Mosi's War (8 page)

Patrick peered closer into the dark of the bike sheds. There was so little movement, he began to wonder if Mosi was actually still there. Maybe he’d slipped off home when Patrick had blinked, and he was just wasting his time.

And then, just when Patrick’s resolve began to weaken, and in another few minutes he would have been off, he caught a movement. Mosi, standing erect, moving a couple of centimetres out of his cover. His whole body seemed to stiffen. His eyes were fixed on a point Patrick couldn’t see. He looked puzzled. As if he couldn’t figure out what he was looking at. Patrick tried to see but there was a stone pillar in his way. And then, the look on Mosi’s face changed. Patrick had never seen a look of such terror. He was sure if he’d been closer he could have seen Mosi’s whole body shaking. He tried to see what it was that Mosi was looking at, but it was blocked from his view. Mosi’s gaze didn’t shift. Patrick saw his hands grip his trousers, his fingers like claws digging deep into his skin.

What was he seeing?

Who was he seeing?

Patrick moved. He had to see what Mosi was seeing too.

Chapter 23

In those first seconds Mosi was sure it wasn’t him. Not Papa Blood. He’d been wrong, and he was so glad he’d been wrong. This man was bent over; his walk was more of a shuffle. He carried a bag of shopping. A child walked towards him and he reached out his shovel of a hand, a hand with a big cheap diamond ring on one of the fingers, and he patted her on the head. And then, he smiled. The smile of a gentle man.

The wrong man! Of course! How could he have mistaken this wreck of a man for Papa Blood? As if the most wanted war criminal in all the world could hide out here? In plain sight.

You’re hiding out here
, Mosi
, a voice inside his head whispered.

But I’m not him.

I’m not evil like him.

Am I?

He wanted it so much to be the wrong man.

But what a disguise that would be.

He had to be sure. He moved a step closer.

Mr Okafor shuffled towards one of the houses. It had a ramp leading to the front door. It seemed to tire him as he walked, as if even that small climb was an effort. At the front door, he laid down his shopping bag, searched in his pocket for his key. He glanced around. There was no one about. The path around the tower block and the houses were deserted. And for a split second, he stood straight. Out of sight of the world, he straightened. Holding his back as if it pained him to have to stoop in such an unnatural position for so long, every day. Mosi held his breath, because in the same moment the man turned as if he knew someone was watching him. He looked all around, his eyes searching in every direction. And somehow, Mosi found the courage to keep looking, and he saw in that second the real man emerge, the stoop gone, the face with nothing of a smile left in it.

It was the face he remembered.

The face that haunted every one of his nightmares.

Once again he was where he did not want to be. He could feel the midday sun burning his back. Papa Blood was striding towards them. He held his machete in one hand, his gun in the other. Mosi made himself invisible. The only way to stay safe. He melted behind the boy in front of him, kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He had seen other boys try to please him, and he had seen his awful wrath turn against them when they displeased him. Or disobeyed his rules.

Better if he never saw you at all. Like now. Mosi shrank back, lowered his head. The man was angry. He had come for one of them. It didn’t matter to him which one.

He stopped in front of the kneeling boys. Looked down at them. And when he spoke his voice was the voice of ice-cold terror.

‘You have no one else but me to look after you now. You have no mama, no papa. I am your papa. I will look after you, take care of you. And if you cross me, I will punish you. I am Papa Blood.’

Some things you cannot bear to remember. That moment was one of them. Mosi’s body began to shake, and no matter how he tried his mind flashed with horrific images, glints of steel, blood, people screaming, dying. He felt his legs go weak. He stumbled back into the bike shed and forced himself not to vomit. The monster might hear him. When he glanced back to the entrance to the house, the man was gone.

It was only Mr Okafor, Patrick was thinking, when he saw him standing at his front door. He had never seen him but, from Ameira’s description, the bent back, the daft look on his face, it was definitely Mr Okafor. He was carrying a blue plastic bag. There was a carton of milk in there, and some bananas. He’d been shopping. Why was Mosi so terrified of this man? Hadn’t Ameira said everyone liked him?

Okafor laid down his shopping bag, searched in his pocket for his front-door key. He looked around him, and then, he stretched up. The height of him made Patrick gasp. He had never seen anyone so tall. And for a moment, the daft look on his face seemed to disappear. He looked completely different. But only for a second. Then he opened his door, bent down to pick up his bag, and shuffled inside his house.

Patrick was puzzled. Mosi was terrified of Mr Okafor? Here was another mystery. And Patrick knew then, he would have to find out why.

Chapter 24

Mosi had wanted to get far away from this man for so long. Yet, here he was on his estate. One day, he might come face to face with him. In a shop, in the street on the way to school. And he would give himself away, he knew he would. He would not be able to hide the horror in his eyes.

And what could he do? Where could he go? Nowhere was far enough to escape his magic.

He began to run. His legs wobbled under him. Before he reached the walkway, he was sick, and this time he didn’t stop himself. He vomited so much he was sure there was no stomach left inside him.

He was still bent double when he felt the hand on his shoulder. He leapt with fear.

‘Are you OK, Mosi?’

It was Patrick. Mosi wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. He didn’t know what to say to him. What was Patrick doing here?

‘I know, Mosi, I know who you’re afraid of.’

Mosi still said nothing. He couldn’t take this in. His eyes moved swiftly to the line of houses, almost as if they could see that giant of a man filling the rooms in his house with his presence, standing tall now he was alone again.

Patrick followed his gaze. ‘I know he lives there.’ He touched Mosi’s arm. ‘And you’re terrified of him.’

Mosi pulled away from him, shaking his head. Patrick knew? How much did he know?

‘I only want to help you, Mosi.’

‘There’s nothing we can do, Patrick. Nothing.’ His words were a mumble. ‘The monster is here, and there is nothing we can do.’

And he began to run home.

A monster? But how could that daft old man be a monster? What did Mosi mean?

Patrick tried to race after him, but in the seconds it took for him to absorb what Mosi had said he was gone. As if he had vanished. Not even the sound of his footsteps echoing on the concrete. It was too eerie. Patrick stopped dead. It was growing darker. He was alone on the pathway. With all this talk of a monster, and a vampire, Patrick imagined strange things all around him. The tower blocks seemed to close over him. The estate became a place Patrick didn’t recognise. And when a dog howled somewhere behind him, Patrick was off too. Every moment he glanced around, sure something was after him. A shadow on the wall made him stumble, almost fall. But he managed to keep going. It reminded him of the giant shadow he had seen in the underpass. He felt as if round every corner that same giant shadow would leap out at him. He would be the next victim.

As he stepped into the lift he couldn’t stop shaking.

Perhaps something was waiting for him in here, crouching on top of the roof, and when the lift began to rise it would leap through the hatch and be on him. He was even glad when the old man from the fifteenth floor ran for the doors and held them open. Old Mr Ratho, a wee bit drunk, a wee bit annoying, but the best company Patrick could have asked for. He talked non-stop as the lift rose floor by floor, and Patrick was glad he was there. He stood in the middle of the lift, swaying, right beneath the hatch. If something did drop down, it would get him first.

‘Are you feeling OK, Patrick?’ Mr Ratho asked when the lift reached his floor and Patrick stepped out. ‘You’re never usually this quiet. Usually cannae get you to shut up.’

Patrick licked his lips. ‘Think I ate something,’ he said.

The flat was empty. No Mum. No Granny. And for once he wanted one of them to be there. He put on all the lights and curled up on his bed, hugging his knees, listening to every sound.

Chapter 25

Patrick was desperate to speak to Mosi the next day. He stood on the ground floor waiting for Mosi to come down in the lift. Waited so long he was late again for school. Yet, when he finally tore into the classroom, getting bawled at for being ‘tardy again’ –  Mrs Duncan the English teacher was always talking like that. Trying to teach them new words, when half the class couldn’t speak English at all. Mosi was there. Deliberately not looking at him. How had Patrick missed him? Even if he’d run down the stairs, Patrick would have seen him, going out through the main doors, running across the concourse.

Maybe he had a parachute.

Patrick sat three rows behind him and didn’t take his eyes from the back of Mosi’s head all through the lesson. Willing him to look round. But Mosi kept his gaze fixed firmly in front of him, as if he was engrossed by what the teacher was saying.

Patrick grabbed Mosi as soon as the lesson ended and the class were flooding to the next lesson. ‘Mosi, we’ve got to talk.’

‘Talk? About what?’

Patrick felt his face go red. ‘About what? About yesterday, of course! About who you saw. About what you said.’

Mosi shrugged his arm free. ‘I saw nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Patrick wasn’t going to let him deny it all. He spoke so loudly some of the others turned to look. ‘Who are you trying to kid? I followed you. I know what you saw. Who you saw.’

Mosi backed away, shaking his head. ‘
Idaa!
’ he said. ‘Leave me alone.’ But Patrick could see the fear in his eyes. Then, Mosi turned and ran.

Patrick stood watching him. Why was Mosi lying? Was he really that afraid? Yep, that was it. He was afraid, and Patrick couldn’t blame him. He was afraid too. And he didn’t even know what he was afraid of. But why lie?

Mosi was hiding something, terrified of something. Terrified of Mr Okafor. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to know that. But who was Mr Okafor? A monster, he had called him. Patrick couldn’t leave it at that. He had to know more. All Patrick wanted to do was help. Couldn’t Mosi see that?

‘What was all that about?’ It was Bliss, and beside her, clinging on to her arm, Ameira.

‘I hope you weren’t picking on Mosi.’ This was Ameira.

That made Patrick laugh. ‘Me? I don’t pick on anybody. You should talk to your boyfriend. He’s the one who picks on Mosi.’

A blush rose in Ameira’s face. ‘Me? I don’t have a boyfriend.’

Patrick shrugged. ‘If Hakim was my boyfriend, I’d keep it a secret as well.’

This time her face went bright red. ‘He is not . . .’ She couldn’t finish what she was saying. Couldn’t find the words she needed.

Bliss rescued her. ‘So since when has Mosi been your best friend?’

‘I was trying to talk to him about something important, if you must know.’

For a moment he wondered if he could confide in Bliss. She was really annoying at times, but she was a nice girl. She would want to help Mosi too. But Mosi was so scared and didn’t want anyone to know about it. Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut for now.

‘It was boy talk, actually.’ He said it as if she had asked.

Bliss turned to Ameria. ‘Boy talk! Must be something really boring, then.’ And confident that together they had at least protected Mosi, they both walked off.

Mosi was glad he had had time to think about what to say to Patrick. He’d needed that time. Patrick had followed him, had seen his fear of Okafor. And for a while, just a short while, he’d been glad. Here was someone he could confide in. Together, they could decide what to do.

But what if Patrick wanted to know how he knew of this awful man? Knew he wasn’t who he said he was. That he must be here under a false passport. How could he explain that he knew one of the world’s most wanted war criminals? The truth would lead to all his lies tumbling like dominoes, one after another. And Patrick would want to go to the police, and Mosi’s story would come out, and . . .

NO!

He could not confide in Patrick. If Patrick knew who Okafor really was, then let him go to the police on his own. He would say nothing. Pretend he had seen nothing. What was it Patrick had seen anyway? Mosi watching Okafor. Mosi being sick. He had put two and two together and come up with the wrong answer. Better to pretend he didn’t understand what Patrick was talking about. And that would be the lie he would stick with.

Another lie.

And anyway, perhaps the man had changed. His past he could not change. He had been a monster, worse than a monster, nothing could make up for the past. But perhaps he was trying to build a new life here, just as Mosi was. As his parents were. Perhaps he was trying to make up for all the evil he had done.