15

A black Toyota Land Cruiser rolled down Falomo Bridge and turned at the roundabout onto Awolowo Road. Knockout – a five-foot tall man whose dark leathery skin was stretched by his prominent chin and cheekbones – was driving. He had not found the controls to adjust the seat so he perched on the edge, his toes just grazing the pedals, and he watched out for police checkpoints.

Go-Slow, who at seven-foot tall dwarfed his companion, was kneeling backwards in the passenger seat. His feet, crossed, touched the windscreen and his back pressed into the ceiling. He was cleaning blood off the rear seats and the windows and the headrest. It was everywhere. He found a box of tissues on the dashboard and spread blood over the beige leather upholstery until the perfumed sheets broke into useless red clumps. He looked at the blood gathered under his nails and cursed. The night before, his wife had spent an hour giving him a manicure while he watched Arsenal being thrashed. She was right about Knockout: he would get them into trouble one day.

‘How far?’ Knockout said.

‘Just drive.’

Maybe he should strangle the fool himself and set the car on fire with his little body in it. He wanted them to ditch the car but the moron wouldn’t listen. They had killed before, but what they just did was wrong and it was all because of that conversation they’d had a week ago with Catch-Fire.

When they learned that the bus stop pickpocket was spending dollar bills at beer parlours on Lagos Island, they remembered the money he owed them. They found his new home and he settled his debt in hundred dollar bills. He boasted of his new business that involved juju and human sacrifice and said he’d graduated beyond their ranks. Knockout spent a week ranting about Catch-Fire.

They’d met earlier that day at CMS and walked to Dolphin Estate where Knockout stood at the foot of a bridge, holding up a strip of mobile phone recharge cards, while Go-Slow hid with their guns in a nearby bush. A woman in a Land Cruiser stopped to buy recharge cards and Go-Slow got into the seat next to her. They threw her shoes into the bush, searched her handbag for her address, and said they would come for her if she went to the police.

They changed the number plates and drove to Sanusi Fafunwa because Knockout wanted to take a girl home. Before they parked, a woman was walking towards them, adjusting her red miniskirt, and rearranging her breasts inside her tight bra. She leaned into the window to haggle.

‘Two K,’ Knockout said.

‘Five,’ she said.

‘Three.’

‘Is it both of you?’

‘No. Just me.’

‘OK.’

She got into the back, shut the door, and pulled out a rusty revolver from her clutch bag.

‘Bastards. Drive.’

Her gang were waiting round the corner by the Law School. She waved the gun from one hoodlum to the other, wondering why they just stared at her. Then she gently placed the revolver on the seat and slowly raised her hands, unable to dodge this way or that way from the barrels of both their guns pointed at her belly.

Knockout jumped over his seat and started hitting her on the head with her own weapon. She shouted for help and Go-Slow put his big palm over her face, wrapped his other hand around her neck, and twisted.

Cars drove by and girls walked past but the tinted glass hid what was going on inside. Go-Slow unfolded his arms and her body slumped onto the seat.

Her shirt had torn and her breasts were exposed. Knockout’s face lit up. He pulled out a jack-knife from his knee-length boot and flicked the blade out in a move he had been practicing in front of his mirror. He tore off the rest of the girl’s shirt and brought his dagger down on her chest in a massive blow that punctured through flesh and bone. He wriggled the blade free and went at it again. Go-Slow, with the unblinking interest of someone stoned, watched, thinking that his partner might have snorted too much cocaine before they met. When Knockout held the girl’s warm heart in his hand, he expected him to take a bite from it but instead he said, ‘Let’s go and find that morafucker, Catch-Fire.’

The light of an electric torch flickered ahead. Knockout tapped his partner’s leg and shifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake. Go-Slow turned and saw the checkpoint. He sat back in his seat and cleaned his hands with the last tissue from the box. It was no use. He wiped them on the bottom of his trousers then rolled up his sleeves and checked for spots of blood on his shirt.

The police had stopped a yellow Hummer ahead. A hand with a clenched fist reached out of the car’s window. A policeman took whatever was in it, put it into his own pocket and waved the Hummer on.

Knockout inched forward. He stopped between two worn tyres set on both sides of the road. The kerosene lamps that balanced on them had run out of fuel. He looked at Go-Slow’s shirt. He had taken off his own and noted with relief that blood had not seeped into the black vest underneath. He pulled the vest over the pistol in his belt then he pressed the button to roll down the tinted window.

An albino officer with transparent bristles on his cheeks peered into the car through the little gap Knockout had made. He pointed his torch at the driver’s face and Knockout held up his hand.

‘Ol’ boy, don’t shine that thing in my face,’ Knockout said.

The policeman withdrew his torch. The car was new and it was big, so the occupants could be men who would make trouble for him. He wanted to take a closer look at the driver’s face. He knew what big men look like and the man who had told him to take his torch away did not look like a big man. But in Ikoyi, anybody could be somebody. He placed his palm on the driver’s door and turned to search for his boss.

The higher-ranking officer was standing on the sidewalk, leaning on a Kalashnikov he used as a walking stick, watching his men work. The Hummer had yielded only fifty naira so he had sworn at the young constable who spoke to the driver, called him the ‘bastard son of a prostitute witch,’ and commanded his officers to make sure the jeep dropped ‘something big’. He told them: ‘Make sure you check their fire extinguisher and blow it. If it is liquid type, it is illegal. Check their c-caution if the face don scratch. Check their spare tyre – poke it, if it is too soft. If they have laptop, ask for the receipt. If you find any file or any documents inside the car, ask them for release note wey dem take carry am commot office.’

The boss looked at the driver of the four-by-four.

‘What is the problem?’ Knockout said.

The policeman was waiting for his superior officer to nod or shake his head. ‘Oga, no problem, just take am easy.’

‘Are you mad? You are telling me to take it easy? You must be a fool.’

The officer took his hand from the car and stood almost at attention. He cast a glance back at his boss, who looked away.

‘Sorry sir,’ he said and waved them on.

When the checkpoint was out of sight, Go-Slow used the sides of his palms to scrape blood off the rear seats – it was everywhere. They had been lucky this time but there would be more checkpoints on the mainland and the police there wouldn’t be afraid of drivers with big cars. His eyes fell on Knockout’s discarded shirt in the rear footwell and he reached for it.