Dear Beneficiary (17 page)

‘Oh, my goodness me,' I said, still not really registering what the story meant, although a small bird was flying around in my chest. Or that's what it felt like.

At least the family have realised I'm missing
, I thought.

‘Whassup?' said Tracey, placing Carol Vorderman's face on top of a pile of other faces. I briefly wondered who the ex-queen of
Countdown
was sleeping with before I pulled myself up sharply, as I was being dragged into the vacuous world of media-ocrity.

‘There's a picture of me in the paper. Look,' I said, as I placed the folded paper on top of her celebrity pile.

‘The authorities are looking for me and it quotes my son, grandson and people from my bridge club saying they are worried about me. They've held a fund-raiser and everything.'

‘Why doesn't it say anything about me?' said Tracey, in the same girly voice she used for getting a cigarette from Fasina.

‘Maybe they haven't tracked your family and friends, yet,' I said in as comforting a manner as I could muster, still reeling from the thrill of being mentioned in despatches. ‘But if they are looking for me they will find you, too.'

‘I suppose. But you'd think my daughter and even Posh Git might think it would be decent to try and find me, not to mention Baz. Just wait until I get hold of him.'

I read the article again and was surprised at Mavis voicing her concern for me publicly. She gave the impression we were very best friends, which is certainly not the impression I got when in her company. How people can change when there's a chance of a good dinner party story.

There was only so much confidence the article could inspire. We couldn't be sure who would have seen us on our journey from the airport to the settlement, and whether or not Chike and Fasina were known for taking hostages and therefore might have been watched coming and going into the camp. We hadn't heard any sounds of anyone else since being in the shack and guessed we were the only hostages. It explained the video; they needed to prove I was still alive. It also explained their celebrations; they believed I was of sufficient wealth and popularity to guarantee a pay-out.

‘What we need to do,' I said to Tracey, ‘is to assume people are looking and will soon find us. We also need to keep our bodies supple and minds alert so when we have a chance to get away we can do so without any impediment.'

She didn't seem to understand what I meant but was happy to trade half an hour of Pilates for my time playing her new celebrity matching game, and the rest of my melted ice cream, which even in such deprived circumstances was too sickly for me to finish.

Exercise wasn't a natural occupation for Tracey, who said she thought sitting in the sauna at the gym twice a month and drinking two bottles of red wine a week (even though she prefers white) was more than enough to keep her heart healthy.

‘Whaddya wanna get all hot and sweaty in a class for when you can do that with a fella!' she said. ‘I went to a Zumba class with one of me mates in the summer but every time I jumped up and down a bit of wee came out. It's not a good look, I can tell you!'

She coped with the Pilates, particularly after I told her it was good for her pelvic floor muscles. That was after I explained what her pelvic floor muscles were and the impact they can have on bladder control. It gave her an entirely new perspective on the lessons I was offering.

‘Right, I've had enough of that for one day,' she said after twenty minutes. ‘I've pulled something here,' she added, rubbing the side of her waist.

‘That would be a muscle, and I doubt you've pulled it, just used it for a change,' I said.

I was pleased we were both focusing on keeping up our strength. The lack of normal exercise during the day could mean we would become weak, and that wouldn't help us should we suddenly have to make a run for it.

‘You think of everything, you do,' said Tracey. ‘I s'pose it makes sense to keep ourselves in shape. Let's play my game now. It'll keep our brains going and all.'

After pairing someone called Russell Brand with Ann Widdecombe and some elderly-looking male called Keith with someone from
The X Factor
, Tracey decided I wasn't up to her standards of celebrity know-it-all. She demoted us to another game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey', although this time the pin was aimed at Simon Cowell, with far more pleasing results.

‘What will you do when you get outta here?' Tracey asked as we were getting ready for bed and willing the herbal drink to come along so we could lose a few more hours of the repetitive boredom that was our daily life.

‘Have a damned good wash and find somewhere to eat a good steak.' I answered. ‘What about you?'

She prodded her earrings back into her ears and gave the question some thought, which took a bit of time.

‘Not sure. I think that what with everything that's happened I don't know who I am any more. I feel different though, as if something has changed.

I was surprised by Tracey's sudden insight, and just as I considered the benefits of imprisonment for those who don't value their freedom sufficiently, she spoke again.

‘For example, I don't think I fancy Chinese food any more. I might go for curry instead. And why bleach my hair when I can go red, or brunette? What do I wanna be blonde for anyway? Everyone thinks yer thick if yer blonde.'

Tracey was entitled to her own thoughts, although I was glad they were in her head and not mine. In a bid to find something more entertaining I suggested we remembered the words of our favourite songs. I amazed myself by recalling all the words for all verses of ‘Morning Has Broken' and ‘American Pie', while Tracey sang her way through the first eight bars of about twenty eighties hits, including five of Abba's. ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You' was the most tortuous, but the purpose of the game was achieved. I'd never seen her looking so happy.

We'd exhausted our renditions of popular chart songs so went on to television, remembering with fondness programmes like
Blue Peter
and
Crackerjack
. We got on to
Love Thy Neighbour
and wondering how the scriptwriters were allowed to get away with calling a black man ‘Sambo' or ‘Jungle Bunny'. Any such talk now and the political correctness police would be on you like a shot, although it still seems quite acceptable to call a woman of a certain age a ‘Stupid Old Cow', which I think is just as insulting, particularly to someone approaching the autumn of their life.

I'd been thinking how I was going to relish my later years and take full advantage of the knowledge and freedom that comes as a package with middle and older age. If I could keep my wits, flexible limbs and ability to live independently for the next three decades or so, then I could live a full life. It would be a life of continued wonder, challenge and unsupervised trips to the lavatory.

‘What colour would you be if you had the choice?' said Tracey. ‘Maybe you could go lavender?'

I wondered what on earth she was talking about.

‘Yer hair. What colour?' she prompted.

I thought of myself with lavender hair. It would certainly beat the blue rinse brigade and give my children something else to laugh at. Maybe I should do it, just to surprise them.

‘I might just do that, Tracey, and get a motorbike as well. If I can't rebel now, when can I?'

‘A motorbike? Aren't they dangerous?' Tracey said. ‘And those leathers can get very smelly. I know, I used to go out with a bloke what had a Hardly Davies and he loved it more than anything. He was nice and that, but stank and always had helmet hair. I dumped him for a bloke with a Ford Capri. It was old, like, but really classy. A bit like you, Cynthia!'

Our shared imprisonment had created a strange relationship between us. I couldn't imagine knowing anyone like Tracey in my previous existence, one of predictable routines and little uncertainty, let alone talking to her. Now she was talking me into dyeing my hair a strange colour.

‘Funny, innit, how we might not have met if it weren't for us both being on that flight. Me to get married and you to do your good works,' she said, as she shuffled down the mattress and under a sheet. The weather was often too warm to use the blankets, even at night.

My thoughts were interrupted by her mention of good works. I'd forgotten she was under the impression my only reason for being in Nigeria was to work with young girls who needed education. Had she given it any thought, she might have wondered what on earth it was I might be able to teach them.

‘Indeed,' I said, as Gowon came in and presented us with our drinks and told us the electricity might go off in the night as their generator had just packed up.

‘We had enough to make hot water and then it went off,' he said. ‘Good night, Cynthia, and please have some very nice dreams.'

He left the room and, as predicted, the light started to flicker and then finally went out.

‘I think he's got it bad,' said Tracey. ‘Like a puppy without his mother.'

We drifted into our drug-induced sleep, talking about whether we would be able to escape or whether my family would find us soon. We also wondered what they would think of the video if they ever got it.

I think they only have DVD players now, anyway
, I thought.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Right, this is what we are going to have to do,' I said, pulling my hair back into the bun I'd effected using strips of material from one of my shredded T-shirts. ‘We must distract the guards and then find a way to get as far from here as possible.'

Tracey was lying face down on the mattress, trying to work out the clues on one of the old
OK!
magazine crosswords. She wasn't getting very far.

‘Who was Rod Stewart married to before he got old?' she questioned.

I ignored her and continued to plan our escape, one that would involve using elements of my personality yet to come to the fore.

‘You aren't listening to me, are you? I said, stamping my foot lightly on the dusty floor of the shack, which had now started to smell of eggs and stale banana. No one could accuse our diet of being varied.

‘I am but I can't see how you're gonna get us outta here. We're trapped.' She went back to concentrating on four down.

I let out an exasperated breath as I reminded myself not to lose patience with the woman I'd come to believe had the barest minimum of brain cells – most of which were on timeshare with a sloth. Any headway we'd made previously seemed to have gone, and she was back to pessimistic mode. Maybe that's the difference between those who are successful and those who aren't; the former hang on to every bit of positive thought and drag it through their days regardless of circumstances that could knock it out of them.

‘If you think you're trapped, then you will be. We need to have positive mental attitude.'

I sniffed the dregs of last night's herbal drink and looked across the room. The germ of my thoughts had started to take hold and I was nearly ready to share everything with Tracey.

‘I need you to listen to me,' I said.

Tracey turned over and lay on her back, a position I was sure she felt most comfortable with.

‘We need to save the drinks they bring us at night.'

‘Oh, no. I love those drinks!' wailed Tracey. ‘How can we sleep without them?'

‘Trust me. They may be the means of our escape,' I added, while tearing out a recipe from one of the Sunday supplement magazines. It was for banana cake.

Tracey sat up and started to pick her toes with a piece of acrylic she had bitten off her thumbnail.

‘What if we never get out? What will happen to us?'

I sighed and had a waking nightmare where I was appearing in a reality version of
Groundhog Day
.

‘Well, we'll probably be egg-bound for a start.'

The door rattled and Gowon made his usual entry. Surprisingly it wasn't eggs for breakfast this time, just apples and what looked like fruit bread.

‘Chike made this,' he said, indicating the bread. ‘He loves cooking.'

I hoped it hadn't been laced with anything unexpected, although when I bit into it, the taste and consistency was very good. He'd be a worthy contender for the WI's annual baking competition.

I tried to get some information out of Gowon, as despite two nights of great celebration and our recent home-made film appearances he still hadn't told us what was going on or why they thought we were the answer to their prayers. I used as many womanly wiles as I could muster, but Gowon remained steadfast in his secrecy.

‘You must know what they are planning to do? Have they been told the money is on its way? Will we be released and, if so, when?'

Gowon just smiled broadly, to the point where I thought he looked rather smug.

‘What are you so pleased about, then?' I asked. ‘You look like the cat that's got the cream.'

Gowon frowned. ‘We don't have a cat. Or any cream. Just fruit.'

‘It's an English saying,' I added, knowing that learning new English words or phrases was highly desirable to most Nigerians. Darius was always fascinated by our language and its quaint expressions, most of which he'd mastered through years of formal education and watching British films. Gowon had shown a similar interest, although usually only in naming body parts in as many different ways as possible. So far he'd mastered ‘tits', ‘boobs', ‘puppies' and ‘knockers', all explained to him by Tracey.

‘It means you look very pleased with yourself,' I explained.

‘We'll soon be pleased. We will soon be rich and be able to live a good and proper life. For this we respect you,' he answered. ‘But now it is time for the bathroom.'

‘Oh, pants,' said Tracey. ‘Tell that bloody sadist to watch out for my arms,' she groaned as she rubbed the red marks left by her guard, who since being walloped by her had been behaving in a way I could only describe as terrified. The slightest movement and he'd flinch, holding his spare hand across his face and pleading for mercy. I considered his disposition to be a good thing bearing in mind my plans for Tracey's part in the great escape.