The Other Hand

The rhythm of the surf was unchanged, although the interval betweenone wave and the next seemed infinite. I watched with the girls and the men and the bloodied dogs to see what my husband would do, and it seemed in that moment that we were all the same, just creatures in nature hanging without any great effort upon the vast warm wind of events that were greater than us.
    Andrew screamed, then, and he chopped down with the machete. The blade made a whipping sound in the hot air. Then it sliced down into the sand. It was really quite far from his hand.
    “I won’t do it,” he said. “This is just fuckin bullshit. I don’t believe he’ll let the girls go. Look at him. He’s just going to kill them whatever.”
    Andrew stood, and he left the machete in the sand. I looked at him, and that is when I stopped feeling. I realized I was no longer scared. And I wasn’t angry with Andrew. When I looked at him I hardly saw a man anymore. I thought we would all be killed now, and it worried me much less than I would have expected. It troubled me that we had never got around to building the glasshouse at the end of our garden. A sensible thought occurred to me: How lucky I am to have two healthy parents who will take good care of Charlie.
    The killer sighed and he shrugged and he said, “Okay, mister made his choice. Now, mister, run back home to England. You can tell them you came to Africa and you met a real savage.”
    When the killer turned away, I dropped to my knees. I looked straight at Little Bee. She saw what the killer did not see. She saw the white woman put her own left hand down on the hard sand, and she saw her pick up the machete, and she saw her chop off her middle finger with one simple chop, like a girl topping a carrot, neatly, on a quiet Surrey Saturday, between gymkhana and lunch. She saw her drop the machete and rock back on her heels, holding her hand. I suppose the white woman looked just amazed.
    “Oh,” I think I said. “Oh, oh, oh.”
    The killer spun round and he saw me with the blood welling through my closed fist. On the sand in front of me, there was myfinger lying. The finger looked silly and naked. I was embarrassed for it. The killer’s eyes went wide.
    “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Andrew said. “Oh what the fuck have you done, Sarah? What the fuck have you done?”
    He knelt down and he hugged me to him but I pushed him away with my good hand. There was mucus streaming from my mouth and nose.
    “It hurts, Andrew. It hurts, you shit. ”
    The killer nodded. He reached down and he picked up my dead finger. He pointed it at Little Bee.
    “You will live,” he said. “The missus has paid for your life.”
    Then he pointed my finger at Kindness.
    “But you will die, little one,” he said. “The mister would not pay for you. And my boys, you know, they must have their taste of blood.”
    Kindness gripped Little Bee’s hand. She held her head up.
    “I am not afraid,” she said. “The Lord is my shepherd.”
    The killer sighed.
    “Then he is a vain and careless shepherd,” he said.
    Then—and it was louder than the surf—there was the sound of my husband sobbing.
    Two years later, sitting at my table in Kingston-upon-Thames, I found I could still hear it. I stared down at my damaged hand, spread palm down on the blue tablecloth.
    Little Bee had fallen asleep on the sofa, with her G&T untouched by her side. I realized I couldn’t remember the point at which she had stopped telling the story and I had picked up remembering it. I stood up from the kitchen table to fix myself another drink. There were no lemons, so I made do with a little squirt of plasticky juice from the Jif lemon in the fridge. When I picked up my glass, the ice cubes rattled uncontrollably. The G&T tasted vile but it gave me courage. I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the man I suppose I must call my lover, although that word rather makes me squirm.
    I realized it was the second time I’d phoned Lawrence that day. I’d been trying not to. I’d lasted almost a whole week, since Andrew died. It was the longest I’d been faithful to my husband in years.
    “Sarah? Is that you?”
    Lawrence’s voice was a whisper. My throat tightened. I found that I couldn’t reply straightaway.
    “Sarah? I’ve been thinking about you all day. Was it horrible? You should have let me come to the funeral.”
    I swallowed. “It would have been inappropriate.”
    “Oh Sarah, who would have known?”
    “I would have