It seemed to all of them that Ima hadn’t stopped crying once since they had left Lagos, climbing down that ladder at the port. It wasn’t true – she was crying today, yes, but that was all right, she was crying because she had to leave her doll’s house behind. She hadn’t cried about all the other things; she had wanted to, but she hadn’t dared to; she had learnt to stop herself. She hadn’t cried about the cupboards hastily emptied out, the comings and goings, Ezima swearing that she wouldn’t remain a second longer, screaming that they had almost killed her daughter, Tadjou the big brother trying to be the man of the family, Baïna lying on the sofa repeating that there was nothing wrong, she hadn’t been that frightened, she didn’t want to leave her father. And her father, who had become the onlooker to his family’s fate, the cause of it even, was there too, clumsily helping them with their departure. No she hadn’t cried about all that. She had wanted to, but she had learnt not to.
When Nwankwo and Baïna had come back from the hospital after the accident, Ezima had been on the doorstep. She had hugged her daughter, but not for long. She had pushed Nwankwo out of the house, banging her fists against his chest, taking no notice of the children, the neighbours or the two policemen who were escorting them. She screamed that he was no longer a father or a husband, he was just a madman. He let her scream for a moment and then grabbed her wrists firmly and in silence, just to calm her down. Ima had watched, without crying.
The tears had come when it was time to say goodbye to her father and get into a police car which was going to take them to a cousin she didn’t know in London. Ima thought about her doll’s house with its miniature plates on the table, the miniature flowery pillowcases on the bed, the miniature version of happiness inside, and then she cried. Leaving that behind, that was why she was crying, whatever the others might say. They didn’t realize that she was a big girl now, and that she had kept quiet for weeks. They still thought she hadn’t stopped crying since leaving Lagos, climbing down that ladder at the port. The fact was they needed her to be crying – she had to cry for everybody.
Nwankwo gave a great sigh; the air he breathed in seemed to scorch his lungs. He was burning up inside. It was better that they should go. He hadn’t known what to say, he had just tried to express himself with his hands, big hands made to hold children. Baïna was fine, that was what mattered, but that was no argument, she could have died that day. So could he of course, but that was in the nature of things, to be expected almost.
The next day Nwankwo found the two protection officers waiting outside his door. He knew how to live with this type of escort. They weren’t planning to keep it up for long – he wasn’t an official person, just a teacher living in exile. He greeted them and walked along to the criminology department. There, amid the excitement of a new term starting, people turned to look at him, and it was clear from the lowered eyes and the over-sympathetic greetings that news of the attack had spread. He was told in the secretary’s office that he could have three weeks’ leave. He replied that he didn’t need it, that he was keen to start work, but they eventually made it clear that it would be necessary for the students’ safety as well. He set off down the corridors in search of Bolton to tell him that he wouldn’t stay any longer. He could have his house back to himself again. He didn’t want to expose anyone else to any danger. As he approached the staffroom he overheard an excited conversation between three lecturers about the previous day’s incident.
“Fancy having cops in the classroom!”
“And for someone like him! In the end he’s no safer here than back at home!”
“The students will be thrilled.”
“And we’re going to look like fools with our comparative-criminality courses.”
“Old fools you mean. We can’t compete with a teacher who’s been shot at the day before with his little girl on the back seat.”
“Especially as we’re all beyond the school-run stage of life.”
Nwankwo wrote a note for Bolton, left it at the reception desk and fetched his car again. He drove to London, his escorts still with him. He was secretly hoping for a message from Helen, thinking that perhaps news of the attack would calm her fury, but she didn’t call. Two hours later, he was at the hospital. In the corridor he could hear shouts coming from Lira’s room. He recognized one of them as Dmitry. He was speaking Russian, and laying down the law. There was a woman too, waiting outside. She seemed to be hesitating about going in. Nwankwo slowed down. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Mr Ganbo?” the woman said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Charlotte MacKennedy. I’m a friend of Lira’s. I work at the Guardian.”
“Oh yes, I read your piece, in fact I’m here thanks to you.”
“Well it’s thanks to me that she went to see you. I suggested it. I had heard about your arrival in Oxford.”
“I sent her packing,” Nwankwo admitted, lowering his head. “What’s happening? Does he want her to go home?”
“Yes he’s organized her repatriation for tomorrow. The doctor has signed a release. But she doesn’t want to go.”
The door opened and Dmitry appeared. When he saw Nwankwo he seemed to freeze. He hesitated and then came over.
“If you’ve got the slightest affection or respect for her, you’d do well not to give her any bad ideas.”
“She’s strong – much too strong to let herself be influenced.”
“What matters today isn’t whether she’s strong or weak, it’s whether she lives or dies!”
He turned on his heels. Charlotte and Nwankwo watched him go without reproaching him. They shared his sense of powerlessness. They went into the room. Lira seemed to be expecting them. She sat on the edge of the bed, with her legs dangling a few inches off the ground. Even those few inches seemed to give her vertigo, and that vertigo had become the justification for looking after her, for things to be decided for her by a husband she had left years earlier, in the offices of an embassy which regarded her as an enemy.
She moved her head, said no and again no. If she had been dead anyone could have taken her body, even those who had intended to kill her. But she was alive, very much alive, and was still capable of deciding about what would happen to her. She felt herself to be a dead weight, not just to herself but to others; everything was dark inside her as well as outside – in her head, her mouth, words came out with difficulty as though afraid to be heard. It was all so painful, but in the end she forced herself to say:
“Could anyone have me to stay for a while, just to give me time to get organized?”
“There’s room in my house,” Nwankwo said at once.
He added:
“But I must warn you, it won’t be particularly safe. I’ve got a few killers after me too.”
Lira knew nothing about the attempted murder of the day before and she didn’t ask any questions. She was delighted – a decision had been taken, a risky one certainly, but her own. As agreed, when Dmitry came back that afternoon, she kept quiet. And when he reminded her of the timetable for the following day, eleven o’clock departure by ambulance for the airport and a two o’clock flight to St Petersburg, she continued to protest, but weakly. He became gentler, and seemed to believe that she had resigned herself to her fate. After all, what choice did she have now? He had hardly left when Charlotte reappeared. She had brought some clothes for Lira. She helped her get dressed, insisting on tying a scarf around her head. Lira laughed softly.
“There’s nothing to worry about! They think I’m going to catch their wretched plane tomorrow? What on earth are you making me look like?”
“Marianne Faithfull escaping from her fans, thirty years ago!”
There was hardly anything to take with them from the room, just the medicines and lotions prescribed by the doctor. Lira had no possessions of her own. Then they left, saying goodbye to the nurse, who assumed everything was in order since the release had been signed. Lira felt Charlotte’s arm trembling with fear. Nwankwo was waiting in the car park. He opened the door. Lira lingered for a moment; it was so long since she had felt fresh air on her face. Charlotte hugged her before she got in:
“I wish I could have done more,” she said.
“Don’t worry, this will be fine.” Nwankwo closed the car door.
“Charlotte, thank you for everything, I’ll keep you posted. Don’t call me. I’ll ring.”
And they set off. In his rear-view mirror now there were two policemen whose job it was to protect him. They would protect her too, he thought.