Lionboy: the Truth

by Zizou Corder

  ‘No,’ said Mabel. ‘I’m sticking around.’

  ‘Good,’ said Major Tib. ‘Go and see to your tigers then. Your tigergirl’s proved to be highly reliable, but they all missed ya.’

  Mabel and Pirouette left together. Both of them were thinking about Charlie.

  Maccomo, standing beside Capitaine Drutzel on the deck of Old Yeller, was thinking about Mabel. How he had lost her again in Essaouira, how much he loved her, how he would find her again as soon as he had dealt with these stupid boys. Where would they live together, when they were married?

  He gazed across the still, calm sea, as the ship creaked east towards the Gold Coast, and Accra. As soon as they were within reception distance of the shore, he would call the Corporacy Headquarters – from Rafi’s telephone – and have a word with whoever it was Rafi had been dealing with. Explain how the situation had changed.

  Maccomo knew for sure that the Corporacy wanted Charlie. He knew they’d be glad to have Rafi, who had let them down. And he was pretty sure they’d be interested in the other material he’d been offered in Accra too. But he’d like to run it by them. Find out how much they were willing to pay. If it was enough, he might be able to go back for Mabel even sooner than he had hoped.

  He looked across at the coast of West Africa, flat and green in the distance. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Ninu was back in the Rat Network. He and Sergei had agreed that he would go and explain to Charlie what was happening, and stay down there with Charlie for safety’s sake – hide in his pocket or something. Sergei would fend for himself and head for the coast, and they’d find each other on shore. Ninu felt very brave and cool now, scurrying along the dark underdeck byways, the tiny tunnels and dusty crevices, doing important deeds, fearless.

  Until he saw the rat.

  He’d been up and down the network many times since that first time, and he had never seen a rat. He’d been beginning to think they’d deserted, that it was an old network. But then he saw her.

  She was very big. Her teeth were yellow and sharp. Her breath was smelly. Her tail was like a long scaly worm. Ninu froze.

  ‘You’re in the wrong place, my son,’ she said lazily. ‘No call for no reptile to be down here. You might get in trouble.’

  Ninu was so terrified, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. His little heart was pitter-pattering and his skin was fading to grey.

  ‘You might get eaten,’ she said. ‘You got a soft underbelly tucked away under all them scales? I might eat you. You might taste very nice.’ Her pointy teeth suddenly seemed to lengthen as she grinned.

  ‘No,’ stuttered Ninu. ‘Taste horrible. No flavour.’

  The rat looked surprised. She wasn’t accustomed to her potential dinner addressing her in Rat.

  ‘Not much meat,’ said Ninu bravely.

  ‘Oh?’ she said.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ninu, his thoughts flailing around, looking for something to divert her. ‘Anyway, I can help you.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said again.

  ‘Bring you food,’ he said. ‘Dead food. Much easier.’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said.

  ‘And,’ said Ninu, inspiration striking him, ‘I can tell you a secret – if I tell you a very important secret, will you promise not to eat me?’

  ‘What’s promise?’ said the rat.

  ‘Say something, and then stick to it. Do what you say,’ said Ninu.

  The rat looked a bit amused by this notion.

  ‘Why’d I want to do that?’ she said.

  ‘Loyalty,’ said Ninu. ‘We’d trust each other and be on each other’s side.’

  The rat laughed aloud – a nasty sniggering sound.

  ‘I’m a rat,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome to trust me if you want.’ And sniggered again.

  But Ninu, being an innocent creature, took her at face value.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Well, listen. This ship is going to be wrecked. Quite soon. It’s probably going to sink …’

  ‘Sink!’ squawked the rat. ‘Sink! I’ll be off then – excuse me … got to get the others …’

  ‘Before you go, you should eat!’ Ninu squeaked desperately. He had had another brilliant idea. ‘Follow me and I’ll show you. Really good food. You don’t know when you’ll be eating again …’

  The rat hesitated.

  ‘Just down here,’ said Ninu invitingly.

  He turned to head along the network towards the hold.

  ‘There’s humans down that way,’ said the rat.

  ‘They can’t hurt you,’ said Ninu. ‘They’re tied up. With really juicy fresh rope.’

  Rope! The rat’s nose quivered. She loved rope. So chewy and flavoursome, and the sailors always kept it locked away from her.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  Charlie was snoozing. He was woken by a snuffly, nibbly sensation around his hands, an unsettling whiskery feeling, and a sudden release when the rope that had been binding him fell from his wrists.

  ‘What the –?’ he cried, but then Ninu was there, grinning his reptile grin and looking amazingly pleased with himself.

  Charlie rubbed his wrists and cautiously swung his arms. The rat leapt away. ‘Oi,’ she muttered, but Charlie didn’t notice and Ninu ignored her. He had a plan to explain.

  Charlie, glad as he was to be untied, was not reassured by what Ninu had to say.

  Outside, the sea was roughening up as the ship came nearer to land. In the dank hold Charlie could feel the sway and pitch of the ship clearly. It was all very well Ninu explaining how they were off the coast of Ghana now, and how close to land they would be before the whale tipped the ship with her great whacking tail. Charlie could envisage all too well the great long Atlantic waves rolling in endlessly on the wide beaches. Charlie knew those waves and beaches: the strong, implacable undercurrents, the dangers awaiting ignorant cheerful swimmers who mistook the palm trees and golden sands for a sign that a holiday mood could prevail; the undertow that ripped your feet from beneath you and sent you hurtling head over heels as it winded you and dragged you down, down under the water and out to sea.

  Charlie hadn’t particularly liked his last shipwreck. He would’ve thought Sergei hadn’t liked it either.

  ‘Well,’ he said.

  But Ninu seemed so pleased and proud of the plan that Charlie didn’t want to discourage him. Plus, how could they attract the whale back, if they wanted to change the plan? Plus, he had no other plan.

  ‘Well,’ he said again. ‘Do we know when she’s going to do it?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Ninu. ‘When we’re closer in.’

  ‘So at any stage,’ Charlie mused, ‘this boat could just be flipped.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Ninu.

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie. He took a deep breath, as if more breath taken now would give him more later, when he was going to need it.

  He glanced across at Rafi, his head slumped, still tied to his pole. In his mind Charlie saw crashing waters, flying timbers, a helpless human body – with his family blood in it – trying to fight to the surface, but tied. Fighting, fighting to get to the surface, to the air …

  He closed his eyes. The image persisted.

  He breathed deeply again. Charlie had had experience of gasping for breath, when his asthma was bad. But drowning … ugh.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Can’t do what?’ asked Ninu anxiously.

  ‘I can’t leave him to drown, tied up,’ Charlie replied. ‘I can’t leave him without a chance.’

  And at that moment, a great blow hit the ship – a mighty thwack from underneath that seemed to lift the hull right up out of the water, where it hung for a second, suspended, before crashing mightily back down on to the waves in a big boat bellyflop.

  Charlie was knocked to the ground by the first thwack, and then by the thwack of the ship hitting the sea again. But at least he’d been expecting it, so he was able to pull himself up swiftly. Ninu scrambled quickly into hi
s pocket.

  Rafi, on the other hand, who had been snoozing, woke with a manic start, and yelled as his hands were viciously jerked against their ropes.

  ‘Rafi,’ called Charlie.

  Rafi stared up at him. His face was pale, his eyes scared.

  ‘What’s happening, man?’ he cried in confusion.

  Charlie bit his lip. A shudder was running through the very timbers of the ship.

  ‘Stick out your hands,’ Charlie said, and Rafi did so, like an obedient child.

  ‘I never want to see you again, Rafi,’ Charlie said. And as quickly as he could, he untied Rafi’s bonds.

  Rafi stared in disbelief.

  ‘We’re to be wrecked,’ Charlie said. ‘Go and break down that door so we don’t all drown.’

  Rafi didn’t need to be told twice. His arms free, he hurled himself against the cabin door and had it down in three blows. Charlie was first through. As he dashed towards the ladder leading up to the deck, he turned again to Rafi.

  ‘Never again, you hear me?’

  Rafi nodded quickly.

  And then they were both off, in different directions, their feet skittering and their blood pounding as the ship beneath them lurched violently from the whale’s whipcracking blow.

  Madame Baleine surveyed her potential new boyfriend. He wasn’t very graceful, the way he had landed – plop! – on the waves, and now he was lurching to and fro, trying to get his balance back in the water. He still looked sweet to her, though.

  She wondered if the thwack had cleared his throat for him.

  Perhaps she should give him another, to make sure.

  Up on deck, a jumbled flurry of images greeted Charlie, dazzled as he was by the sunlight and the hugeness of the sky and the sea. The tropical sun was blinding. To port, in the hazy distance, he could make out the white form of a castle rising from the frondy green palms along the coast. Was it Ghana? His heart lifted at the thought. A handful of gleaming towers caught the evening sun, flashing like animal eyes in the distance. Was that Accra? He had no time to look – closer and more immediate were the long waves, the great grey Atlantic, the huge power of the sea, and the decks of Old Yeller rising at a peculiar angle. Everything was at a diagonal to him: the deck, the cabins, the mast. In a moment, it was all diagonal the other way and his feet were slipping from beneath him.

  To his left, a bunch of sailors were shouting and pointing. Charlie, his eyes alert for Maccomo, slipped over to where they were, clutching at rigging to support himself and very aware of the noise of the boat beneath him. At any moment it could just slip down, down and away …

  They were pointing at a great dark shape rising in the waves. Charlie stared. It looked like a zeppelin, or a great fat torpedo, and lying spreadeagled along its back was what looked like a drowned scrap of fur, holding on with all its might, its claws dug into the tough, unfeeling hide …

  It was the whale, and Sergei was riding it!

  Here goes, thought Charlie, and with a mighty roar he burst through the crowd of sailors …

  His intention was to leap over the edge of the boat and land magnificently on the whale’s back before riding her in glory across the streaming ocean into his grandmother’s arms.

  His reality was to be grabbed by five burly sailors and pushed to the deck, where he grazed his cheekbone, banged his knee and bit his tongue.

  His view was obscured by a large rough canvas-clad thigh, so he didn’t see Madame Baleine turn to stream away without him, nor the flip of her great fluke, which knocked all the sailors on top of him. A wave slapped up over the whole pile of them, cold and wet. Strangely, Charlie felt the heat of the sun on the top of his head even as the cold sea water soaked him.

  The ship began to settle. She was not going to sink this time after all. The sailors, relieved, organized themselves and pinned Charlie down, flat on his back, one on each limb. He was able to look over to the land, not so far away from them. It looked green and inviting, the treetops waving gently. Charlie thought about his grandma, how he’d have showered in her backyard and washed off the smell of that stinky ship. He thought about her delicious soup and fufu. He could almost smell the smoky flavour of her shitoh pepper paste, which he would not now be tasting.

  His cheek was stinging where it had been bashed, and the sailors were heavy as they pinned him down, then rough when they pulled him up to his feet. He wasn’t sure he could bear this failure. Then, as the sailors manhandled him, he was able to reach briefly into his pocket.

  Deep inside, a tiny reptile hand clasped his finger.

  He would bear it. What choice did he have? He would, he would, he would.

  Chapter Nine

  Maccomo was furious. He had a large, ugly cut across the bridge of his nose, which was still bleeding. Some of the blood had dripped on to his white chemise.

  Capitaine Drutzel was scurrying behind him. The capitaine was angry too. He had no idea why on earth a whale would appear out of nowhere, and wallop his ship twice, terrifying the crew and allowing the important prisoners to attempt escape in the chaos.

  ‘The whale has gone just as quickly as it appeared,’ he was telling Maccomo. ‘Alhamdu lillah. Another blow like that and Old Yeller might have been holed. We must go ashore here, to check the fabric of the ship. If nothing is wrong, it will take a day. If something is wrong, longer. It depends what.’

  Maccomo grunted, then produced one of his little black cigarettes. He lit it, squinting at the tip as if it were his enemy.

  A sailor appeared at Capitaine Drutzel’s side. ‘No major damage below, sir,’ he said. ‘Things knocked about but nothing structural and no leaks as far as we can see.’

  Maccomo drew on his cigarette, and turned to see two groups of sailors approaching him. One held Charlie in a full nelson, the other Rafi.

  Maccomo’s face was pale and cold. He ignored Rafi and addressed himself to Charlie.

  ‘My ship,’ he said calmly, ‘has been assaulted by a whale.’

  He let the sentence hang.

  ‘Do you know why, Charlie?’

  Charlie said nothing. If Maccomo wanted to put on a big act, if it made him feel better, that was none of Charlie’s business. All that concerned Charlie was that one escape attempt had failed, so he’d better start thinking up another one.

  ‘And how did you get out of the hold?’ he asked.

  ‘They were untied, sir. Both of them,’ said a sailor.

  ‘Untied!’ said Maccomo. ‘Both of them! Rafi untied, and Charlie! How can this be? Were you helping each other? How touching.’ He stared at them hard, then said, ‘Well, it makes no difference. Rafi is going back to the hold in chains with a constant guard, and you, Charlie, are going everywhere I go.’

  He nodded to one of the sailors, who produced a pair of handcuffs and snapped them round Charlie’s wrists behind his back. And a thick band of cloth, which he tied over Charlie’s eyes. As Charlie was received into the darkness, the last thing he saw was Rafi’s face, his fancy beard grown out into messy stubble, and his sneering eyes filled with fear.

  ‘Yalla,’ said Maccomo, and the sailor’s strong arm snaked round Charlie’s elbows again. ‘Let’s go. Bring him.’

  Charlie could sense Maccomo as he passed by him. Maccomo paused, and whispered in Charlie’s ear. ‘You’ve given me too much trouble,’ he murmured. ‘Enough.’ And, as he moved on, he cracked the back of Charlie’s head hard with his arm, hard enough to knock him to the floor.

  Later, Maccomo made a telephone call, shielding his mouth so that Charlie could not overhear his conversation.

  ‘How is my cargo?’ he said softly, in French.

  A voice in French told him that all was as it should be: the cargo had arrived at the resort, and packaging was scheduled for that evening with shipment to Accra as arranged.

  ‘Change of plan,’ Maccomo murmured. ‘Ship to Elmina instead. Be in touch constantly. I may have to rearrange.’

  Charlie was quiet and obedient. The darkness surrounded hi
m; the heat seeped into him. Maccomo was not literally keeping him in sight all the time, but the sailor never let go of Charlie’s elbows, behind his back. He walked when he was prodded, stopped when he was jerked to a stop. He sat when he was pushed to the floor. He said nothing.

  After a while it became apparent that they were going ashore. First he was tumbled from Old Yeller down into a smaller boat – long and narrow, he could tell because his knees could touch both sides when he spread them. His fingers reached out to touch: the wood of the seat was rough. Was it a Ghanaian fishing canoe – one carved from a single tree trunk, painted in bright colours, bearing a slogan like ‘Sea Never Dry’ or ‘To Yet Not’?

  After a journey of lurch and spray, the boat crunched on to land. He could smell it before he sensed beneath his feet the change from the ever-shifting timbers of a ship at sea to the firm ground of Mother Earth. He smelt a smoky, fishy smell, floating on the air, mixing with the cooler breeze from the sea.

  The smell filled his heart with longing. This must be Ghana, he thought. He trailed his fingers along the canoe as he was bundled out – yes, painted. He breathed deep, picturing eyes and biblical verses painted on the canoe, tall palms, and beyond them rows of round fish kilns with their layers of palm fronds and the fish laid out under the hot sun, above the hot fire, the women tending and turning them. He could almost taste the sweet pungent flavour of smoked fish … Charlie remembered his grandmother’s low white house, with the frangipani tree outside – it was grey all over, branches like the neck of a dinosaur, and then suddenly out of the grey reptilian bark burst the most beautiful flowers, waxy and soft, the melting colours of sunset, and smelling like heaven. He remembered the red earth of the street outside, the tall, tatty palm trees, and the bald-headed vultures who lived on Auntie Comfort’s roof across the way. Grandma used to make fufu and soup, and would send a neighbour’s boy to get kelewele – crunchy deep-fried plantains from the kelewele lady on the corner by the Love of God Grinding Spot, because it was Charlie’s favourite. He remembered the smoky, fishy, peppery, homey smell …

  Around him, people were talking. Maccomo and the sailors were speaking Arabic; and beyond that – well, the voices that chattered offish prices, the weather and the attractiveness of somebody’s new skirt weren’t speaking Twi like they do in Accra, but it was pretty similar. Similar enough for Charlie to understand most of it. A different Akan dialect.