Muna knew she had to speak but she was tired and her thoughts were chaotic. She told the truth because it was all she could remember but she hadn’t the energy to open her eyes. ‘He’s in the summer house, lady. I came to fetch the rod and the telephone. I had to run fast so I took off Abiola’s boots. Am I sick?’
‘No, dear, you just asked too much of yourself. There’s not enough of you to do anything strenuous. I was passing the gate as you came towards it and saw you drop a few seconds later.’ An arm slipped beneath Muna’s neck and helped her sit up. ‘Lean forward. You’ll feel better soon.’
After that, Muna didn’t have to do or say anything. Mrs Hughes lifted her in her arms and took her to Ebuka, demanding explanations. She wanted to know why a fourteen-year-old was so undernourished that a woman could carry her easily. She wanted to know why Muna never left the house, why she was wearing boots that were too big for her, why her foot had burn scars on it, and why a rod and a telephone handset had been left beside the gate.
‘I’ve been a teacher all my life, Mr Songoli, and I can recognise abuse when I see it. Are you aware that using excessive force against a child is illegal in this country? It disturbed me greatly to see that rod.’
But Ebuka wanted none of it. ‘You must talk to my wife,’ he said, lowering his head into his hands. ‘I’m weary of making excuses for her.’
Mrs Hughes sat Muna on a chair. ‘What does he mean?’
Muna’s mind cleared as her strength came back. ‘Mamma has a temper,’ she answered timidly. ‘It’s become worse since we lost Abiola. She takes out her distress on all of us. We brought the rod outside to protect ourselves in case she came after us.’ She leaned forward to ease back the sleeve of Ebuka’s jacket. ‘She made these marks on Dada’s arms this morning by pulling him from his chair and kicking him. He tried to defend himself but the blows to his head dazed him.’
The deep discoloration on the dark skin was obvious and Mrs Hughes looked shocked. ‘Did you call the police?’
‘No, lady. They can’t mend Mamma’s sadness. We came outside to get away from her. She’ll be calmer now.’
‘Indeed … but—’ Mrs Hughes broke off to take Muna’s hand. ‘Does she hurt you, child? Does she feed you less than your brothers? Did she cause that burn on your foot?’
‘No, lady. I dropped hot oil through clumsiness when I was young, and there are things wrong with my brain, which is why I find it hard to eat. Olubayo’s brain is damaged also. He became epileptic with the stress of Abiola’s departure. Mamma is very upset about it. She’s ashamed to have feeble-minded children and a husband who can’t walk.’
Mrs Hughes looked uncomfortable as if Muna had said more than she should. ‘Is this true, Mr Songoli? Your son has epilepsy?’
He nodded. ‘We lurch from one tragedy to another. Yetunde finds it hard to cope.’
‘Then she needs help. We have excellent social services in this borough. At the very least let me help you organise some respite care.’
Muna spoke before Ebuka could. ‘What is respite, lady?’
‘Relief … support. Nurses will come in to look after your father so that your mother can have some time to herself. Would she like that, do you think?’
Muna decided Mrs Hughes wasn’t as knowing as she’d first thought. She looked stupid with her pen-cilled eyebrows arched in eager enquiry. ‘I’m sure she would, lady,’ she said, lifting her lips into a shy smile. ‘Will you speak to her about it? She will listen more to you than to me or Dada. If you help me push him into the house, it will give you a reason to talk with her. Her anger should be gone by now.’
‘Is that what you want me to do?’
‘It is, lady.’ Muna drew the front-door keys from her anorak pocket and gave them to the woman. ‘I brought these in case she refused to let us in.’
Muna hung back when they reached the entrance so it was Mrs Hughes who unlocked the door and tilted Ebuka’s chair over the threshold. The rod lay across his knees and he clutched at it fearfully as the woman eased him into the hall. He called Yetunde’s name several times but his shouts were greeted with silence. Even Muna, hypersensitive to sounds from the cellar, heard nothing.
Mrs Hughes steered the chair towards the sitting room and peered inside. ‘I wonder where she’s gone.’
‘She went upstairs just before Muna and I left,’ Ebuka told her. ‘We heard her slam the bedroom door.’
‘Would you like me to look?’
‘I think Muna should go.’
But Muna shook her head and spoke in Hausa. I’m too frightened, Master. Princess might hit me.
It seemed Mrs Hughes didn’t need a translation. Whatever she saw in Muna’s face, or heard in her tremulous tones, persuaded her to ignore Ebuka. Muna thought her brave as she mounted the stairs since she couldn’t know what was up there. Perhaps her courage came from being white.
She waited until Mrs Hughes’s footsteps sounded on the landing and then touched Ebuka’s shoulder, pointing to the coffee table in the sitting room. Princess’s handbag has gone, Master. It was there when I took her mobile. Shall I see if her coat is missing?
Twelve
Yetunde was a sorry sight. She sat with her back propped against the far wall, her fat legs splayed in front of her, her dress bunched in ugly folds around her midriff and a pool of urine between her thighs. The dust of the floor was in her hair and on her skin, and tears of anguish had smudged her mascara. Her lips, swollen to twice their size and caked with dried blood, gave her the look of a clown, and, try as she might, she could not prise them open.
Muna squatted at a distance, looking to see what else was wrong with the woman. The scuff marks and bloodstains on the stones showed where she’d crawled to her position by the wall, but the way her hands lay in her lap, pink palms uppermost, looked unnatural.
I thought you were dead, Princess. I’d have been frightened to let Mrs Hughes into the house if I’d known you weren’t.
She tapped the end of the rod on the puffy swelling of the woman’s knee where the hammer had smashed the kneecap; then she manoeuvred it under Yetunde’s right wrist and studied the end of the white bone that protruded from the skin. Agony sent quivers of shock through the woman’s gigantic body but no sound emerged from the scabbed lips, just throaty grunts that were expelled with mucus from her nose.
Satisfied that Yetunde couldn’t hurt her, Muna inched forward to place the Louis Vuitton handbag and Givenchy mackintosh on her lap. She had been busy in the three hours since Mrs Hughes left, even remembering to slip Yetunde’s mobile into Ebuka’s pocket.
The witchy-white has gone and the Master fell asleep soon afterwards, Princess. He is worn out by your attack on him and the distance we travelled. Both are persuaded you’ve gone shopping. The Master said it’s what you always do when you’re angry – spend money on yourself. The witchy-white believed him. She says you have more shoes and coats than anyone she’s ever seen.
She watched Yetunde try to lift one of her hands to open the handbag.
There’s no rescue in there, Princess. I took your mobile when the Master and I went out. I’m much cleverer than you think I am. I remembered Inspector Jordan saying that such phones can tell the police everything, even where a person is when they’re using it … and I knew they’d find it strange if you didn’t use it while you were shopping. It’s better that the Master keeps it from now on. He’ll show it to the police, and they’ll learn as little from it as they did from Abiola’s.
She tilted her head to one side to stare intently into Yetunde’s face.
You’re very ugly, Princess. You’ll shame us all if anyone finds you like this. You have the face and voice of a pig, and you smell from the fluids that are leaking out of you. People will say the Master was right to prefer his little piccaninny when they discover how dirty and ugly you are. They will see he married a sow and not a wife. Do you wish now you’d been kinder to little Muna?
As always, she found it easy to read Yetunde’s though
ts. Yetunde never disguised her feelings. She believed it made her powerful when her anger inspired fear and her forgiveness brought relief. Muna watched the popping eyes swing between rage and panic – blazing one minute, pleading the next – but she saw that Yetunde’s primary emotion was despair.
She was in the same friendless place that Ebuka had been, with the same shocked understanding that the girl who crouched before her was a stranger. The furthest her imagination had ever taken her was to accuse Muna of having demons; she’d never thought that a child, so silent and obedient for so many years, might want to kill her.
I think you hope that Olubayo will look for you when he comes home, Princess, but he won’t. He seeks relief from your vicious tongue as much as the Master does, and will believe what his father tells him … that you had a tantrum and have gone away to sulk.
Yetunde shook her head.
You mustn’t wish for things that won’t happen, Princess. When you don’t come home tonight, Olubayo and I will search your room and we’ll find that your most expensive clothes are missing … along with this bright blue suitcase and everything you need to make yourself pretty.
She gestured to the case that stood beside her.
When the Master fell asleep, I packed it with your nicest dresses, your best perfumes and most precious jewellery. Olubayo will find it all gone … and when he tells the Master, the Master will think you’ve taken yourself to a hotel … as you did when you found the pictures of white ladies on his telephone. You spent his money for five days to teach him a lesson about squandering it on whores.
Muna opened the Louis Vuitton handbag and took out Yetunde’s passport.
Then the Master will look for this in the drawer of the sideboard, and discover it missing also. It’s good that you lost your temper with him today because you made him hate and fear you. He’ll believe you’ve gone to your sister in Africa – as you always tell him you will when you’re angry – and he’ll be glad. He’ll find joy again without you.
Yetunde closed her eyes. Fresh tears oozed through the mascara.
Ebuka was awake when Muna returned to his bedroom. She helped him into his wheelchair and pushed him to the sitting room, saying he should watch the programmes he enjoyed for as long as he wanted. Yetunde would demand to see something different when she returned, but he must stay firm. She will respect you more if you do, Master.
He rubbed a weary hand around his face. Things have gone too far, Muna. I’ve been going through her mobile, and you’re right that she wants me dead. She’s written vile texts to her sister, saying it’s a pity I didn’t die.
She used the same words to Mr Broadstone, Master.
We shouldn’t be in the same house. It’s not healthy for either of us. I’m not keen to be here when she comes back.
Olubayo will be home soon, Master. You’ll feel safer when he is. Princess won’t attack you both.
Muna listened from the kitchen as Ebuka recounted the events of the morning to his son. The tale he told was dramatic. Yetunde had gone mad, almost killing her husband with the ferocity of her onslaught. Ebuka had managed to save himself by using the hoist to get back into the chair but there was no knowing what would have happened if he and Muna hadn’t fled the house.
Olubayo – flattered to have his father confide in him – urged Ebuka to call the police before Mamma came home. It would take more than a day of shopping to cool her anger. When Ebuka appeared to agree with him, Muna took them bowls of broth on a tray. Olubayo glared at her, seeing the intrusion for what it was – a way to attract Ebuka’s attention to herself – but she pretended not to notice. Instead she made a point of praising him.
You look happier, Master. I said your son would be a comfort to you. He won’t let harm come to you. He is stronger and more determined than his mother knows.
He wants me to call the police.
Muna stooped to put the tray on the coffee table. Perhaps he’s right, Master. Mrs Hughes thought the same. She seemed very shocked that Princess had hurt you so badly. The Inspector will ask many questions about why Princess lost her temper … and some might be hard to answer … but she’ll know you have reason to fear your wife when you show her your bruises.
Olubayo didn’t like Muna giving her views. The Inspector won’t come, he said scornfully. It’ll be a man in a car who’ll tell Dada to keep the door locked and call again when Mamma returns.
He’ll know that Abiola’s still missing.
What if he does?
He will tell Inspector Jordan that Princess caused her husband damage, and she will come here to find out why. She believes the Master lost his temper with Abiola. It will interest her to learn that Princess’s anger is worse.
Ebuka told them to stop arguing and ate his broth in silence. When he’d finished, he ordered Muna to bolt the front door. There would be time enough to decide what to do when Yetunde returned. They would know what mood she was in as soon as she discovered she was locked out.
Muna listened outside Olubayo’s door for several minutes before she eased it open to make sure he was asleep. She had no need of a light. Years of confinement had trained her to interpret every shadow in the darkness, and she could see Olubayo quite clearly. He lay curled on his side, his lids fast closed, his breathing deep and regular.
She slipped silently down the stairs to check on Ebuka and found him as dead to the world as his son, his snores reaching her even before she opened the dining-room door. It was good that his doctors had given him pills to send him to sleep. She knew them by the colour of the packet, and it had been easy to crush two into his night-time drink and one into Olubayo’s.
Poor Yetunde. Even if she were able to call for help, no one but Muna would hear her.
Muna placed a lit candle on the cellar floor and crouched beside it, seeing with satisfaction that Princess’s eyes were open. Cold, fear and pain were keeping her awake for the brain and the body couldn’t rest when these three evils existed together. Muna understood this and exulted that Princess had learned it also. It was right and just that she should suffer as Muna had.
Her position had barely altered since Muna had wrapped parcel tape across her mouth and secured her fractured wrists to the handles of two heavy trunks. Only her uninjured leg had shifted slightly, as if to relieve pressure on a nerve or a muscle. Perhaps the agony of movement was too great or the shallowness of her breath had robbed her of energy. Every inhale and exhale was through her nose, and each was constricted by the mucus her grunts had caused.
How frightened she looked, Muna thought. Had she prayed and prayed that someone who cared for her would come down the steps? Or had she heard the Devil’s laughter in the walls? Muna could hear it and feel it. A deep rumble that set the air of the cellar trembling and vibrating.
She watched Yetunde patiently for several minutes, and would have watched longer if she hadn’t felt the need for sleep herself. The day had been tiring and she still had much to do. But it gave her pleasure to see terror in Yetunde’s wide rolling eyes. She placed her hand on the packed suitcase that she’d left beside Yetunde that afternoon.
All hope is lost to you, Princess. Olubayo has searched your room and discovered this gone, and the Master has looked in the sideboard and knows your passport is missing. They believe you’ve left in a rage to visit your sister so the police will not be called … and that pleases the Master because he doesn’t want whites to know how little his wife respects him.
She peered curiously into Yetunde’s bulging, pleading eyes, and then rose to her feet and began moving the boxes and trunks that were piled against the back wall. Behind them were a series of ancient floor-to-ceiling iron racks, dirty with dust and cobwebs. Some of the slots contained empty wine bottles but most were unfilled. In places, Muna could see where hands had rested on the metal, disturbing the dust, and she wondered if the prints had been made by Ebuka when he removed her mattress, or the police when they searched the cellar for Abiola.
She was careful to leave
no marks as she slid her hand through a slot at waist level and used her fingertips to locate the crevice in the thin stone veneer behind it. At first, since it never occurred to her that Yetunde and Ebuka were ignorant of the cellar’s second chamber, her reluctance to touch any part of the iron frame had been through fear of being punished if Yetunde realised she’d discovered it. But as time went by, and she saw that the Songolis were unaware of it, her desire grew to keep the knowledge from them.
The secret belonged to Muna and no one else. The Devil had revealed it to her one night when Ebuka had left his torch on the floor beside her mattress. She didn’t know how long she’d been in the house – A week? A season? A year? – but when she found the courage to switch on the beam, the cellar became less frightening. Until then it had been steeped in ominous shadow, glimpsed only in the backwash of light from the hall when Yetunde held the door open to allow her in at night or out again in the morning.
By torchlight it was smaller than her imagination had made it – half the size of the hall and cloakroom under which it stood – and her attention was drawn immediately to the dusty honeycomb of metal in front of her because the beam of the torch was shining straight at it. She thought it a strange way to build shelves until she saw bottles in some of the slots and guessed what its purpose was. There was nothing else apart from a card that glowed white against the blackness of the iron rack.
It hung by a string from the neck of an empty bottle and Muna could make out the picture even from five yards away. It was simple and clear – the outline of a hand with the long middle finger extended – and she would believe for ever that it had been put there for her to find. Where others might have dismissed the diagram as an obscene joke, Muna took it for a sign and followed the instruction exactly, removing the bottle and sliding her arm into the slot.
She turned to look at Yetunde now as her finger pressed on the latch inside the crevice and a section of the wall detached itself from the rest. She used her toe against the sturdy bar at the bottom of the metal to push it wider, and gloried to see the absolute terror in Yetunde’s face as a new level of cold crept towards her.
The Cellar Page 8
