The Cellar

by Minette Walters

  He looked alarmed. What if she attacks you?

  She’ll never catch me, Master. She’s too fat. I will run as fast as I can if I see her on the stairs.

  Muna listened outside the cellar door for several seconds before she pulled back the bolt and switched on the light. Princess lay on her back at the bottom of the steps, face bloodied and arms flung out. She was very dead. With a tiny sigh of relief, Muna plunged the cellar into darkness again and closed the door. Her sharp eyes picked out a tiny splatter of blood on the carpet at her feet, and she darted to the kitchen for a cloth. With great care she blotted the stain and searched for more. There were none. Yetunde had bled on the other side of the door but not on this.

  Before she returned the cloth to the sink, she wiped the hammer clean, took Yetunde’s Louis Vuitton handbag from the coffee table in the sitting room, checked it contained her wallet, make-up and mobile, then retrieved Yetunde’s favourite Givenchy mackintosh from the cloakroom. With no time to select a better hiding place, she lifted the half-filled rubbish liner from the bin in the kitchen and placed everything she’d taken in the bottom, rearranging the liner on top.

  Back in the hall, she pulled on Abiola’s anorak and boots, put the front-door keys in her pocket and took a moment to calm her excitement and think. What else must she take to convince the Master that Yetunde had left the house while they were out? It was necessary for him to believe that or he would look for Yetunde inside, and Muna didn’t want that. Her life had been better since Abiola disappeared. It would be better still if Yetunde did the same.

  Ebuka frowned when Muna came out again. Why have you taken so long? What have you been doing?

  Muna showed him Yetunde’s mobile which she’d recovered from the bin, also the receiver from the landline in the sitting room. Collecting these, Master. It wouldn’t be wise to let Princess call the police.

  Why would she when she’s at fault?

  To make trouble for you, Master. She will say you struck her first and the white will believe her. The police already know you have a bad temper.

  Ebuka gave a weary sigh, knowing Muna was right. What’s this for? he asked as she laid the rod on his lap beside the handsets.

  Protection against Princess for when we return, Master. You know now that you should carry it at all times. We’ll be safer when she learns to fear you.

  But Ebuka knew the only fear was in him. Yetunde’s assault had frightened him badly, and he recognised that Muna had a greater understanding of her rages than he had. She wouldn’t be preparing him to fight Yetunde otherwise.

  He kept his thoughts to himself. Muna was sadly misguided if she thought he’d developed enough fondness for her to put her welfare before his own. In the choice between placating his bully of a wife with sugared almonds and credit cards, or taking the side of a powerless slave, he would placate Yetunde.

  As he always had.

  The cold December rain hurt Muna’s cheeks and hands, and her feet slithered on the gravel as she tried to push the chair across it. It was hard work, even with Ebuka assisting her by turning the wheels, but she refused to listen to his pleas to sit in the summer house.

  Princess will see us from her window, Master. She’ll come after us and you’ll have to threaten her with the rod sooner than you’d like.

  Muna knew he would accept this argument for she had no illusions about him. He had been afraid of Yetunde’s temper when he’d had the use of his legs. Now, hunched in misery at what had happened, he had even less desire to confront her. He kept rubbing the bruises on his arms and Muna was certain he was telling himself he couldn’t go through such punishment again.

  He seemed to read her thoughts. I’m not afraid of her, he said.

  I think you are, Master, or you wouldn’t have worked so hard to pull yourself into this chair.

  At least I’ve proved I have the strength to do it.

  Yes, Master. Princess will be surprised to find us gone when she comes down the stairs. It will worry her, I think.

  Why?

  She will know you’re stronger and more courageous than she realised, Master. She said she didn’t want you to go out but you’ve disobeyed her.

  It was your idea, Muna.

  No, Master. It was yours. The outside frightens me. Princess wouldn’t have lost her temper if you hadn’t ordered me to come.

  What are you afraid of?

  Everything, Master. My skin has never felt the rain or the cold. I like it better inside.

  Have you never been out?

  Never, Master. Princess says I’ll die if I do. The whites have only hatred for piccaninnies. They’ll kill me if I leave the house and become lost.

  She’s lying.

  I don’t think so, Master. They look unfriendly when I see them passing in the road or on the television.

  She stopped his chair in front of the gate, took the rod and handsets from his lap and placed them in the lee of the wall. He asked her why she was doing it.

  People will wonder why you’re carrying them, Master. The rod is a fearsome weapon.

  At least let me keep the mobile.

  Muna crouched down to scoop leaf mould over the pile. Princess wouldn’t like that, Master. She keeps her secrets in it.

  All the more reason for me to look.

  It won’t make you happy, Master. It upset Princess to find pictures of white ladies in yours.

  Perhaps Ebuka would have said more if a woman’s shrill voice hadn’t spoken from the other side of the gate. The sound was so unexpected – and so unwanted – that Muna shrank against the wall to avoid being seen.

  ‘How nice to see you, Mr Songoli. Your wife led me to think you were too poorly to leave your bed but you look remarkably well. I must have misunderstood her.’

  ‘I make a little progress each day, Mrs Hughes. This is the first time I’ve left the house since I came home.’

  ‘Are you alone? Can I help you?’ Muna heard the latch lift. ‘At least let me ease you on to the pavement. My father always said gravel was the worst surface to cross.’

  Ebuka gestured towards Muna. ‘My daughter’s with me.’

  Muna peeped from beneath the anorak hood to see a witchy-looking white with long grey hair, broken veins in her cheeks and a hooked nose. Her fear intensified. The woman’s eyes were as knowing as Inspector Jordan’s.

  Stop cowering away from her and stand up, Ebuka ordered sharply. You look ridiculous. She’ll wonder what’s wrong with you.

  Muna rose to her feet but kept her gaze on the ground.

  ‘How pretty she is. What’s her name?’

  ‘Muna.’

  The woman reached out a hand to grip the girl’s fingers in hers. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Muna.’

  She’s speaking to you, girl. Look at her.

  Muna raised her head and felt the woman’s eyes bore into her brain.

  ‘I’ve spotted you at the windows, my dear, but never outside. I thought you’d be tall like your brothers. How deceptive distance is.’

  Muna waited for Ebuka to say his daughter was brain-damaged and didn’t understand English, but he stayed silent. Perhaps he was testing Muna. Perhaps he didn’t believe her fear of strangers was genuine. What should she do? Speak? Or pull away and run back down the drive? She must speak, she thought. Ebuka could never be persuaded that Yetunde had left the house if they went back now.

  Nervously, she ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I watch you pass sometimes, lady,’ she said. ‘You live in the house next to this one, and you have three coats. A brown one, a blue one and a red one … but you like the red one the best.’

  Mrs Hughes arched her eyebrows in amusement. They were jet black and appeared to be drawn on her skin with a pen. Close to, she was old and ugly. ‘How observant you are.’

  Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Muna wondered. She wanted to remove her hand but the woman kept hold of it. There was warmth in the white fingers and their feel was unpleasant. The woman’s closeness was unpleasant.


  Mrs Hughes glanced at Ebuka. ‘She’s seems frightened of me. Is it my face? My grandchildren tell me I look like a witch.’

  Ebuka was taken aback, but whether by the talkative white or his slave’s ability to speak English, Muna didn’t know. ‘She has learning difficulties and it makes her timid,’ he answered carefully. ‘It’s why she rarely leaves the house.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘She looks younger … and very different from her brothers. I wouldn’t have known she was their sister if you hadn’t told me.’ Mrs Hughes placed her other palm on Muna’s hand and rubbed it to give it some warmth. ‘Her skin’s icy-cold. Here’ – she fished in her pocket and brought out some woollen gloves – ‘have these. I’ve plenty more at home.’

  Muna turned to Ebuka. What should I do, Master? If I take these things, she will come to the house looking for them … and Princess will be angry.

  She’s giving them as a gift. Smile and say thank you.

  I’m frightened of her, Master. She sees all and knows all. She will ask more questions if we linger.

  Do as I say and we can go.

  Muna pushed up the corners of her mouth. ‘Thank you, lady. Your gloves are pleasing to me … and so are you.’

  Perhaps all whites could read other people’s minds for Muna felt sure Mrs Hughes knew she was lying. ‘I should have said sooner how sorry I am about your brother, my dear. It must have been a terrible shock for you.’

  ‘Yes, lady.’

  ‘But at least your father’s getting better. You’re obviously caring for him very well.’

  ‘I make him do his exercises each day, lady.’

  The woman pressed the gloves into Muna’s hands and then glanced again at Ebuka. ‘Will she manage the chair when you cross the roads? She’s such a tiny little thing.’

  ‘We’re not going far.’

  Mrs Hughes gave a troubled nod before saying her goodbyes and continued along the pavement.

  Ebuka pointed in the same direction, indicating that they should follow her.

  But Muna turned his chair the other way. No, Master, she said firmly. It’s better to avoid Mrs Hughes. She knows I’m too thin to be the sister of Olubayo and Abiola. Princess would have fed me sugared almonds if I was truly her daughter.

  Eleven

  The world beyond the house was as threatening as Yetunde had promised. The overcast sky and unremitting rain turned everything grey, even the faces of passers-by, and Muna’s heart lurched in alarm each time someone brushed against her or muttered in annoyance at having to step aside for Ebuka’s chair. Dogs barked behind garden walls, car engines roared, cyclists splashed water into Muna’s boots, and she was as wretched as she had ever been.

  In her dreams of escape she had never pictured herself outside. Her rehearsed English words – ‘Please help me. My name is Muna’ – were always said to an imaginary white who came to the door when Yetunde was out. Yet Muna had never found the courage to put the plan into operation. If the bell rang when she was alone, she hid in a dark corner and held her breath until the stranger went away. It had been safer to obey Yetunde than risk placing trust in a white.

  But now it was necessary to walk among them if she wanted to persuade Ebuka that Yetunde had left the house in anger while they were away, and great though her fear was, she tried to ignore it. Before long, however, she had lost her sense of direction and knew she wouldn’t find her way home if Ebuka became impatient with her. She wasn’t brave enough to ask a stranger where Twenty Three Fortis Row En Ten was.

  Her slender arms ached from pushing the chair across paving stones. Her feet grew blisters inside Abiola’s boots and her small reserves of energy were soon used up. She hadn’t walked so far since Yetunde had stolen her. Tears of exhaustion limned her lashes but she kept her head down so that Ebuka wouldn’t see them.

  Everyone stared. First at the paralysed man and then at the ugly piccaninny behind him. Yetunde had been right to say they’d bring shame on themselves for Muna didn’t think the smiles on the faces of the passers-by were kind. She found them mocking and cruel, and knew Yetunde had spoken the truth. A black should never expect help from a white.

  Her courage deserted her completely when they came to a wide road, lined with shops and filled with vehicles and pedestrians. Ebuka pointed to some strange-looking lights and told her they could cross there, but Muna was too afraid to take another step. She came to a halt, her heart full of dread at the throng of blue-lipped, unsmiling people, hunched beneath umbrellas and jostling each other as cars and buses passed inches from their faces.

  Her teeth chattered with cold. We must go back, Master.

  But Ebuka’s depression had lifted. Where Muna saw mockery in the faces that passed, he saw sympathy and consideration. We’ve barely gone half a mile, he said.

  The house is small compared with this, Master. I’ve never been so far and your chair is hard to push. My legs are trembling.

  Then rest.

  Where, Master? If I squat here, people will ask what’s wrong with me.

  There’s a café halfway down this road. My friends use it. We’ll go there.

  We can’t do that, Master. They will wonder why I look so different from you and Princess. My skin is pale and the flesh on my bones is thin. It’s better to say your daughter is too damaged to leave the house than parade her before people you know.

  Ebuka conceded reluctantly, using his hands to turn the wheels as they made their way back. The effort made him irritable and he took out his ill humour on Muna, criticising her for hiding her face in her hood and dragging her feet along the ground.

  You disappoint me, he growled. I thought you had more spirit.

  I don’t mean to, Master. I’m tired, that is all.

  So am I, Muna, so am I … but you still expect me to protect you from Princess.

  She will kill us both if you don’t, Master.

  You exaggerate.

  I don’t think so, Master. Princess wouldn’t have told the witchy-white you were too sick to leave your bed if she doesn’t intend you to die.

  Any appetite Ebuka had ever had for confronting his wife was gone by the time they reached the gate. Before his accident, his habit had been to leave – walk out of the house and drive in search of the more congenial company of prostitutes – and then live with Yetunde’s sulks until a new designer handbag appeared. It hadn’t bothered him if she took out her anger on Muna or his sons as long as he didn’t have to witness it.

  He was less sanguine about being a victim himself, and demanded Muna give him Yetunde’s smartphone so that he could call Jeremy Broadstone. Yetunde was too lazy to bother with passwords or codes so he’d find the solicitor’s number easily enough. They’d wait on the pavement until he arrived. Princess never caused scenes in front of visitors.

  Muna would have argued with him if she weren’t afraid of raising his suspicions. He’d find her reluctance to accept the lawyer’s protection strange when she’d warned so strongly that Yetunde was dangerous. But her heart sank at the idea of Mr Broadstone coming to the house. He thought like a policeman and would want to search it, and she had no explanation for what he would find. Her beautiful, vibrant dreams of hurting Yetunde hadn’t taught her to deal with the consequences of inflicting pain. Only the joy of doing it.

  She fetched the mobile and listened impassively to Ebuka’s one-sided conversation with Mr Broadstone’s secretary. Muna was better able to hide her fear of discovery than Ebuka was to hide his of Yetunde’s anger. He became rude and belligerent when the secretary told him the lawyer was unavailable, accusing her of ignorance for not knowing that Mr Broadstone always took his calls.

  Muna plucked at his sleeve when the line was cut abruptly. We should go inside, Master. Your neigh-bour is returning. She will wonder why we’re on the pavement and ask more questions.

  Had Ebuka turned round, he would have known Muna was lying, but he shook his head in frustration, persuaded that all
women should be avoided. Muna took the mobile from his hand and dropped it into her pocket before lifting the latch on the gate.

  The gravel is difficult, Master. You must turn the wheels as I push. I will take you to the summer house.

  Ebuka grumbled loudly as the effort exhausted him further. Women were devils. They had no respect for men. They nagged and fought and disliked each other, whispering spiteful tittle-tattle to create division. Jealousy dominated all their relationships. It had been true of his mother and sisters when he was growing up, and it was true of Muna and her mistress.

  Why should I believe you over Princess? he demanded irritably as Muna manoeuvred his chair through the summer-house door. You both talk nonsense. She accuses you of wanting to marry me and you accuse her of being a murderer. A man has to shut his ears to such idiocy if he wants control of his life.

  Yes, Master.

  Where are you going? he snapped as she turned back on to the grass.

  To fetch the rod, Master. You will not have peace for long if Princess comes out.

  Then leave me her smartphone. I’ll call Inspector Jordan. Yetunde won’t make trouble in front of her. She’s afraid of her.

  But Muna pretended not to hear. She slipped her feet from Abiola’s boots and ran barefoot across the ice-cold grass. As she pulled the leaves from the rod, her tears returned and she belaboured herself for taking Yetunde’s phone. All she’d wanted was a reason for why it hadn’t been used but, instead, it had become the means by which Ebuka could summon the police.

  The Devil was wrong to call her His Clever One.

  Her thoughts were of punishment – worse than any she had yet experienced – as her senses left her and she slid quietly to the ground.

  A hand caressed her cheek. ‘Poor child. You’re half-starved and your skin’s icy-cold again. And so pale. Does your mother keep you out of the sun on purpose?’ Muna recognised the voice of the witchy-white. A finger touched the raised scar on her foot. ‘I think you can hear me, Muna. Why are you without shoes or socks? And what’s this? Did someone burn you deliberately? Talk to me, child. Why are you out here alone? Where’s your father?’