The girl’s gaze darts wildly between horror and fear. She’s panicking and holding her breath. “You’re going to pass out.” I felt this way once before, when Byron and I escaped the meeting a few days ago.
Byron.
I have no idea where he is, but I can’t worry about him right now.
I help the girl to her feet. “Follow me.” She doesn’t respond. She can’t seem to focus. “Look at me!” Finally, I have her attention. “We can’t stay here,” I say. “We’ll be trampled.”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist, a slender, bony joint. Limping on my injured leg, I lead her to the back of the riser, a barrier that separates us from the crowd.
“I need you to stay here until things calm down,” I tell the girl. “I have to go find someone—”
She grabs my hand. “No, no, stay, stay.”
“I promise I won’t leave you.” I scan the park, searching for a way to escape.
People are scattering in every direction. Constables are chasing them, and union busters are attacking workers at random. Venturing into the heart of the mayhem isn’t safe, but I can’t abandon the girl. We’ll just have to wait until things settle down.
On my tiptoes, I peek above the risers and search for Allan—and Byron. But it’s futile—too many people are darting in and out of the park. A sharp pain shoots through my leg, as if someone is hammering nails into my calf. There’s a gash in the fleshy part of my lower leg muscle, but I convince myself it looks worse than it feels, so I push it out of my mind.
After a while, I know we can’t remain hidden much longer. “The best way for us to get out is through the market,” I tell the girl. “We’ll blend into the crowd heading that way.”
We avoid Church Street and the police station across from Victoria Park and instead head to West Queen Street. There’s a small shop whose owner is sympathetic to the labor movement. She’s helped injured organizers before.
“You’ll be fine,” I assure the girl. “I know a place where we can get patched up.”
Sometime later, I leave the girl with the store owner at Sarah’s Spice Shop, where Sarah also bandages my wound, but I need to keep moving. I veer away from Victoria Park toward the harbour. If they aren’t in jail, that’s where I’ll find Allan, Byron, and the others, safe and sound on King Street. Or so I pray.
Allan Coombs’s Office, King Street, Kingston
In the stillness of darkness, I return to where my day began. It must be after midnight as I hobble onto King Street, my leg wrapped in a poultice of bitter melon and castor oil that gives off a foul smell, reminiscent of rotten fruit. Thankfully, the horrible odor distracts me from the pain in my leg.
As I turn the corner, I sigh with relief when I see him. Byron sits on the curb outside Allan’s office, puffing on a cigarette. I hobble closer. His drenched shirt and the bruises on his face and forearms are ugly souvenirs from his first rally. But at least he’s alive.
“Is Allan here?” I try not to stare too long at the black-and-blue blotches on Byron’s face and throat.
“He and the others left about an hour ago. I told him I’d wait for you.” His voice is emotionless as he glares into the darkness, his pinpoint gaze challenging anyone lurking—a leftover rioter, a for-hire constable, anyone—to show themselves. His anger rolls off him like sweat. If I hadn’t had my fill of violence at Victoria Park, I could find plenty in Byron’s eyes.
“We were worried about you until one of the volunteers spotted you in Kingston Market helping injured workers.” He glances at my leg. “Which, I see, included you.”
The office is dark, with no kerosene lamps flickering in the windows. I need to find out how the other organizers are doing. “How many of us have checked in?”
Byron takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Only a fewvolunteers were jailed. The police mostly arrested the workers, but many in the crowd were specifically there to cause trouble.”
“I wish I could say I’m surprised, but it escalated quickly. I swear it was the most life-threatening situation I’ve ever faced.” I sit down next to him on the curb.
“It was a good time,” he replies sarcastically, as he continues to search for something in the dark.
“Yeah, fun,” I mimic his tone. “One of the least problematic rallies in labor movement history.”
“I guess you’re right. No one was killed.” With his knees drawn up and his elbows resting, Byron blows cigarette rings into the night. His short-sleeved shirt shows forearms marked with scratches and a gash, possibly from a knife.
Does he need to go to the hospital? “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replies.
I tilt my head to the side. “I’m not sure you are.” I hesitate, trying to choose my words carefully. “Today wasn’t unusual. It escalated quickly, but there has been trouble at all our rallies lately. I should have been clearer this morning. I’m sorry if it caught you off guard.” I pause, hoping for a reaction, but the night holds him tightly in its grip. “Thank you for waiting for me, but maybe we should go to the hospital. My leg, your arm, your face, and wherever else you’ve been hurt could all use some professional care.”
“Come on, Zinzi,” he says. “I’m fine, just a bit angry. I returned to Jamaica to work with the labor movement to change how sugar plantations operate, starting with my family’s plantation. I thought I could be a catalyst to help other owners embrace the union.”
