by Yaba Badoe
The insistent explosion of corks jars, reminding me of a dark undertow beneath the smiles and laughter. Human cargo trafficked, held captive; human cargo destroyed in a strafe of bullets.
I think the thought, and straightaway the forbidding tide of my dream drags me to its shore. Pop! Pop! Pop! And I’m back there, once again, as the Captain’s grey vessel, a trail of carnage in its wake, surges forwards with a splutter of gunfire. Bullets splinter the deck, ripping it open as the trawler erupts in flames.
But this time, in a way I don’t fully understand, Cobra and Cat are above and below me and the three of us are moving as one, removes the sting that flips my dream into a nightmare. I remain calm on the outside, while inside that bloodhound pup claws open my heart. Then, from one moment to the next, a tsunami of emotion sweeps me into a world in which I see them.
Around and about me; amid the laughter of revellers and outpouring of Cava, they’re everywhere. And for the first time I begin to appreciate what they’re truly capable of. Blowing out candles was nothing. A dagger levitating and drilling into a wall was simple compared to this. Might as well ask a bear to dance before it mauls you, or tell Priss to cease flying and stop dipping her talons in blood, before she rips the head off her prey.
The unquiet dead whisper and murmur with intent. They hover and glide – little more than faint wisps of smoke. Smoke that gathers, thickens, whirls and quickens.
A blot darkens the sky. Clouds form and a wind ripples the smooth surface of the sea beyond. Ripples turn into waves that crash on the beach, while inside a hush of expectation descends. I hear the tap tap tap of that golden-topped cane, the shift and shuffle of his laboured tread. He sounds weaker than he was before, desiccated.
I look up. Cobra hears it too. Sees terror in my eyes, and gestures: ‘Stay calm.’ Then he mouths: ‘We’re almost there, Sante. Hold on.’
The Captain’s footfall outside the restaurant door pauses as he gathers strength for his entrance. A clatter of feet assembles around him.
I swallow my fear and continue doing what I’m doing: swing back and forth, in time with Cobra and Cat, who’re blind as bats to what I’m seeing.
Those whirls of smoke coil up to the ceiling. As I fix my gaze on them in anticipation of the Captain’s arrival, the smoke blooms into a throng of dark moths that flit about the room. They move as one, ballooning, stretching, fluttering up, down, in a tumultuous swarm until they congregate above the restaurant door.
A drumroll announces the Captain. The doors swing open, and male dancers in black rush in. Hands clapping, fingers clicking, their feet tap to a beat of sharp advances and quick retreats as they progress, three abreast, to the top table. Behind them is Isaka and behind him, either side of the Captain, are Grey Eyes and Miguel.
It’s the Captain I keep my eyes on; the Captain and those moths. Soon as he enters the restaurant – whoosh! – they swoop from the ceiling and hang over him, like a vibrating blanket of wings.
Last time I saw the Captain he didn’t look too hot; but this? His hair’s still the same: dyed black, combed over to hide a bald patch. Still has the same gold-topped ebony cane, but that’s about it.
The man shuffling slowly towards the top table, the old man with a troupe of noisy dancers bustling in his wake, can hardly place one foot in front of the other. Supported at the elbow by Miguel and Grey Eyes, the stain of evil on his face has leeched deep into his bones. Man’s got the shakes as well, and with every step he takes, twitches like a fish plucked from the sea, gasping for breath.
While Isaka strides ahead in a robe emblazoned with silver embroidery that highlights the blue-black beauty of his face and skin, the Captain limps and falters. Stops to catch his breath, and the moths cluster in a black cloud above his head.
I’ve heard talk from Mimi and Midget Man of folk on their last legs. Heard ’em whisper late at night that when the bony finger of death prods someone, they’re like a dead man walking. Never seen it before today, but now I have: the Captain hasn’t much time left in this world, because the restless dead are intent on dragging him into theirs.
28
Turns out it’s Isaka who opens the proceedings, Isaka who gets everyone to cheer the Captain, and then tells ’em to tuck in to the birthday feast. Isaka claps his hands and serving girls bring out salvers laden with the bounty of land and sea: huge hunks of cured ham, barbecued chicken, gigantic lobsters garlanded with oysters and shrimps. Boys in britches – all in masks – wield vast trays of paella and peppered potatoes. Heavy platters held aloft, then placed carefully on tables. Never seen so much food in the whole of my life; never smelled anything so delicious.
Guests pile food on their plates and eat. Eat till bellies full, the urge to sweeten their mouths tickles ’em into slicing ripe figs. They devour the figs with almond cake, strawberries and ice cream. Swill it down, and bit by bit, one fig after another, slices of cake on top of spoonfuls of ice cream, they gorge themselves.
And as their cheeks bloat and their stomachs bulge, the moths teeming above the Captain’s head become fat as bats. Eyes protruding, they flick out their tongues, steadily multiplying until, as the meal draws to a close, not only are they above the Captain’s head, they’ve covered the entire ceiling of the restaurant as well. From where I am, swaying on the trapeze, it doesn’t look good. Not at all.
A half-smile flits over Isaka’s mouth. A gleam of triumph surfaces on his face. Stands up, and as he does so, glances at the ceiling. A single, satisfied smirk that’s all it takes; a look of recognition that convinces me that I’m not the only one present who sees ’em.
Isaka rearranges his features, taps a glass with a knife.
Grey Eyes, on the Captain’s right, leans back and lights a cigar. Miguel, on the left, takes a swig of wine. The restaurant rustles and then quietens down.
‘We’ve come here, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Isaka, ‘to celebrate the Captain’s birthday. We’re here to thank him for all he’s done for us. Indeed, if he hadn’t shown mercy on me many years ago, I wouldn’t be with you today. You know my story well. This man here – ’ Isaka, a smile greasing his lips, turns to face the Captain – ‘this man plucked me from a tempestuous sea. He saved my life when the boat I was in, a boat full of migrants and refugees, capsized.’
Isaka closes his eyes, bows, and hand on heart, salutes the Captain: ‘My dearest friend, I thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Accept this gift as a token of my deep appreciation.’
Isaka waves at a figure at the entrance of the restaurant, and beckons.
It’s a girl who I believe is Scarlett. Should be, even though she’s replaced the clothes she was wearing with a blue evening gown that trails behind her. A butterfly mask still hides her face and covering her head is a long, black mantilla. In her outstretched hands is a brown paper parcel. She must be Scarlett. If it is her, every trace of playfulness in her walk has disappeared. Any hint of the teasing laughter she displayed earlier has evaporated, replaced by stiff, solemn majesty.
And with every move she makes, I sense that there’s something wrong. Terribly wrong. I know there is. There has to be, for the closer she gets to the Captain, the faster some moths peel away from the main colony and cluster over her head.
Then I feel it again – that taste of mango on my tongue – followed by a blast of emotion that stirs my senses with Scarlett’s and binds us together. I’m in Scarlett and Scarlett’s in me, yet I can’t stop her, or make her do what she was supposed to. I knew it!
I try to shout: ‘No, Scarlett! No!’ But my throat gags as her fury seizes me with an intensity that makes it impossible to decide which one of us is angrier: Scarlett or me.
‘Please, Scarlett! No!’ I want to scream. The storm inside her throttles my voice and the only noise that comes out of me is a whimper.
Can’t believe what I’m seeing – those huge moths dividing and multiplying as the violence deep in Scarlett’s soul feeds ’em and helps ’em breed.
She stops
in front of Miguel.
He looks at her puzzled.
She pulls the butterfly mask off her face, flings it at him, and he jumps back.
‘You are so dead!’ she cries, and ripping off the mantilla, brandishes her curls like a freedom flag as she shreds open the parcel.
Barrel Man and Grey Eyes see what’s inside before anyone else. See it and leap at her, to topple her over, while Miguel lurches back, an arm raised to protect his face. But once the dagger’s in Scarlett’s hands, no one can overpower her. No one, not even me, ’cause whatever’s riding her is a million times bigger than the two of us together. There’s a whole world in her that, seething in its restlessness, is pumped up tight, about to strike.
Scarlett wields the dagger high and plunges it down.
‘No!’ Cat shrieks.
Cobra echoes Cat. And while I sit stunned, the two of ’em swing and somersault to the ground.
At that very moment, as Isaka nods to signal that we should begin our act, a glimmer of gold shimmers at the edge of my vision. It glows and fills my eyes.
If Isaka wanted a distraction, he’s got one now.
‘It’s that bird again,’ someone shouts. ‘If it’s here those gypsies are as well! Catch it! Kill it. Find them!’
Barrel Man clutches the neck of an empty bottle and flings it at Priss.
Misses.
‘See to Miguel first, you idiots!’ cries Grey Eyes. ‘Get help.’
‘Miguel. Miguelito! My son! My son!’ the Captain cries.
The screams of a frightened old man shift in an instant, from baffled surprise to the keening of a parent on his knees, the blood of his child on his hands. ‘Miguelito! What has she done to you? What have they done?’
‘Priss!’ I cry.
Too late. Priss, retracting her talons, drops on Barrel Man and takes a chunk out of his cheek.
‘Leave, Priss! Leave!’
She flies over the Captain, over Scarlett, her golden wings batting aside the moths. They scatter, regroup, then descend in a haze of vengeful black wings.
This time the Captain sees ’em. I know he does, ’cause he gapes, shakes his head, and then shrieks as moths flap about his face and ears. Tries to bat ’em away, but they zoom into his eyes and open mouth.
His terror electrifies the restaurant. So much so, that the veil that hides this world from the next and conceals the seen from the unseen is torn asunder. And now everyone sees ’em. And everyone runs: old folk, young ones, men and women. Chairs crash to the ground, tables topple. People collide, screaming, waving arms, hands, napkins, bags – anything to keep the moths away.
I tumble from the trapeze on to a chair. Cat, way ahead of me, leaps from one table to the next till she reaches the top table. I follow, Cobra alongside me.
‘Leave her alone!’ Cat yells as Scarlett, in the clutches of one of Miguel’s thugs, kicks him on the shin. Man staggers, falls over.
Scarlett thrusts the ceremonial dagger a second time. No one, it seems, can subdue her while she’s unleashing the pent-up rage of a cargo of lost souls.
Cat propels herself forwards. Jumps once. Twice. Is about to reach Scarlett, when a bevy of moths flutter over her face and drive her back.
‘Priss!’ I scream. ‘Priss! Help Cat.’
Priss, perched on a chandelier, stares at me, feathers quivering. Talons skitter on the domed surface of the chandelier. Crystal tinkles and Priss glides on to the window ledge and peers at me.
‘It’s me, Priss,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Sante-girl.’
Bird jerks her head, her eyes flash and quiz me and I realise what’s upsetting her.
I pull the blonde wig off my head. Take off my mask. Stretch out my hand and say: ‘Priss, help me.’
A bottle smashes on the window ledge, and she flies away.
I know, before I turn to face him, that Barrel Man threw the bottle. And I know it’s him behind me, his breath hot on my neck.
I swivel and then slowly back away from eyes wild with hate. His cheek gushes blood.
‘Yes, I’ve got you, girl. Look at me! Look what you’ve done.’
I tread on someone behind me, someone cowering on the floor, head covered with a napkin. Stumble and Barrel Man lunges. Shakes me. Then – boom! – a tornado of moths attacks him, blackening his face with their wings.
‘Help,’ Barrel Man roars. ‘Someone! Help me!’
Moths swarm around his mouth, down his gullet. Snuff the breath out of him till he’s gasping for air. No one comes to his aid, ’cause everyone – including Concha, his wife and kids – is tangled up in the stampede to get out of there.
‘Sante, here!’ Cobra sweeps plates and flowers from the top table, bowls of figs and grapes, cutlery and glasses. I run to help him and whip out the tablecloths underneath. Throw one to Cobra, the other to Cat. The third I use to cover Barrel Man snivelling on the floor. I clear moth wings from his eyes, help him spit ’em out of his mouth.
Soon as I lay him down again, the thick, breathless air becomes even more cloying and impenetrable. Only now the moths glimmer green and blue, their wings luminescent. And like exotic creatures of the deep, they dart up and down in shoals of light, prompted by invisible currents. The moths glow, and as their ghostly radiance brings an early gloaming to the room, the wind stirs outside and the sea at high tide smashes against pillars undergirding the Caleta.
Waves rush beneath the floor and Cat, her voice soft and low as a warm breeze in summer, tries to soothe Scarlett: ‘Give me the dagger,’ she urges. ‘If you want, you can take this one instead.’ Cat offers the knife strapped on the inside of her thigh.
Rage churning her up, Scarlett shakes her head and snarls. A bitter taste of bile floods my mouth and tugging at my heart, reels me ever closer to her.
So close, I can almost touch her, when Cobra cries: ‘Sante, grab a napkin. Quick, Sante!’ Cobra, kneeling over Miguel, presses napkins to his bloodied chest.
Miguel stirs. Groans. And Scarlett, the ceremonial dagger in her hand, shakes her head. ‘Leave him! I’m warning you,’ she says. ‘Let him die!’
I look from Cobra to Scarlett as she hisses at me and I feel the wildness in her, unfurling in me.
‘Sante! Now!’ Cobra cries, and tearing my eyes away from Scarlett, I slip beside him on to my knees.
My right hand glides over Cobra’s and as he places another napkin on Miguel’s chest, I press on it, struggling to talk down a gathering dread that this splintering of one world into another is due to me: Scarlett, the moths, everything. Try to talk myself down, yet I can’t stop fear chatting back to me. No, sir!
Never knew a body could weep so much blood and still be breathing.
Seen birds and beasts lose less and drop dead: a blackbird chick batted by a wild cat; rabbits stunned by Priss.
Never seen such a thing or heard the stuttering of a man’s breath as life turns its back and tiptoes away from him.
I see it, hear it, and before any memories I have of Miguel overrule my inclination, my heart heaves, and instinct kicks in. ‘Hold on, Miguel,’ I say.
Scarlett lashes out. Cobra ducks, and the dagger almost slices my cheek. ‘Take your hands off him! He’s mine!’
‘He’s no good to you dead, Scarlett! Isaka! Where’s Isaka?’
‘He left with Grey Eyes,’ Cobra tells me. ‘Went to fetch help.’
Man orders us to skedaddle as soon as the fireworks begin, but then skedaddles himself, leaving us to clear up. The breath of a dying man is on my face, his blood on my hands while a whole world is turned inside out.
Then it comes to me: I’ve got to talk to Scarlett. ‘It may not seem like it now,’ I say, ‘but you and me, Scarlett – we’re much better than this. Better than Miguel and his crew. Better than the Captain and the bad things he did.’
Scarlett laughs at me, intoxicated. A wild laugh that makes her a thousand times scarier than she ever was before. Laughs and her howls attract moths to her; moths that congregate, lighting up her ashen face and skin,
the veins in the hand brandishing the dagger that glitters dangerously in the half-light. Scarlett glows incandescent with malice. And when the winged ghosts dive into her hair, my heart capsizes at the tumult inside her.
Cobra passes me another napkin. I place it on top of one already soaked with blood.
Miguel’s breathing dips and, weak as a kitten, the fingers of his left hand clasp my wrist.
‘Don’t make me do it, Sante,’ says Scarlett. ‘If you don’t get away from that man right now, I swear, I’ll do you in as well.’
She threatens me and her eyes begin to lose their lustre. Blinks, unable to focus on what’s right in front of her. She twitches, distracted, then cocks her head as if tuning in to a scene only she can see.
I gauge the pulse and flow of her and register what she’s hearing: a faint tap, tap, tap that slowly becomes louder. The Captain’s ebony cane.
I look behind me. The Captain, crumpled on the floor, open mouth crammed with the crushed abdomens of moths, raises a hand to where his eyes used to be: hollows blackened with discarded wings and antennae. What’s left of him twitches one last time as he steps slow as a parson on the highway to hell.
‘Drop the knife, Scarlett,’ says Cat. ‘Please, for my sake, drop it.’
Scarlett closes her eyes. The dagger tilts. When Scarlett looks out at the world again, her pupils contract into pinpricks of anguish. She stares at me a second time. But now, she reminds me of my dream last night. Trapped, floundering, unsure where she is, she gives the distinct impression of never having seen me before.
The moths surrounding her flicker and dim. And as their light fades, I sense their hold over Scarlett waning.
‘Scarlett,’ I say. ‘Let’s finish what we started.’
A vacant, sealed expression steals over her face and I try to reach her once again. ‘It wasn’t supposed to end like this, Scarlett. This isn’t about you. It’s a day of reckoning for those who drowned to save me, a day to put things right. Put the dagger down and let’s be done with ’em.’
