Dear Beneficiary (21 page)

‘If only my phone worked. I could see if I could get hold of Baz.' Tracey said. ‘He'd come and get us.'

I felt a bit sorry for her, although I had to admire her ability to believe the best of a man who had taken her money and failed to turn up at the airport to meet her, particularly as they were supposed to be getting married. It wasn't like my situation with Darius, who had a genuine family problem and needed my help. She'd been completely taken in and still believed she'd be marrying her ‘bit of black'.

‘Maybe someone will know my friend. He works for a big IT company and is very successful, which I suspect is a rarity in this country,' I said, thinking that surely everybody would know Darius for his charm, ability and downright good looks. I couldn't imagine anyone ever meeting him and overlooking his many qualities.

‘Shall we sing some of those songs again?' asked Tracey, as she launched into her peculiarly individual version of ‘Waterloo'. ‘Or we could play I-spy?' she added.

For the sake of keeping us occupied we got through two verses of ‘I Will Survive' before deciding singing wasn't going to do it for us. The game faltered after neither of us could think of anything but ‘mud', ‘road' and ‘tree' to spy.

‘Let's play Snog, Marry, Avoid,' said Tracey, who had to explain the rules. I thought it a foolish idea at first but found it quite captivating once I got into the swing of it. Nigel Havers was definitely a ‘Marry', although I'd settle for a ‘Snog' any day. Tracey said she'd marry someone called Ozzy Osbourne, who I'd never heard of. When she explained who he was, it confirmed my opinion that she was totally out of her mind.

We went through some other lists, and I only hesitated when she asked about Gowon, who I admitted privately to myself I would snog, but told Tracey he was best avoided. She didn't question any further as she'd thought of a number of other males to consider including Prince William and that bald chap from
EastEnders
. I passed on our future king on the basis he is already married and therefore not a prospect, which I suspected wasn't a consideration for Tracey, and shouted an emphatic ‘Avoid' for the balding beast of the east, who reminded me of a newly born rat with a slightly less attractive personality.

Bored after twenty minutes of trying to entertain ourselves, silence kept us company until we approached the next bend in the road. Before I thought my insanity would set in permanently, a car drove up behind us. It was a red VW estate with an English number plate.

A white man about my age sporting a long, grey ponytail stuck his head out of the driver's window and shouted over to us, in an English accent.

‘Hello, ladies. Do you know there's nothing here for miles? Can I offer you a lift?'

Tracey didn't answer, but made her way straight over to the car and got in the back seat, pulling off her one shoe as she did so and rubbing her foot.

‘You must be some kind of angel,' she said. ‘The thought of walking one more step was about enough to get me right weepy.'

The man got out of his car and took the two small bags Tracey had abandoned in the road and placed them in the boot. He opened the passenger door and gestured for me to sit in the front. I was most definitely relieved, and at that point couldn't care less about the dangers of getting into strange men's cars. After our experience it wasn't likely to worry either of us, and anyway, he was English.

‘Thank you,' I said, feeling grateful in a way I didn't think I had before. ‘You're very kind.'

‘The name is John. Boring name, but it's the only one I've got,' he said, pressing the button to open the windows.

‘The air conditioning has broken, so I hope you don't mind the manual version,' he quipped, looking over in my direction with a welcoming smile. His face looked familiar, but his ponytail didn't. I've never been keen on men with hair that grows beyond the collar. Makes them look creepy.

‘I'm Cynthia, and this is Tracey,' I responded. I didn't refer to her as my friend, as I didn't want to give him the impression she was the type of person I'd normally spend time with.

‘We think we might be a bit lost,' I added, thinking it better we didn't give too much away about our recent whereabouts in case John was a sympathiser of people who abducted middle-aged women to fund their lifestyles.

‘I would say you are, but then, aren't we all? Where were you thinking of heading?'

‘We're looking for some people we know. My friend is called Osezua and he works for Forensix Inc. Would you know him, by any chance?'

John laughed. ‘There are an awful lot of people called Osezua in this country, and probably a fair few who also happen to be working for Forensix. You might need to be more specific.'

I thought at that point how little I knew about Darius other than his job – to do with using technology to detect fraud – and the fact he was Nigerian. We'd had many conversations about his country but they hadn't conjured any pictures for me. I didn't know where Nigeria was on the map, let alone its capital city or commercial centres. To be honest, I was more interested in other things. He'd told me about tribal differences and corruption but he might just as well have been telling me about the internal workings of a steam engine for all the understanding it gave me. I'd never been to Africa and hadn't, at the time, any intention of going. I would nod occasionally to give the impression I'd taken in every detail, and now I wish I had.

What I'd learned from Darius was not much to go on when searching such a large country for one man.

Tracey was quiet, seemingly happy to allow fate to take its course. No doubt she'd have been quite happy driving around with John all day as long as it meant she didn't have to hobble along like Jake the Peg.

She coughed and said: ‘I don't suppose you know Lady Buke Osolase, do you? She's my future mother-in-law.'

I wracked my brains to think where I'd heard that name before.

‘My, oh, my, you are marrying into royalty,' I heard John say, as I nearly choked with the realisation – that the woman I'd bumped into on the plane was Baz's mother. ‘She's one feisty lady. Buke is very well known in Nigeria. She's based at the university, about twenty miles from here,' he said.

Lady Buke Osolase was the large African woman I'd had the run-in with on the flight over. Tracey had probably mentioned her before, but I suppose I wasn't listening. I also wasn't too certain she was someone I wanted to meet again, but fate had intervened and was suggesting she could help us out.

I looked round at Tracey, who was trying to pull a comb through her hair but it had got stuck.

‘Lady Osolase was on our flight. I fell into her lap and the hostess told me who she was,' I said.

Tracey looked stunned, and then the penny dropped.

‘Oh, yeah. Baz said something about her coming back from England. She'd been working somewhere. Cambridge, I think. Talking about clever women, or summin' like that. She's got a degree.'

John was looking in the rear-view mirror at his other passenger and seemed to be slightly amused. Possibly by the comb poking out from where it had become lodged or maybe the general state of her face. Either way, he was friendly enough to us both and showed an interest in Tracey's forthcoming marriage. He asked lots of questions about how she knew Baz and where she planned on living. He certainly showed an interest in her which, along with his ponytail, made me think he might be some kind of liberal.

‘Well, I can take you to the university and you can catch up with her there, unless you have her address?'

Tracey immediately responded: ‘Oh, no, I've never met her. She was on our plane, but I didn't know it was her. Probably a good thing, as she seems a bit scary.'

As we had few options I suggested going to the university might not be a bad idea. Even if Lady Osolase wasn't there we could ask for some directions to Darius's company. I considered whether we should go to the British embassy and tell them about our plight, but was feeling nervous about admitting all the facts of our imprisonment and also our escape. I didn't want to be charged for drugging guards, tying them up and leaving them locked in shacks without food or water. And I didn't particularly want anyone to hear their side of the story.

We'd travelled for some miles before John turned very quiet. He stopped asking us questions and a frown had started to knit between his brows. Tracey had fallen asleep, and I'd been trying to keep a level of conversation going but had found it increasingly difficult.

‘So how far away are we?' I asked.

John sighed deeply and held his breath before answering.

‘You'll get there when you get there. Don't be impatient.'

I heard the sound of the doors locking. I looked round, and by that point Tracey had woken up. Her hair was wilder than ever, spread out at right angles from her scalp with the comb still embedded just above her right ear.

He put the radio on but it made a lot of noise without connecting either to words or music. I got a little frightened and could tell that Tracey's breathing was heavy, which could have been down to cigarettes or the same thought I was having: that this was all getting very scary. I was surprised she didn't say anything.

To hide our concern, I asked a few more questions of John, who was staring straight ahead and had started to lean forward, his head vertically above the steering wheel and his back a good distance from the comfort of his seat. He didn't answer any of my questions, but suddenly burst into a description of his life.

We heard how he'd gone out to the country in the 1960s to work on a cotton farm. He'd met his wife, an African, and had three children who went to live in the USA, having received a good education that enabled them to get good jobs in finance. She'd died four years ago, and since then he'd been working for an agricultural forum that was aiming to increase investment in their industry.

‘Farmers struggle in this country. Not like in the UK where they get EU support for throwing milk away and growing rape seed which no one wants to buy,' John said.

He leant across and I thought he was going to touch me, but instead he pulled open the glove box and took out a packet of Opal Fruits. They are called something else at home now, so either they were very old or Nigeria has different brand names to us.

‘Have a sweet,' he said, shoving the packet under my nose.

‘No, thanks,' I replied. ‘My fillings and jaw aren't up to the demands such a chew would make of them.'

He spoke slowly and deliberately this time, raising his voice.

‘Have. A. Sweet.'

‘I'll have one,' said Tracey in the back, still tugging at the comb.

‘Both of you; have a sweet,' he said, whipping his head round to look at me. His eyes looked peculiar, as if he'd just sat on something sharp and uncomfortable.

I took a green-wrapped sweet only to be told it was John's favourite, so I picked a yellow one for me and a red one for Tracey.

‘Yum,' she said, as she ripped the wrapper off and threw the Opal Fruit in her mouth.

I didn't find it so easy. The paper had stuck to mine so I shoved the whole lot in rather than encourage further wrath for fiddling while John fumed. As my saliva took on board its task, the paper started to slide off as I chewed. I had a mix of what I could only describe as envelope and rubber mixed with cheap cake flavouring. The only reason I recognised the flavour was because I remembered one of Titch's school home economics sessions where she found the food processor more fascinating than the process of making food. Anything she could lay her hands on was included in the so-called cake mixture, including her school report and a broken HB pencil.

I was hungry and didn't feel things were going quite our way. Tracey was leaning forward in her seat to look through the front window, no doubt wondering herself where we were headed. I gave her a ‘look' to suggest she kept her mouth shut.

We were heading down a narrow road when suddenly John swerved the car into an opening no broader than the width of his car. We bumped down into a wooded area surrounded by dark, overhanging trees. Everything felt dank and dark and the temperature dropped. He sped up and we were weaving our way through trees like skiers on a downhill slalom run. Both Tracey and I were too scared to say anything.

He brought the car to a grinding halt on a platform above what looked like a lake. There were bits of wood, clothing and various unidentifiable matter floating on the surface. The doors unlocked and locked again. John was playing nervously with his keys, and I started to think about my life and how I didn't want it to end just yet. Although I don't want to see too much of my children and grandchildren, I would like to see them now and again. They are grown-ups with their own lives, but I take it for granted they are there and I hope they think the same about me. I could feel a tear well up in my eye.

‘Is this your home, John?' I asked. I could feel Tracey's nerves jangling behind me and hoped she wouldn't do anything silly.

‘Of course it bloody isn't, you stupid cow,' he shouted, and then wound down the electronic windows partially before getting out of the car and slamming the door behind him. He locked the car using his key, which he placed in his pocket.

‘What the frig is he doing?' hissed Tracey from the back. I turned round and she reminded me of a frightened llama I'd once seen at Chester Zoo.

‘Shhh, I don't know, but I don't think we should upset him in case he does something silly,' I whispered to her.

John turned back to us and stood, looking through the car rather than at us. He took a rolled-up cigarette from a tin in his back pocket and lit it, shielding his lighter from an imaginary wind with his cupped hands. He took a deep drag and held the smoke in with his breath. He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and jabbed at the numbers on the screen.