by Yaba Badoe
Cat gestures: ‘What should I do?’
‘Keep on looking,’ I hiss. ‘But whatever you do, hurry up, before Barrel Man stirs.’
Cat shoves the whisky, phone and cigarettes in her pouch. She picks up the rosary and crucifix, about to stash them away as well, when Barrel Man’s forefinger quivers. Suddenly, his hand jerks and he lunges for Cat’s ankle.
She spins, stamping on his hand. Before he has time to howl, she stabs another dart in his neck. The big man’s out for the count. It’s then she sees it. Puddled in a roll of muscle around his neck, a thick gold chain. On the chain are three keys. Cat yanks them from Barrel Man’s neck, tosses the chain in her pouch and runs to the door.
She releases the deadlocks. Drops a key. Tries another and – hey presto! – the door opens at her second attempt. And there she is, a fat-cat grin on her face, the key jangling on her finger: ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
I take my rucksack, put my biker boots inside. Cobra slips on his tuxedo and we’re off with Cat and Priss over the rooftops.
Priss leads and we follow. We hurl ourselves from one roof to the next. Leap over flowerpots, clamber up potted palms and garden trellises. Reach the top, stretch and jump. Crawl up guttering and as we vault over an iron guardrail, Cobra’s tux catches. He tears himself free and we run. Run fast as leopards down a spiral staircase to a courtyard and, in two shakes, we’re outside again.
Scarlett, goggles over her eyes, a black beret hiding her hair, is waiting for Cat on the pizza-delivery scooter.
Cobra looks left and right. Left again, and spies Redwood’s bike where we parked it. He fiddles with the electrics, hotwires the motor, and we’re off.
20
We don’t slow down till we’re several kilometres out of town, a stone’s throw from our former camping ground. We pause, get our bearings, then press on to the only place we know where we’ll be sheltered, out of sight. The closer we get to our hideout, the harder Cobra pushes Redwood’s bike. He overtakes Scarlett, waves, and she follows with Cat, while Priss circles overhead. We turn left up the dirt track, and after bouncing through a lemon grove, Cobra brings the bike to a halt in a cloud of dust.
It doesn’t seem possible that less than two days ago our trucks were parked here. Taj Mahal’s trailer was over there. I watered him in the stream. In a blink of an eye, I’d adorn him with bells and white ribbons, slip on my turquoise tutu, and step into a world of wonder. Fact is, life with the Old Ones suddenly seems a million years away, when all that remains of Mama Rose’s Family Circus are dried tyre ruts, clumps of horse manure, and scattered ashes from Mimi’s last bonfire. Would turn the clock back if I could, set about things a different way. But what’s done is done, and it’s time to take stock.
I pull on my leather glove and Priss comes to me. I squeal with delight at the mighty heft of her, the flash of her fiery eyes, the hard shine of her beak. I coo and gurgle until Scarlett parks the scooter and Cat hops off.
‘Found her hiding on a roof close to yours,’ Cat says. ‘Minute she saw me she flew over. Must have been keeping an eye on you, Sante. Waiting for you.’
I nod, inhaling the heady fragrance of my feathered friend. Suck her in, snap my tongue, cluck, and Priss responds. She flexes her wings and swoops into the avocado tree.
In an ideal world I’d go walkabout. Step out of time for a few days and figure out what to do next. Work out what the bangle on my wrist means. Mull over what the spooks really want from me and how Isaka, Grey Eyes, Miguel and the Captain fit in. I’d be off with Priss if I followed my heart. But my heart’s pulling me in two directions at the same time. The part of me that’s leaning towards what my head tells me is right prevails. I’m part of a crew now, and whatever’s happening isn’t just about me. I may be a catalyst, but Scarlett’s involved as well, and because of me, so are Cobra and Cat.
‘We came as soon as we could,’ says Cat. ‘Left the Old Ones behind and set off.’
She kisses the tip of her forefinger and places it on Cobra’s lips. He pulls her into his arms and hugs her. ‘Are you OK, Cobra? And you, Sante?’ Cat brushes away a tear.
Never seen her moved to tears by hugging Cobra before.
‘Come here, little sister,’ she says, and wraps her arms around me.
The Cat I know isn’t what I’d call the hugging type. Likes to hiss and snarl, bite and scrap. Cat is softer somehow. And flitting over her face is the same sunshine smile as her brother’s.
Must be Scarlett’s doing. Loving Scarlett’s made her insides melt and tenderised her soul. Seems Cobra’s got Scarlett on his mind as well. He’s staring at her, trying to figure out what the girl’s got inside that’s transformed his twin. Him and me both are asking similar questions:
What lies behind the honey-lick of those wild eyes, the unruly beauty of that hair?
Cat links fingers with Scarlett, and the four of us squat on our heels and talk.
First off, we catch up; fill in the gaps. I tell Cat and Scarlett what I didn’t get a chance to tell ’em before. I tell ’em about the treasure in my sea-chest cradle and the ghosts of the restless dead.
Cat frowns. ‘Are you sure this is for real, Sante? Or are spiders spinning cobwebs in your head again?’
‘What I’m saying is as real as the dirt on my hands.’
I show ’em the grime on my palms, and when Cat’s satisfied that I’m not joshing her, I tell ’em about the ceremonial dagger, the mysterious music from Mamadou’s flute. How those thugs broke it and the music played on.
Cat scrunches her face again. Her brow furrows, and as her mind swings into gear, her greens sizzle with excitement. ‘I remember now,’ she says. ‘That strange music you played when we did our first gig in the cathedral square. The music riled Cobra’s snakes, weirded them out. Spooked ’em. Spooked everyone.’
I nod. ‘All I have to do is talk about ’em, Cat. Say their names and the spirits make their presence felt. Call ’em and they appear. Hurt me and they’ll frighten you.’
‘Can you call ’em right now?’ Cat looks over her shoulder. Grins at me.
‘I could, but I shan’t, ’cause this isn’t a silly make-believe game I’m playing. It’s about life and death. For real.’
Scarlett tugs at a strand of hair and wraps it around a finger. She’s crouched so close between Cat and me that I feel her breath on my face when she asks: ‘Any idea why the spirits are doing this, Sante?’
It’s the first time she’s called me by name, and I notice freckles on her nose, like a sprinkling of cinnamon on white, buttered toast.
I choose my words carefully; think before I speak. I’ve asked myself the same question again and again and yet I’m still searching for a convincing answer. ‘The way I see it,’ I say at last. ‘The way I feel when they’re around, I think those ghosts are looking out for me, pushing me in a direction I can’t quite make out. Not yet, at any rate. But when I think about it, I’m pretty sure they want a day of reckoning. Want their lives to matter.’
I turn to Cobra for confirmation. He nods. Scarlett does too, and I go on: ‘They helped Cobra and I wreck Miguel’s party last night. Blew the candles out, gave Cobra a chance to summon snakes. You should have seen those Old Ones running for their lives!’
Cobra chuckles, then smiles a dazzling snake-oil smile that reveals the whites of his teeth. Smiles and I beam at him, feel that crackle in my heart, and a sizzle hot enough to spark a fire in a bundle of twigs. I grin.
Scarlett blushes. Twists a curl behind her ear, lowers her head: ‘You were at one of their parties?’ she asks. ‘Did you see the others? Did you talk to them? ’
‘We saw ’em. Spoke to a girl called Ayesha.’
‘Didn’t get a chance to speak to anyone else, though,’ Cobra adds. ‘They hustled us out of there as soon as the lights came on.’
Scarlett’s eyes gleam toffee-black. ‘I never got to speak to them either, but from what I picked up from Miguel, they come from all over Europe. Some come from
Africa, as far away as Thailand. Miguel says they’ll do just about anything to get a foothold here. Anything.’ Her voice fades to a whisper: ‘Did you meet the Captain?’
I don’t reply straightaway. My mouth opens and I gaze at her, wondering how it is that someone who claimed to have spent a single night in Miguel’s care, knows as much as she does. Cobra catches my drift. Holds his tongue, gives Scarlett a chance to talk.
She flushes and Cat covers her fingers with a hand. Scarlett grips it so tightly Cat’s knuckles turn white. Both of ’em swallow. Cat nods and then Scarlett says: ‘To begin with Miguel was my friend. I thought he really liked me because he made me feel special.’
Cobra and I lean in, eager to hear more as Scarlett’s voice trails away. I try to delve inside her, but whatever trail she was on has disappeared. Tears trickle down her face.
We wait. The silence between us deepens and the weight of Scarlett’s distress coils around my chest, almost crushing the breath out of me. The girl’s hurting, aching all over. Then it hits me! Boom! Of course! She was in Miguel’s clutches before we were, so she’s felt it too: the shame of it, the humiliation.
I catch a glimpse of what’s running through Scarlett’s mind and begin to recognise the shape and size of ’em: vultures playing with rubies, bald-headed lizards chins sagging, heads jerking up and down. She’s been there. Saw what we did.
‘Dying’s too good for ’em,’ I say to Scarlett. ‘Those Old Ones at Miguel’s party could die a thousand times over and then some, and it still wouldn’t be punishment enough. They made me feel that I was as ugly as a mole rat.’
Scarlett stifles a sob. ‘They did that to you too?’
I nod. ‘Ugly as mole rat and worth less than a speck of dust.’
‘That’s what they do best,’ Scarlett replies. ‘Pull you apart, trash everything you hold dear, so they can use you. You too?’
‘They broke my flute,’ I remind her. ‘But before that…’ I look at Cobra. He takes my hand, presses it, and I say: ‘Before that, they said Mama Rose and Redwood aren’t who they claim to be. Said they’re outlaws, wanted by the police for questioning.’
Cat’s jaw drops: ‘You’re kidding us, right?’
‘Can’t say for sure, one way or the other until we talk to ’em,’ says Cobra. ‘Were they OK when you left them?’
‘Soon as they got your message they lost it completely, but that’s Doomsters for you.’ A glint of anger, like a knife slashing air, flashes in Cat’s greens. ‘Something goes wrong and the sun’s never going to shine again. Going to be hurricanes and storms from now till Doom’s Day. Went mental. All of ’em.’
She brings Cobra and me up to speed, and pictures flow into my mind. I’m in Granada with the Old Ones: watching ’em, eavesdropping on what they said.
Mimi howls: ‘My darlings! What’s going to become of them now?’
Bizzie Lizzie, not to be outdone, stamps her foot and hollers loud as a jabbering crow: ‘I knew it! I knew no good would come out of this. We should have stopped her. But then I’ve never known a child as obstinate as Sante Williams. Girl’s going to be the death of me, I swear!
I hear the two of ’em ranting and raving while Mama Rose stands, rigid as a statue, a webbed hand clutching a chair. The only part of her moving, a finger on her left hand, quivers.
‘Mama Rose couldn’t talk,’ Cat says. ‘Couldn’t walk or talk for a full hour. Needed all the whispering Midget Man and Redwood could conjure between ’em to make her sit down.’
‘And Midget Man?’
‘Took it in his stride,’ Cat tells me. ‘Said he had faith in the two of you. When he couldn’t take Mimi and Bizzie Lizzie’s hollering a moment longer, he sneaked off on Taj Mahal and picked up your scent on the wind. Said the signs he sniffed out, combined with the omens he saw in the sky, told him that in the end, we’re all going to be fine. Right as rain. He came back in time to help me prepare my darts. Set off with Scarlett before sunrise. When we left, the Old Ones were huddled together talking, trying to figure out what to do for the best.’
Cobra takes in Cat’s words and asks: ‘So by the time you left, they hadn’t gone to the police?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
If I needed further proof that ours is not a typical family of everyday folk, this was it. The Old Ones are definitely hiding something. A taste of sour milk seeps into my mouth as the possibility that living off the grid is a cover for something more sinister and troubling tightens its grip on me. But why all the lying? Why? Thanks to Grey Eyes and Miguel, I’m like a fly caught in a web of suspicion that’s tearing me away from those I love most in the world.
And suspicion, I’m discovering, breeds uncertainty. I’m trying hard to stay focused, when Cat lets slip that while he was helping her prepare her darts, Midget Man extracted a promise from her.
‘Made me swear that as soon as we returned to Cádiz, before we tried to get you two out from under Miguel, we’d look up that old friend of his, Imma, a dancer. Said she’d help us find somewhere safe to stay.’
Then I remember: ‘Midget Man gave us her name as well. Gave us her number.’
‘Just as well we called on her,’ says Cat. ‘She warned us that Miguel and his gang want Scarlett back and they’re looking for her. Told us to get out of town pronto. Then she gave us the name of a place we could stay once we sprang you. Her brother’s place. Two hours north of here. Drew us a map. Said we’d be safe there.’
Cat takes the map out of her pouch. Shows it to us, and while Cobra and I look at it, shakes out a cigarette from Barrel Man’s crumpled pack. Lights it. Passes it to Scarlett, who sucks it greedily.
The Cat I knew wouldn’t light a cigarette for anybody. She didn’t smoke. Said cigarettes were bad for us. Used to drink, though.
Right on cue, Cat pulls out Barrel Man’s flask. ‘Whisky,’ she says. Takes a slug from it, and then hands it to Scarlett. Scarlett swallows, pulls a face, and offers the flask to me.
I say, ‘No.’ Cobra does too.
Next moment he scrunches up Imma’s map, tosses it on the ground, and says: ‘Two hours away is two hours too close to those lowlifes for my liking. We should clear out of here completely. Head for Granada, meet up with the Old Ones, and leave the country.’
Scarlett inhales again. Blue doughnut-shaped rings glide out of her mouth, then she says in a haze of smoke: ‘It wouldn’t be right to leave the others. I owe them. They explained what was expected of me…’ Her voice dips, once again, to a whisper. And once again I can’t help wondering if what she’s saying is the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And if it is, why she reveals it in dribs and drabs, contradicting what she said a moment before.
Scarlett closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her pupils are dilated and resemble those of a startled fawn. Suddenly, she throws back her hair and her face changes yet again, as wariness gives way to determination. ‘We’ve got to get them out of there,’ she says. ‘Get them to safety somehow.’
The girl’s too twitchy to trust, and chances are that under pressure she could end up the wrong side of crazy. I know this, and yet what she’s just said chimes with my sentiments exactly.
Cat and I nod while Cobra shakes his head: ‘Have you lost your minds? Are you seriously considering tangling with people-smugglers and sex-traffickers? Those folks we met back there are the worst people in the world. Think again, Sante.’
And to Cat, he says: ‘I don’t know what that girl’s done to you, sis. You’ve given your heart to her, maybe, but there’s no need to lose your marbles as well.’
Cat sharpens her claws. Don’t see it, but I hear it in her voice. ‘That girl’s got a name, Cobra. Say it.’
There’s no chance in this world or the next of that happening any time soon. No chance of Cobra taking orders from his twin. Can tell from the set of his mouth that he has no intention of allowing Scarlett’s name to pass his lips. In fact, he refuses to say it three times, so I end up saying it for him: ‘Scarlett. Her n
ame’s Scarlett.’
‘Of all the hare-brained ideas I’ve heard, this one beats ’em all!’ Cobra gets up, brushes down his black jeans then kicks the balled-up map high in the air.
Priss hisses at him from inside the avocado tree. I answer her cry with a soothing whistle. She flies down, picks up the map and drops it in my lap.
‘Listen,’ Cobra says, circling us. ‘If the Old Ones won’t do it, let’s do it for them. Go to the police. Ask for help. Show ’em where the others are. Identify those crooks and get them banged up.’
Cat pulls one of her I-can’t-believe-what-I’m-hearing faces and sniggers.
Scarlett chuckles.
It’s not always wise to laugh at Cobra. Can make him mad, mean as spit. Can’t help but smile at him, though. After years of mistrust, years of hiding out in wild places, of giving the authorities, black-boots especially, a wide berth, he wants us to ask ’em for help? Might as well celebrate Christmas with the devil.
And when Scarlett says: ‘I don’t suppose you know – why should you? – but Miguel’s best friend is head of the police in Cádiz,’ she hits the nail on the head.
‘There you go,’ says Cat.
But that doesn’t stop Cobra, who’s every bit as pig-headed as his sister. Doesn’t listen to her. No, sir! Says variations of the same thing again and again. Calls us ‘numbskulls’, ‘clueless’. Protests. Tries to talk what he calls ‘sense’ into us, which only makes matters worse. The more he rails at us and questions our sanity, the deeper we dig ourselves in, while Scarlett sits back, a hint of a smile on her lips.
At last, I put my hand on Cobra’s leg, and make him squat with us again. ‘You’ve had your say,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s vote on what to do next. Those in favour of helping the others…’
I put up my hand. Cat and Scarlett link fingers and wave their arms in the air.
Cobra stands up, wipes the dust off his palms. Might as well be washing ’em from what I can tell, ’cause plain as the sun in the sky, he wants no part of the blame for what happens next. ‘Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred by fools! So be it. On one condition – the minute your eggs start to unscramble, the three of you are going to say loud and clear, under my direction: ‘Cobra told us not to do this, but did we listen? Hell no!’