Dear Beneficiary
Page 16
‘What was that noise?’ said Tracey, as gunshots rattled off the back of the car.
My heart pounded and my legs turned to jelly. I tried to accelerate but couldn’t get the automatic gearing to get into place quickly enough. The car stalled as it bumped over a pile of rubble.
‘Damn,’ I said, as the men advanced on us quickly, Fasina running and Chike lumbering along about five metres behind him. I turned the ignition. Nothing happened. Tracey looked out the back window and saw the men, who were catching up with us.
‘Get the bloody car started,’ she said. ‘They’ve got guns.’
As she turned back around she knocked the gear lever with her knee, pushing it back to neutral position. I turned the ignition again and the car jumped into life, bounding over the lane and on its way. The shouting continued, and beads of sweat formed on my eyebrows, one waiting tantalisingly to drop down onto my face.
‘Where are you going, you stupid women?’ Fasina shouted as the gunshots continued. Every now and then a sharp metallic noise could be heard as their bullets bounced back from the, thankfully, tough exterior of the car.
There was a loud crack and splintering. The back window smashed and pieces of glass fell onto the back seat. We could hear Fasina shouting incomprehensibly at us, and Chike coughing. I looked back in the mirror and could see him bent over double, trying to catch his breath – while Fasina was just a few yards from us, pointing his gun straight at the back of our heads.
I pressed my right foot as hard as I could on the accelerator and we lurched forward at a faster speed. I found it hard to keep a straight line on the path as I drove blindly along in the hope we wouldn’t meet any more obstacles that would prevent our swift escape.
‘He’s going to shoot us, for Christ’s sake. Get a move on!’ screamed Tracey, clearly unaware I was doing everything in my power to do just that.
We heard the noise of a gun and waited for a bullet to hit the car, but nothing happened. The only other noise we heard was Fasina shouting at Chike to pass over his gun. Tracey had ducked down and was peering around her seat, reporting what she could see through the broken back window.
‘Chike has thrown his gun to Fasina,’ she commentated. ‘Christ, he’s coming after us again. Quick, get going – he can’t half run!’
The car moved smoothly and we made our way swiftly along the lane. I didn’t look back until Fasina’s voice faded and I thought we were far enough away to feel safe. I saw him standing with his hands on his hips, looking defeated. Chike, meanwhile, was on his knees. He didn’t seem used to physical activity, which was a blessing for us.
‘Thank heaven for that,’ I said, as we drove off the lane and out onto the unmade roads of the village on stilts. I could see why the locals preferred to use boats.
‘I thought they were supposed to be somewhere else,’ I added, thinking it was a good job Chike didn’t find me in his shack with Gowon.
‘So much for not showing any signs of aggressive behaviour,’ said Tracey. ‘I think shooting at us is pretty unfriendly.’
Tracey was shaking. I didn’t feel too calm myself. The one bead of sweat developed into a torrent, and they made their way down my face to drip off my chin.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’ve got away unhurt, so let’s be thankful for small mercies.’
‘I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of that place,’ said Tracey, after we’d both calmed down a bit. She was using the mirror in her sun visor to put on some make-up and inspect her hair. ‘I really need sorting out.’
I looked over and agreed. Maybe when we found somewhere to settle for a few days I could do just that. A few elocution lessons, some decent clothes and a proper haircut and she could pass for a proper person.
We drove along the road out of the village for about half an hour, when the realisation of what we’d done hit us. The morning sun had risen but the air was still damp. I shivered at the thought of our freedom. We’d been close to poverty and poor housing but as I drove the roads became wider, better made. There were houses with nice gardens and shiny cars. A feeling of liberation manifested as a rising sense of joy.
‘I can’t believe we did it,’ said Tracey. ‘We bloody did it. High five!’ she added, throwing her hand high in the air to meet mine, which was strangely redundant having no need for gear changing. I made a mental note to look at automatic cars when I got back to England.
‘Well, where to, partner?’ I said, wondering which direction would be the most appropriate, although anywhere was fine as long as we were heading away from where we’d been.
‘Anywhere that sells some decent food. I’m bloody starving,’ said Tracey, just as the car hit a huge pothole and veered off the road, finally landing on its side in a ditch.
‘Shit,’ I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tracey limped along the road, having lost one of her unsuitable shoes but clinging on to the fact that one shoe was better than none. I’d offered her a pair of my pumps but she flatly refused to borrow them, claiming they made her legs look dumpy.
‘That was a close shave, Cynth,’ said Tracey, dragging along the bags we’d taken from the car. We couldn’t manage all our luggage, so left a fair bit behind, knowing we had plenty of cash from Chike’s haul to get new supplies if we needed them.
I was a bit stunned by the accident and glad we weren’t hurt. My left foot had banged down on the brake thinking it to be the non-existent clutch and we went leaping along the road. I lost control, and the next thing I knew we were tumbling into the ditch. I’d been in many minor car accidents before but nothing involving the entire vehicle rolling at speed. To say I’d been scared would be an understatement, but I kept my composure, certainly in comparison to Tracey who was screaming obscenities until we came to rest, sideways on.
‘I thought we’d be well mashed after that little spin,’ she added. ‘All I could see was the world going round and round. It was like being in a washing machine, only without the water.’
I ignored her. Had she been able to drive maybe she could’ve got us a bit further down the road. She’s got longer legs for a start and might have been able to reach the pedals. Regardless, there was no point crying over spilled milk. Or spilled mascara, in Tracey’s case.
‘We’re OK and we’re away from that place. Be thankful for small mercies,’ I said.
I looked around and couldn’t see any signposts or any indication of where we could be heading. All we could do was keep walking and hope for something to come along and guide us.
I’m not one normally prone to daydreams but I couldn’t help fantasising that Darius would appear from nowhere and save us. Hardly a white knight, but the principle would be the same.
‘Where are we going now, then?’ asked Tracey. ‘Do you reckon we’ll meet anyone on this road?’
I thought for a bit. There hadn’t been another car for the hour or so we’d been driving, and the further we went the windier and narrower it got. Surely it had to lead to somewhere?
‘If only my phone worked. I could see if I could get hold of Baz.’ Tracey said. ‘He’d come and get us.’
I felt a bit sorry for her, although I had to admire her ability to believe the best of a man who had taken her money and failed to turn up at the airport to meet her, particularly as they were supposed to be getting married. It wasn’t like my situation with Darius, who had a genuine family problem and needed my help. She’d been completely taken in and still believed she’d be marrying her ‘bit of black’.
‘Maybe someone will know my friend. He works for a big IT company and is very successful, which I suspect is a rarity in this country,’ I said, thinking that surely everybody would know Darius for his charm, ability and downright good looks. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever meeting him and overlooking his many qualities.
‘Shall we sing some of those songs again?’ asked Tracey, as she launched into her peculiarly individual version of ‘Waterloo’. ‘Or we could play I-spy?’ she added.
‘Let’s play Snog, Marry, Avoid,’ said Tracey, who had to explain the rules. I thought it a foolish idea at first but found it quite captivating once I got into the swing of it. Nigel Havers was definitely a ‘Marry’, although I’d settle for a ‘Snog’ any day. Tracey said she’d marry someone called Ozzy Osbourne, who I’d never heard of. When she explained who he was, it confirmed my opinion that she was totally out of her mind.
We went through some other lists, and I only hesitated when she asked about Gowon, who I admitted privately to myself I would snog, but told Tracey he was best avoided. She didn’t question any further as she’d thought of a number of other males to consider including Prince William and that bald chap from EastEnders. I passed on our future king on the basis he is already married and therefore not a prospect, which I suspected wasn’t a consideration for Tracey, and shouted an emphatic ‘Avoid’ for the balding beast of the east, who reminded me of a newly born rat with a slightly less attractive personality.
Bored after twenty minutes of trying to entertain ourselves, silence kept us company until we approached the next bend in the road. Before I thought my insanity would set in permanently, a car drove up behind us. It was a red VW estate with an English number plate.
A white man about my age sporting a long, grey ponytail stuck his head out of the driver’s window and shouted over to us, in an English accent.
‘Hello, ladies. Do you know there’s nothing here for miles? Can I offer you a lift?’
Tracey didn’t answer, but made her way straight over to the car and got in the back seat, pulling off her one shoe as she did so and rubbing her foot.
‘You must be some kind of angel,’ she said. ‘The thought of walking one more step was about enough to get me right weepy.’
The man got out of his car and took the two small bags Tracey had abandoned in the road and placed them in the boot. He opened the passenger door and gestured for me to sit in the front. I was most definitely relieved, and at that point couldn’t care less about the dangers of getting into strange men’s cars. After our experience it wasn’t likely to worry either of us, and anyway, he was English.
‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling grateful in a way I didn’t think I had before. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘The name is John. Boring name, but it’s the only one I’ve got,’ he said, pressing the button to open the windows.
‘The air conditioning has broken, so I hope you don’t mind the manual version,’ he quipped, looking over in my direction with a welcoming smile. His face looked familiar, but his ponytail didn’t. I’ve never been keen on men with hair that grows beyond the collar. Makes them look creepy.
‘I’m Cynthia, and this is Tracey,’ I responded. I didn’t refer to her as my friend, as I didn’t want to give him the impression she was the type of person I’d normally spend time with.
‘We think we might be a bit lost,’ I added, thinking it better we didn’t give too much away about our recent whereabouts in case John was a sympathiser of people who abducted middle-aged women to fund their lifestyles.
‘I would say you are, but then, aren’t we all? Where were you thinking of heading?’
‘We’re looking for some people we know. My friend is called Osezua and he works for Forensix Inc. Would you know him, by any chance?’
John laughed. ‘There are an awful lot of people called Osezua in this country, and probably a fair few who also happen to be working for Forensix. You might need to be more specific.’
I thought at that point how little I knew about Darius other than his job – to do with using technology to detect fraud – and the fact he was Nigerian. We’d had many conversations about his country but they hadn’t conjured any pictures for me. I didn’t know where Nigeria was on the map, let alone its capital city or commercial centres. To be honest, I was more interested in other things. He’d told me about tribal differences and corruption but he might just as well have been telling me about the internal workings of a steam engine for all the understanding it gave me. I’d never been to Africa and hadn’t, at the time, any intention of going. I would nod occasionally to give the impression I’d taken in every detail, and now I wish I had.
What I’d learned from Darius was not much to go on when searching such a large country for one man.
Tracey was quiet, seemingly happy to allow fate to take its course. No doubt she’d have been quite happy driving around with John all day as long as it meant she didn’t have to hobble along like Jake the Peg.
She coughed and said: ‘I don’t suppose you know Lady Buke Osolase, do you? She’s my future mother-in-law.’
I wracked my brains to think where I’d heard that name before.
‘My, oh, my, you are marrying into royalty,’ I heard John say, as I nearly choked with the realisation – that the woman I’d bumped into on the plane was Baz’s mother. ‘She’s one feisty lady. Buke is very well known in Nigeria. She’s based at the university, about twenty miles from here,’ he said.
Lady Buke Osolase was the large African woman I’d had the run-in with on the flight over. Tracey had probably mentioned her before, but I suppose I wasn’t listening. I also wasn’t too certain she was someone I wanted to meet again, but fate had intervened and was suggesting she could help us out.
I looked round at Tracey, who was trying to pull a comb through her hair but it had got stuck.
‘Lady Osolase was on our flight. I fell into her lap and the hostess told me who she was,’ I said.
Tracey looked stunned, and then the penny dropped.
‘Oh, yeah. Baz said something about her coming back from England. She’d been working somewhere. Cambridge, I think. Talking about clever women, or summin’ like that. She’s got a degree.’
John was looking in the rear-view mirror at his other passenger and seemed to be slightly amused. Possibly by the comb poking out from where it had become lodged or maybe the general state of her face. Either way, he was friendly enough to us both and showed an interest in Tracey’s forthcoming marriage. He asked lots of questions about how she knew Baz and where she planned on living. He certainly showed an interest in her which, along with his ponytail, made me think he might be some kind of liberal.
‘Well, I can take you to the university and you can catch up with her there, unless you have her address?’
Tracey immediately responded: ‘Oh, no, I’ve never met her. She was on our plane, but I didn’t know it was her. Probably a good thing, as she seems a bit scary.’
As we had few options I suggested going to the university might not be a bad idea. Even if Lady Osolase wasn’t there we could ask for some directions to Darius’s company. I considered whether we should go to the British embassy and tell them about our plight, but was feeling nervous about admitting all the facts of our imprisonment and also our escape. I didn’t want to be charged for drugging guards, tying them up and leaving them locked in shacks without food or water. And I didn’t particularly want anyone to hear their side of the story.
We’d travelled for some miles before John turned very quiet. He stopped asking us questions and a frown had started to knit between his brows. Tracey had fallen asleep, and I’d been trying to keep a level of conversation going but had found it increasingly difficult.
‘So how far away are we?’ I asked.
John sighed deeply and held his breath before answering.
‘You’ll get there when you get there. Don’t be impatient.’
I heard the sound of the doors locking. I looked round, and by that point Tracey had woken up. Her hair was wilder than ever, spread out at right angles from her scalp with the comb still embedded just above her right ear.
He put the radio on but it made a lot of noise without connecting either t
o words or music. I got a little frightened and could tell that Tracey’s breathing was heavy, which could have been down to cigarettes or the same thought I was having: that this was all getting very scary. I was surprised she didn’t say anything.
To hide our concern, I asked a few more questions of John, who was staring straight ahead and had started to lean forward, his head vertically above the steering wheel and his back a good distance from the comfort of his seat. He didn’t answer any of my questions, but suddenly burst into a description of his life.
We heard how he’d gone out to the country in the 1960s to work on a cotton farm. He’d met his wife, an African, and had three children who went to live in the USA, having received a good education that enabled them to get good jobs in finance. She’d died four years ago, and since then he’d been working for an agricultural forum that was aiming to increase investment in their industry.
‘Farmers struggle in this country. Not like in the UK where they get EU support for throwing milk away and growing rape seed which no one wants to buy,’ John said.
He leant across and I thought he was going to touch me, but instead he pulled open the glove box and took out a packet of Opal Fruits. They are called something else at home now, so either they were very old or Nigeria has different brand names to us.
‘Have a sweet,’ he said, shoving the packet under my nose.
‘No, thanks,’ I replied. ‘My fillings and jaw aren’t up to the demands such a chew would make of them.’
He spoke slowly and deliberately this time, raising his voice.
‘Have. A. Sweet.’
‘I’ll have one,’ said Tracey in the back, still tugging at the comb.
‘Both of you; have a sweet,’ he said, whipping his head round to look at me. His eyes looked peculiar, as if he’d just sat on something sharp and uncomfortable.
I took a green-wrapped sweet only to be told it was John’s favourite, so I picked a yellow one for me and a red one for Tracey.