As her home was officially a crime scene, Mrs Dixit stayed at her sister’s. She would have preferred to go to a hotel, for everyone’s sake, but her cards were all maxed out. She hadn’t taken her mobile phone in the rush of getting into the ambulance, so Mrs Dixit simply showed up at her sister’s house at 7 a.m.
Henry was amazed.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, as if she was the fictional faun from Narnia having just hopped out of his wardrobe.
‘I’ll have to make up the fold-out bed,’ her sister said, clearly unimpressed with this turn of events – the drama of a home invasion not quite enough to cancel out the bother of having to do extra laundry.
‘I’ll just lie on the couch, if that’s easier?’ Her ribs were aching.
‘We have the grouting being done in the bathroom, they’ll be in and out all day.’
‘I’m so tired, I don’t think I’ll notice.’
Her sister gave a look that clearly communicated: no, but I will.
In the end, Mrs Dixit took a nap on Henry’s bed as he completed his preparations for school.
He narrated everything he was doing for her benefit:
‘These are my socks,’ explained Henry. There was something in his focus and movements as he dressed that was the spitting image of herself.
Despite the pain she was in, the warm milk and honey smell of him in the pillow and his bright buoyant chatter soon lulled her into a deep, and this time, dreamless sleep.
When Mrs Dixit woke at midday, her sister was gone, so she said goodbye to the workman who was grouting the bathroom and went back to the hospital. Mrs Rampersad was almost completely revived and was now enjoying the scandal of the night before.
‘I heard a loud whirring noise.’
‘That was the blender.’
‘Ah – so I came downstairs. I could see the light was on, underneath the door, which I thought was strange, so I knocked – no answer – and went upstairs again to bed, but something didn’t feel right. I asked Jesus what I should do, and he said: Woman, go sneak down there and put your ear against the door. So, I crept down those stairs as quietly as I could, soft as a cat’ (Mrs Dixit inwardly recalled all the times that Mr Dixit had cursed the woman upstairs for her heavy footedness. ‘She’s doing it on purpose,’ he would cry. ‘She could be quieter if she tried!’). ‘Then the Holy Spirit took me aside to say, Put on these boots, there’s a man’s voice in there, it would not be seemly to be seen with your toes dangling out in the middle of the night. And I put the coat on as it was cold. I listened again, and this time I heard that little man, and the terrible things he was saying, and I thought, now is the hour! I waited by the door, like a lion. When he opened the door, I was ready to save you.’
‘And you did, you did!’ Mrs Dixit exclaimed, wanting to reward her.
‘Well, no. Not really. God’s plan is unknown to us all.’
‘But I would never have escaped if it wasn’t for you.’
‘That may be,’ Mrs Rampersad said, patting her hand. ‘I’m glad I could do my part.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You know, when I had that whack on my head, I don’t remember anything else except coming round in the ambulance. But I did get a vision!’
‘Of Jesus?’
‘Of Tom Jones, and Mr Beasley from the church whose wife died a year ago, but best of all was Bishop Desmond Tutu. And they held me in their arms, and they were so beautiful! And Desmond Tutu sang a sweet song from my youth, and Tom Jones did the harmony, and even Mr Beasley had a lovely voice. If I get into heaven, that’s the angels’ chorus I want.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘It was all I could do not to give that Desmond a kiss on his mouth!’
‘He’s a clergyman. And a married man!’ Mrs Dixit played at being scandalised for enjoyment’s sake.
‘I’m sad for her then,’ Mrs Rampersad laughed. ‘He seemed to enjoy it.’
‘I was scared for you, that you’d be hurt. Hurt worse, I mean.’
‘I’m a tough old battleaxe.’ But even Mrs Rampersad went quiet in the face of what could have been.
‘I told the police about Magnus.’
Mrs Rampersad looked puzzled. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I think he is connected to the robbery – he might even be the brains behind the