The Cellar (8 page)

She did as he asked because he said he’d go on his own otherwise, and she had a greater fear of being left with Yetunde. Nevertheless, her terror of the outside was genuine. Had she known what brainwashing was, she would have understood why, since Yetunde’s worst thrashings were associated with it. She had beaten Muna mercilessly each time she’d caught her staring out of a window or daring to open the kitchen door to allow a breeze to dispel the heat.

Perhaps it was seeing Muna in her son’s clothes that caused Yetunde to erupt, or simple fury at her having her orders overturned, but her flailing charge caught Muna by surprise. She would have been knocked to the ground if one of Yetunde’s massive hands had smacked her head instead of gripping the sleeve of the anorak. If she thought to stop Muna escaping her, she had forgotten how thin the girl was, for her fingers caught only cloth, and Muna was out of the garment even before Yetunde had drawn a breath.

She backed towards the stairs, watching warily as Yetunde stormed and screeched in the middle of the hall. Was Ebuka ignorant of the embarrassment he had caused her by becoming a cripple? Did he care nothing for his family’s pride that he was willing to parade himself in public? Worse, to allow the ugly piccaninny to accompany him? Did he have no shame?

The shame is yours, Ebuka said. It’s you who sees me as a cripple and you who stole this child. I’ve asked you many times to mend your ignorance but you’d rather eat bonbons than put your mind to learning. It makes you as unattractive to me as I am to you.

Her demons have taken you over, Yetunde cried.

The demons are in your head where they’ve always been, woman. You hold to them because they give you an excuse for cruelty.

Yetunde quivered from head to toe, so intense was her emotion. You never denied them before.

Only through weakness. You’re easier to live with when you get your own way. If demons exist, they’re in you … not in this unfortunate girl.

She’s poisoned you against me.

Not so, Ebuka growled. My feelings for you haven’t changed since the day we married.

Then why do you look at me with such hatred?

Because I’m done with pretence. There was never any love between us. We were ill matched from the start and joy has been absent from my life ever since. You taught my sons to be as greedy and lazy as you, and now one is gone and the other epileptic. What is left for me to have pride in?

Muna watched in puzzlement as Yetunde rocked to and fro in grief at this statement. Her distress seemed genuine yet Muna could see no reason for it. Had she not expressed similar sentiments herself when she said she’d never wanted Ebuka for a husband? And had she not criticised Olubayo constantly for being feeble-minded?

Yetunde’s distress turned to anger again. You’ll not divorce me, she snapped. I’ll see this girl dead before I let her steal you from me.

Ebuka gave a contemptuous shake of his head before wheeling himself to where she’d dropped the anorak on the floor. Muna saw Yetunde clench her fists as he leaned forward to pick it up, and she called a shout of warning. But she was too late. Yetunde took a step forward and slammed both hands on the back of her husband’s neck, using her weight to topple him from his seat and send the chair spinning backwards.

Muna had pictured moments like this a hundred times in her imagination. She had rehearsed every action she might have to take, in whichever room she was in, when the day came for her to defend herself. It was sweet chance that it was happening here in the hall since this was her preferred place. She turned the handle of the cellar door and pushed it open before slipping round the wall behind the woman’s back.

Yetunde had forgotten Muna, so intent was she on damaging Ebuka. When she wasn’t kicking his head, she was stamping on his arms as he tried to drag himself away from her feet. She laughed and laughed, and Muna was sure her wits had gone. Her great bulk seemed to tremble with delight each time a whimper of pain came from her husband’s mouth.

Muna reached the mahogany sideboard which stood outside the sitting-room door and retrieved the hammer that she’d hidden behind a large portrait photograph of Yetunde. Had she been taller and stronger she would have practised in her mind how to bring the weapon down on Yetunde’s skull, but she was too frail to do anything so gratifying and had long since decided that her purpose would be better served by causing Yetunde to fall.

She knew her life would be forfeit unless Yetunde was too badly injured to retaliate so her dreams of these fights were bloody and violent. They played across her sleeping mind like the movies she saw on television. She had a particular fondness for the scenes where she drove a chisel again and again into Yetunde’s breast or dropped to her knees to slam the doorstop repeatedly on to the hand wielding the rod until she knew from the pulpy squelch of the flesh that it could never be used again.

Yet she hadn’t imagined that attacking Yetunde would be so easy. The demented woman was blind to everything but Ebuka and a look of bewilderment entered her eyes as the solid head of the hammer smashed into her bulging midriff just below her ribs. She looked at Muna in disbelief, opened her mouth as if to say something, but only a thready sigh escaped as she staggered backwards, sucking desperately for air.

Muna pursued her, powering the hammer again and again into the same place. The solar plexus was Yetunde’s favourite target when Muna annoyed her, and Muna always fell with the first punch, doubled up with pain and unable to breathe. Yetunde was too fat to succumb as quickly but Muna exulted in the wheezy puffs that issued from the bloated face as each blow landed. Every step the monstrous creature took brought her closer to the cellar door, and Muna fancied she heard the Devil laughing at the idea of having Yetunde for himself.

Yetunde tried to deflect the hammer with her hands, gasping out pleas to her husband. Ebuka! Ebuka! Help me! Help me!

But he didn’t answer and Muna swung the hammer at Yetunde’s kneecap, watching in fascination as pain caused her eyes to flare as wide as she had ever seen them. It was very satisfying.

The Master can’t hear you, Princess. Your kicks have dazed him.

Yetunde held out her hands in a futile begging gesture. Let me be! I won’t punish you if you stop now.

Muna ignored her and used guile of her own as she drove her weapon again at the woman’s leg. You will suffer less if you enter the cellar yourself, Princess. I will not imprison you for long. When the Master has his strength back, I will release you.

Perhaps Yetunde’s suffering was already too great for she grasped the doorjamb and stepped backwards on to the top step. Evil girl! she cried. You’ve hurt me badly!

Yes, Princess … and now you must go down the stairs of your own accord or the Devil will pull you down as easily as he pulled the Master.

Muna exulted at the fear she saw in Yetunde’s face and wondered if the woman could hear the laughter from below. It was loud in Muna’s ears. A deep guttural rumble that drew a hollow echo from the walls.

You’re mad, Yetunde whispered.

I am what you’ve made me, Princess. All I know is what you’ve taught me.

She was gratified to see the same horror in Yetunde’s face that had been in Ebuka’s when she’d used similar words to him. It was strange. They had moulded Muna into mirrors of themselves yet they disliked their reflections.

I’ve been kind to you, Muna. I gave you a better home than you could ever have had in Africa.

Muna swung the hammer again. You gave me nothing, she said, using both hands to plunge the solid metal into Yetunde’s mouth.

She stepped back, exhausted, as blood poured from the woman’s lips, and she felt a marvellous thrill to hear the Devil’s laugh rise from the caverns of the earth and see his hand reach out of the darkness to drag Yetunde down.

Ten

It seemed the Devil had made time stand still.

When Muna turned to look at Ebuka, he was still struggling to pull himself away from Yetunde’s kicks, using his forearms and elbows to inch across the floor. Soundlessly, she replaced the hammer behind the photograph and then knelt to rock his shoulder. He gave a start of terror, wrapping his arms about his head and crying out to Yetunde to stop.

Princess isn’t here, Master, she said.

Ebuka had used every ounce of his energy, dragging his paralysed legs behind him, and he was too tired to lift his face from the carpet or turn it towards her. Where is she? he asked.

I don’t know, Master.

I heard her cry out.

Only at you, Master. She was shouting as she kicked you. I called to her to stop before she killed you … then ran to the sitting room to hide.

Are you sure she’s not here?

Yes, Master. I believe she went upstairs. I heard the bedroom door slam before I came to see if you were all right. You must have heard it too. It was very loud.

I don’t remember.

You’re dazed, Master.

Ebuka dribbled on to the carpet. I think I lost consciousness. You must call the police. She’s mad enough to kill us both.

I can’t, Master. I don’t know how.

He gave a groan of despair. Then what are we to do? Her mood will not have improved when she comes down again. Who will help us then?

What a weak and cowardly person he was, Muna thought. No one had helped her when Yetunde’s rages had been ungovernable. Muna had taken a thousand more kicks and never once complained or begged for help.

I will bring the hoist to you, Master, and we will do what we practise each day. You must forget the pain Princess has caused you and find the strength to pull yourself into your chair. After that we will go outside as you planned. She will be calmer in an hour.

Ebuka showed more resolve once Muna wheeled the hoist into the hall, lowered the bar and helped him roll on to his back. He even managed to push himself into a sitting position when she told him she could hear Yetunde stamping around the bedroom. Fear persuaded him Muna was telling the truth, and with a massive heave he lifted himself far enough from the ground for Muna to slide the chair under his bottom.

He became helpless again when he was safely seated, like a little boy who’d done what was asked of him and refused to cooperate further. Muna dressed him in a waterproof jacket, brought a blanket for his legs and pushed him through the front door, tilting the chair backwards to ease it over the step on to the gravel drive. His weight was almost too much for her but necessity gave her strength. As each minute passed, she expected to hear Yetunde cry out.

You must stay here while I put on Abiola’s boots and coat, Master. I will close this door so that Princess won’t see you if she comes downstairs.

He looked alarmed. What if she attacks you?

She’ll never catch me, Master. She’s too fat. I will run as fast as I can if I see her on the stairs.

Muna listened outside the cellar door for several seconds before she pulled back the bolt and switched on the light. Princess lay on her back at the bottom of the steps, face bloodied and arms flung out. She was very dead. With a tiny sigh of relief, Muna plunged the cellar into darkness again and closed the door. Her sharp eyes picked out a tiny splatter of blood on the carpet at her feet, and she darted to the kitchen for a cloth. With great care she blotted the stain and searched for more. There were none. Yetunde had bled on the other side of the door but not on this.

Before she returned the cloth to the sink, she wiped the hammer clean, took Yetunde’s Louis Vuitton handbag from the coffee table in the sitting room, checked it contained her wallet, make-up and mobile, then retrieved Yetunde’s favourite Givenchy mackintosh from the cloakroom. With no time to select a better hiding place, she lifted the half-filled rubbish liner from the bin in the kitchen and placed everything she’d taken in the bottom, rearranging the liner on top.

Back in the hall, she pulled on Abiola’s anorak and boots, put the front-door keys in her pocket and took a moment to calm her excitement and think. What else must she take to convince the Master that Yetunde had left the house while they were out? It was necessary for him to believe that or he would look for Yetunde inside, and Muna didn’t want that. Her life had been better since Abiola disappeared. It would be better still if Yetunde did the same.

Ebuka frowned when Muna came out again. Why have you taken so long? What have you been doing?

Muna showed him Yetunde’s mobile which she’d recovered from the bin, also the receiver from the landline in the sitting room. Collecting these, Master. It wouldn’t be wise to let Princess call the police.

Why would she when she’s at fault?

To make trouble for you, Master. She will say you struck her first and the white will believe her. The police already know you have a bad temper.

Ebuka gave a weary sigh, knowing Muna was right. What’s this for? he asked as she laid the rod on his lap beside the handsets.

Protection against Princess for when we return, Master. You know now that you should carry it at all times. We’ll be safer when she learns to fear you.

But Ebuka knew the only fear was in him. Yetunde’s assault had frightened him badly, and he recognised that Muna had a greater understanding of her rages than he had. She wouldn’t be preparing him to fight Yetunde otherwise.

He kept his thoughts to himself. Muna was sadly misguided if she thought he’d developed enough fondness for her to put her welfare before his own. In the choice between placating his bully of a wife with sugared almonds and credit cards, or taking the side of a powerless slave, he would placate Yetunde.

As he always had.

The cold December rain hurt Muna’s cheeks and hands, and her feet slithered on the gravel as she tried to push the chair across it. It was hard work, even with Ebuka assisting her by turning the wheels, but she refused to listen to his pleas to sit in the summer house.

Princess will see us from her window, Master. She’ll come after us and you’ll have to threaten her with the rod sooner than you’d like.

Muna knew he would accept this argument for she had no illusions about him. He had been afraid of Yetunde’s temper when he’d had the use of his legs. Now, hunched in misery at what had happened, he had even less desire to confront her. He kept rubbing the bruises on his arms and Muna was certain he was telling himself he couldn’t go through such punishment again.