The stall-holder shook his head imperceptibly. At first she didn’t know what he meant, then her cheeks flamed. He thought she was a thief.
Trembling with anger and embarrassment, Helen tried to regain her focus on Fay. The stall-holder didn’t give up. He changed the dub reggae to ‘Pretty Woman’. His taste was nothing if not eclectic, but Helen saw it for the ploy it was and stalked off. Screw that guy and his Roy Orbison album. His stupid little goatee looked like a gravy stain anyway.
Jason saw the girl long before she became aware of him. She was moving from stall to stall aimlessly, as if drifting was second nature to her.
She was pretty, in a slightly unusual way. Slim and athletic with a deep tan and hair the colour of honey. Her eyes he couldn’t see, but he imagined they were either green or hazel. She had a nice shape too, with just the right amount of curves.
He thought about calling out to attract her attention, but something about the way she moved held him back. Like a puma waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.
Then he saw where she was looking – an unattended wallet on a table.
Don’t do it, Jason wanted to say to her. It’s not worth it.
Suddenly she stiffened as if she’d heard him. When she turned, slowly, and met his gaze, a virtual truck slammed into him. Her eyes were hazel, and they were blazing with fury.
Bad call, Jase, he thought, and shook his head at himself.
Actually, no, it wasn’t. He’d prevented a theft by letting the girl know he was keeping an eye on her, and had saved the young mum from the pain of losing her wallet.
More importantly, he’d stopped this pretty girl from getting herself into trouble.
‘Antipodean, I reckon,’ said Neil, the stall-holder selling net curtains next to him.
‘Who?’ Jason heard his own voice coming from far away.
‘The girl you can’t take your eyes off. Not that I blame you.’
Another Australian. Bitter-sweet memories welled up in Jason, taking him by surprise, although it had happened a lot lately.
‘Yeah, maybe she is. Although it’s hard to tell these days.’
‘All I’m saying,’ the man went on, ‘is you don’t get that kind of tan in this country.’
‘True.’ Jason looked towards the girl again, but she’d turned away. For some reason he felt he owed her an apology, but was stumped for ideas on how to communicate with her. Then it came to him, and he put on a different record.
His choice of track had the opposite effect. The girl flounced off in a huff, and disappointment washed over him.
It would have been nice to see her smile.
Helen tried to forget about the annoying stall-holder. Ahead of her, Fay was chatting to the fishmonger. Although she wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, it was obvious from the way the vendor gesticulated that they were talking about preparing fish.
The anger she hadn’t quite managed to quell rose again. It wasn’t right that Fay could stand there and talk about something so trivial when the crime she’d committed was anything other than mundane.
‘Are you buying or just fingering my goods?’ said a lilting Caribbean voice behind her.
In her attempt to stop Fay from noticing her, she’d used a strip of fabric from a nearby stall as a makeshift curtain to hide behind.
The owner, a Rastafarian with greying dreadlocks and a cap in the colours of the Jamaican flag, was frowning. ‘It’s silk, you know.’
Viscose more like, she thought and smoothed down the fabric to get rid of any creases. ‘Sorry, I was just—’
‘Following old Fay, yes, I saw. What might you be doing that for?’
‘I’m not following anyone. Why do you think that?’
He tapped his nose. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I seen you ducking and diving like you up to no good. You’ll make a lousy spy.’
‘I’m gutted.’
He laughed and revealed a stunning set of even teeth. ‘What you want with her?’
Helen gave up pretending. There was obviously no getting around this guy, and she didn’t want Fay alerted. ‘Information,’ she said.
‘Don’t we all, my love, don’t we all? If you want information, Winston’s the person to see.’
‘Who’s Winston?’
‘That’ll be me.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.’ She turned around, but Fay was gone. Without being too obvious, she glanced down both sides of the narrow market. Fay had either finished her shopping or realised she was being followed and given Helen the slip. She muttered a curse. She knew where Fay lived but people were safer in their own houses. She wanted Fay exposed and vulnerable, as her mother had been, when she confronted her.