Yellowbone

by Ekow Duker

  ‘I know you are,’ he said. ‘You’re not like them others.’

  Them others? Albert’s words gnawed at Karabo. He’d meant it as a compliment but it left her feeling bitter and cold. In his mind she’d earned enough points to graduate out of ‘them others’ but that was just as condescending. She’d always be one of ‘them others’. Mrs Summerscales and Nigel had made that clear enough.

  She’d left the Guadagnini in her room. It would find its way back to Nigel and his mother somehow. They would put all the blame on her anyway, no matter what she said. But then a wild thought struck her. What if she took the violin with her? That was something she hadn’t considered. And it would serve Nigel and his bitch mother right. She’d send it back of course; she didn’t plan on keeping it. She just wanted them to feel as ragged as she felt right now.

  Karabo hurried back indoors and came back out with the Guadagnini and the bow. Maybe this was as irrational as jumping off a ship with her hands and feet bound in chains but she didn’t want to think about that for the moment.

  ‘What’s that you got there?’ Albert asked gruffly. He lumbered to his feet and peered over the counter. ‘I didn’t know you played the violin. I used to play the ukulele myself.’

  He proceeded to do a ponderous jig and his face unfolded into a craggy smile. Then he winked at Karabo and she wanted to throw her arms around his tree trunk of a neck and tell him everything that had happened. Her eyes misted over. But she knew that if she didn’t go now, she never would. And it would all be Albert the porter’s fault.

  ‘Goodbye, Albert,’ she said.

  ‘Goodbye, miss.’

  Karabo walked out of the wooden doors and didn’t look back.

  The train emptied the closer Karabo got to Heathrow until there was only a group of backpacking Americans left in the carriage. They kept glancing at her and she could tell one of the guys wanted to talk. But she wasn’t in the mood. He’d ask her where she was travelling to and she’d have to say she didn’t know. Then he’d look at Karabo strangely and move away in case whatever madness she had might leap across the aisle and infect him.

  The answer was either South Africa or Ghana. She’d toss a coin when she got to the airport.

  In the end Karabo didn’t toss a coin because she didn’t have one. She toyed with the idea of tossing the credit card Mrs Harrison had insisted she get but it wasn’t quite the same. Mrs Harrison had said to use the card only for ‘things that are really, really important’. Well, if this wasn’t important, Karabo didn’t know what was.

  She walked across to the KLM counter. She’d always liked the sky-blue livery the flight attendants wore. The man selling tickets was Karabo’s age and he beckoned to her the moment it was her turn.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like a ticket, please,’ Karabo said.

  ‘And where are we going today?’

  He spoke as if they were travelling together so she looked him in the eye and said, ‘You choose.’

  She was impressed by how he took her odd request in his stride. He looked like he decided travel itineraries for customers every day.

  ‘Of course. Can you give me some options?’

  ‘South Africa or Ghana. You see, I didn’t have a coin.’

  ‘No one ever does.’ He held out his hand to reveal a one pound coin in his upturned palm. ‘May I?’

  Karabo nodded and just as he was about to flick the coin in the air, she grabbed his arm.

  ‘Wait!’

  He looked at her through limpid green eyes and without the slightest hint of irritation.

  ‘What if I don’t like what it says?’ She spoke as if the coin were a double-sided, sentient being.

  ‘You can always choose the other side,’ he said.

  Karabo couldn’t argue with that. He tossed the coin and it seemed to flip and turn in the air forever. Then he clapped it onto his wrist and took his hand away with a broad smile.

  ‘South Africa.’

  ‘Isn’t that more expensive?’

  The agent shrugged. ‘It’s all the same to me. I don’t get paid on commission.’

  Karabo was holding up the queue. South Africa meant Mthatha and her mother. It meant Saddam thumping his tail on the ground because his hind legs were so arthritic he couldn’t jump up and lick her face anymore. It meant Inspector Thulisane and the lurid stories of how he’d shot himself. But Karabo had known the answer all along. She missed Teacher far too much.

  ‘I’ll choose the other side,’ she said.

  She looked up at the KLM man. For some reason it mattered to her that he approved.

  ‘Excellent choice,’ he smiled. ‘Are you going for holiday or for work?’

  Karabo hadn’t really thought of that. ‘My father lives in Ghana,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been.’

  He smiled and began to tap away at his keyboard. Karabo was waiting for him to finish when her phone rang. It was Nigel.

  CHAPTER 35

  ‘Where are you, Karabo?’

  ‘Put her on speaker,’ Mrs Summerscales instructed.

  Nigel did so and immediately they heard the echo of an announcement in the background.

  ‘You’re at a train station,’ Nigel said in disbelief. ‘Or an airport.’

  ‘I’m at the airport.’

  Karabo’s voice sounded tinny, as if it had been pre-recorded.

  André saw the effort it took for Nigel to control himself. His own fists and jaw were clenched and his mouth was suddenly dry.

  ‘You were supposed to bring the violin back this morning. You lied to me,’ Nigel said.

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘Do you have it with you? Do you have the Guadagnini?’

  She hesitated a moment before answering.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Nigel’s voice hardened. ‘They’ll lock you up, Karabo,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll never be able to set foot in the UK ever again.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be any great loss. Do you?’

  He changed tack and began to plead with her. ‘Look, I’m terribly sorry for the things I said last night. I was upset, that’s all. Just bring the violin back and we can start over, okay? We’ll forget any of this ever happened.’

  ‘But it did happen, Nigel. You can’t just wish it away.’

  He was floundering for the right words when his mother snatched the phone from his hands.

  ‘Is that you, Karabo?’ she barked into the handset.

  ‘Yes, it is. How are you, Mrs Summerscales?’

  ‘I don’t have time for your nonsense, young lady. If you know what’s good for you …’

  Karabo cut her off. ‘But I do know what’s good for me, Mrs Summerscales. This time I really do.’

  ‘And I suppose stealing is?’ Mrs Summerscales said. ‘You’re looking at ten years, young lady. And that’s just for starters.’

  ‘I’d better be on my way then,’ Karabo replied.

  ‘You are aware that if you leave the country with my violin, things will only get worse for you?’

  ‘Nigel’s already explained that to me, Mrs Summerscales. But thank you for reminding me.’

  ‘Then why do you insist on taking it? It won’t do you any good. If I were you, I’d hand it in to the lost and found office wherever you are. Where are you anyway? At Heathrow?’

  Karabo ignored her question. ‘Actually, I’ve grown quite fond of the violin,’ she said.

  ‘But you’re not even a musician!’

  ‘I know. I might use it as a flower pot. It’s already got a hole in the middle.’

  Mrs Summerscales inhaled sharply through gritted teeth. ‘You are a very evil woman, Karabo. I rue the day my son brought you into my house.’

  ‘At least you’re consistent. I see your opinion of me hasn’t changed since the first day we met.’

  ‘I give up,’ Mrs Summerscales muttered. She waved the phone at André. ‘Here, maybe you can talk some sense into her.’

  Another disembodied a
nnouncement came through the tiny speaker just as André took the phone.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Karabo, are you still there?’ He looked at Mrs Summerscales and Nigel in disbelief. ‘She’s gone.’

  The Summerscales stared at him as if it was his fault Karabo had not stayed on the line.

  ‘Try her again,’ Mrs Summerscales said to her son.

  Nigel dialled, listened, then threw the phone on the couch. ‘ She’s switched her phone off.’

  ‘That’s bloody brilliant, isn’t it! Now we don’t know where your girlfriend is or where she’s going. She could be halfway around the world by this evening.’

  ‘At least the violin is insured,’ André said. He looked at Mrs Summerscales but she turned and looked away. ‘You did take out insurance?’ he asked, the dismay growing on his face.

  ‘I did. In the beginning.’

  ‘What does that mean, in the beginning?’ Nigel asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mrs Summerscales coloured and her fingers clawed nervously at her neck.

  ‘Insurance is expensive. If I could afford the monthly premiums, I wouldn’t need to sell it, would I?’

  ‘You’re not serious!’ Nigel exclaimed.

  ‘I’m afraid I am.’

  Nigel slumped into the nearest chair and held his head in his hands ‘And you said I was the one with poor judgement.’

  Mrs Summerscales walked to the window and drew the curtains aside. She stood there for several minutes looking out over Hereford Square. Her back was stooped and when she spoke her voice seemed to have aged several years.

  ‘Someone had better call the police,’ she said.

  Later that morning, two police constables came to Mrs Summerscales’ house in South Kensington. The first introduced himself as Constable Philips and the other, a woman, as Constable Duxberry. They asked Mrs Summerscales and Nigel questions and wrote down what they said in identical notepads.

  ‘Does the violin have any distinguishing marks?’ Constable Duxberry asked. ‘A label maybe?’ Her eyes were flat and unsympathetic, in keeping with her uniform.

  ‘There’s a handwritten label inside the violin,’ André said. ‘It’s written by the violin maker himself, Giovanni Battista Guadagnini.’

  Constable Duxberry frowned at him. She hadn’t asked him to speak.

  ‘I take it the violin is an antique,’ Constable Philips said. His tone was more avuncular and he seemed eager to please.

  ‘Yes,’ André replied. ‘It’s almost three hundred years old.’

  Constable Philips gave a small nod of satisfaction. He glanced at his companion as if this were a quiz game and he had just scored a point.

  ‘And how much would you say it was worth, this violin? Ten thousand pounds? Twenty thousand?’

  ‘The auction record for a Guadagnini is a little over one point five million pounds,’ André replied.

  Constable Philips’s eyebrows arched upwards and his voice became suddenly boisterous and familiar. ‘One and a half million quid?’ he exclaimed. ‘For a fiddle?’

  André nodded gravely. ‘That sale occurred in June this year and it was for a violin, not a fiddle, as you call it. Mrs Summerscales’ violin is in very good condition. Very good condition, I must say.’

  Nigel appeared perturbed. ‘I didn’t know it was worth that much.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for regrets, don’t you think, Nigel?’ his mother said bitterly. ‘You’re the one who let a million-pound violin walk out of your flat.’

  The value of the Guadagnini seemed to have unsettled Constable Philips as well. He tapped the nib of his pen on his notepad several times seemingly at a loss as to what to ask next.

  ‘Where did you keep the violin?’ Constable Duxberry asked. She was younger than Constable Philips but with her plain and impassive face, she looked the more experienced and competent of the two.

  ‘Over there,’ Nigel said, pointing at the empty glass cabinet on the wall.

  Constable Duxberry walked up to take a look. ‘And it wasn’t locked?’

  For the first time her eyes glinted with what might have been amusement and a faint shadow of a smile tugged at her lips.

  ‘I already told you I forgot to lock the cabinet last night!’ Mrs Summerscales retorted. ‘And before you ask me again, it wasn’t insured either.’

  ‘We’re just establishing the facts, Mrs Summerscales,’ Constable Philips said.

  ‘While you’re establishing the facts, Karabo could be halfway around the world already. Instead of sealing the borders like I asked you to, you’re wasting everybody’s time with these interminable questions.’

  The two constables glanced at each other as if deciding which of them should reply. In the end it was Constable Duxberry who spoke and her voice carried a hint of quiet reprimand.

  ‘I’m afraid this isn’t television, Mrs Summerscales. It doesn’t quite work like that. We don’t even know if …’ She looked down at her notebook. ‘We don’t know if Ms Bentil has actually left the country and if she has, through which point of exit.’

  Mrs Summerscales looked away in disgust. ‘It really feels like I’m doing your jobs for you. I told you, Karabo was at Heathrow or Gatwick waiting to board an aeroplane. You should have put out a … a …’ She turned irritably to her son for help.

  ‘An All Points Bulletin,’ offered Nigel.

  ‘That’s it,’ Mrs Summerscales said harshly. ‘Have you even bothered to do that? Put out an All Points Bulletin?’

  ‘We don’t issue All Points Bulletins in the UK,’ Constable Duxberry replied evenly. She gave Nigel a quick smile. ‘You’re thinking of an All Ports Warning. But those are usually issued in cases of child abduction. I’m afraid this is rather different.’

  Mrs Summerscales bore the rest of their questions with ill temper. She answered in monosyllables or referred the constables to Nigel or André when she could not be bothered to answer herself.

  ‘Bloody Brexiteers,’ she muttered after the constables had left. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re in their hands, Mrs Summerscales,’ André said. He had made tea for the constables, which they had both declined and now he sat with a steaming porcelain mug clasped in both hands – his nerves were badly in need of it.

  ‘Do you think she’s heading home?’ Mrs Summerscales asked. ‘Where did she say she was from again? Some little town in South Africa.’

  ‘Mthatha,’ André said.

  ‘Well, you’ll need to go after her and get the Guadagnini back.’

  André coughed and scratched the back of his neck. ‘We really should leave this to the authorities, Mrs Summerscales.’

  ‘I have no faith in their ability, not after this morning. And I’m sure the South African police are no better.’

  ‘Let me go, Mother,’ Nigel said. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you, Nigel, but no,’ Mrs Summerscales said firmly. ‘You’re much too young for this. Mr Potgieter is African. He’ll find his way around much better than you.’

  ‘But Mrs Summerscales!’ André protested. ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘Bring the Guadagnini back, Mr Potgieter, and I’ll reconsider selling it.’

  André’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly and his chest heaved all of a sudden. There were two choices before him and each was as stark as the other. If he found the violin, he could return it to Mrs Summerscales or … he could keep it. After all, anything could happen in South Africa and Mrs Summerscales would be none the wiser.

  ‘I suppose I could ask for leave from Saint Anthony’s,’ he said slowly.

  Mrs Summerscales nodded grimly. ‘Thank you, Mr Potgieter. I won’t forget this.’

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and was raising it to her lips when Nigel cleared his throat.

  ‘What is it now, Nigel?’

  ‘Karabo isn’t going to South Africa,’ he said in a quiet voice.

  Mrs Summerscales replaced the cup slowly and turned to
look at her son.

  ‘What do you mean, she’s not going to South Africa? I thought that’s where she was from.’

  Nigel shook his head. ‘She’s going to Ghana. That’s where home is for her. She talks about it all the time.’

  Nsawam

  CHAPTER 36

  Karabo awoke with a start when the plane landed at Schiphol Airport. She felt a violent bump, bump, bump and heard the strangled shriek of tyres on the tarmac. For much of the flight she’d deliberately ignored the woman sitting next to her but now she was smiling at Karabo and asking if she’d had a good rest.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Karabo said. Looking through the window, she had the sensation of being in a foreign country without really experiencing it in any meaningful way. That’s how she’d felt in London and it had taken a three-hundred-year-old violin to show her that.

  ‘This is yours, yes?’

  She looked up to see the woman handing her the violin case. She was middle aged, tall and athletic, and was direct in a self-effacing way. Her accent reminded Karabo of a Dutch football manager she’d seen on television.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She reached up and took the violin case from her.

  ‘It is a violin, isn’t it?’ The woman let out a trill of self-conscious laughter and asked, ‘Do you play?’

  There was something about a violin that always got people talking. Karabo’s fingers curled protectively around the case. She prayed the woman wouldn’t ask her to play.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  The woman’s eyes flashed with appreciation. ‘I used to play the cello, but oh, that was many years ago.’

  She ran a hand through her short hair and ruffled it a little. It was clear she expected Karabo to say something, ask why she’d stopped playing the cello perhaps. But Karabo just stared out of the window at the angular walkway being manoeuvred into place. She thought the woman would turn away – after all, it was obvious she was being rude. Instead she touched Karabo lightly on the arm.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ she said. ‘But may I see it?’

  ‘Why?’

  But this was the opening the woman had been waiting for. Her eyes lit up and the words tumbled out of her mouth. ‘You must forgive me but whenever I see a violin or a cello,’ she said, ‘I remember …’ She stopped and smiled broadly at Karabo. ‘I remember how I felt when I used to play.’