by Janet Kelly
‘It isn’t just the yarn. They sent me no finishing materials. You can’t trust the internet!’ he said again, sobbing.
Tracey was stunned. She looked between me and Chike and back again, rolling her right index finger round her temple to indicate she thought he was mad. I suspected the same but felt it necessary to humour him. He had the key to our shack, after all.
‘Let’s see what we can do,’ I said.
Chike lifted his head, stuck his bottom lip out and sighed.
I picked up one of the needles and threaded it with a dark brown yarn which could pass for black and started to stitch some of the sheep onto one of the canvasses. Chike watched like a small child, occasionally breathing in very deeply as one does when emotionally distraught. After I’d done an outline of one of the sheep I handed it back to him.
‘Look, you can finish the sheep in brown and it will look just as good. Then you can frame it with some wood. It will be fine.’
Chike put everything back in his bag, stood up and walked across the shack. As he was walking through the door he turned and pointed at Tracey.
‘You. Bad girl.’
‘What does he mean by that?’ she asked as the door closed behind him. ‘And what was all that about?’
I couldn’t answer. I was as taken aback as Tracey. I showed her the needle I’d managed to keep from Chike’s sewing kit. It was the largest there, and though I wasn’t sure how I could use it, it was something.
‘What yer going do, stab Gowon with it?’ she asked, half laughing and making her way over to the bucket which had now become our water closet. We’d even managed to hitch up a bit of bedding to allow some privacy.
Shouting from behind the sheet she said: ‘I wonder what he’ll come up with next? Maybe he does ballet and owns a My Little Pony, too.’
I thought back to Jonjo, who’d always shown a pronounced feminine side, displaying interest in Barbie dolls and making fairy cakes at an early age. Both activities were discouraged by his father.
‘He might just find needlepoint relaxing,’ I suggested, not really convinced by my own argument.
‘Perhaps his mum wanted a girl,’ said Tracey as she reappeared. ‘Or he’s a poof.’
We talked a little more before she brought the conversation back to Baz and how he was just what she was looking for. I mentally agreed that he had a pulse and no understanding of the British class system, which would both be advantages.
‘So, what you looking for in a man?’ she asked.
‘I’m not looking for anything. I was married for nearly forty years and that was enough,’ I replied, and then moved away from discussions about meeting men and instead cobbled together a story about working with management consultants on an education project involving Nigerian children.
I struggled to recall some of the information Darius had given me about schools and teaching in his home country, a topic he felt passionate about and would often discuss with me during our meetings. I wasn’t particularly interested, especially if it delayed the onset of physical activity, but one thing I did remember was that he’d been sent to a private college and had ended up taking his degree at the California Institute of Technology. He got interested in computer science when it was introduced to his syllabus early on in his school career.
I’d been surprised at the level of education available across the whole country, considering how many people still lived in conditions of poverty. I’d taken note of the subjects he’d learned – English being another important part of all Nigerians’ education – and the importance his family placed on that learning. The name Loyola Jesuit College in Abuja came to mind more clearly than I expected, so I used this in passing to add credibility to my story about working with top business people to bring high-quality teaching to the Third World.
‘We’re working with the best minds available to help bring the standards of education to where they should be, particularly for women,’ I said, feeling that I sounded very knowledgeable.
I’d added the last bit of information more for effect than out of any real desire to promote a leaning towards equality, but as Tracey hadn’t acknowledged any of the references, only occasionally nodding to indicate that she was listening, I didn’t think she’d notice.
However, her response took me by surprise. She started to move animatedly as she had registered what I said.
‘Women go to school in Nigeria,’ Tracey stated with confidence. ‘Baz’s mum got a degree, so they must do.’
My mind whirred with a vague feeling that I ought to find some connection with this latest remark but I was too busy feeling relieved. My tale had been convincing enough that I didn’t have to divulge any of my personal secrets.
‘That’s interesting,’ I said to Tracey, concealing the fact I thought anyone who was associated with her was unlikely to have a degree. Anything beyond a couple of CSEs in Drawing and Woodwork would be a stretch.
‘Yeah, he was going on about it when we were on holiday. He thinks all women should get exams and that, so they can work and earn good money.’
I bet he does, I thought. What more would a con man want than a besotted woman with great earning power? But at the same time it was a sentiment I wished my father had encouraged when I was younger; then I might have been able to do something interesting with the last forty years of my life, instead of giving up all my time and energy to convention and conformity. Family life is great, but once it’s all over the nest can feel very empty. It would be good to have another identity apart from wife, mother, grandmother. Prime minister, doctor, professor. Even plain old Mrs Hartworth would do if it was followed by some kind of explanation of my worth.
Despite my private thoughts about our differences, which I concluded were very numerous, it was good to have someone fairly manageable as company. It had occurred to me once or twice that it could’ve been worse and I could be stuck with Mavis, or that awful woman from the Advanced Driving course. At least Tracey didn’t have a clue how to argue with me, which was comforting. The whole situation could have been so different if I had to mentally parry my way round the confines of an African hut with a bigoted old bat from the bridge club. Things weren’t too bad considering the two of us had no idea why we were captured, who by and what they wanted.
The other contributory factor in our ability to remain calm and congenial was the nightly herbal drink which had the very welcome effect of allowing time to pass pleasurably, often with some hilarity brought on for no apparent reason, followed by deep sleep. I decided we should be grateful for the wide availability of drugs in this country, otherwise neither of us would get any respite.
‘Well, if you are to get married we must get you out of here,’ I said.
Problems are just challenges, as Colin used to say, and so we needed to find a way to get out of this shack. I just had to convince Tracey to follow my plans and then we could make an escape. An idea was beginning to develop.
‘And I think I know how to do it.’
‘Really?’ said Tracey, looking up from where she was sitting cross-legged on the mattress. She’d been picking the remaining varnish from her thumbnail, leaving a small mountain of purple dust on her very grubby white leggings.
‘It might take a bit of work but there is method in my madness,’ I added, aiming to appeal to Tracey’s determination.
She sighed and looked despondent. I’d expected this, but now I was sure she wasn’t someone who coped well with challenges – and if she did they probably defeated her.
As if confirming my concern, Tracey said, ‘I’ve no idea how you think we’re going to get out. We’ve tried getting through the door. We’re locked in and I don’t know how we are going to escape unless we drug the guards.’
‘Well, there is that,’ I said, adding some further ammunition to the plan I was brewing up, loosely, in my head. ‘But I think we both have something we can use in our bid for freedom,’ I added.
I paced around the room as the plan took on its own life
. I looked through the spyhole in the door, where I saw our captors handing round what looked like a cider jar, each swigging from it in turns.
‘Gowon is young and has a clear interest in me,’ I said, rejoicing in the continued pleasure I found in my latent sexual awakening. After so many years in the desert of desire it was an expected bonus to have experienced not one, but two dalliances, and both with younger men. Who also happened to be black.
‘If he considers me with enough interest then it could help us get out of here,’ I said, smiling to myself as I thought of the latest washroom escapade involving a banana – which had been served up a few hours later with our evening eggs.
Tracey pressed her lips firmly together, a habit that had formed over the past few days because of the tooth incident, and frowned before replying.
‘Well, I think I look pretty good for fifty-one,’ she muttered, which seemed a rather inconsequential comment at the time but made me think. I wasn’t so sure ‘good’ was a description I would use for Tracey. She might not look like a normal fifty-one-year-old, but did look remarkably like one of the grandmothers from that dreadful programme, Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. I only saw it the once when I couldn’t find the remote control and was astounded at how people of a certain age were dressed. But they are travellers, so I suppose they don’t get to buy many good clothes as they wouldn’t have anywhere to keep them.
I didn’t tell Tracey what I really thought, because we needed to stick together if we were going to think of a way to get out of our prison. Commenting on whether or not she could pass for someone younger, one of Tracey’s favourite topics of conversation, wasn’t really an option.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, hoping that she’d forget the fishing line of a statement she had thrown to me in the hope of hooking a compliment.
‘I’ve thought of something but I just need to work through the details,’ I said.
Tracey looked pensive.
‘The guards are here most of the time, and even when they aren’t, Chike and Fasina show up, and I wouldn’t want to get Chike cross. After his hissy fit over his bloody sewing, I reckon he’s the type that could murder you for no reason,’ said Tracey.
I sat down on the space beside her and patted her knee.
‘We’re going to have to be resourceful,’ I said, picking up the banana skin from where Tracey had finished eating, placing it on the tray beside her.
I explained my plans, in the best way I could to someone who probably wouldn’t understand them, when there was a loud hooting and the sound of a car making its way up the narrow pathway behind the shacks. It screeched to a halt before Chike and Fasina’s voices could be heard.
‘We have it, we have it,’ shouted Chike. ‘Party time,’ he shouted again, and within minutes the area outside the shack sounded like a carnival. There was cheering and clapping and the distinct tones of Max Bygraves’ Greatest Hits pumping through the car’s stereo system.
‘It sounds like they’ve something to celebrate,’ I said to Tracey, who’d stood up to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was going on through the gaps in the door.
‘Looks like they have some people with them,’ she said, squinting as she peered through the small gap she’d managed to expand just below the hole that had been gouged out for the padlock bolts.
The music got louder and I put my hands over my ears. I have a sensitive reaction to most music, finding much of it superfluous to my life, but particularly that of Palladium-style crooners with absolutely no classical training. Why on earth were they listening to Max Bygraves in this day and age?
The noise was deafening and went on for some time before Gowon made his way to our shack, via the usual ritual of padlocks, to bring us the nightly cups of herbal tea and a selection of newspapers and magazines. I noticed one of them was Needlepoint Monthly. He was smiling at both of us as he put the tray down.
‘What is going on? Why such frivolity?’ I asked him. As I looked at him I thought he was a bit drunk. His eyes weren’t focusing, and when he spoke it was with a bit of a slur.
‘You’ve brought us good luck. Things will happen soon,’ he said.
I swelled inwardly. This must mean Darius had come forward to save me and we were to be freed. My logic had been skewed by over-optimism, but I didn’t let a lack of knowledge about the facts get in the way of my sense of hope.
‘The boss is very pleased,’ said Gowon, who clearly shared the same optimism about a great outcome.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Tracey, hopeful for the first time in a while that it might be news of her fiancé. ‘Is it Baz? Obassi?’
Gowon shifted on his feet and rubbed the side of his face with his right hand, which still held the padlock key he had let himself in with.
‘I do not know for certain, he said. ‘But I know the boss man is pleased. So we are pleased.’
‘Does that mean we will be released?’ I asked, as anticipation rose like mercury in a sauna’s thermometer.
‘Oh, God, I hope so,’ said Tracey. ‘I want out of this hole. I need to get my nails done, my hair sorted and a new tooth, and I want some decent grub.’
Gowon ignored her and looked kindly over to me, moving his eyes up and down my body and allowing his eyes to meet mine. I thought they looked a bit watery and couldn’t work out if that was the drink or emotion.
‘Big boss is very happy. But you’re not going anywhere. You bring us the luck. So we wait.’ Then Gowon turned and left, locking us in without any further explanation.
I eyed up the door and my thoughts crystallised further. I had a plan to get us out of our prison but needed to think very carefully and make sure Tracey was fully capable of following my instructions – something I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure was possible.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The magazines provided much-needed light relief. Reading that Bernie Ecclestone spent £12m on his daughter’s wedding led to some animated discussion between the two of us. Tracey thought it was quite reasonable to spend that kind of money on one event, if you had it, whereas I could only refer to Bobbie’s wedding, which involved a parsimonious meal of sausage and mash in a damp marquee on a Sussex farm. We were still discussing the details while we were waiting for our (late) breakfast when Chike burst through the door.
‘Get up, get up!’
He seemed agitated, and I reminded myself not to show fear and remember hostages are generally worth far more alive than dead. It also occurred to me that a man with a passion for needlepoint might not have quite the killer instincts you’d expect from a kidnapper.
‘You need to come with me – now,’ he said, as he marched around our bed, kicking the mattress with his booted feet.
‘What’s up with him?’ said Tracey, as she hauled herself to a standing position dressed only in pants and a bra. The night had been particularly close, and if we’d had a window we would’ve opened it.
‘Don’t speak!’ shouted Chike. ‘Come with me.’
Tracey looked over and uncharacteristically shrugged before crumpling up her face as if to cry. She didn’t, but took a deep breath and let it out in one juddering go. It was difficult to anticipate how she’d react to anything. I sometimes wondered if there were three personalities in our shack: me, her and her hormones.
Chike held the door open and gestured for us to move through. He hadn’t handcuffed us or offered us the option of breakfast or the washroom. Thankfully we had our bucket to use for early morning and the inevitable middle-of-the-night excursions that seem to hinder a full night’s sleep for many women over forty-five – and the lid made a difference.
‘Move. You must come.’
Thankfully I’d already dressed and so could make my way towards the door while Tracey struggled to wiggle herself into her leggings and a strappy top that looked like it’d been torn off her shoulder in a fight with a hungry goat.
When we got to the guards’ shack there was a video camera set up on a tripod. It was like nothing I had seen before.
Much larger than the camera Tom often used, it was pointing at two seats in front of a draped white sheet, hanging loosely over the back wall. Fasina was fiddling about with some sheets of paper.
‘Your people need to know you are in danger,’ said Chike. ‘Tell them to send money now.’
Tracey said, ‘I thought you’d already found our families and they were going to get us out of here.’
Chike sucked air through his teeth and pursed his lips. It made him look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘You,’ he said, pointing a stubby finger at Tracey, ‘have no family – you are worthless. But Mrs Hartworth here is a wealthy woman and has people who want to get her back, so will pay.’
I sincerely hoped Tracey could hang on to her limited self-esteem at that point to prevent a further outburst of tears. It seemed she could, as she was busy eyeing up the cigarettes Fasina held in his hands.
‘Could I have one, please?’ she asked in a childlike voice. Fasina passed them over and threw her a lighter.
As she lit up, Chike snatched the papers off the table and thrust them into my hands.
‘You read this, to the camera,’ he said, shoving me across the room towards the chair.
I looked at what was written and knew I would find it difficult to read the words that had been written for me.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
He pushed me down on the chair and indicated to Fasina that he wanted him to start filming.
‘Speak. Tell them what is written on the paper,’ barked Chike.
Fasina was told to only film my face and nothing else. He didn’t want any viewers to see I was reading from a script.
I faltered with the first sentence because I found the writing difficult to understand; partly capital letters and partly scribble, it was like my doctor’s writing on a bad day.
‘My dearest family members,’ I read, trying to sound as plausible as possible. I didn’t want to annoy Chike when he was showing signs of psychotic behaviour. ‘I will die without you. I need your peaceful support and harmonious attention to my friends in Nigeria,’ I continued.