Dear Beneficiary (15 page)

I questioned if he really did exist and what her background was. There are few people who have so little contact with their relatives they can't be found in emergencies.

‘So how did you meet him?' I asked one morning, during a moment when I thought our various predictions of our destiny could spiral into madness. I was fairly confident Darius would find us soon but Tracey's view was that Africans are cannibals and our captors were just waiting for a few onions and a big enough pot to make us into stew.

Making conversation could be hard work, bearing in mind the limitations of my fellow prisoner's interests, which were restricted to a few subjects; mainly clubbing, the size of her widescreen plasma television and how many men she'd been on a date with who she later found out were married. I would surprise myself at the topics I could drag up to discuss with someone who probably had no idea about how to make a béchamel sauce.

‘On the internet,' sniffed Tracey. ‘PlentyOfFish.'

I was confused. All we'd eaten since our arrival had been boiled eggs of varying degrees of hardness and some fruit.

‘We haven't had any fish,' I said.

Tracey screeched with laughter, forgetting the gap from the loss of her false tooth.

‘No, silly. It's the name of a dating site. It's like, more fish in the sea. PlentyOfFish,' she giggled in her throaty fashion. ‘We got on really well from the first message. He likes loads I like. Even techno and trance, and he thinks I'm well fit.'

I held back the immediate comments I had about grammar and decided to avoid any questions about the meaning of ‘techno and trance'. I suspected they were both something to do with drugs.

‘I met Bob online,' I threw into the conversation by way of association. I didn't want to feel totally left out in terms of my willingness to grasp some concepts of the modern world.

I desperately wanted to talk to someone about Darius. He filled my waking moments, and some of my sleeping ones, and my awakened sexuality was as strung out as a politician's speech.

‘Hey, go Cynthia, high five!' said Tracey, holding her right hand up in the air. I ignored the gesture, mainly because I didn't really know what to do and suspected the whole process was a bit vulgar.

Tracey let her hand drop. ‘You're supposed to hit my hand with yours. High five, geddit?'

I didn't get it and so continued with the interrogation. Her story was fascinating in the same way as watching a car crash. You just can't help wanting to know more – and whether or not anyone dies.

‘So when did he ask you to marry him?'

Tracey looked up towards me and, as her face became partially shadowed by the light from the unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling, I could see dark circles under her eyes and a sagginess in her cheeks only a lifetime of nutritional deprivation can produce.

‘Three weeks ago. He told me to come here as he has family business, and then we'll get married at home,' she replied.

She told me she'd had a daughter when she was eighteen, but rarely saw her as she'd married some ‘posh git' as Tracey called him. I gathered the son-in-law didn't approve of her, so she was banned from visiting the house. Tracey had tried to keep in contact but her daughter got busier and Tracey found repeated rejection too hard. She didn't express it like that, but I understood what she was saying; sometimes it's easier to take yourself away from the firing line, particularly with families.

Tracey went on: ‘That's why he needed the dosh. So he can sort out stuff here and then come back with me for the wedding. He can't just walk out on his family.'

I was sympathetic to Tracey's feelings, considering how I'd reacted upon hearing of Darius's predicament.

The key turned in the padlock and I assumed it was going to be Gowon, but instead Chike walked in, carrying a small plastic bag.

‘Morning, my ladies,' he said, grinning widely. ‘I have a very important question for you.'

He spun around and then sat down on the one and only chair, while Tracey and I remained sitting on the mattress. Chike rummaged about in the bag and pulled out a mesh canvas, some woollen yarns and a selection of needles.

‘How am I supposed to finish this?' he shouted, throwing everything on the floor.

He held his head in his hands and started to cry, which I found most disturbing. I went over to the pile of material and sorted through it. There were two needlepoint patterns. One called “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” and the other ‘Groovy Frog'. They'd both been partially completed.

‘I think you need some black yarn,' I said to him, not quite sure how to attend to the requirements of a frustrated needle-pointer.

‘It isn't just the yarn. They sent me no finishing materials. You can't trust the internet!' he said again, sobbing.

Tracey was stunned. She looked between me and Chike and back again, rolling her right index finger round her temple to indicate she thought he was mad. I suspected the same but felt it necessary to humour him. He had the key to our shack, after all.

‘Let's see what we can do,' I said.

Chike lifted his head, stuck his bottom lip out and sighed.

I picked up one of the needles and threaded it with a dark brown yarn which could pass for black and started to stitch some of the sheep onto one of the canvasses. Chike watched like a small child, occasionally breathing in very deeply as one does when emotionally distraught. After I'd done an outline of one of the sheep I handed it back to him.

‘Look, you can finish the sheep in brown and it will look just as good. Then you can frame it with some wood. It will be fine.'

Chike put everything back in his bag, stood up and walked across the shack. As he was walking through the door he turned and pointed at Tracey.

‘You. Bad girl.'

‘What does he mean by that?' she asked as the door closed behind him. ‘And what was all that about?'

I couldn't answer. I was as taken aback as Tracey. I showed her the needle I'd managed to keep from Chike's sewing kit. It was the largest there, and though I wasn't sure how I could use it, it was something.

‘What yer going do, stab Gowon with it?' she asked, half laughing and making her way over to the bucket which had now become our water closet. We'd even managed to hitch up a bit of bedding to allow some privacy.

Shouting from behind the sheet she said: ‘I wonder what he'll come up with next? Maybe he does ballet and owns a My Little Pony, too.'

I thought back to Jonjo, who'd always shown a pronounced feminine side, displaying interest in Barbie dolls and making fairy cakes at an early age. Both activities were discouraged by his father.

‘He might just find needlepoint relaxing,' I suggested, not really convinced by my own argument.

‘Perhaps his mum wanted a girl,' said Tracey as she reappeared. ‘Or he's a poof.'

We talked a little more before she brought the conversation back to Baz and how he was just what she was looking for. I mentally agreed that he had a pulse and no understanding of the British class system, which would both be advantages.

‘So, what you looking for in a man?' she asked.

‘I'm not looking for anything. I was married for nearly forty years and that was enough,' I replied, and then moved away from discussions about meeting men and instead cobbled together a story about working with management consultants on an education project involving Nigerian children.

I struggled to recall some of the information Darius had given me about schools and teaching in his home country, a topic he felt passionate about and would often discuss with me during our meetings. I wasn't particularly interested, especially if it delayed the onset of physical activity, but one thing I did remember was that he'd been sent to a private college and had ended up taking his degree at the California Institute of Technology. He got interested in computer science when it was introduced to his syllabus early on in his school career.

I'd been surprised at the level of education available across the whole country, considering how many people still lived in conditions of poverty. I'd taken note of the subjects he'd learned – English being another important part of all Nigerians' education – and the importance his family placed on that learning. The name Loyola Jesuit College in Abuja came to mind more clearly than I expected, so I used this in passing to add credibility to my story about working with top business people to bring high-quality teaching to the Third World.

‘We're working with the best minds available to help bring the standards of education to where they should be, particularly for women,' I said, feeling that I sounded very knowledgeable.

I'd added the last bit of information more for effect than out of any real desire to promote a leaning towards equality, but as Tracey hadn't acknowledged any of the references, only occasionally nodding to indicate that she was listening, I didn't think she'd notice.

However, her response took me by surprise. She started to move animatedly as she had registered what I said.

‘Women go to school in Nigeria,' Tracey stated with confidence. ‘Baz's mum got a degree, so they must do.'

My mind whirred with a vague feeling that I ought to find some connection with this latest remark but I was too busy feeling relieved. My tale had been convincing enough that I didn't have to divulge any of my personal secrets.

‘That's interesting,' I said to Tracey, concealing the fact I thought anyone who was associated with her was unlikely to have a degree. Anything beyond a couple of CSEs in Drawing and Woodwork would be a stretch.

‘Yeah, he was going on about it when we were on holiday. He thinks all women should get exams and that, so they can work and earn good money.'

I bet he does
, I thought. What more would a con man want than a besotted woman with great earning power? But at the same time it was a sentiment I wished my father had encouraged when I was younger; then I might have been able to do something interesting with the last forty years of my life, instead of giving up all my time and energy to convention and conformity. Family life is great, but once it's all over the nest can feel very empty. It would be good to have another identity apart from wife, mother, grandmother. Prime minister, doctor, professor. Even plain old Mrs Hartworth would do if it was followed by some kind of explanation of my worth.

Despite my private thoughts about our differences, which I concluded were very numerous, it was good to have someone fairly manageable as company. It had occurred to me once or twice that it could've been worse and I could be stuck with Mavis, or that awful woman from the Advanced Driving course. At least Tracey didn't have a clue how to argue with me, which was comforting. The whole situation could have been so different if I had to mentally parry my way round the confines of an African hut with a bigoted old bat from the bridge club. Things weren't too bad considering the two of us had no idea why we were captured, who by and what they wanted.

The other contributory factor in our ability to remain calm and congenial was the nightly herbal drink which had the very welcome effect of allowing time to pass pleasurably, often with some hilarity brought on for no apparent reason, followed by deep sleep. I decided we should be grateful for the wide availability of drugs in this country, otherwise neither of us would get any respite.

‘Well, if you are to get married we must get you out of here,' I said.

Problems are just challenges, as Colin used to say, and so we needed to find a way to get out of this shack. I just had to convince Tracey to follow my plans and then we could make an escape. An idea was beginning to develop.

‘And I think I know how to do it.'

‘Really?' said Tracey, looking up from where she was sitting cross-legged on the mattress. She'd been picking the remaining varnish from her thumbnail, leaving a small mountain of purple dust on her very grubby white leggings.

‘It might take a bit of work but there is method in my madness,' I added, aiming to appeal to Tracey's determination.

She sighed and looked despondent. I'd expected this, but now I was sure she wasn't someone who coped well with challenges – and if she did they probably defeated her.

As if confirming my concern, Tracey said, ‘I've no idea how you think we're going to get out. We've tried getting through the door. We're locked in and I don't know how we are going to escape unless we drug the guards.'

‘Well, there is that,' I said, adding some further ammunition to the plan I was brewing up, loosely, in my head. ‘But I think we both have something we can use in our bid for freedom,' I added.

I paced around the room as the plan took on its own life. I looked through the spyhole in the door, where I saw our captors handing round what looked like a cider jar, each swigging from it in turns.

‘Gowon is young and has a clear interest in me,' I said, rejoicing in the continued pleasure I found in my latent sexual awakening. After so many years in the desert of desire it was an expected bonus to have experienced not one, but two dalliances, and both with younger men. Who also happened to be black.

‘If he considers me with enough interest then it could help us get out of here,' I said, smiling to myself as I thought of the latest washroom escapade involving a banana – which had been served up a few hours later with our evening eggs.

Tracey pressed her lips firmly together, a habit that had formed over the past few days because of the tooth incident, and frowned before replying.

‘Well, I think I look pretty good for fifty-one,' she muttered, which seemed a rather inconsequential comment at the time but made me think. I wasn't so sure ‘good' was a description I would use for Tracey. She might not look like a normal fifty-one-year-old, but did look remarkably like one of the grandmothers from that dreadful programme,
Big Fat Gypsy Wedding
. I only saw it the once when I couldn't find the remote control and was astounded at how people of a certain age were dressed. But they are travellers, so I suppose they don't get to buy many good clothes as they wouldn't have anywhere to keep them.