The Cellar

by Minette Walters

  Olubayo’s face contorted with conflicting emotions. He wanted Muna punished but he didn’t want to be punished himself, and Muna saw in his eyes that he would never forget the pain she’d caused him. She saw too that he hadn’t understood his father’s words as well as she had. She addressed Ebuka.

  This silly boy frightens me, Master. He’s not clever and he still believes his size and strength make him more powerful than me. Yet I have only to tell the witchy-white that Princess made me her prisoner and every Songoli will be condemned.

  Did you understand that when the police first came to the house?

  No, Master. I was afraid they meant me harm. Princess taught me to fear strangers, particularly whites.

  Would you have told them the truth if you hadn’t feared them?

  I don’t believe so, Master. My life has been better since you claimed me as your daughter.

  I’m glad, Muna. If I can make amends for the harm my family has done you, I will.

  She fixed him with her solemn gaze. I don’t want Olubayo for a brother, Master. It would make me happier if he wasn’t here.

  Olubayo moved forward, clenching his fists in fury, but Ebuka raised the rod to hold him back. She says nothing you haven’t said, he growled. Do you imagine her hatred for you is any less than yours for her … and with more reason? You behaved like an animal.

  Olubayo wasn’t so dull-witted he couldn’t recognise hypocrisy when he heard it. His eyes filled with angry tears. I did only what you’ve done a thousand times, he cried. Can’t you see she wants rid of me so that she can have you for herself? You’re the only one she likes.

  A small gleam of pleasure entered Ebuka’s eyes as he looked towards Muna, and, with a howl of pain, Olubayo fled from the room.

  Muna turned back to the chicken carcase. You should go after him and clean his wound, Master. He will call an ambulance and cause trouble for you otherwise. I shall pray for his temper and unhappiness to bring on a seizure so that he forgets what happened here. There’ll be no need to call a doctor. I know what to do because Princess showed me.

  The Devil’s laughter made the floorboards shake beneath Muna’s bed that night. She thrilled as the deep bass rumble travelled through the house and into her mattress. Everything she’d hoped for had come to pass. Olubayo had tried to use the phone, and Ebuka had struck him on the side of his head before he could use it. The boy had fallen to the ground, twitching and frothing, and Muna had knelt beside him, loosening his clothes and turning him on to his side when the seizure calmed.

  She spoke kindly to him as she eased his arm from his school uniform to clean and bandage his wound, and when his wits returned she told him he had hurt himself as he fell. Of course he believed her. He had no memory of anything else. At Muna’s urging, Ebuka expressed concern for his son, and Olubayo, dazed and disorientated, said he was sorry for being a nuisance and wept with gratitude for their sympathy and understanding.

  Muna congratulated herself on the smiles Ebuka gave him for she knew them to be false. He would never feel sympathy for this weak-minded son. Everything Olubayo did reminded him of his own behaviour. Worse, he felt shamed by the boy’s epilepsy, knowing Songoli blood was the cause. The beatings Muna had taken were far worse yet her thoughts remained strong and clear.

  You have a generous nature, Ebuka told her after Olubayo had gone to bed. You were more caring than he deserved.

  He can’t help himself, Master. He must act as you and Princess have taught him. Just as Abiola did.

  Why are you different? The lessons you received were far more brutal.

  I’ve learned that hate and cruelty achieve nothing, Master.

  The van came early the next morning when only Muna was awake. The driver brought the plastic bags into the hall and told her to ask Mrs Songoli to sign the receipt. Muna said Mamma was ill, and begged the man to make the signature for her. Mamma would be unhappy if he took the food away again. Having incurred Yetunde’s displeasure on several occasions in the past when items she’d ordered had been omitted or were of poor quality, he did.

  Once the cupboards and fridge were full, Muna made breakfast for Ebuka and took it to him on a tray. She informed him Olubayo was still asleep and said she didn’t want to wake him. The boy’s mood was never good in the morning. It would be better if he was allowed to stay home for a day so that she could mend the cut in the blazer sleeve and clean the blood from it.

  Ebuka rubbed the sleep from his bleary eyes and told her to do whatever she liked. He was out of patience with his son.

  Sixteen

  While Muna helped Ebuka dress, he declared his intention of going to a pharmacy to purchase supplies. She shook her head.

  You can’t, Master. You must wait until tomorrow when Olubayo is back at school. He’ll attack me again if he finds me alone.

  You shouldn’t have lied to him yesterday. You knew I was in the house.

  I wanted you to find out what he’s like, Master. I knew he’d behave as he did if he thought you’d gone to the shops.

  Has he done it before?

  Only once, Master. He was too afraid of Princess to try again. She knocked him down when she caught him in the kitchen with his trousers undone. She said it was my fault for encouraging him … and beat me also.

  Ebuka studied her for a moment. Was Princess right? Did you do something to make Olubayo think you liked him in that way?

  In what way, Master?

  Did you give him the impression you thought it would be nice to be kissed or touched by him?

  Muna stared back, unblinking. You know I did not, Master. It frightens me to be touched. A sickness rises in my belly when it happens for I know I will suffer pain. Isn’t that the lesson you and Princess wanted me to learn?

  She saw guilt and discomfort in Ebuka’s eyes before he turned his chair and wheeled himself to the sitting room, muttering that he’d speak to Olubayo later. But, as the hours passed, he showed no inclination to call his son downstairs. He didn’t want any more accusations that he’d committed the same offences himself, and Muna despised him for his weakness. Ebuka would do as Yetunde had done if the subject were raised again. Blame little Muna. Had he not done so already?

  When lunchtime came, she asked him what she should do with Olubayo’s food and he told her to keep it warm in the kitchen. There was no point rushing the boy. The seizure must have made him sleepy. He would come down when he was ready.

  Muna didn’t argue. It suited her well if he preferred to let Olubayo remain in his room. Just once, she reminded Ebuka that he should phone the school to say his son was unwell but Ebuka resisted, fearing a bossy woman on the other end. He excused himself by saying it was a poor place. If they’d noticed Olubayo was missing, they’d have called him. He would send a note with the boy tomorrow.

  The light outside was beginning to fade before Ebuka came to the kitchen and asked Muna to go upstairs to find out what Olubayo was doing. She was sponging the sleeve of the blazer to remove the blood, and shook her head as she pressed a clean towel to the fabric to dry it.

  He’s doing what he always does, Master: watching dirty things on his computer. If I enter his room, he will do them to me.

  I’m not asking you to enter. Call to him and say his father wants to speak to him.

  You can do that yourself, Master. He’ll take more notice of you than of me.

  He’s two floors up. He won’t hear me if his speakers are playing.

  Then you must shout loudly, Master.

  Ebuka glared at her, unused to refusals. You go too far, he snapped. You’re behaving like this because Princess isn’t here. You wouldn’t expect her to choose you over her son, would you?

  I don’t ask you to choose, Master. I warn you, that is all. If Olubayo comes near me again I will use a bigger knife against him. It matters little to me if he dies. The police won’t blame a frightened slave for protecting herself, not when they know the painful things you did to me in the cellar and how you taught your son to do th
e same.

  That’s not true.

  All boys learn from their fathers, Master.

  Ebuka’s expression swung between anger and uncertainty. They won’t believe you. They’ll want to know why you didn’t tell them this before and why you pretended to be my daughter. You’ve told as many lies as I have.

  I’ve told none, Master. I was never asked if I was your daughter.

  You lied about being able to understand English.

  Princess did that, Master. She said I was too stupid to learn and everyone believed her, yourself included. When she returns she’ll be shocked to find how much cleverer I am than her worthless sons.

  You’d better learn to curb your tongue before she does. She’ll beat the arrogance out of you if you try to speak to her like this.

  Yes, Master.

  Ebuka wheeled himself into the hall and began shouting for Olubayo. When the boy didn’t answer or appear, Ebuka rained threats and curses on his head for daring to defy his father’s authority. Muna listened impassively for a moment or two and then closed the kitchen door. From one of the cupboards she took a bag of sugared almonds and popped the sweeties one at a time into her mouth.

  It had always been her ambition to grow fat and lazy like Yetunde.

  Muna held out her hands in a begging gesture when Mrs Hughes opened her front door. ‘I need you to come to our house, lady,’ she whispered. ‘Dada needs your help.’

  A man appeared from the sitting room. ‘Who is it, darling?’

  ‘The girl I told you about.’ Mrs Hughes caught Muna’s hand to prevent her retreating. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. ‘My husband won’t harm you.’

  Muna allowed herself to be drawn on to the doorstep. She had known Mr Hughes would be there because she had seen his car on the driveway. For six years she had watched him drive to and fro. He had snow-white hair and wore grey suits. His favourite shirts were pale pink and his favourite ties dark blue.

  She ducked her head. ‘It pleases me to meet you, sir. I see you sometimes from Dada’s windows.’

  Mr Hughes joined his wife, his eyes creasing in a concerned smile at the frail child who hovered like a wraith in the reflected orange light from the street. ‘Come in,’ he invited. ‘Tell us what we can do for you.’

  But Muna remained silent and Mrs Hughes answered for her. ‘She said her father needs help. Why, child? Is he ill?’

  ‘I’m not sure, lady. He’s lying outside Olubayo’s door. He didn’t believe me when I said Olubayo wasn’t in his room … and pulled himself to the top floor to make sure. He’s worn himself out and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Has your mother come home?’

  Muna shook her head. ‘Dada thinks she must have spoken to Olubayo at his school yesterday. My brother was very angry when he came home last night – called Dada terrible names – and now he isn’t in the house any more.’

  Mrs Hughes made what she could of these statements. ‘Your father thinks Olubayo’s gone to be with his mother?’

  ‘Yes, lady. He’s taken his rucksack and some things belonging to Dada that Mamma always wanted for herself.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘The gold circlets and bracelets that Dada’s father gave him, lady. Mamma said if Dada didn’t wear them, he should give them to her … but he said they were too valuable and didn’t want them lost or stolen.’

  Mr Hughes lifted a couple of coats from a chair in the hall, handing one to his wife and shrugging his arms into the other. ‘We should go,’ he told her. ‘There’ll be time for explanations later.’

  At first Muna found Mr Hughes less frightening than his wife. His eyes didn’t search hers the way Mrs Hughes’s did, and his only interest seemed to be in how he could help Ebuka. But as she took them inside and led them upstairs, she noticed how boldly he looked into every room and how easily he assumed control. Ebuka lay on his side in front of Olubayo’s open door and Muna knelt beside him, stroking his brow and telling him she’d brought help.

  Ebuka gripped Mr Hughes’s hand, relieved to see a man he recognised. He repeated what Muna had said, that he’d used his arms to hoist himself up a step at a time and was now exhausted. He’d been foolish to embark on such an endeavour. It was one thing to pull his unresponsive legs up behind him, quite another to manoeuvre them down again. He begged Mr Hughes to assist him rather than call an ambulance. There was nothing wrong with him, bar a little fatigue, and he couldn’t bear to parade his stupidity before paramedics.

  It seemed to Muna that Mrs Hughes was about to protest, but her husband nodded and hooked his right arm through Ebuka’s to pull him into a sitting position. ‘My father-in-law had the same problem each time his chair lift broke,’ he said reassuringly. ‘We discovered the best method was to work our way down in tandem. I’ll sit in front of you to manage your legs but you’ll have to take your weight on your elbows to lower yourself. If you get tired we’ll pause.’

  He sent Muna ahead of them, and she watched as they eased, tread by tread, down each flight of stairs. Mr Hughes sat two steps below, supporting Ebuka’s dead legs on his shoulders and giving the instruction to move. By taking half the weight, there was less stress on his passenger’s arms, and Ebuka, delighting in the progress they made, paid no heed to what Mrs Hughes was doing.

  Not so Muna. She listened to the telltale creak of floorboards as the witchy-white tiptoed from room to room, and she thought Mr Hughes cunning and clever to give his wife time to poke her inquisitive nose into places it shouldn’t go. There was nothing to find. Muna had even remembered to place Olubayo’s epilepsy pills beside his toothbrush and flannel in his rucksack.

  The wooden box which had contained Ebuka’s jewellery stood open on Olubayo’s desk, with a few valueless items still in it, and empty coat hangers hung in the open wardrobe with the clothes Olubayo hadn’t wanted – mostly his uniform – dropped carelessly on the floor. The lights were on, the curtains closed and the bed unruffled as if it hadn’t been used. To the most suspicious eye, the room looked as if its owner had waited until the rest of the house was asleep before taking what he needed and creeping downstairs to remove his passport from the sideboard on his way out.

  Ebuka was tearfully grateful for his neighbour’s help once he was safely back in his chair in the hall, expressing embarrassment for calling him out on a cold evening. Mr Hughes told him to think nothing of it – what else were friends for? – and Ebuka’s eyes welled again. Muna made her own thanks more quietly, smiling shyly at Mr Hughes and then at his witchy wife as she came down the stairs. There was nothing to alarm her in either face but she guessed Mr Hughes had only kept the ambulance away to persuade Ebuka to answer his questions. They were very direct.

  When had Olubayo left? Why had Mr Songoli waited so long to check his room? Was what Muna said true, that the boy had come home angry from school and called his father names? If so, why? And what had been said that might cause him to leave?

  Ebuka shook his head and wept, expressing ignorance about everything except whether Muna was telling the truth. ‘I’ve never seen the boy in such a temper. He tried to do what my wife did … pull me from the chair. It made me think he must have spoken to her. You’ve seen for yourself I’m quite helpless when I’m on the floor.’

  ‘But if he called you names you must have some idea what he was accusing you of.’

  ‘He was jealous. He said I’ve always favoured Muna over him. I dread to think what damage he’d have done to us if he hadn’t had a seizure.’ He glanced towards the sitting room. ‘Muna said he’d have no memory of what he’d done when he came to, and she was right. He’d forgotten everything. As far as I know, he went to bed happy.’

  Mr Hughes glanced at the girl. ‘Is your father right? Did Olubayo seem happy to you?’

  Muna wriggled her shoulders. ‘He was happy that Dada was kind to him, sir, but not happy that he fell to the ground. His epilepsy shames him.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried when he didn’t come down this morning?�
��

  ‘Not really, sir. Mamma never makes him go to school after a seizure. We thought he was sleeping.’

  ‘Why didn’t you check?’

  Muna gave a small shrug. ‘I didn’t want to. He said bad things to me too last night.’

  The man looked amused. ‘So you were as cross with your brother as he was with you? Are you a little jealous as well? Do you think your mother favours him over you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She likes men better than ladies.’

  ‘She must have been very upset when Abiola went missing.’

  ‘She cried for him every day, and then Dada had his accident and she said we should never have come here. She wanted to go home to Africa but we couldn’t … not while Dada was in hospital.’

  ‘Who looked after your father when he was released?’

  Muna lowered her head in pretended discomfort. ‘Mamma did, sir.’

  There was a short silence before Ebuka spoke. ‘She’s lying,’ he said bluntly. ‘My wife found everything to do with my disability abhorrent. Muna’s been caring for me from the day I got back.’ Abruptly, he wheeled his chair to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer, searching in vain for Olubayo’s passport. ‘She was always planning to leave and take my son with her. I see that now.’ The ever-ready tears sprang into his eyes again. ‘She’s been blaming me for everything since Abiola was taken.’

  Mr Hughes made a gesture of sympathy. ‘Your whole family should have been given grief counsel-ling. Was it ever offered?’

  Ebuka shook his head. ‘It would have made no difference. Yetunde wouldn’t have accepted it. She doesn’t like strangers knowing our business.’

  Muna turned to the witchy-white. ‘What is grief counselling, lady?’

  ‘Help with coming to terms with the loss of a loved one. Your mother would have learned to cope with her sorrow for Abiola.’

  ‘She felt more sorry for herself, lady. It shamed her to be married to a cripple.’