The Inspector looked past her into the hall. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Songoli. Did you intend us to come at the same time or would you rather one of us went away and came back later?’
Ebuka brought his chair to a halt. ‘It was intentional,’ he said. ‘Mrs Hughes can substantiate what I’m about to tell you. Let the ladies in, Muna.’
I will not, Master. I don’t want them here.
He moved alongside her so that she couldn’t shut the door. ‘You must speak in English,’ he urged. ‘Mrs Hughes knows you’re fluent but it’s impolite to let the Inspector think you don’t understand what’s being said.’
Muna dropped a small curtsey. ‘I’m sorry, lady. Dada teaches me new words each day but I still find my own language easier. I’m glad to see you again.’
Inspector Jordan examined her curiously, and Muna experienced the same thrill of fear that she’d felt the first time she’d met her. She’d forgotten how piercing the blue eyes were – as all-seeing as Mrs Hughes’s – and she shuddered to think that both whites could read what was in her mind. She stepped aside to let them in and listened solemnly while Ebuka asked her to go to the kitchen to make some tea.
‘I don’t think I should, Dada. You can’t leave the shameful bits out of Mamma’s story if you’re to tell it properly. It would be better if I explained why she left.’
‘I still want you to make tea, Muna.’
‘There’s no need,’ Inspector Jordan murmured. ‘I’d like to hear what your daughter has to say. You told me on the phone it was urgent, Mr Songoli.’
‘It is,’ he said excitedly. ‘I believe my wife is dead.’
Ebuka had never learned patience. If he’d wanted to be believed, he should have told his story slowly and with guile as Muna always did. Both whites looked doubtful as they followed him into the sitting room, though perhaps it was his agitation that was worrying them. His eyes bulged alarmingly as he thrust the credit-card statement into the Inspector’s hands, maintaining forcefully that if Yetunde were alive, there would be more transactions than a couple of purchases from the local supermarket.
‘At the very least there should be charges from five-star hotels and department stores,’ he insisted. ‘She stays in the best accommodation and buys clothes and jewellery when she’s angry.’
The Inspector took a seat to put herself on his level. ‘You need to calm yourself and start again, Mr Songoli. At the moment I can’t see why a piece of paper means your wife’s dead. Do I gather she’s left you?’
‘I thought she had,’ he said impatiently, ‘but I changed my mind when I saw the statement.’
‘You said she was angry. Did you have an argument?’
‘A small one but it has no bearing on why she hasn’t used her credit card.’
‘What did your daughter mean by “shameful bits”?’
Muna sat on the sofa with her head down, a picture of timidity as she’d been on the night of Abiola’s disappearance, and listened to Ebuka try to minimise his confrontation with Yetunde. Foolish man. It hadn’t occurred to him that Inspector Jordan would be as interested in the reasons for Yetunde’s departure as her apparent failure to use her credit card. If such a thought had crossed his mind, he would never have invited the witchy-white.
He expected Mrs Hughes to speak only of his anxiety for Yetunde – reminding her of his tears and distress – but she shook her head apologetically and told the Inspector that Mr Songoli’s fight with his wife had been so violent she’d urged him to call the police.
She described Ebuka’s bruises, his reluctance to re-enter the house, his relief to find it empty. She talked of the hoist being in the hall and track marks on the carpet where Mr Songoli had tried to pull himself towards his bedroom. She said she could confirm that Mrs Songoli had left because she went upstairs to check the bedrooms. She’d done the same after Olubayo’s departure when Muna had come to her house, begging for help because her father was so distraught.
‘Have you forgotten what you told my husband that evening?’ she asked Ebuka. ‘That your wife planned both exits? You were very upset about it … said she blamed you for Abiola’s disappearance, and your relationship had suffered as a result.’
Ebuka gave his jaw a violent rub. ‘That was before I knew she wasn’t using her card. She can’t live without it.’
The Inspector placed her finger on the page. ‘She’s bought four hundred pounds’ worth of food.’
‘Someone has,’ he agreed. ‘But not Yetunde.’
The words and the way he was staring at Muna had meaning for Mrs Hughes. She stirred as if preparing to speak again but Muna raised her head in order to answer first. ‘There was nothing to eat after Mamma left,’ she told Inspector Jordan, ‘so I took the smartphone to my friend Mrs Hughes and asked her to teach me to use it. It’s how Mamma always bought our food. I wanted to please Dada. He doesn’t think men should be troubled with kitchen work.’
The Inspector looked enquiringly at Mrs Hughes who gave a small nod. ‘How did you get your mother’s card?’
‘I didn’t, lady. I remembered the moves she made with her finger each time she used her phone for shopping.’ Muna placed her hand on the sofa and mimicked tapping a screen. ‘I can’t read numbers but I know the order the little boxes have to be touched, and that’s all that’s necessary to make the white van come. Mrs Hughes will tell you how well I can do it.’
Mrs Hughes gave another nod. ‘I’ve never come across a child with such an agile mind. She can memorise any sequence.’ She turned to Ebuka. ‘It makes me wonder why you thought it right to keep her out of school, Mr Songoli. I’d hazard a guess her IQ’s well above average.’
‘You had no business helping her,’ he retorted angrily. ‘She let me think my wife was alive. When I called the credit-card company, they said the card was being used. Muna could have told me the truth then … but she didn’t.’
The Inspector handed back the statement. ‘Muna couldn’t know hers were the only purchases,’ she said. ‘If you assumed Mrs Songoli was spending money then so would she. It’s easy to be wise after the event.’ She glanced at Muna. ‘Why didn’t you admit it this morning when the bill arrived?’
‘I was afraid to, lady. I knew Dada would be angry.’
‘I’m not angry,’ Ebuka growled, his tone contradicting his words. ‘I’m worried.’ He tapped the page. ‘This doesn’t make sense. I know my wife.’
‘Are you sure, sir? Her assault seems to have taken you by surprise. Are you going to tell me why she lost her temper? Did it have something to do with Abiola’s disappearance?’
Ebuka didn’t answer immediately, but when he did he echoed the excuse Muna had given Mrs Hughes. Perhaps he’d come to believe it himself. ‘In a way. I wanted Muna to take me into the garden and I urged her to put on Abiola’s anorak and boots because they were close at hand in the cloakroom. Yetunde became distressed when she saw her.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s all I remember.’
The Inspector wasn’t convinced. ‘There must have been something more, sir. Violence against a person comes from pent-up rage, not momentary sadness. It’s close and personal to pull a man from his chair and kick him in the head. It speaks more of longstanding resentment than distress.’
Ebuka crushed one fist inside the other. ‘It makes no difference. The issue is why Yetunde isn’t using her card, not why she left. How are she and my son living if they’re not running up credit?’
‘She has another source of income … a bank account you don’t know about.’
Ebuka shook his head. ‘Not possible. I was the only breadwinner.’
‘Did you give her an allowance?’
‘A little cash from time to time, otherwise she charged everything to account. I settled the bills by cheque. It’s what caused the arguments after my accident. How were we going to live if I couldn’t work?’
‘Who wrote the cheques when you were in hospital?’
A look of weary resignation
entered Ebuka’s eyes. ‘I signed blanks.’
‘And gave them to your wife to fill in?’
‘There was no other choice. It was a long journey to the rehabilitation centre and Yetunde didn’t want to be away from the house for so long. She said it was because of Olubayo’s epilepsy but’ – his voice faltered – ‘she found my condition harder to accept than I did.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the Inspector said with genuine sympathy. ‘It was a difficult time for both of you. Abiola’s loss was still raw, and it can’t have helped either of you to suffer months of separation afterwards.’ She leaned forward. ‘You need to speak to your bank … find out who the cheques were made out to. If Mrs Songoli wrote them to cash, you’ll have a problem, but a good private investigator may be able to trace her. It’s not something the police can help you with, I’m afraid.’
Ebuka stared at the floor for several seconds. When he spoke next it was in Hausa. Did Princess keep money in the house while I was in hospital?
Muna wondered if he was trying to trick her. Had he forgotten the rows he’d had with Yetunde about writing cheques to ‘cash’? She hadn’t understood the meaning at the time, but she believed she did now after listening to Inspector Jordan. Was it better to pretend ignorance or knowledge?
You know she did, Master. You threw a letter from the bank at her after you came home and told her she was stupid to think turning cheques into money could hide how much she’d spent.
What did she buy with it?
Muna thought of the heavy gold chains that hung around Yetunde’s sagging neck in the cellar. She had boasted to Olubayo about the clever deals she’d struck in the open-air Asian markets, refusing to listen to his warnings about Ebuka’s fury when he found out. Gold was a good investment, Yetunde had said. If the case for compensation failed, she would have something of value to sell. And for once it would be the husband asking the wife for money instead of the other way round.
This time Muna decided ignorance would serve her better. I don’t know, Master. I only saw her buy things with her mobile … the way she always did.
Ebuka pressed a thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose. The Inspector thinks she drew the money in cash and paid it into another bank. Do you understand what that means?
Not really, Master.
It means she may have a card I don’t know about. Did you ever notice her tap a different number into the screen?
Muna was tempted to say yes. He would surely believe then that Princess had stolen his money in order to leave him. But she saw how intently he was watching her. The witchy-white had praised her cleverness too well. He would ask Muna next to show him the order Yetunde’s fingers had touched the squares.
No, Master. If I had, I’d have remembered it.
Disappointment made him irritable. He smacked his palms against his legs and spoke in English. ‘You see and hear everything that happens in this house,’ he cried angrily. ‘How can you be ignorant of Yetunde stealing from me?’
Perhaps Ebuka was right to distrust women. Neither white took kindly to him raising his voice to Muna. Mrs Hughes leaned forward to protect her while Inspector Jordan warned Ebuka she would have to take action if she had cause to believe he was visiting his frustration against his wife on his daughter. In legislation here, the welfare of the child took priority.
She turned to Muna. ‘Do you understand what that means, Muna?’
‘I think so, lady. I think you’re saying that Dada isn’t allowed to hurt me.’
‘Does he?’
Muna smiled into her knowing blue eyes. ‘Of course not, lady. Dada loves me very much. If he was unkind to me, I would have told my friend Mrs Hughes. She has asked me many times if there are things she can do to help me.’
Muna couldn’t tell if it was her words or Ebuka’s sudden rush of tears that persuaded the Inspector and Mrs Hughes to leave. Both women looked uncomfortable as he lowered his head to his hands and sobbed uncontrollably. In the hall, they advised Muna to call his doctor, expressing concern for his depressed and troubled state of mind.
She asked timidly how medicine could help pay the rent since his greatest anxiety was about losing the house. ‘When everything’s gone and strangers are living here, Mamma and Olubayo won’t be able to find us,’ she explained. ‘That’s what’s making Dada sad. He doesn’t know what to do or who to ask for help. It shames and frightens him to have no money.’
The Inspector looked thoughtful. ‘That would certainly explain why he’s upset with your mother. Did she know she was putting the house at risk?’
Muna shook her head, recalling words she’d said to Mrs Hughes. ‘Mamma doesn’t think when she’s angry, lady. Her only desire is to show Dada how distressed she is.’
‘But what caused this anger? Your father never really explained.’
‘Everything, lady. Olubayo’s epilepsy … Dada’s accident … but mostly Abiola’s loss.’ Muna tried a phrase she’d learned from the television talk shows she now watched every afternoon: ‘Dada wanted her to stop blaming herself and move on, but that just made her think he didn’t care about Abiola as much as she did.’
‘And she resented him for it?’
‘I’m not sure, lady. I don’t know what “resented” means.’
‘Disliked him … held a grudge … believed he wasn’t interested in how she felt.’
Mrs Hughes shook her head. ‘I imagine her greatest resentment is directed against the police,’ she murmured. ‘Abiola was abducted off our streets, yet the family’s had no justice … no funeral … no closure. I’m not surprised Mrs Songoli’s emotions are in turmoil. Her husband’s also.’
A faint flush stained the Inspector’s cheeks. ‘Tell your father I’ll put in a request for the rent to be paid,’ she told Muna gruffly, turning the handle of the front door. ‘It’s in no one’s interests to have you evicted while your brother’s case remains open.’
Muna ducked her head in gratitude, and received a reluctant smile in return. It never ceased to amaze her how easily whites were embarrassed into doing what she wanted. She watched from inside the hall as the women walked away, and from the bowels of the cellar she heard the Devil laugh. The sound was tiny – a breath fluttering through the floor – but she felt its tremors run joyously through her body.
Spring
Twenty
Muna squatted in the dust of the chamber and touched her finger to Yetunde’s left cheek. She hadn’t visited since joining Olubayo to his family, and she felt a terrible disappointment to find Yetunde so shrunken and shrivelled. For a time, after Muna had peeled the parcel tape from her mouth, Yetunde had been pleasing to look at, but now her lips were drawn back from her teeth in an ugly grimace and her lids lay flat across her sockets as if her eyes had retracted inside her head.
So much of her flesh had withered that the rings on her fingers and the chains about her neck seemed out of proportion; as did the blue silk kaba that hung in bulky folds where the bulbous breasts and monstrous stomach had dried to nothing. It was hard to recognise Yetunde in this little grey corpse.
Abiola and Olubayo were the same. They lay in the dust – Abiola curled on his side and Olubayo flat on his back – with hollowed eyes and teeth protruding from their mouths. Muna doubted even Ebuka would find a likeness to his sons in their emaciated faces and taut, unfriendly sneers. She regretted the sense of revulsion she felt. Her pleasure at being able to love and caress them had been very brief.
She tried to lift Yetunde’s hand but the desiccated skin was set hard, holding the woman rigid. Princess would sit for ever with her head tilted back against the cellar wall unless Muna removed her. Such an idea had seemed impossible when Ebuka had first mentioned leaving, but Muna had learned from Mrs Hughes how easy it was to transport the contents of one house to another.
Ebuka would organise a lorry, and Muna would pack loose items into boxes and trunks before sealing them with parcel tape to prevent the contents spilling out. Since only she would know what was in
side, she must mark the outsides with something that told the carriers where to leave the boxes at the other end. Mrs Hughes knew from experience how tedious and tiring it was to find kitchen crockery in upstairs rooms.
This knowledge had dissipated Muna’s fears of moving, a subject that had been mentioned frequently since counsellors, occupational therapists and social workers began to take an interest in her and Ebuka. All were agreed that a house with three storeys, a gravel drive and inadequate bathing facilities downstairs was unsuitable for a man in a wheelchair. It seemed it wasn’t possible to have the rent paid without accepting help and advice on everything else.
Most of the advice was beneficial to Ebuka. Once his right to receive assistance was confirmed, there was talk of supplying him with a modified car, offers of training to re-enter the workplace and intercession with his employer to keep his job open for another six months. More importantly, constant visitors – often unscheduled – meant Muna could no longer punish him through neglect.
She regretted this less than she thought she would since the most regular visitor was for her: a handsome young black man who came every afternoon to teach her reading, writing and arithmetic. Muna never tired of learning with him. He taught her in English and her heart fluttered joyfully each time he praised her quickness of understanding.
Ebuka wouldn’t allow them to be alone. He attended every lesson, frowning ferociously when the tutor’s approval elicited a smile. Muna could have told Ebuka it was the praise she liked and not the person – she had no feelings for people – but his irritation persuaded her to smile more. Jealousy, however misguided, was as good a punishment as neglect.
There was no predicting Ebuka’s emotions. Some days he paid Muna as little notice as when she’d been a slave; other days when she wore dresses that Yetunde had bought for herself when she was younger and slimmer – stored in the trunks in the cellar – his hot eyes never left her. He was at his most irritable on the occasions when Mrs Hughes complimented Muna on how pretty she was becoming and told her it wouldn’t be long before she had boyfriends.
The Cellar Page 13