by Yasmin Angoe
No—if I try, it will be by surprise, when he least expects it and his guard is at its lowest. I wait for directions.
“I have a place, an incinerator, where I can dispose of this body, but I cannot walk out of here with a full-size body, you understand?” He pauses, waiting. “Because I did not plan for this. I did no intel. Anyone could be out right now.”
All I do is nod, unsure why he bothers telling me any of this, as if we are confidants.
“We need to make it travel size.” He chuckles.
Who will miss her now that she’s gone? Does anyone know where she went and with whom? When she woke this morning, she did not imagine her lover would smash her head in with his bare hands.
“You will assist me with cutting it up, so time will move faster. I would like to retire to bed soon.” He considers me. “You are not my first pet, Souris, but you are by far the most intriguing. You don’t cry or beg. You don’t simper like others have. You’re quiet, and I like that in girls, you know? If you continue to behave, perhaps your welcome won’t be worn out as quickly.”
His charity knows no bounds.
He talks me through the process as he begins to hack at her with the cleaver. It is ghastly work, and he soon deserts the instrument. He shows me how to use the boning knife to get between her joints. “So that I miss bone, like deboning a chicken. You see?” He ponders a minute. “I’ll need my saw for the big parts. What was I thinking, eh?”
He returns, saw in hand. “When I cut a part away, you quickly place it in a bag. Two bags should be enough. Good thing they are waterproof, yes?”
The least of my concern.
“Try not to get any more blood on my floor. It is hell to get out, as you can see already. And it’ll be less cleaning for you.” He chuckles. “You see how I look out for you, Souris?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
He falls into a rhythmic silence as he sets to work. With the saw, he works deftly at detaching her limbs with the precision of a butcher. When the first part falls off, thumping onto the plastic, I jump. I stare at the leg, cut right above the knee. My mouth is slick with spit, and I desperately want to vomit.
The blow to the side of my head is so sudden and intense it knocks the wind from me, leaving a ringing loud enough to prevent my hearing anything else. I lose my equilibrium and tip over to the side. My hand braces on the floor to steady myself. Tears spring from the explosion of pain, but I bite back a yell, clenching my teeth, breathing through it all.
He leans toward me. Too close. I feel the heat of his breath on my neck as he growls, “What did I tell you, girl? Put the shit in the bag. Without delay.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
He does not have to remind me again. I stuff the half leg into the bag. And when the next part of the dead woman detaches, I scoop it before it has a chance to hit the floor.
35
AFTER
Nena was running late for her sister’s dinner party, where Elin was to officially introduce her latest boyfriend to the family. She didn’t hold out much hope for this one, no matter how serious Elin said they were. Elin was as promiscuous as she was shrewd. She fell in and out of love so swiftly that the rest of the Knights could claim whiplash. It had been this way ever since she and Nena were teenagers.
Their mum hoped to have grandchildren one day. There was no way Nena was popping out any kids, which left Elin to be the baby factory, and if it meant going along with this boyfriend or that to get a husband, then Delphine welcomed them. Elin swore that if she wasn’t married and pregnant by thirty-eight, she would thaw out some of those eggs she’d frozen without her parents knowing and bake a baby for them. She had six more years to go.
On the night of the great family meeting of Oliver, Elin desperately needed her sister to get there so their mother wouldn’t scare him away with talk of heirs and whatever else. She’d given Nena this same spiel three times already and was working on her fourth.
“Nena, say you’re on your way? Because Mum and Dad just arrived,” Elin said frantically over the Audi’s speakerphone. “I can’t find anything right to wear tonight. I’m on outfit number five.”
“I am,” Nena answered. “But are you sure you want to officially introduce—”
“Oliver.”
“Like, once you tell Mum and Dad this is the guy, they will be looking up venues for your wedding. Mum will prepare the aunties. Is this thing with Oliver a business deal, a love match, or just a fling?” Nena had to be the voice of reason here. “Is he old or young?”
Elin’s silence alerted Nena that she was irritated. “Are you trying to throw cold water over my parade? He’s my age or a tad older. Who cares?”
“I don’t think that’s the proper saying.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s the proper saying,” Elin hissed. “Yeah, okay, right, I’ve dated a lot. But it was only because I was searching for a certain kind of mate.”
“You should want a relationship like Mum and Dad’s,” Nena said. “Someone who is the other half of your mind. Someone to run all of this with.”
Elin, incredulous, said, “That position’s already taken, little sis, by you. I don’t need a man for what Mum and Dad have, because you are my other half. I want a man who will let me do my work with no questions asked. He can have his own businesses, but he leaves ours alone.”
“How can you be sure he will adhere to that? His dad is a Council member now. He’ll want to run the business with you.”
“He won’t. Dad won’t let him, and neither will I. Plus, he’s too vanilla for what we do. He’s scared of clowns, for God’s sake!”
Nena paused. “Well . . . no one actually likes clowns.”
Elin sighed. “I really, really like this one, Nena. I think I can settle down with him. For real this time.”
Nena couldn’t help herself. She tried to remain serious. “I should forget about all of the other ‘the ones,’ then?”
“Oliver makes me feel like I’m wrapped in a security blanket,” Elin cooed, ignoring her.
“You know, Amazon sells massive amounts of those. Weighted ones at that. I like the one I bought.”
“Fucking comedian,” Elin grumbled. “I’m deadly serious, Nena.”
Nena was making jokes, but the way Elin sounded, hopeful and excited about this guy, made Nena think about the dinner she’d had with Cort. The whole situation with him was so complicated. At least Oliver knew about the African Tribal Council. At least Elin didn’t have to hide part of herself from him.
Before she knew what she was doing, Nena recounted her evening with Cort and Georgia. The words came so effortlessly, and she realized something new about herself. She liked talking to her sister about this kind of stuff.
“You really care for this bloke, yeah?”
Elin had asked the question so softly, so thoughtfully, that Nena was taken aback. Startled, really. Care was such a big word. She wouldn’t say care. Would she?
“I mean, they’re pleasant to be around,” she backtracked. “And remember, I was there to determine what he does or doesn’t know. It was work, really.”
“Mm-hmm,” Elin said teasingly. “I’m checking if the world’s gone topsy turvy.”
“Come again?” Any warm-and-fuzzies Nena felt about confiding in Elin were quickly gone.
“Because that’s the only way my little sister is going to get a boyfriend.”
“Elin! He’s not my boyfriend,” Nena practically screeched, entirely unbecomingly.
“Oooh, listen to you,” Elin said. “Now I know it to be true. And it’s about damn time, sis. And well deserved.”
But was it? Nena had gotten herself involved with an American (which would irritate her dad, for one), and a prosecutor at that. How could she ever share the Echo side of her—not that she’d want to—in a relationship built on lies? Even lies by omission. If she allowed it, Cort would lay himself bare to her while she’d keep a massive part of her hidden, all the while enlisting his own daughter to de
ceive him. Didn’t seem very fair of her.
“I am sorry I teased you about Oliver,” Nena said. The realization her sister might be serious about a man had a sobering effect. “I see now it’s a bit different with him, so I look forward to meeting him tonight.”
“And what about Mum?”
Nena snorted. “You do realize no one handles Mum, right? However, I will try,” she promised. “Relax and enjoy your evening. I’m almost there.”
36
BEFORE
I have come this far. I did not die in my village. I did not die in the Compound or in the Hot Box. I have not died here yet with this monster. Still, I cannot help but question again what kind of hell this is. What god permits this? What did I do to deserve this? Oh, that’s right . . . I survived.
All is complete when I zip up the second bagful of the dead woman. I am now a coconspirator in her death and disposal. I am damned and want only to curl up on my cot with my thin sheets and die, but Monsieur is in a celebratory mood. He opens a bottle of his favorite whiskey and orders Chinese, which I find unbelievable since two duffel bags of dead American sit on the basement floor.
When the Chinese food arrives, we sit next to the filled and sealed bags. Monsieur pours himself a generous portion of whiskey, then downs the entire tumbler in a large gulp. He belches and pours another. With a grunt, he pushes the thick glass toward me. I dare not decline. My ear still rings from his earlier strike, a reminder of what any delay in following his commands brings me.
I take a tentative sip from the dark liquid that smells like paint thinner. The liquid leaves a blazing trail to my stomach, and I erupt in a violent coughing fit, thinking Monsieur has poisoned me. I retch, sputtering, to his enjoyment, evoking deep belly laughs. He always laughs at my expense.
“Jesus Christ, Souris, you can’t hold your liquor.” He looks at me as if he just had an epiphany. “Connais-tu Jésus?” Do you know of Jesus? “Or do you savages pray to the sun or wooden totem poles? Or water sprites?” He slides a white carton of food and two wooden chopsticks toward me.
He has traveled to my country enough times to know we Ghanaians are as Christian as he is supposed to be, but I temper myself. He might be in a playfully insulting mood, pretending we have suddenly bonded through the dismemberment of a human, but I still tread carefully. He can strike as quickly as a rattlesnake and is just as trusting. He takes another drink, straight from the bottle this time, because the cup from which I sipped has undoubtedly been tainted to him.
“Menim Yesu.” I know Jesus, I answer in my language.
The alcohol blooms a slow burn in my belly, and I do not care for how queasy it is making me feel. Monsieur’s movements are dulling. His speech comes out in a slow drawl. I do not trust him. He is testing me, like with the staircase. The food on the ground is a test. He wants to see if I will slip and lower my guard. Then he will do to me what he did to her and stuff my cut-up parts into another of those waterproof bags.
The psychological warfare he plays with me over the overflowing box of Chinese food is damning. My stomach cramps violently at the aroma wafting from the hot meal. The thin vegetable soup he gave me for lunch earlier is long gone.
He shovels long, thick noodles into his mouth, giving me and the carton he left for me sidelong glances. “Eh? Don’t you want this?” he says in French. “What is your problem?” he tries in Twi.
I wish he would stop speaking in my father’s tongue. Monsieur’s is not the last Twi I want to hear before I die. But luckily, he switches back to French, which I used to think was the language of love, but now . . .
“J’ai entendu dire que ton père était un porc. C’est vrai, Souris?”
My gut twists when he calls Papa swine.
He is becoming annoyed at my refusal to respond, but he is unable to see how my fists ball and unfurl with each passing second. Or how my muscles are tightening as I wish he’d shut up before I lose myself, death be damned.
The alcohol makes him meaner. “You understand me, stupid little cunt? I heard il a pleuré comme une chiffe molle quand il a été renversé.”
I look down at my hands. No, Papa did not scream like a little bitch when Paul had him run through.
“Your brothers also squealed like dirty pigs when Attah and his men fucked them. Est-ce vrai?”
Lies. Attah and his men murdered them. Took my father’s head.
He sneers. “La tête de ton père aurait été belle sur mon mur de trophées, non? Même si ce n’est pas moi qui l’ai tué.” Your father’s head would have looked nice on my wall of trophies, yes? Even if it wasn’t my kill.
Then Monsieur begins to laugh at me.
So far, nothing he’s said has moved me to act, not even when he grips my thigh so roughly a bruise immediately begins to form. A bruise on top of a bruise on top of a bruise. My molten rage at the lies about my family is white hot, otherworldly. It is a feeling I have never experienced, a feeling that is awakening me from the deepest of slumbers.
My family died honorably. They gave their lives for me, for me to live this damnable life as someone’s mewling pet. No, this cannot be what their deaths end up meaning. I, in this place, cannot be the legacy of the Asyms of N’nkakuwe.
My fingers grope the floor around my feet.
His laughter sends me back to the village, to the laughter of the men when they violated me. The sound of him drowns out all logical thought. He is all I hear when I snap.
I round on him, bringing up the wooden chopstick in a swirling rush.
“Ne parlez jamais de mon père ou de mes frères. Fils de pute.” Never speak of my father or my brothers. You son of a bitch.
His eyes are so huge they are nearly all white at my speaking in his language.
My arm arcs and, with all my might, drives the chopstick into the closest thing. Robach’s right cheek. The cheap wood pierces his flesh, snapping when it hits teeth. He is too surprised to react swiftly, and it is all I need.
Before Monsieur has a chance to recover, before he becomes the predator and I the prey again, I pounce on him. I am a primal, animalistic creature grabbing one of the knives from the bloody plastic sheet. I stab him, pushing the blade to its hilt. He reels, lashing out at me, catching me on the cheek with the back of his hand. It destabilizes me, but only slightly. I am back on him quicker than he can recover.
He rolls, bellowing and knocking the knife from where I impaled him. I leap on his back, wrapping my arm around his neck, trying to choke the life out of him. I cannot. He is too broad, his throat too thick, for my malnourished body. But the rage his laughter incited breathed new life into me. I do not release him.
The knife is on the floor, unreachable. He grunts, whirling in dizzying attempts to get me off. I cling to him, safer on his back than at his front. I claw at his face, my grunts matching his. We crash backward into his worktable.
I ignore the pain, daring to let one hand scoop up the closest instrument within my reach. I plunge scissors—long, shiny, silvery, extremely pointy ones—into his exposed pink neck, into the artery pulsating against his skin.
I pull the scissors out. And drive them back in.
Again.
Again.
I do not stop. I jab their sharp edge into every soft part of him. I force myself to continue even while my strength is draining. It is not easy, killing a person. It is exhausting work. But I must finish him because to let him live is not an option.
He staggers, dropping heavily to his knees, pitching me forward. His blood spews and drips all over us. He topples forward, clutching himself, writhing, grunting curses.
I scamper on all fours toward him, climb onto him, and straddle his upper chest, slicing, stabbing. His curses turn to groans for mercy. How dare he ask me—Souris—for mercy, after what he has done to me. After what he did to the woman. After what he made me do to her.
I carve deep trenches into his skin. He grapples for purchase, but his strength is nearly depleted, and his fight against me is feeble. We
are bathing in his blood. There is so much of it. I do not stop until his arms fall to his sides with a wet splat. I lean forward to watch his eyes darken as the last vestiges of his evil soul leave his body.
Blood bubbles up as his lips try to form words.
“Souris?” he asks, eyes filled with wonder.
“Aninyeh,” I correct, so close our noses nearly touch.
I have seen plenty of horror movies where the villain leaps up at the last moment. I wait until I see him pass into death, and when he is gone, to hell, I curse him to an eternal life where he is sold like a slave and chopped up into a million little pieces, over and over again. Forever.
I finally tear my eyes from him, noticing his carton of noodles is splattered with blood. I pull over the carton that was meant for me. I suppose this was his payment to me, his gift for helping him rid himself of the inconvenient woman. I open the carton, inspecting its contents. I sniff the food, finding it unremarkable.
I remain on top of him, using him like a piece of furniture, while I eat. The congealed noodles are cold, not dissimilar to gooey worms. It is the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth—maybe not the worst; there was the ear of the guard at the Compound. I toss the mess between the newly dead Monsieur Robach and the bags of dead American.
In the bathroom, I wash his blood from my face and hands. I rinse the taste of those noodles and Monsieur’s blood from my mouth. I search the basement for any articles of clothing I can change into, and in a box, underneath a workbench, behind some plastic containers, I find the clothes I arrived from Kumasi in: a pair of white Keds sneakers, a pair of jeans that are slightly too big, and a sweatshirt with a My Little Pony character on it.
With the scissors in hand, I walk up those elusive stairs. I push open the door into the dark kitchen. Monsieur’s keys hang on a wooden key rack, and I pluck them off. His black leather wallet is on the counter, and I take it too. The air that greets me when I walk through the front door and close it behind me is cold, pure, and crisp. It is a wonderful smell. It smells like freedom.