‘Wake up, Sante! Wake up!’
Cobra’s voice.
I grapple, manage to grab hold of it, cling on with all my might as it hauls me out of dreamtime.
Cobra; my lifeline.
I say his name, but the only sound that comes out of my mouth is the grating of chattering teeth.
‘Sante? Are you OK?’
I take a gulp of air and snatches of memory stick to me like grit.
The tree. The bump on my head. The light within me snuffing out as a gossamer thread of life snapped. The curious sensation of drowning, before others lap at my feet. My mother and father and then the rest of ’em. The unquiet spirits of the drowned: passengers and crew of the bulky trawler we travelled in, an elderly man, Mamadou with his flute. They gather around me dripping puddles of saltwater. Hovering, murmuring.
‘The ancestors answered our prayers,’ the old man whispers. ‘They can’t deny us now. The girl must live.’
‘Will she be all right?’ someone asks. ‘Will she wake up before it’s too late?’
Deftly, quickly, my mother rubs my hand. The old man pats my back as my father places a chip of kola on my tongue and urges me to chew.
A sour taste floods my mouth and a burst of energy galvanises me. I try to sit up to shake the fuzziness out of my head, but the shadows won’t let me. They hold me down. Whisper hocus-pocus in my ear as my mother says: ‘Husband, our daughter is every bit as obstinate as you are.’
‘And whose eyes encouraged her to stay? Mine or yours, dear wife?’
My mother thumps my chest, rubs it hard.
I drift in and out of consciousness, and as I slip and slide between this world and the next, I think: So this is what it’s like to die. The thought lights a flame within me and straightaway I remember my promise not to make Mama Rose old before her time or turn her hair grey overnight.
I try to sit up again. This time it’s my mother who holds me down.
‘Close your eyes, Asantewaa,’ she says, and her breath changes. The scent of mangoes disappears, replaced by the bitter salt tang of seawater.
Water’s deep, so deep the smell of it tells me it’s pitch-dark; cold as the grave.
‘Close your eyes,’ she says. The shadows croon with her. Mamadou taps his flute with a shell to keep time as my mother sings me a lullaby that makes me yearn to stay in her arms for ever:
‘Go back to sleep, little babe,
You and me and the devil makes three.’
I shut my eyes and she sings some more:
‘Don’t you weep, pretty babe,
Come lay your bones on the alabaster stones
And be my everlasting baby.’
My mother continues massaging my chest, teasing tension out of my muscles. Long, deep breaths set my heart pumping again, while the world around me slows to a crawl.
‘Go to sleep now, Asantewaa,’ my mother says. ‘Close your eyes.’
My eyes flicker open. Can’t close ’em yet. Not until I see her face again. As the tide of my dream retreats, my mother shrinks from me and takes on another form.
The whites of her eyes sparkle brighter than diamonds.
Coils of seaweed loop through her hair.
She gasps, and what was once her mouth erupts, teeming with tiny, writhing fish.
She touches me and I cringe, for her hands are as cold as marble, fingertips wrinkled from brine. And her robe, encrusted with mother-of-pearl, shimmies with the bloom of jellyfish. What should be a smile blisters into a mask of pain as she returns to her watery grave.
I scream, lay my head down, and wake to Cobra shouting my name.
I hear him, feel him shaking me.
Eyelids flutter open. I want to obliterate the last image of my mother’s face while I attempt to retrieve the best of her – eyes as dark as my own, rib-tickling under the tree, the scent of mango on her breath.
‘Sante?’
My vision clears and I see Cobra.
I collapse in his arms and hug him with all my might at the thought of how close I came to never seeing my circus family again. Never caressing Priss’s feathers, going walkabout with her. Never walking hand in hand with Cobra, paddling fingers with his, or sampling the different flavours of his mouth. My heart aches and I tell myself that as surely as the night sky glitters with stars and I burn at Cobra’s touch, I’m going to see this through. Going to claim justice for my parents and those who drowned with them. And as for those lowlifes who would have me dead, they are not going to win.
‘Were you dreaming again, Sante?’
He wipes the sweat off my face, plucks a tail feather out of my hair, and when I start twizzling the golden bangle on my wrist, his greens light on me. Looks at me strangely and says: ‘You’ve been travelling at night again. What happened this time?’
Words won’t come. I roll my tongue in my mouth. Flex it, tap it against my teeth, but when I try to talk, I stutter and start crying instead.
‘Slow down,’ Cobra says, rubbing my arms.
He wraps his tuxedo jacket around me and takes me in his arms, the way Mama Rose does when I’m spooked. Says the same things as Mama Rose as well: ‘Easy, Sante. Relax. Everything’s going to be fine.’
He rocks me in his arms and when my tears have dried and my chattering’s over, I tell him.
‘I travelled with Priss last night. Travelled to Ghana-land and met my parents. My father gave me this.’ I turn the bangle around. Twist it and smile as it shines.
Cobra knows me better than the lines on the palm of his hand. Knows that though at times I may skirt around it, may even try and avoid it if I can, I always end up telling him the truth.
Cobra’s cheekbones glint. Fear sparks on his face. He’s even more alarmed than I am.
He drops my hand, stands up. Starts pacing the floor like I did yesterday. I guess it’s his turn to feel jittery.
‘What’s going on, Sante?’ he says. ‘Why’s your pa come back now to claim you?’
I roll his tuxedo into a pillow. Lay my head down and yawn: ‘He gave me this gift to keep me safe, is all.’
Seems the bangle means a whole heap more to Cobra than to me: ‘Don’t know why any better than you do. I wanted to tell ’em about you, but there wasn’t time.’
‘Had time enough to make you that thing you’re worrying on your wrist…’
Cobra circles the room like a trapped puma. As he turns, I sense what may be bothering him. The tall man in my dreams. ‘My pa’s dead,’ I whisper. He’s stone-cold dead in a watery grave, Cobra.’
He walks three paces, turns, and stops bang in the middle of the room. Stops and it overwhelms him. Fever. High fever. ‘Cat,’ he says. ‘Cat’s here.’
We scramble on to the bed, look out of the window.
It’s early morning, the sky a pearly grey with ripples of herringbone-pink splashed across the heavens. Another hot day. Slumped on a chair, asleep in a corner of the roof terrace, is Barrel Man, rifle at his side. Head nodding, mouth drooling spit. Dreaming, I guess, for suddenly he jumps, opens his eyes.
We duck. When we look out again, Barrel Man’s dozed off.
Then I see a flash of golden feathers, a stretch of wing and Priss lands at the edge of the terrace. Behind her is Cat. Didn’t hear her jump on the roof, but I saw her leap, catch hold of a line of cable and haul herself up. Quiet as a cat she is, stealthy. Slung over her shoulder is a blowpipe, a pouch at her waist with darts. Sometimes uses ’em when we go hunting with Priss in out of the way places. Poisoned darts kill fast. Could be she’s only drugged ’em today – dipped ’em in one of Midget Man’s potions. Could be she aims to maim and not kill. Never quite know with Cat.
She climbs on to the roof terrace, crouches behind a potted palm tree and looks around. Sees us watching her.
Cobra points at Barrel Man, puts a finger to his lips.
I signal to Priss. Tell her to hold back, keep still.
Priss throws back her neck and, with a gimlet eye fastened on Barrel Man, opens and closes the razor-sharp tips of her talons.
Cat inches closer, is about to take aim when Barrel Man opens his eyes with a start. His rifle drops to the ground and he jumps. Sniffs trouble. Stoops to pick up the weapon and spies Cat. Sees her, then feels a stab of pain in his neck. His eyes dim. Right hand flops to his side. Rifle clatters to the ground again as his left hand gropes his neck. He pulls out the dart. And as he stares at it dazed, Barrel Man sways, and crumples to the floor.
In a twinkling, Cat pounces on him and rummages through his trouser pocket. Pulls out a rosary, a phone, a strand of string.
‘Where’s the key to your place?’ she mouths.
Cobra slaps his chest and thighs and mimes: ‘Look in his other pockets.’
Cat rolls Barrel Man over, pats her hand down his thigh. Pulls out a battered pack of cigarettes. No key.
Fumbles through his jacket. Finds a flask of whisky. A wooden crucifix. Still no keys.
Cat gestures: ‘What should I do?’
‘Keep on looking,’ I hiss. ‘But whatever you do, hurry up, before Barrel Man stirs.’
Cat shoves the whisky, phone and cigarettes in her pouch. She picks up the rosary and crucifix, about to stash them away as well, when Barrel Man’s forefinger quivers. Suddenly, his hand jerks and he lunges for Cat’s ankle.
She spins, stamping on his hand. Before he has time to howl, she stabs another dart in his neck. The big man’s out for the count. It’s then she sees it. Puddled in a roll of muscle around his neck, a thick gold chain. On the chain are three keys. Cat yanks them from Barrel Man’s neck, tosses the chain in her pouch and runs to the door.
She releases the deadlocks. Drops a key. Tries another and – hey presto! – the door opens at her second attempt. And there she is, a fat-cat grin on her face, the key jangling on her finger: ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
I take my rucksack, put my biker boots inside. Cobra slips on his tuxedo and we’re off with Cat and Priss over the rooftops.
Priss leads and we follow. We hurl ourselves from one roof to the next. Leap over flowerpots, clamber up potted palms and garden trellises. Reach the top, stretch and jump. Crawl up guttering and as we vault over an iron guardrail, Cobra’s tux catches. He tears himself free and we run. Run fast as leopards down a spiral staircase to a courtyard and, in two shakes, we’re outside again.
Scarlett, goggles over her eyes, a black beret hiding her hair, is waiting for Cat on the pizza-delivery scooter.
Cobra looks left and right. Left again, and spies Redwood’s bike where we parked it. He fiddles with the electrics, hotwires the motor, and we’re off.