by John Elliott
‘Life’s precarious,’ Emmet said. ‘There’s nothing you can plan for.’
He drew back the trigger. A warm stream of Lambert’s urine spread through his underpants and onto Emmet’s coat. Emmet put away the unloaded gun, let Lambert go, picked up his torch and got to his feet. ‘Remember the Old Man’s power is everywhere. Turn to other things else neither of you is safe.’
Once he had retrieved the jemmy, which he had left on the kitchen table, he looked in on the couple again before finally making his way to the front door. A vestige of light from the twin ornamental lamps outside reflected on its mullioned panes. He undid the chain, slid back the bolt and left the door ajar. A glance at his watch confirmed he had been inside for four minutes. He started down the gravelled drive.
Behind him lights steadily went on throughout the house. Down at the gateway, a man with a brindle greyhound on a leash stood as if rooted to the spot. Somewhere nearby a police siren wailed, followed by another. ‘Misty morning to be out, citizen,’ Emmet said pleasantly as he drew close. The dog sniffed at his shoes. Its owner did not answer. Brushing past him, Emmet strolled down the hill. At the first corner, he turned, crossed the road and climbed into the waiting car.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Walter Sembele was hunched in the passenger seat, his body still shaking with unwanted tremors. Emmet switched on the ignition, eased out from the pavement and drove slowly away, keeping his eye on the rear-view mirror.
‘You didn’t, did you?’
Emmet shook his head. ‘The gun wasn’t loaded.’
‘From where I was the din was unbelievable. A shot could easily have gone unheard.’
‘Show them you’re not afraid or bothered and the rest follows smoothly. It gives their despair at their powerlessness time to deepen. I’m glad to see you stayed put because I wouldn’t have forgiven you if you’d let me down. That’s why I said no Antoine. I don’t trust him. It had to be just you and I.’
They drove on in silence.
*
Due to the mist, Walter failed to distinguish where they were, never mind if they were following the route they had previously taken to Lambert’s house. Somehow he desperately needed to regain the upper hand he had lost while Emmet carried out his thuggery. In truth, he had only assented to come along as a prelude to do what he now knew he must do. Emmet had placed him in potential danger during the break-in, testing whether he had the stomach to stick it out and wait, or the cowardice to cut and run.
‘Thanks to your efforts the harvest is in the barns, brother. The Old Man will surely reap what we have so diligently sown. Now you can go home and rest contented.’ His voice sounded shrill and unconvincing. The jauntiness he had intended in his tone felt flat. He detected a distinct lack of saliva in his mouth. With mounting unease, he realised he was still afraid.
Emmet, as if sensing his frailty with unerring timing, swung off the road into a car park and drew up alongside its boundary wall. Opening the glove compartment, he stowed away the torch, then, reaching into his deep inside pocket, he extracted the jemmy and dropped it behind his seat. When that was done, he took out the revolver.
Walter’s heartbeat quickened. His feet twitched up from the floor. He felt the blood rush to his head. A clammy sweat attacked his constricting chest muscles. ‘It’s n-not loaded,’ he stuttered.
‘That’s what I said.’
Emmet’s face beside him was calm and impassive. Time suddenly seemed to relinquish its flow. The terrible now of this moment was obliterating all his time in Greenlea, all his time in service to The Old Man. It was swallowing whole the feeble illusion of any remaining future time. It was . . .
He tried not to look at the gun. He tried not to see Emmet’s finger curled round its trigger. A nervous giggle, which he struggled to suppress, escaped and rose from the pit of his stomach. His guts rebelled. They were on the verge of something shameful. His hands desperately wanted to grip something tight. The steering wheel perhaps. Perhaps they could turn the key, start the car, grab the wheel or else wrench open the door and he could dive out and . . . Thought deserted him. Still Emmet did not speak. Time. Christ, time was impaling him devoid of any action. Do what you came to do, he pleaded with himself. He had nothing to lose. Anything was better than this terrible void. ‘I’ve brought your money,’ he managed to utter. ‘It’s what you’re owed after this morning. Please, may I?’ He gestured nervously towards his pocket.
There was no reply. Emmet appeared uninterested, as if any movement made was completely irrelevant. His eyes were shaded in the gloom. Walter, for an intoxicating second, wondered if they were actually closed, that he was simply taking a short nap with the gun in his hand for cover. Emboldened, he went on. ‘I’ve got another amount. A substantial amount. It’s yours now and the same again later. Please take it. I’m happy to talk terms with you.’
The eyes now were clearly locked on his own. The barrel of the gun jolted him in the ribs. ‘Oh, please,’ he whispered.
‘You sought me out, Mr Sembele. You came to Greenlea and sought me out in my city, my territory. You hired me. I did as you instructed.’ Emmet looked inquiringly into his face. Walter nodded hastily. ‘So I’ll take the money now and the whole of what you say you’re ready to pay me.’
‘I can’t. The balance won’t be sanctioned until,’ he choked on the words, ‘until your victim’s death’s confirmed. You’ll get it in the old country along with a new life for yourself and your wife. The Old Man . . . ’
‘The time for foolishness is past, Mr Sembele,’ Emmet interrupted. ‘You should know that.’ He waved the gun towards Walter’s pocket.
Walter fumbled and extracted two packets. Emmet glanced inside, laid the revolver in his lap and riffled through the notes. ‘Tell me about it as we go,’ he said.
The engine purred into action. Emmet released the brake. The clock on the dashboard showed 7.49 a.m. Time slid tentatively forward.
Intellectually, Walter knew the psychology. He was supposed to feel some gratitude towards his tormentor and deliverer, but his body remained in a different place. It still wanted to thrust open the door, jump out and damn the consequences.
They filtered into a busy boulevard. Heavy lorries lumbered by on the other side, while their own lane began to reduce to a crawl. Walter surmised there was probably either a sequence of red lights ahead or road works of some kind. By now they were virtually stationary. It could be done. If he was going to run, this was it. But run where? To the airport and invented stories to satisfy Ignacio Williams and his superiors? To some unknown place out of town where eventually Emmet would track him down? No. He had to see it through as he had always done. They moved on. He was committed.
‘It’s not our thing,’ he said. ‘Not directly.’
Emmet grunted. ‘It never is.’
‘Call it a favour for friends of the Old Man. They want a certain person eliminated for sins of the past, which they haven’t forgotten nor forgiven. He’s here in Greenlea. They passed it to me before I left, you understand. Why do one thing when you can do two? That’s their philosophy. I’ve met my contact. He’s got a short time, preferably before I leave tomorrow, to supply the name, address and particulars.’
‘What makes you think I’ll do it if you’re long gone?’
‘The money. I can change things and arrange you get it here. Your self-pride. Our antagonism if you fail. The truth is I’m tired, Mr Briggs. I’m ready to go home. If the intelligence I’ve gathered is correct, the ballot will be in our favour and the same goes for most of the rest of our diaspora. This other matter is none of my making.’
‘And Viall?’
‘He’s no longer in the equation. This is strictly between ourselves. You see I’m leaving you as a free agent. Where can I contact you if word comes through today?’
‘Demel. It’s a bar on Kefoin Street. I’ll be there this evening. Give me the details of how I collect the balance. Else it’s no go.’
Walter nodded. ‘You have my assura
nce.’ He looked out of the window. ‘Even without this mist our people are invisible here. I can’t fathom why you stick it. The only time they congregated joyfully was when Poppa here brought them something. Otherwise where are they? In the depot, that’s where, cleaning and maintaining. That’s no life, brother.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting it’s the dead that turn up to post their votes.’
Walter laughed and tapped the dashboard. ‘You see, there’s no reason for us to fall out when we understand each other so well. Like your wife, a charming lady, now I’d say she is your mainstay, right? Well, in the same way, I’m your meal ticket to better things.’
Emmet stopped the car. ‘Salonika Street is the second left,’ he said. ‘Remember this deal is purely business. I become very unsettled if someone tries to cross my personal boundary. Take the little fright I gave you as a possible down payment. Then you’ll find we understand one another. Now, let’s have it exactly how I collect my fee.’
*
Watching Walter’s figure disappear in the thickening mist, Emmet put away the gun and rejoined the slow moving traffic.
Hallie was asleep, stretched out on his side of the bed, when he got home. Her cleaning overalls were draped over the back of the easy chair. He bundled them up with distaste and dropped them in the laundry basket. Once he had installed the revolver in the shoebox at the bottom of the wardrobe next to the carton of ammunition, he took off his coat, shoes and the rest of his clothes.
Under the shower, he increased then decreased the heat setting, targeting the pressure between his shoulder blades. Turning round, he soaped his torso. ‘I’ve got my mojo workin’,’ he sang softly. Unlike the song, it worked alright on the woman sleeping in the next room. He held the proof a hundred times over, but the question was, would it work to get them both the crock of shit dangled in front of him. Scaring Lambert and Walter had been easy, but the forward game looked hazardous. Killing, as far as he was concerned, had always been a step too far. Encouraging the guy to get lost and never come back was well within his repertoire but getting his hands securely on the prize would not be easy. They wanted verification. The opposite of the Little Sammy Tyrell farrago. It remained a tantalising opportunity, however, to get himself and Hallie out of the dispiriting spiral of odd jobs, long hours and reduced pay packets. He could finally burn these demeaning overalls.
The colder water invigorated his skin. Strong boy for hire. Bad man when the money was down. That was the way it had always been. No talking. No mercy. Only the do. Always the do. But, at the same time, always the look in the eyes of those who hired him, Wallace included, even though he had professed friendship as the years progressed. It was a masturbatory look, waiting to come while he made the hit, thrilling to his violence as a surrogate dream of their own desires, and then when it was over and settled the same stare of barely concealed contempt. Some even had dared a ‘hail fellow well met’ touch at his arm. ‘Good nigger. Nice nigger. Why don’t you cool out for a while? Let things drift along. We’ll be in touch.’ To them he was a relic from the past, a curiosity they had paid a pittance to see in action. Aw shawnuff, man, but it sure don’t work on me.
He felt thirsty. Stopping the shower, he stepped out of the cubicle and filled a glass with water. He drank it down in one gulp. As he lifted it from the running tap a second time, his bloodshot eyes confronted him in the mirror. Brushing away the smears of steam, he stroked his stubbly chin and jowls. They were in need of a shave before he met Agnes. He swallowed the rest of the water and replaced the glass on the shelf. When he had towelled himself, he plugged in his electric razor and sat on the bathroom stool. His continuing desire for yet more water irritated him. Two glasses were surely plenty. He got up and closed the door in case the sound of the razor wakened Hallie. On his way back, his fingers rested round the tap. Stop, he told himself, start shaving.
Olokun. The buzz of the razor deepened and whined the name as he moved it from his cheeks to his chin and above his mouth. Olokun. Other people’s orisha, not his. Like those girls walking by the riverbank. One of them a skinny little girl whose daddy sent her to school in town, her uniform all pressed and neat, on her way to Stop 42 to catch the bus.
‘Well, good mornin’ little schoolgirl. Little schoolgirl, how do you do.’ It was Olokun this and Olokun that. A spirit guide for girls. ‘Well me Ogun shows the path. See over there the house on the bluff and the trees beyond.’
‘I’ll tell my daddy!’
No good. No use. But Granma’ll fix it. It’s just a little tear that can be mended. Just another tear to shed to join the other tears. ‘Dry your eyes girl. It ain’t no use. Can’t you see the river’s dry and Olokun’s no good without water.’
When she had run off, a mangy dog he did not recognise lurked ahead of him on the trail, its muzzle distorted between a whimper and a snarl. Automatically, he had picked up the nearest stone with which to threaten it, but instead of fleeing, its tail between its legs, it had advanced towards him as though it alone held the right of way. As it drew near, he launched the stone. It smacked into its flank with a dull thud, yet without even a yelp it still came on. Trembling, he stood his ground and waited. The animal’s growls reached a keening pitch. ‘Ogun protect me now!’ It slobbered around his feet. Don’t look down! Stay still! he commanded himself. Look over there instead. See that bird! You can just make it out in the depths of the branches of the tree. A snarl. A snuffle. He had not looked down. The dog took one more sniff and moved on at its own steady pace. The bird was no longer visible.
Emmet switched off his razor and returned it to its case. He decided he would tell Agnes all he knew about the man in the photographs they had seen last night. Hallie already knew. She knew as much as he did about what had happened at Veldar.
Through in the bedroom, she was still fast asleep. In a little while, he would brew some coffee and see if she wanted any. He sat down in the easy chair. To load the gun and pull the trigger—would it matter so much at the end of the day? Whatever, that would be something, like the kid, that Hallie need never know. He lifted his head back and closed his eyes in order to gain a few moments devoid of thoughts. Soon, in spite of his intent to stay awake, he drifted off into a dream-laden slumber.
*
The final plenum of the Pan-African Congress had scarcely had time to convene when two European-dressed, sober-suited delegates quit their seats and met each other at the rear exit of the hall. Recognising one another at first glance, they dispensed with both hand gestures and words as unnecessary to their purpose.
Together they waited for the arrival of the express lift to take them to the sixty-eighth floor.
On the wall, above the large mounted photographs of Lagos by night, tannoy speakers relayed the ongoing praise speech from the Chad delegation. The taller of the two switched off his pager and preceded his companion into the empty, mirrored compartment, which had silently arrived. The other limped across the threshold behind him, his swelling tool filling the black-pinstripe crotch of his trousers. His girlish voice giggled as the contraption gained speed. Oblivious of the watcher, he masturbated freely between floors thirty-four to fifty-seven. Gradually, his semen soaked through the cloth and splashed onto the carpet. First, it obliterated the background drone of muzak, then their reflected images in the glass, and finally it doused the sepulchral glow of the fluorescent light. His companion stood apart, patiently waiting until a hiatus was achieved in which the world and their surroundings would reinvent their solidity and once more be ordered into names.
They gained the roof through the open tinted doors of the Heliotrope Lounge and squatted down beneath the struts of the funnel-shaped water tank. The honk and screech of rush hour traffic, sliced and spiced by the wails of ambulances and the sirens of police cars rose from below. The taller of the two punched numbers into his mobile phone. Messages flowed back: call and response, response and call. Satisfied, he extracted his personal organiser from his antelope-hide attaché case. Nothing cou
ld be left to chance. It was his duty now, as it had always been in the past, to foretell and uphold the ceaseless order of the future, so that justice might prevail and the name of God, which his companion had vouchsafed to him, might continue to be known to all mankind. The keys of the kingdom, he thought. They shall all regain the keys of the kingdom.
Meanwhile, their sleeper was about to awake. Until now Ogun had been his watchword. The heat of smelted iron, the trodden path through the forest and the hammer blows had been his emblems. Elegba, personally, had gone to show him other ways. Now he, Ifa, would rectify his mistaken spirit identity.
The faint hiccup of the water seller’s cry in the street below overrode the din of the traffic. A jug of iced water juddered on a luncheon room’s counter as an articulated lorry thundered by. Down by the river, the homeless and dispossessed left their shanties and bivouacs for a day’s begging in the city. One woman alone stayed by the water’s edge, watching the turgid flow seep and roll, brown in midstream, black under the railway bridge, sepia-yellow on the far mud shore. Turning seawards, she called out three times to her voyaging son.
Elegba laughed and jumbled the paths which led away to a multitude of destinations. Immovable at his side, Ifa strengthened the vertical and horizontal strokes and consolidated the circles which, even though they were written on water, contained the name for all future endeavours: Olokun.
*
Emmet awoke. His throat was parched. It felt raw when he swallowed. Swivelling his head, his eyes met Hallie’s gaze. ‘Been awake long?’ he said.
‘Uhhuh. Since you came in I think.’