During the funeral service, Wendel watched Rachel's mother and relatives weep and wail over her small, white coffin. They cried throughout the proceedings, especially when the remembrances were being read. He, too, had memories of her, and as the tributes were moved, pictures of the vibrant and personable child flashed across his mind. But there was this one mental image of her that he didn't want to see. For days, it had been haunting him.

At the burial, he dropped a clump of dirt into the tomb after the coffin was lowered. When the grave was covered, under a tree he stood, as people pulled Rachel's uncontrollable mother away from the grave. One by one, the distraught mourners left. Night was now descending fast. Wendel was the last to leave the cemetery, neatly arranging the wreaths left on her grave before he made his exit.

That was six months ago, and he had kept going back. The last time he visited, as he put fresh flowers on her grave, a tear or two rolled down his face. From under a shed, the caretaker observed him. He had seen Wendel at that grave at least once per week since Rachel Johnson was buried. He knew her name because he wanted to know who it was that Wendel would leave flowers for.

The caretaker passed Wendel from time to time, but Wendel didn't give him as much as a cursory look. He would go straight towards Rachel's grave, put the flowers on to the headstone, and stand with his hands behind him for a while as he mumbled and stared. He would then walk away without looking back.

Last Friday, the elderly vendor, who used to sell at a spot across the road from where the monument built in Rachel's memory was erected, saw Wendel caress the visage of the monument, as he had done many times before. As he held on to it, she crept up behind him.

"Is yuh relative?" she asked. Wendel was jolted, and spun around fast.

"No," he said, hesitantly.

"So, who yuh be?"

"She was mi lickle fren. Ah know har from she was born."

'But yuh not from around here."

"Ah use to live up the road, but ah move years ago, come back sometimes fi look fi mi fren dem."

"Look like yuh miss har."

"Gone too soon."

"Ahh mi boy, dem rape an kill har. De wicked brute dem!"

"How yuh know is dem?"

"How yuh mean?"

"How yuh know seh ah no one sumbody dweet?"

"Him still shouldn't kill har!"

He was silent, as he looked down at his shoes.

"Can you imagine if ah wen fi mi real, real granddaughter? Ah woulda dead too," the vendor continued.

Wendel looked at her. Water was welling up in her eyes. It could be because of the stinging sensation caused by the rind of the orange she was peeling with a big sharp knife. He faced her, then looked away. The vendor sighed, and whispered, "Him never affi kill har."

As she was about to walk away, the man said, in a low voice, "Mi didn't want to kill har."

The astonished woman turned around slowly, and asked, "Wah yuh jus say?"

The man hesitated for two seconds and said, "She say she was going to tell har madda."

The vendor bit her bottom lip tightly and stared incredulously at the just-confessed killer, who was about to walk away.

"Oh you dyam demon of a man, yuh wicked bastard," she shouted in a voice loaded with rage, and with all her might she plunged the knife into his torso. He stood for a little while, holding on to the knife embedded in his chest as he grimaced, and then he crumpled to the ground.

The hysterical woman, now cying very loudly, also fell. Beside the man's lifeless body she lay in a foetal position, shaking and yelling, "Yuh kill mi granddaughter, even though har madda never give har to mi son." As passers-by rushed to the scene, she bawled some more, saying, "Yuh kill mi granpickney! Lord have mercy, yuh kill har!"