Dear Beneficiary (26 page)

‘Two girls, bound and gagged. Knickers only and no funny business,' the voice said.

We all kept still. I suspected Tracey was thinking the same as me – that our fate was sealed and we'd be back in the shack, only this time our captors wouldn't be so nice.
Damn and blast.

Luter crouched down low, listening. Suddenly a phone rang and the same male voice spoke.

‘Two girls, bound and gagged. Two hours,' said the voice, which coughed and then burped loudly. Tracey looked at me with a wrinkled nose to express her disgust.

We sat in silence, although I could swear my heart could be heard beating across the entire country. Tracey clutched hold of my arm with both hands and was so petrified she was barely breathing.

The noise of the phone could be heard again, along with another cough.

‘I'm coming, I'm coming,' said the voice in a husky, almost inaudible, way. ‘Two girls, bound and gagged.'

It was getting a bit repetitive. We knew what he had planned, but did he have to keep banging on about it?

A car could be heard parking outside and Tracey's eyes widened. She must have thought, as I did, that the stalker in the car had found us. I hoped neither of us would pass out as we heard footsteps make their way up to the cabin. The door opened.

‘Luter, Luter, are you here?' shouted an English voice, as we heard keys being jangled.

Luter slid along the floor of the storeroom and poked his head out round the bottom of the door.

‘Bill, it's me. I'm here,' he whispered. ‘There's someone in your office. He's been following us.'

A loud laugh could be heard, and then the sound of keys in a door.

‘Don't go in there, Bill, it could be dangerous,' said Luter to the sound of further laughing.

‘There's nothing dangerous about Pussy,' said Bill, still chuckling as he spoke.

Luter stood up gingerly, and I didn't blame him. I wouldn't believe someone asking for bound and gagged girls could be considered nothing to worry about.

Bill, a round man with a soft, pillowy face and a vast moustache, marched over and peered through to where Tracey and I were suffering from an adrenalin rush and were shaking like leaves in a wind tunnel.

‘Come, see. There's nothing to worry about,' he added.

We got up and shook ourselves down before being led into the back office, where we were greeted by one of the biggest macaws I'd ever seen. Blue and yellow, it was perched on top of a large cabinet, tethered by a long chain it was holding with its beak and one claw.

‘It's a bloody parrot!' said Tracey, incredulous at the sight of this huge bird eyeing her up with big beady eyes.

‘Suck my cock,' it screeched in her direction. ‘Tickle my arse,' it added for good measure.

Bill went over and tapped the bird on its nose. The bird hissed at him before making the sound of a telephone ringing.

‘I'm so sorry about Pussy's behaviour,' said Bill. ‘I rescued her from a brothel in Lagos and haven't quite managed full rehabilitation. Her language can be terrible!'

‘Get yer tits out,' Pussy continued, enjoying having an audience. She ran up and down her perch sideways before imitating a phone again. ‘Two girls, bound and gagged.'

Bill gave Pussy a grape and it occupied her sufficiently to keep her quiet while Luter discussed the need for another car.

‘If you could keep mine until I've delivered the ladies safely, it should act as a decoy,' he said, proving himself to be our saviour.

We were offered tea and some toast, which we accepted after Luter checked there was no sign of our pursuer. Bill was very attentive and wanted to take care of us, it seemed, although I found his constant staring at me a little off-putting. However, it was delightful to have real butter and marmalade, home treats I'd stopped giving myself on the grounds they weren't healthy.

Sod health, let's live a little
, I thought, making a mental Post-it note to do more delicious things in my life.

Bill told us he came from Brighton, and I guessed his age at around fifty-five, although he may have aged badly. His large round gut and lack of hair gave him the badge of middle age, although it could easily be the result of the privileges of living an ex-pat life as an oil worker; hotel meals, expense-account lunches and numerous invitations to parties held by other British people living away from home. Bill had been working for a large corporate organisation which had made him redundant four years ago, but he'd decided to stay and set up a car hire business. I suspected it wasn't very profitable, judging by its location and the state of the vehicles parked outside.

‘The wife ran off with a young black man. He was only about thirty-five,' he said, and I felt myself blush.

‘She took him back to England to show him off to all her friends. Some menopausal desire to prove someone found her attractive, in my opinion,' he added.

I flinched at the scenario and made a mental note to never mention Darius, particularly his age and colour, to anyone in Surrey.

‘He's welcome to her. The novelty will have worn off now, and instead of home-cooked meals and clean sheets for romantic nights, she'll be moaning he never does anything round the house and making him sleep in the spare room,' said Bill, topping up our tea. ‘The only peace he'll get is when she goes out on her Chardonnay and tapas nights with her friends from the gym, which is easily eradicated on her return, as she'll be so pissed she'll demand an argument, ending up with her telling him to fuck off and get out of her life. Then she'll cry and everything wrong in her life will be his fault. I'm best out of it!'

‘Fuck off,' Pussy could be heard saying from the back office.

‘On that note, let's get you a car sorted out. We don't have much to offer, but as you haven't got far to go I'm sure we can get you to your destination in one piece.'

He showed us to a rusty old Morris Minor Traveller with one tyre considerably flatter than the others and the windows taped up with old bin bags. Looking at the bird droppings on its roof I assumed it hadn't been driven for a while.

‘I love them cars,' said Tracey. ‘You can lie down in the back of 'em!'

I didn't comment, and went over to pull the driver's door handle to look inside, half expecting a family of wild animals to appear. The handle fell off as I tugged it, and Bill came rushing over to help me, noticing my embarrassment.

‘Don't worry, that's always happening. I'll sort that out,' he said, pulling a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and screwing the handle back into place. ‘It's a good runner. We'll pump up the tyre and get you going soon enough.'

Bill handed Luter the keys and went back for our luggage.

‘As the windows are covered up, you can't be seen. Stay in the back, and if we get followed again they won't know you're in here,' said Luter, as he pumped the tyres with considerable effort.

It was a good plan so we settled in, making ourselves comfy on the various blankets and cushions that were scattered around. Bill opened up the back doors and placed our bags to one side.

‘My old dog, Blackie, used to love it in here, rest her soul,' he said, adding that he wished us good luck and hoped to hear of us again soon. Tracey started to sniff, and this time I put it down to dog fur rather than dropping levels of oestrogen.

Bill banged on the roof and went back inside to answer a phone call. How he knew the difference between a real one and Pussy's impression was a mystery.

Luter turned the engine over but it wouldn't catch. The Morris would rattle into some kind of life and give up, like an arthritic pensioner making her way up the stairs.

On the seventh go the car fired into life and juddered its way out onto the road, which was eerily quiet. Luter was tense throughout the drive, finding the absence of one arm a major hindrance with a steering wheel that had a life of its own. He hung on marvellously throughout the rest of the journey, which was only fifteen or twenty minutes – and from our viewpoint far more relaxed than the drive to get here.

Tracey was contemplative as we drove along, and then sat up with a start, leaning in to the driver's seat.

‘You're a good bloke, you are. We could have met another bastard, couldn't we, Cynth?' Her eyes were glinting and I wondered what she was up to.

‘But Luter here, he's 'armless!' she added, laughing loudly at the brilliance of her joke.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was the start of the working day and there were hundreds of students milling about, carrying bags and books and looking like any undergraduates might in any city. The University of Nigeria was a huge campus made up of many orange-coloured buildings, each reached by long, inviting driveways. I'd expected it would be more dusty shacks and young people squatting around camp fires with scrappy notebooks.

Luter dropped us off near the main entrance and we walked to the door, not sure whether to go straight in or not. We didn't look like typical university visitors. Tracey lit up one of her cigarettes and started to cough. She leaned forward and clutched her chest as she did so, as if to hold in her lungs before they were violently expelled.

‘Ugh, this is horrible,' she added, once she'd regained some composure. ‘Reckon I've actually given up. That'll save a packet.'

Quite a few packets, I thought, as I watched her break the lit end off and flick it into an area of bushes beside us.

‘Well, I think we'd better go and see who we can find,' I said to Tracey, who was stamping out a small fire she had created in the undergrowth.

Once inside the building we were greeted by a row of female receptionists, all of whom looked the same to me. Big, wide grins full of white teeth, round cheeks perched on high bones, pink lips accentuated with bright red lipstick, and straight, shiny hair. I wondered how long it took them to get it like that or whether they needed some kind of reverse perm.

All looked welcoming, and so we went straight to the first desk.

‘We are looking for Lady Buke Osolase. We understand she works here?' I said in as an informed voice as I could. I'd become aware we didn't look too smart, having survived imprisonment and a minor road accident. Thankfully Tracey kept her mouth shut, which helped on a number of levels.

If they'd noticed our dishevelment they didn't give any indication, and our receptionist immediately rang through to an extension number.

‘Who shall I say is calling?' she asked.

‘We're friends from England,' I said.

Then Tracey added: ‘And she's my prospective mother-in-law.'

The receptionist didn't bat an eyelid and, within a few seconds (that seemed like an eternity to me), told us to take a seat and that Lady Osolase's secretary would be down for us.

When the lift came down to our floor a while later I was surprised to see she'd come to meet us herself, and got rather scared. Our last meeting hadn't gone well, and the fact Tracey was likely to offer herself up as daughter material wasn't very promising.

‘Hello, ladies. So lovely to see you,' she said, as she glided along the tiled floor, swishing her coloured robes behind her as she moved.

She wore a bright orange, yellow and red turban that set off her features, making the spectacle of her advance rather magical.

I stood up, and as I did so could see the flash of recognition creep across her face. I thought about running away, but said hello back and hoped I'd be able to bluff my way through my fear.

‘We met on the plane,' I blustered.

She smiled in a professional manner, with lots of teeth but the smile did not meet her eyes.

‘I know dat,' she replied.

Tracey jumped up alongside me and held out her hand.

‘I'm Tracey – or Trace – and I'm engaged to be married to your son, Baz.'

Lady Osolase grimaced. Her head whipped round to meet Tracey's gaze and she said nothing, other than to turn to the receptionist and ask for tea to be brought to the meeting room.

‘Follow me,' she finally said to us, and we dutifully lagged behind as she swept her way through the corridors and into a small back room. It was decked with literally hundreds of photographs of her with different people from across the world, including faces I could recognise such as David Cameron and, strangely, Tom Jones. The abiding sense was one of colour, making everyone around her look grey. I began to feel the same.

She pointed to some leather chairs grouped around a beautifully ornate wooden coffee table engraved with various African animals, and told us to sit. We did exactly as we were told. For the first time in my relatively long life I thought I'd lost my voice.

‘So, me son's bin up to his old tricks, den,' she finally said to Tracey, with no apparent disdain but just a faint look of sorrow.

The tea arrived and she poured it out, saying nothing more. The silence was solid. It felt like you could physically shift it around the room.

‘Where did ya meet me son?' she said, handing around china cups and saucers and offering sugar once we had taken them.

‘On PlentyOfFish,' said Tracey.

‘What d'yous say?' asked our hostess, looking puzzled.

‘It's a website, for dating. Then we went on holiday and he asked me to marry him. That's why I'm here.'

Lady Osolase breathed heavily through her teeth and sat up very straight. She took another breath.

‘I'm very sorry to say dis a familiar story. I s'pose he asked yous for money, too?'

Tracey was looking to the floor, and I wondered if she'd finally realised what was going on.

‘Yeah, five grand.'

‘Oh, my dear girl. I'll make sure yous git it back.'

She stood up and asked to be excused as she needed to contact someone urgently. She also asked us if we would like to freshen up, which we said we would. It was pointless trying to pretend we didn't, as both of us looked like we'd been to a ‘Dragged Through Hedges Backwards' competition – and won.