any moment the gang in blue will appear like a nightmare in the dusty streets and harsh sunlight. I know my eyes are wild and bloodshot. I know I must look as frightened, as freaked out as I am. Michelle stares back at me, her own eyes wide, her face flushed and sweaty.
Three days ago we flew here. It was Michelle's last-minute idea to escape the crappy Toronto snow, my widowed mother and her holiday depression, Michelle's brothers and sisters and their constantly growing families that spawn faster than mould. We walked out of that tiny airport and into the humid heat of this island that smells of rotting fruit, dragging our wheeled suitcases behind us like stubborn pets. A taxi driver pushed his way through the loitering cabbies and made his way straight to us. He introduced himself as Anthony, his mirrored shades hiding something. He didn't even bother to ask if we wanted him to be our driver as he took Michelle's suitcase and led us to his rusting car.
Michelle smiled back to me as he opened his trunk and lifted her heavy bag into it as if it weighed no more than a baby. I noticed Anthony's muscled arms through his cheap tropical shirt. I've gained some weight in the last year. I think it's due to the struggling economy. It's caused me a lot of stress.
“Where's Anthony?” Michelle asks, her face desperate. “We need Anthony.” I can hear the mob in blue moving closer somewhere to our left, the mob in red much closer and heading our way, too. It hits me like a slap that we have found ourselves in the middle of some kind of gang war. Michelle and I are standing at ground zero. I scan the street. Of course all the doors are shuttered. Christ. It's Christmas Day, and this place is about to explode in violence. I could be watching my nieces and nephews tear open gifts, my mother dozing on the chaise with an empty champagne glass beside her. I stop myself from spitting at Michelle, “This is all your fault.” We have to stay calm. We have to find a way out of this.
