The Cellar

by Minette Walters

  ‘That’s not a good word, Muna.’

  ‘Is it not, lady? I learned it from Mamma when she told Mr Broadstone she would leave Dada as soon as the money came from the police and the ambulance men. Is “spaz” better? That’s what the boys at Olubayo’s school called Dada. It made Olubayo cry … even more when they said he was a “fucktard” for being epileptic. Would grief counselling have helped with these sorrows?’

  Mrs Hughes looked to her husband to answer, but once again it was Ebuka who broke the silence. ‘Mr Broadstone’s our solicitor,’ he explained. ‘He persuaded Yetunde we’d be successful if we brought negligence claims – she’s been pinning her hopes on it – but he wrote just before she left to say the case looks flawed now that he’s seen the official records. I should have guessed that’s what caused her anger. She thought she could lie her way to a fortune.’

  Mr Hughes made another – smaller – gesture of sympathy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It looks as if you have some hard decisions to make … the first being whether to report your son missing. If he’s with his mother, the police won’t be interested, I’m afraid. They don’t get involved in custody disputes.’

  Seventeen

  Ebuka swung between certainty and doubt as the days passed. In public, he was certain Olubayo was with Yetunde. In private, he expressed his doubts to Muna. He informed Olubayo’s school that his son had returned to Africa with his mother but told Muna that Princess’s sister had denied it when he called her on the telephone. She hadn’t seen Yetunde in six years and blamed Ebuka for being too mean to pay for holidays.

  Muna massaged his calf. I expect she’s lying, Master. If you knew where Princess was, you’d insist on talking to Olubayo. Princess wouldn’t want that.

  Why not?

  You’d tell him you loved him and he’d beg his mother to let him come back.

  I miss him, Muna.

  I know, Master. Princess knows it, too. That’s why she doesn’t want you to find him. She likes hurting you.

  On the third day, a female Education Officer knocked on the door, requesting explanations. There were rules governing education. It was a fineable offence to remove a child during term time except for the most extreme and urgent of circumstances. Mr Songoli must produce documents: a letter setting out the emergency, a booking confirmation from an airline, an address and phone number for the mother and the boy. It would become a criminal matter if Mr Songoli had sent Olubayo abroad for the purposes of forced marriage.

  Ebuka flushed purple with anger. Was this a racist slur because he was black? Did officials in this terrible country think his ambitions for his thirteen-year-old son were so low that he’d force him to take on the responsibility of a wife? And what right did this woman have to enter his house and lecture him when he wasn’t a British citizen? It was none of her business if his son chose to live with his mother in the country where he was born.

  This created more problems for him. It seemed foreign nationals from non-EU countries weren’t entitled to state-funded education. Had Mr Songoli applied to the Home Office for permission to bypass this rule? If so, where was the letter granting his son a free education at the taxpayers’ expense? The woman turned her attention to Muna. And why was his daughter not in school? In a free, equal and open society, girls were expected to be educated to the same standard as boys.

  It fell to Muna to beg the woman for understanding. She took her by the hand and led her into the hall, pleading with her in whispers not to be angry with Dada. He’d been ill in hospital when Mamma had put Olubayo in his new school, and Mamma knew nothing about rules. She was a good woman and had done what she thought was right. It was her brother’s last school – the expensive one – that had lost Abiola, and Mamma was afraid the same thing would happen to Olubayo. They had all suffered so badly after Abiola was stolen. It was hard to be sensible when grief was overwhelming.

  The woman softened. ‘Do you know where your mother and brother are, Muna?’

  ‘Yes, lady. They’re with Mamma’s family. She became too afraid of white people to stay here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you and your father go with them?’

  ‘Dada’s not strong enough to travel long distances, lady. The nurse says he might be one day … but not now.’ She gave a small apologetic shrug. ‘Mamma was pleased to leave him behind. She said cruel things to him about not being a man any more … and told him it would shame her if her family saw him as he is.’

  The woman looked uncomfortable. ‘Was Olubayo happy about leaving?’

  ‘I believe so, lady. He’s always loved Mamma better because she gives him what he wants. He called Dada terrible names, saying he’s of no use to us any more … and Dada cried.’

  ‘Did your mother blame your father for Abiola’s loss?’

  ‘No, lady. Only white people like you. She thought it was safe for Abiola to go to school in your country, but it wasn’t.’

  The woman looked past her towards the front door. ‘I expect she blames herself. Mothers never get over their children being taken.’

  ‘Perhaps, lady.’

  ‘Are you upset that she left you behind?’

  Muna shook her head. ‘She said I’d have to marry a stranger if I went with her. There wouldn’t be enough money otherwise. I’d rather be with Dada. I love him very much.’

  ‘But it’s not a suitable arrangement. You should be in school.’

  ‘Is that what your rules say, lady? If so, I find them strange. How will Dada pay when you’ve told him his children can’t be taught for free? It’s hard to do things correctly here when’ – she searched her memory for the right term – ‘taxpayers get as angry as Mamma because a man becomes a cripple.’ She saw pain in the woman’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, lady. Should I have said “spaz”? I’ve yet to learn which word whites prefer for a man who isn’t a man any more.’

  A sickly smile distorted the woman’s face. ‘Disabled.’

  Muna repeated it. ‘Dis-abled. Is that the same as un-able, lady? Dada is unable to please his wife so she’s gone to find a better husband somewhere else? Is that what it means?’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak of your father’s problems so openly, Muna. It’s not polite.’

  ‘But it’s why Mamma left him, lady. She said she needs a man who can love her properly.’

  With a cowardly glance towards the sitting room, the woman reached for the front-door handle. ‘Tell Mr Songoli I won’t be recommending any further action in regard to your brother … but I urge you to persuade him to consult a lawyer about his rights, particularly in relation to his disability. It’s quite wrong if he feels marginalised and disrespected because of it.’

  Muna thanked her and watched with satisfaction as she scurried down the driveway to her car. It was good that whites found the truth embarrassing. It made them easier to get rid of.

  Ebuka began to notice that Muna spent less time with him. He criticised her for it, demanding to know what she did when she went upstairs. She said she was cleaning the house as she always did, and made no mention of dressing in Yetunde’s clothes, smoothing Yetunde’s creams into her face and lying on Yetunde’s bed to watch Yetunde’s little television and eat bonbons.

  The rooms upstairs and everything in them belonged to her now, and it pleased her to move from one to the other, exulting in her new possessions. Ebuka’s demands bored her. He must learn to do things for himself.

  She thought him very slow-witted each time he tried to impose his will on her. He should know by now that her determination was stronger than his. She could squat for ever in a corner, watching him spit fury at her, but he lacked the patience even to keep his mouth shut for half an hour.

  He looked to the nurse to intervene on his behalf, criticising Muna churlishly for denying him help when he needed it. He told the woman his daughter found it amusing to leave everything he needed out of reach, principally his chair. Muna explained timidly that she was trying to encourage his confidence, and the nurse took her side, scoldi
ng Ebuka for expecting Muna to act as an unpaid servant.

  Muna loved to see the despair in Ebuka’s eyes at times like these. He could have said that Muna had the key to his door and came and went as she pleased. That she removed the chair each night, locked him in for hour after hour when it suited her and tortured him by leaving him to starve. That even if he could escape his bed and room, he had no means of phoning for help because Muna kept the computers, the mobiles and the handset for the landline upstairs.

  But he said none of these things for he knew Muna’s punishments were easier to bear than the whites’ revulsion if Muna ever revealed he’d emptied his filth into a frail little slave because his fat, ugly wife didn’t like him emptying it into her.

  Eighteen

  Muna stooped over Ebuka’s bed to peer into his face when the bill from the credit-card company arrived. He seemed shocked.

  What’s wrong, Master? Has Princess spent more than you thought she would?

  He made a grab for her throat but Muna was too quick for him. She jumped away, wondering what he expected to achieve by such an action. Did he think he could force her into obedience by hurting her? Or that he’d be better off if he killed her? The phones and computers would still be out of his reach. She watched as he took long, calming breaths.

  I don’t believe Yetunde’s used the card at all, he said. There are two transactions at the local supermarket but no hotels or airline tickets.

  I expect that’s why she asked Olubayo to steal your jewellery, Master. She wanted to sell it so that she could buy things without you knowing.

  A flicker of impatience crossed Ebuka’s face. I told you when Princess left that I’d know something had happened to her if she didn’t use her card.

  But she has, Master. She’s bought food for herself and Olubayo.

  Someone has … but I don’t think it’s Princess. My guess is her card’s been stolen. Why would she be shopping in our local supermarket if she’s in Africa?

  Perhaps she didn’t go to Africa, Master.

  He tapped the page angrily. Then where are the payments for rent or hotels? She can’t stay in England without having somewhere to live. There should be a hundred transactions recorded here.

  She’s staying with a friend, Master. She must be close if she was able to talk to Olubayo.

  Ebuka searched her face, his eyes deeply troubled. If I thought it possible, I’d believe you were responsible for Yetunde and Olubayo leaving … even Abiola’s disappearance. You’ve gained more each time than anyone else.

  Muna stared back at him. I’ve gained nothing, Master. I’m still a slave.

  You don’t behave like one.

  But what could I have done to make Princess and Olubayo leave, Master? They never did anything they didn’t want to do. I can’t make people vanish just by wishing.

  He clenched and unclenched his fists. But you’d like to. You’d live here alone if you could. You’re more attached to this house than you’ve ever been to a person. I see the look of triumph on your face when you stand in the hall and think of it as yours.

  It cares for me as much as I have cared for it, Master.

  Houses don’t have feelings, Muna.

  This one does, Master. I hear its laughter sometimes.

  He looked away from her towards the window, and Muna saw how fiercely he was debating with himself. She guessed he knew it was she who had used Yetunde’s card, for even a man as stupid as Ebuka must question eventually where his food came from. But, no. When he spoke it was about the house.

  Do you hope to stay here for ever, Muna?

  It’s my home, Master. I like it here.

  But do you understand that it doesn’t belong to me? It’s owned by someone else, who expects me to pay him rent.

  What is rent, Master?

  Money.

  We have that, Master.

  Not for much longer. My salary is only guaranteed for another month. When it stops coming we’ll be unable to stay. This house is too big and the rent’s too high. We shall have to move somewhere cheaper.

  Muna pictured the bodies in the cellar. I don’t want that, Master.

  We’ll be evicted if we try to stay. Landlords have no interest in tenants who can’t pay what they owe. We’ll be forced to leave whether we like it or not.

  You must find a way to keep paying, Master.

  Ebuka turned back to her with a hollow laugh. How? Where do you think money comes from? If Princess were here, she’d be on her phone to my employer, begging him to let me work from home on my computer … or asking the council to pay our rent. She wouldn’t lose the house through ignorance as you are doing.

  A tiny flicker of uncertainty sparked in Muna’s mind. Was he telling the truth or trying to lure her into giving him a telephone? She recalled Mr Broadstone saying once that it was a pity Ebuka hadn’t taken out a mortgage and insured himself against accident. Once paralysed, the debt would have been paid off, and his wife would have had one less thing to worry about. The words had meant nothing to Muna because she didn’t understand them, but she saw they gave Yetunde yet another reason to demand compensation.

  She watched Ebuka closely. Princess would be calling Mr Broadstone, Master. He said every time he came that he could win money for her. You should talk to him before you talk to your employer.

  She was so certain Ebuka was trying to trick her into giving him his mobile that she didn’t think he’d remember what he’d told Mr Hughes. She was wrong. He shook his head irritably.

  The lawyer’s already said the case won’t stand up. You’re as naïve as Yetunde if you think there’s an easy way to stay here. We must find someone else to help us.

  Not we, Master … you.

  But I can do nothing while you keep me prisoner and deny me access to my phone and my laptop. I assume it’s your way of punishing me but it’s hardly clever. You can’t stay here without me.

  Muna knew this to be true. She dreamed often of pitching Ebuka down the cellar steps but she recognised that his death would cause more problems than it solved. However much she wanted the house to herself, she could think of no good explanation for why her crippled father would leave without her or how he could make a journey on his own. All manner of busybodies would come asking questions – the witchy-white more than anyone.

  Also she doubted her ability to drag Ebuka’s heavy, lifeless body into the second chamber when it had been so hard to move Olubayo’s. The boy, still grateful for her kindness after his seizure, had followed her downstairs in the middle of the night when she told him Yetunde had left a message on the landline that his father didn’t want him to hear.

  Olubayo was very stupid. Muna persuaded him to descend in silence and darkness so that Ebuka wouldn’t wake, and, yawning constantly, he didn’t see the open cellar door or the hammer that smashed against the side of his head. He fell and tumbled to the Devil’s laughter just as his mother had, and Muna thrilled to see him crumpled on the stone floor when she switched on the light.

  She crept down the steps, eager to remind him that she’d said she hadn’t wanted him for a brother. But he was dead, and the job of dragging and rolling his limp body to the hidden door was arduous and tiring, leaving blood trails on the stones which had to be cleaned and carefully covered with dust when they were dry. Of course little Muna did it well. She did everything well, but she would have to be bigger and stronger before she could do the same with Ebuka.

  Did you ever try to punish Yetunde? Ebuka asked suddenly.

  I would if I’d been able, Master, but she was too big for someone as small as me. You’d have found me dead on the floor if I’d tried. She came close to killing me many times.

  Ebuka gave a weary sigh, knowing she was right. She made monsters of us all the day she went to the orphanage, he said. She found your name in an old newspaper, which is why she was able to forge documents, claiming a relationship with you.

  Why was I in the newspaper, Master?

  Your mother was murdered when
you were four years old. The nuns took you in and gave you a home.

  Why don’t I remember my mother, Master?

  Your experience was traumatic. You cradled her head in your lap for three days before neighbours came to check on you. The smell of death alerted them that something was wrong.

  I have no recollection of it, Master.

  Shock robbed you of speech and memory. The nuns described you as the most silent child they’d ever had, and advised Princess you would never be able to communicate fully. It was they who suggested you might have suffered brain damage at birth.

  Did they find the murderer, Master?

  Ebuka shook his head. Your mother knew many men. The police were never able to discover which of them killed her.

  Did they try, Master?

  Not as hard as they should. She brought shame on herself by the way she earned her money.

  Muna pictured the naked women on Olubayo’s computer. Princess said my mother was her sister, Master.

  Only because it suited her purpose. She spun a story about a second wife who allowed her daughter to go to the bad and lose contact with the rest of the family. She told the nuns she’d only recently learned that your mother was dead. If she’d known earlier, she’d have rescued you sooner. She lied well and they believed her.

  Who is my father, Master?

  I don’t know. The neighbours said your mother didn’t either.

  Muna’s unblinking eyes stared at him. Why are you telling me this, Master?

  Because it’s better you know your story before the police do. There’ll be no keeping secrets once we’re forced from this house. It’s only the walls that have kept the truth hidden so long.

  Nineteen

  Muna showed no expression when she opened the front door and found Inspector Jordan and Mrs Hughes on the doorstep. But her heart churned with anger. Ebuka had betrayed her. When she’d brought him his mobile, he’d said his calls would be to his employer and the Housing Officer at the council, and she’d believed him. She chastised herself now for not noticing that he never addressed the people he spoke to by name.