‘That’s what duppy means. Spirit. Lots of slaves tried to hide down there. And supposedly that’s also where criminal gangs throw the body when they want to make someone disappear.’ She lowered her voice as she said this, braking to turn onto the main road. The Sound Bay beach stretched out before us. ‘You knew about that, right?’ Juleen asked. Of course I didn’t. How was I supposed to know? ‘It’s crazy, gyal. A guy from my boyfriend’s neighbourhood worked with the Bacrims, collecting vaccinations,’ she said, using the government acronym for criminal gangs and the slang term for their extortion fees. ‘Lots of kids are in on it, that’s how we know it’s true.’

‘I didn’t know there were criminal gangs on the island. That’s so fucked up, I thought it was just on the mainland.’ Stating the obvious. I felt ashamed, useless, unable to contribute anything halfway intelligent.

‘Okay, well, tourism, drugs – makes sense, right?’ Juleen’s voice dropped.

‘Ju, not to change the subject, but burying dead bodies in the wetlands – it’s not a good idea. We’ll end up drinking them in our water…’

‘So what are we supposed to do about the overpopulation of the dead? Where are we supposed to bury them? Just last month the government asked my mum to exhume my grandmother’s body!’

‘What?’ I yelped. Juleen was already pulling over by the intersection with the main road.

‘Yeeees! Can you believe it?’ She removed the key. I got off the motorcycle as she kept talking. ‘So we had to dig her up. They gave us a million pesos and told us we had to keep her remains at home, that we couldn’t bury them, not even in the yard, because it’s pollution. We’re here. Come, gyal!’

The breeze and the sea-sounds from the bay made it feel like we’d been talking about somewhere else entirely, a faraway place, a ghetto where people vanish around the corner, where teenagers get jobs that turn into prisons. Way out over the horizon, I could see the lighthouses glimmering, showing the ships the dredged route towards the port. Standing on the pavement, I remembered how the ocean always insisted on swallowing the quayside, even part of the road; now there’s a little wooden bridge, neatly painted, that can’t possibly last long under these conditions.