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Half an hour after Lola leaves, I finally lock up, fixing a sign to the door telling everyone that The Shack is closed for business tonight. I briefly entertain the idea of wandering over to Malakai’s boat to let him know Lola’s unwell, then decide against it. Our conversation the other morning was surreal, and I’m not sure that we’d be able to talk as freely as we had when the morning was quiet, and no one was about. Besides, it’s time my grandma answered some of the questions I have about Malakai.
* * *
When I return homeit’s just past five in the evening and Grandma is in the kitchen preparing our dinner. She’s busy fixing a salad and listening to the radio. Some guy is talking about the state of crime levels in London, and Grandma is clucking her tongue at the news. She hates violence of any kind. She’s pretty opinionated for a woman who lives on an island cut off, for the most part, from any real danger. Jack was right when he said nothing happens here. Crime is non-existent.
“Hey, Grandma,” I say, dropping my bag on the kitchen table. “Can I help with anything?”
“There she is! How was work today, sweetheart?” she asks, placing the knife on the counter and offering me her cheek to kiss.
“Busy. Lola’s not well, so she’s not opening up tonight. She looked awful actually,” I answer in quick succession, grabbing a slice of cucumber and giving her a peck on the cheek.
Grandma Silva frowns. “Perhaps I’ll check in on her later, take her something to eat. I don’t like the thought of her alone and poorly. That girl is too stubborn to ask for help when she needs it.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’ll pop over. I was going to head to the beach for a little while after dinner, I can take a detour to Lola’s and take her some food.”
“That’s an idea, save my legs and that poor old car of mine,” Grandma agrees, already grabbing a plastic container and placing some of the salad and chicken breast she’s cooked into it.
“You really need to get a new car,” I tease.
It’s an ongoing joke of ours. Grandma has always said that when the car finally gives up, so too shall she. It’s an old Rover that’s rusty and discoloured from the harsh weather we sometimes get here, but it runs well enough. Just like Grandma who, despite her increasing age, still has a hell of a lot of life left in her.
“Shoo, I’m not getting rid of Rusty, that car will last far longer than these new-fangled electric ones that everyone keeps going on about, I can tell you.” She winks then pats my arm. “Come on, let’s eat.”
After we finish our simple meal of fresh tomato and rocket salad with grilled chicken breast, I help Grandma wash up. She washes and I dry, putting the plates away. This is something we’ve always done together, a routine I love because we get to chat whilst we do. When the last plate has been dried and stored away in the cupboard and our harmless chat about life in general has finished, I turn to her wondering how to broach the subject of Malakai. I’ve waited long enough, not knowing how to start the conversation. In the end, I just come out with the question that burns my lips the most.
“Who is Malakai, Grandma?” I ask softly.
She stills, resting her hands on the edge of the sink. For a moment, she doesn’t acknowledge my question, and I know she’s deciding whether to answer truthfully or not. In the end she sighs.
“Come with me.”
I follow her into the lounge, taking a seat on our two-seater whilst she opens the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulls out a photo album that I recognise as my mum’s but haven’t seen for years. Sitting down beside me she opens it up and immediately I’m drawn to a photo of my mum and dad in their early teens. A rush of memories come flooding back as I recall being a lot younger and my mum showing me this very same album.
“I’d almost forgotten you had this,” I remark, leaning over and feathering my fingers over the photo of my parents.
“It’s been a while since I’ve looked at this photo album myself,” she says as she starts to flick through the pages slowly. Eventually, she rests her hand over one particular photo before I can get a good look, and turns to me, her knees touching mine. “Malakai was indeed your father’s best friend. He arrived on this island when he was twelve with his mother Jacosta, a wonderful woman who doted on Malakai. She loved him fiercely.”
“Lovedhim?”
“Yes, loved him. She died not long after she left the island with Malakai when he turned sixteen.”
“What happened?”
Grandma removes her hand from the photo and my gaze is immediately drawn to the younger version of Malakai. He’s smiling, and it’s so beautiful that my breath is snatched from my lips as I absorb every inch of him. His hair is longer, there are no tattoos adorning his body and he looks almost carefree. If I’d been alive back then, I would’ve felt the same way as I do now. He’s so very beautiful and yet, even though I appreciate that, I can’t help but wonder what happened to make him so distant, so caustic, so unreachable. His mum dying must have had an impact, but my gut tells me that there’s more to this story, so I wait for Grandma to continue. She strokes her finger over my mum and dad who are standing next to Malakai. My dad has his arm flung over my mum’s shoulder, both of them are grinning at the camera. They look to be no older than fifteen or so.
“This photo was taken just before Jacosta and Malakai left the island. A few days before, actually. This was the summer when your mother and father finally admitted their love for one another.” Grandma allows herself a bittersweet smile before continuing. “I know Malakai loved your mother too, Connie. I don’t know for sure, but I understand that part of the reason they left was because Malakai was broken-hearted.”
“I see.”
Knowing he loved my mother makes my stomach twist in knots. Is he attracted to me because I look like her? Everyone has always said that we’re alike. That makes me feel disappointed somehow, that Malakai might be confusing his feelings for me with a memory of my mum. I want him to see me, not a ghost of a woman who no longer exists, no matter how much I love her.
“But that wasn’t the only reason,” Grandma continues, oblivious to my warring thoughts. “Jacosta was married to a very bad man. A man who belonged to a family that is dangerous. Malakai is part of a crime family that still exists to this very day. They are responsible for much of what you hear on the news. Drug racketeering, prostitution rings and worse…”
“Worse?” I whisper, my heart beating wildly now. Is that what he does on his boat, smuggle drugs? Is he a criminal too? And yet, even with the little I know about him, I’m certain he isn’t that man. Perhaps I’m naïve, foolish.
“Yes, worse. Bernard-Malakai’s father-was brother to a man only known in the criminal underworld as the King.”
“The King?”
