On the floor inside the second room lay the picture of the pointing finger. Muna had placed it there to prevent Yetunde discovering the secret, but, as the stale air stirred with the opening of the door, the card flipped over to show the writing on the reverse. Without the ability to decipher what it said, Muna believed the Devil had written it. And what more proof did she need than his rumbling laugh as the card lifted and turned?
This walk-in safe was designed and constructed in 1983 by Joseph Baumgarten. The patented concealed door is a strengthened aluminium alloy frame with a natural stone veneer, operated by cantilever hinges, counter-weights and a finger latch. For optimum performance, maintenance should include regular oiling of these mechanisms. The manufacturer guarantees all moving parts for ten years but takes no liability for breaches of security through carelessness or indiscretion. There is no lock. The strength of a concealed safe relies on silence.
She retrieved the hammer from where she’d placed it on the bottom step. You must enter of your own accord, Princess. If you do not, I will use this until you do.
Yetunde shook her head.
Then you will suffer agony, Princess. And even if the tape and the scabs burst on your mouth, and screams escape you, the Master and Olubayo won’t hear them. Their sleep isn’t natural. It comes from pills and not from tiredness.
She split the tie that held Yetunde’s right wrist and watched the hand drop with a thud to the floor before placing the metal head of the hammer on the protruding bone and rocking it from side to side. Groans and grunts reverberated in Yetunde’s throat.
I’d like you to scream, Princess. I go to sleep each night wanting to hear you beg. My dreams are happy ones – full of blood – and I feel better when I wake. Do you want to die, Princess?
She split the tie holding the other wrist then lifted the hammer as if to strike, but Yetunde had already begun the painful process of shuffling her obese body towards the open door of the second chamber.
Thirteen
Barely a day passed before Ebuka grew unsettled about Yetunde’s departure. Muna blamed the witchy-looking neighbour who rang the doorbell on the second morning. She invited herself inside and looked at Ebuka in surprise when he said he hadn’t heard from Yetunde. He explained that his wife had taken her clothes, suitcase and passport, and he assumed she planned to stay away for some time. After that, Mrs Hughes became inquisitive.
Was it normal for Mrs Songoli to go away without warning? Had she done such a thing before? And how had she managed to leave so quickly? There had been less than an hour between Mrs Hughes speaking with Ebuka at the gate and her finding Muna in a faint. Had either of them seen a taxi pass? At the very least Mr Songoli should call Yetunde’s friends to discover if they knew where she was. What if she’d met with an accident?
Ebuka’s resentment at being interrogated by a virtual stranger meant his answers were curt, and Muna saw that Mrs Hughes found them suspicious. She stepped in to make the explanations herself. Mamma always threatened to leave when she was angry … She kept her suitcase in her bedroom cupboard for that reason … They had seen many taxis while they were out but hadn’t thought to look for her in them … It was a good idea to speak with her friends … She would persuade her father to make the calls after Mrs Hughes left.
Mrs Hughes appeared to accept what she said but Muna noticed that her curious eyes were never still. Every so often she glanced towards the stairs, tilting her head as if listening for sounds. ‘It’s unkind to put you through the same trauma you suffered at the time Abiola was taken,’ she murmured. ‘I wonder why she’d want to keep any of you guessing about where she is.’
‘I think Mamma might want to punish Dada in this way, lady,’ Muna whispered shyly. ‘It upset her very much when he told me to put on Abiola’s anorak and boots so that I could take him outside. I said I didn’t want to, but Dada insisted and that’s what made her angry. I think she feels he doesn’t remember Abiola often enough.’
Perhaps Ebuka knew this was true for he gave a tired shrug of recognition. ‘I don’t think about him as much as I should. Days go by and his name’s never mentioned. I should have realised how his loss must have impacted on Yetunde, but all my energy has gone into coping with this wretched disability.’ He smacked his useless legs. ‘I’ve been inconsiderate.’
Mrs Hughes walked to the door of the sitting room and ran a thoughtful gaze around it. ‘She can’t have called a taxi on that phone,’ she said, nodding towards the landline. ‘Muna had the handset in the garden. I wondered why at the time.’
‘I took it to stop her breaking it after Dada threatened to call the police, lady. Mamma destroys things when she’s angry. She hopes it will show Dada how upset she is.’
‘Is that why she’s happy to leave him wondering where she’s gone?’
Muna nodded. ‘She says he’ll look for her if he loves her. I’ll help him do that now. Together we will make the calls to Mamma’s friends.’
Unexpectedly, the woman raised her hand to the girl’s cheek and stroked it gently. ‘She’s wrong to leave you with so much responsibility, Muna. You’re too young for it.’
‘I like caring for Dada, lady, and I know all that has to be done.’ She opened the front door. ‘Mamma will come back soon and I will tell her how kind you’ve been. She will like you as a friend, I think.’
Ebuka was harder to pacify. Once the seed of doubt was planted in his mind, it grew and multiplied. How had Yetunde left so quickly? They both knew she couldn’t have called a taxi since Muna had taken her mobile as well as the landline. Which left what? That Princess had walked away, dragging her suitcase behind her? Impossible. Yetunde never walked anywhere. And why hadn’t he seen the similarity between his wife’s and his son’s disappearance? What were the chances of two members of one family vanishing into thin air within months of each other unless the same person took both?
Muna brought him Yetunde’s mobile, which he’d left on charge in his bedroom. I don’t know, Master, but the numbers of Princess’s friends will be in here. I think you should do as the white suggested and call them. I believe she was waiting for a friend when she lost her temper with you.
What gives you that idea?
She was in her best dress and using her most expensive handbag, Master. She never did that unless she was going out.
Ebuka frowned, trying to recall what Yetunde was wearing, but Muna knew that, even if he remembered, he wouldn’t be able to say if it was Princess’s ‘best’.
What are you suggesting? That she planned to leave the house anyway … and her friend just happened to turn up during the time we were absent?
I don’t know, Master. I can only tell you what I saw.
Ebuka eyed her with distrust. You’re very quick with your answers. Are any of them true? You lied to Mrs Hughes about Yetunde saying she’d break the handset if I called the police.
Muna turned away. You were dazed, Master. Princess said many things you didn’t hear.
Where are you going?
To the kitchen, Master. You’re unkind to be angry with me. It’s not my fault if someone took Princess away.
She closed the door to shut him out but placed her ear against the panels to listen to the handful of calls he made. He was too ashamed to say his wife had left him after an argument, and asked only if Yetunde was there. Each time he was told she wasn’t, followed by curious questions about why he thought she might be. As the conversations became increasingly awkward, he gave up and wheeled himself into the sitting room.
Shortly afterwards Muna heard the television playing, and she thought how clever she’d been to urge him to talk to Yetunde’s friends. He would hesitate to try again. He disliked women too much to give them a reason to laugh at him.
Muna never imagined she might regret being rid of Yetunde. In truth she hadn’t believed it was possible to make a woman so huge and gross vanish so easily. If she’d pictured a future at all it was that life would be pleasanter when Princess learned to fea
r her.
Only now that Yetunde was absent did Muna understand how necessary she was. Problems arose that Muna hadn’t foreseen and couldn’t solve. She’d thought Yetunde lazy but it seemed she’d done more than Muna realised.
The cupboards and fridge were almost empty of food. There was no detergent to wash clothes and sheets, no replacement disposable gloves to handle Ebuka’s catheter and prevent infection, no fluid to clean and sterilise the bags. And Muna was ignorant of how to acquire these things. Nothing had ever run out while Yetunde was there. Goods had arrived each week though Muna didn’t know how Yetunde ordered or paid for them. Nor had she seen who delivered them. If she was downstairs, she was sent to the kitchen; if she was upstairs, all she saw from the windows was the roof and sides of a white van.
Everything was left in the hall, packed in plastic bags with red and blue letters. These told Muna nothing since she was unable to decipher them, but she guessed they spelled the name of a shop. Before Abiola went missing, this wasn’t important. As long as the plastic bags arrived, she was able to make the meals Yetunde demanded; without them, she could do nothing.
She remembered her terror when she opened the cupboards on the day the police left and discovered them bare. Yetunde’s temper would be bad enough when she returned from the hospital with Olubayo to find Ebuka dead in the cellar, but she would be beside herself if Muna told her there was nothing to eat. Princess’s rages were always worse when she was hungry.
For once, Muna’s fears hadn’t materialised. It seemed to have something to do with the new mobile Yetunde had bought on her way home by taxi. She was certainly more interested in that than she was in Ebuka, refusing to accompany him to the hospital because she couldn’t leave her newly diagnosed epileptic son. She stood at the door until the ambulance had gone; then, free of watchers, she settled herself in a comfortable chair and gave all her attention to her new toy. A few hours later plastic bags appeared in the hall again.
Muna asked Olubayo how it was possible to purchase food by tapping a tiny screen but he said she was too stupid to understand. She couldn’t read or write or recognise numbers. Think of it as magic, he told her.
She didn’t ask again. It wasn’t wise to let Olubayo believe himself superior. With his father absent and his mother only interested in Jeremy Broadstone, he’d turned his attention back to Muna. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d looked up to find him staring at her with desire in his eyes. When she hid her weapons about the house, they were as much to defend herself against Olubayo as against Yetunde.
But ignorance didn’t help her now. Ebuka knew nothing about food and its preparation. He’d said many times that it was the woman’s place to cook and clean, so she doubted he had the will or the patience to listen while she listed the items she wanted, or that he knew how and where to buy them if she could persuade him to make such a list. In any case, she didn’t want to remind him of Princess’s importance. He might strive harder to find her.
Mrs Hughes was surprised to find Muna on her doorstep. She took the girl’s hand and drew her inside, admonishing her for coming out in a thin dress and fabric shoes. ‘Does your father know you’re here?’ she asked, leading her into a sitting room.
‘No, lady. I didn’t want him to worry. I waited until he fell asleep in front of the television.’
She stared about the room, marvelling at how different it was from the one she knew. Yetunde’s was white and clean and looked like the pictures in the magazines on the coffee table. Mrs Hughes’s was cluttered and dirty. The sofa and chairs were old and faded, a threadbare carpet covered the floor and paintings were hung on every inch of the dark blue walls. She wondered if all whites lived in squalor.
Mrs Hughes smiled at her expression. ‘Don’t you like pictures, Muna?’
‘I’m not sure, lady. There are none in our house.’
‘I saw a photograph of your mother in the hall.’
‘It’s the only one, lady. The others are in a book that Mamma keeps in a drawer.’
She’d found the courage to look through the album early on when Yetunde was out. If Yetunde was truly her aunt then there might be pictures of her mother, even herself as a baby. But she was disappointed. Every woman’s face looked like Yetunde’s and none like hers.
Mrs Hughes gestured towards a chair. ‘Sit down and tell me how I can help you. Let’s start with why you think it would worry your father if he knew you were here.’
Muna perched on the edge of the seat. ‘He wouldn’t want me to tell you we have no food, lady. He’s ashamed that Mamma left … but more ashamed that he doesn’t know how to make the white van come to the house.’
‘Which white van?’
‘I don’t know, lady.’ She spread a plastic bag across her knees. ‘This is what the food comes in. I think the red and blue letters spell the name of a shop.’
‘It’s a supermarket chain. Your mother must have ordered what she wanted online.’
Muna took Yetunde’s smartphone from her pocket. ‘She used this, lady. All I need is for you to show me what she did so that I can teach Dada.’
She watched Mrs Hughes closely to see if she found it strange that Muna had Yetunde’s mobile. She’d taken it from Ebuka’s lap while he dozed, heart in mouth as she tiptoed towards the front door. There was much to fear – the Master’s questions if he found her missing; this white’s questions about why Princess had left her smartphone in the house – but her desire to learn and gain Yetunde’s power was greater.
If Mrs Hughes was curious, she didn’t show it, commenting only that she was surprised Mrs Songoli didn’t use a security code. She invited Muna to sit on the sofa beside her, held the girl’s forefinger in hers and took her through the process of turning on the smartphone, recognising the icons in the menu and flicking the screen to the one she wanted. Muna selected the app that looked like the markings on the plastic bag.
‘What now, lady?’
‘You need your mother’s password.’
‘What’s that, lady?’
‘A series of letters or numbers. Some people use their birthdays because they’re easy to remember.’
‘I know when Mamma’s is, lady. It happens each time the year comes to an end. She watches fireworks on the television and says they’re for her.’
‘The thirty-first of December.’
‘I expect so, lady.’
‘How old is she?’
‘The great four-oh. I don’t know what it means but she doesn’t like it.’
Mrs Hughes smiled. ‘It means she was born forty years ago last December … which would make her birth date thirty-one twelve nineteen seventy-three. Would you like me to try that or would you rather ask your father when you go home? We only have three guesses.’
‘Dada won’t know, lady. I want you to try.’
Muna saw unease in Mrs Hughes’s face as the password was accepted, and guessed she’d only agreed to help because she hadn’t expected it to work. Nevertheless, she showed Muna how to discover what Yetunde had ordered before, how to fill the shopping basket, select a delivery time and go to checkout. Her patience even extended to clearing the screen and inviting the girl to repeat the steps on her own.
Her unease deepened as Muna’s agile finger took her unerringly through the steps and selected the correct digits for the password once she entered the app. ‘You know your numbers?’
‘No, lady. I remembered which order you pressed the squares.’
‘That’s quite a talent, Muna. I’m surprised your mother didn’t teach you to do this.’
Muna slowed her finger. ‘She tried, lady, but I made mistakes and she grew impatient. Watching you has helped me remember what she did.’
‘Has she ever given you lessons in reading?’
‘When I was younger, lady. But they were hard and I couldn’t do them. The doctors say it’s because my brain is damaged.’
Mrs Hughes let a silence develop as Muna found her way to ‘checkout’ and looked
up with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. ‘Well done. Now all your father has to do is agree that the order is correct and enter his credit-card details.’
‘He won’t know how to do that, lady. He never orders things this way. He says it’s a woman’s place to buy what her husband needs.’
Mrs Hughes studied her for a moment. ‘Is he angry with you because there’s no food in the house?’
‘No, lady. He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there’s nothing he can do to fill the shelves and it upsets me to see him cry. He’s been sad since his accident. Mamma tells him over and over again that he’s not a man any more … and he believes it.’
Mrs Hughes reached for a wallet which lay on the seat of the armchair next to her. She flipped it open and removed a small piece of plastic. ‘I’ll show you what you have to do, Muna, but in return I want you to be honest with me.’
‘What about, lady?’
‘Why you and your father say you have brain damage when you clearly don’t. You can work out your answer while I show you which of these numbers must go in the box.’ She ran Muna’s finger along the embossed figures on the front. ‘These are the ones you need. You must look for them on the keypad. You may not know their names but you’ll be able to find them by their shape.’
She waited while Muna copied each of the sixteen digits into the phone; then she took it back from her and deleted them again. ‘When you use your father’s card, be sure to copy each shape accurately or it won’t work. Do you understand? I’ll be very unhappy if you’ve memorised my number.’
Muna tucked the mobile back into her pocket. ‘I haven’t, lady. Now I must go back to Dada.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘The truth is what Dada and I have told you, lady, but you don’t believe it. Would you like me to invent a different story to make you happy?’
The Cellar Page 9
