Eighteen

Muna stooped over Ebuka’s bed to peer into his face when the bill from the credit-card company arrived. He seemed shocked.

What’s wrong, Master? Has Princess spent more than you thought she would?

He made a grab for her throat but Muna was too quick for him. She jumped away, wondering what he expected to achieve by such an action. Did he think he could force her into obedience by hurting her? Or that he’d be better off if he killed her? The phones and computers would still be out of his reach. She watched as he took long, calming breaths.

I don’t believe Yetunde’s used the card at all, he said. There are two transactions at the local supermarket but no hotels or airline tickets.

I expect that’s why she asked Olubayo to steal your jewellery, Master. She wanted to sell it so that she could buy things without you knowing.

A flicker of impatience crossed Ebuka’s face. I told you when Princess left that I’d know something had happened to her if she didn’t use her card.

But she has, Master. She’s bought food for herself and Olubayo.

Someone has … but I don’t think it’s Princess. My guess is her card’s been stolen. Why would she be shopping in our local supermarket if she’s in Africa?

Perhaps she didn’t go to Africa, Master.

He tapped the page angrily. Then where are the payments for rent or hotels? She can’t stay in England without having somewhere to live. There should be a hundred transactions recorded here.

She’s staying with a friend, Master. She must be close if she was able to talk to Olubayo.

Ebuka searched her face, his eyes deeply troubled. If I thought it possible, I’d believe you were responsible for Yetunde and Olubayo leaving … even Abiola’s disappearance. You’ve gained more each time than anyone else.

Muna stared back at him. I’ve gained nothing, Master. I’m still a slave.

You don’t behave like one.

But what could I have done to make Princess and Olubayo leave, Master? They never did anything they didn’t want to do. I can’t make people vanish just by wishing.

He clenched and unclenched his fists. But you’d like to. You’d live here alone if you could. You’re more attached to this house than you’ve ever been to a person. I see the look of triumph on your face when you stand in the hall and think of it as yours.

It cares for me as much as I have cared for it, Master.

Houses don’t have feelings, Muna.

This one does, Master. I hear its laughter sometimes.

He looked away from her towards the window, and Muna saw how fiercely he was debating with himself. She guessed he knew it was she who had used Yetunde’s card, for even a man as stupid as Ebuka must question eventually where his food came from. But, no. When he spoke it was about the house.

Do you hope to stay here for ever, Muna?

It’s my home, Master. I like it here.

But do you understand that it doesn’t belong to me? It’s owned by someone else, who expects me to pay him rent.

What is rent, Master?

Money.

We have that, Master.

Not for much longer. My salary is only guaranteed for another month. When it stops coming we’ll be unable to stay. This house is too big and the rent’s too high. We shall have to move somewhere cheaper.

Muna pictured the bodies in the cellar. I don’t want that, Master.

We’ll be evicted if we try to stay. Landlords have no interest in tenants who can’t pay what they owe. We’ll be forced to leave whether we like it or not.

You must find a way to keep paying, Master.

Ebuka turned back to her with a hollow laugh. How? Where do you think money comes from? If Princess were here, she’d be on her phone to my employer, begging him to let me work from home on my computer … or asking the council to pay our rent. She wouldn’t lose the house through ignorance as you are doing.

A tiny flicker of uncertainty sparked in Muna’s mind. Was he telling the truth or trying to lure her into giving him a telephone? She recalled Mr Broadstone saying once that it was a pity Ebuka hadn’t taken out a mortgage and insured himself against accident. Once paralysed, the debt would have been paid off, and his wife would have had one less thing to worry about. The words had meant nothing to Muna because she didn’t understand them, but she saw they gave Yetunde yet another reason to demand compensation.

She watched Ebuka closely. Princess would be calling Mr Broadstone, Master. He said every time he came that he could win money for her. You should talk to him before you talk to your employer.

She was so certain Ebuka was trying to trick her into giving him his mobile that she didn’t think he’d remember what he’d told Mr Hughes. She was wrong. He shook his head irritably.

The lawyer’s already said the case won’t stand up. You’re as naïve as Yetunde if you think there’s an easy way to stay here. We must find someone else to help us.

Not we, Master … you.

But I can do nothing while you keep me prisoner and deny me access to my phone and my laptop. I assume it’s your way of punishing me but it’s hardly clever. You can’t stay here without me.

Muna knew this to be true. She dreamed often of pitching Ebuka down the cellar steps but she recognised that his death would cause more problems than it solved. However much she wanted the house to herself, she could think of no good explanation for why her crippled father would leave without her or how he could make a journey on his own. All manner of busybodies would come asking questions – the witchy-white more than anyone.

Also she doubted her ability to drag Ebuka’s heavy, lifeless body into the second chamber when it had been so hard to move Olubayo’s. The boy, still grateful for her kindness after his seizure, had followed her downstairs in the middle of the night when she told him Yetunde had left a message on the landline that his father didn’t want him to hear.

Olubayo was very stupid. Muna persuaded him to descend in silence and darkness so that Ebuka wouldn’t wake, and, yawning constantly, he didn’t see the open cellar door or the hammer that smashed against the side of his head. He fell and tumbled to the Devil’s laughter just as his mother had, and Muna thrilled to see him crumpled on the stone floor when she switched on the light.

She crept down the steps, eager to remind him that she’d said she hadn’t wanted him for a brother. But he was dead, and the job of dragging and rolling his limp body to the hidden door was arduous and tiring, leaving blood trails on the stones which had to be cleaned and carefully covered with dust when they were dry. Of course little Muna did it well. She did everything well, but she would have to be bigger and stronger before she could do the same with Ebuka.

Did you ever try to punish Yetunde? Ebuka asked suddenly.

I would if I’d been able, Master, but she was too big for someone as small as me. You’d have found me dead on the floor if I’d tried. She came close to killing me many times.

Ebuka gave a weary sigh, knowing she was right. She made monsters of us all the day she went to the orphanage, he said. She found your name in an old newspaper, which is why she was able to forge documents, claiming a relationship with you.

Why was I in the newspaper, Master?

Your mother was murdered when you were four years old. The nuns took you in and gave you a home.

Why don’t I remember my mother, Master?

Your experience was traumatic. You cradled her head in your lap for three days before neighbours came to check on you. The smell of death alerted them that something was wrong.

I have no recollection of it, Master.

Shock robbed you of speech and memory. The nuns described you as the most silent child they’d ever had, and advised Princess you would never be able to communicate fully. It was they who suggested you might have suffered brain damage at birth.

Did they find the murderer, Master?

Ebuka shook his head. Your mother knew many men. The police were never able to discover which of them killed her.

Did they try, Master?

Not as hard as they should. She brought shame on herself by the way she earned her money.

Muna pictured the naked women on Olubayo’s computer. Princess said my mother was her sister, Master.

Only because it suited her purpose. She spun a story about a second wife who allowed her daughter to go to the bad and lose contact with the rest of the family. She told the nuns she’d only recently learned that your mother was dead. If she’d known earlier, she’d have rescued you sooner. She lied well and they believed her.

Who is my father, Master?

I don’t know. The neighbours said your mother didn’t either.

Muna’s unblinking eyes stared at him. Why are you telling me this, Master?

Because it’s better you know your story before the police do. There’ll be no keeping secrets once we’re forced from this house. It’s only the walls that have kept the truth hidden so long.