‘It’s my great-great-grandfather, Juleen. Remember I told you that both my parents’ surnames are from Little Gough? J. H. Lynton, Jeremiah Lynton, look – it’s him! Who else could be called that?’ I pressed a hand to my mouth.

Juleen gaped in disbelief and threw her head back. ‘Are you serious? Mad me, gyal! And you knew this? How did you find it? What di hell!’

‘Well, it’s a grave at the end of the hall from the bathroom, right? It couldn’t be more visible, unless it had a neon sign or fireworks or something.’

‘You’re nuts!’ she yells. ‘You were just talking about him – this is really weird.’ Suddenly she stopped joking and looked thoughtful, as if searching for more words in her head. ‘You’re weird, chica.’

‘I know!’

‘You taking that, then?’ she gestured at the ripe fruit, ready to cook.

‘Obviously, mami,’ I said, hoisting it up and propping it against my shoulder. ‘Look at that, it’s perfect!’

‘Uokie, have it your way.’ She glanced at it furtively, as if afraid the fruit would speak to her. ‘Sure, it’s pretty, but this is all really strange, I don’t know, whatever…’ She clicked her teeth. ‘Come come, let’s go.’

We re-approached the cooking pot to say goodbye to Maynard, Rudy, Franklin and the cachaco, who was speaking to a disinterested Kent. I saved several of their phone numbers: Nard, Rudy. The cachaco asked for mine.

We got onto the motorcycle and Juleen took off like a shot. We rode in silence until we passed the speed hump after the Gully. Juleen interrupted my thoughts about Jeremiah. I was picturing him going about his business here. Watching the houses pass by, I thought about how the grandparents of their current owners must have been customers of his, at the shop Maa Josephine told me about. And suddenly I saw myself everywhere, pasted onto the landscape like a transparent sticker. Juleen started telling me about the cachaco. He lived in a neighbourhood under Dicksy jurisdiction – one of the gangs involved in recent crimes on Barker’s Hill, the Barrack and the Barrio Obrero. I wasn’t all that interested in the everyday drama of x against y, but I asked her a couple of questions about the owl-eyed Jaime and she told me what she knew. He’s five years younger, a teacher, he lives in a rough neighbourhood, no known girlfriend, ‘and he has great legs because he bikes up La Loma… he liked you, I could tell! So, what do you think? He’s cute.’

‘But the duppies, Juleen, that’s what matters here, OK? Now that I know the dead live amongst us,’ I said, although I tried to hide the surge of elation I felt, I feel. ‘Why don’t I know this story when everyone else seems to? What did they teach us at school, Juleen?’ I demanded, my tongue already tangled, my breath still sharp with the taste of conch, as we drove past the Tamarind Tree once again.