by Vered Ehsani
I stood up and clutched the walking stick to my side. “I’m delighted to have provided a modicum of entertainment, Inspector, but I have my orders and, as distracting as I might be, I will carry them out, with or without your assistance.”
I paused and tapped the metal end of my stick against the planks underfoot, wondering how anyone could’ve thought that a wooden floor was a good idea in an area of the world where termites outnumbered people 40,000 to one. It was yet another example of the thick-headed nature of British colonialists who refused to accept the reality around them but rather desired to impose an English version onto everything they came into contact with.
“Of course,” I said, and I lowered my gaze as contritely as a woman with my temper could manage, “I would very much prefer your assistance, for I’m certain your knowledge of the terrain would be of great assistance to me. And my Director did specifically mention you by name.”
I didn’t elaborate on how the Director had mentioned him, for in fact Prof Runal had described the Inspector with an unflattering term that was best left unrepeated. I allowed the Inspector to presume the best case, which he did. Somewhat mollified, he cleared his throat and stood up. With a sharp tug of his jacket — how he could wear it in such an inhospitable climate was beyond me — he nodded his head, gratified that his services were still very much in demand.
“So what should we do next?” I asked softly, leaving it to him to decide on the obvious course of action. It was clear that this was a man who was easily perturbed by the evidence of a woman of intelligence and capacity, and thus should be allowed to believe that he was in charge.
Inspector Jones cleared his throat again. “I believe a visit to the interrogation room is in order,” he declared.
I beamed a smile at him. “An excellent suggestion, Inspector. Please, do lead the way.”
A few moments later, I found myself in a dank, airless cellar lined with chiseled blocks of stone that reeked of salt, sweat and fear. There was a holding cell that amounted to a large cage for the few miserable looking humans who squatted within it. A bored officer who had been slouched behind a small desk leaped up at the sight of us and remained in a stiff stance as we passed the cell and entered a narrow corridor with two small rooms on either side. The doors were both firmly closed.
Inspector Jones knocked at one and entered without waiting for a response. The sharp tang of unbathed bodies overwhelmed me, and I limited my breathing to the absolute minimum. The confined quarters were dimly lit by a lantern that cast distorted shadows. The former driver was slumped onto a chair and two officers stood on either side; they both had matching expressions of exasperation.
“Well?” the Inspector barked at them, even though it was clear my prediction had been correct.
“Nothing useful, sir,” one replied while the other frowned at the top of the driver’s head, as if willing answers to float up from it.
Not glancing at me at all, the Inspector stalked into the room and loomed over the hapless prisoner. “Boy, look here,” he ordered.
The driver rolled his head back and peered up, his eyes blank, a bruise swelling up from one side of his nose. There was no hostility, defiance or violence in his countenance, only resignation to whatever fate held in store for him.
“I’ll only ask this once, boy, and if you don’t give me a straight answer, I’ll be tossing you into the ocean,” the Inspector threatened. “Who ordered you to change course today?”
The driver swallowed hard and glanced briefly at me, the whites of his eyes glowing against his black skin slick with moisture.
“Abasinjo,” he whispered.
“Who? Who is this Abasi?”
“That’s the name of your assistant,” one of the officers offered. “Former assistant, rather.”
The Inspector snorted. “How convenient. Blame the dead man. So who told him to give you that order?”
The driver’s throat convulsed and he shook his head rapidly, unable to speak past the obstruction. I squinted my eyes to study his energy field. Layers of different colored light emerged around every living creature in the room, including a pale gecko clinging to the wall behind the Inspector. I focused in on the driver’s energy, which pulsed with a violent swirl of purple and orange caused by his trepidation. I could detect the compulsion the Obayifo had installed, but that alone wasn’t the source of the man’s silence. There was some other force that sealed his lips: sheer terror.
“Inspector,” I said as I observed a froth begin to form within the energy. The reaction was in direct response to the pressure the man was under to both obey an unknown master and to provide the officers a name, else be drowned or worse.
“Not now, Miss Bee,” the man said with no hint of cordiality as he turned to the officer who had spoken previously. “I want a name out of this heathen, by whatever means…”
The heathen in question began to shudder.
“Inspector,” I interjected as I rushed to the driver’s side, but I was too late.
The hapless man’s entire body convulsed with such force as to knock the chair backward, pitching it to the stone floor with a clatter. Saliva frothed around the driver’s gaping mouth, his eyes rolled into his head, leaving only the whites to show, and his back snapped to and fro with such a force that it was a wonder he didn’t break in half.
And then he went still. His limbs relaxed, his eyes stared out at a scene that none of us were privy to and his voice was permanently silenced. The energy field faded away, as if reluctant to separate itself so prematurely from its host, but within a few heartbeats it was gone. I checked for a pulse, already knowing there was none, and then closed the man’s eyelids. I did a quick check under his shirt sleeve and observed a stick-like tattoo that was strikingly similar to the one the assistant had.
“Is he…?” the Inspector asked tentatively, unwilling (I presumed) to sully his hands by checking for himself.
I stood up, gave him a cool stare and walked out of the room.
Two witnesses, both inconveniently dead, and a sketch of a stick figure tattoo: that was all I had to show for my first day in Lagos. While not a complete disaster (although the deceased men might disagree on that point), I’d have preferred to have at least one live prisoner to chat with, and without the presence of officers who had not a clue what they were contending with.
After the botched interrogation incident, I’d requested an escort to my lodgings, a request the Inspector Jones was a little too delighted to accede to. There weren’t many options for an Englishwoman, so room and board had been arranged with the Governor’s accountant Mr. Pritchard. I was greeted by the wife, a cheery and slightly rotund lady with a permanent sheen of perspiration on her brow. She attempted to engage me in conversation and quickly surmised that I was in no mood for chitchat, so left me to my own devices once supper was consumed.
Despite Mrs. Pritchard’s warning with regard to mosquitos, I flung open the one window in my small room, for the humidity was unbearable despite the lateness of the day. The sun was close to setting and the early evening breeze that drifted in from the nearby jungle only slightly eased my discomfort. How I yearned for the cool climes of England!
“Enough,” I said aloud with a stern tone, for I abhor self-pity more than I loathe dead witnesses and arrogant men. I had a mission to accomplish and the sticky heat had nothing to do with it. Then again, being English, I had to make at least one passing reference to the weather.
As there was no chair, I reclined on my bed and studied the sketch I’d hastily made once leaving the interrogation room. The tattoo sported by both men was a stylized figure with a head resembling an inverted triangle, a crescent indicating the body, and three legs, the front one of which was tucked up close to the pointy chin of the figure.
“Praying mantis,” I murmured. Was that the name of the gang? Or its symbol? The name of its leader? Surely a criminal organization could devise a more sinister and lethal mascot than an insect.
I rubbed a
t my eyes and wondered if I’d have difficulties falling asleep as I normally did. Given the tiring day I’d experienced, I yearned to sleep yet my mind was abuzz with activity as it sleuthed around the few clues in my possession.
I lay my walking stick by my side and admired it. It was an unusual accessory for a young and able-bodied woman to have. A few adversaries have assumed it indicated I was infirm, an assumption that was quickly dispelled with a solid thwack on the head. It had a number of gadgets tucked inside its length, but I’d always found the metal fist to be a most effective means of persuasion on those occasions when a beast or man became too frisky.
Insects I wasn’t familiar with buzzed and trilled outside, and from the dark clump of jungle came calls from larger and fiercer animals. My eyelids quivered and my next thought was when a scratching noise awoke me.
I glanced to the candle; the flame flickered in a pool of liquid wax, the candle’s diminished height indicating the passing of several hours. With a splutter and hiss, the flame sank into the wax and was extinguished. The darkness was absolute. I couldn’t remember awakening to such a lack of light, for there was always some lighting out on the streets of London or in a neighboring house to diminish the intensity of night.
I remained still, musing on the cause of my waking. Although I often experienced trouble falling asleep, I could normally remain sleeping unless, for example, a creature was scratching at the wooden shutters as it climbed through my window.
It seemed mosquitos weren’t the only nuisances that could enter the second-story room. I slid a hand to my walking stick and gripped it while gazing to the window. In addition to being blessed with a sharp sense of smell, I also had been endowed with unnaturally keen night vision. Given my line of work, this was quite fortuitous as many paranormals have the inconsiderate preference for nocturnal lifestyles.
A hunched form crawled through the window, leaped off the windowsill and landed soundlessly by the foot of my bed. I waited for it to straighten up, but it remained slouched over, the knuckles of its long, hairy arms touching the floor.
Before I could decide how to react to the humanoid invading my privacy with such disregard for appropriate behavior, light glowed around the closed bedroom door. For a panicked moment, I thought perhaps Mrs. Pritchard had heard our uninvited visitor, and that would not bode well for her if a fight were to ensue. But the light was brighter than a candle or lantern, and I was both relieved and concerned, for now I surely was facing not one but two unwanted callers.
The doorknob shuddered. Light oozed through the empty keyhole and appeared before me as a twinkling globe that cast a dazzling illumination. The sudden retreat of darkness caused my eyes to blink. The creature squatting at the foot of my bed (a large monkey, of all things) grinned and pounced.
While I had prepared myself for such an eventuality, the primate wasn’t at all interested in me, for it sprang not toward me but to the globe, which it wrestled with and forced into a finely woven mesh. The monkey held up the entrapped light and grunted and shrieked, slapping the ground with a free hand.
“Now what’s a monkey doing in my room with a ball of light?” I mused aloud, sitting up and pressing my back against the headboard, my walking stick held before me.
The creature’s lips peeled back; it chattered and gnashed its large teeth. In a decidedly masculine voice, it — or rather, he — spoke. “I am no monkey. I am the chimpanzee named Ngofariman.”
“Ah,” I said, unsure if there was much difference. “My sincere apologies.”
“And this is an Obayifo,” Ngofariman continued, holding up the net and shaking it.
“Well, isn’t that an odd thing,” I said, incredulous that a vampire would travel as such a bright form; the intensity would surely have chased a European vampire into the grave. I squinted at the light and saw an energy form that was clearly reminiscent of the Obayifo that had pursued me earlier. “How odd indeed.”
“No,” the chimp stated, sneering at me, his teeth chattering against each other. He clearly didn’t find the situation at all peculiar.
“And what manner of net can hold such a being?” I asked.
“Spider silk. Special silk from a special spider,” came the answer, followed by a cackling noise that might have been laughter but it sounded ghastly.
“Do all monk… I mean chimps talk?” I inquired.
Ngofariman’s lips peeled back, showing off his mottled brown-and-cream gums and sharp teeth. “Only me. Blessed by the gods.” His teeth clattered together and he bounced around in a circle, hooting at a joke only he could comprehend.
“Well, aren’t you a cheery chimp,” I observed dryly and freed my legs from my blanket in preparation. Even without studying the creature’s energy field, I could discern that he was not to be trusted, and the mischievous glint in his small eyes had a nasty aspect that didn’t bode well for me. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Ngofariman straightened up and only then did I fully appreciate how big the beast was. He was as tall as a man but much bulkier, his every limb corded with muscles that the dark fur couldn’t fully hide. With an effortless movement, he sprung up and landed in the middle of the bed, which creaked and shivered ominously. I only hoped the noise and vibration hadn’t communicated themselves through the house to the Pritchards.
The chimp squatted before me. “A favor for a favor.”
“Oh?” I said with some reservations. I wasn’t fond of making bargains with supernatural creatures. Often their sense of fairness was vastly different from humans’.
“Come to the docks tomorrow morning,” the chimp continued as if I’d already agreed.
“Why? Is this related to the smuggling ring?” I asked.
“Look for a lady in white.”
“Which lady in white?” I demanded. “And what favor?”
But Ngofariman chattered wordlessly and bounced off my bed, through the window and into the night, taking the Obayifo’s light with him.
“This is a bloody waste of time,” Inspector Jones muttered as we strolled along the docks.
I ignored him as best I could, which was proving to be an arduous task given that he insisted on talking to me. Although it was only morning, already sea salt and heat coated my skin, and I didn’t believe I could tolerate another aggravation without voicing a few choice and unsavory words of my own. I contemplated accidentally shoving him off a pier, but instead I turned my attention to my surroundings.
Two ships were anchored in the harbor and were being unloaded onto smaller boats that ferried their contents to shore. The area was crowded with sweating laborers hauling off crates and loading them onto overburdened donkeys or wobbly wagons. The slap of waves against the boats and the whistle of wind in the sails was lost under the shouting of men calling orders to each other or singing as they worked. Seagulls competed with mangy dogs for any scraps that fell out of the carts of nearby merchants.
“Just keep an eye out for a woman in white,” I instructed for the umpteenth time.
The Inspector scoffed. “Do you see anyone wearing anything that comes close to resembling white? On the docks? With all this filth around?”
I didn’t voice my own doubts, nor could I admit the source of my information, despite his repeated inquiries. If I did, he’d send me packing on the next ship out.
And what if this was a waste of time? Perhaps chimpanzees were color-blind, I mused. Or maybe Ngofariman was tricking me, having a bit of fun as he rested in the cool shade of the forest and munched on bananas.
As that image played before me, a glimmer of white snagged at the corner of my eye. I turned my head and was rewarded with a sharp pang along my neck and a glimpse of a white dress disappearing around a cart piled precariously high with building stones.
“There,” I said and darted after the white before Inspector Jones could protest.
“Where?” he demanded as he caught up with me.
“Over there,” I pointed and shifted direction.
>
Thus we proceeded, dashing around various obstacles as the figure in white stayed just far enough ahead to avoid us, but close enough that I could catch glimpses of her.
“Are you sure the heat hasn’t addled your senses?” Inspector Jones asked as we trotted around piles of produce and refuse. “I haven’t seen any such person in white.”
I didn’t bother answering, although his inquiry did cause me to wonder not about my senses, addled or not, but the nature of our guide. The chimp had said to find a woman in white; he had failed to mention if she’d be alive or dead. I was quite accustomed to viewing spirits and specters, such that I didn’t think them too much different from the living. One critical, and occasionally inconvenient, difference was that no one else could see them. Normally this didn’t present much of an issue for me, but Inspector Jones’ presence complicated matters.
We came to the edge of the platform where the ships were docked and an unappealing beach stretched out before us, littered with stones, bits of broken crates and other refuse. A couple decrepit rowboats had been dragged onto the beach. Standing in the midst of the scene was a curvaceous woman, a mysterious smile on her round face, her shiny black skin in stark contrast to the ankle-length white summer dress. I marveled that she could’ve walk with such rapidity in such a dress and on the uneven surface, which raised within me a suspicion that was confirmed by Inspector Jones’ next comment.
“Well, that was indeed a waste, wasn’t it?” he grumbled, staring out at the beach, his gaze passing over the woman as if she were no more than air.
“Perhaps,” I said as I scrambled over the rocky slope connecting the dock to the beach.
“Miss Bee, I have to insist that we return… Miss Bee?”
His words were in vain, for I had abandoned him to his grumbling and was single-mindedly walking toward the ghost. As I neared her, she beckoned me to follow and led me farther down the beach toward a cluster of trees that was an outgrowth of the jungle.