Web of Lies (10 page)

Femi lay awake for a long time after he turned off his bedroom light. He didn’t know what Edward Wallace looked like, but he imagined a neat face with mischievous eyes and a toothy grin. What was it like to be asleep in your dormitory and to be awakened by screams and gunshots? What was it like to be force marched into the bush? If the trees were as thick as the forest around Family Home where Grandma lived, there would be such a tangle of branches that the rebels would have to carry machetes as well as guns. Edward was only twelve, like him. Had he been allowed to put on his shoes and proper clothes? Or were the boys forced out barefoot and in their pajamas? What would happen if a boy was too tired to walk anymore? Sade had told him about Aunt Hannah’s interviews when he had been helping her dry the dishes earlier in the week.

You can’t imagine what brutal things those boys were made to do, Femi.

She had refused to give him all the details.

Y
ou would have nightmares.

Sade always thought she knew best. He tossed and turned. Then suddenly it struck him. If Papa was going to be so involved with Mami Cynthie and this business over Edward, he wouldn’t have time for anything else. There was no need to worry about Ms. Hassan and Parents Evening after all.

When Femi came for his cornflakes on Saturday morning, Mami Cynthie was already at the kitchen table with Papa. Her face was like one of those sad masks on the wall in Papa’s study at home in Lagos, but she looked calmer than the previous night. She had spoken again to her brother in Freetown, and he had persuaded her not to travel there yet. He had promised to do everything he could to find out where Edward and the other boys had been taken. Even if they were found, it would be very dangerous for the army to storm their camp. The boys would be made to fight and could be killed.

“People in Britain need to know what’s going on,” said Papa. “They respond to personal stories. They’ll want their government to do more. UN sanctions aren’t enough to get a ceasefire.”

Femi listened as Papa spoke about Mami Cynthie taking Edward’s story to the newspapers. But his attention drifted when they began to talk about a Commonwealth Conference. Pressing his cornflakes into the milk, he
wondered what James was planning for today. His ears pricked up at the mention of Aunt Hannah. If Papa and Mami Cynthie were busy meeting her and other journalists, that gave him more freedom. He waited for a break in the conversation to ask for money for swimming. Papa pulled out some coins from his pocket.

“I want you to be especially considerate of your sister today,” said Papa.

“Yes, Papa.”

His father must have heard him moaning at Sade to hurry up in the bathroom a little earlier.

“Do you have football practice this afternoon?”

Papa leaned forward to observe him over the rim of his glasses. Femi bobbed his head.

“I’m glad,” said Papa. “That’ll keep you busy.”

Mami Cynthie was pressing her lips together as if to smile, but Femi saw that she was also fighting back tears. He withdrew into finishing his cornflakes.

Approaching the Leisure Center, he was surprised to see James already waiting there. Alone. Tapping his foot. Even from a distance, Femi felt uneasy.

“Keep walking, little brother.” James swung his arm around Femi’s shoulder and turned him ninety degrees. Femi struggled to keep pace with James’s long strides. They were heading back toward the High Street.

“Errol wants you. Urgent, right.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Femi raised his voice to make himself heard above the Saturday morning traffic.

“Busy.” James wasn’t forthcoming. As soon as James removed his arm, Femi moved aside to let oncoming pedestrians between them. When the whole gang walked together, it was other people who always gave way. Each time a bus passed by from the direction of home, he ducked his head. If Papa was in one of them with Mami
Cynthie, he would want to know what Femi was doing walking in the opposite direction to the Leisure Center. The High Street was much more exposed than the shopping mall where the gang usually hung out.

Femi was about to turn away from the next oncoming bus when the roar of a car engine drowned out all other noise. A sunflower-yellow car with a black top was hurtling toward the bus from behind, dangerously claiming the road. It overtook the bus just as the bus trundled past Femi and James. It was a BMW, like the one that had picked up Errol the previous week. Femi swiveled around to catch a glimpse of its occupants. But the bus obscured his view and, by the time he saw it again, it was too far away. Probably it was the same car.

“Does that belong to Errol’s friends?” he asked. James didn’t reply and Femi decided not to repeat his question. James’s urgency made him uneasy. He secretly hoped that the BMW had whisked Errol away again.

James led Femi to the back room in the garage. Two young men came out as they entered. Errol was stretched out on the armchair with his feet on the box table. He would have looked relaxed if it hadn’t been for the way he drummed his fingers on the armrest.

“Sit down, Femi bwoy,” he commanded.

Femi balanced precariously on the edge of a box. He felt Errol’s eyes fix him from behind the dark glasses.

“I want you to do something for me,” Errol said. “I want you to do it just like I say, right. No messing. You get it?”

“Sure Errol,” Femi said hastily.

Errol’s fingers dipped into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small parcel. It was not the same shape as the parcel Femi had taken to Sade. This one was smaller and squarish, wrapped in white plastic. Errol leaned forward and positioned it on the table gently, as if it were delicate glass. His fingers returned to his pocket and this time he fished out a piece of paper.

“D’you know this place?”

Femi squinted. 51 Durrant Court. That was the block of flats just a few blocks beyond where he lived. Worried that his voice might tremble, he nodded.

“Good. I want you to deliver this packet. They’ll give you an envelope. It’ll be sealed, right. You don’t open it. Just bring it back, no chatting on the way, no delay. Simple, yeah?”

Again he nodded. He was biting the inside of his lip.

Errol turned sharply to James. “What’s wrong with this little brother of yours? He’s lost his voice. You sure he’s not a chicken?”

“He’s safe,” James asserted. “Right, Femi?”

“Yeah…right.” Femi heard the small voice as if it belonged to someone else.

Errol stroked the rings on his left hand with his right forefinger. “If my brother here says you’re safe, I take his word.” His eyes never left Femi. “One more thing. I want no chirping later. Everything stays inside this room. You get my meaning?”

“Yeah.” This time he tried to sound more confident. He stretched out for the packet and slipped it into the
inside pocket of his jacket. The movement was a little too quick, awkward.

Errol suddenly burst out laughing.

“You look like a squirrel! But where’s the bushy tail, right?”

Femi’s eyes darted to James. He was grinning as well. Femi tried to force a smile.

“Maybe they don’t have squirrels in Nigeria,” said James.

“We have bush rats.” He should have kept quiet.

“Bush rats! They eat them, yeah?” Errol thrust the question at him. Was this another snare? Despite Papa’s boyhood tales of the pleasures of catching and roasting the animals in the bush near Family Home, Femi had always felt squeamish.

“Some people like the meat,” he mumbled.

“That’s nature, right? If the rat was bigger, he’d eat the man….” Errol paused as if he wanted Femi to take some bigger meaning. “Well, what you waiting for? I want you back here chop-chop.”

Femi lurched to his feet. The fingers of his left hand squeezed the small package inside his pocket. They were sweating, and he hadn’t even begun his mission. He looked across the box table at James.

“Get moving, little brother. You heard what Errol said. It’s dead easy. No one will take notice of a kid.”

James wasn’t coming with him. He was on his own.

He had to pass his own block to reach Durrant Court. That meant not being spotted by his family or everything would collapse like a pack of cards. With his head sunk into his jacket hood, he jogged off through the shortcut. He juggled with reasons for visiting Durrant Court instead of being in the Leisure Center. Could he say a friend had hurt himself in the swimming pool and he was running to tell the friend’s mother? But the attendants would have rung her, wouldn’t they? He could say that the phone was broken. But what if Papa wanted to come with him to Durrant Court? Even if Papa was occupied with Mami Cynthie, he might insist that Sade go with him.

The overgrown path and the half-finished houses were behind him now. He was out in the open and the first of the gray concrete blocks, his own, loomed ahead. Durrant
Court was the fourth and last. There was only one solution. Not to be caught. He put his head down and pelted along the road, raising his hood just enough to see where he was going. The panic-stricken butterflies in his stomach had turned into a herd of elephants. As long as he could get past his own block without being stopped, he would be okay. If Papa or Sade called him from behind, he could always pretend he hadn’t heard. When he returned, it would be too late for them to check on his injured friend story.

It was a marvel he didn’t knock into anyone. He dodged some children playing with bikes. They swore at him for crashing through their game and, seconds later, a peevish woman’s voice called out a warning. He didn’t see any of their faces, only bicycle wheels, legs, and the woman’s stick. But no one shouted his name. When he reached the entrance to Durrant Court, he pulled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs next to the lift, breathing heavily. He needed to recover. He had been so anxious about getting here that he hadn’t even thought about his mission. It sounded simple. Go to number fifty-one. Ask for Julie. Hand over the packet and collect the envelope at the same time. Don’t ask questions. Take it back to Errol.

He pressed the button for the lift. It wheezed and groaned as it descended. At least it was working. The lift in their block was out of order most of the time. The lift arrived, clanking and rattling. The door swung open and four men peeled out. Femi felt their stares as if he was being X-rayed. They looked similar to the young men who hung around with Errol: apparently casual, but with wary, probing eyes. Instinctively Femi patted his jacket
with his left hand, feeling the package in the inside pocket. He immediately regretted it. He might give away that he had something to protect. He swung the offending hand to the lift door and stepped inside. The awful smell almost gagged him as the door closed. He wanted to dive out and use the stairs. But the men remained in a huddle, eyeing him through the glass panel. They unnerved him. Instead, he threw one hand over his nose and mouth and pressed the button for the fifth floor with the other. As the lift cranked itself up, he glimpsed the faces crack into smiles.

Number fifty-one was at the far end of the corridor. As long as no one came out from one of the red doors on his right, he would be all right now. He wanted no more encounters. The exchange should take less than a minute, and he would be on his way. The sooner this was over, the better. It would be a relief to be back with the gang in the shopping mall. Those expeditions still made his heart beat fast, but at least there were others with him. Afterward they would have a laugh and reward themselves with sweets, snacks, whatever they chose. He hadn’t dared ask if Errol would give him anything when he returned.

The bell at fifty-one chimed brightly. It was followed by silence. Femi pressed again. Chime. Silence…Chime. Silence. A boa constrictor was now gathering itself around his chest. What should he do if no one was here? Would he have to go all the way back to explain? Errol might tell him to repeat the journey! Femi clenched his fist and knocked at the door. He felt like hammering on it, but that might bring out the neighbors. This Julie person had to be in!

At last he heard shuffling, then a chain being removed.
The door edged open, and a painfully thin white woman examined him for a moment before signaling him urgently to come in. She was wearing a shiny pink dressing gown and slippers. With ashen skin, hollow cheeks, and bruiselike shadows under milky blue eyes, she looked ill.

“You don’t want to wake the whole block,” she complained. “Close the door and give me my stuff!”

They were standing in the narrow hallway. She was blocking the entrance to the living room and was so close that he could smell her breath.

“Are you J—?”

Femi stopped just in time, remembering his instructions.

“What’s your name?” he asked, hot with embarrassment. Asking a grown-up a question like that still sounded so rude. Thank goodness she wasn’t an African lady. He might never have got the question out.

“Of course I’m Julie. I could’ve died waiting. Give me the packet!”

“Errol says you’ve got to give me an envelope.”

“You’ll get it. Show me what you brought. Got to check it’s the right stuff first!” The woman, Julie, grasped Femi’s jacket sleeve and pulled him toward her. He lost his balance and they both stumbled. They would have fallen if it hadn’t been for the wall. Femi steadied himself, able now to see into the living room. His eyes swung across a worn settee with crumpled cushions to a low glass table littered with dirty plates, mugs, teaspoons, and a cigarette lighter. His gaze fixed on a clutter of needles. It looked like the kind of mess they sometimes found in the stairwell of their block of flats. He felt sick.

The more Julie pleaded and harangued, the less he said and the more he tried to retreat inside his hood. He wanted to get out of here, but he had to follow Errol’s instructions.

Give her the packet when she gives you the envelope.

He hadn’t asked Errol what was in either of them. He hadn’t wanted to know. If he just followed the instructions, everything would be okay.

“All right! I’ll get it!” At last Julie was going to give him the envelope. “It was here a moment ago!” She scoured the mantelpiece, the table with the needles, the settee. She threw aside the loose cushions, then pulled up the seats. She was becoming frantic, cursing Femi and everything else.

“What’s wrong, Mum?” A girl’s voice cut in behind Femi. It sounded irritated. His hood stopped his side vision so he had to turn his head completely to see the speaker. The moment he did, he regretted it. It was Marcia’s friend Donna, the one who had been at Errol’s house. Her small blue eyes, sunk behind black oval lines and white cheeks, were sizing him up. She put her hand on her hip. “Oooh, Sade’s brother, right? What d’you want?”

As if she didn’t know!

“You know what he’s come for! Help me!” Donna’s mother was kneeling on the floor, scattering a pile of magazines, close to tears. She sounded more of a child than her daughter.

“All right, all right, Mum! Have you looked in the kitchen?”

“Look for me, please, love!” Julie whimpered. She was rocking, trying to stop quivering. She squeezed herself until her knuckles were taut and white and the veins on
her hand looked like chicken’s claws. Femi stood, mesmerized. Donna strode into the kitchen. Seconds later she reappeared, waving a brown envelope like a fan.

“Give it to him, love! Get my stuff!” Julie was pushing up her gown sleeve. Her scrawny arm was covered with a grille of crazy lines. Donna swiped the envelope past Femi’s face and held it just out of his reach.

“Where’s my mum’s thingy then?”

Femi thrust the packet toward her, grabbed the envelope, and fled.

Sprinting along the open corridor, with the brown envelope safely inside his jacket pocket, Femi didn’t care that it had started to rain. At least he could breathe out here. He wouldn’t use the foul-smelling lift. Instead, he bounded down the stairs. The rain also meant that there was less chance of being noticed on his return journey. In fifteen minutes he would be back at the garage, home and dry.

They caught him at ground level. Three pairs of hands grabbed him and the fourth held open the door to the lift. Compressed by bodies, he was submerged, begging for air. Harsh voices demanded that he empty his pockets, but his hands were trapped. Strong, bony fingers crawled over him, poking, prodding. They wrenched open his jacket. In less than a second, the brown envelope was once again waving in front of him. A quick slitting of paper and there was laughter.

Femi glimpsed the wodge of pinky-brown notes. Tens or twenties? Was it one hundred, two hundred, more? He
began to struggle, to plead.

“It’s not mine! Give it back! Please!”

Hopeless. A rough hand smothered his face, squeezing his jaw between thumb and fingers. Each of his wrists was seized in a vise, his right arm twisted up his back. The pain screamed through him, but the hand over his mouth forced it back, swirling inside him. No air. He was crumbling, crashing.

Alone on the floor of the lift, Femi gasped for breath. He wanted to vomit, but the effort would exhaust him. Afterward he would have to lie there. Someone would find him. There would be questions. If he told anyone that he had been robbed of so much money, they would want to know where he had got it from. Errol would never, never forgive him. As it was, what was Errol going to say to him? Do to him? Errol would already be wondering why he hadn’t returned. What if Errol didn’t believe him? What if he thought Femi had taken the money himself and made up a story about being mugged?

Head throbbing, Femi forced himself up. He leaned on the door and reeled out of the lift. Beyond the entrance, the rain was tossing down now. He ran outside, floundering, not bothering to avoid the puddles on the uneven pavement. The harder the rain beat down on him, the fiercer he imagined Errol’s fury would be.

S
ATURDAY
11
TH
O
CTOBER