by Dan Fletcher
They stayed there until they boarded. Patience was desperate to use the toilet, but Tunge was adamant, ‘Just bloody hold onto it will you! You’re not a bloody kid. We’ll be boarding soon. You can go on the plane, when the doors are firmly shut behind us.’
‘Oh come on boss, they’re not going anywhere.’ Patience was really bursting.
‘That’s what I thought yesterday when I left you alone with them! Now shut up and sit down,’ he said, under his breath, Patience had begun to stand. Mumbling his displeasure he sat back down, crushing John’s bad arm as he did.
‘Ahhhh,’ John screamed, semi-conscious, then fell quiet. This time a few passengers did look their way, and started to stare.
‘It’s OK we’re taking him for treatment. He needs an operation on his arm,’ Alan said, matter of factly. Only a child of seven that was listening believed what he said. They weren’t sitting in front of a flight to Geneva. It was the glares from Happy and Patience that made them carry on about their business.
Boarding the flight went smoothly, the flight being half empty. Nigeria had never been a tourist destination, only for mercenaries, and the cost of the tickets was extortionate, $1,600 each. Most people chose to use Nigerian Airways, which was half the price. When Tunge had flown with them, they experienced turbulence so bad that, as the passengers were being thrown about, bits of the cover around the starboard engine started to peel off. Even the pilots clapped when they landed. Tunge decided that once was enough and vowed never to use them again.
Tunge didn’t like half measures when it came to flying. He didn’t like short turnarounds inspired by profit. Take your time. Take a couple of hours if you need to. Just make sure the damn thing stays in the air. Long haul flights didn’t have the same pressures and Tunge felt a lot safer knowing that their plane would have been in a hanger overnight, being given a thorough inspection.
The stewardess seemed to take a shine to Alan, and offered to help him to his seat. Alan manfully refused, too distraught to flirt, and used the backs of the chairs to make his way down the aisle. They found rows of empty seats in the middle, ignoring their tickets, as there were so many spare. Tunge lifted the armrests up, so that John could lie across the first row of four seats.
Alan was pushed into a seat between Patience and Happy. Tunge took the one on the end. Minutes later the crew started their pre-flight procedures. Checking seatbelts and giving the safety demonstration. Alan was drifting off with his head back even before they finished their routine.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to sit up for take- off and fasten your seat belt please, sir,’ said the stewardess as she passed John’s seat.
John quickly fell asleep, resting against Patience who was forced to sit next to him for support, moaning or mumbling something occasionally, fighting an internal battle with his injuries.
Tunge finally relaxed as they taxied back from the finger. Somehow they had made it. He knew that things would be prepared at Murtala Muhammed International. The worst was over, one way for everyone else and return for him the next day. He couldn’t wait to hand them over to the Chief and be allowed to get back to what passed for normality in his life.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The flight was extremely uncomfortable for Tunge, sitting next to Happy. They didn’t speak for the eight and a half hour journey. The usual rubbish films were on offer that he couldn’t see through the gaggles of Nigerian businessmen perched on their seats. No doubt talking about loved ones they were returning to, or deals they had in the pipeline. Normal everyday things that Tunge yearned for, things he would never have.
After filling in the blue immigration cards for Alan and John, Tunge settled down for landing. It was still light and the day unusually clear. Tunge had a stunning view of the lagoon as they flew in to land. Dotted with green palmed islands and long golden sandy beaches, it looked like paradise. Never judge a book by its cover, so they say. Here was a living, breathing, example, if ever there was one. The country had been raped for over forty years, by foreigners and nationals alike. The worst culprits were people like his father.
‘Sir, we’re about to land. Could you put your seat-belt on please?’ The polite stewardess interrupted him from his pensive thoughts. He buckled up as she moved off down the aisle repeating her phrase.
The touchdown was a little bumpy, the state of the runway dictating that. The pilot tried to stay to the left, avoiding the more serious potholes in the tarmac. There was one about half a foot deep that could have ripped the under carriage clean off. He knew the airport well and was no longer surprised by the state it was in. He was forced to divert to Abuja once because the ground crews went on strike, turning off the lights, including the ones on the runway. It had been the scariest moment in his flying career, only just managing to avoid hitting the control tower in the pitch blackness.
The engines roared into reverse, the brakes squealed, and the 90’000 pound 747 was brought to a smooth coasting roll. Five minutes later they joined the finger, and were waiting to disembark. When the doors opened, they were greeted by an incredibly hot wall of wet sticky air. It felt like being covered in a warm wet blanket.
Tunge led the way, John was still largely supported by Patience and seeing things as a chaotic blur. One of his father’s tame Customs & Immigration officers was waiting to see them through quickly.
‘Hello sir! Welcome back,’ he said, shaking his hand.
‘Hello Yusuf, thank you. Is everything set?’ Tunge said, fairly sure it would be.
‘Yes, just follow me,’ he said, taking Tunge’s bag and bounding off. He was incredibly tall and cleared the way for them with large strides. They didn’t have to show their passports. Filling in the immigration cards had been a waste of time. A simple nod from their escort and they were through to the baggage reclaim area.
Alan saw a stack of tires go past on the conveyor belt as he walked by. Somehow today it didn’t seem strange. It was followed by a six foot artificial Christmas tree, which made no impression on him either. John was led by Patience through the throngs awaiting their baggage.
‘If you want I can have your bags sent to the house. Save you having to wait sir?’ said the official, a service not reserved for the normal flyer, no matter how frequent.
‘No, that’s OK, I’ve only got hand luggage this time,’ Tunge replied, who had known the man for over ten years.
‘Good. Your father’s waiting for you in the car. I’ll take you through,’ he nodded to the security staff. The guard opened the door with his pass to a staff exit, well away from the public one.
They were suddenly outside and Alan was dazzled by the number of people, hanging around taxis, sitting on kerbs and low walls. They seemed to be everywhere, thousands of them in multi-coloured attire, a lot of them wearing the traditional green and white of the country, proud of their journey or to welcome people home. To Alan it looked like an assortment of Quality Streets.
There were two dark Mercedes waiting like sharks. Alan and John were shoved in the first. Happy took the front seat and Patience got in the back with John and Alan. The air conditioning was on full blast and it felt like they were being put back in the freezer.
‘How is everything? How was London?’ said Ghani, who dreamed of seeing the city’s museums and architecture since catching a glimpse of a BBC news broadcast, filmed outside Big Ben, on the Chief’s TV.
Sniffling, Happy replied, ‘The weather was shit and the food wasn’t much better!’ He opened the glove compartment and took out the pistol he expected to be there, his own, a .40 Sig Sauer P-229. The most accurate semi-automatic hand gun on the market, combined with immense stopping power. God it felt good to be home
He smiled, passing Patience’s Beretta over his shoulder and then checking his own weapon thoroughly.
‘Where are we going then?’ said Alan. There was no reply. ‘You might as well tell me. It’s not like I can go anywhere is it?’ Tunge retained possession of their passports, and he was in another car
, with the Chief.
The Chief hadn’t seen the two injured friends come out of the building and get in the car in front. He was immersed in a telephone conversation when Tunge got in with him.
‘...yes ten, just make sure it’s ready,’ he said, hanging up. The Chief always left things like this to the last minute, as far as his sub-ordinates were concerned. He liked to keep them on their toes, as well as the information to himself.
‘Let’s go Solomon,’ he instructed the driver.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, flashing his lights at the car in front signalling it was time to leave.
‘Well done!’ he exclaimed, turning to face his son next to him in the back of the Mercedes. ‘You have really made me proud this time!’ Tunge couldn’t understand why his father was so ecstatic, he was just glad that he could soon be done with the whole experience.
‘Thank you, but I still don’t understand why you want them here. It wasn’t easy! What can be so important?’ He wanted to know why he had been forced to take so many seemingly unnecessary risks.
‘Later Tunge, later. Right now we have to get over to the docks, I have to pick something up,’ the Chief said.
‘Can’t it wait? I want to go home and get cleaned up.’
‘No it can’t wait. There’ll be plenty of time to have a wash when we go home afterwards. Relax it will only take an extra thirty minutes. What are you so worried about?’ replied the Chief.
Tunge didn’t want to discuss their injuries until he had to. ‘Nothing father. Nothing,’ he said, staring resolutely out the window.
In the car in front Alan was marvelling at the exotic scenes. They had left the airport in convoy heading through the busy city. Wooden stalls were everywhere, selling everything from cigarettes to jewellery. The streets were absolutely teeming with activity. People on foot were going in every direction, the women carrying huge loads on their heads, from rice to huge urns of water that balanced immaculately. There were unstable looking mopeds, weaving in and out the three lanes of traffic, where there should only be one. The cars crammed together like sardines, fighting for space.
On the sides and backs of the trucks there were awe inspiring slogans, like ‘Go Before God’ and ‘Better to be Late, than to Be the Late’. Pictures of lions and other animals were painted over vehicles everywhere. A lot of the trucks looked like they were half made of wood. Their cabs built from pallets on top of metal chassis.
There were mini-buses built for twelve, with seventeen or more people crammed inside and overflowing from their open doors. People were hanging on to the sides of vehicles everywhere, no room inside. It was rush hour in Lagos, who dares wins.
The skilled drivers weaved in and out the traffic like slalom skiers. Honking and flashing their lights, everyone moved out of the way for the Mercedes, with their tinted windows and government plates, who knew who might be inside. It might even be the Chief, God help them.
They seemed to leave the bustle of the city, and entered a massive flyover the lagoon. It stretched for miles in front of them, curving around the corner and out of site. They were a hundred feet above the water, travelling at some speed. Down to the right Alan could make out what looked like a floating shanty-town of wooden houses, all tied together and stretching to the city behind them. In front were thousands of timber logs, harvested and ready to be shipped out.
Dusk was closing in, and the crimson sun seemed to melt into the shimmering waters of the sea, running towards him like molten lava. Alan had never seen a sunset so beautiful, if it was going to be his last then it might as well be this one. He just wished Caitlyn was here to share it with him, obviously without his current complications. He wondered where Caitlyn and the kids were now. Were they safe? He looked down at John’s head cradled in his lap, his breathing shallow and irregular. Was he going to make it? There were no answers he could find at the moment.
Suddenly, it sounded like a thousand horses ran over the roof. Alan looked out but could see nothing. A sudden deluge of tropical rain had enveloped them in an instant. The rain was pelting the roof with drum roll ferocity. After a few minutes it stopped, just as dramatically, and Alan could see a solid grey wall receding behind them. It stretched for as far as he could see in both directions.
They came off the concrete flyover and seemed to re-enter the city. The chaos and colour returned, flying past until they entered the naval dockyards, deserted as always. Alan was aware that wherever they were going wouldn’t be good, but the area looked completely abandoned. There would be no-one around to help them here.
They finally pulled up outside a warehouse, not dissimilar to the one in Tilbury, but larger and slightly more modern, built in the late eighties.
Happy got out and opened Alan’s door. ‘Right get out,’ he said, pulling Alan sharply, sending him sprawling onto the ground beside the car. He tried to roll over but his leg twisted uselessly behind him and he couldn’t move. Happy yanked him to his feet.
Alan gritted his teeth, not wanting to give Happy the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. The other car pulled to a stop, Tunge and a huge man of medium height, whose flesh seemed to ripple with his movement, got out.
‘What the hell has happened to this one?’ he roared, in a voice more disturbing than Alan had ever heard.
‘We had an incident before we left. They had to be stopped,’ Tunge said, shrugging his shoulders, ‘if you throw me a grenade why are you surprised when it explodes?’
‘I ask you to do a simple thing and...,’ the Chief was interrupted by his son for the first time in their history.
‘Simple? Bloody simple? Bring two hostages on an international flight? The only one who’s simple around here is you!’ Tunge wasn’t sure where it came from, but regretted the moment it was out.
The Chief charged at him, possessed with rage. How dare his wretched son speak to him like that? Especially in front of the men! He grabbed his son by the throat and crushed it between his powerful, cigar shaped fingers.
Tunge felt himself lifted off the ground by his father, dangling as if hung. He kicked his legs around but the Chief was much stronger than him. Starved of oxygen the light started to fade as he nearly blacked out. The Chief released his grip and he fell limply to the floor, gasping for air.
‘How dare you speak to me like that? My own flesh and blood! After everything I have given you! You ungrateful piece of shit! You have always been a burden to me! I wish you had died at birth instead of your mother,’ screamed the Chief, bending closer to Tunge, spitting in his face as he roared.
Tunge cringed into a foetal position, to avoid the blows about to rain down on him, but they didn’t come. His father took a step back.
‘Get in the car and wait for me there,’ the Chief said, turning to the others. Patience hauled John over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
‘Bring them inside!’ the Chief barked, storming into the open warehouse.
Inside was a hive of activity, a few of the men working, most of them armed. Some of them noticed the incident and paused in what they were doing.
‘Get back to work you scum, I’m not paying you to stand around.’ The Chief in a bad mood was not a pretty site, and Tunge had definitely put him there. The workers immediately bent their heads down, making themselves look as busy, and as invisible, as humanly possible, scurrying to get away from the Chief. No one wanted to be the victim of his maniacal temper.
‘Bring them in here,’ he shouted, walking past the bundles of sugar cane, and up a steel flight of stairs into an office on the first floor, overlooking the warehouse. In the old days the sugar cane was traded in exchange for slaves, now it hid the cocaine coming in large container ships from South America. From his vantage point Alan witnessed a group of four men cutting open the bundles, removing kilos of cocaine, all bearing the familiar logo. These were being stacked in piles on pallets, roughly a meter cubed. A forklift drove in, picked up a full pallet and returned a couple of minutes later empty, through a set of double doors
leading to another room that Alan couldn’t see.
He was pushed into a chair in front of the Chief’s desk, and Patience dropped John into one next to it. The Chief stood behind his desk, both hands resting on it, glaring at Happy.
‘I wanted them in one piece,’ he said, turning to Alan he continued, ‘so you are the people who stole from me, eh? How stupid can one be?’ He chuckled insanely.
‘Look we’re sorry,’ Alan said, glancing down at John, barely conscious. ‘If we had known whose it was, we wouldn’t have nicked it! We’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt the girls,’ he begged the Chief.
‘What girls are you talking about?’ said The Chief, taken aback.
‘Don’t play fucking stupid! The ones you’ve got hostage,’ yelled Alan.
‘If you do as you are told then they need not be harmed. It all depends on you,’ said the Chief, playing along for now. If Tunge did have them then he would have them disposed of. There was just too much at stake.
‘I already told you we’ll do whatever you want,’ repeated Alan, desperately.
‘Good! Once you have finished your delivery you will be let go and I promise your family will not be touched,’ the Chief said, beaming as if they had just signed a business contract. Which to him they had, one that he would make void when they reached Los Angeles.
‘Delivery? What bloody delivery?’ said Alan, now more confused than he had been in the last twenty-four hours. It didn’t look as if they needed any help as far as ‘deliveries’ were concerned.
‘Yes. I have a small package I want you to take to LA for me. Happy and Tunge will go with you, just to make sure that everything is done properly,’ he said, looking over at Happy for acknowledgement.
Happy was not impressed but nodded anyway. More foreign bloody food! He just hoped the weather was better in LA than it was in bloody London. It should be, shouldn’t it?
