Date: 2021-11-14 06:02:27+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Literary
Description: Two women. Two musical vibes. One song. Set in the UK and Jamaica, Rise Up, Sista is a story about female friendship and the power of music to change individual lives and popular culture that spans over fifty years. Mercy Mae Williams, a Jamaican reggae artist, and Annabelle Sinclair, a British rocker, meet as young women in London in 1963. It’s a heady era—cultural revolution and fresh musical genres explode on both sides of the Atlantic.
Publisher: TouchPoint Press

Rise Up, Sista

a novel

Kristine Simelda

Relax. Read. Repeat.

RISE UP, SISTA

By Kristine Simelda

Published by TouchPoint Press

Brookland, AR 72417
www.touchpointpress.com

Copyright © 2021 Kristine Simelda

All rights reserved.

eBook Edition

Softcover ISBN-13: 978-1-952816-76-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to media@touchpointpress.com.

Editor: Jenn Haskin

Cover Design: ColbieMyles.com

Cover Images: Watercolor background by NeangArt (Pixabay); Two women by Maria Ponomariova (iStock); marijuana leaf by GDJ (Pixabay); music notes by jaaannnaaa (Pixabay)

Visit the author’s website at www.kristinesimelda.com

First Edition

To Nelly, a soul sister and a Stharre
who rose up on August 19, 2015

Guide to Jamaican Lingo

anada     another
bag-o-wire     betrayer
bawn     born
bloodclatt     holy shit
blow wow     shocking
borosie     rude person
boukie     country bumpkin
bakra     white person
bumbohole     a despicable person
butu     good for nothing
cho          expression of
impatience
chupid/ness     stupidity
cumbolo     best friend
de ya     I am here
duppy     ghost
dutty     dirty
fenky-fenky     weak
gangalee     gang leader
gangster-rass     Rasta gangster
ginal     trickster, con-man

Ible     Rasta bible
irie     good feeling
ital     nutritious food

Jam Rock     Jamaica
likkle     little
likkle more     see you later
lime     party
maca     thorny
magwa     skinny
mawning     morning
mek     make
nyam     eat
pickney/dem     children
pussyhole     strongly disliked
person
rass/rassclatt     curse word
ray-ray     confusion
samfie     trick
shitstem     system
sketelle     bad girl
su-su     gossip
tallawa     brave, spunky
tek          take
tunid     giddy
wagga-wagga     fat
wurtless     worthless
yardie     ordinary Jamaican

“In order to rise from its own ashes, a Phoenix first must burn.”

—Octavia E. Butler

Part One

Chapter 1: Olde Mill

Chapter 2: West End

Chapter 3: Giddy-Up

Chapter 4: British Invasion

Chapter 5: Not Only Rock-And-Roll

Chapter 6: As Tears Flow By

Chapter 7: A Smile And A Frown

Chapter 8: A World Starved For Love

Chapter 9: Revelation

Part Two

Chapter 10: The Victory Bandwagon

Chapter 11: True Confessions

Chapter 12: Catch A Fire

Chapter 13: Henrietta

Chapter 14: Lover’s Rock

Chapter 15: Rehab

Chapter 16: Politricks

Chapter 17: Magnetic Wheels

Chapter 18: Jamtilles

Chapter 19: Sincerely Sinclair

Part Three

Chapter 20: Sumfest

Chapter 21: Oracabessa

Chapter 22: Legends Night

Chapter 23: Shoot Batty Boy Boom

Chapter 24: Reggae Compassion

Chapter 25: Those Girls

Chapter 26: Peace And Love

Chapter 27: Cheese On Bread

Part Four

Chapter 28: Mt. Calabash

Chapter 29: Welcome To Jamaica

Chapter 30: Thank God For Hennie

Chapter 31: Jah Bless You

Chapter 32: Grannybelle

Chapter 33: Devil Is My Name

Chapter 34: Emancipation

Chapter 35: Ras Moses

Chapter 36: Rise Up, Sista

Afterword

About the Author

MT. CALABASH

Jamaica

A bright green lizard scampers across the walkway as two old friends stroll hand in hand. The Blue Mountains loom large beyond a gap in the hibiscus hedge where an iridescent hummingbird dabbles in the scarlet blossoms. The Caribbean Sea sparkles ultramarine in the distance.

Mercy Mae flips back her long, silver dreadlocks. Despite her age, her teeth are unstained and her dimples undiminished. “Mt. Calabash lookin’ good, Annabelle,” she says, grinning. “It’s amazing what can ’appen when two hearts get together in the right place.” After more than fifty years in the music industry, Mercy has learned to ignore the bad vibes circling like hungry vultures and trust in the miracle of a happy ending.

“Yeah, man. The place is irie,” says Annabelle, attempting a bit of local vernacular. “But sometimes having a good heart can put you in some real fucked up situations.” A rainbow-patterned T-shirt clings to her portly body, and a few strands of bleached blonde hair escape from her straw hat. All those years in England, Annabelle behaved like a Pavlovian dog. But now that she has joined Mercy in sunny Jamaica, she knows there’s more to life than punishment and reward.

Part One

Giddy-Up

Chapter 1: Olde Mill

Mercy Mae Williams was born in 1946 on a rural Jamaican sugar plantation in Clarendon Parish. Olde Mill sat on a plain at the foot of Mocho Mountain in south-central Jamaica, and the Rio Minto River ran through it. From the time she was a pickney, she enjoyed the kind of freedom associated with country living—goats and pigs, chickens and eggs, fresh fruits and vegetables, and plenty of sugarcane to chew on. Yet paradise had its price. Her father, Calvin, who oversaw the estate, lorded over it like some kind of colonial slave master. The workers hated him and so did Mercy. Why? Because he was the first man to mess with her. It started when she was nine and didn’t end until she moved out at fourteen. The incest, which was supposed to be a secret, often made it hard for her to relate to other members of her family, even though she suspected they knew. Her only defense was humming, which she kept up until Calvin wore himself out.

The Williamses didn’t live in the big house, but they had a comfortable cottage large enough to hold her parents, Mercy, and her three brothers. Mercy’s mother, Jemma, was a sensible woman who had been schooled in town. She kept a tidy household with books on the shelves and food on the table. They even had a piano that she determined Mercy must learn to play. She never had any formal lessons but practiced her scales every night after supper. She figured if she made plenty of noise it might drive her father far enough away so he couldn’t get to her. It didn’t work. All she managed to do was to get on everybody else’s nerves.

One afternoon, Jemma appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room with a frown on her face. Flour dusted her thick brown arms, her hands rested on her ample hips, and the smell of oxtail and dumplings drifted from the kitchen.

“Mercy Mae, honey, don’t you have some homework to attend to? Your father, he tryin’ to tek a nap.” Mercy ceased playing immediately. Lord knows she didn’t want to wake Calvin up so he could come behind her.

Her oldest brother Avondale was a bully. When he had enough noise, he’d jerk Mercy’s arm behind her back and clamp his hand over her mouth until she stopped torturing the piano keys and his ears. “You want me to hurt you bad-bad?” He joined the Jamaica Constabulary Force as soon as he turned eighteen, which was the perfect place for a tyrant like him.

Her middle brother Paul was a joker. He’d get down on his knees in front of the piano and howl like an old pot hound dog. “Sista, please! Have some mercy on you bredren dem!” Then he’d tickle her until she had to run to the toilet with her hand pressed between her legs so she wouldn’t have an accident.

Desmond was different. Only a year older than Mercy and sympathetic to her musical aspirations, Dessie was the one who inspired her to keep on practicing when she might just as easily quit. “Your music sounding nice, Mercy Mae,” he said.

Mercy loved Olde Mill—the gurgling of the river, the color of the hills, the way the cane bloomed at Christmas. But eventually, the scene at home got so bad she joined the Pentecostal church choir just to get out of the house. Pastor Randy took a shine to her and said she could stay on after choir to practice the piano. The most popular music at that time in the countryside was mento. (Harry Belafonte’s smash calypso hit “Day-o” or “Banana Boat Song” was originally a traditional Jamaican folksong.) The problem was mento featured mostly acoustic instruments, and Mercy wanted to play boogie-woogie like she heard on the records the older boys brought home from the States. Luckily, Pastor Randy didn’t seem to mind when she got busy on the keyboard. Grinning like a shark, he would plop himself down on the bench beside her and sing along with the racy lyrics.

Everybody knows what dutty old men do to little girls. They lure them in with sweet promises, talk nastiness, and then they make them feel like it’s their fault the thing ever got started in the first place. That’s how it was for Mercy. Pastor Randy promised to sign her up for the Vere Johns Opportunity Knocks Talent Show held in faraway Montego Bay if she didn’t tell. By then she’d already learned to treat undesirable affection like a tradeoff, a negotiable bargaining point to be used in her favor. So she kept quiet until she got a chance to audition for the show, and then never set foot in that church again.

The Williams family didn’t have a car, only an old Bedford truck that belonged to the plantation. It was a full day’s journey across the island to the Palladian Theatre, and Mercy Mae was nervous as a cat. Calvin must have stopped at ten gas stations along the way so she could pee. But the audience dug her fourteen-year-old voice when she finally made it up onstage, and Hallelujah! She WON! Thus she got a chance to appear on the RJR Radio show Opportunity Hour, which was broadcast live from Kingston. Mercy heard how Mr. Johns helped plenty of unknowns get noticed by local record producers, so she sang her heart out while visions of celebrity danced in her adolescent brain. Yet if she was going to be a star, she had to get away from Calvin first.

“Mummy,” Mercy blurted, “I need to talk to you. It’s ‘bout Daddy.”

Jemma nodded as if she had known all along. She was on the phone with her sister, Mercy’s auntie, five minutes later. She barely had time to get her things together before her uncle arrived.

“Gwann, Mercy Mae,” said Jemma. “Mek me give you a big hug ‘fore you go. But don’t forget to come back home when the right time comes.”

Mercy heard her parents quarreling—Jemma crying and Calvin using bad words—as they pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road toward May Pen. She was sorry for the trouble she had caused between her parents, but she knew she had to break the cycle of abuse if she was ever going to be free. Sure, she’d miss her mum, but not that bugger Calvin. The only problem she could foresee was that her auntie and uncle didn’t have a piano at their house in Kingston. But she needn’t have worried; Mr. Johns from RJR continued to be her mentor and paid for private lessons.

In 1962, the streets of Kingston were alive with people who didn’t want to stop celebrating Independence. To cash in on the irie feeling, local producers got the idea to copy pirated American rhythm and blues records to play at downtown jams. Huge speakers blasted on street corners, and country boukies like Mercy couldn’t wait to jump up to the beat.

“Mercy Mae, where you goin’?” her auntie called after her. “It’s late and you have school tomorrow.” But Mercy, almost fifteen years old and ready to have a good time, was already out the door.

The street jams were a good deal for everybody. Cheap food and drink, including “Rude to your Parents Rum,” was available to swallow along with the rhythm of hijacked music. Besides the promoters, enterprising vendors could make a little change, and kids could get stinkin’ drunk to boot. Of course, there was also plenty of weed, as if the music made it legal.

Anything in a skirt was fair game for the yardies that patrolled the block on Beat Street, including Mercy Mae.

“Wha’gwann, sweet cheeks?”

“I already got me a boyfriend.”

“He cuter than me?”

“Nah. Jus’ as ugly.”

As sound system events spread like wildfire across the island, producers copied imported 45-RPM 7-inch discs and stamped out records that used local musicians as talent. Music stores sprung up overnight in downtown Kingston, and Mercy spent every bit of her allowance in those shops, playing the flimsy records until they wore out. Eventually, shuffle blues morphed into a more upbeat tempo. It was similar to mento and calypso but with the R&B beat flipped back to front and peppered with a skanking guitar and more horns. Music-loving Jamaicans called it ska because of the scratching guitar strings. The first ska recordings were produced at Studio One, the Jamaican version of Motown. When Mercy passed the studio on her way to school in the morning, there was always a set of ragamuffins, kids who had poured in from the countryside holding their homemade instruments, waiting to audition.

“Good luck,” she said, waving. If they could make it, then maybe so could she.

Most hopefuls failed immediately, but the lucky ones, like The Wailing Wailers, got a few dollars for their effort. But more often than not, royalties never materialized even if a record sold. If additional talent was required for backup, it came from the Alpha Boys School, a place for underprivileged youths that was right around the corner. Sister Ignatius made band practice a big part of the school’s curriculum, but the idea of compensating the boys for their musical contribution probably never occurred to her.

It was Mercy’s old friend Mr. Johns from RJR who booked her first rehearsal sessions at Studio One. At that time in Jamaica, many of the songs were cover versions of foreign artists—no one really cared about the issue of intellectual property, they just wanted their voices heard. Mercy recorded a duet with Owen Gray while she was still in high school. It did well, and she got a whopping fifty dollars! Then she had a local hit with Roy Panton, who auditioned for the role of the next sexual predator in her life. Although Mercy was only sixteen, she understood more than the sum of her years. She was glad she had a couple of hits under her belt, but she wanted more than Jamaica had to offer its local talent. She wanted to be an international star, but for that to happen, she knew she had to leave the island behind.

Despite Independence, economic depression still flooded Jamaica like a tidal wave. Some people were so poor they couldn’t even afford to buy a record. When homegrown music became popular with the middle and upper class, the ska beat migrated from the streets of Kingston into the more affluent uptown clubs. But the creative force that had flowered in the Jamaican ghetto soon bored the hoity-toity, who seemed embarrassed by their cultural roots, and the raw, local music quickly fell out of favor with the elite.

Mercy met Barry King, the upstart producer of Antilles Records, at an RJR Christmas party thrown by Mr. Johns. Although King was new to the business, he had a good track record—his label had a number one hit and had released twenty-six singles and two albums. When he asked Mercy her name, she blushed and told him it was Mercy Mae Williams.

“I’ve heard a couple of your records. You’ve got a cute voice,” he said, sizing her up. “Why don’t you let me make you into a star?”

Ah. The magic words. Barry, a very good-looking and charismatic character, was white and a member of one of the elite families that ran everything from politics to commerce in Jamaica. Surely, he had connections. When he told Mercy he intended to move his recording business from Jamaica to England, where he was born, she knew what she had to do if she wanted her career to sprout wings. “Tek me with you,” she begged.

Barry promised Mercy’s father he’d give the family twenty percent of her recording royalties if he signed over her legal guardianship to him. Bangarang. Next thing she knew, she and Barry—now her manager—were on a plane to London. Mercy, having never been on an airplane before, was excited and scared to death at the same time. Once the terrifying takeoff was over, and the plane was in the air, the flight attendant lectured passengers on what to do in case of an emergency landing. Emergency landing? Mercy decided she wanted to get off right then and there. Of course, that was impossible. She muttered a small prayer while she stared out the window at her retreating homeland. When the last remnant of the island of Jamaica disappeared, puffy white clouds that cast deep blue shadows on the sea took its place. Meanwhile, the smell of fancy food and Blue Mountain coffee wafted from behind a curtain at the front of the plane. Mercy devoured everything set in front of her, and she washed it down with all the soda pop she could swallow. She must have gone to the toilet a dozen times during the flight but couldn’t figure out what happened when she flushed.

She couldn’t see a thing except the red lights blinking on the tip of the plane’s wing after dark. According to the map, there was nothing but ocean underneath them anyway and there wouldn’t be for several more hours. She fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed Calvin was trying to torment her at Olde Mill. But this time he didn’t succeed. In her dream, she was a bird that escaped by flying out an open window. Cho! Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

It was just getting light when the roar of the throttled-down engine startled her awake. The sun should have risen, but it was hard to tell—a sickly gray haze hung in the early morning sky as the plane circled over London. A wide chocolate brown river passed under bridges with towers on both ends while factories belched out yellow smoke. Strangest of all were the houses, tall, narrow, and identical, with their steep gables and multiple chimneys. Mercy had only seen those kinds of buildings in storybooks, and she wondered if she was about to enter the domain of the little pigs and the big bad wolf.

Landing was the scariest of all. When she heard the wheels grind out of the belly of the plane, Mercy was positive there was something wrong. She started humming, a well-practiced technique by then. She pulled her seatbelt tight and clutched the armrests while she waited for impending disaster. The aircraft bounced several times, swerved to the left and right, and continued to roar down the runway as if it would never stop. Rain sprayed on the window while the blurred images of half-empty hangers and fire trucks sailed by. She could see the end of the line just ahead and squeezed her eyes shut. After the plane finally came to a full halt, Mercy vomited everything she had eaten into the paper bag graciously provided on the back of the seat in front of her.

Her legal guardian held her arm in a grip like a vice as they walked across the runway. “You’re gonna have to learn to hustle!” said Barry. The air was thick with jet exhaust and diesel fumes, so she held her scarf over her mouth and nose to stifle the smell. Mercy knew the weather was going to be colder than Jamaica, but nobody told her about the stinging sleet and the icy wind that chilled her to the bone. She followed the trail of vapor that leaked from her lungs into the frosty air as she tramped toward the terminal at Heathrow. Her teeth chattered continuously while she passed through immigration and collected her luggage.

Mercy had to pee again during the taxi ride to Barry’s home. “Again?” he complained. When the cab stopped at a wayside petrol station, he shook his head and looked at his watch impatiently. Barry lived in Forest Hill, a suburb north of London. It was a nice neighborhood, the houses big and well kept. Each one had a tidy lawn and a separate garage that held at least one car. While Barry paid the driver, Mercy looked around for familiar sights—kids playing in the street, dogs rooting in garbage cans, market ladies hawking their wares—but there were none.

“Home sweet home,” said Barry as she deposited her luggage inside the front door. He poured himself a drink. “Your room is downstairs.”

Chapter 2: West End

Annabelle Sinclair was born in 1946, the same year as Mercy Mae Williams. Her mother, Edna, was a psychopath who lived in a make-believe fairytale world, so the lies started when she was just a small girl. Edna thought she was some kind of Austrian baroness and had Annabelle, who was an only child, believing she was descended from a set of aristocrats. Truth be told, her ancestors were refugees who had fled the Nazis and haphazardly landed in England. Annabelle’s father, Rupert, a university professor, was more or less normal for a while. But when he quit his teaching job and ran away to join the commune at Brazier’s Park, a massive Rose Hall-style estate house deep in Oxfordshire, the family dynamics fell apart. What kind of middle-aged man would abandon his wife and child to run around naked and practice free love? Dreamy, self-centered Rupert, that’s who!

Without a breadwinner, the Sinclair economic circumstances changed dramatically. The so-called baroness was suddenly destitute. Annabelle had been taking acting and singing classes at convent school, so her mother decided it was time for her to contribute to the family piggy bank. As soon as she turned sixteen, Edna launched her into London’s exploding music scene where she started out entertaining coffeehouse patrons by performing folk music just for tips. That’s when Annabelle first began to doubt her own self-worth. No matter if it was a school night or if she had cramps and her period, the show had to go on. Her studies suffered, and although she managed to graduate from secondary school, she didn’t further her education until she won a provisional university scholarship on her own accord.

She met John Duncan at Cambridge. He sat in her political science class, tall, bright, and extremely handsome, the offshoot of an old wealthy family that had cut him off after he rejected their social status in favor of drugs, art, and radical politics. How cool was that? Annabelle thought it was so cool she was ready and willing to jump on the counterculture bandwagon right along with him. After all, her father’s behavior more or less gave her permission to forget about convention and exercise her free will, and she couldn’t wait to give it a try.

“You know, I come from a radical left-wing Socialist family myself,” she informed John their first afternoon in bed. She hoped she put on what he considered an adequate show.

He smiled and crossed his arms behind his head. “Give me a few minutes, Annabelle, and I’ll demonstrate radical to the nth degree.”

With John, Annabelle hoped to break away from the guilt laid on her by the nuns at the convent and the weird sexual hang-ups that emanated from her mother. She ached to discover the sexy, nonconformist woman she suspected was buried somewhere deep inside her. By the end of the semester, things got serious, and she and John shacked up together, their living conditions less than ideal. They shared a squat with six other people who were too self-absorbed to qualify as real friends, and their tiny room was crammed with John’s paintings, mostly unfinished. Occasionally he tried to sell one at the cooperative art gallery where he exhibited, but more often than not he just gave them away when there got to be too many.

Finances ran desperately low, so low that Annabelle had to drop out of school after the free ride finished. It was back to the coffee shops and the two-bit theatres. Fortunately, she had the kind of willowy appeal that was so popular in England back then. Slim, with long, blonde hair held back by a patent leather headband, liquid blue eyes, and pouty lips, she turned heads wherever she went.

But like most everybody else, John appreciated her body more than her musical talent. “Annabelle, you need to ditch that antiquated folksy rubbish you sing if you want to be a celebrity,” he said as they relaxed after an afternoon of lovemaking. Colin Jones had recently “discovered” her. Although he was her manager, her act was going nowhere. So if John thought her singing was dull, she figured it probably was.

In those days, Annabelle took what men said to heart. “Okay,” she agreed.

“There’s a party tomorrow night after the show at Ealing,” said John. “Colin wants to introduce us to his new band. Maybe you can pick up on their groove.”

Annabelle supposed going to the Ealing Jazz Club in the west of London was a good idea. Folk music was on its way out, and she needed to get with the times if she didn’t want to be left behind. The Yardbirds, Cream, and Eric Clapton had modified the British rhythm and blues style of Alexis Korner into a type of music called British rock, and it seemed everybody wanted to hook their wagon to the rising star. Besides the Beatles, there were over three hundred and fifty boy bands in Liverpool alone. (Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Searchers, The Spencer Davis Group, The Animals, The Dave Clark Five, Herman’s Hermits, and The Hollies to name a few of the more famous.)

Annabelle wore a crocheted black dress she picked up at a second-hand shop to the show. She pinned up her hair and applied eyeliner and mascara hoping it would make her look more sophisticated. Fake gold hoop earrings and high heels completed the makeover. There. That should convince everybody she was a swinger, not the goody-goody folk singer her mother imagined her to be. It was tricky getting down the narrow steps into the club, especially in those heels, but once she and John were seated, Annabelle breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, Colin’s new band disappointed. Ian Walsh’s performance was even more boring than her own—awkward, ill-timed, and completely devoid of any discernible stage presence. Nobody wanted to play with him except his mate Rick, who had obviously practiced his prancing, but not practiced the guitar. To Annabelle, Ian and Rick were just a couple of lackluster wannabes who thought they dug the blues. It was a good thing they had Colin to back them up on keyboards or else there might have been a rumble at the club after their first set. When a bloke named Sonny sat in on percussion, things definitely improved.

“The drummer’s not half-bad,” said John.

Colin sauntered up to them during the break with a new dolly bird hanging on his arm. “John, wha’dya think of the Mod Squad?” he asked.

John shook his head. “Blimey, Colin. They’re pathetic.”

“I know. I’m working on finding another guitar player to help boost us up.” He lit two cigarettes and handed one to John. “But most of our gigs are freebees, so it’s hard to recruit new talent.”

Colin took in Annabelle’s new look. “You’re looking lovely tonight, Ms. Sinclair,” he said. “So how’d ya like the lads?”

She laughed and shook her head. As she did, hairpins came undone and loose strands escaped from her lopsided chignon. “Come on, Colin. The Mod Squad? For starters, I think your boys need to be called something more original if they want to attract attention.”

“That makes sense,” said Colin. “Stick around, Annabelle, and we’ll talk some more later.”

But Annabelle didn’t want to talk to Colin. Yes, he was her manager, but she thought there was something odd about him. Sometimes he’d disappear for weeks at a time—retire to his mini-mansion and smoke dope with aspiring female talent that he never brought out in public.

“Sure thing,” she said distractedly, attempting to fix her hair.

Annabelle and John bumped into record producer Barry King and his Jamaican protégé Mercy Mae Williams at the after-party. Mercy seemed about Annabelle’s age, only she was smaller and more compact. Despite her flawless mahogany complexion, caramel-colored eyes, and gorgeous white teeth, Annabelle found it hard to imagine she was such a big star. Barry, known for his shrewd business deals, was busy negotiating with Colin, while Mercy stood in a corner by herself looking lonely. John went to the bar for another drink, so Annabelle walked over and introduced herself. “Hiya. I’m Annabelle Sinclair.”

When Mercy smiled, a pair of deep dimples appeared in her brown cheeks. “Mercy Mae Williams,” she said.

Annabelle reached out and shook her hand. “I like your hat. It’s real funky.”

“Barry makes me wear hats to cover up my bad hair. He says if I don’t, I look like a Zulu.”

“That’s a weird thing for him to say. Then again, maybe it’s best to follow his advice since he’s your manager.”

Mercy blushed. “You really think there might be a market for the Jamaican beat in the UK?”

“Well, anything is bound to be more popular than folk music,” Annabelle said, chuckling.

Mercy got a faraway look in her eyes. “But London not no Kingston, ya know. I mean the label boss tryin’ to teach me proper English, got me lessons and all, but I doubt I’ll ever fit into this scene.”

“Of course you will,” said Annabelle. “You’ll make friends, and you’ll make enemies like everybody else in the music business. By the way, what do you think of Colin’s new band?”

“Barry says he might sign them with Antilles, but I think they’re chupid.”

Annabelle smiled and nodded. “You’re right. They definitely need to rehearse more often.”

“For real. But the lead singer’s kinda cute, not true?”

“He’s taken. He’s been going out with the kid sister of what’s-her-name, the fashion model, for some time. Christy writes a column for Mod Magazine about her redoubtable encounters with music celebrities. In fact, she recently wrote about you.”

“Yeah,” said Mercy. “She said I’m from Antigua, and I sing calypso, for heaven’s sake.”

The next time Annabelle saw Mercy Mae at Ealing Jazz Club, her Queen’s English had improved considerably, and she had the biggest hairdo in proportion to her small body of anybody around. Later on, the style would be called an “Afro,” but she was definitely ahead of her time.

“Barry hates it, but I don’t care,” said Mercy. “Jamaicans like him, they come from rich white families and can be guilty of seriously messed-up thinking. Check this: I’m scheduled to do a special TV show next month, so he bought me a whole set of styled wigs to choose from so I’d look acceptable onstage. Humph. Off stage, I intend to wear my hair however I want.”

Annabelle decided straightaway that she wanted Mercy Mae as a friend. She pointed an imaginary camera her way. “Hey! Can I take your picture? I’d like to get a snapshot of that hairdo.”

Mercy puckered her plum-colored lips and struck a pose. “Did you hear about Ian Walsh and that reporter gal Christy?” she said.

“Yeah. John said they broke off.”

“She tried to kill she self!”

“Really? And what did Ian Walsh have to say about that?”

Mercy adopted a baritone voice. “We try to encourage our girlfriends not to get too wrapped up in us cuz we’re on the road so much.”

Annabelle frowned. “Bloody hell. I wonder what he would have said if she were dead?”

“Probably the same thing. The Mod Squad is a set of egotistical bumboholes. Barry, who is such a ginal himself, offered them a fair recording contract, but they still wanted more, even though nobody has ever heard of them.”

As if to prove Mercy’s point, the Mod Squad recorded a rather dour rendition of a Chuck Berry tune as their debut single. It looked like Colin really missed the mark this time—despite the addition of a good bass guitar player named Alick, they still sounded dreadful. Yet the recording was enough to get them noticed by a London television producer who booked “the swinging new combo” on his live TV show, Thank Your Lucky Stars.

The broadcast was a disaster. Ian forgot to zip his fly, and Rick tottered around on the stage as if he were stoned, which he probably was. Sonny was so nervous that he botched the beat, nearly impossible for him. If it hadn’t been for Alick and Colin, Mod Squad would have been booed off the stage.

“I told you so,” said Mercy. By then she and Annabelle were best chums. “White boys got no clue how to play R&B. How would they? They’ve never paid the kind of dues most black folks have.”

Annabelle raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Nor, I suppose, have most white girls.” Yet in her heart of hearts, she hoped Mercy was wrong. She wanted to sing the blues someday, damn it, and the fact that she was a young white woman wasn’t supposed to stop her.

Nevertheless, Colin wasn’t willing to accept defeat; he was determined to morph the Mod Squad into a pop sensation by hook or crook. Per Annabelle’s advice, he gave the band a sizzling new name—Electric Paradise—and insisted they live up to it. Since he figured sexual attraction drove rock-and-roll music, he had Ian strutting onstage with a balled-up sock in the front of his boxers while Rick more or less masturbated with his guitar. Before long, a raunchy bunch of undesirables emerged from the cozy conventional cocoon where they’d been hibernating. And just as Barry King’s intuition about Mercy Mae Williams had been correct, Colin’s instincts were right on the money. When Electric Paradise appeared on the legendary show Ready Steady Go, teenagers looking for a more dangerous persona than the innocent-looking Beatles went crazy. Girls swooned and boys rubbed their stiff crotches right along with the band.

“How come you can’t get any cool gigs for me?” Annabelle asked Colin.

He shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. Your act is just too square.”

That very instant, Annabelle vowed to ditch her goody-goody image and project a more radical persona.

Nothing was too over the top for Electric Paradise, however. After Barry signed them to Antilles, they rerecorded a couple of earlier singles, launched a picture book for their followers, and formed a fan club, which suddenly had over three hundred members! Then they hit the road. The band played nightly for months on end while the lads acted out onstage and Colin pulled strings behind the curtain. It must have been exhausting, but their timing was perfect. Increasingly, British beat music invaded the American pop charts. After releasing a couple more singles and another album, Electric Paradise was off to the States to rub shoulders with the top acts of the day. Colin hired Annabelle to write songs for them so they could keep up with the demand for new material while they were on tour, but this time he wanted lyrics that were fiery and more controversial. “No folksy shite,” he warned her.

Chapter 3: Giddy-Up

1964

For Mercy, the metropolis of London, England was astonishing. It had everything from double-decker buses to police on bicycles. Fountains sprayed sparkling water over bronze statues in the middle of public parks, and balloon and flower vendors were everywhere. Barry escorted her around to see the famous sights: Westminster Abbey, The Tower and Big Ben, and Kensington Gardens. They enjoyed a boat ride on the Thames, ate copious fish and chips, fed the pigeons at Trafalgar Square, and witnessed the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. He even took her shopping at Piccadilly Circus where he bought her a warm woolen coat and hat, and a pair of spike-heeled shoes for dress-up.

But Mercy’s time as a wide-eyed tourist was short-lived. Underneath all the glitter, she realized the buildings were grimy, the river polluted, and the air stank like a damp armpit. It was cold most of the time, even in the summer, and she was sick a lot—homesick as well as physically ill. She spent the remainder of the year suffering through training to improve her diction and dancing, where she was instructed to lose her Jamaican accent and stop jumping around like she was under the influence of “Rude to your Parents Rum.” The only good thing was that she got to wear plenty of hats to cover up what Barry insisted was her “bad hair.”

Certain men like to hold women down, and Barry was definitely one of them. He never let Mercy out of his sight. She soon realized that the real reason he brought her to London was to work for him like a slave. Yeah, man. Slavery was alive and well and living in the UK as if emancipation had never happened. She was the only black person in Forest Hill who wasn’t a porter or a maid or a live-in valet. Mercy felt like she had been kidnapped, tricked into believing she had been liberated when in truth she was shackled to the grindstone of Antilles Records. Trapped in the lily-white suburbs with yet another man who wanted to exploit her, she shed plenty of eye water back then. “Oy, a blackie golliwog among us,” the neighbors greeted her. To ease the pain and pass the time, Mercy wrote to her family and friends in Jamaica often, but her brother Dessie was the only one who wrote back.

“Mail for Mercy Mae Williams,” Barry said, tossing the airmail letter on the kitchen table.

She was so excited she tore it open right in front of him.

Dear Mercy Mae,

Wha’gwann, gal? I hope you are enjoying swingin’ England and King Barry is treating my likkle sister like a queen. Ha. Ha. Is it true that there are more pigeons in London than people? If so, you must be gettin’ wagga-wagga on pigeon stew.

The rest of the Williams family is fine, but there’s some bad news from Olde Mill. You remember Franklyn, the cool old Rasta who used to work on the estate cutting cane? After he retired, he and some of his friends planted ganja on the land he got for compensation. When Calvin found out, he called the police, and they shot Franklyn just because he had a cutlass in his hand! The old man survived, but as soon as he got out of hospital, di Babylon threw him in jail. When he came out, he and his same friends set fire to the cane fields. Well, you know PM Bustamante already. The police ransacked every Rasta community before they shot all five men dead. The good news is that the ray-ray raised some sympathy for the plight of the Rasta man in Jamaica. Anyway, let’s hope so.

Keep well, stay safe, and I’ll do the same.

Your loving brother,

Dessie

Mercy was reading the letter for the second time with Barry reading over her shoulder when he grabbed it out of her hand. “None of this has anything to do with your career,” he said, shaking the paper in her face.

“Franklyn worked on the estate ever since before I was bawn,” she said. “He was a nice man who never wished anyone harm. How come they did him that?”

“He burned the cane, so he had it coming.”

Mercy surprised herself with the ferocity of her reply. “How you mean? Franklyn’s people were on the land long before my father was. What are common people supposed to do? Wait forever for some overseer to permit them to claim what is rightfully theirs?”

Barry waved his hand dismissively. “You must be joking. Your father was a saint for putting up with the butu old man for all those years, and I’m beginning to think I must be one too.”

Tears were in her eyes now. “You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout my father.”

“All I know is that you’re going to have to work harder if you want to be a star. That baby voice of yours ain’t taking you nowhere.”

Mercy was shaking. “So why’d you bother draggin’ me over here in the first place? You don’t care about Jamaican music! You’re nothin’ but a stinkin’ bakra salesman! If you don’t think I can deliver, why don’t you get some other shine-eye gal to sing for you?”

Of course, she knew the answer already. No independent Jamaican woman would ever put up with Barry’s bull crap. Only a fool-fool little girl who had been sexually abused and then kidnapped from home would behave like a puppet dancing on a string for a controller like Mr. Barry King.

“Without people like me to show all you what civilization is all about, you’d still be living in the jungle,” he said coolly. “Now pour me a drink, Mercy Mae. Rum and soda with a twist of lime, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Her stomach churned. “Awright, Massa. I gonna do that for you right now, Massa,” she said. Ice tinkled in the glass while she stirred and stirred. But when Barry reached out impatiently, she threw the drink in his face and ran sobbing to her room.

The only chance Mercy got to relax was when Barry took her with him to scout out new acts at the clubs. Four white choirboys who wanted to hold your hand dominated the up-and-coming British music scene at that time, but to Mercy, they were amateurs. Although she was still just a kid, she had more experience in the music business than all of them put together.

Barry might have been overbearing, but he was no dummy. He was shrewd, and like Colin Jones, he knew that timing was everything. He had an intuition that R&B was about to give way to pop-rock in England, so he decided he’d better cash in on Mercy’s talent before it was too late. While she sulked, he imported Ernest Ranglin, a hip Jamaican guitarist, to do her musical arrangements.

According to Mercy, it was Ernest, NOT Barry, who worked the magic!

When Antilles Records released her cover version of a song originally done by Barbie Gay, Mercy had just turned seventeen. “Giddy-Up” was a massive hit reaching #1 in Australia, #2 in the UK and the US, and #3 in Canada. She should have been deliriously happy, but there was a hitch. Because she was still a minor, Barry held onto all of the profits.

“Barry,” said Mercy. “Don’t forget you promised my family twenty percent of my overseas royalties as soon as I had a hit record. You cayan tell me there’s no money when ‘Giddy-Up’ sold 600,000 copies in the UK alone!”

His smile reminded her of a sly fox. “I think you’re the one that needs to remember, my dear. You’re still underage.”

“But if it wasn’t for my singing and dancing there wouldn’t be a hit record! They’re calling me the Blue Beat Girl!”

“And if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be squeaking away on RJR radio down in Jamaica! Show some gratitude, you little bitch!”

Because “Giddy-Up” was a global hit, Mercy got to tour the world. Unfortunately, Barry tagged along, so she didn’t have much fun. The tabloids said her record sold seven million copies worldwide. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have known, because her cut was zero; she had nothing to show for all her effort except exhaustion. According to Barry, it was the recording that mattered and not the artist who had worked so hard to perfect it. Mercy decided it was time to take a stand. She didn’t want to obey Barry anymore. She was grown up now and wanted to have a life of her own, if not in London, then at home in Jamaica. The Blue Beat Girl burned her wigs in defiance, and then she went on strike until further notice.

As fate would have it, Peter Ashley, a nerdy-looking white guy who was John Duncan’s best mate, had a smash hit at the same time as “Giddy-Up.” His single, “A World Starved for Love,” was on the Hot 100 Chart along with Mercy’s record. Coincidentally, “As Tears Flow By,” a song that Annabelle wrote for Electric Paradise, was up there too, so Peter and Mercy got acquainted through their mutual friends, John and Annabelle. One Sunday evening, the foursome gathered to watch the Ed Sullivan Show on American television. The featured act was none other than Electric Paradise, and the girls in the audience were going wild. But Ed didn’t look all that pleased, and neither did John.

“I hope they paid you in advance for writing that song, Annabelle,” he said, scowling.

She shrugged. “Look at it this way. Right now millions of viewers are humming along with ‘As Tears Flow By’ and feeling mellow. What’s the problem with that?”

Mercy, who had just returned from the loo, plunked down on the sofa and sucked her teeth. “Cho! That Ian’s such a ginal. Look at how he sticks out his lips and hips for the camera. And Rick doesn’t even know how to skank.”

Peter cracked up laughing. “Skank?”

“But you have to admit they’re sexy,” said Annabelle.

Mercy frowned. “They look like zombies to me, buried half-dead and then dug back up half-alive.”

“It’s not their fault,” said Annabelle. “Colin works them to death. They played a couple hundred shows last year alone, and they have even more lined up for this season.”

“Don’t tell me you’re in their fan club,” John said sarcastically. He turned his back on the telly and addressed Peter. “What say we head down to the pub and leave the girls alone with their fantasies?”

Annabelle beat him to the punch. “How come everything is for men?” she asked. “When are we women going to get a turn? Come on, Mercy. Let’s have us a girl’s night out.” She pulled on her tall leather boots and grabbed her handbag.

Mercy wiggled her backside West Indian style on their way out the door. “Likkle more, boys. See you later,” she said, waving.

Then the best girlfriends set off like free spirits who didn’t have a care in the world.

Barry squeezed two more singles out of Mercy while she was still a minor and under contract. Whatever magic he had up his sleeve seemed to still be working. The records charted in the UK, but her heart was never in them. She couldn’t wait until her next birthday so she could do her thing without him breathing down her neck. But then what? How was she supposed to survive on her own?

Annabelle and Mercy Mae first saw the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi on a BBC television show called The Viewpoint. What he said about the importance of being happy in life really touched Mercy. She rushed right out and bought his book to give to Annabelle as a present, who turned right around and gave it to John. He was so impressed that he invited the Maharishi to speak on transcendental meditation at the cooperative art gallery.

Hip young people around town already knew about the guru; he had made several public appearances in London, so the lecture went well. Annabelle was surprised at how down-to-earth and approachable the yogi was. He had a brilliant sense of humor, and he loved to flirt with women. “Meditation is for everyone,” he preached, winking at Mercy. Then he removed his garland of flowers and placed it over her head. “Especially beautiful young female singers.”

Annabelle was six months pregnant when the Maharishi performed her and John’s wedding ceremony in 1965. Peter Ashley was John’s best man, and Mercy was Annabelle’s maid of honor. Colin and Electric Paradise were on tour, and Barry claimed to be busy, but all the rest of their friends, including Peter’s sister and her boyfriend Paul McCartney, were there.

They served hashish brownies and red wine at the reception, and everyone had a blast. Mercy and Peter were both wonderful dancers. They really heated up the floor; you could almost see the sparks passing between them as they twisted the night away. After the party was over, they went to a club and kept on dancing. When Mercy didn’t return for three days, Barry filed a missing person report with the police. But by then it was too late—she had finally figured out a way to get out from under his thumb. Yeah, man. Mercy and Peter were officially in love. The minute she turned eighteen, they hugged their best friends John and Annabelle goodbye, packed their bags, and split for Jamaica.

Dear Annabelle,

I think of you so often. Peter and I bought a two-story house on Hope Road above Kingston. It needs some fixing up, but we’re happy-happy there. Mummy, Auntie, and Uncle are well. My father is still the overseer at Olde Mill but living with his new girlfriend over in May Pen. My older brother Avondale is a police officer, Paul is away at college, and Dessie has up and joined the Rastafari!

So what’s up with you, gal? Are you still writing songs for Electric Paradise to trash? I heard my record sold seven million copies worldwide, but my family never got a shilling. So much for Barry King and his promises. It’s a good thing my Peter has plenty of money and likes to share it.

How are you and John getting on? I hope things are irie between you. You two must be excited about the upcoming pickney!

Love to you from both Peter and me,

Mercy Mae

Chapter 4: British Invasion

In Mercy’s absence, Annabelle turned to Ingrid, a German fashion model and drama queen who was Colin’s first permanent girlfriend. She was a brilliant woman, worldly and outspoken to the point of being blunt. She helped Annabelle with her clothes and makeup, and soon they were best friends who shared almost everything. When Annabelle complained about John’s selfish behavior, Ingrid didn’t hesitate to tell it like it was.

“Men can be emotionally complicated,” she said, blowing out a smoke ring, “and stupid too. They like to think they’re in charge, but basically, they’re just big babies. Sometimes Colin tries to put me down in front of other people to make himself look more important. It used to really bother me until I figured out that if I stand up to him, he crumbles like a cookie.”

“But what if the idea of playing psychological games with my husband doesn’t appeal to me?” said Annabelle.

Ingrid blew her a kiss. “Then I’d say get a girlfriend.” It was the first time Annabelle suspected Ingrid might swing both ways.

John, meanwhile, fell more deeply into drugs. “Acid opens the doors of perception,” he said as he stumbled around in a haze. Annabelle thought she was being careful by sticking to marijuana and wine because she was pregnant. Her main pastime, when she wasn’t hanging out with Ingrid, was riding the underground and window shopping on Carnaby St. But her newfound sense of style overruled her pocketbook, and sometimes she splurged on things she never got to wear because she had to hide her purchases from John. In the interim, their son Benjamin was born. He was a demanding baby, and John couldn’t be counted on for help. He pretended to be busy with the gallery, but even with the kind of hip patrons it attracted, business was bleak. Naturally, he vented the brunt of his frustration on Annabelle. He never got physical but became increasingly cold-blooded and emotionally cruel.

One exceptionally bad night in 1966, Annabelle left the baby with her mother and headed out on the town with Ingrid. Electric Paradise was doing a show at the Regal Theatre, and when Ingrid said they intended to open with “As Tears Flow By,” Annabelle couldn’t say no.

Ian spotted her in the crowd and dedicated the song to her. “This one was written by Annabelle Sinclair, the girl with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

When the song was over, Ingrid clapped wildly and pushed Annabelle to her feet. She stood dumbfounded as hundreds of people smiled and applauded. But when Ian launched into “Scant Satisfaction,” all hell broke loose. Keyed-up fans broke through the barriers at the front of the stage attempting to hob-nob with the band. While Sonny fended them off with his hi-hat stand and his drumsticks, Rick got hit over the head with a bottle.

Ian fought his way against the crowd and grabbed Annabelle. “Let’s get out of this bloody madhouse,” he said as they bolted for the exit sign.

Back in his hotel room, they ordered dinner and a bottle of champagne from room service, then lit up a joint of marijuana and sank onto the couch to relax and wait for the food.

“Those kids were really wired,” Ian said, coughing.

Annabelle smiled. “No doubt. I hope Ingrid made it out okay.”

“Ingrid’s a survivor, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I wish I was as tough as she is.”

Ian put his arm around her. “No, you don’t,” he said.

Annabelle knew Ian had a full stable of willing ladies in waiting, but when he came on to her that night, she just melted—like a daft cliché. Something about him was impossible to resist.

“Annabelle, I need some satisfaction,” he whispered.

She sighed. “Do you mean musically or sexually?”

“Both. How ‘bout you and me spending the night together?”

“I’m a married woman.”

“Not for long.”

And so, Ian and Annabelle were off to the rodeo. The sex wasn’t all that great the first time—maybe because she felt guilty, Annabelle was glad when their initial coupling was over. When she said she was leaving, Ian convinced her to snort a line of cocaine with him. Bee’s knees! Marijuana, champagne, sex, and cocaine all in one package! Both of them got the giggles. They started wrestling around and somehow his head ended up in her crotch. Neither slept much that night. Just when Annabelle would nod off, Ian would start up again. When she slinked back to the flat the next morning, she met John passed out in bed. She quickly gathered up her things and left him a “Dear John” note. If it hadn’t been for that, he probably would have never noticed she hadn’t come home the night before. Of course, he went bonkers afterward, but what could he do? The only weapon John had to hold over her head was the legal custody of their son, Benji.

Dear Mercy Mae,

I hope you’re sitting down. John and I have split up, and I’ve taken the baby to live with Colin and Ingrid. Ian Walsh and I are dating.

Love to you and Peter,

Annabelle

Annabelle didn’t hear another word from Mercy for the next three-and-a-half years.

When Annabelle left John for Ian, her mother was ecstatic. Edna may have been a fake countess, but she had all the instincts of an authentic survivor. Who knows, perhaps she supported her daughter’s desertion because she smelled fame and fortune on Ian and figured she could benefit in some way. On the other hand, maybe she was just a masochist like her great uncle was supposed to have been.

They were lunching at the Savoy, Edna’s favorite place in London, although at that point neither one of them could afford to stay there. “Make sure you tuck some of that Electric Paradise band money away for a rainy day,” Edna said over a glass of white wine.

Annabelle was already halfway through her second. “Yes, mother.”

Edna screwed up her face. “Electric Paradise is going to make it big, and I don’t want you to get left out in the cold as I did.”

“But mother, I have my own career,” Annabelle said, lighting a cigarette. “Besides, Rupert never had any real money.”

The waiter brought the soup. “You won’t always be so young and beautiful,” Edna informed her daughter, eyeing her tight turtleneck and perfect breasts. “I know men. All they care about is sex. Once you fail to give them what they want, things can turn ugly.”

“Don’t be so negative. I love Ian, and he loves me.”

“For now. But what about later?”

“The band will keep me around as long as I continue to write hit songs for them.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re the one who wrote the one about the mother standing in the shadows,” Edna said testily.

Annabelle ground her cigarette into the ashtray and picked up her soup spoon. “Yes, Mum. It was me.”

Being footloose with Ian Walsh was like a breath of fresh air for Annabelle. While John did his best to convince their friends that she was a slut and an unfit mother, Ian announced to the world that they were an official couple. It was hardly a contest when it came to public opinion. John was an angry, bankrupt drug addict, and Ian and Annabelle were the epitome of the super-hip rock-and-roll duo: young, rich, and beautiful.

They flew high and free, ruled over the swingin’ London social scene like they were royalty. If it was cool, they were there—the opera, the galleries, expensive restaurants, polo matches. Yet they also had private time together. Annabelle helped Ian with lyrics, and he helped her learn the lines of her plays. Sometimes they would dress up in disguise, ride the underground, and take Benji on picnics and for carousel rides in the park. That summer they even went camping and made love under the stars. Gradually, Annabelle began to trust that what she and Ian had together was the real thing, or at least what she thought real was supposed to be. He made her happy. He made her feel valuable. Despite all the hype and glamour, he made her feel loved.

As far as friends were concerned, they spent a lot of time hanging out with an avant-garde art dealer, Robert Fraser; attending shows at his gallery and partying at his flat. Annabelle thought he was one of the most extraordinary people she had ever met. He didn’t follow the rules, plus he was funny and sexy. If he hadn’t been gay, she might have fallen for him too.

One winter afternoon, a set of friends were sitting in Robert’s hot tub, completely naked, drinking champagne, and passing around a joint, when Colin decided it was time for the band to go back to America. “We need to show them we’re not the same as The Beatles,” he said.

“Nothing wrong with The Beatles, mate,” said Robert. “Did ya know I initiated the artwork for the album cover of Sgt. Peppers?”

Ian lifted his eyebrows. “Yeah. The cover was cool, but I thought the content was a bit dodgy.”

Robert smiled. “You’re just jealous.”

“Could be, but Colin’s right. It’s time we crossed the waters again and reminded those damn Yankees there’s a serious rock-n-roll band called Electric Paradise in front of the British Invasion.”

Ingrid, who had gotten into a bit of a power struggle with Ian, argued that American kids needed more time to digest counterculture British pop. “Why don’t you just stick to Europe or Asia? Another U.S. tour right now would be a total waste of time.”

“Come on, Ingrid. It will be fun,” said Annabelle.

“Humph! If you insist on going, count me out.”

Ian shrugged. “No one invited you to come along in the first place.”

Annabelle was secretly disappointed that Ingrid wouldn’t be onboard. She kept things lively. Moreover, she wasn’t looking forward to sharing Ian with thousands of screaming girls with bugger all for her to do with herself in the interim. But this time even Ingrid couldn’t dissuade Colin, so off they went to America.

New York and LA were hip, but the rest of the tour was a disaster. Disgruntled concertgoers in the heartland couldn’t wait to jeer at the ragtag foreigners who had invaded their musical turf.

“What are you? A boy or a girl?” they screamed at Ian.

“Get a haircut!” they shouted at Rick and Colin.

“Go back where you belong!” they threatened Alick.

Only cool-hand Sonny seemed immune to their abuse.

One of the most embarrassing incidents happened in Cleveland, Ohio. Electric Paradise was barely into their first number before the chief of police insulted them. “Why don’t you just pack up your equipment and leave? We’ve heard enough of your garbage!”

“And why don’t you just shut the fuck up?” Rick yelled from onstage.

“What did you just say to me?” asked the chief.

Rick clobbered him over the head with his guitar for an answer.

It was pretty much the same everywhere they went. Mid-America didn’t cotton to the Cultural Revolution as presented by Electric Paradise. Few critics or members of the confused audience were able to process what the music was all about. Yet the band was stuck there for another month. Boring, boring, boring. Annabelle felt like she had fallen into a trap with no way to escape. To pass the time they smoked dope, played cards, and hit the booze together. Meanwhile, Annabelle got to know more about the band members during the long bus rides between gigs.

“Ian and I were schoolmates,” said Rick, dealing out the cards for yet another round of Aces High. His legs stretched all the way under the table. A big silver skull-and-crossbones belt buckle was at his waist, and he wore a matching ring. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Yeah, we were just two normal working-class lads who dreamed of something grander than nine-to-five,” said Ian. “The main thing we had in common was our love of music, ‘specially the blues.” He looked at his cards and pursed his gorgeous lips. Then he stretched his arms over his head and yawned. His mouth was huge, and so was the bulge in the front of his pajama bottoms.

“I had a decent collection of American blues records,” Rick said, scratching his head. Despite his over-long hair, his enormous ears had managed to escape the fringe. “We listened to them until they fuckin’ wore out.”

Ian crossed and uncrossed his legs. “And neither one of us could play a lick.”

“My mother finally bought me a guitar of my own when I was fifteen,” said Rick. “My grandfather, who had a dance band before the war, taught me a few cords.”

Ian seemed to have forgotten all about the card game and picked at his bare toes. “We started out calling ourselves the Blues Squad. When we thought we were good enough, I was the one who hounded the clubs for gigs. None of them lasted very long. But all that changed when Colin came on the scene, and we became the Mod Squad.”

Rick grinned. “Next thing I knew we were Electric Paradise.”

“I was the one who told Colin Mod Squad sounded too ordinary,” Annabelle said, elbowing her way into the conversation. “I thought he should come up with something more exotic, more electric.”

“Thank you, Annabelle,” said Rick. “Anyway, it turned out Colin could play just about any instrument that was ever invented.”

“Yeah. I was studying to become a dentist but loved to play the piano. These long fingers are good for tickling the keys as well as the girls.” Colin was a handsome, yet very strange man—a weird combination of a hustler and carefree playboy—sort of like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Brian Wilson, the Beach Boy. Ian had once told Annabelle he had an extensive collection of pornographic movies and magazines at his home, and she believed it.

Rick exhaled a smoke ring. As it rose above his head like a halo, he gazed at the ceiling. “I never heard another white man play piano like Colin.” Then he threw his cards down on the table and grimaced. Everyone knew he had a lousy hand.

Sonny was smiling. When it came to gambling, he didn’t have what you’d call a poker face. “My parents bought me a drum set when I was fourteen.” He twirled the toothpick that perpetually stuck out of the corner of his mouth. “When I started pounding in time with their big band records, it drove my mum nuts. So I was banished to the garage.”

“Sonny first jammed with us at Ealing,” said Rick.

“And we still sounded like shite,” said Ian.

Annabelle nodded. “I was there.”

“It was another five months before we connected again musically,” said Sonny. “In the meantime, I’d got hip to rhythm and blues, and the boys had been rehearsing with Colin. They played a lot better, so when they asked me to join the band, I said yes. My girlfriend thought I’d gone stark raving mad, but I’m still here.”

Sonny was the oldest, but not the most conservative. That title belonged to Alick. “The other band members were never impressed with my boring prep-school looks or the fact that I was happily married,” he said, “but they sure dug my state-of-the-art amps and speakers.” He was wearing a white oxford cloth button-down shirt and khaki pants. Tasseled brown loafers adorned his long feet.

“But it turned out Alick could really fuckin’ play,” Rick said seriously.

“Yeah,” said Colin. “He had a swinging bass style that held the music together.”

“Unlike the lead guitarist,” Alick teased, “who was all over the place.”

Rick scratched his head again. “We went into the recording studio the first time totally unprepared. I think we did Chuck Berry’s ‘Around and Around.’”

“Ug. That record was terrible,” Annabelle said, remembering.

Ian frowned. “Yeah. It sucked. Electric Paradise must be the only band in the world not to play their debut single record again live—ever.”

“Hundreds of concerts later, it’s still resting in peace,” Rick said, laughing. He refilled his shot glass of whisky. “But as soon as we signed on with His Majesty Barry King, doors opened like magic, at least in the UK.”

“I hate to admit it, but Ingrid was right,” said Ian. “Kids in America need more time to grow up before they can dig the Cultural Revolution.”

Annabelle nodded. “I’ll be sure to tell her you said so.”

Chapter 5: Not Only Rock-And-Roll

Kingston

The reason Mercy didn’t write to Annabelle was that she couldn’t think of anything nice to say. Her friend already knew how she felt about Ian Walsh. As far as Mercy was concerned, he was a master manipulator just like Barry. She thought a brilliant girl like Annabelle deserved a chance to shine on her own, but of course, she wasn’t a girl. Annabelle was a grown woman who was responsible for making her own choices in life.

According to what Mercy read in the British pop music magazines Peter subscribed to, Electric Paradise was fast becoming the world’s number one rock-and-roll band. For the last few months, they had been tearing around the U.S. with Ian spouting nonsense about how they were spokespersons for a worldwide cultural revolution. Yet there was “no comment” from Annabelle. Mercy was concerned, but she was so wrapped up in her love for Peter that she deliberately pushed Annabelle to the back of her mind.

She thanked God daily that they had escaped from London to Jamaica, where the weather was warm, the sky blue, and the music scene slowly evolving. The hot horns and snare drums of the Skatalites had faded to the background, giving way to a romantic beat called rocksteady as performed by the Gaylords, The Maytals, The Heptones, and The Wailers. The bands were smaller, and the music was danced to less energetically, but Peter and Mercy couldn’t wait to get involved. So they put together a duo and headed for the uptown clubs. Everybody remembered Mercy, but nobody was prepared for the extent of Peter’s talent as a performer and arranger. “Mercy, love, you’re going to have to slow that boogie-woogie piano down if you want to play rocksteady,” he teased.

“Awright. But explain to me again what an Englishman knows about Jamaican music?”

Peter grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. “Let me show you,” he said.

A crowd gathered around as they locked hips. Peter might have looked somewhat goofy, but besides being a super musician, he was also a wonderful dancer. In fact, he was the first white man who could keep up with Mercy Mae.

By the third set, she’d had enough. “Okay, okay, you win,” she said, pretending to collapse in his arms.

“I love you, Mercy,” said Peter. “Not for what Barry tried to make you into, but for you yourself alone.”

“I love you too,” she said, smiling. “You’re my white knight in shining armor.”

But while Peter and Mercy celebrated their love, average Jamaicans were still struggling with a basic shortage of food, shelter, and employment. As the general population became more and more disillusioned with the benefits of Independence, a rebellious subculture known as rude boys emerged. The lyrics of their chosen music reflected the frustration of those still trapped in the ghettos—angry and itching for a fight. There was a rumor that some records were actually produced at gunpoint to encourage the hostile lyrics. As a speeded-up lifestyle fueled by cocaine overran the peaceful ganja culture, in-your-face vulgarity loomed on every street corner. Eventually, it got so bad that Mercy and Peter were afraid to go out after dark.

“Lordy, Peter. What happen to the rocksteady vibe?”

“Rude boys ruined it,” he said flatly.

“I feel like a prisoner in my own country,” Mercy complained.

“If you want to feel like a prisoner, try walking around Kingston inside my skin.”

Mercy sighed. “I can’t even begin to imagine.”

It was sizzling hot in Jamaica that summer, in more ways than one. Violence shot up in Kingston just like the mercury in the thermometer. Peter and Mercy decided to take a break and spend some time in the country where they could relax. It was good to be back at Olde Mill. Her family, except for her absent father, really took to Peter. They had plenty of good times hanging out with Jemma and her brothers Paul and Dessie. (Avondale was stationed with the Jamaican Constabulary Force in Montego Bay.)

The sights, smells, and tastes of home are something never forgotten. For Mercy, the mountains were just as tall, the cane just as fragrant and green, and the river still clear and cold. Unlike her own paltry efforts, her mother’s cooking had always been delicious. Peter wasn’t embarrassed to help himself to seconds of her yucca and tomato stew and savory Jamaican meat pies. Not to mention her famous black cake with fresh cream on top. He put on quite a few pounds, but Mercy loved him more every day.

“For heaven’s sake, Peter. You’re turning into a real wagga-wagga,” she said as they lay snuggling in her old bed.

He pulled her close. “You too,” he whispered, chuckling.

Peter had brought along his acoustic guitar, and the piano was still in the sitting room. After supper, he and Mercy serenaded the family. On Friday nights they usually went into May Pen and spent the weekend gorging on barbequed chicken and jerked pork washed down with Red Stripe beer.

Peter really enjoyed jamming with the locals. “You see? Music is waiting to burst from everybody’s soul,” he said.

Sometimes they ran into Mercy’s father and his latest girlfriend. “I hear you go foreign, Mercy Mae, an’ get youself a bakra,” the bling-bling sketelle said.

It took all of Mercy’s inner strength to keep from grabbing her by the false hair and flinging her in the gutter. Yet she realized the girl’s ignorance wasn’t totally her fault. Her father had a special talent for exploiting naïve minors just like Barry did. Thank God she was free from both of them now. She had her Peter, and as far as Mercy could see, he was all she needed.

When they weren’t hanging out on the plantation or partying in May Pen, Peter and Mercy enjoyed investigating alternative communities and their culture. Naturally, Dessie tagged along. One time, they visited the folks who practiced Kumina, a devout Afro-Jamaican religion that had managed to survive the influences of Western culture undiluted. These people called each other Bongo. It was King Bongo, Queen Bongo, Ma Bongo, Pa Bongo, and Pickney Bongo.

“From now on I gonna call you Peter Bongo,” Mercy teased him.

Kumina rituals were dramatic affairs usually associated with wakes, burials, and memorial services. Sometimes during the ceremonies, the Bongos fell into a trance, which unfortunately associated them with obeah, but the intent was always for myal or good.

Peter was fascinated by the hypnotic sound of the drums. “It’s like an echo in my bones.”

Mercy could tell he was dying to get in on the act, but King Bongo said the drums were sacred. Dessie had better luck. He flashed his big white teeth and shook his locks as he inspected the scrapers and the shak-shaks and the catta sticks, and soon he was playing along like he was a Bongo too.

Their subsequent visit to Watt Town reminded Mercy of her Pentecostal roots. Like the Kumina, the purpose of Revivalism was to heal the afflicted with certain chants and symbols. One of the symbols of Revival was a turban, the color and style of which was based on how the wearers intended to protect themselves from demonic possession. Another important symbol was the Revival Table, elaborately set with food ritually prepared, fruits, liquor, and candles. “When do we get to eat and drink?” Peter murmured in Mercy’s ear.

It was Jemma who suggested they visit the Accompong Maroon community in Cockpit Country, the ancestral stomping grounds of Queen Nanny and her mystical abeng horn. (Abeng was a name given to a cow horn blown by the Maroons to summon warriors in times of attack.) Jemma said her mother’s mother, Great Granny Tilda, still lived there and was getting ready to celebrate her 100th birthday. This was the first time Mercy had ever heard her mother mention her Maroon roots. She’d never met Tilda that she could remember, but she knew a little about the Maroons from Franklyn, who used to work at Olde Mill before di Babylon police shot him.

The overland journey to Accompong from Clarendon was long and torturous. The roads were narrow and potholed, and the precipices on either side steep and terrifying. The car overheated several times on the way, so it was lucky they had packed snacks and drinks to ease them up while they waited for the car to cool down. As Mercy stared out over the ridges and ravines that cut their way across the mountains at Look Behind, she had the feeling of being transported to another time and place. Everything in sight was green. As opposed to the urban squalor of Kingston or the practical layout of Olde Mill, the mountains were wild, fresh, and alive.

When they finally located Tilda’s home, they found her sitting on the veranda smoking her pipe and quilting. It was a bright day, and she shaded her eyes to see who had come calling. She knew Jemma at once but was puzzled by the rest of them, especially Peter. Mercy’s mother brought a birthday cake and some embarrassingly large cotton dresses. Tilda wondered if they might not fit her daughter, Fanny. When Jemma tried to explain Fanny was long dead, Great Granny started to cry.

Peter picked up his guitar and started strumming to comfort her.

“Who dat bakra?” asked Tilda.

“That’s Mercy’s boyfriend, Peter,” said Jemma.

“Who’s Mercy?”

“I am,” Mercy said, hugging her. “I’m your great-granddaughter, Mercy Mae.”

Tilda nodded, took up her scissors, and nonchalantly started cutting the dresses they’d brought into squares for her patchwork.

Dessie laughed, and so did the rest of them, including Great Granny. “Keep on wid di playin’,” she told Peter. Tilda sang old-time mentos in time with the beat. As the music drifted out over the hills, neighbors converged in the yard to listen. Soon everybody was crooning along like an impromptu mountain choir. At sunset, the visitors cut the cake, served it all around, and then said their goodbyes. That was the last time any of them saw Tilda alive.

Back in Kingston, Mercy and Peter made their choice. Although they had enough money to settle anywhere in the world, the positive natural vibe they’d discovered during their visit to Accompong spoke to them. So they stayed on the island, committed to making a difference through their love of music and of each other.

Jamaicans were naturally excited when they heard that Haile Selassie planned to visit the island. “He calls himself the Conquering Lion of Judah,” Dessie said enthusiastically.

“That’s quite a grandiose title to hang on oneself,” said Peter.

Mercy smiled and punched him in the arm. “Oh, come on, Peter, your Englishness is showing. If the people want to believe he’s the living symbol of Jah, it’s irie. Anything that raises a sense of black consciousness on this troubled island is a good thing.”

On April 21, 1966, every man, woman, and child who wasn’t physically present on the roadside was watching the coverage of Selassie’s arrival on television or listening to it on the radio. When the plane landed, people stormed through the barricades at the airport waving placards, smoking ganja, and pounding drums. His Majesty appeared a bit bewildered, but his worshippers didn’t seem to notice. They truly believed he had come to personally guide them back to Africa as Marcus Garvey promised.

For some reason, Peter and Mercy were invited to attend the official reception at the Sheraton Hotel. But the crowds that lined the road leading from the airport to the venue made it almost impossible to pass, so they arrived late. No problem. The affair started two hours behind schedule. When it finally began, the contrast between the enthusiasm of the mob and the reserved behavior of bureaucrats was almost comical. Even though Jamaica had been independent for four years, the smell of colonial bullshit still hung in the air. Endless speeches were made, and meaningless gifts were given European style. A staged performance with costumed children singing and dancing was followed by a brief round of Nyabinghi drumming meant to appease the Rastafarians who were present. That was as far as the ceremony went according to local culture.

Peter was extremely disappointed. “What a waste of time,” he said.

“Welcome to Jamaica,” Mercy said, shrugging.

Despite the inappropriateness of the ceremony, it seemed Haile Selassie’s visit had lifted Jamaican consciousness—at least temporarily. Black pride was resurgent despite the controlling politics at the time, and a rebellious ganja-fueled beat began to dominate the island’s music over the next couple of years. The corresponding music was instantly recognizable by a heavy one-drop counterpoint between bass and drum that repeated on the third beat. Reggae music, as it was called, had lyrics that commented on the joys of everyday living as well as the political and social injustices of the day, making it extremely popular with the masses. The first bona fide reggae records were “Nanny Goat” by Larry Marshall and “No More Heartaches,” by the Beltones. Other Jamaican pioneers were Max Romeo, U-Boy, and Ken Boothe.

Where did the word reggae come from? There are several theories. When the Jamaican record producer Bunny Lee got wind of the new music’s popularity, he instructed his local musicians to speed up the rocksteady beat until it sounded like reggae, reggae. Bob Marley, referring to Haile Selassie’s visit, declared that the word reggae was the African term for “the king’s music” or “for the king.” Lee “Scratch” Perry, per his irreverent genius, mentioned that in Jamaican lingo the word “streggae” referred to a raggedy, loose woman and coincided with “rege-rege,” meaning dressed in ragged clothing. Watching such a woman pass by, he started singing, “Do the reggae, do the reggae,” and that was it.

Peter was one of the first to realize that almost any song could be arranged to the reggae beat. Mercy liked the call and response aspect of the vocals, which reminded her of her mento country roots. They had just finished making love when Peter rolled over and said, “Ya know, Mercy, you and I could put together a reggae band with a little help from our friends.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Of course we could. But what would we call it?”

“Reggae Revelation,” he said as if he’d made up his mind already.

Mercy started growing dreadlocks that very night.

The band Reggae Revelation was all about conscious lyrics and resistance to oppression. Jamaica was overflowing with unrequited talent in those days; plenty of musicians had developed “reggaemanitis” and had definite opinions about political and social injustice they wanted to express. Peter and Mercy picked up the best of the best. He arranged them, and she backed them up on keyboards and vocals. Dessie played congas, cowbells, and shack-shacks. From time to time they brought in guest artists from the ska and rocksteady days on electric guitar and bass.

The effect was magical. Before long Reggae Revelation was one of the most popular live bands in Jamaica. Mercy Mae started calling herself Sista Leona (no more Blue Beat Girl), and Jamaicans couldn’t get enough of Peter, a balding white Englishman who jammed a good/bad guitar. Fans also dug the African-style percussion as performed by Dessie, who looked and talked like the epitome of an authentic roots man. Their songs “Walk Good,” and “Rise on Up,” were hits with the crowd. But their music was never played on the radio. Why? PM Bustamante considered reggae music too radical and inflammatory for public broadcasting.

When Mercy lamented the fact that you could hear news, views, and sports like cricket and football on the airways, but not local reggae music, Peter came up with a logical solution.

“Then let’s produce our own live radio show,” he said, smiling.

Chapter 6: As Tears Flow By

London

Annabelle felt like kneeling down and kissing the runway when Electric Paradise finally landed at Heathrow. Their producer, Barry King, made sure that the hyper-promotional wheels had been set in motion well in advance of the band’s return from America, and thousands of screaming fans greeted them at the airport. Although it felt good to be home, it took Ian a while to get over the humiliation of the disastrous American tour.

“Frankly, Annabelle, I’d rather have been a hit in Omaha,” he said the first night that they were back home in their own bed.

Ian needn’t have worried. Once Electric Paradise started touring the UK again, they were reinstated as a national obsession—the ultimate symbol of the Cultural Revolution against the status quo—one that England could claim for her very own. To hell with classical literature and art and music. Colin made sure they broke a few rules and caused a minor riot everywhere they went. As a result, Annabelle’s romantic dream of an idyllic life with Ian turned into a media nightmare. The paparazzi reported every detail of their lives. When they were together, they lived in a gilded cage as transparent as a goldfish bowl. When they were apart, the tabloids didn’t hesitate to speculate on what was going on undercover. So Annabelle decided she might as well make some headlines on her own.

While Ian was away touring, she got back into acting full time. To her mother’s delight, she played Irina in the stage adaptation of Three Sisters. Starring at the Royal Court Theatre in London was “it” to Edna. She came to opening night dressed like the royalty she had always pretended to be, dripping in fake fur and costume jewelry, and applauded from the front row at inappropriate times.

“Bravo! Well done, darling!” she cheered. Backstage, Edna handed her daughter a bouquet of red roses, and then she ruined the magic in front of Annabelle’s fellow actors. “The part of Irina was perfect for a spoiled little girl like you who’s always been afraid to grow up.”

Point taken.

When Annabelle became the first person to say the word “fuck” in a mainstream film that same year, Edna wasn’t so appreciative. “Couldn’t you have used a different word, dear?” The trailer for Annabelle’s next film was in French. ‘Do you know the thrill of wrapping your legs around a tornado of pumping pistons?’ She couldn’t wait for her mother’s reaction to that one. Edna failed to appear when her daughter played Florence Nightingale in Early Morning because Florence was a lesbian. “Enough is enough,” she said on the telephone.

But of course, nothing was ever enough for Annabelle. By then, excess was her addiction.

Why did she drink so much and take so many drugs? Because they all did. When marijuana and wine failed to inspire her, she experimented with the other kinds of remedies that the band and their set of friends kept handy—speed, coke, LSD, and eventually heroin— washed down with all the hard liquor she could swallow. Annabelle became fixated on the idea of suicide when she played Ophelia at The Royal House in London, stoned and drunk. The drama of the desperate deed haunted her day and night, although the actual act terrified her. How would she do it—overdose with pills, slash her lovely wrists, put a gun to her temple and blow her beautiful brains out?

When police mounted a surprise raid on Rick’s home in response to an anonymous tip, everybody was high—Annabelle, Ian, Rick, and Robert Fraser. She was getting ready to take a bath and sober up when bang, bang, bang, there was a knock at the door. While Annabelle sat on the sofa in an acid haze, naked except for a big furry rug she had wrapped around her, a set of coppers stormed inside. They ransacked the house looking for drugs, but all they could find was two spliffs of marijuana stashed in Ian’s jacket pockets. He was charged for possession of a dangerous drug, Rick was accused of allowing his property to be used for illegal activity, and Robert was arrested—well, just because he was Robert.

The paparazzi snapped photos of Robert and Ian shackled together as the police led them away. For some reason, the bad girl in the fur rug, referred to as Miss X in the report, was not implicated. But the press had a hey-day with her anyway. According to the banner headlines, Annabelle was not only naked but had a candy bar stuck up an intimate portion of her anatomy!

The appointed magistrate referred to Ian and Rick as “scum” and “filth” and labeled poor Robert as “people like you.” Everybody on trial was found guilty and whisked away to jail. When Annabelle visited Ian at Brixton the morning after his imprisonment, he was totally freaked out. “The establishment is out to get us, Annabelle! I mean there are immoralities more serious in our society than smoking a little bit of dope. Everybody knows there can be no evolution without revolution, don’t they, for fuck’s sake?”

It was the only time Annabelle ever saw Ian cry.

A few weeks later, police raided Colin’s home. As the band’s manager, he faced the same magistrate on the same charges with the same result, but eventually, the lower court decision was overturned, and the accused were set free. Everybody, that is, except Robert Fraser, who served four months in prison. Electric Paradise couldn’t wait to celebrate, but Colin didn’t take it so well. While the rest of them jetted off to Marrakesh, he suffered a nervous collapse and ended up in the hospital. Rick and Ingrid didn’t waste time becoming a romantic item in the interim. With no regard to Colin’s health or feelings, they flaunted their enchantment with each other in front of one and all.

“Colin’s a grown man,” Ingrid mouthed off to the paparazzi. “He’ll get over it.”

But he never did. He couldn’t understand being dumped so unceremoniously and continued drinking heavily after he was released from the hospital. His abuse of prescription drugs, coupled with his alcohol addiction, left him practically comatose. His doctor said he was suffering from severe depression and needed monitoring, but instead of being sympathetic, Ian was pissed.

“So now I have to handle Colin’s job too?”

When Colin stopped showing up for rehearsal, Ian decided it was time for him to take a permanent sabbatical. He and Rick formed a posse and went out to the farm where he lived to give him the bad news. Annabelle couldn’t believe they could be so cold-hearted after everything Colin had done for the band. Yet what did she know? “You’re just an amateur songwriter, an out-of-work actress who can’t remember how to perform anymore,” Ian said callously.

Of course, she wanted to perform, but the drugs and alcohol kept her from her work just like they did Colin. No wonder he took his dismissal so hard. He had lost his girl, his band, and then he lost his mind. During the next few months, he became more and more reclusive. Annabelle made an effort to help, but he was so steeped in pain and denial that he couldn’t seem to shake it. What kind of magical power did Ian have that caused talented and dedicated people around him to doubt their own self-worth to the point of self-destruction?

Sonny finally went out to check and found Colin drowned in his swimming pool. The coroner said he’d been dead for a couple of days. They called the drowning accidental, but let’s face it: Colin died of a broken heart. He cared so deeply about Electric Paradise that he couldn’t deal with how Ian, Rick, and of course Ingrid, had dismissed and disrespected him.

“Colin and I were never that close,” Ian said when cornered by the press.

“There was nothing wrong with Colin that a little extra consideration couldn’t have cured,” said Annabelle, glaring at him.

“Colin was a sensitive bloke,” said Sonny.

Ingrid sobbed dramatically. “I just hope he’s finding peace.”

“Yeah. We’ll fuckin’ miss him,” was all Rick said.

Colin’s funeral reminded Annabelle of a three-ring circus. John was absent even though he and Colin had been good friends. Their divorce had been an ugly affair, and Annabelle supposed John wanted to avoid running into her. There was a thin line between love and hate: Mercy hated Barry but loved Peter; Colin loved Ingrid, but now he was dead, and she loved Rick; and John loved Peter but hated Annabelle because she loved Ian. The real question was who did Ian love besides himself?

A fortnight later, Electric Paradise played a free memorial concert for Colin in Hyde Park. Ian, who for some reason was dressed like a woman and was wearing heavy makeup, recited romantic poetry, which Annabelle later found out was from “Adonis: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. “Earth’s shadows fly . . . until death tramples it to fragments. Die, if thou wouldst be that which thou dost seek.” Meanwhile, 3,500 pure white butterflies ascended into the air.

Annabelle watched the butterflies rise into the unusually clear sky and thought about how Colin had done just the opposite thanks to his friends’ insensitivity.

Even Ingrid, the usual wild card, found Ian’s behavior mystifying. “What the hell is he talking about, and why d’ya suppose he dressed like that?”

The band milled around on the stage for a while and then launched into an unrehearsed, hour-long performance of the same old songs. They hadn’t played live for over a year due to all the confusion with the court cases, Colin’s depression, and the fact that Rick was seriously addicted to heroin. Fans didn’t even notice how rusty they were, but Annabelle certainly did. Without Colin to hold them together, there was obviously trouble in paradise.

That same year, Edna passed away after a brief illness that Annabelle had assumed was psychosomatic. It’s a good thing she didn’t live to see her daughter play Lilith in Lucifer Rising, or Annabelle might have believed her bad acting was responsible for her mother’s death. That’s how horrid Annabelle thought she was. That’s how little self-esteem remained. Nevertheless, she didn’t let herself sink into a deep depression like Colin. She brought Benji, who had been living with Edna before she got ill, to stay with her and Ian and vowed to clean up her act.

After Ian took over managing the band, Annabelle’s life with him could be heaven or it could be hell, depending on his mood. In public, he treated her like a handy-dandy trinket hanging around his neck. They continued to hobnob with all the right people and attended all the right venues together. In private, it was a different story. When the pressure built up too high, he used Annabelle and Benji as emergency valves to let off steam.

Ian had his feet propped up and was watching football on the telly. “Annabelle, I’m hungry,” he said. “Run down to the deli and pick up some food, will ya?”

“In a while. I’m working on a drawing with Benji right now. We’re trying to get the colors of the rainbow sorted out.”

Ian leaped up from the couch, stormed into the playroom, and picked up a fistful of crayons. When he started scribbling all over the big sheet of paper, Benji laughed. But when he saw the scowl on Ian’s face, he decided crying was more appropriate.

“There. It looks like I’ve just finished it for you,” Ian said, panting. “Now go and find us some fucking food! And take that horrid little brat with you!”

He jerked Annabelle up from the floor with such force that she felt her arm pop in its socket. “Okay, okay. Take it easy, Ian. We’re going.” Her hands were shaking as she bundled up Benji and headed for the door.

It wasn’t long before Ian had Annabelle so blindsided that she dropped her acting career and her concern for Benji to focus all of her attention on him. Obediently, she agreed to fill in on keyboards until a suitable substitute for Colin was located. Sometimes it was days in the studio before he got the exact sound he wanted. By the time the session finished, Annabelle was often in tears. “Come on, Annabelle. Try to keep up!” Ian yelled at her. Yet no matter how much she tried to please him, it was never enough.

While Ian played his newfound role as tyrant and fearless bandleader, Barry King remained in charge of EP promotion. The day before the launch of the latest album, a dire collection of songs that trivialized women and glorified violence, he had thousands of copies of the offensive lyrics distributed by helicopter over the BBC building on the Strand. When the radio station insisted that the “provocative” words to one of the songs needed changing if the band intended to perform it live on air, Ian agreed, but then sang the original version anyway. Worse yet, when the album was released, the band members appeared on the cover in full drag, so they looked like queer prostitutes!

Annabelle thought it was tacky, but Barry just laughed. “Keep up the good work, ladies,” he said, chuckling.

Ingrid, in the interim, had physically moved in with Rick. They were both heroin addicts, so the arrangement worked out well. She was always boasting about how brilliant sex was under the influence of smack. “You can fuck for hours because your whole body is numb and you can’t come no matter how hard you try,” she said, winking at Annabelle.

Really? After three years together, Ian had Annabelle convinced that sex and pain were synonymous, or at least bosom buddies. Her great-great-uncle was credited with inventing the word masochist, and it seemed the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. As a joke, she gifted Ian with the book The Master and Margarita, by Mikhail Bulgakov, but as it turned out, the joke was on her. He devoured the book in one sitting and said its decadence inspired him to write one of Electric Paradise’s best-known songs, “Devil is my Name.” The tune had a very hypnotic groove, like a samba with an undercurrent that sounded primitive and sinister. Barry hired Ingrid and Annabelle to sing the backup oooh, oooh vocals on the album version, which was so evil-sounding that people started calling Electric Paradise devil worshipers. It seemed every time the band performed that song live something weird happened—the night Annabelle miscarried her only baby with Ian in 1968, they were playing “Devil” at the Coliseum in Rome.

To his credit, Ian flew home as soon as he got the news. But while she sobbed, he paced and schemed. “Annabelle, get real. There’s nothing we can do about the baby, so we might as well get back to the business at hand.”

He actually used her miscarriage to boost empathy for the band. While Annabelle grieved in private, Ian milked all the compassion he could get out of fans because of their dead baby. As soon as he was satisfied there was sufficient sympathy, he took Electric Paradise back out on tour and dragged Annabelle along with them as a sort of martyred Lady Madonna. She was glad for the change in scenery, but the mix of grief and boredom was a sure recipe for disaster.

Before they went back out on tour, Electric Paradise picked up a new keyboard man in Winston. He was such a piece of eye candy that Ian deliberately kept him off stage so as not to detract from himself. But that didn’t stop Winston from making a move on Annabelle while Ian was preoccupied with his throng of adoring fans. She thanked God she was off the instrumental hook, thanked Winston for the compliment, and then proceeded to get hooked on heroin in her spare time. Why not? Electric Paradise was the greatest rock band in England with or without her as songwriter, keyboardist, lover, or mother. When Ian announced he intended to again take the band on tour in the U.S., Annabelle and Ingrid begged off. They both had enough of the limelight. Why not just stay home and experiment with bigger and better drugs, and perhaps even with each other?

Hell-bent on pumping up the band’s image, Ian kept EP touring when he should have been checking his own backyard. Imagine. While Ian and Rick pranced and preened onstage in the States, Ingrid and Annabelle languished comatose in bed, and Benji ran amuck. Additionally, Sonny’s mum became seriously ill and died, and Alick’s wife had an extramarital affair. Why all this pressure to perform? It wasn’t like anybody really needed the money. Ian had a smart flat in London and a country house in Ireland, Rick had a sprawling mansion, Sonny had a cozy cottage in Devon and a collection of antique cars, Alick had his Tudor manor and stable full of horses, and Winston had more cash than he knew what to do with. Electric Paradise was on the cover of every magazine you picked up: Beat Instrumental, Hit Parader, Fabulous, Music Parade, and Rave. When asked by a reporter about the band taking the American music scene by storm, Ian replied, “The Cultural Revolution’s still got a long way to go. Just ask Chairman Mao.”

What a load of rubbish. Ian didn’t give a flying fuck about the Cultural Revolution. According to Annabelle, he was only interested in money, the band’s celebrity, and, to a greater extent, his own fame and fortune.

Chapter 7: A Smile And A Frown

1969

Peter Ashley loved Mercy Mae Williams with all his heart, but he also loved music—all kinds of music. When he heard about the three-day outdoor concert at Woodstock, New York from his old-time mate Joe, which would feature some of the greatest folk/ pop/ rock legends of the era, he couldn’t wait to go. Peter begged Mercy to come with him, but the idea of getting stoned with hundreds of thousands of white American hippies didn’t really appeal to her.

“Come on, Mercy. It’ll be fun,” he said, smiling. “What could go wrong during three days of peace, love, and fantastic music?”

“Plenty,” she said. “Peter, have you taken a good look at us? I’m a black Rasta woman from way down in Jamaica, a place the U.S. doesn’t like much lately, and you’re a white English gentleman who has crossed over some kind of invisible boundary line by being with someone like me. I was in New York on tour with ‘Giddy-Up,’ and I didn’t dig it atal. In fact, it terrified me.”

“Why?”

“Because despite their so-called liberal thinking, deep down most folks stateside would prefer racial segregation. You gwaan and have a good time, Peter. I’ll jus’ stay here and keep the home fires burnin’.”

So off he went to hob-nob with old friends and most likely make some new ones.

When Peter called home, he said, “Just wanted to let you know I made it. Your man is safe and sound in NYC.”

“How’s the Big Apple these days? It still a zoo?”

“And then some. Joe and I are heading north to Syracuse tomorrow morning. I’ll call you again from up there.”

“Okay. But don’t forget to buy me a tiny Statue of Liberty in one of those likkle glass domes that snows when you shake it.”

Peter laughed. “No problem.”

Next time he called, Peter was babbling like an excited kid. “Mercy, you wouldn’t believe how brilliant it is up here. The countryside reminds me of rural England complete with sheep and cows and horses. The place where they’re having the concert is a six-hundred-acre dairy farm with a big lake.”

“Sounds irie,” said Mercy.

“It’s a good thing Joe and I came early. The traffic is starting to back up already. They’re expecting a quarter-million kids to show up.”

“No way.”

“We’re going to fly in by helicopter. Joe doesn’t go on till Sunday morning, but he wants to catch the other acts. I don’t know if I’ll be able to call you until we get back here to Syracuse. It sounds like Woodstock is out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Okay. Just be careful.”

“I will. I love you, Mercy.”

“I love you too. Bye, Peter.”

When the phone rang first thing Monday morning, Mercy knew it would be him. “How was it?” she said as soon as she picked up.

“Oh my God, Mercy. It was great stuff! There were thirty-two acts, and the sound system was fantastic. The stage was on a rise, and the green space, where the audience sat, swept downhill and then back up from there. I thought of Annabelle and John’s wedding when Swami what’s-his-name started things off with a prayer. Then an estimated 400,000 people seeking peace and social harmony, some of them completely naked, joined him! A sea of humanity projecting universal love. Talk about counterculture! Forget everything you’ve assumed about American youth. The venue was totally non-violent. These kids were stoned on the hope for a better future.”

“How was the weather?” she asked.

“Well, it pissed rain most of the day on Friday, but by the time the concert started around 5:30, it cleared up. The acoustic guitars were just amazing—lads like Richie Havens and Arlo Guthrie. Annabelle would have loved Joan Baez.”

“Wha’appen on Saturday?”

“When the sun came out, everybody crawled out of their tents and flower-painted buses, stripped down, and bathed in the lake.”

She giggled. “Where did you sleep?”

“They had a couple of RVs set up for the performers who wanted to hang out with the crowd. Joe and I slept in one of those caravans on wheels. Late Saturday afternoon, they brought out the serious rockers with their heavy electric guitars—a dude called Carlos Santana was fabulous, a band called Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane played extra-long sets, and my old friend Peter Townsend rocked those American kids’ socks off! Oh. And two new babies were born in the meantime.”

Mercy and Peter had been trying to make a baby for some time. “Irie,” she said, sighing.

“But Sunday was the best. I sat in with Joe and his Grease Band. We went on first, and as usual, he sang with his heart in his throat. American kids loved him. But it was that black guy, Jimi Hendrix, who stole the show. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a guitar played like that. His rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner gave me goosebumps, and I’m a bloody Englishman!”

“No Electric Paradise?” asked Mercy.

Peter chuckled. “They weren’t invited. I guess they’re too famous for a free gig.”

“Or too nyami-nyami,” she said.

“Anyway, I had a wonderful time and got some great new ideas for Reggae Revelation. I can’t wait to get home and start producing music for conscious Jamaicans to live up to.”

But Peter wasn’t back on the island for long before he heard about another outdoor concert in America that was being touted as “Woodstock West.” Some of the same bands that he had enjoyed in August in New York were to play in Northern California. When he found out Electric Paradise was on the bill too, he started packing.

“Man! Will they be surprised to see me!”

“I wonder if Annabelle will be there,” Mercy said dreamily.

The late ‘60s was an extremely rocky period for Ian and Annabelle. The more he insisted she socialize with the upper crust he so envied, the more she backed off. She remembered the way her mother had flaunted her false aristocracy, and the glitter and the hype of high society suddenly made her ill. Although she tried to keep herself together for Benji’s sake, she was depressed to the point of being seriously suicidal.

Annabelle couldn’t remember what caused her to take all those Tuinals. She supposed it was a combination of Colin’s death, feeling guilty about her mother, and the way Ian had blown off her miscarriage and kept on touring that caused her to overdose on sedatives. One afternoon, while Benji was napping, she fixed herself a hot chocolate and just kept on popping pills. While she was passed out, she had a vision. She was walking along in no-man’s land with Colin and her mother. He was translucent like the color of water, and Edna was dressed like a nun and holding the dead baby. They stopped at the edge of a cliff, and her mother said, “This is where we get off, Annabelle.” Edna and Colin jumped, taking the baby with them, but Annabelle remained among the living.

She was in a coma for six days and stayed in the hospital for a couple of months. It wasn’t very good form to try to kill yourself while you’re with a high-profile person like Ian Walsh, but she supposed she wanted to punish him for all the pain he had caused her. Besides, it was an ideal opportunity for her to get clean and sober.

Annabelle first heard Peter and Mercy’s band Reggae Revelation on the BBC Caribbean radio broadcast from her hospital bed. Every Friday night, her old friends were on the air live from Kingston, Jamaica. She listened spellbound as they introduced a brand-new musical genre that sounded like a universal heartbeat. Reggae Revelation had somehow managed to fuse the spirit of Jamaican music with the counterculture vibe of pop-rock in the UK, and the result was sensational. Truth be told, the music was the one thing that made her glad to still be alive.

Sometimes there was also a “talk” portion of the show where they interviewed other Jamaican artists. If that failed, they interviewed each other. When Peter asked Mercy, who now called herself Sista Leona, to describe her time in London, she was fierce. “The Babylon system overseas tried to hold I and I down, but the Blue Beat Girl is all grown up now, and Sista Leona ain’t takin no more blows from no downpressor man. Bredren and sistern, there’s Reggae Revelation in the air. And let me tell you, this lioness is ready to roar.”

Annabelle couldn’t wait to tell Ian about Peter and Mercy’s band. “Guess what, Ian! Peter and Mercy have put together a reggae band,” she said on one of the rare occasions he called in from the road. “I heard them on the BBC Caribbean radio.”

He yawned. “Reggae?”

“Yeah. It’s a style of music in Jamaica, and Peter and Mercy are on the cutting edge.”

“So what? Nobody’s ever heard of reggae music here in America.”

“Don’t worry, they will. Peter and Mercy’s band, Reggae Revelation, has a very positive global message,” she said brightly.

Ian snorted. “I don’t understand how a man like Peter can deal with a woman like her.”

Annabelle didn’t ask what he meant by “a woman like her,” nor did she want him to elaborate. “Anyway, thanks for calling,” she said. “Goodbye, Ian, and have a nice night.”

She hung up the phone and started to cry. Big fat tears of remorse glided down her cheeks, soaking her pillowcase. Ingrid was right. Once again a man she loved had managed to turn a positive vibe to negative in order to make her feel small. Ever since Ian had convinced her that her creative life was effectively over, Annabelle saw herself as a washed-out has-been. Mercy, on the other hand, had reinvented herself as Sista Leona and was poised and ready to move forward. Reggae Revelation had decided to stand up to the Babylon system, while Electric Paradise had fallen into the belly of the rock-and-roll beast. Mercy and Peter were making brilliant music together, while she and Ian barely spoke to one another.

Bloody hell. Maybe she was right to wish she were dead.

Who knew what prompted Electric Paradise to agree to perform at a mega-concert while they were in the States? Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were dead and the war in Vietnam raged on, so maybe American kids might be ready to embrace a more revolutionary vibe. Annabelle literally begged Ian not to go. Something told her that playing outdoors in Northern California would end in disaster, but, as usual, he wouldn’t listen.

“Annabelle, to maintain our status as the most popular rock-and-roll band in the world, we need to keep our finger on the pulse of America,” he said. “If a set of hillbilly rockers can pull in 400,000 hippies in upstate New York with a soppy message of peace and love, surely Electric Paradise can woo even more in Northern California with hardcore rock-and-roll.”

What Ian had overlooked in terms of comparing Paramount Speedway to Woodstock was that the band’s aura was geared more toward ferocity than gentleness. There had been a lot of infighting since Colin’s death, and it showed in the angry tone of the music. In other words, the EP vibe just wasn’t good. He later told Annabelle that the concert location changed four times before Paramount was chosen by default. It was a desolate spot compared to the rolling green hillsides of upstate New York, out in the middle of the desert with not a tree or a blade of grass in sight. The hasty move caused logistical problems. The stage, which was only thirty-nine inches high, was set at the bottom of a slope instead of at the top of a rise where it should have been. For a crowd estimated at 300,000, there was a shortage of portable toilets, medical tents, and proper security.

Since The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane had both used members of the Hells Angels motorcycle club for bodyguards at their concerts in the past, the idea of having notorious bad boys around intrigued Ian. He didn’t want them as police. All they were supposed to do was protect the band members and equipment in return for $500 worth of beer.

That should have been his first clue.

Yet Ian wasn’t totally stupid; he hired a film crew to document the event so that the EP band could watch live footage of the concert from the security of a caravan. The first act onstage was Santana, and the performance went relatively smoothly. But over the course of the afternoon, the mood deteriorated, and the animosity between stoned hippies and very drunk Hells Angels began to escalate. Small pockets of aggression broke out within the crowd until Paramount Speedway became synonymous with a nightmare. The Angels, armed with sawed-off pool cues and motorcycle chains, drove the crowd back from the stage. By the time Jefferson Airplane started to play, they even targeted the performers. The Grateful Dead, who were supposed to perform next, discretely packed up and left after a band member was punched in the head and rendered unconscious.

When a Hells Angels motorcycle got knocked over, perhaps accidentally, it was the ultimate transgression—the spark that lit the deadly fuse. “I ain’t no peace freak,” the owner of the bike shouted. “I just wanted to sit here and drink some beer. That bike is my whole life, my whole life.” With that pronouncement, he proceeded to beat up the kid who allegedly did it.

Ian later told Annabelle that Electric Paradise was afraid to come out of the caravan after that. They were trying to decide whether to stay or split when there was a knock at the door. Ian saw Peter Ashley smiling toothily when he opened it. “Hello, mates! Anybody need to pick up a good guitar player?”

They waited until after sundown to take the stage. As EP launched into a shaky rendition of “Backlash,” a naked woman, apparently stoned on LSD, attempted to climb up on the bandstand. Tackled by several Angels, she was thrown back into the crowd.

“Just be cool down in front there. Don’t push around,” Ian appealed into the darkness. When the band started in on “Devil is my Name,” all hell broke loose, as usual.

Peter, who had been strumming along in the background, stepped up and said, “Brothers and sisters, please chill out.”

Those were the last words he ever spoke. A young black man pulled a .22 caliber revolver from beneath his jacket and shot Peter in the chest. Ian said he saw a spark and then heard the shot. A nanosecond later, Peter dropped his guitar and fell face down on the stage.

People in the audience started screaming and running away. Many were trampled in the confusion. Ian and Rick scrambled around calling for a medic. The Angels tackled the shooter and proceeded to stab him in the back five times. He lay motionless and bleeding while they continued kicking him until they were sure he was dead. Then they nonchalantly stepped over his lifeless body and went back to drinking beer.

Peter died on the way to the hospital. He hung on until the moment the helicopter ascended from the speedway to pass on, as if he was waiting for a lift. Ian called Annabelle, and she called John, who called Peter’s parents with the sad news.

When Electric Paradise came home to England, Ian was a tortured man. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said again and again.

Rick was more explicit. “Annabelle, if Jesus Christ had been at Paramount, he would’ve been fuckin’ crucified.”

But as far as Annabelle was concerned, it was like the music came to a sputtering halt. The party was over—the lights turned out and the door slammed shut with a sickening thud. Unlike Woodstock, a celebration of life and love, the concert at Paramount Speedway was the death knell for the magical dreams of the ‘60s, dreams that were supposed to last forever. If Woodstock was a smile, then Paramount was a bloody, beastly frown.

Chapter 8: A World Starved For Love

Mercy’s middle brother Paul, always fun to have around, was staying with her on Hope Road for the weekend while Peter was gallivanting in California. They had been up all night listening to music, including tapes of a couple of new numbers she was trying out for Reggae Revelation. The sun had just come up when they decided to take a swim in the pool to clear their heads. Mercy was lying on her back on the inflatable raft when she felt something like a sledgehammer slam into her chest. The raft made a hissing sound, and then went flat and sank. Water splashed over the sides of the pool from the resulting wave.

“Mercy! Are you okay?” Paul shouted. “Wha’appen?”

She struggled to catch her breath. “It mus’ have been an earthquake.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t feel a ting.”

“Well, I sure did. Maybe I had some sort of anxiety attack. I’ve been really worried about Peter out there in California hangin’ with Electric Paradise. Trouble follows that band everywhere they go.”

“That’s cuz they don’t walk good,” said Paul.

Mercy climbed out of the pool and glanced at the clock in the cabana. “A couple of minutes after seven. That would be midnight in California. The concert should be in full swing about now.”

But in fact, the concert was over. Peter was shot dead, and Mercy felt the bullet all the way down in Jamaica. Although she knew what happened in her heart, Mercy’s head didn’t catch up until Peter’s mother called and broke the news that morning. She said they were having his body shipped back to England, and Mercy needn’t attend the funeral. Mercy had no recollection of events after that. Paul said she fainted. He called a doctor who prescribed bed rest and tranquilizers. But there was no way she could let them bury her Peter without seeing him one more time. She threw some money and pills in her purse, tossed some warm clothes in a carry-on bag, and headed to the airport without telling anyone her intentions. How could she when she had no idea what her intentions were herself?

Thanks to the pills, Mercy slept the entire way from Norman Manley International Airport to Heathrow. They had built a new terminal since she was last there, and she was disoriented—so much so that she accidentally left her bag on the plane when she disembarked. Luckily, a flight attendant was able to catch up with her and return it; otherwise, she would have had nothing to wear. She was embarrassed to call Peter’s parents and didn’t have Annabelle’s address or phone number, so she ended up standing on the step at John Dunbar’s flat, shivering in the freezing rain.

Mercy gathered her courage and rang the bell. When John came to the door, she hardly recognized him. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair and clothes were dirty, and he had lost plenty of weight.

“John? Is that you?”

He stared at her for a blank moment and then cried, “Mercy!” They fell sobbing into each other’s arms.

“You look terrible,” she told him, wiping away tears as he ushered her inside.

He wisely didn’t return the compliment. “That’s what getting dumped by someone like Annabelle will do for you. And now we’ve lost Peter too.”

“Peter and I were happy,” she said, whimpering. “We made plenty of irie music together. But all that’s finished now.”

John shook his head. “Don’t say it’s finished. I loved Peter, and I love you. I have faith the beat you two created will go on.”

Mercy didn’t remember much about the funeral home except how out of place Peter looked in his blue suit in the coffin. She expected him to suddenly rise, strip down to his shorts, and start to play percussion on the lid. A few faces that she recognized from the past filed by, but most people were strangers.

She had dressed all in black like a typical widow except for a piece of African Kente cloth wrapped around her dreadlocks. It was the first time she had met Peter’s parents, and she was nervous. “I’m so sorry about your son,” she told Mr. and Mrs. Ashley. But no hugs were forthcoming. Peter’s mother took Mercy’s bare brown hand in her white glove and shook it limply while her husband gazed out the window. Neither one of them said a word.

After the viewing, John and Mercy attended the funeral service at the All Souls Anglican Church, where Peter had been baptized. Just like when she lived with Barry in Forest Hill, black faces were scarce. Of course, all the pop/rockers were there, but other than Jimmy Cliff, who had been working with Barry in London for the time, everyone else was white. Had Peter organized his own funeral things might have been more festive, but his parents were old school and extremely conservative.

The minister led the attendees inside. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” he recited as a eulogy.

John and Mercy sat together in the second pew so as not to disturb the immediate family. He put his arm around her when she started to cry. When the choir sang, “A World Starved for Love,” she broke down completely. As Mercy’s sobs echoed off the cold walls, Peter’s family turned and glared at her as if she was from another planet, which to them, she was.

“At least they’re not playing ‘Giddy-Up,’” whispered John.

“Or ‘As Tears Flow By,’” she said.

John sighed. “It all started with those three songs.”

The congregation chanted the Lord’s Prayer while Peter’s body was committed for burial. His parents left the church and followed the coffin without glancing Mercy’s way. Why would they? This was England, not Jamaica. In his parents’ eyes, Peter couldn’t possibly have loved someone like Mercy Mae Williams or whatever she called herself now.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the minister intoned at the graveyard.

Mercy should have kept her distance, but when Mrs. Ashley started weeping, she stepped up and tried to console her, island style. “Please don’t cry, Ma Ashley,” she said, hugging her. “At least Peter died doing what he loved, which was performing. Most people aren’t that lucky.”

“Don’t call me Ma,” she hissed. “I’m not your mother.”

Mr. Ashley dismissed Mercy with a sweep of his hand, as if he was shooing a troublesome fly. “Lucky?” he said, spitting. “Our son wasn’t lucky. He could have had a brilliant career here in the UK, but he ran away to that stupid island with the likes of you. And now he’s dead.”

Mercy held her ground. “Peter wasn’t a likkle boy,” she said. “We were in love.”

“That’s right,” John said, coming to her rescue. “Mercy wasn’t responsible for Peter’s death. Ian Walsh and his bloody Hells Angels were the reason your son died in California.”

Ian must have been somewhere within earshot. At the mention of his name, he literally flew into the midst of the conversation while Annabelle, who looked like death warmed over, hovered close by.

“I never invited Peter to come and play with us at Paramount Speedway. He just showed up unannounced,” he said.

“That’s true,” Annabelle said shakily. She was holding five-year-old Benji’s hand.

John was understandably livid. “He was my best friend, and he died because of you!” he shouted at Ian. “He’s dead because . . . because Electric Paradise’s antagonistic lyrics are designed to incite young men to violence and seduce sexually repressed young women!”

Ian curled his upper lip. “You’re half right, John. That’s how I ended up fucking your wife.”

Maybe he did feel remorseful about Peter’s death. Maybe he needed to be punished. It was almost like Ian wanted John to throttle him. They wrestled around for some time with Annabelle screaming for them to stop on the sidelines. Benji was still pummeling Ian with his small fists when Rick broke it up.

Blood dripped from Ian’s nose as he struggled up from the ground. “Just another day in paradise,” he said, brushing himself off. He waved to the paparazzi with their telephoto lenses, and then he grabbed Annabelle roughly by the elbow in an attempt to lead her away.

She balked. “No! I want to talk to my friend Mercy Mae,” she said loud enough so that everyone could hear. Ian shrugged and walked off without her.

Sonny offered John a hand. He had definitely taken the worst of it; his jacket was ripped and the skin around his left eye was already turning blue. He gave Annabelle a hateful look, hugged Benji, and then addressed the reporters. “I hope you got everything down on film. See you in court, Mr. Walsh!” he hollered as he limped toward the gate.

Mercy could tell Annabelle was well stoned. “Mek me give you a big hug,” she said to her best friend.

“Oh my God, Mercy. I can’t believe how all this turned out,” Annabelle blurted as she staggered into her arms. “Peter was such a brilliant man, and Ian is so dreadfully horrid. I heard you on the radio. You and Peter, live from Jamaica on the BBC. You two had so many positive things to say, so much to look forward to, and now he’s dead just like Colin and my baby.”

Mercy hugged her harder. “Don’t worry, Annabelle. The riddim didn’t die with Peter. I, Sista Leona, will make sure his spirit lives on through our music.”

Mercy could feel Barry’s eyes boring into her back. She held onto Annabelle’s hand and turned to face him. “You have a problem with that, boss man?”

Barry looked surprised. “With what?”

“With the fact that your Blue Beat Girl is gonna end up the queen of reggae music while you play second fiddle?” She was quite sure that Annabelle hadn’t been the only one tuned in to Reggae Revelation. Barry King’s antennae must have gone up immediately. In fact, he had been busy importing reggae talent to the UK all along, probably intending to use naïve islanders to further his reputation and stuff his pockets at the same time.

“Just remember, Barry, what’s hidden in darkness must come to light,” she said.

Barry smiled wickedly, turned on his heel, and walked away. “If you say so, Mercy Mae.”

“One-eyed man is king in a blind man’s country!” she called after him. “I swear on my Peter’s grave that I’ll do everything in my power to help Jamaican musicians stand up for their rights!”

Chapter 9: Revelation

London, 1970

Annabelle was proud of the way Mercy dealt with Peter’s loss. She waited a fortnight after his funeral, and then, during an interview on BBC, Sista Leona started to roar. When queried about the role Reggae Revelation intended to play in the music scene in the UK now that Peter had passed away, Mercy used her best imitation of the Queen’s English. “It’s a new decade,” she said, “and I intend to offer an alternative to the status quo by producing conscious Jamaican music right here in London with my new label, Revelation Records.”

When asked if she planned to compete with Antilles, she was both eloquent and heroic. “In contrast to a label that has continually demonstrated a preference for adopting material based on Euro-American pleasing qualities with a disregard for sociopolitical lyrics or indigenous musical content, I am committed to keeping island music real. I mean, as a contemporary Pan-African woman, it clashes with my sense of independence and ethics to do otherwise.”

“Bravo,” Annabelle said, applauding.

Ian, who was eavesdropping, was incredulous. “What in the hell does she mean by that?”

Annabelle was quick to answer. “She’s talking about Barry King and his bollocks business practices, and she’s right on the money. The Blue Beat Girl doesn’t intend to put up with any more of his rubbish, and I don’t blame her.”

“Not everything is about money,” Sista Leona said when the interviewer asked where she intended to get the start-up cash to finance her enterprise. “Music doesn’t come from the bank; it comes from the soul. Peter Ashley and I were equal business partners who pooled our talent and assets to finance Reggae Revelation, our collective musical dream. Sure, he put in more money than I did. But our contract states that upon the death of one partner, the other has total control of the band’s business.”

Ian hit the ceiling. “Don’t tell me she figured a way to get all of Peter’s money!”

“That’s the beautiful part,” said Annabelle. “Peter wanted her to have it. He signed everything over to her and their future children. Of course, they didn’t have any, so Mercy got everything. His parents are quite upset, but what can they do about it?”

Ian stomped out of the room.

“Revelation Records intends to do business wisely,” Sista Leona wrapped up. “Unfortunately, Rastafari are viewed as people to look down on here in England; black Jamaican kids growing up in the UK know nothing of their Afro-Caribbean roots. I believe it’s time to change all that.”

Because Antilles was still Electric Paradise’s label, Ian demanded that Annabelle disassociate herself from Sista Leona immediately. “Everybody knows who she’s talking about,” he said, “and Barry King is still Electric Paradise’s recording boss.”

Annabelle flatly refused. She was proud to be friends with an intelligent, articulate black woman who dressed like an African queen and talked like the kind of conscious revolutionary that she herself had once dreamed of becoming.

And as it turned out, Mercy’s actions spoke even louder than her words. Revelation Records organized an association for immigrant musicians who had been tricked into selling their brand of music cheap to producers like Barry King. When their music finally got airplay on the sacred BBC, it was thanks to Sista Leona’s efforts. People liked what they heard. The beat was fresh and authentic, and a new spirit of multiculturalism began to flower among blacks, whites, and all shades in between. It was ironic, really, how Brits were suddenly ready and willing to buy into music whose lyrics spit in the face of the legacy of colonialism. Bloody hell, even skinheads dug it!

But down in Jamaica, reggae was in a lull—even though The Wailers continued to crank out conscious music in their Tuff Gong studio on Hope Road. Dub, which referred to rearranging individual tracks within an existing recording with no regard for the original music, had taken over. Thoroughly disgusted with the new vibe, Mercy decided she could make more of a difference by staying on in London than by returning home. She asked Dessie to look after the house while she was away, and then, as promised, she dedicated all her energy to helping Jamaican musicians get established in the UK.

Annabelle suspected the real reason she stayed on was that she wasn’t ready to go home without Peter. “I admire your determination,” she told Mercy. “I wish I had the guts to stand up for what I believe in—that is, if only I knew what it was.” She laughed bitterly. “The world has turned sour for me, Mercy Mae, and I’m only twenty-four years old.”

“Don’t give up on yourself just because you made some bad choices, eh, Annabelle. You’re a beautiful, talented woman with plenty of love and music to give.”

“I doubt if Ian would agree with that. As far as he’s concerned, I’m a hopeless addict that he’d just as soon leave behind.”

Although Annabelle was sure Ian had other women waiting in the wings, for some reason, he seemed reluctant to get rid of her. Maybe he felt guilty about putting her off her career. Or maybe he thought he could save her from herself, be her knight in shining armor, just like Peter had been for Mercy. Who knows, maybe he actually loved her.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“That Ian is too borosie, too rude,” said Mercy. They were watching the film Hamlet in which Annabelle played Ophelia, and they were sharing a joint.

“What would you say if I told you I shot up with smack during intermission?” Annabelle said, chuckling.

Mercy smiled. “I’d say you’re a wonderful actress.” Then she kissed her on the lips.

After that, Annabelle began to see Mercy in a new light. While Ian fretted about the exorbitant taxes he was going to have to pay on the money the band earned on the last U.S. tour, she and Mercy hung out together whenever they got a chance. Although Mercy frowned on Annabelle’s habitual abuse of hard drugs and alcohol, she was enough of a free spirit herself to overlook her addiction in favor of their friendship.

“Craven choke puppy,” she warned when Annabelle got too messed up. “Take care you don’t overdo it, fly too high and crash.” But that didn’t stop them from being best chums.

On the afternoon Mercy invited her over for a “weed jam,” Annabelle was reluctant to go because Mercy was house-sitting at John’s flat. “How about you and I go out for drinks at the Savoy instead? It was my mother’s favorite place, but I haven’t been there since she died. We could visit the British Museum or take a boat ride on the Thames while we’re in the neighborhood.”

“No tanks. Come on, Annabelle. John’s out of town on gallery business, and I’ve got some prime Jamaican ganja stashed at the flat. Get a sitter for Benji, and we’ll kick back and get extra-mellow.”

Anything that had to do with drugs was hard for Annabelle to resist. “Okay. If you’re sure Mr. Duncan won’t be snooping around.”

When Mercy opened the door, her eyes were shining. She was barefoot, and strands of tribal beads jingled around her ankles and wrists. Her well-oiled dreadlocks had been liberated from their usual headdress, and her small but shapely body was wrapped in a piece of bright African cloth.

“Mercy, you look good enough to eat,” said Annabelle. She kicked off her shoes and sank down on the sofa while Mercy organized the hubble-bubble pipe. As they smoked the ganja, everything in and around them relaxed.

Mercy exhaled. “Annabelle, do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Annabelle was surprised. At that point, she considered herself unworthy of love given by anyone, especially someone as noble as Mercy Mae. “I love you too,” she said.

Annabelle gazed into Mercy’s sweet caramel eyes and cupped her face in her hands. Then she bent down and covered her mouth with her own. Mercy was shocked when she inserted her tongue and the kiss deepened. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that!” she said.

“Well, I did. Mr. Walsh isn’t the only one who turns me on, you know.” Annabelle pulled her sweater over her head and dropped it beside the couch. Then she reached around behind her back and unhooked her pink lace bra.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Mercy said as her breasts tumbled free.

When Annabelle loosened Mercy’s wrap, the scent of patchouli oil emanated from her smooth brown skin. As it fell away, she ran her hands over Mercy’s body until her dark nipples stood at full attention.

Mercy gulped. “I’ve never done anything like this with a woman,” she said, embarrassed.

Annabelle laughed. “I have. It’s nice. Let me show you.” She led Mercy to the bedroom. Once they were both naked on the bed, Mercy started to giggle.

“What’s so funny?’ Annabelle wanted to know.

“Gal, you’re a natural blonde from head to toe!”

Annabelle hooted. “And you’re definitely a brunette!”

They collapsed in fits of hysterical laughter, and the spell was broken. When Annabelle propped herself up on her elbow to catch her breath, she saw a familiar shadow outside the frosted glass of the front door and heard a key in the lock.

“Oh my God! It’s John!” They scrambled out of bed just as the door opened. John spied the hubble-bubble pipe and picked up Annabelle’s discarded sweater and bra.

“You filthy cunt!” he roared as he charged into the bedroom. He passed Mercy straight and grabbed Annabelle. She didn’t even have time to collect her knickers before he threw her out onto the street. Mercy, covered with a sheet, pushed past him and dangled her wrapper out the door like a lifesaver. Annabelle snatched it away and then sank down on the step sobbing.

She could hear Mercy and John quarreling inside. “How could you even think of doing something like this in my home?” he screamed. “Peter is still warm in his grave and you’re fucking around with the likes of Annabelle?”

Usually-articulate Mercy was struggling for words. “Right now she needs all the love she can get,” she stammered. “Besides, we didn’t really do anything.”

“Right,” John said sarcastically. “I swear to God, if Benji doesn’t get away from the likes of her soon, there’s no telling what might become of him. Now get the hell out of my house and take that slut with you!”

Mercy rented a flat in Mayfair. (After all, she could afford it.) But Annabelle didn’t fare so well. When Electric Paradise band members, including Ingrid, picked up and moved to southern France to avoid paying British taxes, she wasn’t invited to come along. Because of what John told his lawyer about her indiscretion with Mercy, she lost custody of Benjamin. From that junction on, her personal life went into a tailspin. Although Mercy invited her to room with her until she sorted herself out, Annabelle, who wanted punishment to the max, chose martyrdom over friendship. After she had exhausted all other possibilities, she ended up living on the street. From rock-and-roll royalty to homelessness in a matter of months.

Naturally, Mercy was worried sick. She felt responsible for her friend’s fall from grace, felt as if it was her fault for insisting Annabelle come to John’s flat in the first place. Yet in the back of her mind, she was secretly glad Annabelle and Ian had split up. As far as she was concerned, he was a user and a womanizer who had unceremoniously dumped Annabelle just when she needed him most. Maybe now she would see the light, finally awake from the trance she’d been floating in for the past four years. Maybe she’d get herself together and embrace her neglected career instead of the crutch of hard drugs and alcohol. If Annabelle asked for help, Mercy was ready and willing to give it. Otherwise, all she could do was sit back and watch the drama unfold.

Electric Paradise, meanwhile, was on the move. Besides ducking taxes, they had finally wiggled out of their contract with Barry and formed their own label, Paradise Records. Barry, acting much like a spurned lover, gathered all their unreleased material with Antilles and put out a compilation album that went straight to the top of the charts. Ian hit back by calling Barry a “West Indian Jew” in the press. Barry retaliated by pulling Annabelle off the street in St. Anne’s and persuading her to record an unbelievably sloppy album. Persistent drug abuse had permanently altered her voice, and Rich Girl Blues was so bad that even Barry didn’t have the guts to release it.

There was no doubt Annabelle was a proper crock up, plagued by cravings of every sort—the need for fame, the security of lies, anorexia, and a savage heroin habit that wouldn’t leave her alone. Most of all she craved love, but every time Mercy tried to reach out to her, she shunned her. In Annabelle’s convoluted mind, Mercy was responsible for her loss of Benji, even though she hadn’t been around when most of the damage had been done. Annabelle became so deluded that when Electric Paradise released their next album, she insisted that she had collaborated on all of the songs and demanded royalties. Although she hired a derelict lawyer, nothing ever came of it. For the next two years, she rejected love and friendship and drifted the streets of London’s Soho district, casting herself in the role of a penniless, anorexic junkie.

Part Two

Politricks

Chapter 10: The Victory Bandwagon

1971

Now that Annabelle no longer wanted her friendship, Mercy began to question her reasons for staying in London. Her band, minus Peter, was waiting for her in Jamaica, but the music vibe from home was unsettled, as confirmed by Dessie’s latest letter.

Dear Mercy Mae,

Without you and Peter here with us in Jamaica, I’m beginning to wonder if reggae music is still alive. Brother Bob is back in the studio, but prophets like him get ignored in favor of that rassclatt dubbed over music. Ten years after Independence, it seems the spiritual message of reggae music is still overshadowed by the harsh realities of ghetto living. PM Shearer is a racist bag-o-wire who needs to go. The Rastafari community is behind our neighbor Michael Manley 100% and intends to work hard to get him elected.

As you probably know, Jimmy Cliff is back on the island to make a movie about the violence in shantytown. It’s called The Harder They Come, and Jimmy wants me to be in it! Can’t wait to start shooting. Ha. Ha. My good friend Andre, who is a landscape designer, is helping me take care of the house and garden. We’ve put in a bed of roses and planted fruit trees just like we had at Olde Mill. Oh, and Paul has a positive girlfriend. Her name is Celia, and she’s dying to meet you.

Well, that’s about it from Jam Rock. We miss you and love you,

Dessie

Tears flowed from Mercy’s eyes as she reread the letter. She was glad to know the house and garden were all right; that Paul had a girlfriend; that Jimmy Cliff and Dessie were making a movie; and that Michael Manley was going to run for prime minister. But she was worried about the political violence that always accompanied elections in Jamaica. She had repeatedly tried to get Dessie to join her in the UK until things settled, but he always came up with the same answer, “Let’s wait and see.”

Then again, maybe he was right to stay on. If Jimmy Cliff’s movie was successful, it would give the entire world a bird’s eye view of the kind of social injustice holding Jamaicans down—not only reggae musicians but the populace in general. If the Rasta community was behind their neighbor Manley, what sense did it make for Dessie to run away now?

Suddenly Mercy knew exactly what she had to do. She missed her family and her country, no matter how troubled it had become. Embarrassing Barry with Revelation Records would just have to wait. It was time to go home.

Mercy had plenty of time to think on the plane back to the island. It would have been nice if she could have kidnapped Annabelle off the streets of London and brought her with her, but the timing wasn’t right for either of them. When she picked up the inflight magazine from the seat pocket in front of her, the Jamaican flag waved proudly over the heads of the smiling faces on the cover—green for hope, yellow for natural resources, and black for the struggle—that was the promise the flag made to the island’s people. Yet Brand Jamaica had filled the inside pages with things local folks could never afford—fancy cars, expensive jewelry, designer shoes, and handbags—let alone an airline ticket. The island had been independent for years, but still had the highest level of economic inequality in the world.

What was holding Jamaican people down? The answer was simple: “Politricks.”

The People’s National Party, as founded by Norman Manley, and the Jamaican Labor Party, founded by Alexander Bustamante, had been around since before Mercy was born. Both PNP and JLP had a legacy of violence. When PM Bustamante (a brown man) set out to attract foreign capital to invest in the island, he ignored ordinary people. Profits remained in the pockets of investors and never trickled down to the natives who were the backbone of the island’s economy.

Busta died and so did his successor Sangster (another brown man), but major sectors of the economy were still controlled by foreigners under PM Shearer. When Norman Manley handed the leadership of the PNP to his son, the first thing Michael did was visit Ethiopia where he received a “Rod of Correction” from His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie. Michael Manley espoused a sort of democratic socialism that he called the “Third Way.” Peter had once said it was a cross between Cuban–style communism and America’s Operation Bootstrap, which sounded to Mercy like a parable. Yet people were definitely ready for a change, and she had a gut feeling that Manley would take the election by storm. At least she hoped so.

When Dessie met Mercy at the airport, he was a welcome sight. His dreadlocks were almost long enough to sit on, and his hug was tight and genuine. “Welcome home, Sista!”

Mercy returned his embrace. “You look great, bro! Mek me give you a big hug!” she said as they collected her overweight luggage, which contained gifts for at least half the population of Jamaica. “So tell me the latest island vibes, eh, Dessie?”

Dessie smiled. “Well, filming the movie with Jimmy was irie. Jamaicans are gonna be able to see their own story on the screen for the first time—not some pumped-up Hollywood version, but the real thing with real people. Just now, the JLP has the sufferahs hung up by the balls, but our neighbor Michael Manley, who calls himself Joshua, has vowed to lead Jamaicans out of Babylon to the Promised Land.”

“Blow wow,” said Mercy. “But I wonder if the average yardie actually knows the difference between heaven and hell.”

He shrugged. “All they know is that under the JLP the rich got richer, and the poor starved in the gutter.”

When they passed through Kingston, Mercy realized what Dessie said was true. The downtown area was a mess. Rude boys hung out on every corner, and trash overflowed the sidewalks and blocked the roadway.

“Looks like economic downpression has replaced colonial oppression,” she said.

“You’ve been away a long time, Mercy. You’ve had your fame, and you got your fortune. But most Jamaicans are still waiting in limbo for their reward.”

Mercy sighed. “Limbo is an unfortunate state of mind. That’s why roots music is so important. It gives people a sense of empowerment to change their own situation and move ahead.”

When they rolled into their neighborhood on Hope Road, Michael Manley was out walking one of his big dogs. He waved. “Howdy, Mercy! Welcome home! Come on over for a sundowner later, and we’ll talk.”

“Okay!” she hollered out the window. She had always liked Michael. He was an intelligent, passionate man, and he currently had a black wife. After Dessie gave her a tour of the improvements to the house, she walked across the road to visit.

Michael was sitting on the verandah wearing a dashiki. He had a drink in his hand. “I’m so sorry about Peter,” he said, rising to hug her. “What can I get for you?”

“Jus’ water. I’m still dehydrated from the flight.”

After he filled her glass, he launched into the reason he wanted to speak to her. “I’ve got a brilliant idea, Mercy,” Michael said, smoothing back his wavy hair. “As you know, people worldwide have celebrated with music since time immemorial. Here in Jamaica, songs have been used to spur politics ever since Marcus Garvey. My father and Bustamante used music in their campaigns, and I intend to follow their lead.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He nodded. “Actually it’s more like a dream, and I need you to help me make the dream come true.”

“Me? Why me, for heaven’s sake?”

“You, Sista Leona, are just the right person to launch the PNP into victory next election. I’m aware of what you’ve done for Jamaican musicians in England. You have the talent and the organizational skills of a winner. I want you to bring together songwriters and performers who are keen to hit the campaign trail along with me—I mean along with us.”

Mercy had to admit she was intrigued by the idea of a campaign led by Michael Manley, driven by Rastafari, and inspired by the ideals of Marcus Garvey.

“So you’re thinking of taking a rebel music show on the road?” Her mind flashed to Peter—how he had sacrificed his life for music in California. “And you want me to act as a sort of talent scout?”

“Exactly.”

“Michael, I’m not sure I’m ready to jump back into the scene so soon after what happened to Peter.”

“I can understand that. But music is at the very soul of Jamaican culture, and I trust your judgment to book the right artists to represent the positive spirit of the PNP. Bob Marley has already agreed to help.”

Mercy was surprised. Rastafari didn’t usually deal in politricks, and although Manley seemed sincere, his family had been involved too long to be one hundred percent respectable. Yet if Brother Bob was convinced that Michael was worthy, then she supposed he was. “I’d hate to think you’d be using reggae music to promote your political agenda by pulling the wool over Rasta’s eyes,” she said.

“No, no. Their agenda is my agenda.” Michael poured himself another drink and refilled her water glass. “You’ve got six months to get the acts together.”

“What will you call the campaign?” asked Mercy.

“The Victory Band Wagon,” he said proudly. “And I want you to be the engineer.”

“Let me think about it.”

Mercy didn’t have to think long. She took a deep breath, asked Jah and Peter for guidance, and then jumped on board the proverbial bandwagon.

When she talked to Brother Bob, he was enthusiastic. “No problem. Rita and the Soulettes will be with me, and so will Bunny and Tosh.”

“The PNP isn’t offering any kind of monetary compensation,” she said.

He put on his lopsided grin. “Money is jus’ numbers. If it tek money to be free, the search for freedom will never end. Come on, Mercy. We can rule dis ting.”

Mercy grinned. “Well, at least more people will have a chance to hear what Rastafari have to say.”

The Victory Band Wagon kicked off on Paradise Street in Central Kingston. The format was for Manley to speak first using rhetoric reiterated in the music. Max Romeo was there, and Junior Byles, and Ken Boothe, and Toots and The Maytals, and of course Bob and Bunny and Tosh along with Rita and The Soulettes.

As far as the remnants of Reggae Revelation were concerned, Mercy sang and played keyboards, and Dessie was on congas. Douglas Guthrie sat in on sax, and they had Aston Barrett on bass and his brother Carlton on drums to perform their hits “Walk Good” and “Rise on Up.” They also helped out on Bob’s “Simmer Down” and Tosh’s “Small Axe” and “400 Years.”

Flag-waving, placard-carrying, ganja-smoking, drumbeating, dreadlocked Rastas followed the Victory Band Wagon as it rolled through Port Antonio, Falmouth, Morant Bay, Browns Town, Spanish Town, Four Parts, Lacovia, Santa Cruz, Top Hill, Savanna La Mar, Alley, Mountain Side, Wittone, Green Island, Montego Bay, Lucea, Highgate, and Port Maria Bay. Whew! From July right up until they wound up back in Kingston in February the following year, the Victory Band Wagon played and sang their hearts out for the PNP and Michael Manley.

Manley himself was tireless, always on the radio, on TV, and in the press vowing to tackle the longstanding problems of poverty, unemployment, and lack of confidence in public integrity. His speeches overflowed with the colloquial Rasta I-isms familiar to his chosen people. Full-page campaign ads in the newspaper showed him wearing a dashiki with his hair tucked up in a liberation-colored tam. He carried his Rod of Correction wherever he went as part of his political paraphernalia, and supporters went wild when he brandished it as the slayer of evil JLP. Never mind the showmanship, the result was gratifying. The People’s National Party won the 1972 election by a landslide.

“It’s time for the Third World to walk on its feet, not crawl on its knees,” Manley declared in his victory speech.

“Yeah, man!” Dessie hollered from the crowd.

When the movie The Harder They Come came out, Dessie and Mercy met Jimmy Cliff downtown at the premiere. The theater was packed, and Jimmy had a satisfied grin on his face. “Cho! Just last night Barry King called from London to say he could make me one of the biggest stars in the world,” he said. “But you know what? Championing social inequality in Jamaica is much more important than Barry’s fame and fortune. I can’t make music to satisfy anyone else without satisfying my own soul first.”

“So what did you tell him? Barry, I mean,” asked Mercy.

Jimmy laughed. “I told him to fuck off.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she said, grinning. She gave him a fist knock before they went inside to find their seats.

Brother Bob wasn’t around for the premiere of the movie. He and The Wailers were busy in England signing a recording contract with the very same Barry King. Mercy could picture Bob raising his clenched fists triumphantly to the sodden London sky. “Jah Rastafari! Finally I and I goin’ to be heard!” But to her mind, Bob had sold his soul to the same devil that she and Annabelle trusted way back when; the same devil who had stabbed them in the back.

Chapter 11: True Confessions

London

To sit back and watch the Electric Paradise show from the gutter wasn’t much fun for Annabelle. Ian had a new girlfriend in St. Tropez, a svelte Venezuelan beauty who was her physical and mental opposite—brunette and happy. The Ian and Rosa story was all over the tabloids. The £4,000 diamond bracelet, the “Love Story” wedding, the birth of their daughter, a free concert in LA to benefit the homeless in Rosa’s hometown, all made the headlines. But what about Annabelle? Wasn’t she homeless and in dire need of relief?

On the other hand, Annabelle liked where she landed. Planet Heroin was a place devoid of pain. When she was flying high, it didn’t matter that her mother was dead, or the man she loved booted her out of his life, or that she lost custody of her son. She actually enjoyed the idea of raging out of control. Annabelle was an actress who had cast herself in her ideal role: that of a beautiful, jilted, homeless martyr who was privileged enough to be able to afford to waste her life.

In truth, Annabelle had emotionally abandoned Ian Walsh long before he physically abandoned her. She exiled herself to living on the streets not because he kicked her out, but because she wanted to jump out of the fishbowl they were swimming in. Some said she turned to prostitution after he dumped her, but that was untrue. Sure, she was penniless, but she never had to sell her body because her street family and friends looked out for her. In some ways being homeless was a lot kinder than hanging out with the rock-and-roll elite. That scene could be bitchy and cruel just like her mother and Ian.

Destitute junkies were more like real people to Annabelle—mixed up, hooked on drugs and alcohol, and constantly exhibiting drastically eroded judgment. The interesting thing was that contrary to what people believed about her and how she behaved, she actually had plenty of sexual inhibitions. Passion was supposed to be everything in the ‘60s. Social protest and popular music instructed kids to make love, not war—tune in and turn on. But flower power and sexual hang-ups make strange bedfellows. Annabelle was of two minds. She was afraid of being called a “square” if she didn’t take advantage of every sexual opportunity that came down the lane and equally fearful of being labeled a “slag” if she did.

She hadn’t yet gotten over Ian, but she remembered how right it felt with Ingrid. She was the one who had shown Annabelle that sex didn’t have to equal castigation—that it could actually be liberating—so she played the field with other women, a lot safer according to what she had learned about the perils of over-demanding men. So many hang-ups. Before Annabelle’s mother died, Edna told her that Red Army soldiers raped her and her grandmother during the liberation of Vienna. If it was true, it would clarify why Edna hated men and also explain the undercurrent of mistrust that pervaded Annabelle’s childhood household. That could have been what affected Annabelle’s development and made her afraid to grow up. Even as far back as John, it had been impossible for her to engage in sex when she was totally sober. Since she didn’t trust her feelings without a glass of wine or a joint of marijuana, she blotted out lust with alcohol and drugs and simply rolled with the punches. And as much as Annabelle loved Ian, she was required to perform for him sexually. Thus she had no clear view of her own worth when it came to pleasing men, no guiding star.

Still, she missed Benji in her life. When she asked him how he liked living with John’s parents, he said, “Mummy, all the lights went out at once.” Ian and Rosa had a baby daughter, and Rick and Ingrid were also expecting, but what did Annabelle have besides a guilty conscience? She had unceremoniously left her husband for a shining chimera and then abandoned her son in the confusion. In a Rolling Stones interview, Ingrid said, “I feel sorry for my old friend Annabelle Sinclair. I know how it is to be hooked on smack and living in the midst of pushers and users. People condemn you for neglecting your man and kids. Instead of getting dinner for them, you’re out wandering the streets looking to feed your habit.” Exactly. But Annabelle didn’t have a man or a kid to feed. Ian had shunned her, and John took Benji away.

What she couldn’t understand was how Rick, Sonny, and Alick could have turned against her as well. She hadn’t done anything to harm them, had she? Bloody hell. Was there anybody left who could love an upper-crust junkie who had fallen out of fashion? Thank God, the press had never got wind of the scene between her and Mercy at John’s flat. Although their love had never come to fruition sexually, it was ripe with promise. But like most everything else, Annabelle had blown that too.

The following years flew by in a blur while Annabelle checked in and out of homeless shelters or slept in stairwells with the rest of the dispossessed in London. She tried to follow EP’s progress in the tabloids as best she could, but most of the time she was too high or too low to concentrate. Since she now had abscesses and track marks all over her body, she wore long sleeves and trousers. No more miniskirts for Annabelle. Afraid to face the physical agony of withdrawal, let alone the problems she’d been running from in the first place, she continued using drugs until she was practically comatose. Occasionally people who had known her from before would intervene and enroll her in an NHS drug program so she could get a daily fix of methadone from a certified chemist, but she was a notorious failure. Mercy needn’t have gone all the way back to Jamaica to witness suffering. Her best cumbolo was acting it out live on the streets of Soho.

What’s it like to be a heroin addict? According to Annabelle, just after you shoot up you get this incredible rush like you’re on top of the world, and then you get all fuzzy. It’s like you’re wrapped in cotton wool and sinking down a drain hole until it’s time for the next hit. If you don’t get it, it’s like dying slowly. Meanwhile, you get friendly with the social workers as well as the police. You’re in and out of hospitals searching for a cure. But mainly you’re looking for your connection. Nothing works to get you clean until you’re ready, and Miss Annabelle Sinclair wasn’t.

While Annabelle was busy feeling sorry for herself, Electric Paradise embarked on another U.S. tour. According to what she gleaned from the gossip columns, they faced tear gas in Tucson, terrorists in Montreal, and assault charges in Boston. “No worries. All in the line of duty, mates,” Ian wisecracked to the press.

Yet when Rick and Ingrid were once again arrested on drug charges, and a sold-out Japanese part of the tour had to be canceled, Ian sobered. It was simple. The band would just have to get over its depravities and work harder. Ian cracked the whip, and Electric Paradise continued to churn out hits despite its vices. After the European tour of ‘73, Winston threatened to bail because of Ian’s greediness. What? Ian? Greedy? Now it was Annabelle’s turn to laugh. He had cut her off without a shilling. Now that he had his beloved Rosa and their daughter to support, she supposed he needed to grab even more.

The next thing Annabelle remembered, was in 1974, and a nun wearing a blue and white coif was leaning over her. She smelled like garlic and Florida Water, and a large wooden cross swayed hypnotically from a cord around her neck as she checked Annabelle’s blood pressure.

“Do you think there’s anybody out there who still loves me?” Annabelle repeated like a mantra.

“Of course there is, my child. God loves you.”

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say. Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital.”

“Since when?”

The nun nodded at the calendar on the wall. “Since last Sunday morning. The police found you lying in St. Anne’s Court like Cleopatra ready to sail down the Nile on her barge. The man from the Chinese laundromat down the street said to tell you he washed and dried your clothes. You can pick them up when you feel better.”

Annabelle was embarrassed. “That was nice of him,” she said.

The problem with smack was that you never knew what you were getting on the street. It could be ten percent or eighty percent like the kind of “fire dope” that killed Jim Morrison. Accidental overdoses were common and sometimes fatal. She’d been lucky.

“How soon can I get out of here?”

“Dr. Attley wants to see you first.”

“Who’s Dr. Attley?”

“He’s the new head of the psychiatric ward. Dr. Warner retired last year.”

Dr. Attley explained he was doing a study on drug addiction and wondered if Annabelle would be interested in participating. He said he suspected that she psychologically equated heroin with the power of love, which was obviously lacking in her life. (Duh.) If she was willing to commit herself to treatment, she could have all the dope she wanted until she was quite sure she’d had enough.

How could she say no? “Really? Who will pay?”

He smiled. “Her Royal Majesty.”

For eight months, Annabelle enjoyed twenty-four perks a day as well as free food and lodging. When the allotted time for the program ran out, Dr. Attley released her and told her to stay in touch. She went to the Chinese laundromat and picked up her clothes, which were much too small because she’d been eating like a pig, shoplifted a couple of Electric Paradise albums from a nearby record shop, and then unloaded them with the first dealer she came across in exchange for smack and paraphernalia. What Dr. Attley failed to realize was that being a junkie was the life Annabelle chose for herself after Ian and would continue to choose indefinitely. To be anonymous with no telephone and no address was her self-invented karma. By posing as a vagrant out on the streets that she had once commanded like a queen, she was getting exactly what she wanted—revenge on Ian and an outpouring of sympathy.

What happened after that was a little sketchy, even to Annabelle. She did a guest performance with David Bowie where she was dressed like a nun, and then she somehow hooked up with Maharishi Mahesh again. She could have been hallucinating, but to her mind, everything they said about his sexual appetite was true. (The Beatles decreed their association with Maharishi Mahesh “a public mistake.”)

Under the veil of transcendental meditation as a way to cure her addiction and sexual hang-ups, he dragged Annabelle back to India with him. Then he locked her in his white marble palace with his harem of a dozen other concubines, and he threw away the key. The Maharishi and Annabelle did it in every possible position prescribed by the Kama Sutra while the other women watched and waited to join in according to the Modern Interpretation of the Vedanta Philosophy. When the yogi was on tour, she and the girls took turns entertaining each other the way she and Ingrid had. After a while, Annabelle realized she had landed right back where she was when she and Ian split up.

Bloody hell! She left London cast in the role of a slut and a whore and now she was giving a repeat performance halfway around the world! Sure, the living was easier. The palace was luxurious, and she didn’t have to worry about trivialities like food or drink, or drugs. All that was provided in abundance. Yet Annabelle was a prisoner cut off from the outside world. As far as she could tell, there was only one way to break out—this time by slashing her wrists in the hot tub with the bejeweled letter opener the Maharishi kept in his top desk drawer.

Even before the ambulance reached the hospital, His Holiness dropped Annabelle like a hot roti. Besides, a New Delhi hospital ward was not a place to visit under any circumstances, especially if the patient was broke and totally alone. The place was filthy, the food was disgusting, and the staff stank to high heaven of hair oil and curry. Annabelle might have been hallucinating again, but she was sure the doctors were using her as some sort of gynecological guinea pig. So she screwed an orderly, got him to bring her home with him, and then stole his wallet. Annabelle promised herself that if she ever managed to get back home to the UK, she would stay clean and sober forever thereafter. She wasn’t proud of how she got money for the airfare, but the damage was already done.

Chapter 12: Catch A Fire

Through the implementation of democratic socialism, Michael Manley said he “Intended to heighten the democratic political process, the Christian principles of brotherhood and equality, the ideals of equal opportunity and equal rights, and the determination to prevent the exploitation of Jamaican people.”

Wonderful. As far as Mercy was concerned, the ideals of the PNP were in line with the message of reggae music. “Sounds good to me,” she said.

Truth be told, it was Manley’s anti-imperialistic rhetoric more than his reform programs that alienated the U.S. and UK—his warm relations with Castro’s Cuba and contempt for South African apartheid sent up a red flag in Washington and London. Aid was cut, sanctions imposed, and, consequently, the sufferahs continued to suffer.

Dessie and Mercy hung on through the first couple of years. They weren’t distributing any of their own music at the time—without Peter, the idea of Reggae Revelation just didn’t appeal—but they had installed a state-of-the-art studio at home to keep their talent from getting rusty. In the meantime, economic hardship in Jamaica continued, and some of Manley’s staunchest musical supporters became disillusioned. Max Romeo released the critical “No Joshua No,” while Junior Byles wondered, “When Will Better Come?”

“It looks like worst came first,” Dessie said sarcastically.

The great irony was that before Manley’s election the economy had been steadily growing. Now thousands of middle-class citizens were fleeing to escape the extreme economic downturn. The gang violence that erupted in “garrison constituencies,” as they called the strongholds of the respective parties, was ferocious and unrelenting. Even though Mercy and Dessie lived above the crossroads on the outskirts of the fray, they heard gunshots at night, and sometimes even in broad daylight.

“What you think we should do?” asked Mercy. They were having dinner out by the pool, and Dessie’s friend Andre was with them. “I mean, geographically speaking, we’re out of range, but the JLP knows where we live.”

“Which is right down the road from Mr. Manley,” said Andre.

Dessie pointed up toward the Blue Mountains. “I dunno. Maybe we should grab the Ible and head for the hills.”

Andre nodded emphatically. “Probably not a bad idea. Living anywhere near Kingston is just plain dangerous.”

In her heart, Mercy felt like it was her patriotic duty to stand by the brethren and sistern who had sacrificed so much in hopes of a better day in Jamaica. But how long did she have to wait for the dawn to break, she wondered, and who else might get hurt in the meantime?

Bob Marley and The Wailers continued to play sweetheart to Barry King in London. The album Catch a Fire was released in 1975, and it was so cleverly packaged and so heavily promoted by Antilles Records that it couldn’t possibly miss. The first 20,000 copies were encased in a tricky sleeve that depicted a Zippo lighter and opened at a hinge on the side. The remainder had a picture of Brother Bob on the cover smoking a big, fat spliff, which Mercy thought was more appropriate. The album got excellent reviews. Some critics called it one of the finest reggae compilations ever made. Bob wrote all the songs except for “400 Years” and “Stop That Train,” which were written by Peter Tosh.

Mercy was dying to purchase a copy, but even though bootleggers were making a killing by jacking up the price, she had trouble sourcing it in Jamaica. That’s how upside down the music scene was on the island: Everything for foreign, but nothing for those left at home.

When she finally got a hold of a copy, the music blew Mercy away. But she later learned there was some confusion with credits and contracts because Barry couldn’t keep his greedy thumb out of the pie. Su-su had it that he had reworked a couple of the tracks with an American guitar player who didn’t know what reggae music was about. Bunny and Tosh were very upset. What was a redneck white man from the deep American south doing covering for The Wailers?

Of course, Barry couldn’t have cared less. He was going for international acclaim and immediately sent the band out to tour in the UK and U.S. Bunny and Tosh mutinied shortly afterward, so Bob was left to face the wolves alone. Although he had been involved in some tricky business at home, Mercy knew he was a different kind of superstar than egotistical Ian Walsh. Deep down he was a roots man, an uncomplicated guy who simply wanted to share reggae music with the whole wide world. She actually felt sorry for him. She knew what life was like on the road—the touring and foreign food, the constant hounding from the press—really tore people like Bob down.

As they say in Jamaica, “You cayan tek a basket a carry water.” You cannot change what’s in your nature and your head. ‘Specially if you’re Bob Marley.

Antilles subsequently released the albums Burnin, Natty Dread, and Rasta Man Vibration. When Eric Clapton had a #1 hit version of “I Shot the Sherriff,” it sealed the deal. Reggae music was on fire, and all of a sudden being a Rasta was fashionable. Still under heavy control according to Barry and Jah-knows-who-else, a triumphant Brother Bob returned home to Jamaica to do a free concert for Michael Manley leading up to the 1976 general election.

At the time, grassroots support for PNP towered over the negative violence spewed by the JLP and Edward Seaga, so Reggae Revelation agreed to play the show. Then, two days before the Smile Jamaica Concert, which was designed to promote peace and harmony amongst the people, Bob, Rita, and their manager were wounded at their home in an assassination attempt. Blow wow! 56 Hope Road was a little too close for comfort. Mercy and Dessie decided to pull out of the gig, but Marley, bandaged and bleeding both from his body and his soul, went ahead and did the concert without them. Afterward, he hid out at Barry’s resort, Mt. Calabash in the Blue Mountains, until he got a flight, and he stayed away from the island for the next eighteen months.

When their home studio was subsequently robbed of almost all of its recording equipment, Mercy and Dessie should have taken the hint and split like Bob—the idea of Seaga as PM scared them both. Mercy remembered him from the early days when he promoted records in Back-o-Wall, and how he founded the Trivoli Gardens garrison with the help of a gangster/preacher man. Afraid to set foot outside the house, the Williams family sat in front of the TV on Hope Road where it was relatively safe and watched while Jamaicans cranked up the pre-election violence.

“We need a couple of big dogs,” said Dessie.

Meanwhile, the PNP continued to use music to influence voters. Jacob Miller’s song “Roman Soldiers of Babylon” addressed the fact that the nearly one hundred people killed during the first five months of Seaga’s campaign resulted from his C.I.A. connection. Bob Marley’s “Johnny Was,” lamented the death of an innocent youth caught in the crossfire. The election returned Manley to power, but not before more Jamaicans died in partisan warfare. When Washington imposed economic sanctions, cut off aid, and denied loans to foreign investment in Jamaica, Manley went back to the IMF in desperation. But the negotiations broke off in 1977.

“Now I know what IMF stands for,” Dessie said when a ten-month-long State of Emergency took effect.

Mercy took the bait. “What?”

“Is Manley’s Fault,” he said, chuckling.

Before long, shops were empty and so were people’s bellies. More riots followed. Guns, drugs, and violence ruled the streets in urban areas. When the rude boys of the late ‘60s became the henchmen of the late ‘70s, the U.S. issued a travel advisory that effectively killed tourism.

Bob Marley, Jah bless him, came home from England in an attempt to restore sanity in Jamaica. On the night of April 22, 1978, the One Love Peace Concert was held at the National Stadium in Kingston. Dubbed by the media as the “Third World Woodstock,” a crowd of over thirty-two thousand people from every strata of Jamaican society attended. Entrance to the “Togetherness Section” (bleachers) was $2. The “Love Section” (grandstand) was $5. The “Peace Section” (VIP) was $8. Bob’s secret agenda was to get the bitter political rivals Manley and Seaga together onstage for a show of unity—the point being that politics didn’t have to be violent to get the message across, the concept of One Love worked in all aspects of life.

Mercy agreed it was a wonderful idea and that it would be worth the risk for Reggae Revelation to participate. “We owe it to our fellow Jamaicans, eh, Dessie?” she said.

He gave her a tag. “Yeah, man. To One Love.”

On the night of the concert, the heavy presence of armed police and soldiers in front of the stage made Mercy nervous. How could she forget what happened to Peter at Paramount Speedway or the attempt on Bob’s life two years earlier? She was glad some of the old posse was there—Bunny, who Mercy had always respected, had rejoined The Wailers for the occasion, and the I-Threes—but she worried about the eventual outcome.

The Meditations kicked off the show in the afternoon followed by Althea and Donna, Junior Tucker, Culture, Dennis Brown, Trinity, The Mighty Diamonds, Leroy Smart, and Jacob Miller. As darkness began to fall, Reggae Revelation sat in with Big Youth and played backup for Zappow and Beres Hammond. By then Manley and Seaga, along with their wives, had taken their seats as well as members of parliament and the diplomatic corps, the police commissioner, the chief of the Defense Force, and the international celebrities and journalists.

Bloodclatt! Was that Ian Walsh Mercy saw smoking a joint with Peter Tosh backstage? Tosh was always a wildcard, a guy who might do or say anything, just like Ian, and she didn’t cotton to the idea of the two of them together.

She nudged Dessie. “Isn’t that Mr. Lips and Hips in a weed jam with Mr. Tosh?”

“Who?”

“Ian Walsh, don of Electric Paradise.”

Dessie smiled. “People cayan say they’re not getting their money’s worth.”

Minutes later, Tosh burst onto the stage smoking a six-inch spliff. As fans cheered and rose to their feet, he pulled off his tam, shook out his locks, and launched into a series of songs that denounced the Jamaican political system as a throwback to colonialism.

“Everybody who bows to the shitstem gonna end up dead,” Tosh declared.

Mercy couldn’t help thinking he must have taken advice from Ian on how to entice a crowd to rebellion. Yet no one reacted. Not the audience, the police, or the security guards. It took a lengthy set of drumming by Count Ossie to get people back in their seats.

When Brother Bob came on stage under a lone spotlight, backed by the I-Threes and a huge Lion of Judah painted on a curtain behind him, the home crowd exploded. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled in the distance as Marley reeled off “Natural Mystic,” “Trench Town Rock,” “Natty Dread,” “Positive Vibration,” and “War.” When he was sure he had the audience one hundred percent behind him, Bob played his trump card. Summoning reluctant Manley and Seaga on stage, he literally pulled them together and forced them to shake hands. While cameras captured the magic moment, their disgust at touching one another showed in their body language and on their faces. But Bob had achieved his goal, and history was undeniably made. Mercy hugged Dessie as they witnessed the extraordinary event. Big up to Brother Bob!

Mercy was chatting with her brother Paul and his girlfriend Celia when out of the corner of her eye she saw Ian Walsh and his slinky South American wife (what’s-her-name?) coming their way. He was dressed like a Rasta—kinda—liberation scarf over an expensive silk shirt, designer jeans, and buffalo sandals. But the Panama hat was all wrong.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” said Mercy. She hadn’t actually laid eyes on Ian since Peter’s funeral in London, but she guessed if Manley and Seaga could be civil, so could she.

“Mercy Mae! How brilliant to see you!” Ian broadcast. He gave her a wimpy hug.

“Welcome to our world,” she said. “This is my brother Paul and his girlfriend, Celia. Please call me Sista Leona.”

“Why should he call you that?” asked What’s-her-Name.

“Cuz she roar like a lion!” Paul answered for Mercy.

“Remember your manners, Paul. Howdy and tenky bruk no square,” Mercy warned him.

“Pardon?” said Ian.

“Nuh ebery kin teet ah laff.” Celia explained. “Not everyone who smiles loves you.”

Paul nodded knowingly. “Overstand, Mr. Walsh?”

Ian looked puzzled. “Are you talking in some kind of code?”

“Jamaican Patois, my dear,” said Mercy. “Man noh dun cross ah riva noh haffi cuss alligata. Don’t curse the alligator if you have to cross the river.” She smiled. “I saw you with Tosh. How come you two didn’t jam together onstage?”

“I don’t play concerts for free,” Ian said smugly.

“Ha! Don’t boil mi blood, boy.” For some reason, probably to do with Annabelle, Mercy’s blood was boiling.

What’s-her-Name started to pull Ian away. “Tidday fi yuh, tomorrow fuh all we!” Mercy called after them. “My Peter might have dropped out, but Reggae Revelation is alive and well . . . unlike Electric Paradise that has gone straight to hell!”

“Rass, Mercy Mae,” said Paul. “You’re a poet and dunno it.”

Everyone agreed that the One Love Peace Concert was a huge success. But it wasn’t long before political violence erupted in and around Kingston with renewed force. Disheartened, Brother Bob spent more and more time away from Jamaica. He went to Africa where he received an official invitation from the Government of Zimbabwe to play at the country’s Independence ceremony. Then it was back to the UK. A European tour followed the release of the Survival album, and Bob Marley and The Wailers drew a crowd of 100,000 in Milan. But just as Mercy had predicted, it proved to be too much for the man. Bob became ill in America and was diagnosed with cancer. He returned to Jamaica to receive the Order of Merit Award in 1978 but died in a Miami hospital shortly after. He was thirty-six years old. Both Seaga and Manley attended his official state funeral, the second and last time they were ever seen in public together.

Chapter 13: Henrietta

London, 1978

They told Annabelle her singing voice was ruined from inhaling so much smoke and drinking too much alcohol. “Whiskey-soaked,” they called it. So she went back to work in the theatre for several years. It seemed the proper place for her to be. Time flew by while drugs and booze flowed freely backstage. Sex was taken for granted. Unfortunately, all the plays she was in got terrible reviews. One vindictive journalist called her “a washed-up countess whose voice is so vulgarized that it can no longer project.” Another one said: “Sinclair’s past life has finally caught up with her.” Yet Annabelle didn’t take the reviews personally. As far as she could tell, most of the people involved in music and theatre were in sadder shape than she was.

Take the band members of Electric Paradise, for example.

While they were on a grueling three-month tour of the U.S. and South America, the paparazzi hinted that Ian and Rosa’s marriage was coming apart. Then the lovebirds opened their big fat beaks and confirmed it.

“I never really fall in love for a long time with anybody,” said Rosa. “I’m afraid to.”

To which Ian responded, “I got married for something to do. I thought it was a good idea at the time. I’ve never been madly, deeply in love. I wouldn’t know what it feels like. I’m not really an emotional person.”

Okay, if you say so, Mr. Walsh.

Annabelle read in the tabloids that Ingrid had a severe nervous breakdown after the death of her and Rick’s latest baby. That one hit her harder because of her estranged relationship with her son Benji and the miscarriage of her and Ian’s baby. Humph. Rick was so committed to the band that he didn’t bother to break stride and console grief-stricken Ingrid. To make matters worse, he was subsequently arrested in his hotel room for possession of heroin with intent to resell. And the trouble didn’t stop there. Shortly thereafter, Winston decided to leave the band, reportedly because of financial imbalances. As Electric Paradise was in the middle of recording their latest album, there was a scramble to find a replacement keyboardist. It turned out to be Steve Mackenzie. Once officially on board, he worked frantically to master the set of thirty-four tunes that constituted the backbone of the upcoming tour. From what Annabelle could gather in the tabloids, he managed to keep up quite well. Mack was a bit like Rick, a hard-core rocker who pulled out all the stops. He wasn’t really a fantastic musician, but he had the kind of energy that was undeniably “electric”—whatever that was worth.

Meanwhile, it was as if Annabelle hadn’t learned a damn thing. Arrested yet again for possession of marijuana in the UK, Ireland took her in. She’d always had a kind of spiritual attraction to the place—she’d begun her career singing Irish folksongs. When she lucked into an opportunity to cut a record on the Emerald Isle, a place where it seemed to her that being a strung-out hopeless drunk was more in style, she jumped at the chance. Her raw-voiced album, Sweet Dreams, reached #1 on the Irish charts by some miracle. Country music, which was all about pain, injustice, and betrayal, seemed a perfect fit for Annabelle at the time. But how long ago was that? It could have been months or even years—no one remembered, including her. In those days, most everything was foggy in her muddled mind.

She was sitting in a sleazy pub in Dublin when she glanced up and saw a rerun of Mercy Mae and Bob Marley performing together on the TV screen mounted in the corner. Mercy looked and sounded fantastic, which, rather than making her jealous, caused Annabelle to feel enormously happy inside. According to the BBC, the One Love Peace Concert in Kingston, Jamaica was rated among the top ten concerts in the world . . . even Ian Walsh attended. Annabelle wondered if it was true, but considering the success of Sweet Dreams, she guessed anything was possible.

A man walked in and sat down on the stool next to her. “Pleasant day,” he said.

“Well, all I can say is fuck the English!” she ranted, slamming her beer mug down on the bar. The dregs sloshed down the front of his leather jacket, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Irishmen have been saying that for centuries. Buy you another pint?”

She smiled. “As long as there’s a proper place to piss in this dive.”

“Shawn Henry,” he said, extending his hand.

“Annabelle Sinclair.”

“I know. I really dug your last album. I’m a musician myself.”

She looked him up and down. “Really?”

“Rock. My band is The Dildos. Barry King is our producer.”

Annabelle groaned. “Then God help you,” she said, crossing herself.

To her surprise, Shawn turned out to be a fantastic musician as well and an exceptionally gifted lover, much superior to Ian Walsh in both departments. Annabelle learned a lot about punk-pop sounds from him, as well as some alternative ways to practice non-possessive love. They made a good couple, but neither one had any money. When they moved into a squat without hot water or electricity, Annabelle couldn’t help but think of the early years with John. She hadn’t heard from him or Benji, who had just celebrated his tenth birthday—1965 to 1975—since she had moved to Ireland. What kind of mother walks away from her child? A psychotic junkie who figures she would do more harm than good if she had hung around.

Annabelle had been absent from London for years, but since Antilles was The Dildos’ label, it was inevitable that she and Shawn would run into Barry. When they did, Rich Girl Blues was still on the shelf.

“When do you intend to release that pathetic album?” she asked, hoping it might generate some bread.

“Never,” said Barry. “But I like it that you’re hanging out with Shawn. The punk explosion is where it’s at right now.”

“I thought you were into reggae,” Annabelle said grumpily.

“That too. Bob Marley was a cash cow for Antilles.”

“A cash cow? I doubt very much if a brilliant musician like him would have appreciated being referred to as a bovine. I saw him on TV with our mutual friend Mercy Mae, aka Sista Leona, at the One Love Peace Concert. They said Ian Walsh was there too.”

Barry sneered. “So what? The Blue Beat Girl is washed-up history, Ian Walsh is a wanker, and Bob Marley is dead.”

Now Annabelle was really upset. She hated that Barry, who had such a long list of enemies, still managed to attract fresh talent like Shawn and fuck with them. “I’d hardly call Mercy Mae washed up. Reggae Revelation was one of the pioneer reggae bands in Jamaica.”

“And what happened to them? How come nobody in the real world has ever heard of them?”

“Well, for starters, Peter Ashley was shot dead in California.”

“That’s no excuse. If Mercy had hung around, I could have made her into a real star.”

“She is a real star, just not in your bollocks world.”

Shawn started to get antsy. He lit a cigarette. “I thought we came here to talk about The Dildos,” he said, pacing. “Why don’t you shut up about reggae music, Annabelle?”

“Okay. No problem,” she said. “Hey. Why don’t you mates just go ahead and talk business? I want to meet up with some old friends—possibly even make some new ones.”

She was out the door without saying goodbye.

As far as Annabelle was concerned, Henrietta Moraes was the coolest person she knew in London. Fifteen years her elder, Hennie had worked as an artist’s model for some very famous painters and been married three times. She had two children from her second marriage and had gotten divorced from number three about ten years earlier. A self-confessed junkie, she had turned to cat burglary to support her drug habit and her kids. Eventually, she got caught and did time in prison. Nevertheless, she was still addicted, just like Annabelle.

When Hennie greeted her at the door to her Regent’s Park flat, Annabelle could tell she was stoned. They sat down on her threadbare silk couch and shared a joint and a bottle of wine while Annabelle told her about Shawn and her run-in with Barry. Hennie said she was going to have to move house unless she could find someone to share the rent. Annabelle said she still had a little money coming in from Sweet Dreams, and that she needed a place to live.

Hennie nodded. “All right, then.”

Henrietta Moraes became Annabelle’s muse. Notoriously free-spirited, she led an unconventional, hedonistic lifestyle. Annabelle could understand why artists were eager to paint her—Hennie was brilliantly bohemian. When she lounged against the pile of Moroccan pillows that littered the floor with her paisley robe falling off her shoulders and copious strands of beads hanging between her exposed breasts, she looked like a woman straight out of a Goya. Interestingly, the two of them had similar backgrounds. She told Annabelle her father was in the Indian Air Force when she was born but had deserted her mother. She was raised by a tyrannical grandmother back in England and later went to secretarial college. But Hennie’s character wasn’t suited for the office, so she hooked up with various Soho artists in the ‘50s—notably Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon.

She showed Annabelle several paintings of herself, including Freud’s Girl in a Blanket and two of Bacon’s portraits. “They’re probably worth some money, now,” she said. “But I could never sell them.”

Annabelle laughed. “I know what you mean. It’s like when somebody does a cover of one of my songs. I feel like I’m being fucked without the benefit.”

Hennie got a kick out of that one. Naturally, they became lovers. Although neither of them was working, they somehow managed to get by. Hennie’s children were grown and kept her in spending money, and John still paid Annabelle a pittance of alimony. They were, therefore, mutual enablers, so to speak.

If Annabelle really wanted to get a rise out of Hennie, she’d take down one of her beloved paintings while she was out and say she’d sold it for groceries.

Hennie was smart, and it didn’t take her long to get wise. “Okay, Annabelle. Where’d ya hide it this time?”

Since they made a habit of attending important art openings and going to the theatre and the opera as a couple, they were bound to cross paths with John or Ian sooner or later. As it turned out, Annabelle saw John at a Brian Clarke exhibit at Robert Fraser’s new gallery. Robert had been away from London for about ten years, and he was trying to re-establish his reputation as a pioneer art dealer. Not only had he been the first to give one-man shows to Jean Dubuffet and Jim Dine, he was the first to showcase Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Claus Oldenburg, and Brigit Riley. Ian had all of them in his collection thanks to Robert’s eye for art.

Perhaps because Annabelle had dressed up for the occasion, John was actually cordial. She couldn’t help but wonder why he had apparently forgiven her, but she chalked it up to mutual love of their son. John said Benjamin was living with him and doing quite well. He said he was enrolled in a fancy prep school where everybody teased him that his mum was an alcoholic and a drug addict. But he said Benjamin didn’t give a stuff about negative drama like that. He knew his own mind.

Annabelle exhaled an audible sigh of relief. “Great.”

John said Annabelle was welcome to visit if she called ahead and showed up sober. Oh, and by the way, now that he was a teenager, Benjamin no longer wanted to be called Benji. From now until further notice, he was Ben.

After the ice was broken, Ben sometimes spent the weekend with Hennie and Annabelle in Regent’s Park. Hennie was good with kids—kind of like a gypsy fairy godmother. She entertained Ben with tarot cards. She showed him how to play the weird musical instruments she’d collected from around the world. They’d make up nonsensical songs as he strummed or pounded or twanged. Hennie even let him use her stash of art supplies to paint her—with her clothes on, of course.

As for cornering Ian Walsh, he was a bit more elusive. The tabloids said he had been hanging out with a 6’2 American model even though he was still married to Rosa, naughty boy. Rosa was furious and demanded he pay her $13,000 per month to cover her bare expenses. In retaliation, Ian reportedly closed their joint bank accounts and returned her bills unpaid.

“I was hoping for reconciliation,” she announced, “especially as we have a daughter together. But that’s difficult when my husband is living with somebody else.”

Annabelle spotted Mr. Walsh several times, but he always managed to duck her. When she finally corralled him outside the Savoy Hotel, he quickly changed the subject from his broken marriage to the results of Rick’s trial on heroin charges in Toronto.

“He got a one-year suspended sentence and was ordered to continue treatment to combat his addiction. He’s supposed to check in with his probation officer weekly,” Ian said, chuckling.

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Good luck with that.”

“Since Ingrid is a worse junkie than he is, they’ve split up,” said Ian. “She’s living in an elaborate mansion in Upstate New York while he’s paying the bills.”

“So I guess you won’t be releasing any new music for a while,” she said, fishing.

He smiled. “Au contraire. Electric Paradise has enough music backlogged to stay on top of the charts up until the millennium.”

“That figures,” she said, wondering why she even cared.

Chapter 14: Lover’s Rock

Down in Jamaica, the scene wasn’t nice. The right-wing JLP snatched the government from the wreckage of the PNP’s “Third Way,” and eight hundred-and-forty-four people (including Mercy’s oldest brother Avondale) died before Edward Seaga proclaimed himself the leader of the “Free West” in 1980. Producer Lee “Scratch” Perry burned his Black Ark Studio to the ground in protest and left Jamaica for London saying, “People funny, boy. People funny, fi true.”

Mercy got the message. “I wonder how many times yardies’ hopes can get crushed?” she asked Dessie. “Right about now Jamaica is a dangerous place where violence runs things and greed is good. Best we abandon ship if we like our own skin.”

“You can go ahead, but I intend to stay here and chant dem down,” Dessie said defiantly. “Independent Jamaica is too young to die.”

“But Dessie, under Seaga, this island is like a war zone,” she argued. “Anybody who disagrees with the JLP gets shot dead. Gunfire rules the streets. Children are running to and from school. They do their homework and eat dinner while bullets zip through the windows and rain down on the roof. After dark, family members crawl from room to room terrified that they’ll be casualties of the senseless slaughter. Just the other day, a woman was killed as she went to the shop to get bread for her pickneys.”

Dessie frowned. “That’s why we have to stay and stand up for our rights. According to Brother Bob, ‘We’ve been trodding on the winepress much too long.’”

Mercy hugged him hard. “Brother Bob is dead, and Jamaica has suddenly developed amnesia when it comes to peace and love. The ghetto youths sold out to guns and gangs. Peaceful ganja culture has been replaced by the cravin’ for white wife cocaine, and the deejays, with their karaoke reggae, rule the dancehalls.”

He hung his head. “I know.”

But what could Mercy do? Dessie was a big man who she supposed could take care of himself. She left him in the house on Hope Road, which he vowed to maintain, and returned to the UK with a heavy heart.

Naturally, Annabelle was foremost on Mercy’s mind. She bounced into her shortly after she reached England in a club in South London where Janet Kay and Caroll Thompson had launched a female version of rocksteady called lover’s rock. It was all the rage with British black women, and she wanted to check out the new vibe. Annabelle sat at a table alone with her head in her hands while everyone else swayed and dug the music. Compared to the others, who were dressed to the nines, Annabelle looked like a vagrant—messy hair, baggy trousers, and a plaid flannel shirt. The ashtray on the table in front of her overflowed with cigarette butts. A glass half-full of whiskey was close at hand.

Mercy tapped her shoulder. “Wha’gwann, gal?”

When Annabelle stood up and turned to face her, Mercy saw someone she barely recognized. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, not even lipstick. Her face was bloated, her skin blotchy, and there were bags under her eyes.

Annabelle took one look at Mercy and started to cry. “You must be an angel,” she said.

“How you mean?” asked Mercy.

Annabelle sniffled. “You’re dressed all in white.”

Something about Annabelle had always been irresistible. She had a feminine, fragile quality that made everyone she met want to take care of her, including Mercy Mae. She ordered a glass of wine and sank in the chair across the table from her old friend.

“To one love-livity,” Mercy said, toasting with Annabelle. “Tell me wha’appen to you.”

Annabelle wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand. “Hennie ran off to join a horse-drawn caravan for New Age travelers with Mark Palmer.”

“Say what? Who’s Hennie? Who’s Mark Palmer?”

“Hennie was my girlfriend. Sir Mark is her old boyfriend.”

“Sounds complicated,” said Mercy.

Annabelle was bawling now. “Why does everybody desert me?”

Mercy glanced around them. Everyone was staring. “Annabelle, you’re making a scene. Let’s get out of here and go somewhere private where we can talk. I’m staying at the Savoy for the time.”

Annabelle screwed up her face. “Not there. My mother’s ghost lives there. I still have the key to the flat in Regent’s Park.”

“Awright. We’ll make some tea.”

When Mercy asked Annabelle about her music, she told her about Sweet Dreams. “It was #1 on the Irish charts, you know.”

“I heard it was a hit in Ireland, but that was almost five years ago, for heaven’s sake. What have you done since then?”

Annabelle changed the subject. “I saw you on the telly at the One Love Concert. You must be sad about your friend Bob Marley.”

Mercy shrugged. “Bob was a good guy, but then so was my Peter—may they both rest in peace. The question now is what to do ‘bout you?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m just unlucky in love. Before Hennie, I was with this Irish bloke Shawn. He’s a punk rocker whose band, The Dildos, is signed with your enemy Barry King at Antilles.”

Mercy burst out laughing. “Barry and the Dildos? Now there’s a match made in heaven. But Barry isn’t my enemy. He can’t help it that he’s a greedy pig.” She chuckled. “But trust me, I’ve had to work extra hard on forgiveness when it comes to Mr. King.”

“I loved Shawn,” said Annabelle. “He was very creative, and he had a perceptive worldview. I learned a lot more about music from him than I ever did from Ian.”

“I don’t know about this Shawn, but Ian Walsh is no kinda musician. He’s more like a magician, if you ask me.”

They both laughed.

“I wrote more songs when I was with Shawn than I have in years.”

“So why didn’t you record any of them?”

“According to Barry, my voice is ruined.”

“Barry doesn’t know his head from his backside. By the way, whatever happened to that album Rich Girl Blues?”

“He still has it hidden away. Anyway, it’s hideous.”

There was an old guitar leaning up against the side of the couch. “Barry’s not the only producer on the block, you know,” Mercy said, strumming. “Now that I’m back in London, I’m on the prowl for new talent for Revelation Records, and what better place to look than toward an old friend?”

Between the two of them, Annabelle and Mercy knew plenty of talented musicians who were keen to play along, but getting the format correct was a challenge. Influenced by the punk-reggae explosion that was going on at the time, the musical structure of the planned album was complex. On the surface, it was hard rock but included a song that was a tango in 4/4 time and had an opening guitar riff that accented beats one and four on the upbeat, whereas beat three was stressed on the downbeat. Annabelle might have learned a few tricks from Ian and Shawn, but Peter Ashley, like Ernest Ranglin and “Scratch” Perry, was the real musical genius. Mercy had paid close attention to all of their skills as arrangers.

Critically acclaimed, the Annabelle Sinclair album Rotten English, as produced by Revelation Records in 1981, sold very well. Critics thought Annabelle’s voice was perfect for the project—its huskiness captured the raw emotions of the material. Female fans especially identified with the album’s pain-wracked lyrics. Here was a woman struggling with heartbreak and addiction who was bravely trying to fight her way back. Bravo.

Annabelle and Mercy’s friendship deepened, but they continued to live separately. Mercy doubted if she could handle a more intimate relationship with someone as unstable as Annabelle was at the time. Meanwhile, she signed a couple of talented London-based Jamaican artists to her new label. Antilles had Third World and Steel Pulse, but Revelation had Sugar Minott and Dennis Brown.

In retaliation for the success of Rotten English, Barry decided it was finally time to release Rich Girl Blues. Everybody was right. The album was gruesome. Annabelle, who had given up drugs and drinking but not smoking, had been on a positive roll up until then. When her mistake with Barry aired, she sank back into depression. It was as if he had flung her desperation in her face. To hit back, Annabelle spent every spare minute listening to music with Mercy, harmonizing and putting together arrangements that suited her newly evolved style. They struggled through a follow-up album called Dangerous Days to try to rescue her groove, but it was no use. The votes were in, and the psychological damage the release of Rich Girl Blues cost Annabelle was already done.

The medical trauma of the decade centered on AIDS. At first, the virus was referred to as the “4-H disease” because it seemed to mainly affect heroin users, homosexuals, hemophiliacs, and Haitians. Since Annabelle qualified in the first and second instance, Mercy suggested she get tested. For some reason, Annabelle was deeply offended.

“What about you?” she lashed out. “You’re from the Caribbean.” She dug in her handbag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“I’m a Jamaican, not a Haitian,” said Mercy. “Sweetheart, go and get tested for your own good.”

Someone in the clinic must have recognized Annabelle when she did. To her further embarrassment, all of the personal information she revealed on the questionnaire leaked to the music tabloids. The good news was that she didn’t have AIDS. The bad news was that she blamed Mercy for smearing her name with mud yet again.

“I need to get out of London for a while,” said Annabelle.

“Okay. Are you going back to Ireland? Are you taking Ben with you?”

Annabelle lit up a fag. “Nope. I think I’ll try my luck in New York.”

“New York! New York will chew you up and spit you back out again. Look what just happened to John Lennon!”

Annabelle was adamant. “I can take care of myself. Besides, I want to see what’s up with Ingrid.” She blew smoke Mercy’s way.

“Ingrid is a mess,” she protested.

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“Listen to me, Annabelle. Ingrid does not qualify as your cumbolo. She’s a user, a liar, and an addict. She doesn’t care about anybody but herself. She’ll pull you back down in the gutter just to have company.”

“Maybe that’s where I belong.”

“You belong here with me. You belong making music,” Mercy said flatly.

Annabelle shrugged. “Anyway, I’m going.”

Mercy did her best to keep the reggae vibe alive in London in the early ‘80s. Yet even though Revelation Records was blessed with a small stable of talented musicians, the popularity of reggae was fading in England. Hip-hop, suddenly all the rage with black youths, dominated the scene. Young people gravitated to its slack lyrics and highly danceable beat like zombies to a jumbie jamboree. The phenomena reminded Mercy of the early days when ska had invaded Kingston street corners. But to her ear, hip-hop wasn’t really Jamaican music; it was some kinda hybrid between rub-a-dub style and urban pop. Lover’s rock had also faded to the background but remained popular with black women in clubs. Mercy was wondering what her next move should be when she got a letter from Dessie.

Dear Mercy Mae,

Greetings from Jam Rock. Where should I begin? The first thing PM Seaga did was travel to the U.S. to kiss President Reagan’s ass. “It takes cash to care,” he told the press as he boarded the plane for Washington. Of course, everybody knows that Reagan only cares about protecting America’s back door from a Cuban/Russian missile invasion. Sure, Seaga got a chunk of change, but poor Jamaicans are still stuck at the bottom of the pay barrel.

As far as the music scene is concerned, the message of reggae seems to have died along with Brother Bob. An albino dundus called Yellowman is toasting and grinding away onstage like some kind of freaky sex symbol. The lyrics are slack, and the vibe is macho, but a set of crazy gals have actually lined up to have his baby! Well, count me out. I’m sticking to pounding on my congas until further notice.

Speaking of babies, I’ve saved the good news till last. You’re gonna be an auntie! That’s right, Paul’s girlfriend Celia is expecting in July. Mummy is making a fuss cuz this will be her first grandpickney. Hope you can make it home for the christening because we all miss you so much.

Your loving brother,

Dessie

A baby! Her brother Paul, the joker, was having a baby? Well, that should settle him down. Yet Mercy couldn’t help wondering about Dessie. Although he was smart, handsome, and talented, he’d never had a girlfriend as far as she’d known. Except for Andre, he was always alone. She found that strange, unless—unless Dessie was what Jamaicans referred to as a batty boy. Cho! Maybe Calvin had abused him just like he did her. But how come this was the first time it had ever dawned on her that there might have been victims of incest other than herself in their family? Was she so self-centered that she took other people’s lives and problems for granted? Is that what had happened between her and Annabelle?

Mercy hadn’t heard anything from her friend in some time. Every once in a while, she’d read something negative in the tabloids—Annabelle had fallen and broken her jaw, or she’d been arrested yet again for possession, but she was basically forgotten in the UK. Still, Mercy was reluctant to move on from their friendship. She loved Annabelle. So much so, that she shied away from other relationships, sometimes male and sometimes female. Yet her fortieth birthday was only a couple of years off. Was she destined to die an old maid? If only Peter would have lived, things would have turned out differently. They might have had children, even grandchildren by now. As it was, Mercy’s biological clock was ticking, and the prospect of having a child of her own seemed a million miles away. She guessed she’d just have to settle for being the best auntie on the planet in the meantime.

Chapter 15: Rehab

New York, 1982

Mercy was right. Ingrid was delighted to see Annabelle and hook her up with her New York drug connections. Cha-ching! During the week, they kicked back and hung out with her kids at the upstate mansion paid for by Rick, and then they hit the clubs in the city on the weekends. The night they ran into Ian and his new girlfriend Jolene gossiping with Andy Warhol at Studio 54 in Manhattan, Ingrid and Annabelle were both flying high and feeling no pain. They were dancing together in a rather flamboyant fashion when they spotted the trio at a corner table. Ian tried to ignore them, but Andy seemed fascinated by their blatant behavior.

Annabelle grabbed Ingrid’s hand, and they boogied over to introduce themselves.

“Hi, Andy, Jolene,” she shouted over the music. “I’m Annabelle and this is my girlfriend Ingrid. We’re big fans of Electric Paradise. I used to live with Ian and write songs for him way back when, and Ingrid has two kids with Rick, poor thing.”

Andy stared at them blankly, but Jolene said, “I know who you are.”

Ian gave them a dirty look. “Nice to see you two enjoying yourselves.”

“Yeah, man. I love disco music,” Annabelle said, smiling. “It’s so upbeat.”

“It’s a crock of shite,” Ian muttered.

Ingrid scratched her sweaty head. “But wait a minute, Ian. I’m confused. Doesn’t that new song of yours have a disco beat?”

“No, it does not!”

Ingrid forged on undaunted. “I mean I can believe almost anything about Rick except that he would sell out rock-and-roll for disco, for fuck’s sake.”

Annabelle pretended to be a reporter from Fleet Street. She held out an imaginary microphone and assumed an official voice. “Tell me, Mr. Walsh. Is it true that Paradise Records will soon be producing exclusively disco music?”

“No! We certainly shan’t!”

She and Ingrid dissolved into giggles. “Nice to meet you, Andy, Jo-Jo,” Annabelle said, hiccupping. “Good luck with the devil.”

“Loved your Campbell’s soup can,” Ingrid teased a bewildered Warhol as they headed for the door.

But paybacks work both ways. Annabelle tripped and broke her jaw going up the steps on their way out of the club that night. When they gave her the anesthetic at the hospital so the doctors could set it, her heart stopped beating. A full year passed before she could properly open her mouth. When she did, she was so submerged in alcohol and prescription drugs that her vocal cords seized up, and she couldn’t sing at all. In the meantime, she and Ingrid collected every shred of Electric Paradise memorabilia they could get their hands on. They communicated on red tongue-shaped telephones, Ingrid’s kids worked the official EP jigsaw puzzle, Annabelle had a watch, Ingrid had a leather jacket, and they sprayed the inside of the silver Mercedes with EP-approved car deodorant. They even had an Electric Paradise pinball machine installed in the basement.

“Jesus! It must have been Warhol who came up with all this crap!” Ingrid said, smirking.

Annabelle and Ingrid followed Electric Paradise chitchat in the tabloids religiously. Ian and Rosa were finally divorced, Jolene had two babies back to back, and Rick and his new lady, Paula, had a little girl. Additionally, Sonny had broken his leg in a fall from a ladder while cleaning out his garage, and Steve Mackenzie, the wild man who claimed to have had thousands of sexual encounters since he had joined the band, actually got married! Only boring Alick remained unchanged, as careful and conservative as ever.

In 1983, Electric Paradise was burning up the charts in the U.S. and the UK, spitting out singles and albums like mad. Ian and Rick, who’d been at each other’s throats off and on for years, had apparently put their animosity aside and decided to get on with the show. It was reported that EP grossed $50 million in twelve weeks in fifty cities on their latest American tour. The following year, the band toured fourteen countries in Europe and wrangled a $25 million advance from CBS Records. (Barry, eat your heart out.)

Annabelle wondered how they did it. How did they keep on making music, changing partners, making babies, crashing, and healing while she wasted away in the boondocks of America? The answer was simple. In a hedonistic era where the recreational use of cocaine, the worship of MTV, and the advent of the personal computer were lorded over by Margret Thatcher, Deng Xiaoping, and Ronald Reagan, nonsense made absolute sense. Looking back, Annabelle had to smile. Before her very eyes, The Mod Squad at the Ealing Jazz Club had morphed into a big business rock-and-roll machine that intended to milk every last drop out of the Cultural Revolution and then spit it back into the faces of their newfound yuppie fans.

At first, Annabelle and Ingrid had a lot of fun together, but lately, they weren’t getting along so well. After she dropped the kids at school, Ingrid often stayed away for the entire day. At night, she’d disappear until dawn, again with no explanation. Annabelle wondered if she might be seeing someone on the sly. What if Ingrid abandoned her like everyone else? How was she going to survive so far from home?

As Annabelle had no car of her own, she felt completely stranded while Ingrid was gone. The most she could do was chain smoke cigarettes, drink whiskey, take drugs, and watch endless TV—not exactly the high life she had gotten used to, or the low life either. She was stuck in limbo somewhere in a place called suburban New York. A couple of times she called a cab to take her into the city, but she really couldn’t afford it. Something had to give. Luckily, after her jaw healed, she got a job with Hal Winters reading on a tribute album to Kurt Weill, a German Jewish composer who had migrated to the United States. Hal chauffeured her to NYC and back, and the project took her mind off her problems for the time being. But the night the job ended she got very drunk and decided to confront Ingrid about their strained relationship.

Annabelle could hear the telly playing inside as she knocked on her bedroom door.

“Ingrid! I need to talk to you.”

“Go away. I’m busy.”

“But it’s important,” Annabelle insisted.

She thought she heard another voice inside the room, but it might have been on the TV. Annabelle put her hand on the doorknob and tried to turn it, but it was locked. She pounded harder. “Let me in!”

Ingrid didn’t waste time with her answer. “No! Fuck off!”

Annabelle started to cry and collapsed on the floor in a pitiful heap. “How can you be so cruel?” she bawled. Heavy footsteps came her way. Before she could get to her feet, the door opened, and she was staring at a pair of hairy, muscular legs that definitely weren’t Ingrid’s.

“I believe the lady told you to fuck off,” said a naked man. He pulled her up and gave her the once over. “That is unless you want to join us.”

While Annabelle wondered what was happening, he dragged her inside, slammed the door, and threw her down on the ransacked bed. A pair of handcuffs dangled from the bedpost. When she started to scream, Ingrid emerged from the bathroom.

“What the hell is going on?”

When the wanker turned away from her to face Ingrid, Annabelle slid open the nightstand drawer where she knew Ingrid kept a pistol. She had never touched a gun in her life, and her hand shook as she rammed it into the man’s back.

“Get out!” she shouted. “Now!”

The man grabbed Ingrid and spun her around to act as a shield. “Tell the bitch to put it down, Ingrid,” he said deliberately.

“Things are cool, Annabelle. This man is my friend.”

“I thought I was your friend,” Annabelle said, pouting.

Ingrid smiled nervously. “You are. Just put the gun down. It isn’t loaded, anyway.”

“Then why does everybody look so scared?” Annabelle pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. Ka-pow!

“Jesus Christ, lady! You could hurt somebody,” the man exclaimed as he bolted out the door.

Annabelle aimed the gun at Ingrid. “He’s right, you know,” she said, sobbing. Then she shot herself in the foot.

When the police investigated, it turned out the gun was hot. Ingrid got arrested for possession of a stolen firearm, and Annabelle was shipped off to the hospital loony bin, exactly where she belonged.

Hal Winter was the one who suggested drug and alcohol rehab treatment after Annabelle was released from the hospital. He said he had faith in her. He said he’d pay for thirty days at the rehab center of her choice if she signed a contract to produce her records with his Liberty label in the U.S. Never mind about Sista Leona at Revelation Records in the UK. According to Hal, this was the opportunity of a lifetime.

The offer of rehab sounded like a free vacation to crippled Annabelle. But where to go? There were really only two choices back then: Betty Ford in Rancho Mirage, California, or Hazelden in Center City, Minnesota. California had a bad vibe for her ever since Paramount Speedway, but she knew Eric Clapton had been successfully treated at Hazelden—after he swam across the lake to a local bar to have a quick drink, that is. So, in the spring of 1985, while Annabelle was still on crutches, she took the plunge.

The place had a lovely setting with a big lake and well-kept grounds. The buildings were clean and well lit, the food was homey, and she could smoke in a designated area. She slept in a dormitory with five other women. Her peer group was called the Rockettes, and she had a counselor named Debbie.

Hazelden operated on the Twelve Step program, based on accepting God as a Higher Power—like there was no other way to get sober. When Annabelle told Debbie she wasn’t sure if she believed in God, she just shrugged and said, “However you understand Him, honey, is fine by me.” Annabelle didn’t tell her that she suspected God might be a woman.

Every morning started at 6:30 with a prayer followed by meditation. Annabelle generally didn’t get up before noon, so this was a big adjustment for her. When she was on her own, she drank one cup of coffee as soon as she woke up and then went straight to the bottle of booze. Because she never had positive plans for the day, prayer and meditation were not part of her regular routine. Nor was eating. But at Hazelden, there were three meals a day followed by lectures, group meetings, workshops, required reading, and exercise classes. Every “inmate” was also required to fulfill a mandatory work detail. There was hardly time to go to the loo let alone get into trouble. So much for a free vacation!

Annabelle was dying for a fix, but so was everybody else. She had the shakes for the first week. She couldn’t sleep most of the time, and if she crashed out, she’d wake up in a cold sweat with her heart racing, not knowing where she was. Debbie said that was normal because she was powerless when under the influence.

Annabelle lit up a cigarette. “But I’m not under the influence. I’ve been clean and sober for over a week.”

“You’re not under the influence now, but I’ll bet you wish you were. Annabelle, when are you going to realize that there’s no cure for addiction—only proper management?”

“Really? I thought you were going to cure me.”

“Only a power greater than you or I can do that,” Debbie said primly.

“So how do I get in touch with that power?”

“Make an honest moral inventory of your mistakes and then admit them to your peer group.”

Oh, boy. That was a tough order. Annabelle hadn’t been able to handle the truth about herself for a long, long time. For her, everything was an act, as if she was up on stage playing the part of Annabelle Sinclair, a fallen angel who lived in her own personal hell because she was a slag and an abuser of drugs and alcohol. She had been a resentful daughter, an unfaithful wife, an absent mother, and a manipulative friend. She had suffered through broken relationships, deep depression, and homelessness. Yet she still felt compelled to pretend things were cool.

“Let me tell you something, Debbie,” she said in self-defense. “I am a person with free will, and ultimately I can do whatever I want. I deserve to be happy, so don’t make the mistake of getting in my way.”

Debbie shrugged. “Okay.”

But if everything was so cool, why was Annabelle so miserable? She was unhappy because things weren’t going her way. Not only was she hooked on drugs, she was hooked on the melodrama of the lyrics of that pathetic album Rich Girl Blues—continually reliving a nightmare of shattered dreams and lost hope. She didn’t want to die, but she had twice tried to kill herself. It was as if she was shouting, “Won’t someone be nice to me? I have a disease, God damn it, and I need some sympathy.”

Here’s how it worked: Every day at a designated hour, Annabelle’s peer group assembled on the auditorium stage. No counselor was present, only a sergeant-at-arms in case things got crazy. There was a bright red chair in the center of the circle. Seated there, one person per night got a chance to tell their story to the rest of the group. The person in the “hot seat” was supposed to be one hundred percent honest about their addiction and their sordid past. Then, back in the dorm, the other groupies would each write a brief anonymous letter to the confessor telling her how brave or how dishonest she was and place it in her mailbox. After reading her mail, the defendant would compose a single letter answering all the correspondence and read it to the group at the beginning of the next meeting. Fine. No problem.

Then all of a sudden, it was Annabelle’s turn. Most of them knew she was a singer and actress from England, but no one had realized that she was THE Annabelle Sinclair of Ian Walsh/ Electric Paradise fame. Jaws dropped as her comrades pretended to objectively process the mountain of inside information she dumped at their feet. It was as if she was back in the goldfish bowl—a couple of them even asked for her autograph when all Annabelle really wanted was her drugs and her anonymity.

When she complained to Debbie, she blew her off. “Face it, Annabelle. You’re flawed like everybody else. Things won’t get better until you ask your Higher Power to remove your shortcomings.”

“So what’s the point in confessing to all these busybodies when I should be conversing directly with God?”

“Exactly,” she said, smiling.

Twenty-eight days weren’t nearly enough to change the mindset of a hard-core addict like Annabelle. After she left Hazelden, she checked into a hotel in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and then continued with outpatient treatment at a hospital in Belmont. That’s where she met Jerry Beasley in group therapy. He had been diagnosed as mentally ill as well as drug dependent—just her kind of guy—so she invited him to move in with her. They were having a ball tripping on speedballs and drinking tequila the night he jumped out of the fourteenth-floor window, and the party ended. Annabelle dedicated her next album with Hal, Broken Wings, to Jerry, and then she forged on with her miserable life.

Chapter 16: Politricks

London was getting on Mercy’s nerves. The hip ’60s had all of a sudden disintegrated into the Thatcherite ‘80s and cool people like Robert Fraser were dying of AIDS. “Groovy Bob” had recently come home to Soho after a ten-year absence and opened a new art gallery on Cork Street. Mercy never really understood Op or Pop art, but she kinda dug the neo-expressionist work he now featured. Despite, or because of, his devil-may-care persona, she liked Robert. He had the same kind of passion for art that she had for music, and he poured his heart and soul into representing his stable of artists.

Robert encouraged Mercy to buy a large painting by Jean-Michel Basquiat, a Caribbean/American artist he felt worthy of his attention. She was hesitant at first, but when she hung the artwork in her parlor on trial and stepped back, she changed her mind. The painting was like a mirror that reflected the struggle marginalized people endured all over the world. Every time she looked at it, she remembered the paralyzing power of Babylon and the downpression that still existed in Jamaica. As she wrote out the check, Robert smiled and told her that kind of emotional response was exactly what Jean-Michel had in mind when he painted it.

Mercy wondered if Annabelle knew about Robert’s battle with AIDS. She figured she could get in touch with her through John but dreaded what kind of mess she might find if she did. She heard Annabelle had lassoed an American producer, which was technically illegal since she had signed a recording contract with Revelation Records. Mercy wasn’t particularly bothered by that. In her heart, she wanted Annabelle’s star to rise again, no matter the trajectory. What concerned her more, was some kind of confusion with Ingrid and a gun that had been reported in the tabloids—Annabelle shot herself in the foot, for heaven’s sake! She had gone into rehab, but after she was released, some guy committed suicide by jumping out of her hotel room window. Then she went missing again. Cho! That woman was like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode, or implode, whichever the case might be.

As worried as Mercy was about Annabelle, she was also worried about the future of her UK record label. Maybe she was getting old, but reggae music had evolved into something she didn’t like much anymore. While Barry puttered around with lightweight pop tunes like “Montego Bay,” the violence of the island’s dancehall music crept into the UK via the back door. She didn’t know which was worse, the loudness of the amplifiers or the outrageous lyrics, but either way, the music sucked.

Luckily, she had just signed Maxi, a smooth, dreadlocked artist of Jamaican descent to Revelation. A cousin of Jacob Miller’s, he had learned to sing in church, and already found his niche in England with his debut album when they met. Although rather gentrified for a Rasta, Maxi was easy to work with, and fans of lover’s rock and R&B dug his good looks and laid-back style. Mercy was elated when his first Revelation album reached #25 in the UK, followed by a sequel that reached #11. But despite Maxi’s success, she still felt like a forty-five-year-old relic. She had no roots or family connections in England. So why was she hanging around London rubbing shoulders with virtual strangers when she had a mum, two brothers, a sister-in-law, and a nephew in Jamaica? Maybe she was afraid to go home due to the unstable political situation. Maybe she was having what white people referred to as a midlife crisis. In any event, she was definitely among the lonely and the restless.

When Robert Fraser died in 1986, Mercy was one of the two-hundred-fifty persons invited to a “private” memorial gig at the 100 Club in London put on by his old chum Ian Walsh and Electric Paradise. She felt someone breathing down her neck as she signed the guest book. Turning to find out who was being so pushy, she saw it was Barry King. Her first instinct was to stab him with the pen, grab her coat, and go on home and wait for the police to come and arrest her. But that would have been childish—more like a stunt Annabelle would have pulled—so she kept her cool.

“What’s up, Mercy Mae? How you keeping?” Barry asked.

She turned back to the book.

Barry touched her hair. “I love your natty congos. You look like someone straight from the jungle.”

She cringed. “Tanks.”

“How are things at Revelation Records? Dread like your locks?”

“Tings cool,” she said. “I’ve got Maxi.”

“Well, you’ve also got some new competition. My new boutique label Polystore intends to shake up traditional recording, producing cutting edge music, videos, and DVDs using Jamaican dancehall artists,” he bragged like some kind of infomercial.

Mercy felt a wave of revulsion. “What about your reggae connections?”

“Reggae is a blast from the past, sorta like wax disks,” Barry said bluntly. “By the way, Antilles Records is for sale in case you wanna buy it.”

“Jah! How di boy so doltish, nuh?” Mercy mumbled to herself. Then, “You never know what the Blue Beat Girl might do,” she said aloud.

Barry smirked. “That is if you have any of Peter Ashley’s money left to spend.”

“Doan draw mi tongue,” she growled. “Sista Leona ain’t no Mercy Mae.”

He waved her off. “Anyway, ta-ta, whoever you are. Likkle more, my dear, see you later.”

Cho! Although she was committed to nonviolence, Barry had a special way of getting a rise out of Mercy. She was just about to say something extremely borosie when she spotted John Duncan, who was also alone. He invited her to join him.

“Mercy, you look fantastic,” he said after they sat down. “Or should I call you Sista Leona?”

“Suit yourself.” The conversation naturally turned to Annabelle. “What d’ya hear from Ms. Sinclair in America?”

“Not a peep. How ‘bout you?”

“Nothing.”

“Ben celebrated his twenty-first birthday without so much as a phone call.”

“That’s sad. According to the tabloids, she’s been in rehab. When her new boyfriend jumped out of their hotel room window, she wrote a song about it, and then she dropped off the radar.”

“What’s the name of the song?” asked John.

“Broken Wings.”

John had obviously been into his cups before the memorial. He kept his composure as long as he could before he started laughing. While he coughed into his handkerchief in a futile attempt to hide his amusement over the title of Annabelle’s song, people seated around them looked on in irritation, which only made it worse.

When Mercy, who had always been susceptible to the giggles, joined in the jollity, Ian stormed onstage. “I’d like to remind everyone that this is a solemn occasion,” he scolded into the microphone.

“He’s certainly aged,” John said a bit too loudly.

Mercy smiled. “We all have, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I was surprised when I got the invitation,” said John. “I heard there’d been a lot of fighting amongst the band lately. I was beginning to think Electric Paradise was ready to hang it up for good.”

According to the tabloids, what he said was true. Fed up with the tedium of constantly playing together, each of the band members had gone their separate ways to pursue solo careers. The individual reviews for Rick, Sonny, Alick, Winston, and Mack were mixed, but Ian’s decision to leave them behind turned out to be a definite flop. The reception for his go-it-alone efforts was lukewarm to say the most; the critics decreed he should never be on stage without his band to back him up. Bad luck also played a part. His Australian tour was canceled at the last minute when Jolene was arrested at the Sydney airport for possession of marijuana. Then he was accused of plagiarism by a non-descript Jamaican reggae artist who smelled a fast settlement.

The rest of the members kept busy with various projects in the meantime. Rick landed a deal as musical director on a film documentary about his idol Chuck Berry. Sonny formed a thirty-three-member orchestra that performed live at ritzy nightclubs. Mack reportedly had a ball jamming on tour with other famous bands that were delighted to have him. Strait-laced Alick dumped his unfaithful wife for a sixteen-year-old debutante named Candy and then got involved in charity work.

John and Mercy were on their second bottle of champagne when Ian finally opened the show. “Robert was my hero,” he told the audience. “He was one of the most colorful people in our crowd—certainly one of the most influential people in the swingin’ sixties scene.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” John whispered. “One thing for sure, he had the best eye for art of anybody I ever met. He changed the gallery scene in London forever.”

“I bought a Basquiat painting from him a while back,” said Mercy. “It’s Untitled, but to me, it says it all.”

“I remember that painting. I have a feeling Jean-Michel’s work is going to skyrocket sometime in the near future.”

“I didn’t buy it as an investment. I bought it because it spoke to me. It knocks me out every time I look at it. Let’s just hope someone will have the insight to enjoy it after I’m gone.”

John chuckled. “Be careful what you wish for, Mercy Mae.”

Ian glared over the stage lights toward their table. “Do I have competition out there?”

“No, no,” said John. “We were just proposing a toast to Robert. Anyone care to join us?” Everyone in the room raised their glass. “To Groovy Bob—a taste guru who was cooler than cool.” Glasses clinked, and the room buzzed while people toasted Robert’s memory.

Onstage, Ian waited impatiently for the scene to settle down. Lights flashed and symbols crashed as the rest of the band appeared. Sonny, Alick, and Mack looked okay, but no amount of makeup could hide what twenty-five years of touring under the influence had stamped on Rick’s face. They dove right into the music—none of the hype that usually preceded an Electric Paradise performance. To everyone’s surprise, they played with all the guts and energy of a teenage garage band. It was almost as if they’d dug down and found their roots again as they ripped through the old classics—almost, but not quite. To Mercy, the tone was more like a rewind than a tribute, more like a memory test than a proper eulogy.

The paparazzi thronged around the club’s exit as she and John were leaving. But they weren’t interested in them; they were focused on the ruckus coming from the dressing room. Ian and Rick were apparently at each other’s throats again.

Rick came out first. “If Ian fuckin’ goes on tour without us, I’ll slit his neck!” he bellowed.

“I don’t need this bunch of old farts!” Ian retaliated.

John and Mercy both started laughing. “Looks like the circus is back in town,” he said.

When Mercy got home after midnight, there was a message on her answering machine. “Mercy, it’s me, Dessie. Calvin died last night. Call me as soon as you get in.”

She didn’t call Dessie back right away. She wanted to take some time to digest the fact that her father was no longer among the living. Mercy had often wished Calvin dead when she was growing up, and now it was finally true. Although she was sad for the other members of her family, she felt like a gigantic burden had been lifted off her shoulders. No more secrets. No more lies. Her father had been an incestuous pedophile who had ruined her childhood, but now it was time to get real.

Mercy stayed up all night listening to old Reggae Revelation tracks. Around noon, which would have been 7 a.m. in Jamaica, she phoned Dessie back and told him she was sorry, but she wouldn’t be attending Calvin’s funeral. There was no way she could agree with complimentary things that might be said about him knowing that he had molested her when she was a child.

“Seen,” said Dessie.

“I knew you’d understand,” she said, sniffling.

Dear Mercy Mae,

Sorry you couldn’t make it home for Daddy’s send-off. It was a bacchanal. Jah! You should have seen the look on poor Mummy’s face when a set of streggaes showed up claiming to be his girlfriends. Everyone except for the pickney whose bunk bed he drop out in. She was only fourteen and her parents forbade her to attend. Anyway, I closed the coffin myself and threw an extra handful of dirt in the grave for you just to make sure Calvin doesn’t come back as a jumbie to haunt us.

Sounds like you and Maxi are coming on strong in the UK. Rita Marley has established the house at 56 Hope Road as the Bob Marley Museum, but the roots music scene in Jamaica continues to be dread. Popular deejays have names like Ray Ban, Mad Cobra, and Ninjaman, and their lyrics are frightening. Shabba Ranks, with his gangster persona, proclaimed himself King of Dancehall after Yellowman. Some say he will become the biggest reggae star in the world, but I wonder where this obsession with sex and violence is leading. Buju Banton has come out with a song called “Boom Bye-Bye” that has been criticized internationally for its anti-gay lyrics. What happened to peace and love as proclaimed by Brother Bob?

Paul, Celia, and Peter send hugs and kisses and so do I,

Your loving brother,

Dessie

PS. Speaking of proclamations, I have one to make now that Calvin’s gone. In case you hadn’t guessed already, your brother Dessie is a batty boy, and Andre is my lover.

Blow wow! As Mercy read the final lines of Dessie’s letter, she could almost hear him sighing. What a relief it must have been to share what had been hidden for so many years with someone he felt he could trust. She wondered if Jemma or Paul knew. Anyway, she hoped he would be the one to tell them. Still, she worried—the homophobic way things were going in Jamaica scared her, and she didn’t want anything bad to happen to her favorite brother.

The musical atmosphere was especially frightening. Buju Banton’s rudeness was like a slap in the face to everything Reggae Revelation and the rest of the roots musicians stood for. Yet if music echoed contemporary culture, then violent lyrics were right on target. Without Bob Marley around to remind them, most Jamaicans seemed to have a frail grasp on what had happened to black people in the West Indies over the centuries. They were more concerned with day-to-day survival than they were with Afro-Caribbean history or the message of reggae music.

In England, the situation was equally dread. Other than Maxi’s cool fusion, roots music was out again, and the second wave of British pop had taken over. Rock/pop bands like Dire Straits, Duran Duran, the Eurythmics, Boy George, and Elton John were giving Electric Paradise a run for their money. But glamor wasn’t for everybody. Indie rock had also gained a substantial audience with new subgenres like gothic rock, Madchester, dream pop, shoegazing, post-rock, indie pop, Brit pop, post-Britpop, garage rock, revival, post-punk revival, and new rave—whatever any of that was about.

When Mercy read in the tabloids that Electric Paradise was slated to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in the UK in 1990, she figured it might finally signify the fold of the band. After all, how long could they go on? On the night of the award, she settled down in front of the telly with a glass of wine and a bowl of popcorn to watch. She read in the tabloids that Alick had declined to attend. “Too little, too late,” was what he said. Winston showed up instead, which got everybody speculating.

It was weird to see the band members dressed in tuxedos with their hands folded demurely in front of them. Peter Ashley’s old friend Pete Townsend did the introduction. “To me, Electric Paradise will always be the greatest. They epitomize rock-and-roll fame.”

Mercy wondered what her Peter would have said to that. When Ian took the mic, he made it into a joke. “It’s ironic that tonight we’re expected to be on our best behavior to accept an award for twenty-five years of bad behavior.” The audience cracked up laughing, and so did Mercy Mae. Then the band proceeded to rip through a five-song jam of R&B tunes that featured guest performances by Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, and Little Richard. Now she was really amused. Like she’d told Annabelle all those years ago, it was difficult for white boys to sing rhythm and blues without the appropriate backup.

Mercy was wrong, however, about the award show at the Waldorf being a swan song for Electric Paradise. Next thing she knew, they had signed the most lucrative music contract in history in anticipation of their first tour in seven years—sixty-five million dollars for the band and a projected forty million dollars profit for the promoter/merchandiser. Now that was some serious bread! On learning that the corporate sponsors of the tour would be Labatt’s, Budweiser, and MTV, some fans were put off by the big business approach. When tank tops and leather jackets promoting the tour appeared on the clothing racks of J.C. Penny and Macy’s in America, even Rick was upset. “We’re a band, not a fuckin’ hot dog stand,” he said, scowling.

Chapter 17: Magnetic Wheels

As far as Annabelle could tell, the only person who loved her at present was Hal, and he was gay. He said it was time for her to reinvent herself, spiritually and musically, but she wasn’t sure that it was humanly possible. Her ability to function came to a screeching halt when Jerry jumped out the window, if not before. But Hal would have none of her excuses. He checked her into another hotel (with locks on the windows), and they spent what seemed like months listening to jazz and blues music before they put together the album Stormy Weather. “Broken Wings” and “As Tears Flow By” were the only songs on it written by Annabelle. The rest were an eclectic mix of jazz and blues: Billie Holiday, Bob Dylan, Bessie Smith, and Tom Waits.

Critics agreed that her gravelly voice perfectly suited the selection and especially praised the latest rendition of her old standard anthem, “Tears.”

“Forty-something is a better age to sing it than age seventeen,” she said during an interview. “Especially if you’re Annabelle Sinclair.”

It seemed Annabelle’s critics and fans were ready to forgive her, even if she wasn’t so sure about forgiving herself. She resisted spending the royalties from the album on clothes and cocaine and started going to Narcotic’s Anonymous instead. That’s where she met Giorgio Della Grossa, an American actor of Italian descent who became her second husband. She moved right into his lovely home in Boston’s suburbs, and a month later, they were married. Naturally, it was a mistake. Although they weren’t taking drugs at the time, both were still drinking heavily. Giorgio and Annabelle fought constantly, and both being actors, they did it with melodramatic flair.

“I hate this two-bit conservative town,” she complained one night when they were both well-sloshed.

“Then why don’t you move back to jolly old England?” he asked.

“People around here are massholes,” she said belligerently.

“That’s a pretty stale joke for somebody who’s supposed to be so smart, Mrs. Della Grossa.”

“Della Grossa? What the hell kind of surname is that?”

“It’s Italian, my dear.”

Annabelle threw out one of her old standard lines like a bone pick. “In case you hadn’t guessed already, Giorgio, I come from a very left-wing Socialist, anti-war, and anti-empire family, and we consider Fascists like you to be our enemy.”

“Then why did you marry me?”

“Good question. You’re Grossa in every way! Especially in bed!”

“Oh really? I’ll show you Grossa, you drunken bitch!”

They rolled around in front of the fireplace and tore off each other’s clothes. She had a red-hot poker, and he had a pillow that he kept trying to smother her with. It was lucky they didn’t kill one another—that’s how out of control things got. When Annabelle woke up the next morning, the living room was a mess. There were feathers everywhere and a couple of burn marks on her inner thighs. Her Italian husband was nowhere in sight. She found a note on the kitchen counter when she staggered to make coffee.

Thanks for the memories. Ciao, Giorgio.

Wait a minute. To what memories was he referring? Annabelle couldn’t remember a bloody thing! She threw the note in the garbage disposal and vomited on top of it just as he walked in the back door. “By the way, this is my house, darling. If you don’t like it here, then I’d suggest you get the fuck out.”

“No problem,” she said. “But I’ll leave when I’m damn well ready.”

The minute Annabelle got a chance to perform in the rock opera The Wall with Pink Floyd in Berlin, she used it as an excuse to leave Giorgio. And let’s bet he was as relieved to get rid of her as she was to go.

Annabelle had a good time in Germany. After she finished The Wall, she took a sabbatical in Paris and caught up on the Electric Paradise melodrama in the tabloids. The band hadn’t done a live performance for several years. Ian’s two solo albums had bombed, an American tour had been canceled in anticipation of poor ticket sales, and his autobiography had been scrapped because it was deemed unfit for publication. (Big surprise.)

According to what she read in the tabloids, the infighting between Rick and Ian continued to escalate. The minute Ian flew off to do a solo Australian tour, Rick released an album entitled What a Cheapskate.

“How come you’re so greedy? What makes you so seedy? You still want to play the game, even though you know you’re lame?” he sang. Yep. That was Rick all right, and he had described Ian to a T.

Nevertheless, the other EP band members seemed to be enjoying life without the constriction of the “ball and chain” as Ian referred to the rigors of touring. But after their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in America, they put aside their differences and decided to go back on tour. Why? MONEY, of course. According to the scuttlebutt, Ian and Rick had gone into seclusion and written fifteen songs in two weeks. They then recorded a new album and made a documentary to air during the forthcoming tour. Meanwhile, Rick received some kind of “Living Legend” award, even though he looked more dead than alive. Alick announced he intended to marry Candy, as soon as she turned eighteen.

Over five hundred reporters showed up when the band arrived in New York. Following their ostentatious entrance on a flatbed railroad car at Grand Central Station, they announced their upcoming Magnetic Wheels tour and soon-to-be-released album by the same name. Then the band retired to a remote upper-crust town for two months to rehearse and shoot a couple of videos. To cash in on all the hoopla preceding the tour, Electric Paradise released a four-album compilation of digitally re-mastered tunes from 1963 to 1991—brilliant marketing, even if Annabelle said so herself. When the first single off the Magnetic Wheels album hit the charts, it immediately climbed to #5. Next thing, three hundred thousand tickets sold out in the first six hours for New York’s Shea Stadium at $28.50 a pop. Go figure.

Before the tour, Ian and Rick gave positive, cheery interviews to reassure their fans that all was well between them.

“It was really easy working with this guy again,” Ian told reporters.

“We needed a break,” said Rick. “Being apart caused us both to finally grow up.”

Fifty-five thousand fans showed up at the initial concert in Philadelphia. They waited expectantly as a cacophony of percussive sounds filled their ears and a wall of flames licked the foot of the stage. Suddenly the lights flashed, and what sounded like a sonic boom signaled Rick to lay down the guitar riff introduction. Ian, resplendent in a white bow tie and green leather tails, strutted onto the 300-foot stage. For the next two-and-a-half hours, the band rocked the coliseum with a mix of their greatest hits intertwined with cuts from the new album. The highlight came when a pair of fifty-five-foot inflatable dolls hovered over the stage while Ian howled out “Hanky-Pank Women.”

The reviews were fabulous, and the Magnetic Wheels album sped to #1 on the charts. As Electric Paradise stormed North America, Annabelle couldn’t help remembering their dismal time on the road in 1966. Twenty-five years later, even she had to admit this was a tighter, more mature band. The lyrics of the new songs were about tough choices, bitter struggles, and unholy compromises adults had to make in life—all themes to which she could definitely relate.

The bottom line was that sixty-one shows for 3.2 million fans in thirty-three cities grossed 140 million dollars. Then it was on to Tokyo two months later where fans happily paid seventy dollars a ticket to the tune of another thirty million. EP toured Europe before going home to the UK to perform a free concert at Wembley Stadium. Not only had the band racked up more money than they could possibly ever spend, but it seemed they also had grown a heart.

When it was all over, members scattered to rest and spend some quality time with their families. Ian and Jolene finally married in Bali after fifteen years of living together and making babies. Rick and his new wife Pam put down roots in the States not far from Ingrid so he could be close to their kids. Sonny and his wife of twenty-five years were still in the Devon countryside raising prize-winning sheep. Wildman Steve Mackenzie also stayed in England. He settled down with his wife and her three kids and spent his time painting pastoral landscapes. Only Alick was still on his own. After Candy broke his heart, he resigned from the band and walked away from a forty-five-million-dollar deal in favor of publishing a long-suffering autobiography which included bragging how he had allegedly slept with thousands of women while touring with EP!

Annabelle thanked God she wasn’t one of them.

Her next album with Hal got good press. Stereo Review said, “Sinclair’s gritty alto voice is cracked and rasping; it’s the voice of a woman who has been to hell and back, which of course she has.” Was that supposed to be a compliment?

“She is one of the most challenging and artful singers in the music business today,” Rolling Stone asserted. “Wasting Away is a fine retrospective, very autobiographical, and proof we can expect more brilliant things from this graying, jaded countess.”

Annabelle went straight to the hairdresser and got a touch-up.

With Hal’s support, she had been off drugs for a couple of years. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to get the drunken monkey off her back. She continued to lapse into periods of heavy alcohol abuse throughout the ‘90s. When Annabelle was more or less sober, she worked on writing a memoir. It felt good to dig through her past, no matter how embarrassing. She hoped that putting pen to paper might help her decide where she wanted to go in the future.

Writing down her memories reminded Annabelle of being in the hot seat at Hazelton, only she liked her own company better than that of the Rockettes or irritating Debbie. She wanted to explore how she felt when her father, who she adored, deserted the family and ran away to the commune. Betrayed? Abandoned? Angry? Why did she choose to reenact the same scenario when she walked out on John and Benji, both of whom she loved dearly? Was it because she was just like her mother, an emotional fake and a habitual liar? Was she actually in love with Ian Walsh or just eager to boost her own career regardless of the pain and suffering she caused her family? How did it feel to rule over London hipsters like the fairy princess of rock-and-roll and then end up in the gutter strung out on booze and heroin? Or was she too fucked up to care? Why had she turned her back on Mercy Mae when she was trying to help to run off to America to play games with Ingrid? And on, and on, and on, right up until Jerry jumped out of the window. She’d married Giorgio on the rebound. He had turned out to be the worst choice so far—the only man she’d ever truly detested—besides Barry, that is.

But hey! Annabelle was a Capricorn, a sign of the zodiac known to flower late. She might not have always liked herself, but she always loved her work, so she kept busy. If only she could learn from the mistakes she’d made in the past, a couple of good songs might come out of the blunders. While writing the memoir, she started to put together a collection of what she considered her best recordings. But Hal thought she’d rehashed the past long enough and declined to produce it. When she was asked to write a song for inclusion in the Irish AIDS benefit album, she thought she’d try to go it alone.

Considering the amount of heroin Annabelle had shot up in the past and the number of sexual partners she’d run through, she counted herself lucky to be on the giving end of the AIDS concert lineup instead of the receiving end. “Last Dance” went over well, but as far as record producers were concerned, it seemed she’d burnt all her London bridges.

Then she bounced into Rick at the entrance to the underground in Dublin. “What’s up, Annabelle?” he said.

“Not much. I’m writing a memoir and trying to figure out a couple of things. I know how it was between me and Ian, but what did I ever do to offend the rest of the members of the band?”

“You fuckin’ embarrassed us, that’s what.”

“I, Annabelle Sinclair, embarrassed big bad Electric Paradise?” she said, smiling.

“You know you did. After you and Ian split up, you put yourself on public display like a monument to the perils of rock-and-roll. You spit in the face of the Cultural Revolution and wallowed in Soho with junkies and winos.”

“But I absolutely adore junkies and winos,” she said flippantly. “That’s why I love you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“But admit it, Rick. You blokes were a wicked lot—much worse than me.”

“Of course we were, but back then women were to be seen and not heard. You, like Ingrid, couldn’t wait to shoot off your mouth, even if it caused you to lose your son.”

Rick had touched a nerve. “Since when did you become so bloody astute?” she shouted, blinking back tears. “Electric Paradise used me to write their songs and lick their wounds, and then you shut me out as if I wasn’t cool enough to hang out with anymore!”

“It was nothing personal,” he said. “We did it for the good of the band. Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay. So when do I get my cut?”

They both broke down laughing and went to the nearest pub to get sloshed. Back at her room, she ran through the cords of her new song for Rick. He liked it and agreed to coproduce it if she could find another backer.

“What about Barry?” he said. “I hear he’s formed a new label called Poly-Hip, or Poly-Hop, or Polyboor, or some nonsense like that.”

“Polystore,” she corrected. “Barry has done everything in his power to hold me down in the past. I can’t imagine he wants me to rise up now.”

“How about Ian, then?” Rick said, grinning.

But Annabelle’s mind had already fallen on Mercy Mae. She hadn’t spoken to her friend in a couple of years and wondered what kind of reception she’d get if she contacted her. Rick smoked another cigarette while she searched for Mercy’s phone number. Her heart fell like a stone when the operator said her London number had been permanently disconnected.

When Annabelle staggered out of bed the next morning, there was an empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter and an envelope pushed under her door. Talk about fate. She didn’t know how they found her, but the director of the retirement community at Brazier’s Park had written to say her father was extremely ill and she should visit him as soon as possible. Her mind traveled back to the time she had spent at the commune before her parents split up. For Annabelle, Brazier’s Park had been a magical theme park. Because it was in the country, and because her father Rupert went there to escape from Edna’s madness and sometimes brought her along, she idealized the place.

According to her therapist, Annabelle’s father, Major Rupert Sinclair, had been the first unrequited love of her life. A gentle albeit secretive man, he must have been embarrassed by her highly public years of wild, erratic behavior. If he was aware of her career as a singer and actor, which he probably was, or that he was a grandfather, he’d never tried to contact her or Benji. When her mother died, he didn’t show up at the funeral. Now, according to the letter, he was dying too. The thought crossed Annabelle’s mind that she could redeem herself with Ben, John, and her father in one fell swoop. When she phoned on the pretense of inquiring about their son’s graduation, John said she’d missed the event.

“Oh, dear. I guess I’ve been kind of busy,” she said by way of excuse.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m in Ireland for the AIDS benefit concert and writing a memoir and putting together a retrospective CD.”

There was a prolonged silence on the other end of the line.

“The reason I’m calling, John, is that my father is gravely ill at Brazier’s Park. I’d like him to meet Benjamin before he dies.”

“Since when do you care about your father or Benjamin?” he asked.

She sighed. “I care about a lot of people. I just have trouble expressing my emotions.”

“Ben’s here with me for the summer. He got a job at the Sunday Times.”

“Perfect. Maybe the three of us could take a weekend and go and visit Rupert.”

John cleared his throat. “I’ll ask him to ring you.”

Annabelle never got a call, and her father died without ever laying eyes on her again, or his only grandson. After the cremation, she went to Brazier’s Park for his memorial service alone and scattered his ashes in the meadow where the two of them used to play Blind Man’s Bluff.

Chapter 18: Jamtilles

1992

Mercy was still in England when Electric Paradise wound up the Magnetic Wheels tour. What began as a band of ruffians in the early sixties had grown up to be very rich and famous, and she was amply impressed. On the other hand, what had she done? What did she have to show for thirty-five years in the music business? Despite the success of “Giddy-Up” and the Reggae Revelation band, Mercy’s personal career seemed to have stopped evolving when Peter died. Now Revelation Records was stagnating thanks to the disloyalty of London-based Jamaicans to their own roots music. Yeah, man. It was time to make a move, check another scene. But where and how?

The political and social prospect of Jamaica was still extremely unsettled. For ten years, Seaga had kowtowed to the U.S. to no avail. Now Manley was back in power, but as a changed man. He may have won the election, but he had forgotten all about land reform and class equality. He turned his back on the common folks and refocused on foreign investment and free-market economic policies—even rekindled warm relations with the IMF. Who was this man who was on his fifth wife and looked like a walking skeleton? To those who had believed in his “Third Way,” he was unrecognizable.

The content of Dessie’s latest letter confirmed it.

Dear Mercy Mae,

The news from Jamaica is blow wow as usual. After only two years in office, our friend and neighbor, Michael Manley, has handed over the government to PNP leader P.J. Patterson on grounds of ill health. You remember P.J. He was Michael’s campaign manager in ‘72. Now yardies finally have our first black prime minister, which is at least something to be proud of.

But I’m sorry to report the music industry in Jamaica has gone completely tunid. The homophobic lyrics that rule the dancehalls are frightening. The deaths of deejays Pan Head and Dirtsman are proof of how violent the music scene in Kingston really is. I still do a few gigs in the country with some of the old reggae crowd, but attendance is sparse. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I can’t help thinking ‘bout wha’appen to Peter in California and that time to Brother Bob. It’s like sweet conscious music has been cast aside in favor of something rotten and perverse. Rass! Last night some bumbohole spray-painted “Boom Bye-Bye” on the outside wall of the cabana. I wonder if it was supposed to be a promise or a threat.

Miss You.

Your loving brother,

Dessie

The letter made Mercy heartsick and homesick. What was she doing hanging around in London when her family and her island needed her? She had been thinking about making Barry an offer for Antilles Records ever since he insulted her at Robert Fraser’s memorial. The first thing she’d do was sort the wheat from the chaff, biblically speaking. Yeah, man. She’d keep all the true reggae artists and let Barry have the dancehall crap for Polystore . . . if he wanted it. Then she’d move herself and the Antilles label back to Jamaica where they both belonged. On the other hand, Mercy wondered if Barry would even sell to her after all the bad vibes that had passed between them. But she needn’t have worried. As they say, “Money talks and bullshit walks.” Thanks to Peter, she had plenty of money, and Barry, as usual, was up to his eyeballs in bullshit. Maybe they could cut a deal. There was only one way to find out.

Barry jumped at the chance to unload Antilles and start his new project. He was ten years older than Mercy, and she could understand why he might want to move on. The music industry had a way of burning people out fast, and Barry hung in there longer than most. Not that she thought he deserved any kind of award—as she’d always said, he was just a damn good salesman.

Mercy invested most of what remained of Peter’s money in a hedge fund with a bank in Switzerland before she returned to Jamaica. Dessie and Andre had done a fantastic job restoring the house and garden in the aftermath of Hurricane Gilbert, and everything was in tip-top shape when she arrived. When she walked across the street to visit Michael Manley, he was sitting on his veranda petting one of his big dogs. They struck up a conversation in local lingo.

“Wha’gwann, boss?” she said by way of greeting.

He smiled. “Mi de ya a wait fi mi food done cook.”

“Michael, wha’ say we in di lime tonight, go out and shake our backsides?”

“Mi bumpsey, mi cayan. Mi in di yard for di time.”

They both laughed. He stood to hug her, but his embrace was feeble. “I’m so glad you’ve come home. The neighborhood isn’t the same without you. How about a drink?”

“You having one?”

“None for me. Doctor’s orders.”

“Got any juice?”

“All we’ve got is passion.”

“That’s all we ever really had,” Mercy said, grinning. “And somehow it was always enough to get us through.”

Michael sighed. “Up until now. P.J. has got his work cut out, God help him. There has to be a way for Jamaica to fit into the new order of globalization, but I could never figure it out.”

“God, help us all,” she said, rolling her eyes.

As a reward for doing such a wonderful job at home in her absence, Mercy made Dessie a full and equal partner in her newly acquired record label, which she rechristened Jamtilles.

“Let’s just hope there’s enough real talent left on the island to make us proud,” he said.

They didn’t have to look far. Her nephew Peter was big for his age and could burn his way up and down a guitar in a miraculous way. Paul, Celia, Jemma, and Mercy gathered round the pool while Peter shuffled through a set of conscious reggae tunes like he had an acute case of “reggaemanitis.” Peter’s looks reminded Mercy of a young Brother Bob with his sprouting locks and cock-eyed grin. But he played with the same passion as his namesake, her darling Peter, and there was nothing lightweight about the lyrics he wrote.

“Dessie and I call ourselves Second Revelation, Auntie Mercy,” said Peter.

“You just pompasetting, showing off,” Jemma teased her grandson. Mercy’s mother looked well and obviously enjoyed being with her family. Now that Calvin was dead, she seemed like a new woman; she dressed and talked smart, and she held her head up high.

“All we need now is keyboard, bass, and a singer,” said Dessie.

“Well, I can play keyboards, and I can still sing,” Mercy volunteered. “That leaves Paul on bass.”

“No way,” said Paul. “But didn’t I hear you say that Sly and Robbie were on their way back to Jamaica? I bet they could pick up the slack.”

Right. Mercy had left Maxi, who she considered a good and trusted friend, in charge of the Jamaican artists who were still in London. But what she really wanted was for Jamaican musicians overseas to come back home. P.J. Patterson, like Michael Manley, considered music to be an important part of the Jamaican GNP and was offering generous tax incentives and concessions to returnees, so the timing was perfect. Mercy built a state-of-the-art recording studio adjacent to the house, and soon Jamtilles was swamped with aspiring musicians just like back in the days of Studio One. Naturally, they couldn’t accommodate everybody, and some of those that were turned away held a grudge. That’s how it worked in Jamaica—in fact, all around the world.

So while deejays ruled the dancehall, the Jamtilles label worked hard to nurture a vibe that would appeal to those who remembered the roots music of yore. “I want to give reggae a new tweak, like what Maxi is doing at Revelation in London,” said Mercy.

“Isn’t that a sellout?” asked Peter.

Mercy was ready with her answer. “Not really. By recording a fresh mix, sorta like a callalou soup of classics and contemporary, we’ll be able to move the music forward.”

Dessie smiled. “That sounds delicious,” he said, smacking his lips.

Peter thought they might include the likes of Capelton and Anthony B. “They’re popular with a certain sector of the brethren,” he said.

But Mercy doubted if traditional Rasta society would ever accept the kind of aggressive worldview inherent in their music. “How can rough talk ever groove with real Rastafari philosophy?” she asked. “The lyrics are too antagonistic for reggae. Brother Bob would roll over in his grave.”

“That’s why they call themselves ‘gangsta rass,’ Auntie.”

Mercy groaned. “I know. But you can’t fight fire with fire. You’ve got to cool it down with water. Gangsta rass vibes are too inflammatory for Jamtilles.”

“Provocation is why they exist,” said Dessie. “We’re lucky we don’t live right downtown in Kingston. The dancehall scene has everybody wound up.”

Peter shrugged. “If Jamtilles wants to stay in the music game, we might have to compromise.”

“But what ‘bout the slackness?” she asked. “The revealing outfits worn by women, young and not so young, shouts out that they’re sexual objects who wanna be toyed with.”

“Men too. Designer logos and jewelry are more important than the music itself. Rudie Boy says that a guy could be the best dancer, but if he wears the wrong clothes or shoes, the gals will ignore him,” said Dessie.

“Rudie is no kinda roots man,” Mercy said, frowning.

Dessie shook his head. “Roots don’t matter. It’s all about bling now.”

“Maybe one of the reasons that dancehall culture is important to ordinary Jamaicans is because everybody gets to dress up and act sexy,” said Peter.

“Maybe. But why is Jamtilles so eager to pick up the dancehall scene if it’s so shallow?” asked Mercy. “We’re a record label, not a fashion magazine.”

Dessie chuckled. “Tell me, who can resist dancing the ‘Whine and Dip,’ ‘Boosie Bounce,’ ‘Drive By,’ ‘Shovel It,’ ‘Gully Creep,’ ‘Keeping it Jiggy,’ and ‘Daggering?’”

“Well, I think dirty dancing is revolting,” she said smugly.

Dessie pretended surprise. “Listen to yourself, Mercy Mae! You sound like a colonial prude!”

She laughed. “You’re right. I must have overstayed in England.” But in her gut Mercy knew that getting involved with “gangsta rass” wasn’t a wise move for Jamtilles and the Williams family.

“The main problem is the homophobic lyrics,” Dessie said, as if reading her mind.

“Amen to that, brother.”

“And deejays don’t care who gets hurt as long as they cash in,” said Peter.

Mercy cringed. “Then we’ll have to be extra careful who we sign to the label, won’t we?”

Chapter 19: Sincerely Sinclair

London, 1994

Revelation Records’ number in London was still in the book under “Music Producers” even though Mercy’s home phone wasn’t listed. When Annabelle finally worked up the courage to call, Maxi answered. He had a reputation as a down-to-earth, easy-going Rasta man who happened to have been born in England, so she thought she might have a chance.

“Hey, Maxi. This is Annabelle Sinclair. How are you? Good. The reason I’m calling is I wondered if Revelation might be interested in co-producing a record of mine from the Irish AIDS benefit concert. I think I’ve written a good song. I’ve dedicated ‘Last Dance’ to Robert Fraser. You remember Robert? Right. Anyway, Rick, the lead guitarist from Electric Paradise, has agreed to help, but we need another backer.”

She could almost hear his blood boiling on the other end of the line. “What you really think, nuh?” Maxi exploded. “You broke your contract with Revelation when you recorded with that guy Hal in the States! Why don’t you check him and leave us out of it?”

Annabelle gulped. “I’m finished with Hal. I want to move on.”

“In other words, you’re desperate.”

“How can I get in touch with Mercy?”

“You can’t!” said Maxi. Then he hung up the phone.

In those days, Maxi and Mercy mostly communicated through a newfangled invention called email. It was less personal than a phone call or an actual letter, but it got the job done fast and clear. About twice a week, he wrote to her concerning Revelation business, or whenever something extraordinary occurred.

> Mercy. You’re not going to believe what happened. Annabelle Sinclair had the nerve to phone the office and ask if Revelation wanted to produce her song from the Irish AIDS benefit.

< So what’d ya tell her?

> I informed her that she had broken her contract with us.

Mercy was staring at the Basquiat painting—the only possession she cared enough about to bother shipping from London back to Jamaica—when she got the message. Robert Fraser had died of AIDS, and Jean-Michel had died of a drug overdose at the age of twenty-seven, but what about those who were still caught up in the struggle? What about people like Annabelle?

< You should have told her yes. Everybody deserves a second chance.

That had been months ago, and Annabelle had dropped off the radar again in the meantime. Maxi’s rejection sent her straight to the pub, after which she staggered back to her room with a bottle of Wild Irish Rose to drink herself into further oblivion.

In between binges, Annabelle continued to work on her memoir. With the help of an editor, who taped her ramblings and then rearranged them in chronological order, she finished it about six months later. The working title was Sincerely Sinclair, and, unlike her new music, there were plenty of publishers interested in her true-life exposé. I mean who could resist reading the sordid story of Annabelle Sinclair, fairytale princess turned junkie? Who wouldn’t want to listen to a prima donna flower child talk about free love, psychedelic drugs, and what it was like to be in love with Ian Walsh?

My mother was a ballerina, and my father was an ex-spy, the book began. I grew up in a commune where there was rampant sex on every doorstep. I married young and then abandoned my husband and my son for the glamorous and destructive underbelly of rock-and-roll.

And so on, for three hundred more pages. She couldn’t shut up about her affairs with Ian, Shawn, and Henrietta; blabbered on about Ingrid and Jerry and Giorgio. But she restrained herself when it came to Mercy Mae, simply referring to her as her good friend Sista Leona, the brilliant producer at Revelation Records.

The book sold well but got lukewarm reviews. An especially hurtful headline read, “Poor Little Annabelle Sinclair, Victim of Cool.” Ouch. Retelling her life story made her realize that she had so far shot it to buggery. Obviously, she still had plenty of emotional work to do before she got herself together, but she was tired, and right now she needed a drink.

Mercy read Annabelle’s book with a heavy heart. Her friend had truly been through the wringer. Plenty of people she wrote about were going to be offended, but somehow Mercy had managed to escape unscathed.

> Mercy, did you get a load of Annabelle Sinclair’s memoir?

< Yes, Maxi. I think Revelation should jump on it and put together an album to go along with the book.

> You mean all is forgiven?

< Forgiveness is my middle name, although I haven’t quite mastered it yet. Try to contact her and see if you can’t work something out. Tell her we want to use the same cover art as the book on a retrospective album. Send me a sample CD when you have a finished product.

> Okay.

When Maxi finally tracked Annabelle down and told her Revelation was interested in putting together a CD to follow up on the publication of her memoir, she was elated. The bad reviews of the book had convinced her she had a long way to go as a writer, but she was thrilled that someone still had confidence in her as a recording artist. Moreover, she figured it might be a way to reconnect with Mercy.

Working with Maxi was refreshing. He was nice, and he knew the music business inside and out. Although he was fifteen years younger than Annabelle, he had already established himself as one of the top British reggae singers with his cover version of a Cat Stevens song. He’d also had an American Billboard #1 record in his duet with Roberta Flack, and his collaboration with Shaggy had peaked at #20. His voice was smooth and impeccable—he could sing along with anything and anybody—even Annabelle’s raspy, ruined voice. And, better still, he had a natural talent for rearranging old material into something that sounded new. Maxi and Annabelle worked long and hard on Sincerely Sinclair, and, except for the tracks from Rich Girl Blues, the result was gratifying.

Being Annabelle, she naturally fell in love with him in the process. Maxi’s voice wasn’t the only sexy thing about him; she found the whole dreadlocked, impeccably dressed, sweet-smelling package irresistible. She wondered if he and Mercy were more than just friends and collaborators. If they were romantically involved, they had been discreet, a technique that she’d never mastered. But Mercy was back in Jamaica now, and Maxi, who had been her mentor for the past months, was sitting on the office love seat next to her, live and direct.

Annabelle set two glasses and a bottle of wine out on the coffee table to celebrate the completion of the project. If they were going to fool around, she needed fortification. She poured and immediately guzzled the contents of her glass. Then she gazed into his eyes and began unbuttoning her blouse. “Do you like what you see, boss?”

Maxi turned his head as if offended. “Annabelle, our work together is finished now.”

She placed his hand between her breasts. “I know, but surely we have time to smooth out a few more details. You never know what you’re missing until you give it a try.”

He looked at her seriously, and for a minute she thought he might cave. But when she tried to kiss him, he leaped up and collected his coat and umbrella.

“I have another appointment. Lock up when you go and leave the key under the mat.”

Annabelle was gobsmacked. “Isn’t that a little obvious?” she said, stung. “I mean leaving the key under the mat?”

Maxi sucked his teeth like a true West Indian. “You’re the one who’s obvious, Annabelle.”

He exited the office in a hurry, leaving her to brood in the hallway. When she glanced in the mirror by the door, she didn’t like what she saw. A fat, fifty-year-old slag with disheveled bleached blonde hair and a puffy, tortured face stared back at her. Bloody hell. No wonder Maxi fled. Humiliated, she gathered up her things with tears in her eyes.

As fate would have it, Annabelle bounced into Barry King across the street from the Savoy Hotel. Normally, she avoided the place like the plague because she truly believed her mother’s ghost haunted the hotel’s dining room. But when Barry invited her to lunch, she thought she might be able to lay Edna to rest, put Mr. King in his place, and drown Maxi’s rejection in a couple of free whiskeys.

She was wrong on all counts.

After they’d ordered drinks, the conversation naturally turned to music.

“How d’ya enjoy working with Maxi?” asked Barry.

Annabelle wondered how he knew about their collaboration, but then again Barry seemed to know about everything in the music world. She shrugged. “He’s a real professional. I can see why Mercy left him in charge of Revelation Records.”

Barry sipped his rum and soda. “What’s the working title of the new album?”

“Sincerely Sinclair,” she said.

“Oh. I hated the book,” he said flatly.

Annabelle was careful not to let her hurt feelings show. “But the music is great,” she managed to say, “all except for the junk from Rich Girl Blues. Maxi says there’s no hope for it.”

Barry smiled. “There never was, my dear.”

The server came and took their order. In light of what Annabelle had seen in the mirror earlier, she opted for a cobb salad, but couldn’t resist another whisky. He ordered lamb chops and declined a second drink.

“I heard you sold Antilles to Mercy Mae,” she said to make conversation.

He laughed. “Yeah. She changed the label name to Jamtilles, just like she changed her name to Sista Leona.”

“Do you ever bounce into her on the island?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Annabelle felt the ghost of Edna closing in when her salad arrived. She shook her head and downed her whisky to fend her mother off. “How’s Polystore coming on?” she asked.

“It keeps me busy with film and music videos,” said Barry. “Who knows, you and I might be able to work together again in the future.”

She attempted to gulp the rest of her drink but found the glass was empty.

“But I’m also involved in another project,” he said.

She really didn’t want to know, but Barry blabbered on. “When my mother died, she left me her properties in Jamaica. I’m developing them into elite communities of villas and beach cottages and marketing them as Antilles Outposts.”

Somehow Annabelle had never imagined Barry having a mother. She stared at her salad. Her second drink had kicked in and she was feeling warm and fuzzy. “I really miss her, you know,” she said.

Barry was confused. “My mother?”

“No. Mercy Mae. She was my best friend.”

“Friends are hard to find in the music business,” Barry said, stabbing ruthlessly at his chop. “By the way, how’s Benjamin?”

Tears welled in Annabelle’s eyes. Barry really knew how to press her buttons, most painfully the two labeled UNWORTHY FRIEND and UNFIT MOTHER.

“Uh. He’s been away at school,” she said. “Manchester, Cambridge, and now Harvard. He’s about to graduate. He wants to be a financial editor.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” Barry said, yawning.

When Annabelle ordered yet another drink, Barry looked over the top of his glasses disapprovingly. “Annabelle, isn’t it time you got sober?”

“I’m working on it,” she said, rising. “Sorry, Barry, but I’ve got to run. Thanks for lunch. See ya around.”

She threw her napkin on the table and headed for the door. When she hit the street, she looked left, looked right, looked up and down, but there was no place left for her to go. Back in her rented room, she poured herself another drink, sank into the sofa, and tried to imagine what was next. She knew she didn’t want to stay in London—besides Edna, there were just too many ghosts from the past floating around. Yet she needed to put some things straight before she moved on. For starters, she wanted to get to know her son. It was also time to make amends with John. Maybe then the monkey would finally climb down off her back, and she could get on with the rest of her life.

Mercy was excited when the demo CD for Sincerely Sinclair arrived at the studio on Hope Road. It contained an updated version of “As Tears Flow By” as well as a dreadful cut from Rich Girl Blues, and reworked tracks from Sweet Dreams and Dangerous Days.

> Maxi, how come there’s nothing off the albums Broken Wings or Wasting Away?

< Annabelle’s American producer refused to sign over the rights. But there are a couple of new songs that she and I collaborated on.

That night Dessie, Peter, and Mercy settled down in the studio to listen. Mercy said she thought “As Tears Flow By” was more poignant than ever.

Dessie frowned. “But that Rich Girl Blues crap is really dread.”

“That was Barry’s brainchild. We won’t use it.”

“What happened to her voice?” asked Peter. “She sounds like she’s underwater.”

Mercy sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“Who’s going to buy it?” said Dessie. “The record, I mean.”

“Annabelle still has a lot of fans in the UK, especially since the release of her book.” Then Mercy remembered something she had said when she first started Revelation. “Not everything is about money, you know,” she said.

But it was one of the new songs Annabelle sang as a duo with Maxi that sealed the deal. The title was “Sista,” and Mercy was sure it was dedicated to her.

Sista lives with no one

Only she knows what she lost

If you would let me hold you, sista

I wouldn’t walk away

If you would let me love you, sista

It wouldn’t be the same

Sista, please can we try again?

Mercy wrote back to Maxi immediately.

> Maxi. It’s brilliant! Go ahead with Sincerely Sinclair, minus the Rich Girl Blues crap.

< Okay. Just please don’t ask me to work with her again.

> Why not?

< She’s hooked up with Barry.

Part Three

Cheese on Bread

Chapter 20: Sumfest

Jamaica

Despite the abundance of Jamaican musical artists, Mercy had a hard time sourcing those she considered worthy of producing on the Jamtilles label. The problem was the island’s music was in the toilet and had been for some time. Yellowman first introduced the dancehall era to Jamaica in the ‘70s as a joke, the digital instrumentation of the ‘80s changed the sound around, and then Shabba Ranks exported the music to the rest of the world. Shackled by the gold chains that hung from the deejay’s necks, the liberation symbols of yellow, red, and green surrendered, and a new vernacular surfaced. “Bashment” was a term that referred to a particularly awesome venue. The digital keyboard music that pounded in the background was called “Sleng Teng.” “Sound Clash” albums featured rival deejays “dissing,” going head to head while violently disagreeing throughout the entire record.

Take the performer Ray Ban, never seen without his shades and his cowboy hat, for instance. Allmusic described him as one of the most aggressive deejays of the decade, a street-tough rude boy with an acute flair for gun talk—in other words, hardly suitable for Jamtilles. Then there was Rudie Boy, equally unsuitable with his baby locks and signature red bandana. After he proclaimed himself “King of Dancehall,” he then proceeded to engage in a high-profile “diss” with Ray Ban. To keep the ro-ro going, the two deejays recorded an album together which was supposed to settle the quarrel. Ray Ban won the Deejay of the Year Award as a result, while Rudie turned Bobo Ashanti like Capelton and Anthony B.

What is a Bobo? They are one of the strictest sects of Rastafari. They cover their dreadlocks with turbans, wear long robes, fast twice a week, and are exclusively vegan. They believe in the Holy Trinity, but in a unique way—they see Haile Selassie as God, Marcus Garvey as prophet, and their founder, Prince Emanuel, as high priest. But Rudie Boy wasn’t willing to go along with all that. He kept his red bandana intact and released a new album that Mercy thought was sexist and disgusting. When a single from the record went gold in Jamaica, Barry couldn’t wait to cast Rudie in the new Polystore film Dancehall King.

“Conscious ragga fits the Polystore label because it reflects the fusion of Rastafari beliefs and music worldwide,” Barry informed the press.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

A big part of Jamaican musical culture had always been imitation, and other dancehall deejays turned Bobo after Rudie Boy’s success. Of course, the copycat sound and lyrics were still too rough for Jamtilles. Then, just when Mercy had given up hope, Rootsie—an authentic born and bred Jamaican Rasta—turned up. Relieved, Mercy signed him to the Jamtilles label without a second thought. What she initially liked about Rootsie was that he declared his abiding faith in the Most High before commenting on social issues. But once the anti-gay vibe that pervaded both Christian and Rastafari beliefs in Jamaica became so very popular, even Rootsie couldn’t resist. He, too, caved in and started to write songs with homophobic lyrics.

“I have a feeling that things are gonna get tight,” Dessie said, sighing.

It saddened Mercy to know that a Jamtilles artist like Rootsie had joined in the harassment of the gay community, especially in light of Dessie’s sexual orientation, and she realized she’d have to let him go. He didn’t take it well, but she refused to back down when it came to her label’s integrity.

Luckily, Luciano, aka Jep for Jepther, arrived on the scene shortly afterward. He was just a teenager, but Mercy suspected that he would become a major player in the future of Jamaican reggae music. A second-generation roots artist, he hung around the studio on Hope Road like it was his home. When one of the songs on his debut Jamtilles album became a #1 hit single in Jamaica, Jep and young Peter, who had collaborated on the record, couldn’t stop smiling.

“You guys are my shining stars,” Mercy said, beaming. “Maybe we don’t need to kowtow to the dancehall chupidness after all.”

Things were also looking up on the other side of the Atlantic. Maxi had been successfully working with Shaggy, a transplanted Jamaican who had perfected his singing voice in the U.S. Marine Corps. After he’d had several hits in the States, including one which became the theme for a popular Levi’s commercial, Shaggy had signed with Revelation Records in London. Still, Mercy couldn’t help wondering when it was gonna be her turn to get into the act. She had been toying with the idea of putting a family group back on the reggae map that featured the talents of young Peter, Dessie, and herself. Why not? The three of them got along well, had easy access to the best recording equipment on the island, and had a built-in record producer.

Mercy was daydreaming about the formation of a new band when Dessie came home with the news that the Sunsplash event had been canceled that year due to lack of sponsorship and government support. “Some kinda confusion that involves a hostile takeover by foreign investors,” he said.

Mercy kissed her teeth. “More politricks as usual. Actually, I was just remembering the Victory Band Wagon and how great it was to be involved in a grassroots movement like that.”

“Yeah. It was irie, but you weren’t on island during Manley’s last term in office. Michael really let Rastafari down toward the end.”

Mercy sighed. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Anyway, Ricky Chin is planning to launch a new music festival called Reggae Sumfest in Sunsplash’s place,” said Dessie. “The theme will be ‘Music: The Universal Force,’ and it will feature six days and nights of action in Montego Bay at the beginning of August.”

“Hmmm. Could be the perfect opportunity for us to resurrect the roots vibe, Reggae Revelation style.”

“You mean perform again as a family group?”

“If Peter really wants to pursue a career in music, he needs to find his way around the stage. The prospect of jamming at this Sumfest event would give him a positive goal, and we’ve got four whole months to get ready.”

“Who could we get to help other than Jep?” asked Dessie.

She laughed. “There still might be some old-timers left on the island who would be willing to back us up.”

“There’s always Sly and Robbie,” he said.

Mercy nodded. “Those two are like bread and butter.”

“Compared to oil and water like some of those Bobo dreads.”

“I hear you,” she said.

When they ran the idea by Peter, he got excited. “We’ll be like the royal family of reggae!” he spouted. “We’ll be living legends!”

“Hello. Jamaica has been independent for over fifty years, boy. The last thing we need is some kinda royal family lording over popular music like antique slave masters.” She laughed. “And I don’t like the sound of living legends, either. It makes me feel old.”

“Well, it’s better than being dead legends,” Dessie said, joking. “But seriously, we’ll have to practice extra hard, so we don’t embarrass ourselves.”

Peter leaped up from the couch and gave him a fist tag. “No problem, Uncle Dessie. I want to make the Williams family proud.”

Mercy had written a few new songs, and so had Dessie. Peter had a second reggae tune that he’d composed with Jep. Still, they needed more tracks if they expected to release an album after their performance at Sumfest. The Williams family stayed up all hours jamming until they had it right. Once their playlist was completed, Mercy called in Ernest Ranglin, who’d worked miracles with “Giddy-Up” all those years ago, to see if he’d help. He said he’d love to, and by the time August rolled around they had five solid arrangements for Legends Night of the Roots Reggae Jam.

The event started with an all-day beach party on Tuesday. Peter and Jep played beach volleyball with well-oiled local girls in scant bikinis while the old folks relaxed in the shade. Jemma, Paul, and Celia were with them, as well as Dessie’s long-time cumbolo, Andre. They booked a beachside café for dinner with some old friends—John Holt, Ken Boothe, Leroy Sibbles, and Alton Lewis and their respective ladies, along with the I-Threes, Rita, Judy, and Marcia.

“Now you’re surrounded by living legends,” Mercy teased Peter while they ate, drank, and told tales on one another. When Shaggy, who was ultra-hot in the UK, joined them, young Peter was awestruck. Just like Maxi, Shaggy was an easygoing dude with a beautiful, open face, completely unaffected by his superstar status.

The bonfire lasted all night. Giant sparks flew up into the dark sky like buzzed fireflies while friends drank red wine and smoked prime Jamaican ganja. Waves lapped rhythmically at the shore as they strummed, hummed, and all got thoroughly stoned.

Everybody slept late on Wednesday. The Williamses were staying in a private villa in Negril away from the hustle and bustle, so they’d have time to put the last-minute touches on their act. Jemma, Dessie, Andre, and Mercy skipped the Clash of the Titans at Pier One to catch up on their beauty sleep, but Jep, Peter, and Paul and Celia said they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“I don’t know how ordinary Jamaicans can afford this gig,” Mercy said to Dessie after they’d left. “The tickets for five nights are almost $3,000 Jamaican, not to mention food, drinks, and lodging.”

“Mostly kids showed up for the beach party,” he said. “They probably won’t be back.”

“No matter what happens, at least Jamtilles and Revelation will be well represented. Even though Rootsie is no longer with us, Jep aka Luciano is doing the Roots Rock Jam, and Shaggy, bless his heart, has come all the way from England for World Reggae Night on Sunday.”

“Shaggy seems like a cool guy. I just hope he doesn’t get sucked up in the anti-gay vibe that’s going around Jamaica,” said Dessie. “I told Ricky Chin we didn’t want to hear a homophobic word, or this would be our first and last Sumfest.”

“Good for you,” Andre said as he and Dessie headed out to dinner.

“Hey, do you want to join us, Sista?” asked Dessie.

“Not tonight. I invited Orville to come over and go through our playlist.”

“Who’s Orville?”

“That’s Shaggy’s real name.”

“Mercy Mae! He’s thirty years younger than you!”

“So? That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a good ear for music. I like him, and I value his opinion. You and Andre go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Don’t worry about me, and I won’t worry about you.”

Shaggy showed up right on time holding a bouquet of flowers. Being a Jamaican, Mercy wasn’t even dressed yet. She threw on one of her batik kaftans and greeted him at the door.

“Wha’gwann, boss?” he said, grinning.

“You’re early,” she said.

He glanced at his watch. “Not really.” He handed her the flowers.

“Tanks. They’re lovely.” Mercy motioned for him to come in. “I forgot you were in the Marines. I just meant you’re early according to island time.”

“Where’s Dessie?” he asked.

“Dessie went out with his boyfriend, Andre.”

“His boyfriend?”

“I thought you knew. Don’t tell me you’re homophobic too.”

“Nah. I’m all for equal rights and justice.”

Mercy planted her hands on her hips and said, “Good. Cause you can’t work for Revelation if you’re prejudiced against gay persons in any way, shape, or form.”

He laughed. “Lighten up, Sista. Hate music would never fly in the UK or Canada.”

“But it’s certainly alive and well in Jamaica. What yuh drinkin’?”

Mercy mixed an Appleton and Coke for Shaggy and opened a bottle of wine for herself. “I swear Jamaica has got to be the most homophobic country in the world,” she said. “Imagine—the English buggery laws left over from 1861 are still on the books.”

“They must be pretty moldy by now,” he said, chuckling.

She smiled. “The thing is it’s not safe to be openly gay in Jamaica. Behavior other than heterosexual is strictly taboo.”

“Well, in a democracy everybody has a right to their opinion.”

“Within bounds. But gay people suffer serious abuse at the hands of both the law and private citizens—assault with deadly weapons, corrective rape, arbitrary detention, and police harassment are the norm rather than the exception.”

Shaggy grimaced. “I’ve heard some real nasty vibes coming from Shabba and Buju.”

“Even Rootsie caved into it,” she said. “So we canceled his contract with Jamtilles on grounds of inappropriate lyrics. He’s pissed, of course. Says he’s gonna make us pay.”

“How?”

“That’s what we’re waiting to find out. Anyway, Orville, let’s you and me get down to business. I want you to listen to the CD of the tracks Second Revelation will be performing tomorrow night. I know it’s too late to change anything for that gig, but we’re planning an album later down, with a little help from our superstar friends.”

“No problem,” he said amiably, holding out his glass for a refill.

Shaggy liked the music. When Mercy explained that “Rise on Up” and “Walk Good” were old songs from the ‘70s, he was surprised.

“Peter Ashley and I founded the Reggae Revelation band the same year you were born. He was a popular British rocker, and I was the Blue Beat Girl, fresh on the London scene from Jamaica. We fell in love and moved back to the island. He was killed at the Electric Paradise concert at Paramount Speedway in California in 1969.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “So all you must have known Ian Walsh and the lads back when.”

“Annabelle Sinclair was my best friend. As you probably know, she’s done some recording with Maxi in London during the last couple of years. Do you ever bounce into her in the UK?”

“Once in a blue moon. She lives in Ireland now, but her son, Ben, is my partner. He plays a mean guitar, even though he works as some kind of glorified accountant. He says Annabelle is off drugs, but she still drinks and smokes a lot.”

“She keeps in touch with Benjamin?” Mercy asked hopefully.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad for them. What about John Duncan, Ben’s father?”

“Don’t know much about him. He’s some kind of starving artist. Ben’s got one of his paintings in his office. It’s supposed to be of Annabelle, but it’s hard to tell.”

“That’s nice,” Mercy said dreamily. And she really meant it.

Chapter 21: Oracabessa

The beginning of the ’90s was a busy time for Annabelle thanks to the release of the CD Sincerely Sinclair. She went back to Ireland and sang an Irish folksong with The Chieftains on their latest album. She traveled to San Francisco and collaborated with Oxbow. She sang backup vocals with Metallica and appeared in the corresponding music video. Returning to The Emerald Isle, Annabelle sang in an opera at the Gate Theatre in Dublin. The music of Kurt Weill was still her passion, so she did a cabaret tour afterward. It culminated with the filming of the DVD, Annabelle Sinclair at the Montreal Jazz Festival, produced by—you guessed it—Polystore.

Thanks to Barry’s golden touch at pulling strings, she was ranked 25th on VH1’s 100 Greatest Women in Rock and Roll that same year. As Rick would say, “Big fuckin’ deal.”

But despite all the running up and down with touring and concerts and whatnot, Annabelle was still emotionally and financially bankrupt. Moreover, she was physically exhausted. When she finally checked into a clinic, blood tests revealed she was suffering from hepatitis C, probably the result of the endless intravenous injections. She launched into the gruesome regime of treatment that was supposed to cure her but sank further and further into depression as time went on. Visions of suicide once again danced in her head.

It was Barry’s idea to produce the documentary Flower Child. He said making another DVD would help boost Annabelle’s morale. The movie was to begin with an in-depth interview with Annabelle and end with footage from her latest concert. He wanted to include material about her parents and her friendship with Mercy Mae, as well as interviews with John, Ian, and Henrietta. She wasn’t keen on the idea because she knew none of the above-mentioned would agree. Besides, she’d already covered most of what was fit to print in her memoir, and the rest was just too embarrassing.

When Barry insisted on interviewing Benjamin, she put her foot down hard. “No way you’re dragging my son into your bloody exposé,” Annabelle said defiantly.

“Actually, it’s your bloody exposé,” Barry pointed out.

What was she waiting for? Ben was over thirty years old now, and it was time to make her amends.

Annabelle fortified herself with whisky before she called Benjamin’s office. He was the founder and editor of a financial magazine called Money Talk. How in the world had that come about? John and Annabelle were both creative/destructive types who narrowly survived poverty. He must have got his business sense from Ian. She held her breath while Ben’s secretary put her on hold. When she came back on the line, she said Annabelle would have to make an appointment.

“Tuesday next week?”

“Let me check my calendar,” said Annabelle. After an appropriate pause, she informed Ben’s assistant that 11 a.m. would work for her.

She must have tried on a dozen outfits before she went out and bought something black and tent-like. She smoked half-a-pack of cigarettes in the waiting room before Ben became available. Annabelle supposed the delay was what you would call poetic justice. How many years had he waited for her to show some interest in his life?

She practically tiptoed across the plush carpet into his office. “Hiya, Ben,” she said.

“Hello, Mother,” he said coldly.

Ben was dressed conservatively—a bit like Alick. He wore a pale blue button-down oxford shirt, narrow tie, khaki trousers, and O.M.G.—tasseled loafers!

Annabelle smoothed her dress. When she looked up at the wall behind his desk, she saw one of John’s huge abstract paintings staring her in the face—a rather chaotic cock up that she eventually recognized as herself. She sank down in the chair opposite her son and broke down weeping.

Ben tapped a mechanical pencil on top of his expansive desk. She blew her nose. What could she possibly say that would justify twenty-five years of maternal neglect?

“You’re looking well,” she stammered.

Ben burst out laughing. “Compared to what?”

Annabelle smiled sheepishly. “Compared to me, I guess.”

“You look okay,” he said, “considering.”

She tried to make a joke. “I guess you read my book.”

“I didn’t. I thought it would be too hurtful.”

“It was hurtful to write, too, but at least it gave me a chance to say I was sorry.”

Ben glanced at his watch. “So where do we go from here?” he asked.

Annabelle decided to throw caution to the wind. “Well, for starters, what say we get out of here and go round the corner for a pint and an early lunch? I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

Ben started to make an excuse but changed his mind. He studied Annabelle’s face. They had the same dreamy eyes, but he had inherited his father’s terse lips and serious expression. Luckily, he had also inherited John’s warped sense of humor.

“Are you buying?” he asked.

Annabelle smiled and relaxed. “I’ll pick up the tab this time if you promise to cover it the next time we meet.”

“That sounds fair,” said Ben. “Come on, Mum. Let’s get out of here.”

They chose a corner table at the pub. Ben told her he was an author too, getting ready to publish his first book. “It’s called Easy Money.”

“That’s a catchy title,” she said, blinking.

“But I’m still interested in music and art. By the way, how’s Hennie?”

“I heard she’s been really sick. I haven’t kept in touch.”

“We should visit her,” he said. “She was like an oasis in the desert when I was sure your love for me had dried up.”

Annabelle hung her head. “Don’t worry, Ben. That will never happen again.”

Hennie lived in a rundown building somewhere in the East End of London. When they finally found the place, one of her mates let them in. Ben knocked on her door, but there was no answer. “Hennie?”

They stepped inside her room, which was dark, smelled of stale cigarettes, and dirty dog. Soiled laundry led to the mattress where she sat with a small, hairy animal curled on her lap. The ashtray on the crate beside the bed overflowed with butts. Everything lush and exotic was missing from her life, either lost or stolen, except for her Spanish guitar and two remaining portraits by Francis Bacon propped against the side wall.

Annabelle stepped up closer. Hennie was very pale, a mere shadow of her former self, so thin that her bones showed underneath her dingy nightgown. The veins on her withered hands and neck stood out like rivers on a map. Although she was only fifteen years older than Annabelle, it was obvious she was on her last leg.

“Hennie. It’s me, Annabelle. I’ve brought Ben along to visit you,” she said as visions of her own mortality danced before her eyes.

Hennie squinted right past Annabelle and leveled her gaze on Ben. A smile formed on her cracked lips as she signaled for him to approach. He marched up and shook her limp hand.

“How ya doing, Hennie?” he said.

She shooed the dog off the bed and motioned for him to sit down on the mattress next to her. Annabelle squatted and pretended to examine the paintings, even though she had seen them a thousand times before. The dog came over and sniffed at her shoes.

“Freud wants to go out, Annabelle,” croaked Hennie. “His leash is hanging on the doorknob.”

Although she had never been fond of dogs, Annabelle was glad to have an excuse to get away. “I’ll leave you two to catch up, then,” she said.

Freud and Annabelle spent longer than necessary snooping up and down the garbage-filled alleys of the slummy neighborhood—anything but go back to that room. When they finally did return, Annabelle couldn’t believe her ears. The sound of music floated down the hall. Ben was strumming on the guitar, while Hennie rasped out the lyrics to “As Tears Flow By.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Come on, Annabelle! Join in! After all, it’s your bloody song.”

Hennie may have been dying, but Electric Paradise was thriving. They released an IMAX film of the Magnetic Wheels tour where Alick was replaced by a slick black Jamaican guitarist named D’Jango. Built like a brick house, he had so many tattoos that he looked like he was wrapped up in Christmas paper. The new EP album, Jumbie Café, rocketed to #1 in the UK and #2 in the U.S. The tour and associated paraphernalia netted another 320 million dollars, and the record won the Best Rock Album at the 1995 Grammy Awards. The subsequent Babylon System was less popular, possibly because the former spokesmen for the Cultural Revolution had become the epitome of the status quo they had spent so many years deriding. But the tour attracted crowds of over 100,000 fans and added even more cash to the band’s already bulging bankroll.

Annabelle was surprised when Barry invited her to go to Jamaica with him, all expenses paid. He said he needed to monitor the progress of the Antilles Outpost villas in Oracabessa, and he wanted to check out Reggae Sumfest in Montego Bay. Since the incident with Maxi, Annabelle’s self-esteem had been super low; she wasn’t used to being sexually rejected. The bout with hepatitis C and seeing Hennie in such dire straits sunk her even deeper into depression. Ben convinced her that she needed to quit drinking and smoking if she wanted to survive to see the millennium, and she was trying. Yet once she put down the fags, she gained even more weight. She felt like a fat cow that was unworthy to accompany even someone as disingenuous as Barry on a working vacation.

“Come on, Annabelle. It’ll be fun,” said Barry. “We’ll go down on Monday and spend the week in Oracabessa. My boy Rudie is the headliner for the Dancehall Bashment on Friday night in Mobay.”

Annabelle raised her eyebrows. “What in hell is a bashment? It sounds dangerous.”

“No worries,” he said. “The concert scene in Jamaica is all a big joke.”

“As opposed to Paramount Speedway, you mean? Who else is playing?”

“You never know for sure until the last minute. I’ve heard Buju Banton, Rootsie, Lady Saw, Anthony B, Luciano, Shaggy, and Beres Hammond will be there.”

Annabelle was already shaking her head, but Barry was smiling. “There’s supposed to be four separate venues with something called Legends Night on Thursday. Word is out that our friend Sista Leona has put the Reggae Revelation band back together with her brother and nephew. I thought you might want to catch their act.”

Annabelle gulped. The idea of checking out Mercy’s band with Barry by her side made her nauseous. Still, it would be wonderful to reconnect.

“I don’t think Mercy and I have much in common anymore,” she said.

Barry shrugged. “I’ve got to work all week long and wouldn’t be free till the weekend. But you could go ahead without me.”

Annabelle didn’t trust Barry any farther than she could throw him, but her head was already wrapped around the prospect of seeing Mercy again. “Let me think about it.”

The flight from London took about ten hours; they left at ten o’clock in the morning and arrived at five in the afternoon, having gained five hours in the crossing. Traveling west was like chasing the sun across the water, like being given the gift of extra time—time to think back on everything that had transpired and to figure out a way to fix it. Annabelle was dying for a cigarette, but that was not allowed, so she settled for watching the puffy white clouds float over the ocean. After the cold, rainy weather that had plagued the UK that summer—all that soggy grass and depressing gray sky—she had the feeling she was traveling to someplace magical, an enchanted island floating in an endless blue sea.

The plane swooped down over a series of lush mountains dotted with a web of feeder roads that led to small shacks. Then the heights gave way to swaths of cultivated flatland bordered by tall, waving coconut palms and immense plots of sugarcane bounded by rivers. Most of the estates had one big house surrounded by smaller cottages that made Annabelle recall how Mercy Mae had described the Olde Mill plantation where she grew up. When the plane passed over the sprawling urban clutter that was Kingston, she remembered Mercy and Peter had lived in a neighborhood somewhere above it.

“Sumfest is in Montego Bay at the opposite end of the island from Kingston,” Barry said after they landed at Norman Manley Airport. “We’ll go to Oracabessa first, and then you can hire a car to take you across the north of the island.”

Annabelle followed Barry to the immigration desks like a dutiful wife. They had to stand in two separate lines; he was a Jamaican national, and she was a tourist. Throngs of anxious travelers crowded around the luggage carousel, eager to get on their way. Annabelle expected Barry to help her with her bags, but he grabbed his own and strode toward the street leaving her to wrestle with them alone. As she stepped into the taxi line, she couldn’t help noticing that the vast majority of the native population was black, whereas most of the tourists were white.

“You can take a cab if you want, but our car and driver are waiting over there,” Barry said, pointing across the street to a fancy silver sedan. “Colonial days may be over, my dear, but my people still know how to wrangle more than our fair share.”

“More and fair are two words that don’t really go together,” Annabelle said moodily.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the driver. “Welcome home. First time to Jamaica, Madame?” He stowed their luggage in the trunk and then pulled carefully away from the curb. The traffic on the bypass was horrendous, so Barry instructed him to pass through downtown Kingston.

They rode through the city with the windows rolled up and the doors locked. Shantytowns butted right up against modern concrete buildings and ragtag locals milled about selling snacks and drinks and washing windscreens at stoplights. At a major intersection, Barry gestured up the hill. “Mercy Mae lives somewhere up there amongst the semi-rich and almost famous.”

“That’s nice,” said Annabelle. She hadn’t actually talked to Mercy personally in years. If they needed to communicate about the music business, Mercy ran it through Maxi.

She slept most of the way from Kingston to Port Antonio, where they stopped for dinner. Annabelle tucked into a whole lobster while Barry bragged about how he planned to develop a resort on James Bond Beach in Oracabessa that included a music festival venue. Blah, blah, blah. It was past midnight when they pulled into the driveway of the old house, gracious and set well back off the main road. A cacophony of crickets and chirping frogs greeted them as the driver deposited the luggage and then immediately disappeared.

The night air smelled of the tropics—like a basket of overripe fruit and flowers floating in saltwater. Barry asked Annabelle if she wanted a nightcap. Of course, she wanted one, but she also wanted to be sober if and when she met up with her long-lost friend. She said she was knackered and retired to her room. From the balcony, Annabelle could see the moonlight playing on the water and hear the waves surging on the beach. So this was Jamaica, birthplace of Mercy Mae Williams and playground of Barry King. She had to admit that she was more interested in the former than the latter.

From Monday to Wednesday, Annabelle waited until Barry left before she went down to breakfast. Then she headed for the beach. The water was clear, and the sand was clean and white. A couple of local boys asked for money, but when she told them she was Barry King’s guest, they backed off. At lunch, she sampled previously unknown local specialties like tamarind juice, and saltfish, and ackee. Afterward, she went for a swim, a smoke, and then took a nap in the shade of a rented umbrella. The music playing in the seaside shops reminded her of when she’d first heard Reggae Revelation on the BBC Caribbean radio station all those years ago. After dining alone, she went to bed early to avoid Barry’s return. For three nights in a row, she dreamt of her upcoming reunion with Mercy Mae.

Then, all of a sudden, it was Thursday morning.

When she reminded Barry she needed the car and chauffeur for the day, he nodded, gulped down his coffee, and was out the door. “Don’t forget to stop at Island Village in Ocho Rios along the way to Montego Bay,” he called over his shoulder. “I developed that too.”

Since there was no rush, Annabelle instructed the driver, whose name was Linton, to take his time and show her the sights along the way.

“No problem,” he said. “Columbus Park has rusty ole cannons and such, left over from when di Spanish furs invaded Jamaica. Dunn’s River Falls is nice, but quite a hike for a lady like you.”

“Barry said I should visit Island Village in Ocho Rios.”

Linton sucked his teeth. “It’s a duty-free shopping market for cruise ship tourists who ’fraid of Jamaicans. It has all kinds of ’spensive stuff for souvenirs.” He glanced at her in the mirror. “You might like it.”

Annabelle was unsure if she’d just been insulted. “Okay. We’ll stop there.”

Island Village was like an encapsulated version of a whitewashed Jamaica, a commercialized emporium gone over the top. Pastel-colored shops and restaurants with names like Hemp Heaven, Shade Shack, Herba Kadabra, Margaritaville, and a casino called Eight Rivers lined the neatly landscaped pathway that led eager tourists through fantasyland. Because it was off-season, the place was nearly deserted.

“Don’t you wanna go inside?” Linton asked when they reached an interactive exhibition called Reggae Explosion.

Annabelle shook her head. “No thanks. I’m already aware of how Barry screwed over Jamaican musicians.”

Linton nodded knowingly. While they wandered past potted palms and fake waterfalls, he told Annabelle he had worked as an errand boy for Barry’s mother from the time he was a youth.

“That lady was something else,” he said, chuckling. “She and that writer boyfriend of hers, Mr. Flaming, liked to stroll on di beach naked as di day they were bawn. Mi big sista, she worked in di house, and she say they drank rum morning, noon, and night. Let mi tell yuh, dem swingers had some wild parties back in di day. Poor likkle Barry neva know what he gonna find when he came home from school on di weekends.”

“Poor little Barry?”

“Imagine. His mother neva even check him. Di boy was like a jumbie, a lonely, lost soul looking high and low for a best cumbolo. But in Jamaica, class and race run tings. Di res of di local boys wouldn’t have nothing to do with him—called him “Di Barrel King” cuz his mamma family made their fortune on rum. Eventually, he settled on me for a friend.”

“Hmmm. Interesting,” said Annabelle. “Somehow I never thought of Barry as disadvantaged.”

“That’s why he ran off to England, yuh know. He say he want to get a fresh start.”

“And now he’s back again.”

Linton sighed. “Yeah, man. But it’s different between the two of us now. I supposed to call him Mr. King like he di boss man and we was neva chums.”

“That’s not right,” said Annabelle. “Friendship is supposed to last a lifetime. I’m here to pay a surprise visit to Mercy Mae Williams, a Jamaican friend I had in England. She calls herself Sista Leona these days and her band Second Revelation is playing at Sumfest tonight.”

“Blow wow!” Linton exclaimed. “Mi wife is a big fan of she. You could get Leona autograph for me?”

Annabelle smiled. “No problem.”

Insisting that she buy Linton’s lunch, she ordered two plates of “authentic” jerk at Island Grill. The driver barely touched his food. “Dat’s not di real ting,” he complained.

Linton left to check his cousin’s taxi stand while Annabelle did some shopping. She bought a straw hat and a couple of batik wrappers at a store called Island Life and purchased a sundress and beaded leather sandals in a boutique called Carouches. When she spotted a lovely pair of painted coconut shell earrings, she bought them for Mercy Mae.

Annabelle was sipping coffee on the terrace of Veranda Blue when Linton reappeared. He muttered something about bloody commercialism as he gathered up her packages, and then they were back on the road.

In the late afternoon, the car rolled into Montego Bay. Annabelle asked Linton to wait while she checked out the beach district. Compared to naturally beautiful, laid-back Oracabessa, Mobay was like a carnival. But according to Ian, when it came to promoting music, tackier was always better. When Linton dropped her off at the all-inclusive Hyatt hotel, where Barry had booked a suite for the weekend, she gave him a generous tip. “Thanks for the ride,” she said, shaking his hand. “And thanks for the insight into Barry’s childhood. That explains a lot.”

“Don’t forget Sista Leona’s autograph,” Linton said, winking. But, being Annabelle, she forgot almost immediately.

After she checked in, Annabelle took a dip in the outrageous swimming pool fitted with a chlorinated waterfall that tumbled over polyurethane boulders. Then she headed back to the room and enjoyed an extra-long shower. While she was washing her hair, she began to wonder. The hotel was gorgeous—safe and secure with all the amenities—but did she really want to stay there with Barry for the rest of the weekend? Hell no. Annabelle put on the dress she had bought in Ocho Rios, slipped into her new sandals, and went out to the dining terrace. Piped in reggae muzak played in the background as she was shown to a single table. She had grown accustomed to eating alone over the years, but she felt especially out of place as chitchat bubbled from the lips of her fellow diners and floated over her as if she wasn’t there.

Annabelle had intended to call a cab to take her over to the show at Club Inferno, but after dinner, she decided to strike out on her own to see if she could uncover a more authentic Jamaican vibe along the way. She regretted the decision almost immediately. There was nothing authentic about Montego Bay except the sand and the ocean. On the walk across to the club, Annabelle must have been hustled a dozen times by boys who wanted to give her the “Big Bamboo,” presumably for money, and/ or sell her spliffs of prime Jamaican ganja. When she turned them down, the scene got ugly. They called her fuckery and pussyhole and wagga-wagga, whatever that meant. She was greatly relieved when she saw the neon sign for Club Inferno with its red flames licking at the dark sky in the distance. She showed the security guard her ticket and then ducked inside.

Chapter 22: Legends Night

It had been almost thirty years since Mercy had been to Club Inferno in Montego Bay. Reggae Revelation played there when Peter was still alive, and they’d been a big hit. The question was, Did anybody still remember her?

She dressed all in white to highlight her deep brown skin and showcase her best African tribal jewelry. Her head was wrapped in a colorful gele headdress made from Kente cloth, and she was barefoot so she could safely dance on the slick stage. Dessie looked exceedingly handsome in his colorful dashiki and white drawstring trousers. His locks reached well past his waist now but were thinning on top, so he wore a tam. Young Peter had on jeans, a Bob Marley T-shirt, and sneakers. His hair was in plaits, and he wore shades and had a diamond stud earring. He reminded Mercy a bit of Stevie Wonder, but she didn’t tell him so.

“All you look great,” she said.

Backstage was like a family reunion. Mercy was nervous at first, but when Sly and Robbie waltzed in, she knew they’d be fine. Dessie had smoked a couple of joints on the way over and was perfectly mellow. Peter was confident that he knew his stuff, anxious to impress his family and his friends. There were eight acts in all, and they were number six. Mercy wondered if they’d have time for all the songs they’d rehearsed.

She shrugged. “We’ll just have to play it by ear.”

The club was jammed with tourists, expats, and returnees, with a sprinkling of diehard roots reggae, rocksteady, and lover’s rock aficionados. Mercy was glad to see that there were also quite a few Rastas in the audience, some of whom must have remembered Reggae Revelation. Sweat rolled down the middle of her back when the MC introduced the Second Revelation band. As she stepped into the spotlight, cheers of recognition reverberated around the club. Water came to her eyes when she remembered those who were no longer alive: her Peter, Michael Manley, and Brother Bob. Each of them had sacrificed so much for the music, and each one of them had died.

But when the band launched into “Rise on Up” just as they’d rehearsed it, Mercy Mae Williams faded away and the dynamic persona of Sista Leona kicked in. “Rise on up, my people, rise on up,” she called out, mento style. “Don’t let the devil drag you down, rise on up.”

Young Peter’s voice was like a miracle. “Yeah, man,” he responded, loud and clear. “Leave this messed-up world alone and rise on up. Every boy and every girl, come rise on up.”

Dessie hooked the audience with his bountiful riddim and his beautiful looks. His drums were right on, his voice deep and powerful. “Beaten woman, drowning man. Tek each other by the hand and rise on up.”

Sly and Robbie held the music together like glue while the Williamses pumped their fists in the air during the chorus. “Cuz Jah-Jah knows where true love grows. Never wait or hesitate to rise on up.”

The crowd whistled and called out for more. Second Revelation performed their new numbers without a break. Everyone was on their feet and groovin’ when Sista Leona dedicated their last song, “Walk Good,” to Peter Ashley, the love of her life.

Wiping tears from under her eyes, she sent out the first line. “Walk good, my love, keep heading toward the light.”

“Walk tall, my friend,” Peter crooned in response, “and don’t give up the fight.”

Dessie tortured the congas dramatically to invite Luciano to join them onstage. When he appeared, his fans went wild. He hushed them down, and then sang in his sweetest voice: “Walk tall, mi bredren, an’ keep Zion in your sight.”

Sista Leona closed her eyes and swayed. “Stay strong, my sistern, cuz tings gonna be awright.”

Everyone joined in the chorus. “Jus’ keep on walkin’—stay tall. Keep on talkin’—that’s all. Keep on thinkin’—think good. Keep on livin’—like you should.”

The band thanked the crowd and waved goodnight, but the audience didn’t want to let them go. “Thank you so much!” Sista Leona said, beaming. “Jah bless you!”

“If you like what you heard, be sure to look out for Second Revelation’s debut album, Jah Protect,” the MC announced. “Sista Leona say it gonna be released on the Jamtilles label in early December. And what Sista says goes! She likkle, but she tallawa!”

“Until then, remember to walk good,” Dessie said, waving.

“One Love!” Peter shouted.

The MC clapped and smiled broadly. “Ladies and gentlemen, big up for Second Revelation, the Royal Family of Reggae!”

Mercy wished they had another song to give, but they hadn’t rehearsed anything else. So they left the stage and hoped their fans wouldn’t forget them by the time the album was released.

Offstage, Peter was jumping up and down in his Air Jordan’s like they had built-in springs. “Auntie Mercy, we did it!”

“Yeah. I thought it went okay,” she said, winking at Dessie.

“Okay? The MC called us the Royal Family of Reggae!” Peter enthused.

Dessie smiled. “Now all we have to do is live up to the title.”

Mercy freshened up in the ladies’ room and then settled in at the VIP table to enjoy the rest of the show. It was past midnight, but she didn’t worry; all the hard work was done for the time, so she could just relax. She had a couple of glasses of wine and then asked Andre if he’d like to dance. She might have been older and heavier than the Blue Beat Girl, but she could still get down. They were whining away when she felt someone tap her lightly on the shoulder. Mercy turned around.

“Hello, darling. Can I cut in?” the intruder said.

At first, Mercy thought the buxom blonde was just a tourist who wanted an autograph or something. Then it dawned on her. It was Annabelle!

Mercy turned her back on Andre and gave her friend a big hug. “I can’t believe you’re here, Annabelle! Oh my God! When did you reach?”

“Just in time to catch your act. You guys were terrific!”

“Tanks,” Mercy said, blushing. She held Annabelle’s hand. “Come and meet my family—my mum, Jemma, my brother Dessie, and my nephew Peter. You cut in on Andre, and I think you know Sly and Robbie already. Everybody, this is my best cumbolo from London, Annabelle Sinclair.”

“Hiya,” she said. “I’m delighted to get to know you.”

“What are you drinking, Annabelle?” asked Dessie.

She was dying for a taste of whisky, but said, “I’ll have a club soda. Do you mind if I smoke? Just a cigarette, of course.”

Peter grinned, Dessie looked disappointed, and Mercy asked how in the world she came to be in Jamaica.

“I flew down with Barry King. He had some business in Oracabessa. I left him there this morning. He’s coming over to Montego Bay tomorrow night to stay the weekend.”

Mercy arched an eyebrow. “So you two are together?”

“Not at all. But you know Barry. He likes to make waves. When he offered me a free trip to Jamaica, I naturally thought of you and decided to play along. It’s been a long time, Mercy Mae.”

She nodded. “Where you stayin’?”

“Barry booked a suite at the Hyatt. It’s all-inclusive, so I ate dinner there earlier. The food was good, but the crowd was a bit stale for my taste.” She laughed. “I was expecting Ian Walsh to traipse in at any moment.”

“The Hyatt’s like La-La Land for rich white tourists who are ‘fraid to set foot outside the hotel. You really want to spend the weekend there with Barry?”

“No way,” said Annabelle. “But I’m not sure I can navigate Montego Bay on my own. It’s kind of scary out there.”

Mercy inhaled. “You can stay with us in Negril. We rented a villa and have plenty of room. We can spend tomorrow catching up, and then you can connect with Barry at the dancehall bashment tomorrow night.”

“Are you going?” asked Annabelle.

“Nope. Too much sexist behavior and anti-gay lyrics for me. Rudie Boy is a bumbohole, Lady Saw, Queen of Raunch, is just as bad, and then there’s Rootsie, who says he’s taking Jamtilles to court. But Dessie, Peter, and Andre are onboard. You could hitch a ride with them if you like.”

“I’d rather hang out with you. I’ll call and leave a message at the hotel for Barry.”

Mercy smiled. “No problem.”

They sat through the rest of the acts, and then finally, around three in the morning, it was time to go home. Annabelle piled in the mini-bus with the rest of them and immediately fell asleep. Dessie was the designated driver and delivered them safe and sound. The sun was just coming up when they reached Negril. Mercy shook her friend awake and led Annabelle to her room where she collapsed on one of the queen-sized beds. “I’ll make some coffee,” Mercy said. But by the time it was ready, Annabelle was already crashed out.

When she woke up around noon, Mercy was sitting on the veranda staring out to sea. Annabelle walked up behind her and wrapped her arms around her. “This place is lovely,” she said. Then she handed Mercy the painted earrings. “I brought you a gift.”

Mercy slipped them into her empty ear lobes. “They’re beautiful,” she said.

Annabelle smiled. “It’s so good to see you, Mercy. Thanks for taking me in.”

“Well, I couldn’t just abandon you to the likes of Barry. Jamaica is more than a beach party, you know. The real roots culture is hidden somewhere up in the Blue Mountains.”

“I wish I had more time to explore,” said Annabelle.

“Me, too. It would be fun to show you around. But right now, come and talk to me. We’ve got a lot of chatting to do. There’s coffee from this morning left in the pot in the kitchen.”

Annabelle sat down with a cup and lit up a cigarette. They spent the next couple of hours going through the high and low points of what had happened in their separate lives.

As they spoke, Annabelle realized how much she’d missed her friend. “How come we waited so long to get back together?”

Mercy sighed. “You hurt me, Annabelle. I cared about you, but you turned your back on me and ran away to Ingrid.” A tear trekked its way down her cheek.

“I needed to get out of London. But meeting up with Ingrid was a huge mistake. I got so fucked up on drugs and alcohol that every bit of my self-esteem went right down the drain. Once I finally made it through rehab, I managed to give up the smack for a while, but I was still a drunk. You wouldn’t have liked me much. I was selfish and desperate and out of control. Reuniting with Ben turned me around. I wanted him to be as proud of me as I was of him. He finally convinced me to stop drinking, but I can’t quite seem to give up on these fags.” She chuckled, outing yet another cigarette in the ashtray.

“Everybody has their vices,” said Mercy.

“Oh, yeah? What’s yours?”

“Saving you, Annabelle.”

They went out to lunch at Richard’s Café where local daredevils made a game of jumping off a cliff into an aquamarine pool of deep, sparkling water that was right outside the yard. Annabelle bragged about Ben and how he’d kept up with his art and music even though he was into high finance. Mercy boasted how proud she was of young Peter.

“It’s too bad you never had any kids,” said Annabelle. “You would have made a wonderful mum—a helluva lot better than me.” She shrugged and tucked into her lobster salad.

“Peter and I tried to make a baby, but it didn’t work,” Mercy said sadly. “Then it was too late.”

Some of the patrons recognized Sista Leona and asked for her autograph as they were leaving, but no one had a clue who Annabelle was, which was fine with her. As they walked along the beach back toward the villa, Mercy pointed out to sea.

“Look, Annabelle! Dolphins! There must be twenty of them!”

Annabelle watched mesmerized as the dolphins played tag in the water not far offshore. At sunset, when they strolled through Boardwalk Village to check out the local crafts on sale, Mercy pointed again. “Wait until you see this,” she said. Together, they stared at the setting sun and witnessed the mythical green flash as it disappeared into the sea at the horizon.

Annabelle had never seen anything like it. “This place is magical,” she said, hugging her friend. “You’re so lucky to live here.”

Mercy shrugged. “It’s my home. But believe me, not everything about Jamaica is wonderful. You’ve only seen the sunny side. The streets of Kingston are loaded with guns, drugs, and violence.”

Annabelle laughed. “I used to live on the streets. But now I’m trying to follow your example and walk toward the light.”

“Just remember, Jamaica isn’t England,” said Mercy.

“Actually, I don’t spend much time in England these days. It’s too stuffy. I find other places much more romantic—Ireland, Italy, Geneva. But so far I haven’t found the right partner to share the romance.”

“You’ve just been looking for love in all the wrong places, gal. Why don’t you stay here with me for a while and chill out? We could play around in the studio and Benjamin could come down for a visit at Christmas. I’d love to see him again.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Annabelle. The idea of sharing quality time with Mercy was tantalizing. Who knew what kind of relationship they might fall into—love perhaps? But just then she needed another nap.

Chapter 23: Shoot Batty Boy Boom

The phone rang about 2 a.m. It was Peter, and he was hysterical.

“Auntie Mercy, they shot Uncle Dessie!”

“What? Who shot Dessie? Tell me wha’appen.”

“Rootsie was onstage spouting ‘Shot Chi-Chi Boy with a big gun, boom,’ while Dessie and Andre were dancing together. Mercy! They shot Dessie in the back! Everybody started screaming and running out of the club, but nobody even tried to help him!”

Mercy’s mind went spiraling toward how her Peter died at Paramount Speedway. She took a deep breath. “Okay, Peter. Calm down,” she said, although her own heart raced. “Who would dare to do such a thing in a cool club like the Inferno?”

“I dunno. It happened so fast. A set of gangstas wearing ski masks burst in, and Bow! There was blood all over the place.”

“Where are you now?”

“We’re on the way to the hospital. When the ambulance came, the paramedics told us we shouldn’t have touched him because of a chance of paralysis. I’m sorry, but we didn’t know what else to do. Meet us at the emergency room in the Mobay hospital. Hurry! Auntie Mercy. Please!”

Mercy was in the process of throwing on a kaftan and some slippers when Annabelle shuffled in from her bedroom across the hall. “What happened?”

“Dessie got shot at the Dancehall Bashment,” she said, panting. “I need to collect Paul and Celia and Mummy and go to the Montego Bay Hospital right away.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Annabelle.

Mercy shook her head. “No. This is family business. I don’t know exactly what happened, but this was not a random shooting. Everybody in the music business knew Dessie was gay. He and Andre were like poster children advertising how liberating it was to be out of the closet. Best you get back to the Hyatt where you’ll be safe.” She could tell her words stung, but this was a serious emergency, a matter of life or death.

“Okay,” Annabelle said, crushed.

Mercy rushed out the door without looking back.

Montego Bay Hospital was an hour and a half away if there was no traffic, but because of Sumfest, it took longer. Paul drove the mini-bus with Jemma riding shotgun. Celia and Mercy were in the back.

Jemma couldn’t stop crying. “My baby boy, my boy,” she sobbed.

But Mercy was furious. The music business already took away one man she loved in California. Now her brother was in danger of losing his life in Jamaica because of the same ignorance. She was sure the termination of Rootsie’s contract with Jamtilles had something to do with the incident, but she had no proof. Whoever was responsible would probably never be brought to justice. Police tended to wash their hands of homophobic crimes. That’s how it worked in Jamaica. But that didn’t make it right.

When they finally reached the emergency room, the scene was chaotic. It seemed Dessie wasn’t the only one in need of urgent care. They found Peter and Andre slumped in plastic chairs in a corner. “Auntie Mercy! We didn’t think you’d ever get here,” cried Peter. “They need a family member’s permission to operate, but I’m too young to count. They say there’s a bullet lodged in Uncle’s spine, and it has to come out as soon as possible.”

Mercy held onto Jemma’s hand. “We have to stay strong for Dessie’s sake. The decision we make now will affect him and us for the rest of our lives.”

Mercy, Jemma, and Paul went up to the glassed-in desk and pushed the buzzer while Celia sat with Peter and Andre. “Excuse me, I’m Desmond Williams’s sister Mercy Mae, and this is his mother, Jemma, and his brother Paul. We need to know what’s happening with him.”

The receptionist shuffled through a pile of papers and located Dessie’s file. “You’ll need to speak to Dr. David,” she said. “Take a seat.”

“But we want to know wha’gwann now-now!” Jemma pleaded. A uniformed policeman, whose job it was to keep order in the emergency room, stepped toward them.

“All I can tell you is that his condition is stable,” said the receptionist. “You’ll just have to wait on the doctor.”

Jemma started to cry harder. “How you mean you cayan tell us?”

Mercy put her arm around her mother and led her to a chair in the family circle while Paul went for coffee and sodas. “We’ll just have to wait,” she said.

By the time he came back, Dr. David, who was a woman, sat amongst them. “The bullet is lodged between Desmond’s T-11 and T-12 vertebrae. He’s in stable condition, but right now he’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Oh, no,” whispered Jemma.

“After we control the bleeding, he’ll need surgery to remove the bullet, but I’m not the doctor for the job. It will take a neurosurgeon and an orthopedic surgeon working together to make sure the procedure is done right. Does Desmond have private medical insurance?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mercy. “Through our family record label, Jamtilles.”

“Good. Show them the card at the desk.”

Mercy put up a brave front, but her gut was churning. “What are my brother’s prospects for recovery?” she asked tentatively.

“It’s extremely variable depending on the exact nature of the injury and the effectiveness of the surgery,” said Dr. David. “Anywhere from full recovery to permanent paraplegia can be expected.”

Andre blew his nose. “What are his chances for rehabilitation?”

“If all goes well, it will begin a few days after surgery and continue indefinitely after discharge.”

“So how long will Uncle Dessie be in the hospital?” asked Peter.

“Until we can see progress and determine there are no complications.”

Mercy grimaced. “Like what?”

“Infection can lead to spinal meningitis. But that’s quite rare.”

Jemma buried her head in her hands. “My poor baby boy,” she sobbed.

“Prayer would be most appropriate,” said Dr. David. “If Ms. Williams will start on the paperwork, I’ll contact Drs. Bloom and Cortez. We’re not equipped for such delicate surgery here. Desmond will have to move to the Andrews Memorial Hospital in Kingston. Do you know it?”

“It’s right on Hope Road,” Mercy said with relief. “We live nearby.”

The police had a few more questions for Peter and Andre, but Mercy could tell the cops were disinterested. It wasn’t unknown for di Babylon to side with the offenders, and even take further revenge on victims of homophobic violence if they felt they deserved it.

Jemma continued to clamor to see her son, but the nurse said he needed to stay completely immobile and wasn’t to be disturbed. So they held a family meeting and decided to go back to the villa and collect their gear, stop back in Montego Bay to check on Dessie, and then head on home to Kingston. The traffic was impossible on the way to Negril. They must have stopped at every light along the four-lane highway. They were all worried sick about Dessie, but nobody had much to say.

The villa manager was sympathetic when Mercy said they had to check out early. “I heard what happened to your brother. Cho! That dancehall vibe is no good. I hate the way these youts heads turnin’ all fenky-fenky on account of that nasty music.”

Mercy didn’t think of Annabelle until she entered the bedroom. Her bags were gone, so she figured she was with Barry. But when she phoned his room at the Hyatt, there was no answer. She left a message at the desk to tell Ms. Sinclair that she was on her way back to Kingston. She also left the phone number on Hope Road. Then she gathered up her stuff and threw it in the back of the mini-bus.

Barry was apparently still at the show when Annabelle returned to the Hyatt in the wee hours of the morning. She was sorry for what happened to Dessie but had been hoping that she and Mercy would finally have some quality time alone. Bloody hell. How many missed opportunities did they have to suffer through before they finally got together? Her day with Mercy had been brilliant, but their reunion was cut short by unforeseen circumstances, damn it, and now she was back in the label boss’s lair.

Feeling rejected and neglected, she made some coffee and sat out on the balcony waiting for Barry to return. But coffee was the last thing Annabelle needed; she was so wound-up already that the more she drank the more upset she got. Her heart was pounding like a hammer when she went to the chiller and removed a bottle of wine. Desperate times called for desperate measures. From the lounge chair on the veranda, she watched silver light sparkle across the top of the waves in the bay like a pathway leading to the dark horizon. It would be easy enough to walk straight into the water and follow the glitter wherever it led. Isn’t that what she was searching for all along—an easy way out of the never-ending struggle that characterized her entire life? Annabelle popped the cork and lifted the bottle to her lips. Hells bells. Why faff around with a glass? When the moon finally sank into the sea, she wondered if it would blink emerald green like the setting sun had the day before. But it simply vanished, taking her pledge of sobriety right along with it.

Back inside, she locked the sliding glass door and opened another bottle. Then she sank down on the sofa in a shadowy corner of the sitting room and continued to drink and brood. Dawn was breaking when she heard footsteps in the hall. The door swung open, the lights came on, and Barry and a black guy with short locks and a red bandana tied around his head stumbled inside.

“Boy, that was one bad bashment,” the bloke said to Barry.

“Yeah, man, Rudie. Too bad about what happened to Mercy’s brother, but at least the show went on.”

“I’m dreaming of a new Jamaica, come to execute all gays,” said Rudie. “Mauma Boy, Fassy Hole, Batty Boy, Faggot, Bugger Boy, Chi-Chi Boy. Trust me, all dem man need to drown in the sea. And dem Chi-Chi Gals need to drown too!”

Barry knocked his fist and smiled. “Spot on, Rudie!”

Annabelle couldn’t believe her ears. She lurched off the couch and staggered toward them.

“Why don’t you two homophobes just shut the fuck up?” she shouted.

Rudie Boy was startled, but Barry seemed amused. “Ah, the lovely Annabelle returned from her villa in Negril. And what’s that in your hand? Have you taken to drinking again now that your girlfriend has more important things than you on her mind? Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time.”

“Fuck you!” screamed Annabelle. She threw the bottle at Barry, but her aim was off. It missed him and grazed Rudie’s shoulder.

Rudie glared at her and said, “Who the hell are you?”

Annabelle stood up as tall as possible considering her compromised condition. “I’m Annabelle Sinclair, ranked 25th among VH1’s 100 Greatest Women of Rock and Roll.”

“And I’m Rudie Boy, Dancehall King of Jamaica and winner of the MOBO Award as Best International Reggae Act.”

“What the hell is the MOBO Award? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Music of Black Origin,” Barry said smugly.

Annabelle turned up her nose. “Well, as far as I’m concerned both of you can kiss my white ass!”

“No thanks,” said Rudie. “It’s too old and ugly.”

Annabelle cried all the way to the airport. It cost a fortune to change her ticket, but she managed to catch a flight back to London that afternoon. Even though she had been up all night and was seriously hungover, she was restless and never slept on the plane. There was too much to think about—how Barry had played her for a fool, how her sobriety had flown the window and set in the Caribbean Sea along with the moon, and how that creep Rudie had insulted her. But what hurt her the most was how Mercy hadn’t wanted her help. It broke her heart that after all these years her best friend had blown her off, still considered her incapable and unworthy. What did she have to do to finally make things right between them? The truth was that she had absolutely no idea. So, although Annabelle had saved Mercy’s number on Hope Road, she didn’t phone her when she returned to the UK, or anytime soon thereafter. Her self-esteem was at an all-time low, and she didn’t need to suffer any more rejection.

Dessie was still in Mobay hospital when the rest of the Williams family got back to Kingston in the late afternoon. Mercy was surprised when Jep showed up on Hope Road after dinner. “I thought you were scheduled to perform at the jam tonight,” she said.

“I canceled. There was no way I could go on the same stage as Rootsie after wha’appen.”

Mercy gave him a hug. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here with us as long as you like. There’s plenty of room for everybody. Dessie needs all the support he can get.”

The bullet was successfully removed the next day, and Dessie moved to a rehab unit in Memorial Hospital. Andre kept the bouquets of cut flowers from the garden coming, Paul supplied the jokes, and Jemma provided the itals—hospital food was bound to make a Rasta man sicker. Jep and Second Revelation serenaded the patient daily, and soon the entire ward was groovin’ to the reggae beat. Yet even though Dessie was doing all his exercises, he wasn’t getting any better.

“I need to get out of here,” he said. “I’d be more comfortable at home.”

Mercy nodded. “I’ll speak to Dr. Cortez.”

She had special ramps built into the pool, around the garden, and up to the studio section of the house. Peter and Jep thought it wise to get some guard dogs, so they purchased two Rottweiler pups that they named Jammer and Tilly to enhance home security. But months later, Dessie was still trapped in his wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down. Mercy did her best to keep up the positive vibe at home, but the tragedy of what happened was something they had to live with every day, and it dragged everybody down. Andre, fed up with the endless frustration Dessie vented on him, left without saying goodbye. With Jep’s help, Second Revelation somehow managed to finish recording the album Jah Protect, which included several songs that addressed the violence and hatred inherent in dancehall music. Although the project was almost a year behind schedule, it went straight to the top of the charts—apparently good music still trumped bad vibes for some folks in Jamaica.

When Michael Manley died in 1997, there was a great outpouring of sympathy from Jamaicans on both sides of the party lines. Mercy thought back to how hard she’d worked on the Victory Band Wagon and what a magical era it had been. True, Michael was no angel, and neither was Bob, but then again who was? Why couldn’t she just turn back the clock to a time when everybody was whole and well and normal? But what was normal in Jamaica? Certainly not colonialism, and certainly not this era of mental slavery to greed and violence. Independence wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and she reckoned Jamaicans needed to be careful what they wished for in the future. According to Brother Bob, many more would have to suffer, many more would have to die.

Chapter 24: Reggae Compassion

Despite the sagging Jamaican economy, there was some new construction going on in the Hope Road neighborhood. The empty lot where an old wooden house had blown away during Hurricane Gilbert was purchased by an up-and-coming dancehall deejay nicknamed Mista Man, a popular performer who dressed like a circus clown.

“Mista Man? What kinda name is that, for heaven’s sake?” Mercy asked Dessie.

Yet for some reason Dessie wanted to meet him, so she wheeled him up the road.

“Hi. I’m Sista Leona, and this is my brother Dessie,” she said by way of greeting.

“Mi know who you are.”

“Looks like you plan to build a really large house,” said Dessie.

“Ima have plenty pickney.”

“How many?” Mercy asked politely.

“More than him,” Mista said, pointing. “Two men in a bed, that’s two gays who haffi dead,” he chanted in a singsong voice.

It took a moment for his threat to sink in. When it did, Mercy spun Dessie’s wheelchair around and headed hastily for home. What was the neighborhood coming to? How could someone as rude as Mista Man live on the same road that had been home to Michael Manley, Bob Marley, and of course, Peter, Dessie, and herself? As soon as they reached the house, Mercy called and canceled the order for the fruit basket she had purchased to welcome the bumbohole to the neighborhood.

“Jah! It’s like peace and love have died; like common decency no longer has a body or a soul,” she said.

Dessie sucked his teeth. “The climate for homosexuals in Jamaica has become deadly thanks to dancehall deejays like Mista Man. Cho! Looks like reggaemanitis has developed rigor mortis.”

But of course, what had happened to Dessie wasn’t funny. No matter what the police report said, his shooting wasn’t a random act of violence. The homophobic vibe had started with Shabba Ranks. Then Buju Banton joined in with something about burning an old tire wheel. Ray Ban later added his sentiments, encouraging his followers to burn gay victims and make them scream in agony, for good measure. From there the list of offending dancehall artists grew rapidly. All, including Mercy’s soon-to-be neighbor Mista Man, had something mean-spirited to say. When the MOBO Awards in London nominated Rootsie’s “Shot Batty Boy, my Big Gun Boom,” for the Best International Reggae Artist Song of the year, Mercy was furious. It seemed the world was eager to embrace Jamaica’s rough, tough, gangsta persona like it was actually cool—as if the lyrics that caused her brother to end up in a wheelchair deserved to be celebrated internationally.

By the end of 1998, Mercy had enough of disrespect for human rights. So she stepped up to the plate and founded J-FLAG, the Jamaican Forum for Lesbians, All-Sexuals, and Gays. As a group, they operated underground and anonymously to promote legal reform, public education, crisis intervention, and support programs island-wide. But it was an uphill battle. Vigilante action against gay persons as well as their ill-treatment by the police was rampant on the island. Many LGBT Jamaicans migrated to the UK, the U.S., and Canada where they could live in peace and at least get proper treatment if they became ill. In the process, Jamaica lost some of its best scholars, writers, artists, and musicians. But Mercy didn’t give up.

To broaden its reach beyond the Caribbean and further address the problem of music that glorified the abuse of homosexuals, J-FLAG joined forces with OutRage! in the UK and the Stop Murder Music campaign in Canada. As a united front, they were able to get certain tunes and venues canceled due to hateful and discriminating lyrics. Mercy was glad that people were speaking up against human rights abuse internationally but wondered if efforts at home did anything to change the long view of homosexuality in Jamaica. Their campaigns might have been successful in provoking debate, but in the short term, the reaction made life more maca for the country's gay population.

Mercy was further dismayed when Ray Ban formed a group called “The Alliance,” a gang of outlaw deejays who threatened to dismantle J-FLAG and seriously harm anyone associated with the organization. Alliance membership included Ray’s protégés Mista Man, Malado, and Vybz Kartel, a set of gangsta rass who were capable of extreme acts of violence both on and offstage. When OutRage! petitioned Scotland Yard for Ray Ban’s arrest because of indecent behavior at a concert in England, he was subsequently banished from the BBC and forced to cancel two major performances. Hurray! It was a step in the right direction, but in her heart, Mercy knew the war against hate music at home in Jamaica was far from over.

Yeah, man. As Dessie predicted, things got tight. In addition to the volatile dancehall scene, Barry was back on the island, and that always spelled trouble. He was building a fabulous new beach resort at Oracabessa with the fortune he had inherited from his mother, busy transforming his rustic hideaway in the Blue Mountains—Mt. Calabash, where Bob Marley hid out after he was shot in 1976—into a five-star retreat for the rich and famous. Imagine. For his effort, he had netted the coveted Jamaican Musgrave Medal, a piece of fake gold awarded to islanders who excelled in the arts, music, and public service. The following year, he received the Order of Jamaica for his philanthropy and outstanding contribution to the entertainment industry.

And there was something else. Mercy never had to worry about money after Peter’s death, but the financial reports from the Swiss bank where she kept most of her assets concerned her. She remembered the banking crisis in Jamaica in the mid-nineties, but this had the potential to be something a lot bigger—global, in fact. She tried to put it out of her mind and concentrate on maintaining a positive local vibe. The Williams family would be fine. But between the coordination of J-FLAG, Jamtilles, Revelation Records, and Second Revelation, Mercy’s life was in a tailspin leading up to the millennium. Although she continued to go to bat for conscious music with the hope of curtailing the dancehall madness, she was losing ground. There was a glimmer of hope when Rudie agreed not to perform any more homophobic music in the UK. But it turned out to be just another samfie trick. Barry encouraged him from the audience while he flaunted a whole litany of anti-gay songs at the grand opening of the new beach resort at Oracabessa.

Although young Peter was safely away at school while all this commotion was going on, he was duly depressed by the condition of the Jamaican music scene. He was about to graduate with a bachelor’s degree in humanities when he penned a heartfelt document as part of his thesis.

The point of “The Reggae Compassionate Act” was to raise the consciousness of Jamaican musicians in general, but he wanted to test it on his family first. Mercy, Dessie, Paul, Celia, and Jemma gathered in the studio along with Jep while he read the preamble aloud.

“We the artists of the reggae community, hereby present this letter as a symbol of our dedication to the guiding principles of reggae music’s basic foundation, ‘ONE LOVE.’ Over the years, we have fought against injustices, even when enduring injustice ourselves. Reggae music has long been recognized as an agent for positive change, and we intend to continue this tradition. Therefore, we respect and uphold the rights of all individuals to live without fear because of their religion, sexual orientation, race, or gender.”

He looked around the room, cleared his throat, and then continued.

“We believe the way forward lies in tolerance. Freedom of speech is important in a democracy, but there’s no space for violence and prejudice, including racism, sexism, or homophobia. We must never minister to hate, but rather embrace a philosophy of love, respect, and understanding toward all human beings. This Compassionate Act thereby calls for a return to the following principles as social and musical guidelines: positive vibrations, conscious social and civic engagement, peace and non-violence, equal rights and justice, and respect for individual rights.”

Jemma applauded enthusiastically, but Peter wasn’t finished.

“We as artists pledge that our music will continue to contribute positively to the dialogue of peace, respect, and tolerance for all. To this end, we agree not to make statements or perform songs that incite hatred or violence against anyone in the worldwide community.

“All those who agree with the principles of this document, ‘ONE LOVE as respectfully proposed by Peter Avondale Williams,’ please sign below.”

While tears streamed down Mercy’s cheeks, Dessie grabbed the paper out of Peter’s hand and signed it with a flourish. Jep did the same.

Peter was flattered but still had his doubts. “Yeah, but do all you think there’s any way a flimsy piece of paper can stand up to the hostility broadcast in the dancehall?”

“We’ll see,” said Mercy. “I may be old, but I have some pretty powerful connections.”

Celia nodded. “It’s just a matter of time before Jamaicans wake up and smell the coffee.”

“We’re proud of you, boy,” said Paul.

Mercy mailed copies of The Reggae Compassionate Act to her colleagues at OutRage! She also distributed it to other recording studios on the island and had it printed in the newspapers. Then she sat back and waited. Shabba Ranks had already won two Grammys and was too famous to care one way or another. Buju, however, couldn’t wait to sign the document. By that time, his reputation was so tarnished and his image so conflicted that he probably would have done anything to redeem himself. For some unknown reason, Rudie Boy signed too, although he later denied it. Rootsie was next in line. He had been incredibly prolific in the past few years with beaucoup albums produced by his own label on the Billboard Top Reggae Charts. But when his concerts in Toronto and Montreal were canceled due to aggressive lyrics, he, too, signed by default.

Only members of The Alliance balked.

“Mi no give a fuck ‘bout no reggae compassion or di concept of one love,” Mista Man boasted onstage.

Vybz Kartel was more specific. “Dem Williamses better watch dere backs if dey know what good for dem,” he told his mob of gangsta fans.

When there was no response from Jamtilles, Ray Ban and Malado showed up on Mercy’s doorstep.

“We know who you are, Ms. J-FLAG, and we know what you’re trying to do,” Ray taunted as he ripped up the document in front of her. “But let me tell you something, bitch. No kinda dried up ole cunt like you ever gonna be enough to stop The Alliance!”

Malado looked embarrassed. “Dat’s no way to talk to di lady,” he said quietly.

Mercy spit on the step, and then she slammed the door in both their faces. Ray Ban was a definite threat, but Malado’s semi-respectful words made her wonder if there still might be hope for one love in Jamaica.

When Hennie died, she left her inlaid Spanish guitar and the smaller painting, Study for a Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, to Ben. Annabelle was gifted with Freud, the longhaired dachshund, and the larger Portrait of Henrietta Moraes. To keep the paintings safe, they hung both of them in Ben’s office—on either side of John’s grotesque portrait of Annabelle.

“Now you’re surrounded by beautiful women,” Annabelle teased her son as he strummed Hennie’s guitar.

The issue of what to do with Freud was more difficult. Ben was allergic to dogs, so Annabelle agreed to take him. Since he was so small, she was able to carry Freud on airplanes and to smuggle him into hotel rooms when she was on the road, which seemed to be constantly. At first, she felt sorry for the little guy, but what started out as a problem turned into a blessing. Unlike most of the males in her life, Freud was loyal and fiercely protective of Annabelle, who he viewed as his second mistress. Hey! Maybe Freud was the true love she’d been looking for all along!

If it hadn’t been for Ben and Freud, Annabelle would have felt abandoned in those days. The albums she worked on in the early 2000s were mostly collaborations, which didn’t pay much, and her bank account was usually overdrawn. When Ben called and said he had an offer on the Francis Bacon portrait Hennie left him, she was naturally curious. “How much?”

“A very wealthy client offered me £5 million for my own,” said Ben.

Annabelle was floored. “Then mine must be worth a lot more,” she stammered. “I mean, it’s bigger.”

“Probably,” he said. “I’ll look into it. If you decide to sell, I could invest the capital for you so you’d have something to fall back on and wouldn’t have to work yourself to death in your old age.”

She didn’t like to hear the words “death” and “old age” together in one sentence, particularly since Hennie was gone. “I’m not ready to retire just yet,” she said. “I think I’ll hang on to Hennie for a while longer.”

Ben sold his painting for £6.7 million and bought a beautiful old townhouse in Kensington, which he said was an excellent investment. It was ironic, really. Hennie had died in her bed, with Freud clutched to her bosom, surrounded by a small pile of ratty personal possessions and a large pile of unpaid bills. And all the while she had the two Bacon paintings worth millions of pounds propped up against her bedroom wall! Annabelle could picture herself in a similar situation. Yet instead of selling out, she kept on working on unremarkable covers and collaborations with various EU artists. No matter how you looked at it, both her career and love life were stagnating in the doldrums, but for some reason, Annabelle wasn’t ready to move on.

Not so with Ian Walsh. According to the tabloids, after more than twenty years and four children with Jolene, “The Wandering Spirit” had reportedly been living up to his reputation, most recently with a young Brazilian model. Valencia, a brunette bombshell, disappeared with Ian into the garden at a hoity-toity party in Rio. When he emerged about half an hour later, Jolene, also in attendance, asked him where he’d been. He reportedly said he was meditating.

I mean pleeeze.

The undercover affair was conducted in hotels around the world for the next eight months. When Jolene finally put one and one together, the publicity-loving Brazilian bikini model was already pregnant. In a remarkably naïve statement for a supermodel wrapped up in popular culture, Valencia insisted she didn’t know Ian was married, which, surprise, surprise, it turned out he wasn’t. Ian and Jolene’s marriage was declared null and void because it was performed by a mystic on a religious holiday in Bali. Technically, Ian wasn’t responsible for keeping her or their kids in the style they had become accustomed to.

Jolene, bless her pea-pickin’ heart, called him downright stingy, and then she went back to work. Valencia wasn’t happy either. When Ian tried to duck out of paternal responsibility for his latest child, she got herself a good lawyer. After the DNA test showed he was indeed the father, Ian made a settlement of £10,000 per month, whereupon she gleefully relocated into a four-bedroom gated house with a kidney-shaped pool in Sao Paulo.

What both women had failed to realize was that the real love of Ian’s life was the band. When EP released a double album to mark their forty years together, Q magazine named them one of the “50 Bands to See Before You Die.”

Yeah, right. Annabelle was suffering from chronic fatigue and living from hand to mouth while Ian Walsh’s star continued to rise. Nominated for “Services to Popular Music,” his name actually appeared on the list of the Queen’s Birthday Honors. “Mr. Counterculture,” who was on record as saying, “Apart from Electric Paradise, the Queen is the best thing Britain has got,” was to be knighted, and he couldn’t wait to accept the honor. Although Her Majesty declined to award him in person, Sir Ian, accompanied by his father and his daughters, received the accolade from the Prince of Wales the following December.

The rest of the band members were disgusted.

“Knighthood is a paltry honor,” said Rick. “Please don’t expect me to go on stage with himself while he’s wearing a coronet and sporting moth-eaten ermine.”

Sonny agreed. “Anyone else but Ian Walsh would have been locked up for the disrespect he showed the monarchy.”

“His recent behavior goes against everything Electric Paradise was all about,” said Mack.

D’Jango scratched his crotch and flicked his blowtorch. He didn’t actually say anything, but sometimes actions speak louder than words.

Although she was back to drinking like a fish and smoking like a chimney, Annabelle was still able to pick up piecework and keep up the semblance of making music. After all, wasn’t that what she did best? She longed for her fair share of celebrity, but the next few years were particularly difficult for her. Poor little Freud died after developing prostate cancer. How was she supposed to know he needed a girlfriend of the doggy variety in addition to herself? Then Annabelle was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her first reaction was sheer panic, but she was fortunate to have found the lump at an early stage. The tumor turned out to be small, and she didn’t need chemo or radiotherapy. Two months after the surgery, she was back on tour and back in the bottle. But she was also aware that cancer, like alcoholism, was a condition that could resurface at any time; once you’re on the list, it could show up like an unwanted guest. When she collapsed on the stage in Milan and ended up in the hospital for exhaustion, she was extra worried.

Tests revealed that her previous case of hepatitis C from twelve years earlier was at the root of the problem. Continuing with the tour was out of the question, so she had François—her manager and current boyfriend—issue a statement to the press. “Due to general mental, physical, and nervous exhaustion, doctors have ordered Annabelle Sinclair to cease all work-related activities and rehabilitate.” That should get her off the hook for a while.

Chronic hepatitis C leads to more cases of cirrhosis of the liver than alcoholism, which of course Annabelle also suffered from. If not treated successfully, it can eventually cause death. It was past time to clean up her act. A year-long course of antiviral treatment similar to chemotherapy was prescribed. She was supposed to inject herself with interferon three times a week and take ribavirin capsules twice each day. Because she had been a hardcore junkie, the routine was familiar. But this time, instead of getting high, she sank incredibly low. About six months in, Françoise abandoned her, so she alone had to deal with the side effects of nausea, hair loss, anemia, itching, fever, and chills, not to mention the mental chaos going on inside her head.

Annabelle decided to use the downtime to write a second memoir, which was a mistake because of her inability to concentrate. In the end, the physical and mental torture resulted in a complete cure from the hepatitis, but the book got terrible reviews, and she still felt and looked like hell. The press had a field day, assuming her dreadful appearance meant she was back to drinking and taking drugs.

She tried to explain. “When my relationship with Françoise broke up, I felt betrayed and very lonely. I’m better now, but being dumped isn’t particularly good for your self-esteem, especially when you are sick already.”

Naturally, the paparazzi didn’t give a flying fuck about her illness or recovery. All they heard was that Françoise had dumped her. The truth was that she had given up drinking and even smoking while enduring treatment—she was clean, sober, and miserable. How did she compensate? Annabelle, who had been anorexic during the ‘60s and ‘70s, strung out in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and sick for the millennium, ate everything in sight. Food had never been high on her agenda, but now it was. Lacking other gratification in her post-menopausal life, she sat down with the tabloids in front of the telly and ate, and ate, and ate.

Chapter 25: Those Girls

When Annabelle finally got fed up with food and herself, she returned to the stage performing in a traveling show of acoustic artists that toured European theatres. She still had doctor’s bills to pay, so Ben made her promise to give him ten percent of everything she earned on the road to invest for her retirement, arriving at alarming speed. He insisted she give up her flat in Paris, and he leased out the country house in Ireland so she’d have a steady income even if she wasn’t working. Then, just when Annabelle was sick of doing the same show night after night, Hal called from New York. They recorded a new album together which was well received in the U.S., UK, and Australia. The concert tour landed Annabelle in France, Germany, Austria, Los Angeles, and then back to London where she settled with a sigh of relief. Now she knew what Electric Paradise had endured all those years on the road. She was exhausted, but for once in her life, she had some extra cash. So she kicked back and started a brand-new memoir.

It seemed like everybody was writing a book in those days. Annabelle tried to be halfway discreet in her own, but Ian, in his exposé, Those Girls, apparently felt the burning desire to tell all. She could only speculate if what he said about his fling with Christy, the first girlfriend/model he had pushed to the brink of suicide, was true. But his version of his relationship with Annabelle was pure fiction, certainly not the way she remembered their four years together. How could two people have such different versions of what actually occurred? Either he was lying (again?), or she was so stoned that she was oblivious to what was fantasy and what was reality. (Probably both.) Was it possible that she had no idea Ian was playing around right under her nose? During all her years of psychotherapy, had it never occurred to her that Marla, his simultaneous lover, caused their breakup? But how could a mediocre singer and overbearing actress like her come between a fairytale prince and his beautiful princess?

Marla first arrived in London from Jamaica in 1966. Thanks to her starring role in a popular rock opera, she was the first black woman to appear on the cover of Q magazine. Next thing, there she was naked on the cover of British Vogue. According to his memoir, Ian asked her to pose nude for the cover of the EP album Hanky-Pank Women, but she said no. Intrigued by her refusal to play along, he proceeded to stalk and win her over.

Yet Annabelle had no clue?

Ian and Marla’s ten-month-long affair remained private because of their vastly different obligations—she was married, minor detail, and he was burdened with Annabelle, a suicidal druggy who was still heartbroken over the death of their baby, among other things. Imagine. When Annabelle swallowed all those Tuinals in 1974 and was in hospital in a coma, Ian sat on the edge of her bed writing love letters to Marla! Although he had purportedly proposed marriage, she said she doubted if they could live happily ever after. Meanwhile, Marla gave birth to his first and her only child, Carina. When she asked him for child support, Ian declined. (One thing all his “girls” agreed on was that Ian was a tight S.O.B.) Marla persisted and filed an affiliation order against him, but the matter settled out of court. To show his appreciation, he allegedly wrote the song “Sweet Brown Sugar” about her.

Double ho-hum.

As if in retaliation for what he said in Those Girls, Marla wrote her own memoir. Soulful Survivor—which Annabelle also read—intended to set the record straight. Unlike Ian’s discombobulated, semi-fictionalized autobiography, Annabelle thought Marla’s writing was clean, heartfelt, and courageous. Among other things, it revealed how she dramatically shaved off all the fabulous hair on her head before surgery to remove a breast tumor. Besides Ian, then, Annabelle and Marla had music, acting, and cancer in common. When Annabelle found out her one-time rival lived in Ireland, she wanted to meet her.

“I live a writer’s life of solitude,” Marla informed Annabelle when she phoned. “I appreciate your calling, but I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Perhaps I could just pop by for tea?” Annabelle suggested.

A heavy sigh traveled down the line. “I’m sorry, but I’m busy with a new book right now.”

“Cool. What’s it about?”

“It’s about black artists like me who came to London in the ‘60s and ‘70s and were exploited by white people like you,” she said testily.

Annabelle winced. “Not me. Even though I’m white, Mercy Mae Williams, The Blue Beat Girl, was my best friend back in the day. Do you know her music?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve never heard of her.” But Annabelle could tell she was lying.

“Okay. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how much I admire the spirit of your book compared to Ian Walsh’s egotistical bull crap. I think writing is your forte, much more so than singing and acting ever was.”

Now Marla was really offended. “Unlike that piece of shit you published,” she said. “Ian always said you were a shallow bitch, and your memoir proved it.”

“A memoir is nothing but water under the bridge,” Annabelle said shakily. “Okay. I’ll let you go now. Have a nice life, Marla, and I’ll try to do the same.”

But Marla seemed eager for confrontation. “I still have those love letters, you know. The ones Ian wrote to me when you were so fucked up.”

“Actually, I’m still fucked up,” said Annabelle, “but I’m trying to get better. Why don’t you attempt to do the same?”

“Not anytime soon, bitch! Humph! Let me tell you something. You’d better watch your back, or this bushy-haired golliwog might do you something real down and dirty. You check what I mean, slag? Until then, I’d suggest you bug off!”

Annabelle eased the receiver into the cradle and had a good cry. Shortly thereafter, Marla sold Ian’s juicy love letters for megabucks at auction. That should have been the end of it, but Annabelle continued to be haunted by the hatred of Marla’s words and the loathing in her voice. “Sometimes having a good heart can put you in some real fucked up situations,” she reminded herself. It was the epigraph at the beginning of her latest memoir, something the Maharishi used to say.

After she got over what transpired with Marla, Annabelle turned to the next chapter in Those Girls. But instead of being titillated, she was repulsed by the way Ian rehashed his troubled marriage to Rosa. Especially uncalled for was his description of her as a gold digger. Who could blame her for wanting her fair share for herself and their daughter? Annabelle skipped ahead to the chapter on Barbie, a stacked blonde model and former Playmate of the Month. Groupie turned grunge and glam rocker; she dated half the pop musicians on the planet before she hooked up with Ian. But it wasn’t long before carefree Barbie was replaced by conscientious Jolene, a tall Texan model. Twenty years and four kids later, Ian was trapped by Valencia, the Brazilian bikini model. To her credit, she was the one who nailed him financially.

After Valle, Ian purportedly took comfort in various English models before settling down with Caroline Greene, an American fashion designer who was five inches taller than he was. “Caroline is my crowning glory,” he joked to the paparazzi while gazing up at her adoringly.

Ian and Caroline lived a relatively quiet private life in London, NYC, France, and on the Caribbean island of Mustique. In her spare time, she designed outrageous costumes for his tours—a coat covered with ostrich feathers, a green “Glamoflage” jacket, a red tuxedo with tails studded with multi-colored butterflies. No wonder she and Ian hit it off—that’s just how bizarrely he liked to dress!

Christy, Annabelle, Marla, Rosa, Barbie, Jolene, Valencia, Caroline, not to mention Ian’s minor conquests in between, were all on display in the book. Besides being hoodwinked by Ian, the thing they all had in common was their tendency toward self-destruction to the point of suicide, which seemed more like a consequence than a coincidence.

But let’s not trod too long on vintage sour grapes. Annabelle’s personal life was presently on the upswing, and she was determined to keep it that way. Ben was getting married to a lovely girl named Penelope. When they asked Annabelle to sing at their wedding, she had to dig deep to unearth an appropriate song and dress that fit the occasion, but she was honored to play a part. The church was beautiful and so were the bride and groom. Tears filled Annabelle’s eyes as Ben and Penny exchanged vows. John sat in the front pew next to her, proud as a peacock, but they didn’t speak during the ceremony. Later, at the reception, he sidled up and whispered in Annabelle’s ear. “What? No hashish brownies?” They broke down into a fit of the giggles that drew amused looks from the newlyweds and the other guests. She was thankful he didn’t mention the Maharishi, or she might have started to cry again. When John asked her to dance, she thought of Mercy Mae and Peter and how they had burned up the dancefloor at her and John’s wedding, and that’s when tears really started to flow.

Meanwhile, Electric Paradise just kept marching on like someone had wound up a key in their backsides. In 2005, they released a new album, Big Bang. It was glowingly reviewed in Rolling Stone magazine and included a single that reached the top 15 in the UK. The subsequent tour visited North and South America and East Asia and grossed a record $162 million. To show their appreciation, EP played a free concert for over one million people at the Copacabana beach in Rio in 2006, after which Rick fell out of a coconut tree and fractured his skull. Duh. While he semi-recuperated, Mack checked into rehab, Ian released a compilation of his solo work, and D’Jango disappeared, allegedly back to Jamaica. The Big Bang tour returned to Europe in 2007 and played their last concert in London. When the final chord was struck, the band had grossed $558 million and was duly listed in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Annabelle had just published her third memoir at the time, which, thanks to continued sobriety, was more coherent than the first or second. Maybe she’d finally gotten it right because all of a sudden people began to remember who she was and what she had done.

“That’s what happens when they figure you’re over the hill,” she told Ben. “Either you become completely invisible, or you finally get the recognition you deserve.” Subsequently, Annabelle was nominated for best actress by the European Film Academy. The next year, she was awarded the Ordre de Arts et des Lettres, which sounded like some kind of disease, but was actually one of France’s highest cultural honors. When her cousin died in Austria, Annabelle inherited the title of baroness from her mother’s side of the family. Who knew? Perhaps there was a spark of truth in what Edna told her as a child after all.

Next thing she knew, Annabelle was “Icon of the Year” according to Q magazine. (Marla eat your heart out.) But icon of what? Certainly not iconic wife, iconic mother, or iconic friend. Nope, none of those titles applied to her. She didn’t even qualify as an iconic lover unless you counted her pining after Mercy Mae. Iconic drug abuser and iconic alcoholic were more like it.

When asked in an interview if she was considering retirement, Annabelle sighed. “When your glory days are coming to a close, there’s not much left to conquer.” Still, she wanted something more than titles of honor. She wanted to be there for her friends and family. She wanted a companion to love for the rest of her life. She wanted to stay clean and sober, one day at a time. Was that too much to ask? Apparently not. The next day Ben phoned to announce that he and Penelope were expecting. The idea of being a grandmother had frankly never occurred to Annabelle. How can a grandmother still behave like a child? Nevertheless, she warmed to the idea immediately. “That’s brilliant, Ben! Just brilliant,” she gushed.

Maybe there was such a thing as redemption. Although Annabelle had never claimed to be a proper parent, she was going to get a second chance. When baby Brittany arrived, she fussed over her like a clucking mother hen. Penny was warm and welcoming, and it seemed like Annabelle was finally part of a real family. Then the gnawing in her gut caught up with her again. Accolades were great, and family life was reassuring, but what about her personal life? Sure, she was receiving love and projecting it, but the core of her being felt like a hard, empty shell missing the inner meat of happiness with a partner. And no doubt about it, that sweet meat was Mercy Mae.

Chapter 26: Peace And Love

Hope Road

The global financial crisis in 2008 hit Mercy hard. She lost almost everything she had invested in hedge funds in Switzerland. If she would have put her money where her mouth was instead of selling out to the same system that had enslaved and impoverished millions of Jamaicans, she would have been okay. But it was too late now. To recoup some of her losses, she sold Revelation Records in London to Maxi at a deeply discounted price. At an age when most people were enjoying retirement, it was essential for Mercy, a sixty-two-year-old dreadlocked Rasta woman, to get back to work.

Dessie, who was fed up with staying behind the scenes, had been hinting that they should take Second Revelation back on the road for quite some time. Mercy was initially dead set against it. Sure, it would be helpful to generate dry cash to keep up with the household expenses, but not at the cost of endangering life and limb. Even though J-FLAG’s physical address was unpublished due to the potential for retribution, she was certain The Alliance knew exactly who was behind it.

But now the situation was crucial. “Unless we sell the house, we’re gonna have to figure out a way to make some extra income,” she announced at a family meeting. “Anybody got any positive suggestions?”

Dessie smiled. “Like I’ve been saying all along, it’s past time to resurrect Second Revelation.”

Mercy shrugged. “Okay. Let’s give it a try.”

As it turned out, young Peter’s girlfriend Keisha was not only beautiful, but she could really sing. Yet taking the band on tour wasn’t an option: Mercy was too old, and because of what had happened to her Peter and Dessie, she wanted to avoid live concerts at all costs. So Jamtilles produced the new album, Hope Road, from home with the money Mercy had received from Maxi. A fresh mix of roots reggae, the album sold well enough to pay some of the bills. At least it put the Williams family back on the map musically if not financially.

It would have been easy to give up on J-FLAG in the interim. Despite Mercy’s best efforts, things weren’t getting any easier for LGBT persons in Jamaica. Serious human rights abuses continued, and according to the latest popular poll, most people thought that’s how it should be. A new survey showed eighty-five percent of Jamaicans were opposed to legalizing homosexuality even between consenting adults—male, female, and anything vaguely in between.

The Alliance did its best to keep the hate/fear ball rolling on the dancehall front. Ray Ban was arrested yet again at Sumfest for using profanity onstage. When Vybz Kartel launched his own line of liquor, “Street Vybz Rum,” as well as his personally endorsed signature prophylactics, “Daggering Condoms,” Mercy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Condoms were good, although some Jamaicans still believed that birth control and condoms were the white man’s scheme to kill off black people. But now this gangster who bleached his skin was endorsing them. Go figure.

Internationally, there was a bit more progress. Public protest against his homophobic lyrics caused Rootsie’s EU visa to be revoked. Mista Man’s performance at Toronto’s Caribana Festival was also canceled thanks to the Stop Murder Music campaign. Rudie Boy, who didn’t want to suffer the same censorship, quickly apologized to the international gay community in yet another show of false repentance. Shortly thereafter, Buju Banton was held with five kilos of cocaine at the Miami airport and eventually sentenced to ten years in a U.S. federal prison, which meant he was off the streets until 2018. Then Vybz Kartel was arrested on murder charges and held without bail in Jamaica.

Mercy shook the newspaper bearing the latest news at Dessie. “You see? These bumboholes are finally getting what they deserve,” she said. “Only Ray Ban seems to be immune to justice.”

Dessie nodded. “Yeah, man. Best Ray gets locked up with the rest of the gangsta rass before somebody else gets hurt.”

Mercy, who at that point was bordering on chronic depression, perked up when Portia Simpson-Miller went out on a limb during a televised debate leading up to the 2012 election. “I would consider appointing anyone who was most qualified to my cabinet regardless of sexual orientation,” she said. “Furthermore, I think it's past time for the issue of gay rights to be addressed by parliament in terms of amending our antiquated laws.”

When the PNP won a sweeping election victory a few days later, Simpson-Miller stated in her inaugural address, “The government of Jamaica is committed to the equal and fair treatment of all its citizens and affirms that any individual whose rights are violated has the right to seek legal redress.”

Mercy was elated. Finally! Justice for LGBTs in Jamaica! She was so excited that she wrote a new song, “Peace and Love,” and dedicated it to Portia.

Every day a problem. Can’t live in such a system

Where they don’t want us singin’.

But we gonna change that situation

Cuz music is a weapon with no guns and ammunition.

I say music is the vibe of peace and love.

“Peace and Love,” as produced by Jamtilles, went straight to the top of the charts as a single. Maybe Jamaicans were finally ready to trade in the dancehall’s rude lyrics and blatant sexuality for the old-time reggae vibe. Heavily promoted by OutRage! and the Stop Murder Music campaign, the record also charted in the UK and Canada. How could Mercy have underestimated the universal appeal conscious music had over an international audience? Was she so wrapped up in the troubles of J-FLAG and correcting her own negative financial situation that she had forgotten that music had the potential to heal and unite at home and abroad?

When Annabelle first heard “Peace and Love” on the BBC, she laughed aloud. The lyrics were positive, and the reggae beat was as captivating as ever. That was Mercy Mae all right—still hopeful after all these years. Annabelle thought it was a shame the band hadn’t released more material after the album in the late ‘90s. Rumor had it that Mercy was behind some kind of organization in Jamaica that lobbied for gay rights, albeit secretly, and that she was financially distressed. Annabelle wondered if she ever thought of her old cumbolo, wondered how things might have turned out if Dessie hadn’t been shot. Who knows? If she had stayed on in Jamaica after Sumfest, she and Mercy might have been making sweet music together all along.

Yet despite Ben’s efforts on her behalf, Annabelle still hadn’t saved enough to be able to retire comfortably. What choice did she have but to go back on the road again? She recorded a cover version of a song by Stevie Nicks, and then fell and injured her back while making her way onstage at the Fillmore in California. Because of the fall, Annabelle had to cancel the rest of the concerts she had planned for the U.S. She flew back to London and moved in with Ben, Penny, and toddler Brittany until she could literally get back on her feet.

While Annabelle was recuperating, she read voraciously, including plowing her way through the large coffee table book that Electric Paradise had published to celebrate their Golden Jubilee as a band. The pages were overflowing with the usual hedonistic hubris. Ian and Rick were as flippant and cocky as ever, and the lip and tongue logo on the front cover made her want to gag. The book included photos and interviews with past members of the band like Alick and Winston but mentioned nothing about Annabelle. She supposed her part in EP history had been insignificant compared to the rest of what they had accomplished. While she mucked about, they worked long and hard to become “The World’s Greatest Rock and Roll Band.” As a crowning touch to their 50th-anniversary celebration, they did a concert in Hyde Park. Unlike the tribute to Colin Jones way back when, this time it wasn’t free. Tickets were a whopping £95 each, and a live album was to be recorded at the venue to boot. Despite being crippled and broke, Annabelle was in attendance. No one recognized her because of her clever disguise, but she had to admit, it was quite a show.

The durability of Electric Paradise never ceased to amaze her. Bloody hell. Ian ran around the stage like a Dionysian symbol of eternal youth, while the sixty-six-year-old “icon” named Annabelle Sinclair sat under a blanket in a wheelchair in the audience. Back in the guest room of her son’s lovely home, she brooded about her own career. Although she enjoyed her time with Ben and his family, she was bored and restless. But the pain medication the doctors gave her for her back knocked her flat, and since no more recording opportunities had turned up, she was stuck in Kensington for the time.

When Annabelle expressed her feelings to Ben, he said what he always said when she complained about her current lack of finances. “Mother, you spend money like you’re some kind of royalty.”

“I am,” she said, winking.

He laughed. “Why don’t you just let me sell Hennie’s portrait so you can live the rest of your life without having to worry? Besides, Penny’s been bugging me to get that naked woman out of my office for some time now. She says it’s highly inappropriate.”

“Not yet,” said Annabelle, but she wondered what was really stopping her.

The minute the BBC reported that seventy-five-year-old Barry King, former producer of Antilles Records, Polystore, and developer of Antilles Outposts in Jamaica died during a Rudie Boy concert at his beach resort in Jamaica, Annabelle felt her own mortality staring her down. Good ole Barry had finally succumbed to overproduction. Ha, ha. Her second thought was of Mercy Mae. Where had the time gone? Annabelle hadn’t heard from her in fifteen years—not since Dessie was shot at Sumfest. Naturally, she missed her, but then she got so busy with touring, albums, illness, and family that she had pushed Mercy to the back seat. Sometimes late at night when Annabelle couldn’t sleep, she remembered her friend—longed to hear her voice even if she couldn’t see her or feel her touch. Was it too late to try to reconnect? Mercy had probably found someone who was more loving and reliable than Annabelle by now. Still, you never know.

After several agonizing days of debate, Annabelle decided to give her a call. It took a while to find her phone number; she knew she had put it in a safe place, but sometimes, safe places are the most obscure. She finally located the tattered slip of paper in her gold cigarette case, a gift from Ingrid that she kept zipped in the secret compartment of a piece of outdated luggage. Obviously, she’d taken it out many times before—it was creased and rumpled to the point where she had a hard time reading the number.

Annabelle’s heart pounded like a jackhammer as she dialed. A man’s voice answered on the third ring. “Hello? How may I help?”

“Hi there. I’m calling Mercy Mae Williams,” she said as brightly as possible.

“She’s not here right now. Can I tek a message?”

Annabelle sighed. At least she had the right number. “To whom am I speaking? Is this Dessie?”

“No.”

Annabelle’s heart sank. It was probably Mercy’s boyfriend. Had she really expected her to wait patiently all these years?

“This is Peter,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

Now Annabelle was really confused. Peter had died long ago, hadn’t he? “Peter?”

“Yes. Peter Williams. Who’s this?”

Aha. It was Mercy’s nephew, Peter. “Annabelle. Annabelle Sinclair from London. I’m an old friend of your Aunt Mercy’s.” She could hear small children raising a ruckus in the background.

“Right. We met at Sumfest the night before Dessie was shot,” said Peter. “Then you disappeared.”

“It’s been ages,” she said apologetically. “Peter, I wanted to ask Mercy about Barry King. I heard on the BBC that he died in Jamaica. That’s why I called.”

“Yeah, man. He drop out dead at a beach bashment in Oracabessa.”

“That’s too bad,” Annabelle said, but she couldn’t help smiling. “So how is Mercy doing?”

“Frankly, Auntie Mercy is worn out by the struggle. She’s about ready to hang it up. She talks about you sometimes, you know. She’s followed your career. You sure have been getting plenty of awards lately. Your face is posted all over the bulletin board in her office.”

Annabelle was shocked. “It is?”

“She says you’re her one true cumbolo, her oldest friend. I’m sure she’d love to speak with you. If you give me your number, I’ll have her call you when she gets home. Lemme get a pen.”

So Mercy hadn’t forgotten about her after all. Perhaps there was still a chance for them to get back together. Did Annabelle dare hope their story might have a happy ending?

“Keisha! Keep those kids quiet for the time! I’m on the phone!” Peter hollered.

“Yah pickney dem a drive mi mad!” Keisha answered, giggling.

“Are those your children making all that noise?” Annabelle asked when he came back on the line.

“Yep. A boy and a girl. Dale and Fanny. They like to pound on Dessie’s drums when we’re here on Hope Road for the weekend. The rest of the time, we live at Olde Mill with my parents Paul and Celia. I teach primary school in May Pen, but Keisha hates it out there in the boonies, so we come here when we can.”

“What about your grandmother? Is she still alive?”

“Jemma passed last year,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. She was an irie lady. Anyway, what’s your number?”

Peter carefully repeated the series of numbers Annabelle gave him to make sure he had them right. “I’ll tell Auntie Mercy you called.”

“Brilliant. Tell her I’m looking forward to hearing from her. And you take good care of those kids,” she said. “Bye, Peter.” Tears were trickling down her cheeks as she hung up.

Annabelle sank back on the bed and had a long, hard cry for all that could have been. Mercy had loved her even when she was difficult to love, and apparently, she still did. Annabelle wished she could hug her at that very instant—wished she could tell her she was sorry for all the wasted years.

Chapter 27: Cheese On Bread

“Annabelle? It’s Mercy. Sorry to phone so late. Peter told me you called. Is everything awright?”

Annabelle took a deep breath. She had almost forgotten Mercy’s endearing use of “awright” for the word alright. “Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s just that when I heard Barry King died, I thought of you.”

Mercy chuckled. “So the only time you think of me is when Barry drops out?”

“I think of you all the time, Mercy.” There was an awkward pause while Annabelle wiped away the tears that stained her cheeks. “By the way, I really like your new song, ‘Peace and Love,’” she managed to say.

“Tanks. Jamaica sure could use more of it—peace and love, that is.”

“Not just Jamaica, the whole world. What’s the lowdown on Barry?”

“The label boss drop dead of a heart attack while forming the fool during a bashment on James Bond Beach with some teenage streggae.”

Annabelle had to laugh. “Well, at least he died doing what he did best—showing his arse!”

“Precisely,” said Mercy. “Let’s just hope you and I will be enjoying ourselves as much as he was when the end comes.”

Annabelle didn’t know how to answer. Surely there was plenty more time before the end. “I hope so, too,” she said lamely.

“Yeah, man. Seems like music is the only salvation for gals like us.”

“Used to be,” said Annabelle. “I wrenched my back, so I can’t go on tour. I’ve been vegetating at Ben and his wife Penny’s house for the past six months. I mean I love being around my family, especially my granddaughter Brittany, who rather reminds me of myself.” She laughed. “Scary, huh? She’s three years old now, adorable, but quite the handful.”

“Sounds like you could use an island vacation, my friend. There’s plenty of room here on Hope Road now that my nephew Peter and his clan have moved out to the Olde Mill. We still have the recording studio, and I’m sure Dessie would be happy to have you at the house.”

Annabelle’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be a problem?” she said with all the composure she could muster.

Mercy giggled. “Annabelle, you’ve always been a problem, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. How soon do you think you can make it?”

“I’ve started packing already.”

The Williams family ran around like chickens missing their heads to get ready for Annabelle’s visit. Years of neglect had settled on the property while most of Mercy’s money went to doctors for Dessie, and her energy went to J-FLAG, Jamtilles, and Second Revelation. The paint was peeling, the pool half-full and green with algae, and the yard overgrown. Even the dogs, the progeny of Jammer and Tilly—named Jumbo and Tiny—were flea-bitten and mangy. How in the world was she supposed to put things back in order on such short notice? Her Peter would have been so embarrassed.

Yet Mercy and Dessie’s house wasn’t the only place in the neighborhood that was derelict. Most of the older homes that had been in private hands and damaged during Hurricane Gilbert in ‘88 had never been repaired. Their roofs had long since collapsed, making them uninhabitable for all but transients. Doors and shutters hung on by a single hinge, if at all, and the yards were littered with trash. Some of them had been torn down, leaving empty lots like the three adjoining ones Mista Man purchased. To her mind, the grotesque mansion he built there, which boasted twenty rooms including a bar, a Jacuzzi, a pool, and disco club, and sheltered his alleged twenty-two pickneys, four chefs, fifteen dogs, six rabbits, and one shark, was the biggest embarrassment of all. But Mercy needed to put her own house in order before judging others.

Luckily, it was a good year at Olde Mill. As overseer, her brother Paul did a wonderful job of keeping the plantation running smoothly and earned a generous bonus from the absentee landlord. As soon as they heard Annabelle was coming to visit, he and Celia showed up ready and willing to help out physically and financially. Peter and Jep worked hard too, as if they instinctively knew how special Annabelle was to Mercy. They scrubbed, painted, mowed, and hoed right up until the last possible moment.

“I hope your friend is worth it,” Jep said, grinning.

Mercy smiled. “Don’t worry. She is.”

Two weeks later, when Mercy took a step back to make a final appraisal, water came to her eyes. The place wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was a damn sight better than before, thanks to their concerted effort. After a couple of flea baths and two new collars, even the dogs looked rejuvenated. The only issue that hadn’t been addressed was how Mercy was going to renovate herself.

As she stared in the full-length mirror in her dressing room, an object she usually avoided, she was dismayed. Cho! Like many women, Mercy had put on a lot of weight as she got older. She was still strong, but her short frame and bulging limbs contributed to the overall appearance of bulkiness. Her locks were completely gray now, so she kept them covered in colorful African wraps in public. Unwrapped, she thought she looked like an Ol’ Hige. She also needed glasses, which contributed further to her matronly visage. Worst of all, her voice was gone. It was a good thing, as far as Second Revelation was concerned, that Peter had delivered Keisha, who was pitch-perfect and had a sexy figure. She was the one who attracted the majority of the band’s new fans, not Mercy, who wisely stayed in the background. Yet according to the pictures she had seen in the tabloids and on the Internet, Annabelle didn’t look all that fab herself these days. The sleek blonde ingénue, who sang so sweet and acted so tart in the past, was bloated and clumsy—hobbling around on crutches since the fall. Considering how much both of them had changed, Mercy doubted if they’d even recognize each other when she picked her up at the airport the next afternoon.

As it turned out, Annabelle was the least of her worries. Mercy was getting ready for bed when she heard a commotion. The ray-ray came from the direction of Mista Man’s mansion— hysterical screaming followed by squealing tires and what sounded like gunshots. Still, was that any of her business? She watched from the upstairs veranda as a set of cruisers with blaring sirens and flashing red lights converged on the house. Minutes later, she got a call from J-FLAG asking her to go over and check out the scene. Mercy obediently threw on a kaftan and sauntered up the road. On the night before Annabelle arrived, the last thing she wanted to do was to get involved in gangster business. As she passed the Manley house, she couldn’t help but remember the lofty political and musical ideals they had launched together with Brother Bob. Now the dream was sunk in a quagmire of dirty politics and hate music courtesy of folks like reelected Edward Seaga and Mista Man.

By the time Mercy reached the house, the police had Mista cuffed. There was a scuffle, and the wary crowd parted like the Red Sea while they attempted to push him into the cruiser. As they shoved him inside, Mista spotted Mercy and spat in her direction.

“Well if it ain’t Ms. J-FLAG,” he hissed. “Always sticking her nose where it don’t belong.”

If Mercy’s cover hadn’t been blown already, it certainly was now. While paramedics administered CPR to a woman who lay unconscious beside the pool, another woman related the scenario in a loud, agitated voice to anyone who would listen. She said Mista walked in on the two of them in an upstairs bedroom. He bolted the door, tied her to the bed, and then beat and raped her in front of her girlfriend. She jumped out of the second-story window to escape. Her first thought was to run, she said, but she twisted her ankle when she hit the ground. She wrapped herself in a bathrobe and called the police from the phone in the pool house. Then she watched from the shadows while Mista dragged her girlfriend, kicking and screaming, down the steps by her hair and threw her into the swimming pool inhabited by a moody shark.

“Papa Jesus Gawd,” said Mercy. “How could this have happened practically next door?”

She pushed her way closer to the informant. “Hi. I’m a neighbor on Hope Road—Mercy Mae Williams aka Sista Leona.”

“Everybody knows who you are,” said the woman.

Mercy smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I’d like to help. You need to get that ankle taken care of. I’ll ride with you in the ambulance to the hospital if you like. It’s not far.”

She looked at Mercy suspiciously, and then she broke down weeping. “He just kept saying the same ting over and over: ‘Two women in a bed, both of dem haffi dead.’”

Mercy wrapped her arms around the sobbing victim. “Don’t worry with Mista. The police have him in custody. He can’t hurt you again.” But she knew in her heart that her words were hollow. A monster like Mista Man could and would continue to harm anyone he thought he could dominate.

The Norman Manley International Airport was as chaotic as Annabelle remembered it. As she searched the faces of the people waiting at the arrival gate, she saw no one who she could be sure was Mercy Mae. Annabelle was well aware her own looks had changed dramatically in the fifteen years that had passed since they last met. Her dyed blonde hair needed a touch-up, and she was wearing a longish petal pink jacket that barely covered her thunder thighs. A paisley silk cravat hid her turkey neck, and she was still using a cane. Maybe Mercy looked drastically different too. Anyway, Annabelle was hoping for the best.

When she saw a Rasta bloke in a wheelchair holding up a cardboard sign with her name printed on it, her heart sank. Had Mercy cared so little about their reunion that she had sent someone else to pick her up? Annabelle hobbled in his direction.

“Annabelle, it’s me, Desmond,” he said as she elbowed through the crowd.

Dessie was handsome as ever in his crisp white dashiki embroidered with liberation colors. His silvery dreadlocks were tied back in a bandana printed with the Jamaican flag, and they cascaded over the back of the wheelchair like a fountain.

“Of course it’s you,” said Annabelle. She bent down and gave him an awkward hug. “Where’s Mercy?”

“She’s still at the hospital.”

“Oh my God! Is she sick?”

“No, no,” he said. “There was an incident on Hope Road last night, and she’s with the victim. She said she’d be home in time for supper. I might not be able to walk, but I can still cook up rice and peas.” He laughed. “I hope you like Jamaican food, Annabelle.”

She nodded. “When in Rome . . .”

“I’ll get someone to help you with your luggage,” he said. “There’s a mini-van and a driver waiting outside.”

Annabelle relaxed. “You turned out to be quite the gentleman, Mr. Williams.”

The highway was like a car park at that time in the afternoon, so they passed through downtown Kingston. It was slow going, and there wasn’t another white person anywhere in sight. When Dessie advised Annabelle to keep the windows rolled up and the doors locked, she remembered driving through with Barry all those years ago. If anything, the streets were worse. Vendors shouting curse words clogged the narrow, potholed roadside with trollies, while buses, trucks, and cars jockeyed for leftover space. Ramshackle buildings in various states of disrepair hid behind rusted iron burglar bars, and bored-looking women hawked ball caps, DVDs, condoms, and sexy bras and knickers under the shade of dilapidated umbrellas. There was trash everywhere, in the gutters, on the sidewalks, in doorways, and hanging from the utility wires. Rough music pounded from speakers as scantily-clad girls and boys with their boxer shorts pulled down below their buttocks gyrated to the beat. People distracted by conversations on their cell phones crossed the street disregarding traffic. When the van almost hit a pedestrian, he pounded on the bonnet and swore in Patois. A crowd gathered almost instantly and stared through the windows like Annabelle was some kind of alien from outer space.

“Don’t pay them no mind,” said the driver. “Everyting deh yah Kingston.”

“Excuse me?”

Dessie smiled. “Kingston has everything—all kinds of people, and all kinds of things. Do you need any supplies before we go up? Once we get closer to home, goods are scarcer.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m just anxious to get clear of this confusion. It feels a bit claustrophobic.”

Dessie agreed. “And homophobic too. You won’t believe what happened last night right in our own neighborhood.”

“What?”

“I’ll let Mercy fill you in.”

The house on Hope Road had obviously seen better days. But it was spacious and clean and filled to the brim with music memorabilia. Annabelle managed the stairs, stashed her gear, and then snooped around while Dessie went to work on dinner. Young Peter hadn’t lied. Articles and photos of Annabelle plastered the walls of the office, and Mercy had all her records in her collection. The Basquiat painting that she so treasured hung right above her desk. Unlike the portrait of Hennie she had inherited, a painting that glorified a Euro-bohemian sense of style in sensuous, living color, Annabelle thought the Basquiat was crude and graphic. For some reason, it frightened her—so much so that she had to leave the room.

She had settled with a cup of Blue Mountain coffee on the upstairs terrace and was staring at the sea when the sliding glass doors rattled open, and Mercy burst onto the scene.

“Cheese on bread! I can’t believe you’re really here!”

Forgetting her cane, Annabelle sprang to her feet and spilled her coffee in the process. “Mercy, Mercy,” she said as they embraced. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, my dear. Let me look at you.” Mercy pulled away. She took both Annabelle’s hands and pressed them to her lips. “That’s you awright,” she said. “That’s my best friend, my best cumbolo. You look great, gal!”

Annabelle knew it wasn’t true. “It was a long flight,” she said by way of excuse.

“Let me get you anada cup of coffee.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Mercy smiled. “I’m just glad to see you staying away from di rum.”

“Yeah. One day at a time.”

“Well, I myself could use a glass of wine and a dinky dough right about now. According to the Beatles, it’s been a hard day’s night.”

“Indeed,” said Annabelle. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’ll be right back, then. We can chill on the veranda and watch the sunset together just like we did in Negril.”

“Your place is really nice,” Annabelle hollered after her.

“Tanks. We get by. Dessie says supper will be ready in a while. I bet yuh neva nyam from mawning!”

“Mercy, you’re going to have to speak English if we’re meant to communicate.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Mercy returned with a bottle of red wine and more coffee on a tray. A tidily rolled spliff was stuck in her locks. Sinking into a lounge chair, she removed it and lit up.

“So what happened last night?” Annabelle asked, sipping.

Mercy exhaled. “Nasty business, this homophobia in Jamaica. We’ve got some real bumboholes hanging around, and one of them lives right up the road. Mista Man got carried away and beat up two women who are the mamas of a couple of his babies. One of them, the one he threw in the swimming pool with the shark, has regained consciousness and pressed charges of assault, rape, buggery, grievous sexual assault, and attempted homicide.”

“That should keep him out of circulation for a while.”

“Cho! He’s already out on bail.”

“Wait a minute. Isn’t Mista Man one of the musicians that Outrage! banned from the UK?”

“He-self. J-FLAG has been on his case for some time. I just hope the victim doesn’t cave. I’ve notified our attorney, but without her testimony or an eyewitness, it’s unlikely the law will do much about it.”

Just then, Dessie rumbled up the ramp to the second story in his wheelchair. “It’s been a maca time in Jamaica, Annabelle,” he said, lighting up a spliff of his own. “I keep telling Mercy it’s time to move farther away from Kingston, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.”

“What’s for supper?” Mercy asked to change the subject.

“Strictly Jamaican ital food—vegetarian to increase your livity,” he said. “Callalou soup, sautéed ackee, fried plantain, breadfruit boiled in coconut milk, avocado and grapefruit salad, and sweet potato pie for dessert.”

“Desmond is the i-ficial Williams family chef,” Mercy explained. “He uses plenty of herbs, aromatics, and pepper. How you think I got so wagga-wagga? Come on. Let’s eat.”

During dinner, the two women caught up on each other’s lives. Mercy told of her struggles with J-FLAG and the increasingly hostile vibe toward gays in Jamaica. Annabelle ran through her health issues, boasted about Ben, Penny, and her grandchild, Brittany, and then remarked on the enormous fame and fortune of Electric Paradise.

“Not bad for a set of dutty white boys,” Mercy said, smiling. “They didn’t even need Barry to push them over the top.”

When she started moaning about the decline of reggae music on the island, Dessie interrupted her. “What Mercy fails to realize, Annabelle, is that the throwback riddims of the old-time reggae vibe will always be present in Jamaica. Drum and bass are the beat of everyday life here. Sure, you have the faster, meaner stuff, but the original roots music will never die. According to Brand Jamaica, reggae is the background music for everything we do here on the island.”

“Except for the violence,” said Mercy. “The Alliance has the patent on that.”

“What’s The Alliance?” asked Annabelle.

Dessie groaned. “Butu troublemakers. Mista Man, the neighborhood villain, is one of the posse.”

As if on cue, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Mercy. “It might be about last night.”

Her face turned a couple of shades darker as the caller delivered his message.

“Tiday fi you, tomorrow fi all we,” she replied angrily and then hung up the phone.

“Who was it?” asked Dessie. “Wha’d they say?”

“Baan fi hengk yaan drawn,” she repeated. “Who is born to hang cannot drown.”

Annabelle was puzzled. “Meaning what?”

“I guess it’s supposed to be some kind of reference to the victim in the swimming pool. The voice sounded like Mista Man’s.”

Annabelle’s mind wound back to Colin’s untimely demise. “How dreadful,” she said, shuddering.

Dessie shook his head. “That deejay has got alotta of nerve callin’ here.”

The phone rang again. This time Mercy put it on speaker so they all could hear. “Dogs ave too much yawd guh a bed without suppa,” a girlish voice lisped.

Dessie translated: “Dogs on a long leash might starve.”

“You betta watch your busybody backside, bitch,” the caller warned, “unless somebody sticka big cock up your ass an’ shut you down for good.”

Mercy jerked the cord out from the wall. Then she went to the back door. “Jumbo! Tiny!” Two huge Rottweilers came lumbering toward the house. She scraped the scraps left from supper into their bowls and set it outside. “There you go, pups.” When they were finished, she bent down and petted them tenderly. “Don’t worry. Auntie Mercy won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“I didn’t know you were a dog lover,” said Annabelle.

She shrugged. “Neither did I.”

“Who’s ready for dessert?” Dessie asked brightly.

Annabelle shook her head. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“And I’ve lost my appetite,” said Mercy. “Let’s save the pie for breakfast. Paul, Celia, Peter, and Keisha are coming over with the kids to say howdy. We’ll talk some more then, but right now I need to get some sleep.” She hugged Annabelle and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, my love. Good night, Dessie. Sweet dreams.”

While Dessie indulged in a second piece of sweet potato pie, Annabelle made the mistake of having another cup of coffee. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asked.

Annabelle’s mouth watered. “Just a teensy slice.”

Part Four

Rise Up, Sista

Chapter 28: Mt. Calabash

Although Annabelle was exhausted, she tossed and turned for half the night because of excess sugar and caffeine. It seemed she had just fallen asleep when she heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the backyard just below her window.

“Oh, no! Dessie! Come quick! It’s the dogs!”

When Annabelle looked out, it was a bright morning, and Mercy was slumped on the ground. The dogs’ bodies were sprawled on the lawn, and neither one was moving.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” called Annabelle.

Mercy was hysterical. “Ai! Jumbo and Tiny are dead!”

Seconds later, Dessie rolled onto the scene. He took one look and said, “I guess dancehall lyrics aren’t the only thing that’s poisonous around here.”

“That wasn’t jus’ a threat last night,” Mercy said, bawling.

Annabelle got downstairs as fast as she could. The dogs were stiff as boards, and both had astral-projected looks in their half-closed eyes. “At least they didn’t suffer,” she said.

“How you know? You don’t know that for sure!” Then Mercy began to cry in earnest.

“I meant they didn’t suffer long,” said Annabelle.

“It’s a good thing Paul and Peter are on their way over. We’ll need two able-bodied men to dig the graves,” said Dessie.

Annabelle sat down on the grass with Mercy and wrapped her arms around her. “I had a dog, you know—a Dachshund named Freud. Hennie left him to me along with a portrait Francis Bacon painted of her. Freud went everywhere with me before he died of cancer. I never thought I could love an animal that much, but I did.”

“I know,” Mercy said, sobbing. “But your dog died from a natural cause. Jumbo and Tiny were deliberately poisoned. I mean what is it with Jamaicans? Why are they so determined to make each other’s lives miserable? What kind of coward would take revenge on dogs?”

“Insecurity? Jealousy? Lack of identity?” Annabelle ventured. “But then how would I know?”

Mercy sniffed. “It’s more like mimicry. Yardies latch onto any kind of nonsense that’s popular—good, evil, or otherwise. Brother Bob called it slavish mentality.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“But it is. And you know what? I’m sick of going to bat for people who don’t give a damn about anything, including salvaging their own souls. If I had any sense, I’d be outta here tomorrow.”

“At least you’ve got a home,” said Annabelle. “That’s more than I can say.”

Mercy shrugged. “It’s probably not worth much. Hope Road has gone to hell.”

“If you sold the house, where would you go?”

Mercy sighed. “I have no idea—someplace peaceful where I could do my music and be myself without having to deal with the likes of Mista Man.”

Just then, a horn honked, and a vehicle pulled into the driveway. The rest of the Williams clan piled out of a mini-van, ready to celebrate Annabelle’s arrival.

“Hi! You must be Annabelle. I’m Keisha.”

Keisha was dressed as if she was headed out for a night at the disco—spandex top, short, short skirt, high-heeled sandals, enormous earrings, and tons and tons of false hair. In fact, her outfit reminded Annabelle of the way Mods had dolled themselves up in London in the ‘60s. “This is my daughter, Fanny, and my son, Dale,” said Keisha.

The kids hung back behind their mother while Mercy filled the others in on the situation. Paul and Peter went out back with Dessie. The rest of them migrated inside and settled around the kitchen table.

As soon as everyone was seated, Mercy began to rant again. “Some people are really wicked! I know I have enemies, but what kinda person would take revenge on dogs, for heaven’s sake?”

Everyone else stayed quiet while Mercy wailed, and her tears flowed like rain. Then, suddenly, she pulled herself together, dried her eyes, and blew her nose. “Don’t mind me, kids,” she said. “I’m just upset about Jumbo and Tiny. They were very good dogs, you know. Now, who wants a piece of Uncle Dessie’s sweet potato pie?”

The pickneys parked themselves in front of the TV to watch cartoons while Keisha and Mercy tidied up the kitchen. The guys were finished in the backyard and wandered inside. Mercy poured herself a cup of coffee and offered one to Annabelle.

“No thanks. I think I’ll stick to English tea from now on. Jamaican coffee is delicious, but a bit strong, even for an addict like me,” she said, smiling.

Mercy picked up the first section of the newspaper that was scattered on the kitchen table. The headline from the incident at Mista Man’s blared across the front page. It seemed the victim who couldn’t shut up the night before was suddenly dumbstruck. “Nuh everything good fi eat good fi talk,” she informed readers. Mercy had heard stories about victims of rape being further brutalized by the police and shook her head. It was surely possible she had been silenced by di Babylon.

Disgusted, Mercy turned to page two, where Rudie Boy was once again busy apologizing to the gay community in print. “Get a load of this,” she said to Annabelle.

“‘Let me make this clear and straight. I have nothing against no one. I respect every human being regardless of which color or creed, regardless of which religious belief they have, and regardless of their sexual preference, including gay and lesbian people. I respect all humans. Please, I am begging you; do not hang me out to dry for some songs I wrote a long time ago.’”

Celia kissed her teeth. “Begging? Rudie down on his knees, nuh?”

“He’s irrepressible,” Paul said crossly.

“And he’s insincere,” Annabelle added. “I met him once with Barry and he was a real—what is it all you say—a real blunderhole?”

Peter chuckled. “That’s the perfect word for him.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Keisha. “Let’s call Rudie and rattle his chain. You have his number, Auntie Mercy?”

Dessie smiled. “J-FLAG has everybody’s number.”

He answered on the fourth ring. “Yo, Rudie. That’s Mercy Mae Williams—Sista Leona—calling.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Well, I was just reading your apology to the gay community in the newspaper and wanted to know if you’re sincere.”

Rudie answered in local lingo. “Di paper lie. Mi neva apologize. Mi told di Observer to leave mi alone.”

“That’s Rudie, awright,” Mercy said, hanging up the phone. “He’s got two faces—one public, one private. And he talks out of both sides of his mouth—he says one thing but does another. I guess that’s why he and Barry hit it off so well.”

She chugged her coffee indignantly. Usually, Mercy was pretty good at forgiveness. But although Barry might be in his grave, he obviously wasn’t forgiven and neither was Rudie.

She threw the front pages of the newspaper down on the floor and flipped through the real estate section. After what had happened up the road at Mista Man’s and to her dogs, the idea of getting out of Kingston weighed more heavily on her mind than ever. Ironically, the entire last page of the paper was dedicated to advertising Barry King’s beachfront property in Oracabessa, as well as his rustic hideaway in the Blue Mountains. TWO PARCELS OF PARADISE FOR SALE TO THE RIGHT BUYERS.

Mercy whistled. “Boy, she didn’t waste any time hanging up the ‘for sale’ sign.”

“Who?” Annabelle asked.

“Barry left all his assets to his niece, and she’s already put them on sale—both Oracabessa and Mt. Calabash. ‘Price on request. Qualified buyers only.’”

“I’ve been to Oracabessa,” said Annabelle. “It was nice.”

“Yeah, before Barry messed with it. I mean come on. James Bond Beach? Mt. Calabash, on the other hand, is a real jewel. It had an old-style private house and a recording studio when I visited Bob Marley recuperating there in ‘76. The place was beautiful—cool and quiet with a fantastic view of the mountains and distant sea on one side and the lights of Kingston on the other. Later down, there were guest villas and a restaurant before Hurricane Gilbert passed and mashed it up.”

“Why don’t we go check it out?” said Annabelle.

“Check it out how? The ad says qualified buyers only. I’d never be able to afford Mt. Calabash even if I sold this house tomorrow.”

“Auntie Mercy! You thinking of selling the house?” Keisha asked, startled.

“Kingston is dragging me down, gal. I need space to breathe, space where I can relax and create new music in peace.”

“I understand completely,” said Annabelle. “London has the same effect on me. Let’s call and make an appointment to at least go and look at the property in the mountains.”

Mercy frowned. “What good would that do? The equity in this place wouldn’t even be enough for a down payment.”

Annabelle shrugged. “You never know. A miracle could happen.”

“Since when are you such an optimist?” Mercy said, laughing. But she picked up the phone and dialed the number listed in the paper anyway.

The agent, Emmana Jeffers, recognized her name immediately. “I’m a big fan of reggae music,” she said. “Second Revelation is one of my favorite bands.” Without skipping a beat, she set up a walk-through the next morning at 11 a.m.

Mercy was flabbergasted. “We’re in tomorrow at eleven,” she told Annabelle. “Nothing ever happens that fast in Jamaica.”

“Brilliant,” said Annabelle.

By suppertime, Mercy had it all planned. “I’ll get the van washed. There are some wonderful views on the way up Irish Town Road. Hey! We’ll pack the picnic gear. We can stop in the market at Papine and pick up some fresh itals. Then we’ll take a lime by the river and relax on our way home.” For the first time in a long time, she found herself believing in the possibility of a happy ending to her often-troubled life.

That night, after the Williams family had sorted itself out as far as sleeping arrangements, Annabelle sat on her bed with her laptop open. “The New York Times called Mt. Calabash one of the 1,000 places to visit before you die,” she said when Mercy came into the room.

Mercy sank down in a chair in the corner. “Assuming we live through the night, that’s something to look forward to. I can’t wait to get out of town tomorrow. This has been one hell of a weekend. I could sure use a change of scenery.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it too. Who knows? Mt. Calabash could be the start of a brilliant new career, a song we could share together.”

“I was thinking the same thing—like a positive duet. It’s about time we had some fun again.”

“I remember that afternoon in John’s flat like it was yesterday,” said Annabelle. “The air thick with steam and smoke from the hubble-bubble, the jingle of your ankle bracelet, the color of your kaftan, and the way you smelled like patchouli. When I saw the expression on your face, I could tell, even before you said it, that you loved me.”

Mercy blushed. “Then you can imagine how hard it was for me to stand back and watch you try to destroy yourself. You were the real reason I came back to Jamaica after Peter died, you know. I couldn’t bear to see you so messed up.”

Annabelle was shocked. “Really?”

“Really. I tried to forget you, to drown myself in my country’s music and politics, but it didn’t work. When things got tight in Jamaica, I went back to England hoping everything was gonna be awright between us.”

“Hennie had just left me, and I was flying high on drugs and alcohol when you found me in that club. I know you were just trying to help, but I resented the way you assumed you were better off than I was. I wasn’t ready to admit that my life was spiraling out of control. I wasn’t ready to face the truth. So I ran away to Ingrid.”

“When you broke my heart for the second time, I buried myself in Revelation Records,” Mercy said, fiddling with her locks. “But London was really never my cup of tea. Without you, I was like a duppy, a ghost of a person wandering around lost and alone. Sure, I had Maxi to lean on, but eventually, I had to come back home to try to save my family and my soul.”

“Except for Hal, America wasn’t good for me, either. After rehab at Hazelden, which was way too short for a serious addict like me, I was still searching for love. What did I do? I fucked around with Jerry and Giorgio and Shawn and Barry until I wore myself completely out.”

“You fucked around with Barry?”

Annabelle stuck out her tongue. “Figuratively, not literally. Besides, sex isn’t everything.”

“Tell me about it,” said Mercy. “I’ve been living like a nun ever since my Peter died.”

“That was a long time ago,” Annabelle whispered.

Mercy got up from her chair and walked over to the bed. “Let me tell you about Mercy Mae Williams. From the time her father started molesting her when she was a child, she felt ostracized. Then, when she won Mr. Johns’ talent show, her peers did everything they could think of to hold her down. When Barry King kidnapped her and took her to England, she was completely lost. Sure, she had a hit record, but that only made her feel more like a dancing monkey. Luckily, she found you as a friend and a guy named Peter to love. But when they returned to Jamaica together, people treated her like a stranger on her native island. Tongues couldn’t help but wag now that the Blue Beat Girl lived with a white man in a nice house up on Hope Road. When the two of them dared to start a reggae band, jealousy flared up again.”

“But it was a damn good band,” said Annabelle.

“That was before Paramount Speedway ruined Mercy Mae’s dream. So there she was, running back and forth between two worlds for years, trying to hold her head up high even though her heart was twice broken.”

Mercy held Annabelle’s hands and looked into her eyes. “The album we did together was good for us, Annabelle. Sincerely Sinclair cleared the air. When I heard the hurt in your voice and saw your wounded eyes gazing out from the cover, I knew you were reaching out to me. When you showed up at Sumfest, I was blown away. But then Dessie got shot, and I had to go to war—for him, for me, and for the reinstatement of peace and love in Jamaica.” She sighed. “I wonder if J-FLAG was really worth it.”

Annabelle leaned forward and kissed her. “Of course it was. You’ve helped a lot of people over the years, Mercy Mae—through your music, through your care, through your love. But now it’s time to let someone else help you.”

“How you mean?”

“Why not think of tomorrow as a fresh start? You and I have wasted too much time already; we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together.”

Annabelle set aside the laptop and pulled her down next to her on the bed. “Mercy, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I don’t know how much time we’ve got left, but let’s finish what we began in London all those years ago.”

“I’ve had the love of my life already,” Mercy said, blinking back tears. “I hope you can understand that, Annabelle.”

Annabelle answered with another kiss. “But I’m still searching,” she said softly.

“Then I truly hope you find what you’re looking for. I’ll always be your friend, Annabelle, but I haven’t been in a sexual relationship since Peter. Other things are more important to me now.”

“Like what?”

“Like family and music and social justice.”

Annabelle got the message. “You must think me a bloody nuisance,” she said, sighing. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Mercy hugged her tight. “Not at all. I think you’re wonderful. Have a good rest, my friend, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mercy closed the door gently and tiptoed across the hall to her room. She could hear Annabelle weeping, but she didn’t dare return to comfort her.

When Mercy knocked on Annabelle’s door the next morning, she groaned and covered her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time to wake up and smell the Blue Mountain coffee,” said Mercy. “I want to get an early start so I can show you the sights on the trip up to Mt. Calabash.”

Downstairs, Dessie had already prepared a power breakfast of smoked herring, breadfruit, and freshly squeezed orange juice. “There’s a good chap,” Annabelle said as she tucked in.

Dessie noticed her eyes were red and puffy. “How was your sleep, Annabelle?”

“I must be suffering from jet lag,” she said, sipping the herbal tea he had prepared especially for her. “But I’ll be alright once I adjust to island time.”

Mercy winked. “Ha! There is no such thing, my dear.”

Chapter 29: Welcome To Jamaica

An hour later, after the picnic supplies were packed and Dessie and his wheelchair were installed in the mini-van, they pulled out of the driveway and started down Hope Road. “Michael Manley’s house and Mista Man’s are up the hill,” said Mercy. “But this mawning we’ll be turning the other way.”

They passed by Devon House, the Bob Marley Museum, the Peter Tosh Museum, and the Botanical Gardens. “I’d like to visit some of those places when we have the time,” said Annabelle.

“You ’specially need to see #56,” said Dessie. “The original Tuff Gong Studio was there.”

There was hardly any traffic in Kingston that morning; it seemed all of Jamaica was either hungover or gone to church like Peter and his family. When they reached the northernmost part of Kingston, they stopped at the market, bustling even though it was Sunday. Dessie purchased three green coconuts from the first vendor they came across. After the man whacked off the tops, he said, “Excellent remedy for a hangover, or whatever else ails you.”

“We call it a jelly nut,” Mercy said, guzzling. “Drink a jelly, and you taste all the sweetness of the island.”

Annabelle tried, but most of the coconut water ended up on the front of her T-shirt.

Dessie lagged behind and selected a breadfruit to roast later by the river. Mercy filled her basket with fruit—a football-sized sweetsop, a half dozen star-shaped carambola, and a bag full of fragrant pink guavas. Annabelle gazed longingly at the barbequed chicken and jerked pork. Vegetarian had never been her style.

“How long until we get there?” she asked when they were back in the mini-van.

Dessie grinned. “The way Mercy drives, it could be hours. By the time we swing round the famous three-hundred-sixty-five bends in the Irish Town Road and stop and take in the views, it’ll be dark.”

Heading up into the Blue Mountains, they passed through the tiny hamlets that were scattered along the banks of the Hope River. When they reached 3,000 ft., the air was noticeably cooler. Mercy followed the signs and the agent’s directions until they arrived at Mt. Calabash’s car park. It had been a long time since she’d come up the mountain to console Brother Bob after he was shot, and she’d forgotten the exact location. The minute she stopped and lowered the ramp for Dessie to disembark, an impeccably dressed middle-aged woman, who they assumed to be the real estate agent, tottered out to the van in killer high heels.

“Welcome to Mt. Calabash, Ms. Williams,” she said, shaking Mercy’s hand. “I’m Emmana Jeffers. I’ve been a fan of your music for a long time, and now I finally get to meet you in person.”

“Then you must know my brother Dessie,” Mercy said as he rolled onto the boardwalk. “And this is my friend Annabelle Sinclair from London.” Emmana gave Annabelle, who was dressed like a tourist, a blank stare before turning her attention back to Mercy.

“Would you like something to drink before we take the tour—passion fruit juice, coffee, tea, or a welcome to Jamaica rum punch for your English friend?”

“Juice would be fine,” said Annabelle.

Dessie said he needed to use the washroom. Emmana handed out copies of the property’s portfolio while he was gone. It was filled with outdated pictures, gushing reviews, and detailed specifications from before Hurricane Gilbert—nothing current, and nothing about the price. Birds sang, butterflies flitted, and lizards skidded across the path as they followed her inside and the buyer/seller waltz began.

“How come there’s nobody here?” Mercy asked as the agent set up the drinks.

“The place has been closed ever since Mr. King passed on. His niece is based overseas and has no interest in the boutique hotel business,” she said. “Come. Let me show you around.”

“Wonderful!” said Annabelle, grabbing her cane. Mercy hadn’t seen her so excited in a long, long time.

“The property was granted to the son of the then British Prime Minister by the Crown Colony Act way back in 1780,” Emmana said, waving her arm expansively. “It then passed through successive prominent colonial families until Mr. King bought twenty-six acres in 1974 and turned it into a haven for up-and-coming musicians.”

“That’s exactly what we had in mind,” Annabelle piped up.

Mercy nudged her with her elbow to be quiet.

“The restaurant opened in 1986, but everything was mashed up by Hurricane Gilbert. Mr. King built a new house and a cluster of post-colonial cottages that reflected the Caribbean design of the original structures. He won the National Heritage Architectural Award for his effort.”

“Yet another award,” Mercy muttered under her breath.

“Yeah. Big fuckin’ deal,” Annabelle whispered.

“I’m glad to see the plan included wheelchair accessibility,” Dessie said when he returned.

Annabelle dipped her big toe into the infinity pool and gazed dreamily at a rainbow that had formed over the mountains while Mercy inspected the nearest cottage. “What happened to all the furniture?” she asked.

“Caribbean antiques are worth a lot of money these days. The niece sold the furnishings to a dealer in Miami.”

Mercy lifted an eyebrow. “Where’s the music studio?”

“The remains are just up the hill, separate from the main residence.”

Dessie stayed behind and pretended to examine the landscaping while Mercy and Annabelle followed Emmana up the steps. “The garden sure needs a lot of work,” he hollered from below.

“Where’s the recording equipment? Mercy asked, frowning. The space was like a mausoleum.

“The niece sold that too,” said Emmana, obviously embarrassed.

Mercy acted like she was amazed. “So you’re saying that Mt. Calabash is on the market unfurnished, unequipped, and unloved?”

“Hey! That sounds like the title to a Country and Western song,” Annabelle said brightly. She was in rare form. Last night’s rejection seemed far away, and she was ready to move on.

Emmana laughed nervously and addressed Mercy. “You know how things go in the Caribbean, Ms. Williams. Everything is always topsy-turvy. However, my client is willing to negotiate with the right buyer.”

“What’s the price?” asked Mercy. Her years with J-FLAG hadn’t been for naught. She could play a mean game of hardball if necessary.

The agent scribbled a number with plenty of zeros behind it on her folder.

Annabelle, who was peering over her shoulder, gulped. “I guess that must be in Jamaican dollars,” she said. “It can’t possibly be British Pounds Sterling.”

Emmana sniffed the air like a hunting dog. “The selling price is quoted in U.S. currency. But as I said, it’s negotiable.”

They thanked Emmana for the tour and told her they’d get back to her. Annabelle couldn’t stop raving on their way down the mountain. “The Maharishi had his issues, but he taught me to recognize good karma when it stared me in the face. Mt. Calabash is just what the doctor ordered for two disillusioned old warhorses like us.”

“How you mean?” said Mercy. “It’s way overpriced and needs a lot of work.”

“Yeah, but it makes me remember my early years at Brazier’s Park, minus the gothic architecture and the snow, of course.” Annabelle sighed. “Those were brilliant times before my mother and father split up . . . before I got sucked into the so-called Cultural Revolution and the Electric Paradise version of rock-and-roll.”

Dessie was munching on guavas. “I thought Mt. Calabash was cool,” he said between bites.

“Mt. Calabash might have been cool, but the price was extra hot,” said Mercy. “It would take a lot of money to bring it back up to standard with furnishings and recording equipment.”

“Assuming we’re in this together, I could probably get my hands on some cash,” Annabelle volunteered.

“Maybe you could, but unless I sell the house on Hope Road, which by the way has a triple mortgage, I’m basically broke.”

“I’ve got some dough stashed away,” said Dessie. “Not much, but I’d be willing to chip in. But I’m not the slightest bit interested in getting into the hospitality business. Tourism is not where Jamaica belongs. We have to enlighten our own people before we kowtow to visitors.”

“I fancy the idea of a retreat,” Annabelle said dreamily. “Nothing elaborate, just a place where musicians, young and old, could chill out and do their thing.”

Dessie nodded. “We wouldn’t need that many furnishings, and we have all the recording equipment on Hope Road already.”

Mercy stayed quiet. She needed more time to think it over. She didn’t want to set her heart on a project that probably would never come to fruition. Deep in thought, she pulled off the side of the road at an island-style picnic shelter that was close to the river. “This looks like a good spot for a lime,” she said.

Annabelle whistled “As Tears Flow By” as she spread a colorful African cloth over the sawn-off tree trunk that served as a table. While she started putting out the fruit, Mercy dumped charcoal into a communal coal pot and lit it. Dessie busied himself rolling spliffs of marijuana.

“No dope for me,” said Annabelle. “I’m high enough on Mt. Calabash as it is.”

Mercy chuckled. “Great. Try to stay that way.”

Dessie passed his sister a joint, “It’s no big deal,” he said to Annabelle. “If the irie feeling is already there inside you, you don’t have to get high to connect with it.”

“Yeah man, you don’t haffi dread to be Rasta,” said Mercy.

Dessie laughed and tossed the breadfruit on the fire. “But it helps.”

“Where you gettin’ all this mythical cash, Annabelle?” asked Mercy.

“Ben has been pestering me to sell my portrait of Henrietta Moraes for some time. He unloaded his painting for £6.7 million a while back.” She sighed. “I loved Hennie, but I love you guys more.”

“Nice,” said Dessie.

But Mercy was perplexed. “Cho! All that money for a painting of a woman who died penniless? Michael Manley had it right, you know. That’s capitalism in a nutshell. Even though I never met Jean-Michel, I’d never sell my Basquiat. It would be like selling my soul.”

“No worries in that department. It’s probably not worth much anyway,” Annabelle made the mistake of saying.

Mercy snorted. “According to whom?” (She was already slightly stoned.) “I hate it when you’re a snob, Annabelle. Just because Basquiat was a black American artist of Caribbean descent and not an Anglo, doesn’t mean his work is wurtless.”

“I just meant . . .”

Mercy tossed back her locks. “Best you think twice before you open your mouth if you want to blend into Jamaica. We’ve got enough negative vibes already without you adding yours.”

“Chill out, Sista,” Dessie said, exhaling. “What difference does it make where the money comes from as long as we get a chance to share our love of music with some youts before we drop out?”

Mercy looked suddenly embarrassed. “You’re right, bro. I guess I’m so used to standing up for people’s rights that I feel I have to defend my beloved painting too. Sorry Annabelle,” she said.

Annabelle acquiesced. “Me too,” she said. “I’m sorry too.”

“There’s been a lot to process this morning,” said Mercy. “I think I need to cool mi head in di river. You coming, love?”

“Nope,” said Annabelle. Her feelings were bruised. She had just offered to contribute millions to the cause of her and Mercy Mae’s happiness, and had once again been rejected.

Mercy headed to the riverbank without looking back. “I love you, Annabelle,” she called over her shoulder. “The two of us go back too far and deep to be offended by a couple of careless words.” Her silver locks shone in the sun and her mahogany skin glistened as she stripped down to her knickers, plunged in, and whooped like a kid. “Now this is what I call liberation!”

“Mercy’s been under a lot of stress lately,” Dessie explained, poking at the roasting breadfruit.

“I wish I had the same capacity for forgiveness as she does,” said Annabelle. “Sometimes all I can think about is revenge. But Mercy’s like a magic mirror that takes me in for what I am, filters out the negative crap, and then reflects back who I hope to be. That’s what true friends are for.”

“Andre was like that for me,” said Dessie, “but I blew it because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. Take my advice, Annabelle. Unconditional love doesn’t come along every day, so hold onto my sister tight-tight no matter what happens. You two are special people who still have plenty of love and riddim to share with each other and the rest of the world. Mt. Calabash is a dream that can come true if you both believe in it with all your hearts.”

Dessie was showing Annabelle how to properly eat sweetsop without making too much of a mess when the bamboo bench she was sitting on started to vibrate. A low-slung black sedan, pulsating with bass rhythm, pulled up behind the van. After what seemed like an eternity, a tinted automatic window slid down, and a black hand covered with endless tattoos flopped outside.

“Wha’gwann, Dessie?” said the driver. Annabelle couldn’t see his face, but his gold teeth shone menacingly from the dark interior.

Dessie shrugged. “Man cool for di time.”

“Who di bakra wit’ yuh?”

“That’s Mercy’s friend from London.”

“Where di Empress self, nuh?”

“She cooling out in di riva.”

Alerted by the commotion, Mercy waded ashore and stared with concern in their direction. “What all you want?” she hollered.

“Tell Sista Leona di boss haffi message for she,” said the mystery man.

“What’s that?”

“Eaise haad pickney bun ah sun hot.”

“Translation?” whispered Annabelle.

“Stubborn child gets burnt under the hot sun.”

The driver laughed obscenely while his passenger shot up an innocent signboard on the other side of the road with an automatic weapon. Ratt-tatta-tat-tat-tat. Mercy came running up from the river. As soon as she arrived on the scene, he rolled up the window and gunned the engine. Tires squealed and rubber burned as the vehicle roared off in a cloud of dust.

“Cowards!” she shouted after them. Then she turned to Dessie and Annabelle. “Are you guys awright?”

Dessie nodded, but Annabelle was understandably upset. “Who were those blokes?”

“Members of The Alliance,” said Dessie.

“Which ones?”

Mercy shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. You could throw them all in a sack, shake them up, and when you dumped them back out again, they’d all act the same.”

“Should we call the police?” asked Annabelle. “I mean the passenger had a gun.”

Mercy shook her head. “This island is like a shooting gallery already. Those butus won’t bother us again today. Best we just kick back and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

“Welcome to Jamaica, Annabelle,” said Dessie.

Later that night, as they sat around recapping the day’s significant events, Mercy tried to get a better idea of how serious Annabelle was to devoting her remaining musical talent and her yet-to-be-seen money to Jamaica.

“Sorry about wha’appen at di river,” she said, pouring herself a glass of wine.

Annabelle laughed. “Luckily, no harm was done except to the signboard. Come on, Mercy. I wasn’t born yesterday. Things are difficult everywhere these days, not just for Rastafari and LGBTs here in Jamaica. Some people in the world are starving and freezing to death.”

“Thanks to the Babylon shitstem,” Dessie said, lighting a spliff. “The sufferahs, as Michael Manley once referred to the disadvantaged, continue to struggle to this day.”

“That’s why reggae music is so important,” Mercy said for the millionth time. “It keeps the positive vibe alive.”

“Yeah, man,” said Dessie. “It’s not only a form of expression for Rastafari but helps the voice of all the disenfranchised to rise above the negative worldwide.”

Annabelle sipped her tea thoughtfully. “What you say about reggae music reminds me of what Ian Walsh used to say about rock-and-roll and the Cultural Revolution in the UK. His contention was that Electric Paradise was the voice of our lost generation.”

Mercy frowned. “But his main concern was making piles of money, not unlike how Barry King used Jamaicans to advance his own cause, no matter who got hurt in the meantime.” She scratched her locks. “Remind me again, Annabelle, of the real reason you want to base in Jamaica?”

“Because you’re here, Mercy. It’s as simple as that. I want to be near you.”

Apparently, it was the correct answer. “Awright, then,” Mercy said, blushing. “Assuming you’re serious about trading a painting of Hennie in on an over-the-hill Jamaican record producer and a derelict piece of property in the Blue Mountains, and assuming we can negotiate a price with a few less zeros at the end of it, I say we go for it!”

Dessie pumped his fist in the air.

“Fantastic!” said Annabelle. “I’ll email Ben tonight and phone him first thing in the morning. Let’s just hope Hennie still has a few magic tricks up her sleeve.”

Chapter 30: Thank God For Hennie

2014

Ben didn’t waste any time. He consigned Francis Bacon’s Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, a huge purple and red abstraction that featured an unrecognizable Hennie sprawled gloriously naked on a white bed, to Christie’s in London. It was scheduled to go on the auction block in nine months so they would have time to research and attract potential clients.

“Cho!” said Mercy. “That’s time enough to make a pickney!”

She put the house on Hope Road up for sale, but few people were interested, and those that were couldn’t get a loan. Annabelle was nervous that somebody else might steal their dream of Mt. Calabash in the interim, but Mercy assured her they wouldn’t.

“What is waiting there for you, you will find it,” she said mystically.

Annabelle hadn’t actually gotten down on her knees and prayed since she was in the convent as an adolescent—what she did with the Maharishi didn’t count. But every night before they went to bed, she and Mercy asked God and Jah respectively to help them fulfill their dream. And you know what? It worked in a roundabout way.

Peter got a job teaching communications at UWI, Mona, but the commute from Clarendon would be too much, so his family was going to have to relocate closer to Kingston. Mercy offered him and Keisha a sweet deal on the house on Hope Road so it could stay in the family, and Voila! They were anxious to move in, but the auction at Christie’s was still a long way off. The house was big, but there really wasn’t enough room for everybody to be comfortable for an extended period of time, so they stayed put until Hennie delivered the Bacon. Ha, ha.

While waiting impatiently for the auction date to roll around, Annabelle discovered through the music tabloids that another chapter in Those Girls needed to be written. Caroline, Ian’s partner for the last thirteen years, committed suicide at the age of forty-nine. Her assistant found her hanging by one of his neckties in their Manhattan apartment. There was no note and no sign of foul play, but her friends said she had been extremely depressed of late. The showing of her fall fashion collection in London had been canceled due to production delays resulting from lack of hard cash up front.

Bloody hell. By now, everyone should be aware of the castigating influence Ian had on the women in his life. Annabelle knew from personal experience that his switchy behavior left them up in the air wondering whether he loved or hated them. By the time they figured out that he really only loved himself, it was too late. Caroline’s family revealed she was deep in fiscal arrears. They said Ian Walsh, Mr. Bountiful, refused to back her financially although his personal fortune was estimated to be well over £200 million. In other words, it was the same old cheap story.

“I am still struggling to comprehend how my lover and best friend could end her life in this tragic way,” Ian wrote on his website and official Facebook page. “We spent so many wonderful happy years together and made a great life for ourselves. Her talent was much admired, not least of all by me. I have been touched by the many tributes that people have spoken, and the personal messages of support I’ve received. I will never, ever forget her.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Much to her family’s despair, Caroline left her entire estate, estimated at U.S. $9 million after her debts were paid, to Ian. He said he intended to use the money to create a scholarship at a London-based fashion design school, and then he went on to announce that his latest girlfriend, a twenty-three-year-old prima ballerina, was expecting his eighth child.

“Ho-hum.” Annabelle yawned. “I never thought I’d say it, but Ian Walsh is becoming a bore.”

Mercy laughed. “Don’t stop the Carnival,” she said. Then she sucked her teeth.

To pass the time before the auction and get out of the house, Mercy, Dessie, and Annabelle visited local tourist attractions—including the Bob Marley Museum and the newly opened memorial for Peter Tosh.

When the guy who sold tickets at Brother Bob’s asked for Mercy and Dessie’s autograph, Annabelle made a joke. “I wonder when they’re going to open the Reggae Revelation Museum?”

Mercy smiled. “Probably about the same time they launch the Annabelle Sinclair Institution.”

Liberation colors of red, gold, and green decorated the Marley homestead, where classic tracks like “No Woman No Cry,” “Buffalo Soldier,” and “Redemption Song” accompanied a short film about Bob’s life. Annabelle bought a coffee mug that reminded her to “Emancipate Yourself from Mental Slavery.” Dessie chose a “Dreadlock Rasta” keyring, and Mercy bought a jar of Bob’s Honey made by the hive of bees he kept before his death.

The Tosh Memorial had a harder edge. Its exhibits included his Grammy Award for No Nuclear War as Best Reggae Album, as well as his guitar shaped like an M-16 rifle. “Music is like a weapon that keeps the fountain flowing,” he supposedly said.

Yet according to Mercy, poetics weren’t Tosh’s style. “I remember when I saw him at the One Love Concert. He came onstage with a gigantic fat man hanging from his lips and basically tried to incite the crowd to riot by calling the system the ‘shitstem.’”

“Ian Walsh was there too,” said Dessie.

Annabelle nodded. “I saw the concert on TV in Dublin.”

“Imagine. Tosh’s family actually hocked both the Grammy and the M-16 guitar to a Kingston pawnshop before the estate kicked in,” said Mercy. “That’s how destitute they were.”

“That’s a shame,” Annabelle said, sighing.

“Rita would have never allowed something like that to happen. Jah knows she and Bob had their differences—he had women coming out of the woodwork—but there was mutual respect within the Marley clan.” Mercy bowed her head as if remembering things that she didn’t want to talk about.

Dessie suggested they take the tour bus to Nine Mile, the place where Marley lived until he was thirteen years old, and where he lay buried. “It’s such a cool likkle village. Visitors are encouraged to light up a spliff in honor of Bob’s memory.”

But it was getting late. “Best we head back to the Williams Museum and see what those kids are up to,” Mercy said as they arranged themselves in the van.

Driving home, Annabelle had an epiphany— she wasn’t the only so-called musical icon on board. In Jamaica, reggae music pulsed in the background no matter the destination, and Sista Leona and her brother Dessie were an integral part of the island’s authentic beat. Still, you could hardly turn on the radio before you were assaulted by half-hour blocks of garish dancehall tracks. And never the vibes should meet.

From time to time, Emmana called to keep them posted on the status of Mt. Calabash. “Yes, it’s still on the market with the price knocked down,” she said. “All you better hurry up and make up your minds if you really want it.” What she didn’t know was that they had already hung their hats and set their hearts on buying the property. “By the way, I sold Mr. King’s property at Oracabessa last week,” she added.

“To whom?” asked Mercy.

Emmana chuckled. “An undisclosed buyer. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

Mercy suggested to Annabelle that they keep on praying.

The day of the auction at Christie’s in London finally arrived. Ben sat in the back of the forum and relayed the spectacle to Annabelle’s computer via Skype, a brilliant new invention that also allowed her to stay in touch visually with her granddaughter, Brittany.

Portrait of Henrietta Moraes was big and bold on the cover of the catalog, but according to Mercy, the painting, which she had never seen before, was repulsive.

“Wha’appen to her face?” she said.

“You’re just jealous,” Annabelle teased her. “Now be quiet. I want to hear and see everything.”

The auction began at 7 p.m. GMT—two o’clock in the afternoon in Jamaica. A parade of eleven other paintings preceded Hennie as Annabelle, Mercy, Dessie, Peter, Keisha, and the kids gathered in front of the computer with sodas and a huge bowl of popcorn. Peter had pen and paper at the ready. Keisha busied herself unbraiding her false hair. Fanny commented that some of the works of art looked like cartoons. Dale said that he’d rather be watching cartoons. The seniors, although sitting on pins and needles, stayed glued to their seats.

After Gerhard Richter’s large green, blue, and pink Abstraktes Bild sold for $15.5 million, there was a brief intermission.

“That’s encouraging,” said Annabelle.

Finally, the auctioneer rapped his gavel, and the sale recommenced. “Welcome back to Christie’s Post-War and Contemporary Art auction, ladies and gentlemen. Lot # 12 is a provocative masterpiece by the Irish painter Francis Bacon, regarded as one of the 20th century’s most important artists. This 1963 work, Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, is considered the greatest seductive painting of a female figure ever realized by Bacon, whose personal lack of erotic interest in females did not prevent this from being the most passionate work he ever painted.”

“Uh, oh,” said Dessie. “Sounds like ole Francis was one of us.”

“As you can see, this remarkable painting features a naked model sprawled on a white bed in a room with a lilac wall and bright red floor. The juxtaposition of the setting and the visceral quality of Moraes’s body was obviously an inspiration to Bacon.”

“How would he know what inspired Bacon?” asked Peter.

“Shh!” Keisha scolded.

“The muse to a number of contemporary British artists, Henrietta was once the lover of Lucian Freud.”

Annabelle sighed. “My darling doggie, Freud.”

“Bacon never painted his subjects from life, preferring to use photographs instead. For Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, he commissioned his young friend John Duncan to take a series of photographs that he would later translate onto canvas.”

“Did you know about that?” Mercy asked Annabelle.

“No,” she said. “We must not have been together at the time.”

“This painting has had only two owners; the first was Ms. Moraes herself, and then the seller, a distinguished music icon who acquired the work upon her death,” said the auctioneer.

Annabelle smiled. “That icon would be me. Let the bidding begin!”

What followed was a discreet dance filled with nuance and secret gestures between the bidders and the auctioneer. Annabelle concentrated hard trying to decipher what was going on but soon lost the drift. Since she didn’t know the choreography, all she could do was pray. When it was all over, Portrait of Henrietta Moraes fetched U.S. $33,474,363 from an undisclosed buyer —£21.3 million!

Everyone except Dessie, who was physically unable, jumped up and down and cheered. “Hurray! Annabelle’s rich! Annabelle’s rich!”

And she did feel like she had finally proved that she was a worthwhile person. Money solves everything, right?

“Cho!” Mercy said, beaming. “What we want with British Pounds Sterling? U.S. dollars are perfect. That way we won’t have to do the math when we hand over the cash for Mt. Calabash.”

“Congratulations, Mum,” Ben said through cyberspace. She had almost forgotten him in the excitement. “You must be very pleased.”

“Pleased? More like ecstatic! God bless Hennie and Francis and John and Freud, and God bless you too for putting it all together!”

In the background, a Christie’s spokesperson solemnly announced, “This evening in London we witnessed the strength in the market for Post-War & Contemporary art. Sixty-five paintings were offered in the sale and fifty-eight sold. New and established buyers from fifteen different countries bid extremely competitively, resulting in the second-highest total for the category at Christie’s London ever.”

“So, as I suspected, the Cultural Revolution actually was about money in the bank,” Annabelle said, grinning. “My bank.”

Mercy called Emmana that very night and made a cash offer on Mt. Calabash, and it was quickly accepted. Annabelle still couldn’t believe it. Just when she thought her life was drawing to an unceremonious conclusion, a new chapter full of unconditional friendship and love, conscious music, and beautiful tropical scenery was about to unfold. After the real estate deal closed, she instructed Ben to put a tidy sum in a trust fund for Brittany and invest the rest.

As it turned out, the undisclosed buyer for Barry’s property at Oracabessa was none other than Ian Walsh. Annabelle had her pot of tea, Mercy had her glass of wine, and Dessie was puffing on a joint of marijuana while they discussed the effect the surprise development could have on their plans at Mt. Calabash.

“Su-su says he intends to open the place up to music venues, and he’s got Rudie Boy to run things,” said Dessie.

“I should think that will be a royal combination,” said Annabelle. “The Knight of Rock and Roll and the self-proclaimed King of Dancehall.”

“Hopefully being old and female will make us non-threatening and invisible,” said Mercy, “so we can get on with our camp business undisturbed.”

“But my being male and gay is a definite disadvantage,” said Dessie. “Despite fifteen years of intervention by J-FLAG, Jamaica is still a homophobic island.”

“Now that Barry’s out of the picture at Oracabessa, maybe things will ease up,” Mercy said hopefully.

“He was definitely a troublemaker,” Annabelle said, sipping tea. “But if I remember correctly, Ian is pretty good at trouble too.”

“So is Rudie Boy,” said Dessie. “I heard that Walsh’s first choice for gangalee at Oracabessa was that dude D’Jango, the Jamaican guitarist from Electric Paradise.”

“I remember D’Jango from London,” Annabelle said, wincing. “He was cool but kind of scary, always flipping his lighter on and off, on and off, like he wanted to start a fire or something.”

“And what about that woman Marla?” said Mercy.

“Who’s Marla?” asked Dessie.

Annabelle groaned. “She’s the bitch who sold the love letters that Ian wrote her while I was in a coma in hospital. She thought she hit the jackpot, but she got peanuts compared to what I got for Hennie’s painting.”

“They say she’s hooked up with D’Jango, and both of them have become honorary members of The Alliance,” said Mercy.

“What? How come you two know so much?” asked Annabelle.

She smiled. “J-FLAG knows everything.”

They sat in silence for a while, each of them considering the latest cast of characters and the recently thickened plot.

“Well, the good news is that Buju is still in jail, and Vybz Kartel has been sentenced to life imprisonment,” said Dessie.

“Right. That’s two bumboholes we don’t have to worry about,” said Mercy. “But Mista Man continues to offend at home and abroad. The court case filed by that poor woman he threw in the pool with the shark is still in litigation.”

“Don’t worry,” said Annabelle. “Paybacks are hell. We’re about to embark on a grand adventure and nobody can stop us.”

Dessie exhaled a blast of herbal smoke. “Right. Here’s to Jamtilles and Second Revelation.”

“And here’s to Hennie and Mt. Calabash!” Mercy cheered, toasting Annabelle’s teacup with her wine glass.

Chapter 31: Jah Bless You

2015

After over fifty years of enduring the highs and lows of the music industry separately and occasionally together, Annabelle and Mercy moved to Mt. Calabash and invited Dessie to come along. Of course, the place really wasn’t ready—the main house had been vandalized a couple of times since they last visited, and the swimming pool was empty. It would take work to whip it back into shape, but then again, they had a lot of love and effort to give.

Back from spending the weekend with Peter and Keisha and the kids on Hope Road, Dessie reported to the recording studio. “Word is out that Rudie Boy has put the guzumba on Mt. Calabash,” he said. “Anybody who aligns themselves with us, physically or musically, will be locked out of future bashments at Oracabessa.”

“Jamaicans are like crabs in a barrel, climbing over one another to reach the top and holding everybody else down in the meantime,” said Mercy.

Dessie nodded. “But we’re not interested in competing with the resort at Oracabessa—let’s leave that tourist trap vibe to Ian and Rudie and get down to the real business of promoting reggae music.”

“Yeah, man,” said Mercy. “We succeeded in getting out of Kingston, and now we’re free to get on with our musical mission here in Zion.”

“Righto. Let’s just relax and enjoy the time we have together while we wait for the rest of the world to come to its senses,” said Annabelle. “I spent a lifetime worrying about paybacks and revenge, but I hope I’m finished with all that now. It feels good to let go of resentment and concentrate on what’s positive.”

She was thoroughly enjoying Caribbean country life—the beautiful scenery, the warm tropical climate, the fresh fruits and vegetables, and most of all a sense of finally having found a home to share with people she loved. All her life she had been searching for a way to soothe her troubles, and to Annabelle Mt. Calabash, like Brazier’s Park, felt like a place full of hope and redemption.

Dessie grinned. “Why, Annabelle, I do believe you’re turning Rastafari.”

“Yeah, man. Didn’t you notice my baby dreadlocks?” she said, ruffling her bleached blonde hair. The gray roots were beginning to show, but somehow she didn’t care. “Still, I can’t help thinking about what happened by the river. Two old women and a gay guy in a wheelchair are pretty easy targets way up here in the mountains. Maybe it would be smart to get a gun.”

Mercy was shocked. “That would make us just like all the rest of the bumboholes! The vibe we’re trying to project is peace and love, not war and violence.”

Dessie laughed. “Annabelle. Name three things that terrify the average Jamaican.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Dogs, guns, and gays.”

“So if we get a couple of big dogs, we should be sixty-six percent safe,” reasoned Mercy.

But instead of starting with sweet, innocent puppies bred by reputable kennels, they visited the J.S.P.C.A. and returned with a van full of doggie castaways. There was nothing like Freud in the mix—the closest thing was a kind of Jack Russell terrier that Annabelle picked for herself. Mercy adopted a pair of Rottweiler crosses that were grateful and naturally aggressive. Dessie selected a female Labrador that loved him so much it wasn’t funny. Finally, he had a girlfriend!

Things were cool for a while, but when Annabelle’s dog, Jacko, claimed Dessie’s Lab, Honey, for his own, all hell broke loose. Although he was just a little guy, Jacko wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated by Mercy’s big dogs, Thunder and Lightning, and defended Honey’s honor with his life.

“We’ve started a bloody dog fighting operation!” Annabelle shouted over the raucous.

The vet bills were enormous. Things got progressively worse until they built a kennel for Mercy’s Rotts. The good news was that they were happy in their new home, perfectly content to fulfill their destiny as excellent guard dogs instead of pampered pets. Jacko growled every time he passed the kennel, but Honey, who only had eyes for Dessie, never paid him any mind.

Now that the dog situation was sorted out, the trio was free to get back to the renovations of Mt. Calabash. They took up the tasks they could handle, like painting, and gardening, and landscaping, themselves. A plumber friend of Dessie’s managed to get water into the pool, and an electrician fitted the recording studio with most of the equipment from Hope Road. But after months of begging and pleading with local contractors, not much else had been accomplished.

While waiting for the job to be completed, they decided they should finalize the agenda for the camp. Trade winds blew, and a riot of tropical flowers bloomed, while the Williams family, minus Paul and Celia, but including Peter, Keisha, Dale, and Fanny, gathered around the pool to brainstorm.

Annabelle suggested they start small. “Why not set up a mini-jamboree complete with music workshops, good food, and fun and games on the last Saturday of every month to whet kids’ appetites? If that’s successful, then we could offer a seven-day sleep-away camp through the summer school break that would include accommodation, meals and snacks, music classes, and recreational facilities,” she said.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Mercy.

“But how would underprivileged Jamaican youts be able to afford something like that?” asked Dessie.

Mercy disliked the word underprivileged. “How ‘bout using the word disadvantaged instead? Initially, we’d donate our talent. After that, we’d recruit like-minded musicians as guest mentors.”

“Like who?”

“Jimmy Cliff, Ernest, Bunny, Sly and Robbie . . .”

“Don’t forget your overseas boyfriends Maxi and Shaggy,” Dessie teased her.

“Who?” Fanny asked.

Peter laughed. “You see? Our musical icons aren’t necessarily heroes for the younger generation.”

“You’re right,” said Mercy. “Anyway, we’ll probably have to do most of the work and bear most of the expenses ourselves until we can get local businesses for sponsors. I was thinking of offering a Peter Ashley Memorial Fund Scholarship for starters, if it’s okay with the rest of you.”

“Who’s Peter Ashley?” asked Dale.

Mercy shook a finger at him. “He was the most wonderful man in the world and the brains behind Reggae Revelation. Your father is named after him, for heaven’s sake.”

“And don’t forget Henrietta Moraes,” said Annabelle. “There should be a scholarship in her name too.”

“You mean the naked lady from the painting at Christie’s?” Fanny asked innocently.

Dale shot her a dirty look. “Auntie Mercy said that lady was everybody’s fairy godmother.”

They all laughed, but it was true. Without Hennie, there wouldn’t be a Camp Calabash.

“In the meantime, I nominate Mercy for general musical director,” said Annabelle.

“And I could coordinate the food,” Dessie volunteered.

“I could organize the classes,” said Peter.

“And I could share singing and performance tips,” said Keisha.

Annabelle nodded. “We could stage a concert for parents and friends at the end of camp.”

“And best of all,” said Mercy, “everybody would get a Camp Calabash T-shirt. Sound like fun, pickneys?”

Dale grinned. “Seen!”

“Seen!” Fanny cheered.

Once the word about the musical workshop jamboree got out, a few youngsters showed up at the gate on the appropriate Saturday mornings. Not many, mind you, but enough to make a start. Some had musical talent. Some were just plain hungry. No one was turned away unless they were rude or obviously on drugs. Mercy mentored them just like Sister Ignatius had done at the Alpha Boys School. Despite the influence of dancehall and politricks in Jamaica, young musicians, Jah bless them, were still full of dreams. Annabelle said that since they enjoyed free food and music classes on Saturdays, it seemed only fair the kids came back on Sunday to lend a hand with the renovations where they could. Wannabes wearing Camp Calabash T-shirts wielded hammers and nails, dipped brushes in paint, and helped with clean-up before they returned home exhausted at the end of the weekend. Not everything turned out as expected, but the results bore the unmistakable stamp of a team of yardie youts who cared.

One very special boy came every day of the week. When Mercy asked him his name, he said, “I and I Ras Moses.” When she asked what village he came from, he pointed down the mountain. “Down dere.” Concerning his school and his parents, he just shrugged. “Yuh no haffi worry. Mo come to help.”

Moses had artistic talent. When they handed him a brush, he settled down to paint meticulous, culturally significant graffiti on any flat surface he could find. Although he never talked much, what he did say was mystic and intuitive. “Jah run tings,” and “Di riddim haffi rule,” for example.

In between wetting his own brush, Mo worshiped the untitled Jean-Michel Basquiat painting that hung in the studio. “Sista Leona,” he said, staring, “dere is another world beside what we can see with our eyes. Dat painting so fulla riddim and rebellion, it’s like it have a life of it own.”

“That’s why I love it,” said Mercy. She had the feeling that Moses, like Jean-Michel Basquiat, was an old, complicated soul. “And that’s why I love you too,” she added, blushing.

Mercy kept in touch with Basquiat sales after his premature death in 1988. Paintings from the ‘80s, like the one she had bought from Robert Fraser, were selling for millions of U.S. dollars at auction—3 million, 5 million, 13 million, even 48 million for one called Dustheads in 2013. The numbers made Portrait of Henrietta Moraes look like chicken feed. But she didn’t mention it to Annabelle. She didn’t want to burst her bubble. Besides, Mercy couldn’t bear the thought of parting with her Jean-Michel under any circumstances—not while she was still alive, anyway.

She put an arm around Mo’s shoulder. “Imagine. A painting by that same artist just sold for millions of U.S. dollars at auction,” she told him as they stood transfixed in front of the Basquiat. “But that has to be our secret.”

Mo sealed his lips with an imaginary key and threw it in the bushes. “But Sista Leona, dis painting not about money. Dis painting ‘bout soul. Money is jus’ numbers. If life is money, we might as well drop out. What’s important is to have a clean heart.”

Mercy nodded. “You sound like Brother Bob. And you’re right, you know.”

“But according to Annabelle, having a good heart can land you in some serious trouble,” he said, frowning.

“Seen,” said Mercy. She had heard Annabelle mutter that sentiment often over the years, and it always made her uneasy.

Yet to Annabelle, there was something unseen about Moses—like how he never looked the same from one day to the next, even in photos. In her mind, the boy was like a chameleon that changed voices and personalities to suit the circumstances. One day he was a child, the next day he was a wizard full of tricky vernacular and reasoning beyond his years. Mo frightened her the same way the Basquiat painting did, so she invented excuses to keep him at a distance.

“The consumption of alcohol, smoking tobacco or marijuana, or the ingestion of non-prescription drugs by students is not allowed at Camp Calabash,” she recited when he lit up a spliff in front of the other kids.

“Di weed is I-ssential to mindful meditation,” said Moses. “Overstand, Miss Annabelle?”

“You’re the one who needs to understand. Best you learn to follow the rules if you want to participate in Camp Calabash,” she said.

“Di rules? Since when does right livity have rules? Rebellion is a good thing if Babylon have to fall. Not true, Sista Leona?”

Mercy smiled. “Nonviolent revolution definitely has its place,” she said diplomatically.

“Babylon can neva trod in Zion. Ras Moses gonna make sure of that,” he said.

“How?” Annabelle asked stubbornly.

“Sista, di riddim is di universal balm to heal humanity’s pain,” he said in a low voice. Then Moses did something strange. He walked across the yard and gave Annabelle a hug.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes as she peered over his shoulder at Mercy. “See what I mean? One minute he’s a street urchin and the next minute he’s a prophet.”

“Leave Moses alone,” Mercy said mildly. “We were pretty rebellious ourselves in our day. I had Reggae Revelation and you, my dear, were a card-carrying member of the Cultural Revolution. Moses may disregard the rules, but he certainly has his priorities straight.”

And so, Ras Moses got a “forward” to go ahead with his work and his smoke. In addition to creating his beautiful, mind-blowing graffiti and murals, he spent hours staring at the Basquiat, scribbling lyrics, and pounding on Dessie’s drums in the studio. Just like Mo’s artwork, his music was profound and unsettling, a true reflection of the way he viewed his place as a poor Rasta youth in modern Jamaican society.

Yuh too cool-cool to be fool-fool.

How yuh mean yuh gwaan foreign?

Rise up mi bredren/sistern.

Mercy was astounded that such insightful lyrics could come from a thirteen-year-old. It was as if he had crawled inside her head and expressed her deepest, darkest regrets about leaving her island to pursue the carrot that Barry dangled in front of her. But Annabelle was insulted. What was wrong with reaching for the brass ring? If Mercy hadn’t come to the UK, they would have never met.

Then one day Moses just didn’t show up— not that day, the day after, or even the next.

“Best we count the silverware,” Annabelle said smugly.

Mercy panicked. So many things could happen to a boy like Moses in Jamaica that she didn’t even want to think about them. She asked around, put up posters offering a reward for information, even went to di Babylon police, but nobody knew anything about a pickney named Moses. Mercy thought of him every time she looked at the Basquiat or passed by the graffiti that decorated the walls of Mt. Calabash. Ras Mo Was Here, they seemed to say.

Peter suggested Second Revelation get busy and record a new single while they waited for the facelift of the property to be completed. “Good idea,” Mercy said, hoping it would take her mind off Moses. “What say we make some sweet reggae music and dedicate it to Ras Mo, wherever he may be?”

Annabelle sang backups with Jep on “Jah Bless,” which was written by Peter and arranged by Mercy. Not only did it have great lyrics, but it also subscribed to the authentic reggae one-drop percussion that Dessie did so well. Mercy pounded the keyboards like a woman on a mission. Sly and Robbie were on bass, Peter was on acoustic guitar, and Keisha sang like a bird. Even Dale and Fanny had a couple of “Seen” lines in the chorus.

“If you have it in your heart to love humanity, then Jah bless you.

Wanna put an end to this insanity? Then Jah bless you.

Everywhere you look there’s violence on di street (Seen!)

Everywhere you turn they diss di reggae beat (Seen!)

But Jah bless dose who make love grow.

If the vibe rings true, then Jah bless you.”

As official band manager, Peter used all his communication skills to promote the record: digital distribution, YouTube videos, iTunes, Podcasts, social media, licensing—most of which would have never occurred to Mercy, Dessie, or Annabelle. Almost overnight, the song went viral in Jamaica. Bombarded with requests for press, radio, and TV interviews, Second Revelation was able to spread the word about the music camp in the process. Because of “Jah Bless,” scores of budding musicians of all ages besieged Mt. Calabash’s doorstep just like they had back in the days of Studio One. Only this time, instead of being exploited, young musicians would get proper training, guidance, and compensation.

Chapter 32: Grannybelle

The mini-jamboree was successful, and the renovations at Mt. Calabash progressed thanks to the ample supply of enthusiastic youth labor. The time had now come to nail down the details of the sleep-away summer camp. Dessie figured they could accommodate fifteen kids, about half of which would be on scholarships.

Mercy had been working hard to identify potential recipients. “It seems there’s musical talent hiding under every bush in Jamaica. The group of candidates is really impressive,” she said. “These kids are eager and bright, dying to learn as much about music as they possibly can.”

“Yeah, but don’t forget the kids who have been helping us with the renovations,” said Dessie. “They should get first priority.”

“We can’t expect all of our campers will turn out to be serious musicians,” said Annabelle. “Our job is to offer a variety of fun classes that will encourage children to enjoy music for the rest of their lives whether they end up on stage or not.”

Keisha nodded. “Exactly. When you’re practicing at home alone, it can be kinda boring. At camp, there would be opportunities to share music and make new friends who are as enthusiastic as you are.”

“Yeah, man,” said Peter. “Music is a powerful force that can help in plenty of ways. It encourages camaraderie, it boosts brainpower, improves academic performance, and builds confidence.” He was a teacher as well as a musician, so he should know.

Mercy agreed. “When young people have positive music in their lives, they are less likely to be distracted by the negative elements of society. That’s what the reggae vibe is all about. So let’s get busy and make this an experience these youts will never forget.”

But despite their enthusiasm, few kids actually signed up for camp. Why? 1) Rootsie, who still pulled some strings in the Rastafari community, came right out and said that the staff at Camp Calabash was gay and therefore contrary to Jah’s commandments. Anybody who participated would risk burning in hell. 2) Rudie Boy, who now worked exclusively for Ian, went out of his way to convince Jamaicans that a beach bashment was the only way to enjoy themselves. Why would anyone send their kids to a dreary camp way up in the god-forsaken mountains when they could be jamming on the beach instead? And 3) Ray Ban and The Alliance, now aided and abetted by new members D’Jango and Marla, continued to broadcast vitriolic vibes in the camp’s direction. Namely, Annabelle was an alcoholic drug addict, Mercy was a bossy lesbian bitch, and Dessie was a gay pervert.

Mercy was dismayed. “How come they’re saying that? Don’t they have vices of their own to worry about?”

“The devil made them do it,” Annabelle said, chuckling.

“Which devil?” Dessie asked.

“Why, Ian Walsh, of course.”

They had yet to run into him on their forays up and down the mountain. Su-su had it that there was to be some sort of grand opening at Oracabessa at the end of June for Emancipation, but it seemed the new owner was reluctant to show his face outside the gates of the resort. Annabelle, who had sworn off revenge, had her hackles up. Come on. Hadn’t Ian Walsh done enough to screw up her life already?

But Mercy said to back off. “Jah runs tings, not the devil. Camp Calabash will go on with or without Mr. Walsh’s stamp of approval.”

Annabelle shrugged. “If you say so.” But in her mind, she was rehearsing the confrontation she planned to have with “the devil.” It was just a matter of when.

Although she wasn’t all that fond of Moses, Annabelle could sympathize with Mercy concerning his disappearance. She’d been separated from Benji for most of his childhood, and she had lost a baby forever. So when she got a call saying Ben and his family were planning to visit Jamaica over the upcoming Spring break, she was ecstatic. The timing wasn’t great because everybody was busy getting ready for the camp, but she hadn’t seen Brittany in almost a year and couldn’t wait to get her hands on her precocious granddaughter.

The finishing touches on Camp Calabash were almost completed before the Duncans arrived. It was important to Annabelle to show her family that she had finally accomplished something worthwhile in her life (as if albums and awards didn’t count for anything), and she wanted them to be impressed. She also wanted to pick Ben’s brain about the tax implications of living and doing business overseas. Camp Calabash was registered as a non-profit organization in Jamaica, and although she had no intention of moving back to the UK, she wanted to make sure there were no unforeseen glitches.

Verifying their plane was on time, Mercy and Annabelle set out in the mini-van for the airport. Annabelle was thankful that she and Ben had made their amends. She had Mercy and the rest of the Williams family now, but she couldn’t imagine life without her son, his wife, Penny, and her granddaughter, Brittany. She wondered if Ben would remember Mercy Mae. She had gone back to Jamaica soon after John took him away from her. When Mercy eventually returned to England the second time, Ben was away at school. But now there was going to be one big family reunion down in Jamaica, or at least Annabelle hoped so.

As Annabelle and Mercy waited outside the baggage carousel, they heard one kind of commotion coming from the other side of the arrival gate. The ro-ro turned out to be Brittany having a first-class meltdown over the fact that customs officials were rummaging through her pink and red Hello Kitty carryon. Annabelle had to laugh. It reminded her of all those times she had traveled through airports with contraband concealed in her bags praying she wouldn’t get busted. Now she lived in a place where cannabis was the recreational drug of choice, and she didn’t even smoke it anymore.

Ben’s family emerged from immigration looking like typical tourists—after being among black people for so long, Annabelle had almost forgotten they would be white Anglo-Saxons just like her. As soon as she waved, Ben rushed through the arrival gate, Penny and Brittany in tow.

“Hi, Mum! We made it!”

“Greetings, my darlings,” cried Annabelle, wrapping her arms around all three of them at once. “Welcome to Jamaica!”

“You look wonderful,” said Ben. Ha! She supposed she did, compared to the last time he saw her, so crippled up and depressed.

“You remember Mercy Mae?” she asked.

Ben shook her hand. “Of course I do. Sista Leona, the reggae queen of Revelation Records.”

Mercy smiled. “You grew up, Benji. It’s so nice to see you again.”

“This is my wife, Penny, and my daughter, Brittany,” he said.

Penny hugged Mercy, but Brittany hung back as if she was frightened of her.

“Come on,” Annabelle said after they’d collected their luggage. “Let’s get out of this madhouse. We’ve got a way to travel to reach Mt. Calabash. If we hustle, you guys can take a dip in the pool and enjoy a rum punch before dinner. Mercy’s brother Dessie is a fantastic cook.”

“You have a women pool, Grannybelle?” Brittany inquired hopefully.

“Swimming pool? Absolutely. I hope you packed your Hello Kitty swimsuit.”

She nodded. “Absowutely.”

Dessie’s food was delicious—callalou soup, unlimited flying fish with the jerk sauce on the side in light of Brittany’s tender palate, christophine and carrots au gratin, traditional Jamaican rice and peas, and key lime pie for dessert followed by ginger wine or tea to settle their stomachs. Everybody seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. Ben and Dessie talked about music, while Mercy and Penny chatted and cleaned up the kitchen, and Brittany cuddled in Annabelle’s lap, Jacko at their feet. In her wildest dreams, Annabelle had never imagined having such a loving circle of friends and family surrounding her at this point in her life. She hadn’t expected to make it to her golden years, never contemplated how sweet those years could be.

When Brittany started yawning, Annabelle volunteered to take her to bed. It had been a long day, especially for a four-year-old. “Will you read me a bedtime story, Grannybelle?”

“Of course, darling,” she said. “Did you bring some good books?”

“Yes. All my favorite fairy tales.”

Annabelle rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fairy tales. I should have known that you’d favor fairy tales just like your old Grannybelle.” Jacko followed as she led Brittany across the pool yard to the guest cottage where her family was staying. “Remember, you must never go near the pool unless there’s an adult around,” she whispered in her granddaughter’s ear.

“Are you an adult?” Brittany asked sweetly.

Annabelle chuckled. “I’m trying to be, Britty-bou. I’m trying.”

When she swung the door open, Jacko leaped onto Brittany’s bed, which had been fitted with Hello Kitty sheets. She started to giggle while Annabelle unsuccessfully attempted to shoo him down. “Maybe he likes cats,” Brittany said impishly.

The way the girl cocked her head when she said it reminded Annabelle of the cheeky child she had once been. “Please God, not another Annabelle,” she said under her breath. Yet everybody knows that kindred spirits gravitate toward each other instinctively. That’s how it was with Brittany and Annabelle, and there wasn’t much to be done about it.

Jacko was scratching at the covers and circling around as if he knew exactly where he was going to sleep. “Leave him, Grannybelle. I’m not allowed to have a dog at home.”

“Why ever not?” asked Annabelle.

“Daddy’s allergic, bemember?”

“Then it won’t do to have Jacko in your room, will it?”

“He promises to be extra quiet, don’t you, Jacko?” The little dog put his head between his paws and whined. “Just tuck us in extra tight and everything will be awright.”

Her use of “awright” for “alright” caused Annabelle to smile. Mercy Mae still said it exactly the same way, even though she was close to seventy years old. It tickled her so, that she couldn’t help bursting out in song. “Don’t worry . . .”

“That’s a song called ‘Three Little Birds,’” Brittany said with authority. “It’s by B-Bob M-M—"

“How do you know that?”

“Daddy taught it to me when we decided to come to Jamaica to visit you.”

Annabelle pretended to be flabbergasted. “He did? You know every single verse?”

Brittany nodded and commenced to sing loud and clear. “Rise up . . . oo-oo.”

“That was fantastic!” Grannybelle raved when she’d finished. “That’s just how Bob wanted kids like you to sing it. ‘Specially the ‘oo-oo’ part. Let’s sing verse two as a duet.”

Brittany and Annabelle sang the entire song softer and softer until they were just humming, and the child fell asleep. Annabelle was dozing in the bedside chair and the dog hidden under the covers when Ben and Penny came in. They hugged goodnight, and she tiptoed out of the room. As soon as the lights went out, Ben started sneezing. Annabelle felt guilty, but not enough to deprive Brittany and Jacko of their sweet dreams.

Dale and Fanny, who were on a holiday from school for spring break, were excited to leave Kingston behind and join in the camp fun. Even though they were older, they took little Brittany under their wing while the adults hashed over the itinerary for the upcoming session of Camp Calabash. Once the counselors had the schedule figured out, they did a trial run—8:00 Breakfast; 9:00 Singing; 10:00 Drumming; 10:45 Snack and Break; 11:00 Music Appreciation; 12:00 Lunch and Rest; 1:30 Performance Master Class. Whew! Camp Calabash was exhausting! So much so, that there wouldn’t be time for the campers to get into trouble, which was exactly the point.

At 3 o’clock every afternoon, they scheduled alternative recreation, like trips to the river and hikes in the forest. If it was raining, the kids joined Dessie’s cooking class or made jewelry with Keisha. The children loved it, but by the time dinner rolled around the adults were so knackered they could barely chew their food, let alone stay awake for the slated movie.

“Who dreamed up this whirlwind schedule?” Penny teased Annabelle. “I’m supposed to be on vacation.”

Lights went out at 9 p.m. for the youngsters, and by 10 o’clock the old folks, who—except for Annabelle—had indulged in a few glasses of wine, rum punch, and/or smoked a couple of joints, were ready for bed.

“I feel like I’m in boot camp,” Ben said good-naturedly.

“Grannybelle, I want to go to the beach and get some sheshells before I go home,” Brittany announced at breakfast the next morning. She, Annabelle, and Mercy sat under an umbrella at a glass-topped table by the pool.

“No problem, Britty-bou. Mercy, where do you think we should go?”

“I don’t want to spoil your fun,” said Mercy, “but just remember a lot of public beaches in Jamaica can be dangerous for folks of your complexion.”

“Hmmm. You have a point,” said Annabelle. Then she had what she thought was a brilliant idea. Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone—please her family and make it clear to Ian Walsh not to fuck with Camp Calabash. “What about Oracabessa? It was beautiful there when I visited with Barry.”

“Barry’s dead,” Mercy said, scoffing. “Plus it’s too far away for a day trip.”

“Well, we could stay overnight, then.”

“You must be joking. I hear the least expensive room is U.S. $1000 per night, and there are four of you. You’d need a suite.”

Words flew out of her mouth before Annabelle could stop them. “Nobody’s asking you to pay,” she said. “There’s plenty of money courtesy of Hennie.”

Mercy narrowed her eyes. “You know what? I’m getting sick and tired of hearing about Hennie. I know you. You want confrontation with Ian, and you’ll go right ahead and check your scene no matter what I say. So why bother to ask me in the first place?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. What harm would it do to live it up at Oracabessa for a day after working like a slave all these months?”

Another faux pas.

Mercy bristled. “Slavery was abolished a long time ago,” she said.

Annabelle was close to tears. “I just want to take my family to the beach!”

But Mercy wasn’t finished. “You didn’t see me running back to Barry when things got tight, did you? The Blue Beat Girl aka Sista Leona had her own agenda. You, on the other hand, could never wait to mess around—first with Ian, then Ingrid, then Hennie, then Barry, and who knows who else. Is it worth putting your family at risk just to find out what Ian Walsh is up to, for heaven’s sake?”

Annabelle gulped. “Let me ask Ben what he thinks of the idea,” she said tentatively.

The way Mercy, who was usually so relaxed, was getting on made Brittany anxious. “Yeah, let’s ask Daddy.”

“What would Ben know about Ian Walsh except that he’s a bumbohole who has no consideration for anybody but himself?” Mercy said, frowning.

Brittany put her hands on her hips. “My daddy knows everything!”

Annabelle had to smile. “Atta girl.”

Mercy reached out and squeezed Annabelle’s hand. “All I’m saying is to be careful. I’m all for forgiveness, but it would be a shame if the devil had his way with you again.”

“Grannybelle isn’t afraid of the devil,” said Brittany.

Annabelle smiled. “Discussion over.”

Chapter 33: Devil Is My Name

When Annabelle ran the idea of a beach break to Oracabessa past Ben, he was all for it. “I haven’t seen that bugger Ian Walsh in person since I was a little kid forty years ago,” he said. “I’ll call and make a reservation in my name, but I doubt he’ll even remember who Benjamin Duncan is.”

“You mean you never went to an Electric Paradise concert, Ben?”

“I felt like it would be a betrayal to Papa John,” he said. “C’mon, Mum. It’ll be fun.”

It turned out part of the all-inclusive package of the Oracabessa Resort was pickup and delivery. “Wow. They’re sending a complimentary car for us,” he told Annabelle. “For free.”

She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Ben. Ian Walsh never does anything for free.”

Brittany packed all her Hello Kitty paraphernalia into her carry-on bag. “Just in case we don’t make it back, Grannybelle.”

“Why on earth would you say that?”

“Mercy Mae said we’re going to visit the devil.”

“No, no, sweetheart. There is no such thing as the devil. We’re going to look for sheshells, maybe even take a paddleboat ride.”

“Can Jacko come?”

“Nope. He has to stay here and guard the camp.”

The car picked them up right after breakfast. The driver headed down the mountain, skirted Kingston on the highway, and then north to Oracabessa. Brittany slept on Annabelle’s lap with her thumb in her mouth until they stopped for lunch. When they reached the resort in the late afternoon, the beach was just as beautiful as Annabelle remembered it. But now it was private, and the patrons were strictly white tourists.

Native Jamaicans looked on longingly from snackettes and craft shops as much-needed revenue passed them straight and disappeared behind closed gates across the road. In the reception area, a “Welcome to Paradise” rum punch awaited newly arrived guests.

Annabelle took one whiff and handed it back to the smiling clerk. “I’ll have what she’s drinking,” she said, patting Brittany’s head.

Mercy had been wrong about the price of a room. The suite cost U.S. $1,800 per night. “How long will you be staying, Mr. Duncan?” the receptionist asked sweetly.

“Just tonight,” he managed to say.

The accommodation was spacious and beautifully decorated. Brittany enthusiastically extracted her Hello Kitty swimsuit from her carry-on while Annabelle changed. “We’ll meet you on the beach,” she called to Ben and Penny, who seemed to have other recreation on their minds.

The water was crystal clear and the sand clean and warm as Annabelle and her granddaughter strolled down the beach hand in hand. Seashells were a bit scarce, but pelicans and gulls diving for fish kept them entertained. After splashing around in the shallows for a while, they flopped down under an umbrella and inspected the shells they had collected.

“These were once homes for animals that live in the sea,” said Annabelle.

Brittany peered inside what was left of a battered conch. “What happened to them? Where do they live now?”

“They grew up and built bigger and better homes for themselves and their families.”

“Daddy says we’re going to move to the country when Mummy has the baby.”

“Mummy is having another baby?”

“Yup. But it’s still a secret, so don’t tell.”

“I certainly shan’t,” Annabelle said solemnly.

On the walk back, a slim, tanned, white man on a Jet Ski swerved dangerously close to shore. When he cut the engine and waved, Annabelle realized it was none other than Ian Walsh.

“I heard you were visiting the island,” he hollered.

She was surprised he recognized her. “Actually, I live here now,” she yelled back.

“Me too. Meet me at The Lagoon bar at sunset,” he said.

“Okay,” she agreed. So far, everything was going as planned.

“What did that old man want?” asked Brittany. “Mummy says not to talk to strangers.”

Annabelle laughed. “Believe it or not, that old man used to be my boyfriend,” she said, winking.

“No way,” said Brittany.

Overloud music played in the background while Annabelle browsed the photographs of Antilles and Polystore recording artists that decorated the walls of the bar. One of the oldest and most faded was of Mercy Mae, the Blue Beat Girl, complete with ‘60s bouffant hairdo and pink pedal pusher pants. She appeared to be doing the “Giddy-Up.” The album cover of Rich Girl Blues was mercifully missing, but the promo for Annabelle Sinclair at the Montreal Jazz Festival was on display, big and bold. Electric Paradise memorabilia, as produced by Barry and Antilles, was on a separate wall. It surprised Annabelle that Ian hadn’t updated the collection to include the scores of Paradise Records hits, but perhaps he hadn’t had time.

She was lost in the past when Ian sidled up, rum and Coke in hand. “Hello, darling. Recognize any of those old farts?”

Annabelle chuckled. “I’m lucky to recognize myself.”

He led her to a table overlooking the lagoon. “So what are ya drinking?” he asked. Although his face bore a resemblance to a well-worn road map, Annabelle had to admit that he still had a kind of boyish charm that was hard to resist. How was that possible, she wondered, after all these years?

Annabelle blinked. “Lime and soda,” she said.

Instantly, the real persona of Ian Walsh kicked in and spoiled the magic moment. “How about some weed or smack on the side?”

She gave him a withering look. “No thanks. I’ll leave that to you and Rick.”

When the server brought lobster fritters and a creamy sauce to dip them in along with her soda, Annabelle tucked right in. “Maybe I don’t drink, smoke, or shoot up anymore, but I can still eat,” she said.

He looked her up and down. “Obviously.”

With that remark, the dance with the devil began.

“This place was cool and quiet when I visited with Barry all those years ago,” she said, chewing. “Pretty much idyllic. Nothing like a bloody Jet Ski in sight. But now that you run the show, it seems that paradise has gone electric, if you know what I mean.”

He laughed. “What did you expect? When Ian Walsh is on stage, things are bound to light up.”

“Yeah, but I’m confused. I hear you’ve got that bloke Rudie Boy working for you,” she said, fishing for information. “I know he was a chum of Barry’s, but his track record is less than sterling. Why in the world would you want somebody like that to manage your business?”

Ian couldn’t wait to tell her. “I hired him because he knows the Jamaican music scene inside out. Rudie says that international tourists are scarce during the summer, so we put together a new marketing scheme to appeal to upscale locals. Starting with the three-day Emancipation holiday, we’ll offer an all-inclusive package every weekend that features a live concert with a reserved VIP section for our special guests.”

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that a bit over the top?”

“The package will be costly, but Rudie Boy says upwardly mobile Jamaicans are dying for a secure weekend venue away from Kingston where they can free up.”

Annabelle pretended to be astonished. “Since when does Ian Walsh take advice from a boy like Rudie?”

“He’s my main man here on the island,” Ian said proudly. “Rudie has serious security connections who will make sure everything stays cool. We don’t want our special guests or our artists to get harassed by troublesome local riff-raff. No vendors will be allowed inside the gates, so all proceeds will filter back to the resort.”

Annabelle’s mind flashed to Paramount Speedway, but she shook off that nightmare from the past and regrouped. “That sounds like something Barry King might have dreamed up,” she said. “Tell me, who’s gonna grace the lineup of this exclusive concert event?”

“Me, of course. Rudie hasn’t decided on the rest of the acts as yet, but it will be strictly first-class.”

“Well, if you plan to include the authentic reggae beat, you’ll have to negotiate with Sista Leona. You remember my friend Mercy Mae, the Blue Beat Girl? She owns Jamtilles Records and pretty much runs things when it comes to conscious music on the island.”

“Rudie says that kind of music’s an old vibe.”

“Really? Some folks would argue that reggae is the heartbeat of Jamaica, just like rock-and-roll was the voice of the so-called Cultural Revolution in the UK.”

When he got up and poured himself another drink, Annabelle noticed his hands were shaking. It appeared she had touched a nerve—could it be she’d finally figured out how to push at least one of Mr. Walsh’s buttons?

“So tell me, Ian. What exactly happened?” she asked, pressing harder.

“When? How?” he asked obtusely. “According to what?”

“According to the fabled Cultural Revolution. When did all our noble dreams turn to ashes? Electric Paradise was supposed to speak for our generation, but as it turned out the band’s main concern was making piles of money.”

He hesitated. “Let me ask you a question. Annabelle, when are you gonna face the truth?”

“I finally did,” she said. “You and I were like oil and water, but Mercy Mae and I are still true-blue friends after all these years.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard. True blue as in lesbians. Sorry about dumping you, my dear, but your tête-à-tête with Mercy Mae embarrassed the band, not to mention your pathetic time on the streets.”

“You were just as embarrassing, if not worse,” she said bitterly.

“Ha! When was Annabelle Sinclair’s name ever mentioned without including the tag ‘former sweetheart of Ian Walsh?’ Never! I was the linchpin, and you were the groupie. But you just kept on cranking out mediocre records, flaunting your bad acting, and airing your ridiculous trysts like you were some kind of superstar too. And now you and your girlfriend are trying to horn in on my latest commercial venture with your stupid music camp!” His face was beet red.

“You’d better watch your pressure, Ian,” said Annabelle. “Looks like you’re about to blow a 40-amp fuse.”

“And you’d better watch your step, Annabelle. This is Jamaica, not the UK. Rudie says violence is a way of life here in paradise.”

She snorted at the oxymoron, spraying morsels of lobster across the table. “That’s a bit rich,” she said, “just like this bloody fritter.”

Ian used his napkin to wipe bits from his face. “Get real, Annabelle,” he said. “Your entire life has been a sham. From the bleached blonde princess of Soho to the overweight baroness stumbling around onstage in California, you were a fake. And now you set up this phony music camp just to humiliate me.” He slumped in his chair, apparently exhausted.

Annabelle shook her head. “Explain to me how Camp Calabash can interfere with the grand scheme in Oracabessa? We’ve only got a few kids signed up thanks to the bad vibes your boy Rudie has been sending out.”

“Why would we bother to do that?” Ian asked, scowling.

“Beats me, unless you feel threatened. That’s it, isn’t it, Ian? Despite all the fame and fortune, you consider yourself a failure. Cultural Revolution my arse. You’re a bigger fake than I ever was. All you have to show for it is a trail of broken hearts and fucked up kids scattered behind you. Humph! You ended up just like Barry, didn’t you? You’re nothing but a flashy ringmaster promoting music that neither of you could have cared less about. Well, I care, and somebody who loves me cares too. You’d better back off, Mr. Walsh, or you just might find yourself washed up on James Bond Beach alongside Mr. King!”

Ben’s timing was perfect. “Ah, there you are, Mum. We’ve been looking for you. Brittany woke up from her nap starving, so we thought we’d better track you down for dinner.”

“Are we interrupting anything?” asked Penny.

“Not at all,” said Annabelle. “This is my old friend and our current host, Ian Walsh. He was just about to waddle off.”

Ian sprang to his feet. Suddenly he was all smiles. “Hello. Welcome to Oracabessa,” he said like a robot.

“Ian, do you remember my son, Ben?”

“Benji boy! How you doing, my man?” he said, pounding him on the back.

“Fine,” Ben said, wincing. “This is my wife, Penny, and my daughter, Brittany.”

He shook Penny’s hand politely and then bowed and kissed Brittany’s cheek. “Enchanté.”

Penny appeared honored, but Brittany wiped her hand across her face and regarded Ian suspiciously. “Do I know you?” she asked him.

The Duncans and Grannybelle Sinclair enjoyed their all-inclusive dinner like typical tourists. The next morning, after their all-inclusive breakfast, a driver, who turned out to be the same chauffeur who had taken Annabelle to Sumfest all those years ago, was assigned to deliver them back to Mt. Calabash.

Annabelle recognized him immediately. “How do you like working for Mr. Walsh, Linton?” she asked once they were on the road.

Linton glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “That you, Ms. Sinclair? Mi did think that was you.”

She chuckled. “You remember me?”

“How could I forget? But mi neva did get dat autograph from Sista Leona.”

“No worries. I’ll make sure you get it when we reach Mt. Calabash.”

“I only had fi wait twenty years,” he said.

“But Linton, now you’re working for someone even more famous than Sista Leona—Mr. Rock and Roll himself, Ian Walsh,” teased Annabelle.

“Ian Walsh is a bag-o-wire,” he said, sucking his teeth. “Furs thing, him fire half di staff at Oracabessa, including mi own wife.”

“Why?”

“Him say she too black.”

“Mercy Mae is black,” Brittany piped up, “and she’s really nice.”

“Of course she is,” said Penny.

“Then Ian Walsh must be a real bumbohole,” Brittany concluded. “Seen, Mr. Linton?”

“Seen,” Linton said, smiling.

The final week of the Duncans’ visit whizzed by in a flash. Before anybody knew it, it was time for them to fly back to London. Annabelle’s heart was breaking while Brittany packed up her sheshells. On the way to the airport, she held her granddaughter on her lap as if she couldn’t bear to let her go.

“I hope all you will come back soon,” said Mercy.

“They will,” Annabelle chipped in, choking back tears.

“When might you visit England again, Mum?” asked Ben.

She smiled. “As soon as I can get my hands on my new grandbaby. Brittany says you two are expecting.”

“Around Christmas,” said Penny.

“Perfect.”

“Grannybelle, could you do me a favor?” asked Brittany.

“Yes, love.”

“Could you please kiss Jacko goodbye for me? Daddy said his mouth might have germs.”

“No problem,” she said, winking at Ben.

When they announced the flight, Brittany hugged Annabelle tightly around the waist. “I love you, Grannybelle.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Penny held onto Annabelle’s hand while Ben embraced his mother. “We’ll look forward to your visiting us soon,” he said.

“For sure,” Annabelle said, sniveling.

The Duncan family waved goodbye and then disappeared into the departure lounge. When Mercy tried to lead her away, Annabelle planted her feet like a mule. “I don’t want them to go,” she said. “What if I never see them again?”

Mercy ushered her to the van. “Everything’s gonna be awright,” she said. “Come on, gal. Let’s get back home. We’ve got a lot of work to do before camp opens.”

Dale and Fanny voted to have the slogan “Your Vibe Attracts Your Tribe” printed on the official camp T-shirts and a multi-colored banner strung like a rainbow across the car park. Not exactly original, but catchy. While Mercy organized the scheduling of the classes, Dessie sorted out the food. Peter set up the recording equipment, and Keisha made sure the accommodations were satisfactory. And Annabelle? Without Brittany to fuss over, she snooped around like a detective, checking and rechecking particulars overlooked by the Williamses but clearly important to her.

“Sorry,” she apologized as she bumped into herself again and again.

As the Emancipation holiday drew nearer, everyone looked forward to having a few days of downtime before Camp Calabash officially opened. Word had spread among Dale and Fanny’s classmates that the beach bashment at Oracabessa on Emancipation Monday would be awesome, and they were dying to check it out.

When Mercy advised against their going, Fanny started to whine. “How come darling little Brittany got to go to the beach but not us?”

“Yeah, all our friends will be there,” said Dale.

Keisha nodded. “You guys have worked hard, and you deserve to have some fun.”

“I can’t believe you’re even considering putting your feet on James Bond Beach,” said Mercy, “let alone taking the kids.”

Peter shrugged. “I can’t see why not. Why don’t you join us, Auntie?”

“Me? I’d like to forgive and forget, but, unlike Annabelle, I finished playing games with the likes of Mr. King and Mr. Walsh years ago.”

“Well, somebody’s got to check out the competition,” said Dessie.

Mercy kissed her teeth. “Cho! You call that competition? Anytime Rudie Boy is involved, it’s bound to be a circus. Besides, according to what I read on Facebook, it’s sold out. If you don’t have tickets already, you’ll never be able to get in.”

“You and I know Rudie is a wanker, and Ian is half-senile,” said Annabelle. “But why not let them go and find out for themselves?”

“Annabelle, this is family business. You weren’t around after Desmond got shot. You don’t know what it was like back then in Jamaica. In fact, not that much has changed.”

“You told me to butt out, so I did,” she said.

Dessie spoke up. “All I know is that I can’t hide behind two women for the rest of my life. I’m not a likkle boy, you know. It’s time I stood on my own two feet, even if I am in a wheelchair.”

But Mercy had a bad feeling about the show. “Going to Oracabessa would be a mistake,” she repeated. “There’s a lot of negativity connected with Ian Walsh. Anything can happen once that troublemaker is up onstage. Let’s not forget about Paramount Speedway.”

“What happened at Paramount Speedway?” asked Fanny.

Mercy frowned. “Never mind.”

“Auntie Mercy could be right,” Annabelle said, softening.

Dessie stamped his foot. “I’m going, damn it, and nobody can stop me.” A look of triumph washed over his face. It had been a long time since he had taken a positive stand on anything.

Annabelle stepped up and hugged him. “Then go ahead and have a good time, bro. And be sure to smoke a big fat joint for me.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. Nothing bad will happen. We’ll take Honey along for protection.”

“Awright then,” Mercy said, relenting. “But don’t forget to come back bright and early on Tuesday morning to help us get ready for the first day of camp on the weekend.”

“No problem,” said Dessie.

She kissed him on the forehead. “I almost lost you once, Dessie, and I don’t want to have to go through that again for either of our sakes.”

“We promise we’ll tek good care of him, Auntie,” said Keisha.

Mercy and Annabelle waved goodbye as the mini-van, driven by Peter with Keisha riding shotgun and Dessie and Honey and the kids loaded in the back, disappeared down the driveway.

“I just hope I made the right decision letting them go,” Mercy said as they walked back toward the house hand in hand.

“Of course you did,” said Annabelle. “Truth be told, I’m looking forward to a quiet weekend before Camp Calabash shifts into high gear.”

Chapter 34: Emancipation

The Williams family, minus Mercy Mae, rolled into Oracabessa ready to have some fun. Dale and Fanny wore their Camp Calabash T-shirts especially for the occasion, and Honey had a rainbow collar cinched around her neck. But when they tried to purchase tickets to Emancipation on the Beach, the gate was already closed. “Sold Out,” the sign said, just as Mercy had predicted. The kids were naturally disappointed, but the adults blew it off. Honey sat obediently by their side while the “Royal Family of Reggae” stood outside the fence handing out Camp Calabash flyers and signing autographs for locals who recognized them from Second Revelation.

When Ian Walsh got wind of what was happening, he was incensed. “No vendors and no dogs allowed!” he shouted in their direction “This is a private, pre-paid venue, not a hurly-burly carnival sideshow!”

Peter was offended. “There’s no such thing as a private bashment in Jamaica,” he yelled back, “just like there is no such thing as a private beach. This holiday is supposed to be linked to our emancipation, but Euro-controllers like you are still treating ordinary yardies like dirt.”

“Yeah, man,” said Dessie. “Music is for everybody. A street jam and a beach jam are for everyone to enjoy, not some kind of exclusive tea party. Even Barry King knew that.”

“Seen?” Dale hollered, pumping his fist in the air.

“Seen!” Fanny cheered.

Honey barked in solidarity.

The Emancipation on the Beach concert got off to a late start, even by Jamaican standards. There had been a freak summer thunderstorm earlier that afternoon, and the electricity was down. Tires spun and mud splattered onto the fenders of expensive SUVs in the swamped parking lot. Wet sand oozed between the toes of women wearing high-heeled sandals as they picked their way across the flooded lawn to their reserved seats. A humongous generator roared in the background and belched out noxious smoke while patrons waited for the lights to come back on.

An hour later, when the show still hadn’t begun, the crowd became unruly. They’d paid an arm and a leg for an all-inclusive weekend, and they expected to get their money’s worth. Rudie Boy came onstage to try to settle folks down, but that only made things worse. The elite considered a deejay like him too uncouth to entertain them, and they started booing.

Rudie cleared his throat and adopted his most sophisticated voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been an unexpected delay. Because of the inclement weather, the lights are acting up, and the other performers are running a wee bit late.”

“Get on with the show, bumbohole!” the audience demanded.

What choice did he have? But when Rudie touched the microphone, a live spark flew from it and caused him to jump back. He adjusted his signature red bandana and began to chant. “Mauma Boy, Fassy Hole, Bugger Boy, Batty Boy, Faggot, Chi-Chi Boy, throw all dem man in di Caribbean Sea.” He paused. “And dem Chi-Chi Gals too!”

Patrons may have agreed, but they didn’t want to give Rudie the satisfaction of showing it. Wadded-up paper napkins and crushed plastic cups bombarded the stage. If the crowd had access to any rotten fruit, they would have thrown that too.

Ian was beside himself. Everything was going wrong. Not only had he put up with sass from the Royal Family of Reggae, which, as far as he could tell, consisted of three second-rate musicians, two tiresome children, and one boisterous dog, the storm had fucked up the lights, and the other acts hadn’t shown. Now Rudie was onstage spouting gibberish.

As Ian mounted the steps to the stage, the lights flashed twice and then faded again. “Whatever you do, boss, don’t touch the mic,” Rudie warned him.

“This isn’t my first time onstage, rude boy, and I doubt if it will be my last,” he snapped.

“Remember, you’re in Jamaica, Mr. Walsh, and in Jamaica, anything can happen.”

Ian tried to settle down the antsy audience. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I’m Ian Walsh, leader of the world’s greatest rock-and-roll band. Welcome to the Oracabessa Beach Resort.”

From somewhere outside the fence, someone shouted, “Nobody owns the beach in Jamaica!”

“In any event, I’ve come to enlighten Caribbean people about the ongoing Cultural Revolution according to Electric Paradise,” Ian shouted over the roar of the generator. He smiled expansively and tried to make a joke. “Get it? I’m here to enlighten you!”

No response.

“Okay. No problem. Then maybe you prefer to be entertained in the dark.”

Well into their cups of complimentary rum punch, the VIPs raised their eyebrows. What was this bakra raving about? No one could see or hear him properly.

Ian pointed an evangelical finger into the invisible audience. “I know you’re out there.” he teased. “And now that the stage is finally set, lads and lassies, it’s time to rock-and-roll!”

Lads and lassies? Rock-and-roll?

But Ian Walsh was unstoppable. “Time for me to introduce myself. I’m a man of style and grace,” he sang out like it was the Jamaican national anthem. “Been hangin’ round for quite some time—messed up plenty of souls of faith.”

The patrons squirmed in their seats while he wiggled his skinny backside in their faces. “Glad to see you. Can you guess my game? Maybe what’s frightening you is my real name.”

“Louder! We can’t hear you,” the audience complained.

“Just don’t touch the mic,” Rudie repeated from offstage.

Again, Ian ignored him. He cupped his hand to his ear like he expected to hear ‘ooo, ooo’ in response. “Tell me, yardies, what’s my name?” he hollered.

No takers.

“Oh, come on. Surely even backward people like you know who I am!”

Those condescending words were the last Ian Walsh ever uttered. Just as he grabbed for the microphone, an apprentice electrician, well under the influence of rum punch himself, flipped the wrong switch. Wayward voltage danced from the mic through Ian’s body like he was a puppet cut loose from its strings. Sparks shot from his fingertips, and his perfectly styled hair sizzled like fireworks as he toppled forward and lay smoking and twitching on the stage. Yeah, man. Electric Paradise had finally burned all the way out, and Ian Walsh was fried in the process.

“Papa Jesus Gawd!” Keisha gasped.

“What di rass!” Peter exclaimed.

“Gross!” said Dale.

“Seen!” Fanny agreed.

“Karmic justice,” Dessie muttered.

Honey couldn’t stop barking.

It was past midnight when the enigmatic storm left Oracabessa and traveled south over the Blue Mountains to Mt. Calabash. An ominous clap of thunder caused Annabelle to wake from a beautiful dream. In it, she was onstage at Brazier’s Park, and her father was sitting in the audience applauding her performance. When her head cleared, she noticed Mercy’s light was on in her bedroom across the hall.

“Mercy Mae, you still awake?” Annabelle called out.

Mercy hadn’t been able to get to sleep. She was worried about her family gatecrashing the bashment at Oracabessa. Although she hoped she had long ago mastered forgiveness, there were just too many hostile players involved in Emancipation on the Beach—Ian, Rudie Boy, probably even the ghost of nasty old Barry. Not that she wished them harm. It was Annabelle who sought revenge to settle the score. “Having a good heart can put you in some real fucked up situations,” Annabelle had repeatedly reminded her over the years. And sometimes it did feel like the bad guys were taking over. But Mercy generally chose peace of mind over hating the haters. Cho! Her tolerance of The Alliance and the rest of the dancehall gangsters proved it.

“Yeah. I was just here thinking about the futility of resentment,” said Mercy.

“I know,” said Annabelle. “Everybody has their own life to live, even assholes like Barry King and Ian Walsh.”

“I’m glad you finally see it that way,” Mercy said, sighing.

“Mercy, are you happy?” asked Annabelle.

“I’m ecstatic. I escaped from the madness of Kingston, was able to purchase a slice of Jamaican paradise, and have my best friend close by my side. How ‘bout you?”

“I’m so happy that if I died tonight, it would be okay.”

“Don’t say that. We’ve still got a lot of music to make here on earth.”

“Do you ever miss the celebrity?” asked Annabelle.

“No. Do you?”

“I always wished I could have been more of a superstar.”

Mercy chuckled. “You were the female icon of rock-and-roll, for heaven’s sake.”

“So where are my fame and fortune?”

“I can’t believe you have to ask that question. Your fame is your talent and your fortune is on account of Hennie.”

“But what about my legacy?”

“Annabelle, don’t be ridiculous. Your physical legacy is Ben and Brittany. Your spiritual legacy is what you and I are trying to do here at Camp Calabash.”

“How come it’s taken me all these years to figure that out?”

“Cuz you’re a slow learner. Don’t worry, Annabelle. Everything’s gonna be awright. We had our time in the spotlight, and now it’s time to shine the light elsewhere. But for now, let’s go to sleep.”

As if to prove Mercy’s point, a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the pool yard.

Annabelle was quiet for a while, and then she said, “Let’s imagine we fly away to a place where there is no punishment or reward—a quiet, peaceful place.”

Mercy smiled. “I think we’re already there. Why not just do our work to the best of our ability and then take a rest at the end of the day?”

“But wouldn’t it be great if there was another place where we could meet up with loved ones who passed away before us? I could say a proper goodbye to Rupert, Colin, Henrietta, Freud, and even make amends with Edna.”

“Yeah, man. I can hear my Peter strumming his guitar, and smell Jemma’s biscuits baking in the oven. But I’m not ready to go there just yet. I still have lots more love to spread right here on Earth.” Mercy switched off her lamp. “I wish you sweet dreams, Annabelle.”

Mercy rolled over on her side and let go of all her misgivings. Just before she fell asleep, she thought she felt familiar arms wrap around her. Peter? Annabelle? She curled up into their warmth and slipped deeper into a place where nightmares couldn’t reach her, someplace that felt very much like heaven.

Jacko lay snoozing peacefully beside Annabelle’s bed when the big dogs in the kennel sounded the first alert. There was a round of gunshots followed by wounded howling, and then everything was quiet. Seconds later, the downstairs door burst open, and heavy footsteps clomped up the steps. The little dog growled a fierce warning as four intruders, all wearing ski masks, rushed into Annabelle’s room. They froze momentarily when she leaped from her bed and switched on the light, then they moved to surround her. Mercy struggled to untangle herself from the sheets. Stumbling across the hall, she recognized two of the invaders at first sight.

Ray Ban, wearing his signature dark shades and a cowboy hat, carried a compact automatic weapon. Dressed like a clown, Mercy’s neighbor, Mista Man, was right behind him. When a third intruder with extravagant tattoos waved his cutlass, Jacko bared his fangs and launched his attack. The little dog soared through the air with such determination that he knocked the aggressor flat.

“Good dog!” Annabelle cheered. She had come too far to give up now. Mercy grabbed the cutlass and sliced the air. “All you gangsta rass get out of our house!”

Ray Ban leveled his gun on Jacko. “Call off your midget dog, or I gonna shoot him dead-dead.”

“Sic-him,” Annabelle shouted. Jacko released his tattooed victim and went for Ray’s leg. Rat-a-tata-tat-tat. The dog yelped, and blood splattered around the room like red rain. Annabelle sank down near Jacko’s limp body. “Oh, no.”

But Mercy wasn’t intimidated. “You killed our likkle dog!” Hacking furiously, she backed Ray Ban into a corner.

Annabelle was so busy grieving over Jacko that she didn’t notice when the others circled around behind Mercy Mae. The one dressed like a clown seized her arm and twisted it until she dropped the cutlass.

“Ima teach you to mind your own business, bitch,” he said in a girlish voice. He wrapped his other hand around her neck.

“You might be able to stifle me, Mista, but you can’t erase fifteen years of J-FLAG.” Mercy said, choking.

“Stop! Please stop!” Annabelle pleaded. “I have money. Take anything you want!”

Jacko’s murderer pressed the barrel of the gun up against the back of Annabelle’s neck. “Don’t worry, we will. Maybe you don’t know who we are, but we know all about you.”

Mercy put up one hell of a fight, but she was outnumbered.

“You think you hot shit with your Jamtilles Records and Second Revelation? You ain’t nothing compared to The Alliance,” said Mista Man. “We gonna show a dry up ole Negress who di boss!”

Annabelle watched helplessly as fists pummeled her friend’s body. Eventually, Mercy crumbled to her knees. When Mista Man stripped off her pajamas and dropped his baggy pants, Mercy started humming.

Straddling Annabelle, Ray Ban jerked her head back intending to make her watch.

“Pay close attention, cuz your wrinkly white ass is nex!” he said. “Ever hear of di big bamboo?”

Annabelle squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear Mercy humming, men grunting, and the other perpetrator, who sounded like a woman, laughing. When silence descended like a final curtain, she opened her eyes and saw what had happened. “You’re not going to get away with this!” she bellowed.

Annabelle kicked back like a mule. Thwack! Ray Ban’s shades and cowboy hat flew across the room. When he tore off his ski mask, blood oozed from the cut on his forehead. That’s when Annabelle stepped up her attack. She bit, she scratched, and she screamed obscenities with such rage that Ray dropped his weapon.

The fourth intruder, dressed all in black, scooped up the machine gun and handed it to the dude with the excessive tattoos. “Do your work, D’Jango,” she said, “and I’ll do mine.”

She grabbed a fistful of Annabelle’s hair, raked her fingernails across her cheek, and pushed her down beside Mercy. Then she struck up an off-key version of an Electric Paradise song from the late ‘60s.

“Ooo, ooo! Can you tell me, lady, what’s my name?”

Annabelle was confused. “Ingrid?” she said, spitting out blood.

“Nope. But I’ll give you a clue: I used to shag the devil same time as he was shagging you.” She removed her ski mask, liberating volumes of frizzy gray hair. “Remember me?”

Annabelle laughed bitterly. “Ah, the ever-gracious Marla. But if you’re referring to fucking Ian Walsh while he was my boyfriend, then you could be almost any woman among the multitudes.”

“Seen,” D’Jango agreed. “Now let’s get down to business.” Ray Ban smiled obscenely and pointed the gun at Annabelle. “One pussyhole down, and one more to go. What say we tek turns with this one?”

But Mista Man was exhausted. “Count mi out,” he said, zipping up his pants.

Ray sucked his teeth. “That ole white cunt look like it haffi disease. Maybe it have rabies from di way it bite.” He laughed. “Best we just shoot it and finish wit’ that.”

“You do it,” Ray said to Marla. “You’re the one who said she should get wasted too.”

“Yeah, man. I’ve been waiting for this for more than fifty years,” she said, smirking.

Annabelle faced her fate head-on. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to beg, either. “Then let’s settle this once and for all.”

Marla cackled. “Ha! Your friend is already half-dead, so why don’t I just complete the job?” She pointed the gun at Mercy.

Annabelle instinctively threw herself in front of her friend. “No!” she screamed.

As soon as Marla touched the hairpin trigger, bullets sprayed around the room like water from an out-of-control firehose. A rose of red blood blossomed from Annabelle’s side, but amazingly, nobody else got hit. “Shit!” Marla cursed. “I was hoping for a double homicide.”

Mista Man took the gun away from her. “Cho! Donkey have no right in a horse race.”

“Why not tie them up and set di house on fire?” Ray suggested. “That way nobody will know wha’appen or who to blame.”

D’Jango liked the scenario. “Yeah, man. These two bitches deserve to die slow-slow,” he said flicking his lighter.

“Burn dem Chi-Chi Gals so dey scream in agony,” Mista Man chimed in. “I can smell di sweet smoke of Sista locks burnin’ in di fire. I can hear di white witch bones explodin’ like music in mi ear.”

“I’ll get gasoline from the generator house,” said Ray.

D’Jango bound the two women together while he waited for Ray to return.

After he doused the mattress with gas, he said, “I hope I get to do the honors.”

“No problem,” said Ray.

Marla nodded. “Be my guest, lovey. I just got a manicure.”

“Brilliant!” D’Jango cried like an overwrought Englishman.

He soaked the mattress and poured a trail of petrol down the steps and into the yard. The others followed like sheep as he walked up the hill toward the studio. After anointing Dessie’s African drums, he then splashed the remainder on the godawful painting that hung above Mercy’s desk.

A smile of satisfaction lit up D’Jango’s face as he bent down and flicked his lighter with a flourish. Poooof!

“That should do it,” he said. “Nothing better than a bloody bonfire.”

Ray Ban smiled. “Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Chapter 35: Ras Moses

Wood-shingled houses tend to burn bright and quick—‘specially on breezy mountaintops in the middle of the night. How come I know? Cuz Ras Moses on the scene. Yeah, man. I and I making my rounds when I notice puffs of white smoke curling into the dark sky above Mt. Calabash. Someting not right. It’s after midnight, an’ Sista Leona and Miss Annabelle should be fast asleep, not makin’ barbeque. Best I check what go on. I mean where there’s smoke there’s fire, not true?

I and I zoom in for a closer look.

An evil vibe hangs in the air as soon as I in the yard. The big dogs slumped in the kennel—not sleeping, but stone-cold dead. When I drift through the front door, the stench of wickedness is extra strong. What di rass? Nothing seems disturb downstairs, so I and I ask the Most High for protection before I glide up the steps. The coppery scent of fresh blood greets me on the landing. Jacko, the likkle midget dog, he shot full of holes in a corner of a bedroom. The walls and floor splattered bright red, and the stained mattress reeks of blood and gasoline. But where are Sista Leona and Miss Annabelle? Where are my friends? Dreading wha’appen, I look under the bed, in the closets, and behind the curtains. Zippo, nada, nothin’.

I could understand if this was downtown Kingston. Shit like this happens all the time. It wasn’t so long ago I me-self, Ras Moses, done drop out. They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but that didn’t ‘appen to me. All I saw was the spark of the bullet, then a hot pain burnin’ in my gut before my face hit the dancefloor. One minute I enjoying myself at a bashment with my cumbolos, next thing, blow wow! Suddenly I and I drifting around the island like some kinda lost soul—a duppy, with no place to call home—no place ’cept Mt. Calabash.

Yeah, man. In Jamaica, we take our ghosts as serious as our ganja and our music. Them that drop out dead are welcome to eavesdrop on the scene of the living as long as they behave theyselves. If we lucky, us duppies get a chance to help people get a pass to the hereafter sorta like angels. Then whoosh! We’re off to Zion without a backward glance. So I been checkin’ on my people every night since I got shot, though they dunno it. Sista Leona an’ Miss Annabelle was good to me, better than my own family, an’ I supposed to watch out for them.

I and I wonderin’ what is my next move when a vibration that sounds like someone humming rises up through the air. Though I listen hard, I can’t tell where it coming from. I search the house high an’ low, but no sign of the women. When I stick my head out the window, the humming gets louder. They mus’ be somewhere outside. I hold my breath and jump. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I and I look around for clues. I check the cottages, the kitchen, the generator house, but no Mercy or Annabelle.

Up the hill, smoke pouring out the windows of the studio. I pull my head rag down over my nose an’ go. I can make out the shapes of Dessie’s drums an’ the Basquiat painting in the music room, but no sign of Mercy or Annabelle. My mind confuse. I need to find the women, but how can I let the Jean-Michel painting burn? So I and I hook up the hose an’ spray the canvas down good as I can.

Tongues of flames dart ahead of me while I race back down the hill. I recheck the bushes around the garden. Where di rass are they? I fly upstairs. The mattress smoldering like it tryin’ to decide whether to fizzle out or burn the whole damn house down. Then it catches fire in one mighty Pooof. Yeah, man. Tings crucial. I need to find my friends, now-now. I can still hear the humming, but I can’t take no more heat. I and I zip back outside. The moon shrinks behind the silver-lined clouds like it wants to hide. Bright orange flames shoot out from the upstairs windows. Walls glow with brands of fire while I stand helpless in the yard.

I and I close to tears when the door to the cellar falls off its hinges an’ crashes to the ground. Eh, eh. The humming gets louder. Inside, a red light blinks on an’ off like it broadcasting some kinda emergency. That’s when I see them! Mercy and Annabelle been hiding down in the cellar all along! I and I float through the doorway. Papa Jesus Gawd! It hot like an oven in here! My friends, they huddled together in a corner looking like they asleep in each other’s arms. Mercy, she half-naked, an’ Miss Annabelle, her nightgown soak up with blood.

I tiptoe across the floor an’ shake Mercy gently.

She cracks a swollen eye an’ groans. “Ras Moses? Is that you?”

“Me-self,” I say. “I and I come to get you out of here.”

But when I try to help her, she shakes her head. “No. Annabelle is worse off than me. Please, Mo. Help her first.”

So I turn my attention to Annabelle. I lift her limp body and head for the door. Cho! It not easy. She heavy like a load of bricks an’ slippery from all the blood. When I and I finally manage to get her out, I go back for Mercy. We almost there when a spare propane tank explodes an’ knocks us both all the way into the yard. Now everybody down flat, including me, Ras Moses, who suppose to be dead already.

When the roof collapses, Mercy struggles to her feet. But Miss Annabelle, she don’t move. “Get up!” I and I shout. “We got to hurry!” I may be supernatural, but even I can’t handle both women at once.

“If I live, so does she,” croaks Mercy. She tries to pull her friend to her feet, but the hem of Annabelle’s nightgown is on fire.

“Come on! Only a likkle further.”

Annabelle, she jus’ lay there like she on her way to meet her maker.

“Rise up, sista!” Mercy insists. “You gotta stay alive for the music! Without you, di riddim we sacrificed so much for will die.”

An’ you know what? It works. Together, we pull Annabelle to stand up.

The women’s bare feet blister an’ bleed as they limp down the first set of stone steps that lead to the terrace. The hair on their arms an’ legs toasts black while they crawl down the second set.

“Time’s running out!” I and I say while I push and prod with all my duppy might toward the pool.

We make it out of range jus’ before the house blows sky high. Flaming chunks of wood land on the lawn an’ in the water. Bushes an’ grass burn bright like some kinda biblical event. Don’t ask me how—sheer will, I guess—but both women end up on sunbeds under the casuarina trees on the far side of the swimming pool. Sista Leona, she still humming, but Miss Annabelle, she quiet and drenched in blood. Even for a bakra, she looks deathly pale.

But Jah! The rassclatt fire is alive and well. Flames lick into the night sky like supersonic rockets. The blaze, it so massive it mus’ be seen for miles around. Yet nobody comes to investigate—not neighbors, not di Babylon police, not even stray dogs. Part of me wants to stay close by my friends until help arrives. Anada part of me wants to try to rescue the Basquiat painting from the inferno. Ras Moses, you too cool-cool to be fool-fool, I tell me self. Still, if I and I plan to trod in Zion like a worthy Rastafari, it’s important to have a clean heart while I here on earth.

“Looks like you gonna make it, Sista,” I whisper to Mercy. “But I gotta go check on our painting.”

“Tanks, Moses,” she says weakly. “You are an angel.”

I shrug. “No problem.”

“But what about Annabelle?” she asks.

I hope she can’t hear the doubt in my voice. “Miss Annabelle safe for the time.”

I and I stand up tall, an’ try a final round of duppy magic. I float up the hill into the blazing studio to save our beloved Basquiat. Ras Moses to the rescue! After all, what have I got to lose?

Chapter 36: Rise Up, Sista

The next morning, when Mercy’s family returned from Emancipation on the Beach, the ruins of the house and studio at Mt. Calabash were still smoking. “Oh, my God!” Keisha cried as the van sped up the driveway.

The vehicle screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Peter jumped down and raced toward what was left of the house. “I got this!” he shouted. “Keisha! Call 110!”

Dessie fumbled for what seemed like an eternity to liberate his wheelchair from its harness. “Kids! Hook Honey on her leash while we find out what happened,” he said in a panicked voice.

Keisha gathered Dale and Fanny in her arms as if to protect them from whatever tragedy might be encountered. “Let’s just stay here together until Daddy and Uncle Dessie check out the scene,” she said shakily.

“Where’s Mercy? I need to know what happened to my sister!” Dessie called after Peter. But Peter was way ahead of him.

Charred sheets of galvanized metal lay strewn around the yard like junk from outer space. Singed telephone and electric wires dangled from poles while broken PVC pipes sprayed water into the air like geothermal geysers. Smoldering debris littered the ground floor of the house. A scorched teakettle whistled on top of the half-melted stove in the kitchen. The awful smell of burnt foam rubber wafted from remnants of ruined furnishings in the living room. Shards of broken glass were scattered across the bathroom’s scorched tile floor like glitter. The steps that led upstairs were completely missing. Gazing up through the holes in the wooden floor, Peter saw blackened 2x4s that used to support the walls leaning crazily into one another like broken matchsticks. The roof was gone, and he had to shade his eyes against the morning sun that poured through the remaining rafters.

“Auntie Mercy!” Peter yelled desperately. “Annabelle!” The only answer was the ping of hot metal as it gradually cooled down, the insistent hiss of steam escaping from the overheated water pipes. Clearly, there had been plenty of action overnight, but there was no sign of human activity anywhere near the house.

“I’m coming!” Dessie hollered desperately. But the pathway was strewn with barriers, and he had a hard time negotiating the exasperating obstacle course in his wheelchair.

Peter, meanwhile, checked the studio, the garden shed, and the cellar. “There’s nothing left,” he said when Dessie finally rolled onto the scene. He kicked at a pile of toasted album covers in despair. “Nothing left at all.”

Dessie shook his head. “No! I refuse to believe that! Mercy is around here somewhere. I know she is. Annabelle too. We’ve got to keep looking!”

Peter gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ve checked everywhere. Where else could they be?”

As if to solve the mystery, the faint sound of humming drifted up from the pool yard.

Hummmmm.

Dessie shifted his wheelchair into overdrive, but Peter soon overtook him. “It’s coming from down there,” he cried. “Auntie Mercy and Annabelle must be by the pool.”

They found Mercy on the sunbed exactly where Ras Moses left her. She was half-naked and covered with nasty cuts and bruises. Her skin was blistered—oozing sickly pink juice in patches. Her locks were singed black, portions burned off completely. Obviously broken, her left arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Several of her teeth had been knocked loose, but at least she was still breathing. Thank God. Annabelle was laid out beside her, gazing up at the sky. She wasn’t moving, and copious amounts of blood had soaked through the back of her nightgown and saturated the terrace beneath her. It was difficult to tell if she was dead or alive.

While Peter checked out Annabelle, Dessie focused his attention on Mercy. He took off his Camp Calabash T-shirt, covered what he could of her exposed flesh, and then shook her gently. “Mercy, wake up. Tell us wha’appen to you.”

Hummmmm.

“She’s in shock,” said Peter.

Dessie grimaced. “What about Annabelle?”

“I don’t know. Wait. I’m getting a weak pulse. You stay here. I’ll go back and make sure Keisha’s emergency call went through.” He dropped Annabelle’s hand and galloped away.

When he’d gone, Mercy opened her eyes. She wanted to make sure nobody but Dessie heard what she was about to say. Her lips were so swollen she could barely speak. “Dessie, it was horrible. They burst into the house. They shot the dogs, and then they tortured us.”

“Who? Who did that?”

“The Alliance.” She was crying full force now. “Oh my God,” Mercy sobbed. “Promise you won’t tell. Do you hear me, Dessie? We tried to fight them off, but they had guns and a cutlass. They made Annabelle watch while two of them beat me up and raped me. You hearing, Dessie? Not one but two.” She winced as a rivulet of blood trickled down her chin.

“Take it easy, Mercy,” he said. But in his heart, Dessie was furious. How could this happen to his sister after all she’d been through trying to help Jamaica find its way back to peace and love? How come haters like The Alliance could get away with the unspeakable while she suffered in body and soul?

Mercy’s voice settled into a slow, deliberate whisper. “I’m serious, Dessie. The police will just botch this up. So I want you to promise to keep quiet. The woman with the gun was aiming for me when Annabelle took the bullet. They tied us up, and then they set the house on fire to get rid of the evidence. I don’t know how I got loose or how I managed to drag Annabelle into the cellar. She was bleeding bad-bad, man. Then Ras Moses showed up and helped us get clear of the blaze.”

“Ras Moses was here?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He’s dead, you know, but his duppy rescued us from the fire.”

Now Dessie was sure she was delirious. “Ras Moses was here? And he was a ghost?”

“He put us out here on the sunbeds, and then he went back inside the studio to save the Jean-Michel.”

Dessie was confused. “Mercy. The Basquiat painting is floating in the swimming pool, and Ras Moses is nowhere around.”

“Good,” she said. “He must have flown off to Zion. But what about Annabelle? Please tell me she’s gonna be okay.”

Dessie held Mercy’s hand. “Take it easy, Sista. Annabelle is resting right here next to you.”

Mercy rolled her head to the side. “Dessie, I’m hurt, but I’m not blind. Will she die?”

“Of course not,” he said. It didn’t look good, but he didn’t want to say or do anything to cause her more distress.

She gagged and spat out a bloody tooth. It landed on Dessie’s Camp Calabash T-shirt, but he paid no notice. All of his energy was focused on his sister’s welfare. “Right now, it’s you I’m worried about.”

She smiled bravely. “Don’t worry, Dessie. I’m a survivor.” A brutal round of coughing racked her already spent body to the max. Gasping for air, she said, “Everything’s gonna be awright.”

When the police finally got around to investigating, Mercy insisted she couldn’t remember a thing about wha’appen. She didn’t trust di Babylon, plus she had her own plan for passing out justice. Because of her years with J-FLAG, she had the foresight to endure a sexual assault forensic exam in conjunction with her initial medical care. It didn’t require her to make a police report, but now she was armed with a “rape kit”—enough evidence to shut the perpetrators down for good.

Dessie remained true to his word. He told the police what Mercy said about Ras Moses being at the scene, but nothing else. Di Babylon, therefore, assumed Moses was alive and responsible for the crime. They renewed their search, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air, which, like a typical Jamaican duppy, he had.

“Maybe he perished in the fire,” Keisha suggested.

Mercy shrugged. “How would I know?”

Lacking evidence or a suspect, the cops considered the case closed. They went back to their routine agenda—watching TV and dirty movies at the station, issuing traffic tickets, and speeding around Kingston on their motorcycles with scantily-clad women riding in the sidecar. They never bothered to interrogate Annabelle, although she was a victim of attempted murder. As far as the cops were concerned, whatever happened to a British citizen abroad was the business of their native embassy, not the Jamaican police.

Mercy visited Annabelle in the hospital daily. It was touch and go at first, but she finally turned the corner and began to get well. When she broke the news that Ian Walsh was electrocuted onstage at Oracabessa, Annabelle managed to smile.

“Talk about poetic justice,” she said. “Funny. I always thought of Ian as immortal. But then again, getting a passport to paradise via electricity seems like a perfect ending for a bloke like him. May he rest in peace . . . wherever he might be.”

“Yeah, man. Barry’s dead and Ian’s dead, but Annabelle Sinclair and Mercy Mae Williams are definitely among the living,” said Mercy. “I want to thank you for saving my life.”

“I did it because I love you, sista,” Annabelle said in a low voice.

Mercy laughed. “So now you’re calling me sista?”

“Is that alright? I mean even though we’re not related?”

“Listen. You and I are kindred spirits no matter what you call me—could be Mercy Mae, could be Sista Leona, could even be Ms. Williams. But we’re sistas of the heart, Annabelle, and don’t you ever forget it.”

That night, fifty years after she and her Peter settled on Hope Road, Mercy found herself back home again. Condolences were pouring in, but she wanted more. She wanted the dream she and Annabelle pursued to come to fruition. They had connections, damn it, and no kinda sicko Alliance was gonna stop them. Mercy smoked a joint for courage, and then she marched up the road and rang Mista Man’s doorbell. When the security lights and intercom came on, she said, “Howdy neighbor. This is Sista Leona speaking. You may think you got away with your shit, but I have all the evidence I need to lock you and your friends up. It’s called DNA, rasshole, and there’s only one way to stop me from going to the police. You and your pardners in crime have to leave the island and the music business immediately and never come back. Otherwise, you’ll join the rest of the haters in prison for the rest of your nasty lives. Overstand?”

Apparently, he did. Mista Man’s house was up for sale within the week. Ray Ban went off the radar, and D’Jango and Marla disappeared, allegedly back to the UK.

Now that The Alliance was out of the picture, Mercy and Annabelle could take their time to heal. Sunshine poured through the lattice covering the cabana by the pool as they sipped afternoon tea. “I have an architect drawing up plans for the reconstruction of Mt. Calabash,” said Mercy. “What do you think of that?”

Annabelle looked surprised. “Really? Don’t tell me we’re gonna start all over after everything that’s happened.”

“Why not? A dream is no good until it comes true, my friend. We’ve got to see this thing through.”

“But what will we use for money? There’s not much left over from Hennie, and Ben said Mt. Calabash was underinsured.”

Mercy winked. “No problem. Thanks to Ras Moses, we still have the Basquiat.”

The house was seriously overcrowded with five adults, two pickneys, and a Labrador retriever all living under one roof. Mercy and Annabelle spent most of their time upstairs listening to music and going over the plans for the resurrection of Camp Calabash. Dessie was in the kitchen baking yet another tantalizing sweet potato pie. Peter graded papers by the pool while Dale and Fanny engaged in a ruthless dunking contest. Keisha, fresh from the shower, worked on her pedicure and watched over her pickneys and her man with tender loving care.

Thus the members of the extended Williams family were each doing their thing when Honey chased a hummingbird that accidentally flew into the house up the steps and into the studio. It landed on top of the cabinet that held the speakers, its tiny heart beating in time with the music.

“Leave it!” Mercy commanded the dog.

Honey, ever obedient, sank down on her haunches while Mercy approached the frightened bird. She cupped it gently in her hands and slid the door to the veranda open. “Rise up, my likkle sista,” she said.

The liberated hummingbird darted across the lawn. It landed in a hedge of scarlet hibiscus and began to preen its iridescent feathers, filled with the joy of being alive and free.

Afterword

I believe in the power of music to change the world. Why? Because the British invasion of the American pop scene in the ‘60s played a huge role in shaping my teenage identity growing up in the States. Disco music pounded in my ears like an anthem to excessive perspiration in the ‘70s, and when I fell in love with a Caribbean island, the reggae vibration resonated as if it was my second heartbeat.

Rise Up, Sista was inspired by the life and the death of Nelly Stharre, a reggae artist from Dominica who possessed extraordinary talent and a great big heart. Sadly, she was incinerated along with her partner Trevy in a mysterious house fire in 2015. Because my dream house previously burned to the ground, I could relate to the tragedy—the main difference being that I survived, and they both died. The blaze could be seen for miles around when my home was engulfed in flames, but the smoldering remains of Nelly’s wooden estate house weren’t discovered until several days later. My question is this: How could no one in the nearby village not have noticed anything out of the ordinary—no smoke, no sparks, no strange orange glow in the sky? When Nelly’s brother arrived on the scene, he said all that remained were charred bones. People say Nelly and Trevy were murdered before the blaze was set, but to this day, there hasn’t been a proper police investigation or official closure. I hope this story helps shed some light on the mystery.

Rise Up, Sista has been through many changes since its inception. Though some characters, scenes, and organizations are based on reality, this book remains a work of fiction. Material gleaned from the internet and The Rolling Stones by Geoffrey Giuliano kept it more or less on track, but deviation according to names, songs, time, and place should be blamed on my own imagination.

I’d like to thank my first readers, Alick Lazare, Leng Sorhaindo, and Judy Taylor for their initial impressions. Also Naomi Jackson and my colleagues at our Key West Literary Seminar fiction workshop in 2018. I certainly appreciate the final input of Jennifer Haskin at TouchPoint Press and my trusty proofreader, Wendy Walsh. But most of all, my gratitude goes out to my original editor, Elizabeth Brown, who stuck with me from beginning to end. It’s been a long road, Liz, and I thank you for taking the journey right along with me.

One Love,

KS

P.S. You can listen to Nelly Stharre’s music on Spotify:

https://bit.ly/NellyStharre

About the Author

Born in the U.S., Kristine Simelda has resided on the Eastern Caribbean island of Dominica since 1995. Although she has worn many caps during her lifetime—daughter, wife, mother, artist, florist, horse trainer, gallery owner, and restaurateur—she currently lives on a smallholding on the edge of the rainforest where she writes and practices organic farming.

An independent scholar of Caribbean culture, Kristine’s focus has been to honestly record the experiences of cross-cultural living per empathy, engagement, and respectful appropriation. She has written four adult novels and a novella for young adults while living in “paradise.” Her debut, A Face in the River, a fictionalized memoir, was published by her imprint, River Ridge Press, Dominica, in 2015. The sequel, River of Fire, jampacked with action and adventure, followed in 2016. Her Young Adult novella, Back to the River, completed the series in 2019. Meanwhile, she won the People’s Choice Award for Dominican Literary Artist of the Year in 2018 for Nobody Owns the Rainbow, an environmental morality tale peppered with island romance. Rise Up, Sista, a fifty-year saga of female friendship revolving around the music industry in Jamaica and the UK, is her latest publication.

Kristine’s short stories have appeared in numerous regional and international journals. She is the co-founder of Waitukubuli Writers, a group of aspiring poets and writers based in Dominica.

www.kristinesimelda.com

Goodreads: https://bit.ly/Goodreads-Simelda