Speechless

by Anne Simpson

  The priest was at the altar. Oh, Clare thought impatiently, get on with it. But he did not get on with it. He lifted up the chalice and put it down, kneeling, rising. It was interminable.

  Get on with it, get on with it.

  THEY PASSED A BURNT-OUT HULK of a bus by the road, blackened and buckled in two pieces, an animal with an open jaw, teeth protruding. Onitsha, gateway to Anambra State. Clare must have dozed, yet they were only at Onitsha, still so far from Abeokuta and going the long way around. Jacob glided under the arch of the sign.

  We’ll be driving in the dark, Thomas, she said, worriedly.

  Do you want to stop here? It would be easy enough to find a hotel.

  Well, I — that’s a good idea, said Clare.

  Clare wanted to find Sophie. She wanted to hold her.

  I will drop the envelope and we can proceed to the Hilton, he said. Thomas had been doing some work for a firm in Onitsha and planned to drop off the papers personally.

  She didn’t want to proceed to the Hilton. She wanted to find Sophie and hold her in her arms.

  By the time Thomas had delivered his envelope, another hour and a half had passed. It had taken time to find the person who could take the papers and then Thomas had wanted to call Monica, so that took more time. Clare felt the minutes ticking inside her skin.

  And so — the Hilton? said Thomas, settling himself in the car.

  I’d like to get to Abeokuta today, said Clare. But it’s such a long way.

  We can get there. We can keep driving: we have extra gas. Jacob has done it before. Is that what you prefer to do?

  Yes.

  Then that is what we will do.

  It was late, nearly evening, the sky a haze of soft colour, as they crossed the bridge over the Niger River, the water a tarnished silver platter seen through the V-shaped trusses. It was not wise to keep going. On the walkway at one side of the bridge, a woman carried a plastic canister on her head, one arm supporting it, but she could have been treading a shelf of cloud out into the river, far off, to the place where sky and water met. The infinity of the river, a mirror for the changing sky, touched Clare. Close to the riverbank on the near side were a few boats, like beads strung together, and one had the alligator snout of a dugout canoe: Clare and Gavin had once crossed the Niger at Lokoja in a boat exactly like it.

  A cluster of motorcycles and vans blocked Clare’s view, and she couldn’t see the dugout until the traffic passed and then she saw the whole of the western sky blazing; the river, too, caught the liquid flame, and there was the dugout, slipping across it. A solitary boat in the midst of that glory. She caught her breath. The sunset was already fading as Jacob drove away from the bridge, and darkness had fallen well before they’d reached the outskirts of Onitsha.

  Thomas spoke with Jacob.

  We’ll get something to eat, he explained to Clare. There’s a place Jacob knows about, though it’s nothing very extravagant.

  Jacob parked the Mercedes by the side of the road, and Thomas and Clare were hustled off to the best table at a roadside restaurant, a wobbling table with a broken umbrella, where they were given hot plates of chicken and rice. A woman presided over the tables, shouting at the serving girls, making sure all of her patrons had what they needed.

  Two men were at the table behind Thomas. There was a girl with them, but she sat apart kicking one foot back and forth, as if she were cross. Clare couldn’t say what it was that bothered her about the two men, one of them with a lime-green muscle shirt and sunglasses propped on his head. Thomas drank his beer, set it down. Now that they were out of the car, she knew he was in no great hurry to get back into it. He couldn’t see the men, as Clare could, and so he couldn’t watch the way their eyes slid to the Mercedes, over its smooth lines.

  Should we leave? Maybe take the food with us, do you think? she asked.

  If you want to go, we’ll go. Thomas got up, wrapping a piece of chicken in a paper napkin and nodding to Jacob, who picked up his soft drink to take to the car. Thomas drank the last of his beer as he stood.

  They got back into the car, and though the men didn’t appear to look at them, Clare could feel their eyes. Was she dreaming? Once she was safely in the back seat, she felt for her passport and credit card in the pocket she’d made for them, attached by a band of Velcro to her underwear, but she was worrying needlessly. She was a master of the art of worrying, Gavin had told her. It was simply that it was evening, and she was tired; she’d have much preferred turning down the clean sheets of a bed in a hotel, so why hadn’t she said so to Thomas?

  On the road, the headlights of other cars coming from the opposite direction appeared out of nowhere, as if they were about to collide with the Mercedes before they veered off. The darkness was complete, except for a few lights along the road, which must have been kept going by generators, and now and then the fleeting shapes of people standing next to fires loomed up and vanished. Thomas and Jacob had decided to take the road to Benin City, since they both knew the way and the roads were better, but they still had to skirt holes and pits in the road and sometimes Jacob couldn’t avoid them. He slowed down. Fewer people walked along the side of the road here, but once they nearly hit a goat that had strayed; Jacob muttered to himself, drinking his cola to stay alert.

  A motorcycle zipped in front of the car, snaking from side to side, just ahead, and Clare noticed the skillful way the driver manoeuvred around the road’s obstacles. She could hardly see the driver, only the red Cyclops eye of his tail light. After a while it made her sleepy, watching the bobbing of the light. She shut her eyes.

  The bump on the back fender was a light touch, accidental. Clare’s eyes fluttered open, closed again. Jacob sped up.

  What is it? she said, awake now.

  An idiot, said Thomas. Behind us.

  She glanced back; she couldn’t see anything except headlights. Jacob went faster, and she found herself gripping the seat in front.

  Another bump, harder this time, and the Mercedes shot forward.

  Jacob yelled and snapped the steering wheel, tossing Clare and Thomas to the right, so Clare banged her head against the window. The car leapt ahead, dropping into a pothole, careening out of it.

  Undo your seat belt, said Thomas to Clare tersely.

  Why?

  Just do it.

  The Mercedes shot to the left, off the highway, back onto it, but the vehicle behind them bumped them again, harder this time, and Clare, with her seat belt unfastened, found herself on the other side of the car.

  Jacob yanked the wheel to the right, and Clare fell against the seat in front. Jacob braked sharply and stopped.

  Sir, they are ahead and behind — I cannot —

  Stay where you are, Thomas said. He got out and shut the door.

  Voices, one louder than the other, a thud against the car, another thud. Clare could see Thomas’s shirt wrinkled and flattened against the window.

  The driver’s door opened. Loud voices. Jacob started speaking very fast and Clare realized he was praying. He was hauled out of the car and the keys were taken out of the ignition. The door slammed shut.

  Did they have guns? Yes, they must have guns. Her knapsack — did she have cash to give them? Yes, but maybe they only wanted the car.

  Now the trunk was opened, the sound of someone shifting things. It banged shut. Voices speaking Yoruba, then laughter, high pitched, like a woman’s laughter, but not a woman, then a low voice: there were two of them, maybe three.

  And then the back door opened. Clare didn’t move, her face tucked into her arm, and she was dragged out, but her foot caught and twisted, and she cried out. Her foot was freed; she was set upright. A burly man shoved her against the car, pushed her legs apart, frisked her quickly up and down her legs inexpertly, as if he didn’t quite know what he was looking for. He’d been drinking and his breath was rank. He took her knapsack, and the phone inside her knapsack, but didn’t find her passport and credit card. He tossed the knapsack back in the car, ke
pt the phone. He turned her around so she faced him.

  What are you doing? she said.

  What am I doing? He laughed. He had thick arm muscles, huge ropes of flesh. A neon-bright muscle shirt in lime green. It glowed even in the dark. Sunglasses, something bright around his neck.

  Let me think of what I am doing. Binta, Danjuma, what are we doing?

  Danjuma put his gun to Thomas’s head.

  We are jacking the car, Bartholomew, said Danjuma.

  It’s not jacking, you idiot, said the burly man. We are not jacking off. Do you understand me when I say jacking off?

  I know jacking off.

  That is because you do it every night, Danjuma. We are not jacking off. And I said to call me B.B., not Bartholomew. Binta calls me B.B., but you always forget.

  If we are not jacking, what is it to be called?

  It’s called carjacking.

  Okay, okay, said Danjuma, grinning. Honourable Mr. B.B, we are carjacking off.

  Honourable Mr. B.B. That’s very nice — catchee, catchee. B.B. smiled and when he did, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. He was not much older than the other one, but more powerfully built.

  Danjuma took the gun away from Thomas’s head and shot it into the air.

  Clare jumped at the sudden, jolting blast. How loud it was — so close.

  Idiot, said the burly man. Idi-ot. You make drivers see you now.

  They were off the road, but not far off it, beside a shack with a corrugated roof, a tanker with a Shell logo painted on the side, no lights. A sweetish smell. A teenager was holding a gun to her brother’s head. He’d shot the gun; he could shoot her brother.

  Look down, look down, Clare told herself. She looked down, studying the teenager’s high-top sneakers. They were new, or at least newish. They were still quite white. Trainers, they were called here.

  All right, what’s next? came a voice, a younger voice. A world-weary girl’s voice. Or are you two going to stand here all night jacktalking?

  The girl must be on the other side of the car. Jacob, too, must have been on the other side of the car. So, three of them. Danjuma, B.B., and the girl. They spoke very fast in Yoruba and Clare couldn’t follow what they were saying, except that they said a few words in English now and then. Debating, thought Clare.

  Okay, now now, said B.B, switching back to English. Her Highness wants us to get moving, so we move.

  Her Highness, laughed Danjuma. Little Binta, Her Highness. It was the high, wild laugh that Clare had heard before. Little Miss Babygirl Binta Highness!

  B.B. spoke to the man in charge of the service station, though it wasn’t much of a station. It seemed to Clare that he was leaving the motorcycle in the man’s keeping. Binta, the girl, was instructed to take the car that had bumped them from behind. Three people involved, and then this man at the service station. Yet all of this happened quickly, in the sudden glare of vehicles from the road, the intermittent flashing.

  B.B. grabbed Clare’s arm with one hand. With the other, he prodded Thomas. He wanted Thomas in the back seat with Danjuma.

  Get in, he said. Am I the only one who is doing the work here?

  He pulled Clare into the front seat with him, and she hit her head on the frame of the door. She could feel B.B.’s thighs under her. He was no more than twenty-four, twenty-five. She had to sit curled up, almost facing him, smelling his breath. Jacob was in the driver’s seat. Clare turned her head sideways, eyes closed so she didn’t have to look at B.B., about the age of her son, if she’d had a son, on whose lap she was sitting. Danjuma handed Jacob the keys from the back, told him to drive. Clare shifted her eyes, watched Jacob’s hand move to the ignition, fumbling.

  Start the car, Danjuma said. He sounded bored.

  Clare fixed on Jacob’s thumb and finger about to turn the key, not turning the key.

  Stupid fucker, said Danjuma. Give no problem.

  Jacob started the car.

  Windows down now, said B.B. Fresh air is wanted.

  Jacob rolled down the windows.

  Thomas must be directly behind her in the back seat, thought Clare. She thought of Thomas, but she could see flashes of Monica in church that morning, the priest, gorgeous in his vestments, Hortensia, the hair ribbon. Her mind skipped to Sophie at the airport, her wild hair, before it skipped again, to Gavin, holding Sophie just after she was born.

  B.B. began to move his hands. What did he want? She felt one hand at her waist, one on her hip. The hand on her waist began moving up to her breasts.

  What are you doing? she said, astonished at the sound of her own voice, strong and clear.

  He wore sunglasses though it was dark and she couldn’t see anything more than his broad face, a chain at his neck and a cross hanging from the chain, his glowing lime-green shirt. He was a thug.

  Ṣe o maa ba mi jo? he said, laughing.

  Don’t do that, she said. Look at you.

  Is that? He snorted. Ho ho, he cried, clutching the cross on the chain around his neck. Listen to Mama Shame Shame.

  Clare shifted her weight. His hands stopped climbing around her body.

  B.B. directed Jacob to turn off the highway onto a poorly maintained back road, more of a path than a road. Jacob slowed down as the car lurched into the bush and the warm night air streamed through the open windows.

  She wondered what it would feel like to die. And yet, though she was trembling and her mouth was dry with fear, she also wanted to shift her cramped posture.

  Stop here, said B.B. Now, now.

  Jacob braked hard. It thrust everyone in the car this way and that. Danjuma laughed hysterically.

  You are playing around, said B.B. You must leave keys here. Come now! He slapped the dashboard.

  Jacob turned off the car and placed the keys on the dashboard.

  Now, get out. Hands on head.

  Clare disengaged herself from him and got out of the car carefully, putting her hands up to her head. Jacob and Thomas were shadowy forms beside her, but she could tell that they, too, had their hands on their heads. Danjuma trained a flashlight on them, but it didn’t illuminate much, except a termite mound beside the road, and the two cars, one behind the other.

  The girl, Binta, had followed in the other car. She got out and leaned against the door, tucking the car keys under her bra strap, where they dangled. She sauntered over to the Mercedes, opened the door and leaned in. She shut the door. Hands on head, she said. That is foolishness, because you watch movies. Why do they need hands on head?

  Kneel down, hands on head, said Danjuma.

  Yes, kneel down, that is good, agreed B.B.

  Why is that? said Binta.

  Hands on head only, you think, Highness? said B.B.

  Danjuma laughed.

  Kneel down, said B.B.

  Clare knelt. Her body was shaking and she tried to will it to stop. She remembered kneeling earlier in the day, kneeling to pray. Jacob knelt next to her, and beside him, Thomas.

  No moving.

  They were very still. A mosquito landed on Clare’s cheek and she wanted to slap it away. A quilt from the car was thrown over their heads: it smelled old and dusty, and it covered their heads and shoulders like a shawl. She turned her cheek a little to get rid of the mosquito. It would be easier to shoot them if they were covered with a quilt. She could see the shapes on the material in front of her because of the headlights: perhaps the dancing teddy bears would be the last thing she saw. Sophie. The teddy bears had ribbons around their necks. They had bells. Dangling from the ribbons were bells. Oh, Sophie. When she breathed in, the material of the quilt was sucked closer, and when she breathed out, it loosened. Her own flesh and blood, her beloved one. In, out.

  Someone took off Clare’s sandals. Her feet were exposed, vulnerable. Perhaps they would shoot each of them so they fell over, front first, but then why take off their shoes? They were not going to run anywhere. No, they would not run. It was possible they might not get up again. Clare coughed, choking.

/>   They must be taking off Thomas and Jacob’s shoes.

  You think they will run somewhere, came Binta’s voice. It is foolishness to take off their shoes. First you say, hands on heads, then you say kneel, kneel, then you throw the blanket over their heads. What are you doing? Next thing you will say is for each one to take off clothes.

  Hnnn, said B.B. Foolishness, you are saying?

  Yes. Let them go. They are doing no harm.

  And let them run to the police?

  Why would they run to the police?

  Ah-ha, cried Danjuma. I have it! Let two go and keep one.

  You are a fool, said B.B. This girl here, your sister, she is worth two of you. And you have been drinking and carousing.

  You also, drinking and carousing and womanizing and Satan-making —

  Satan-making? Who are you saying? Not B.B., named after B.B. the Golden King of Blues-Making?

  Ah-ha, said Danjuma. No, no, no.

  Say again? Say No, no, no, Honourable Mr. B.B. Sir.

  No, no, no, Honourable Mr. B.B. Sir.

  Now, you, Sir Danjuma Idi-ot, remember your manners.

  The Lord is my shepherd, Jacob murmured. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters.

  Clare saw the heels of her father’s new shoes, the dingy, plum-coloured carpeting on a stairway, coming loose at the edges. His new shoes, made of black leather; she was following him, and Thomas was following her. They were going up the stairs to look at a flat in Glasgow, an unfurnished flat, where the light poured in without the obstruction of furniture, a soft bronzed daylight that was new to her. The rooms smelled foreign, especially the closets, which she and Thomas opened and closed. They opened the drawers in the kitchen too and slid the breadboard back and forth. It came out like a shelf, slid back in above the drawers. There was a small refrigerator and it was working, though there was no food inside except ice in the ice cube tray in the freezer. She and Thomas bent the tray until it made a cracking sound and were able to work two cubes free before their father found them sucking the ice, moving the freezing chunks around in their mouths. He laughed when he saw their faces.

  Someone took Clare by the arm, helped her to stand up.