Clarence Chance, Contributor

The yard sat at a curious spot. If you approached it from Rose Street, at the point where it merged with Tulip Avenue, they could see you. If you approached from Daisy Street where it met Tulip Avenue, they could see you from where they sat behind the zinc fence. They sat there day and night, peering through the holes in the fence, watching and waiting.

The yard was not always theirs. The truth was, it was not theirs at all. Old Woman Cassie had lived there for thirty years selling coal and kerosene oil. When the war broke out, they decided that they wanted it. They offered her the chance to leave peaceably, or they would 'burn her out', they said.

One night while Old Woman Cassie was at church, an alarm was raised. 'Fire, fire!' The shack at the rear of the yard where her coal was stored had been burnt to the ground. When she was leaving in Mr. Ernest's old truck, Old Woman Cassie screamed, 'The blood is against you, Johnny Sparks. The blood is against you, Deportee!'

Anthony Jackson had come to hate these men, even more now that Miguel, his neighbour and friend, had gone to join the gang. Coming from school, he had to walk by their base he could, he knew better than to walk down Bottom Road. When the war had first broken out, Miss Princess' oldest son Stephen had gone down there to see his girlfriend, just as he had being doing for four years. They shot him that Sunday night, saying, 'A up suh him come from.'

Divided along geographical lines, men were fighting each other. Men who had gone to the same Sunday school, read from the same Bible, sat in the same class at primary school, were turning guns on each other over a piece of road work. Upgrading work was to be done on the Main Road, and both groups of men wanted to control the site. Controlling the site meant that they wanted to be paid protection money and the right to decide who could be fired or hired. Allegations led t led to war.

Anthony was passing by the zinc fence. He heard the dreaded voice calling to him from behind the fence.

'A Professor dat?'

He did not answer. He kept walking. The voice called out again. It started from behind the fence, came through the gate and was presently on the side of the road.

'Hey Professor, a diss yuh a diss mi?'

He did not turn around until he heard a familiar voice - a voice he had been hearing since he was five years old and had moved from the country.

'Professor, don't diss the Big Man.'

He turned to face them. Deportee was there, too, and about six other men. But it was his friend Miguel to whom he spoke.

'Miguel, yuh not coming home to Miss Princess?'

'Mi fi come home fi them beat mi again, Professor? Fi them beat mi and call mi 'Chi Chi' man?'

Anthony might not have realised it, but he was holding on to Miguel's hands. 'Please, Little Man,' he begged. 'Remember what happened to yuh brother them.'

Johnny Sparks plucked Miguel's hands from Anthony's. 'Leggo the man hand - mi neva stop yuh for that!' He stopped, looked around and smiled, 'A want yuh to bring Lizzy pon the ends on the weekend for mi.'

'Is mi fourteen-year-old sister yuh talking, Johnny Sparks?'

'Fourteen or forty! Mi want her on the ends by Friday.'

Johnny Sparks turned to Deportee smiling. 'She developing nice, yuh si, Deportee. She fat like mud fish.'

Deportee didn't smile.

Last Easter, when Anthony's mother, Lizzy, and he himself were going to church, Anthony had seen Johnny Sparks staring at them - staring even when they were turning off Tulip Avenue onto Primrose Street.

Deportee pushed the gate and went back into the yard.

It was Little Man who spoke. 'Professor, tell Mama mi alright. Mi deh 'mongst the Big Man - is me cook and ting.'

So Johnny Sparks wanted his sister. He had already taken bright little Tannika Smith when she was thirteen, Michelle Riley from gully lane and the Indian man's daughter, Shelly. At first the Indian man had said, 'Over mi dead body'; but then he had brought her to Johnny Sparks to be ravished. Later, Johnny Sparks boasted: 'I made him an offer he couldn't refuse.' Now he wanted Elizabeth.

Anthony was sure of one thing: he would not tell his mother. She would go to the police. It was not always a good thing to go to the police. Miss Princess' second son, Joe-Joe, had gone to the police station when his bicycle was stolen. That same afternoon, police found a gun hidden in Miss Princess' yard. Joe-Joe's lifeless body was found the next morning in the gully, at the top of Gully Lane, with a piece of cardboard thrown down on it with the words, 'Police Informer,' written with charcoal. People said it was Johnny Sparks' gun, so he was responsible for the crime. Some said of Little Man, 'Fool-fool bwoy, him gone join the same man who shoot him brother, fool-fool.'

When the priest was returning to Scotland, the church community held a send-off party at the primary school for him. The community was invited. Little Man was the head chef. He prepared all manner of dishes - dishes with Italian and Chinese names, baked chicken, jerked pork and peanut porridge. The men loved the peanut porridge. They said it gave them stamina. 'It tough, Miguel, it tough fi real,' they said, knocking his fist and touching thumbs together. That same night as he made his way home, those same men beat him for the third time. They said he had girl ways; he spoke like their sisters and washed woman clothes. Twice when his mother was sick he had washed her clothes - first when Stephen was killed, and again when Joe-Joe was murdered.

Anthony sat there after Elizabeth and his mother had gone to bed, thinking about Little Man and the times they had had. For the whole night he sat in the living room. He just could not fall asleep.

His cellphone was alarming. It was 4:45 - the time he would usually wake for school. His hand was reaching up to turn on the shower when 1-2-3-4 shots rang out in the early morning quiet. The scrambled egg sandwich he was having for breakfast almost choked him when he heard the frantic shaking of Miss Princess' gate and the excited voice of a woman shouting, 'Miss Princess, Miss Princess, them shoot Little Man!'

He was lying on his back, all five feet two inches of him, his eyes open. They seemed frightened. Many times he had dramatically declared that he would be the best chef in the island; now he lay dead, a boy of nineteen. The story being told was that Johnny Sparks had sent him to see if the other men were coming up. A hail of bullets found him.

It was 12:30 a.m. Anthony was again sitting in the living room thinking about Little Man and the times they'd had. His thoughts shifted to Elizabeth; there was only one day to prevent Johnny Sparks from having her.

Someone knocked at the gate, softly at first. When he did not respond, the knocking came harder.

'Who dat?' Anthony called.

'Is me, Deportee. Wi have a common enemy. Johnny Sparks cause Little Man death and is pure rape and murder a hear them talking 'bout.'

'Hold down yuh voice,' Anthony said; he heard his mother stirring. He unlocked the door and went outside.

'The man them drink and smoke every Thursday night 'roun a the burn-out shack at the back of the yard. A want yuh help mi deal with them case,' Deportee said. When he saw the fear in Anthony's eyes, he said, 'Is yuh sister and yuhself yuh doing it for.'

Anthony heard his mother's voice coming towards them.

'Is who yuh talking to, Tony?'

Before he could answer his mother yelled, 'A done tell yuh a don't want yuh down here! Leave, man, leave now!'

'Alright, Margaret,' Deportee said. 'A leaving.'

Anthony waited until his mother had gone back into her room and had settled back in bed before he went in and asked: 'Mama, yuh know that man?'

She did not answer.

Anthony switched on the light and asked again: 'Mama, yuh know that man?'

'Is yuh father, Tony. Is yuh wutliss puppa.'

'But, Mama, yuh told me mi daddy in the States!'

'Until them deport him. And when a see how him mash up and how him mix up in criminal things and a hear seh him smoking coke, mi couldn't put miself to say is yuh father that.'

She paused. The hardness and bitterness of the years, long covered up and soothed by religious convictions, were naked. Her face took on a pronounced contradiction. On the one hand she wanted to be true to her religion - to be gentle, humble in spirit. But within her a burning anger raged against the man she had loved, who had deserted her with two little children. When she tried to speak, the words barely crept out, 'A man can forget a woman, but a man should never forget him pickney them.'

Anthony's mind was tangled, his palms sweaty. Deportee had said to meet him at 7:00 p.m.; they planned to enter the yard by jumping over the back fence.

Deportee was already there. 'Suh, Margaret tell yuh,' he said. 'When mi hear them calling yuh Professor and say how yuh bright, mi feel suh proud of yuh and suh shame of miself. When a went up to the States things were bad, suh a start to sell drugs and soon a start to use it and mi get mix up in some other things. Many times a felt like writing, but mi just couldn't bring miself to doing it. Then them lock me down in the Big House for ten years and then deport mi. When mi find where Margaret live, she wouldn't have mi. Nobody wanted a deportee around - suh mi fall back into mi old self.'

He stopped, seemed to think, and next seemed to speak to the elements: 'A going to protect mi pickney them.'

Anthony was just thinking he could forgive this man, maybe even grow to love him, when his father spoiled the moment by reaching into his waist, saying, 'Take this, hide behindthe ackee tree, only use it if any of them escaping 'roun that side.'

Anthony changed the weapon from hand to hand, wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers and returning the gun to it. How could life be so cruel to him? He was a sixth form student, he had harboured thoughts of university, and here he was, holding a gun and getting ready to use it. His father had said the men were talking about rape and murder. Well, he would defend his sister.

He waited. Eight, nine, ten o'clock; 10:08 p.m. He could hear talking; they were coming. He pressed himself hard against the tree, his hand squeezed tight around the gun. Then everything happened at once. There was the violence of gunfire, the screech of tyres, the whine of sirens, the gurgling sounds of death, the uncontrollable wailing of women.

Little winds blew over the lawn, the type that would mess with a woman's newly done hair and dislodge a hat here and there. All eyes and ears, though, were fixed on the Professor. It was the launch of a foundation to aid inner-city youths, a collaborative effort between the university and the Ministry of Youth and Culture. Professor Anthony Jackson was the main speaker.

'My father died that night, 25 years ago. He died taking five men with him, including Johnny Sparks. Why should paternal instincts have kicked in at that time in a drug addict? I do not know. Why should the police be patrolling at that very moment to rescue me from the other two men left alive? I do not know. What I do know is that our children need us; to love them when they are unwilling to be loved, cause them to feel special, protect them from the elements that seek their ruin.'

As he spoke, the Professor's eye caught the late afternoon sun and in it he saw his childhood friend, Miguel, his eyes frightened. In the sun he saw Miguel's brother Joe-Joe lying on his back in the gully with the cardboard thrown down on the body. The Professor's hands tightened around the podium.

'We need to build healthy self-esteem in our children. We need to take back our country from criminal elements, report every act that is outside of the law. Let us ... let us love our children.'

A quiet descended on the gathering. The Minister of Youth and Culture stood up and applauded. Then, from all around the gathering, applause erupted for the man who had devoted all his adult life to the social salvation of youths. He looked into the gathering and saw his mother in the front row. Her silver hair captured the late afternoon sunlight. And what a golden sight Elizabeth made, with her own two children and husband! Beside them was Miss Princess, clapping, too. Clapping vigorously for him, because she had no son to clap for.

Clarence Chance