₦airaland Forum

FIFTEEN

Daniel Famous was astonished; the mysterious gumshoe had not been sweating all through their moments in the suffocating box called the interrogation room. The outside breeze was refreshing and he breathed as much as he could with every heaving of his chest, he had appreciated the importance of the free oxygen after learning the day before that suffocation had been considered one of the most dangerous means of meeting one’s ancestors. He was still not supporting the idea of searching the deceased room but all efforts and means he had employed to discourage the detective had proven futile, Lot’s mind was set on the task.

“You are forgetting what we’re here for;” said Lot calmly, “Let me remind you, we are here to unlock secrets lurking behind doors in this building.” He pointed.

Both men went into the building. The detective looked interestingly at the lawyer who was sitting beside the widow––their thighs, he noticed, were not very far apart, both were apparently discussing in a low voice; he was surprised that they had not seen them enter, their voices were too faint to be heard, Lot tried to listen by straining his eardrums but he could not hear, all he was able to catch were: don’t worry, everything is fine now. It was the lawyer who said that to the widow. Daniel saw them discussing and felt a brief pang of jealousy within himself. If he had had a hammer he would have bashed the lawyer’s head in.

The soporific effect of the air-conditioner in the large room had made its impact on Richard, he was lying asleep on the three-seater; Lot was contemplating if he was really asleep as he looked or he was faking it, and amid the atmosphere of the silent ennui was Hakeem on his feet swaying to whatever was pulsing through the headphones of his Discman, he was throwing himself around the room like a whirling demented dervish. He bellowed in delight as he saw Daniel and Lot. At one corner of the room, a mobile phone had been placed on a charger inserted in the electric wall socket. As Daniel watched as the light of the charger pulsed off-and-on he felt it had a kind of connection with himself and the case they were trying to investigate, in which ideas and motives behind the late man’s action that night pulsed off and on in his own mind, too.

“Have you found the stupid man who killed Mr. Martins?” he asked seriously.

“Not yet,” replied Daniel, after gulping air.

Hakeem frowned, “Why? I want to kick that idiot so much that my boots will have to be surgically removed from his bottom. Seriously, I pray whoever killed Mr. Martins have AIDS.”

The detective smiled.

“Please, make your investigations snappy,” said the boy, “I can’t wait to kick the baboon.”

Daniel Famous swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir.”

The boy faced Lot and Daniel, “You know I told you that I wanted to help on this case, and I’ve been doing some thinkings of my own. Do you know what I’ve been trying to do? I was trying to put two and five and eight together to get seven. It can’t be done, it simply can’t be done.”

“You can’t know the killers; you’re not a detective, are you?”

“Okay, I give up, let’s ask the tec. Do you know the criminal, sir?”

“No,” Lot replied, and before the boy could protest any further the detective added, “But I have an idea of whom the person might be.”

“That’s nice,” brightened up Hakeem, “Who’s the one?”

The detective looked with calm eyes at the boy, “And you expect me to tell you?”

The boy nodded vigorously, like one of those crazy dolls at the back screens of cars.

“Then follow me. Let me tell you the murderer in person.” As the boy began to rise from his seat, Lot added, “But you may be killed, too.”

That scared Hakeem and he involuntarily relaxed back in his seat, “What have I done wrong?” he screamed.

“Many things,” answered Lot, “One, you saw the body first; two, you called the policeman; three, you want to know the murderer; and four, which is the most devastating reason––you want to kick him in the bottom. I strongly suggest that you keep out of this. If there’s a murderer lurking around the corners, be he of flesh and blood or atmospheric vapour, summon not his attention to thyself, wise one.”

The boy shook his head and said hastily, “I don’t need to know him anymore; I’m not ready to nod a flying bullet.”

“Better,” Lot looked around and asked, “Where’s the doctor?”

“Here,” the doctor replied from the door, “I went to make a call to the morgue concerning the deceased. Can I see you a moment, detective?”

Both men went out and returned a few seconds later, looking as placid as possible. The doctor calmly took his seat and Inspector Lot faced Abigail.
“Mrs. Martins,” he said, “We’ll like to search your bedroom, since I understand that you and your late husband shared the same bedroom.”

“If I may ask, Mr. Detective, what do you want there?”

“Just a general inspection,” said Daniel, “We are hoping to find something which can help us on this case.”

Daniel had intentionally spoken so as to have the attention of the woman to himself. Abigail looked at him and smiled warmly, her smile almost sent his head spinning.

“You are free to go,” she said, “Just don’t check my wardrobes, you might find a skull.” She laughed and pointed to the entrance, “That’s the room.”

“You’re a funny woman, Mrs. Martins. I’ll laugh next week.” Said Lot, without any trace of amusement on his countenance, “We will appreciate it if you lead us, Ma’am.”

Abigail looked at him in wonderment before speaking, “See, detective Lo, you––”

“Lot,” he corrected.

“Whatever,” said Abigail with the wave of her hand, “You look too serious most times,” she said, lifting her chin, “The death of my husband shouldn’t make everyone a criminal to you.” She got up, “Well then, let’s go.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

The bedroom was too wide to be called one, and in the middle of the large room was a large bed spacious enough to sleep a battalion of soldiers, and a white coverlet was laid so tenderly that there was absence of any rumple. The bedroom was exquisitely clean and beautiful. The walls were painted blue. Unlike the sitting room whose floor was covered in rug, the bedroom was bare, with decorative tiles that made the floor glisten. The space adjacent to the window was occupied by a large built-in twin wardrobe and there was a TV set at one corner. The side wall opposite the window-side was almost covered by the mirror of an enormous vanity table, bearing an apothecary’s stock of oils, lotions, perfumes, powder, brushes, unguents, hand mirrors, colognes, combs, and make-up aids of all kinds. Up above the entrance were two pictures. The first was Cain’s, the man’s face was mean. The picture reminded Daniel about the facial look of one of the former Nigerian presidents. The second picture is entirely different from the first. The woman in the picture was so beautiful that Daniel held his breath for many seconds. She was smiling broadly as if the cameraman had promised to present her picture to the Archangel Michael. Daniel was finding it extremely hard to take his eyes off the widow’s picture.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in front of a photograph or face what you’re here for?” the detective asked slightly angrily.

“I’ll prefer staying in front of the photograph,” Daniel answered mindlessly. He turned to Abigail and said chivalrously, “Madam, you are very beautiful.”

Abigail felt embarassed for a moment before she smiled, “Oh, thank you so much, that’s sweet.”

“I thought you would get on your knees and sing her African Queen.” Said Lot coldly.

“I will happily do that if she gives me the chance.” Daniel replied, his eyes not leaving Abigail.

She laughed, “You needn’t do that. I’ll rather hear it from the horse’s mouth. Let someone do me a favour and call me Tuface.”

“So let’s get down to business.” Lot said.

“But I’m not trained on how to search,” complained Daniel.

“Just look around and search as if you lost all your life's savings in this room.”

“Okay,” Daniel got on his hands and knees and began searching under the bed and under the wardrobe. The detective checked the door handle, the table bearing the cosmetics, the window panes, the edges of the bed. Daniel was tired of searching for nothing.

“What exactly are we looking for, sir?” he asked in a frustrated voice.

“I don’t know; just continue what I asked you to do.”

“Why do men enjoy crime so much?” Abigail asked.

Daniel ignored what he was doing and faced Abigail, “You know what?”

“What?”

“I hate this job. I really wanted to be a footballer.”

“Oh, I love footballers.” She giggled, favouring Daniel with a smile that warmed him down to his toes.

“Really?” he stood up brightly, totally ignoring the work, “Don’t you worry, one day you’ll be watching me on that big screen in the living room, making Nigerians proud overseas. By then I would have been done with this dirty job that makes you do dirty things.”

“Dirty things like what?”

“Like this; snooping around people’s things. I really didn’t want to come but it was that Sherlock Holmes who insisted. So madam, forgive me if I’ve been offending you from doing this.”

“No––no, it’s okay. I’m not offended, you’re only doing your job.”

Detective Lot was now leafing out through the pages of a Bible, which was on a small table beside the bed. As he lifted the holy book from the stool he found a scrap of paper with a clear and concise writing, the three words on the paper were written in an artful cursive. The paper was a cut-out sheet of white foolscaps.

“Interesting,” Lot said.

The remark caught the attention of Abigail and Daniel.

“What is it you’ve found?” she asked.

Lot asked, “Madam, how long has this Bible been lying here.”

“For quite some time,” answered Abigail.

The detective gave the note to her. “Madam, I want you to look at that writing carefully and tell us whose it is.”
Abigail read the note and the skin of her forehead was squeezed together. The general drift of the note required no Aristotelian intellect to decipher; it contained plainly three most important words––‘I Love You’, no signature, no name. Abigail looked confused for a moment before raising her eyes to meet the detective’s gaze.

“Do you know who wrote that?” Lot asked.

Abigail nodded, she hesitated before speaking. “It is Cain’s, Cain wrote it.”

Daniel Famous’ eyebrows were hoisted aloft. He thought he saw some strange expressions on the woman’s face: surprise, excitement and fear. But Daniel only shrugged.

“Another question, Madam,” said Lot, “You said this Bible had been lying here for some time?”

“Four weeks, at least. I haven’t gone to church in a month.”

“Four weeks,” murmured Lot, “without dust on it.”

“What did you say?” Abigail asked.

“Never mind. Madam, does your late husband go to church?”

Abigail smiled, “I’ve never seen Cain go to church since he married me.”

“Another note,” said the amused Daniel, “How many notes are we going to find before today is over?”

The widow cast a questioning look at Daniel, “What are you talking about? Did you find a note before this one?”

The detective spoke.

“Mrs––we’ll like to have some few words with you.”

“That is what you’re doing now, isn’t it?”

“We want you in the interrogation room.”

“Why?”

“Maybe you can shed some light into this affair.”

“Is this about the first note?”

“Yes, madam. It’s about the first note and something much more important.”

brokoto: very good sir.
but i have a few observations in the interview with the Hakeem boy
1] although he was portrayed as very intelligent, i still think his vocabulary and choice of expressions were too advanced for his age, 14 or 15 i think. someone that age in Nigeria would be in SS1 or SS2.
2] his garrulity- although i agree with you that boys that age do not have a full grasp of what murder is, i still think he would have been more subdued or sober considering the fact that he was being interviewed by a well known NIGERIAN detective, especially after he was cautioned by the detective. the police in Nigeria are generally known to be mean and fearsome so a boy that age should be somewhat scared of them
3] the way he referred to his parents- a devout Muslim boy should not call his parents illiterates in front of strangers even if they are illiterates.
these are my opinions anyway. i'm not a writer nor am i an expert but i'm a voracious reader those parts just didn't 'gel' with me. thanks

WOW! WOW!! WOW!!! Thumbs up to you, Bro.
All your observations about the boy are on point. I will revisit his dialogues. However, I created Hakeem majorly as a comic-relief character. I thought his antics would alleviate any tension building up in the plot of the story.
Yap, he should be scolded for calling his parents illiterates in front of a stranger. I'll do that asap.

uj_sizzle: Mehn, i have got a whole book of new words now . I'll try speaking without contractions; oh i just did it again .

Update quickly.
I'm with the other guy on the title issue. I like 'the brand of Cain' better. It's apt n catchy

Thanks again, Sizzle. I'm only trying the little I can in the literary world.

Splendblex: Am so in love wit ur story,waitin 4 d next update

Thank you, Splendblex.

FOURTEEN

The name ‘Eze’ meant ‘King’ to Chima, and he always acknowledged himself as a person of royal status, though he was a gatekeeper most of his life and has not even a chieftaincy lineage. He was dressed in his native Igbo attire; a red cap rested smugly on his head and a pair of black pointed shoes covered his feet. He sat on a chair as he entered the interrogation room.

Detective Lot watched him closely and coughed. He picked up the recorder and pressed the rewind button for a second or two, then he pressed the ‘Record’ button and began:

“What is your name, sir?” said Lot, calling upon all his powers of self-control to force the last of these five words through the barrier of his teeth. He believed Chima was an older man who deserved no much of a respect from him.

“John Eze Chima.”

“Can you please tell us about yourself, Mr. Chima?”

“I have nothing much to tell; I’m an easy-going man and I don’t cause trouble.” Eze said flatly.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What else do you want me to say? I’m in perpendicular a man who doesn’t speak much about himself.”

Lot leaned back in his chair and looked at the old man opposite him intently. He could only see a calm but dangerous expression in the man’s eyes.

“Sir, how old are you?” Lot asked.

“I can’t remember, but I celebrated my eleventh birthday when Nigeria got her independence.”

Lot made a swift calculation in his mind, “Then you’re sixty years old.”

“Thou hast said.”

The detective slapped his forehead and groaned, the man was succeeding in getting on his nerves, he suppressed his anger. It was like gulping a mouthful of bile. “How long have you been working under the deceased?”

The old man lapsed into memory, “About half a decade now, I think.”

“Your relationship with the deceased, was it what one can call amiable, as in friendly?”

Eze chuckled, rivers of wrinkles flowing down the corners of his eyes and mouth. “That’s quite on the contrary. No one had a friendly relationship with Cain, except his lawyer, of course.”

“Now that he’s gone, do you miss him?”

“No, I don’t. I mourn his death though, but not the closing of his big mouth. He was as cruel and headstrong as an allegory on the banks of Nile. Nobody would miss a man who had visited the pearly gates with a CV that would make Saint Peter call for the celestial security guards to bundle him straight to hell.”

The detective shifted in his seat to a more comfortable position.

“Mr. Chima, let’s talk about that gun you possess. How did you come about the old rifle?”

“It’s my war souvenir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Biafra,” Eze said, pausing to scratch his groin.”It was in the late sixties when I was still young and handsome,” he laughed, “I was about eighteen or nineteen years old when the war broke out. I was picked to join the army against my wish, then I was given an oversized uniform with a gun and sent to the warfront to face death––there was no shooting training performed, no combatant training, nothing. Yet, I killed about six dozen enemies with that gun, can you believe that? The more I killed, the braver I became. It was a sheer miracle that I was not killed in that war, I didn’t even sustain a scratch. Many of my colleagues, older and younger, were unlucky and got killed, some got their limbs blown away, some bodies could not even be identified because they were stupid enough to face a killing tank with pistols and hunters’ guns.”

He smiled as a remembrance occurred to him. “There was time during the war when we were suddenly attacked with tanks, it was just like God’s attack on Sodom and Glocca Morra from the pages of the Old Tentacle, as brave as I was, I immediately turned and ran like hell, dripping with inspiration. I wasn’t turning chicken, and I wasn’t trying to be a superman either, I was just using my head for once. Those who fight and run away live to fight another day. So I ran, a bullet richshawed a tree and almost hit me in the head. There are times when you don’t need a priest to tell you that it isn’t sensible to take on a tank with your gun, because if you do, you’ll be standing there holding your gun and looking at the hole the tank just created in your belly. I think that was what really happened in the case of some of my stupid mates.

“After the war, I kept my gun as a souvenir; its sight will always remind me of my youth, the days when men were still men.” He smiled, “I don’t think you can reprehend the meaning of what I’m saying.”

After listening patiently to the gatekeeper’s tale, Lot asked, “Have you ever shot the gun after the war?”

“Yes, twice. I shot a bullet in 1988 and another in about a decade and a half later.”

“What war were you fighting then?”

“No be war. I shoot the bullets up to the heavens because of the sound, it makes the memories of the Biafra fresh in my brain.”

“Did you shoot any recently?”

“No.”

“Mr. Chima, do you have a family, any wife or child?”

“I lost my wife in 1992, she died of tuberculosis and Chidi, my only son, died in 2002. He was one of the victims of that bomb explosion at the cantonment.”

“Accept my condolence, sir.” Lot said dryly.

Chima smiled, “Seven or seventeen years ago, I would have appreciated your sympathy, but now, Amaka and Chidi are nothing but old memories to me.”

“We are investigating the death of Mr. Martins and I believe you are going to help us on the case, right?”

“Sure, why not? If he was killed, then the person who did it had done many people a great favour, yet, he shouldn’t have taken the law in his own hands. If I may say, I don’t even believe Cain was killed.”

“Can you please recount to me what happened on the night of the seventh?”

The old man began to speak his words in orderly sequence as if he had composed the speech on paper, then memorized and possibly rehearsed it. “It was about ten-thirty in the night when I heard the sound of a car engine,” he began, “I went to the garage and saw Cain and the driver in a jeep, of all the cars in the garage, Cain had always preferred to go out in a jeep.”

“Where were they going?”

“I have no idea, nobody told me. Cain only ordered me to open the gate, which I obediently did; he was my boss.”

“And the next morning Cain was found dead?”

“No, something happened before that.”

“What happened?”

“At exactly half past twelve that night, Oga drove back inside alone.”

Daniel, who had been silently listening to the two men was surprised, “Are you sure about that, sir?”

“Positive,” replied Eze Chima, “Cain came back that night without the driver. When I opened the gate and saw only Cain in the jeep I immediately sensed that something fishy was going on––honestly, I thought Cain had killed Richard and dumped his body somewhere before coming back. You see, Cain and his driver were like cat and mouse, so the thought that Cain had killed Richard was not really a surprising one to me. What really baffled me was seeing Cain lying dead outside, because I locked the gate from within when Cain drove back inside, and I put the keys under my pillow. Nobody could have taken it without my knowledge.”

“Maybe there were the duplicates of the keys.” Lot said.

“That is highly possible, but opening the gate without my awareness is highly impossible. My room is by the gate and that gate makes more noise than rolling back the door of a tomb of a pharaoh dead two thousand years.”

“Maybe you were drugged into unconsciousness and the gate was opened with the duplicates.” Daniel chipped in.

“And the single horn of a car was able to rouse me into consciousness?” asked Chima, “I’m not a deep sleeper, not at my age, and if I was drugged I would have known, don’t you think so?”

Daniel could not say any more word.

Chima continued, “Even if Cain had to die, his corpse should have been inside and not outside. When that man,” he pointed to Daniel, “and the boy
called me that there was a dead body by the gate I thought it was the driver they were referring, but I was shocked when I saw that it was Cain, I’m still very confused.”

The detective sighed. “Is that all?” he asked Chima.

“No,” the old man dipped his hand in his breast pocket and extracted a folded paper which he handed to the detective. “Maybe this will help.”

Lot hesitated a bit before collecting the note, and unfortunately for him Chima noticed.

“What are you scared of, detective? You think it’s a letter bomb?”

“Who would want to blow me to smithereens?”

“You’ve got the reputation of stepping on a lot of feet in this country, and no bad deed goes unpunished, as you quite know yourself. Everybody knows that Giwa wasn't toasted for minding his own business.”

“And from wherever comes that bit of gibberish, old man?” he snatched the paper in anger.

The detective opened the paper, and on it was a writing scrawled carelessly in pencil:

In the morning, call my lawyer.
––MC
The writing was quavery, as if it had been written with the left hand of a right-handed person, or vice versa. Daniel Famous collected the paper and read it. The detective looked up at the gatekeeper and asked, “How did you find this?”

“The next morning, not long after I was called to see the body.”

“Where did you find it?”

“The same place I kept the keys.”

“Then you should have seen it when you were called by Daniel and the boy.”

“No, I saw it after, when this officer called me, I only put my hand under the pillow without looking, and I withdrew the keys. But it was when I
wanted to pick my cap, which I also put under the pillow, that I saw the note lying there.”

“Did you read it?” asked Lot.

“Shouldn’t I have? Or do you think I can’t read? Well, if I read something that is written down in English, I can understand what it means––I am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy––just plain business-like English––most people can’t! If I want to write down something, I can write down what I mean, I’ve discovered that quite a lot of people in this country can’t do that either! Though you can’t illiterate from my memory the fact that English is a mad man’s language, I’m even surprised that I’m so affluent in speaking that language. And, I can do plain arithmetic––if Aki has eight bananas and Pawpaw takes ten from him, how many will Aki have left? That’s the kind of sum some people likes to pretend has a simple answer. They won’t admit, first, that Pawpaw can’t do it––and second, that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas! Evidently, arithmetic is a blessing in the sky, but nobody knows that.”

“That’s the lunacy of Mathematics,” said Daniel, smiling, “We call it Mathematics these days, not Arithmetic.”

“Did you hear any strange sound that night?” Lot asked Chima, after silently listening to the gatekeeper’s annoying spiel, and noticing how wanting the older man’s grammar was.

“A sound like what?”

“Gunshot sound.”

“Within or without?”

“Which one did you hear?”

The gatekeeper hesitated for precisely ten seconds before replying, “Nothing, I heard no sound.”

Lot caught the hesitation and he, therefore, looked askance at the gatekeeper, as the older man’s reply was not very convincing, “Are you sure?” he asked him calmly.

“Hundred percent.”

“Mr. Chima, do you know that withholding vital information is an offence.”

“I heard no sound, detective. If I did, I’d have screamed it into your hearing.”

“You needn’t be so nasty about it.”

Eze smiled, “You have no idea how nasty I can be if I put my mind to it.”

Lot tried to find a befitting reply for the gatekeeper but thought better of it.

“Now, Mr. Chima, I want you to answer this question truthfully.”

“Do you think I’ve been lying before?”

“That is left for me to judge.”

“Then you’ll still have to judge if my next answer would be the truth or not.” The old man smiled, “I’m a bit of a nuisance to you, right?”

“Listen, you senile anachronism, that’s an understatement. You’re probably the most irritating, vexatious man I’ve ever met.”

“Sorry, I’m not a very pineapple of politeness.”

The detective could take it no more, “The word is ‘pinnacle’.”

“That’s what I called it.” Replied Eze.

“No, you said ‘pineapple’.”

“It’s you who just called it that, not me.”
Lot realized that arguing with the gatekeeper about English usage was insane, he therefore allowed it to slide, “Before you were called by Famous, what were you doing?”

“I was doing nothing. I was in my coffin––sorry, cabin.”

“Were you asleep or awake?”

“I was already awake. Actually, I’m always awake every five in the morning.”

“Why?”

‘That’s just my nature, I don’t set the alarm and when it is five, my eyes snap open automatically. It’s like a kind of mechanism in me. Whenever my eyes snap open like that, they don’t shut again. And on that day, the same thing happened, just like this morning or any other day.”

“That’s all for now, Mr. Chima. I’ll call you again when I need you.” Lot stopped the recorder.

The old man stood up, absently picked the seat of his cloth out from the crack of his bottoms, and started taking his leave, when he got to the door he turned to face the detective.

“There’s no point investigating this case,” he said, “Stop wasting your time here. How do you think you will dissolve this mystery if you can’t find any culprit? You may never know the man who did it, just take my advice and leave. You and me know that Cain’s death is not a loss to anybody. So, why investigate it and unlease a hornet’s nest?”

“Because I have to. That is what I’m always paid for, trying to find out who murdered people. And ‘You and I’ is the correct grammatical construction of the sentence.” answered Lot, “By the way, what gives you the impression that I can’t find the killer?”

“Because he was not killed by anyone among us. I think he was killed by a complete outsider, probably someone he had wronged earlier.”

“Really?” Lot feigned surprise.

“My instinct told me so; nobody could have possibly killed him between the widow and the driver.”

“What about you?” the detective shot out.

“What are you trying to incinerate, detective?” The old man’s face changed, “I could have possibly killed him but I didn’t. Cain is too small a kill for me. Besides, I’m not one who hides his deeds, I’ve taken over seventy lives and I don’t feel any remorse for any of them. Bob is my witness, if I had killed Cain I would have told you frankly that I did it. The worst you can do is to persecute me for it, I’m not afraid of anything.” He paused and added, “You are not illegible to be called a detective. When I was in the war, you were nothing but a kid still suckling its mother’s breasts.”

Lot stood up abruptly, “Don’t insult me, old man!”

“And don’t annoy me, young man!” the gatekeeper retorted.

Both men stood glaring at each other before Daniel came between them. The old man gave a weary smile and walked out of the room.

Lot sighed again and sat down, “That man is a very dangerous one, I wonder what he might have done.”

“You looked at that man and saw a dangerous human being,” said Daniel, “but I saw a man whose life had been filled with tragedy and sadness. I pity him, though he’s not the essence of courtesy. The deaths of his wife and son and what he had endured in battle changed him; all made him a different man. I think he’s a man who needs to be understood. He may actually be a sweet old man.”

“Yet, he can be terribly dangerous when he is annoyed. That was actually what I wanted to do, I wanted to annoy him and see his reaction but he didn’t give me the chance.”

“What are you talking about, sir? I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Do you remember what he said when I stood up to him?”

“He told you not to annoy him, and he was already very much angry.”

“No, you’re really getting it wrong. He was not a bit angry, even when I challenged him with that last question. He was not in the least annoyed, he only wanted us to think he was. Before he went out he gave a strange smile, do you know what that smile meant?”

“Please tell me.”

“ ‘They think I’m angry, fools.’ ”

“Was that last word really in that smile?”

“I don’t care, but he thought us fools.”

“I hate people reminding me of who I am. What do you think about the letter he brought, sir?”

“I think of two things for now; one: the deceased knew what was coming to him so he wrote a note stating the summons of his lawyer. Two: the deceased never wrote the note, it was written by the murderer to add more salt to the injury. We are left to find out who really wrote the note.”

“In your first idea, why couldn’t the deceased call the lawyer on phone by himself instead of writing a boring note? And why did he hide the note under the gatekeeper’s pillow instead of giving it directly to him or instructing him verbally? He called you, I don’t see the reason he couldn’t have called his lawyer too. Please, tell me what is going on in this compound.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out. And by tracing the subtle twitchings of the web, we might find the spider.”

The police officer thought for a moment before asking, “Sir, is it possible for someone to confess to a crime, especially one that has to do with killing?”

“Confession is advisable because sooner or later, the criminal would be caught.”

“But some do get away with it.”

“Some lucky ones, but in my own case––Never! As the person tries to cover his trails, he leaves more trails behind him. Take for example, you are walking at the sandy side of a beach, you looked behind you and sees your footprints plainly visible on the sands. You decide to clean them by rubbing the marks off. But you are ignorant of the fact that, the prints won’t go; instead of them to be decreasing, they in actual fact increase. As you try to wipe out the visibility of the prints with your hands, you create another print with your palms and toes. That logic is applicable to crime too. You know, criminals are sometimes drawn to the scene of their crimes, and in doing so, they thwart their chances of escape.”

“Can that happen in this case?”

“I don’t think so, this is another ball game entirely, the crime was committed outside, and that makes it complicated.”

“How is that?”

“What does the criminal want to come back for? He shot Cain and went away with the pistol. Do you think he would come back to check if the victim had died? One rarely survive a bullet to the head. And the idea of looking for fingerprints or whatever print there is is impossible.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I know, but permit me to chip one reason into your palm-oil soaked-brain––a strong wind blew on that Saturday morning, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know. And as Lincoln said, ‘Ignorance is preferable to error.’ ”

“I believe it was Thomas Jefferson that made that statement, Daniel.”

He shrugged indifferently, “Anyway, I can’t remember a strong wind blowing that morning.”

“I confirmed from an outsider, a strong wind did blow. So, any print there might have been cleared. Remember, where the corpse was lying was quite sandy, if you will agree with me.”

“Agreed,” Daniel sighed, “But still, I don’t think this crime can be solved.”

“O! Ye of little faith! Since when were you baptized a pessimist? Have you forgotten Hakeem’s words so soon?” Even a part of him felt some of the air bleeding out of his own balloon of optimism.

“Okay, okay,” he said grudgingly, “I wish you luck.” Even for bad luck, he thought, one needs luck.
“Us.”

Daniel felt he was in a dystopian investigative chamber because to him, everything was going forth in the wrong directions, he asked hastily, “Who should I call in this time?”

“Not now. Right now, we’ll do another thing. We are going to search the dead man’s bedroom.”

Daniel was flabbergasted, “What!”

“You heard me right.”

The police officer shook his head, “I’ve never probed into other people’s secrecy before in my life.”

“Then today is your first chance, grab onto it.”

“I’m not looking forward to the pleasure, sir.”

“And who said you have any choice here?”

“Lord,” he breathed as he got up; he didn’t know he had just said the world’s shortest prayer. “What have I gotten myself into?”

The detective also stood up and said cheerfully, “Let’s go a fishing.”

As they headed towards the door, Daniel wiped the sweat forming on his forehead with the back of his hand and muttered under his breath, “What a crazy being this detective is?”

THIRTEEN

Yesterday, the sky was pregnant, it appeared to be swaddled in disposable diapers, but the rain that was supposed to break was not delivered. Today, the sky was blue with a scattering of popcorn clouds, the day was mild, there was no wind and no rain was in the forecast.

Cain Martins had gotten his own share of the rule stating that every man born of a woman must surely return to dust, and Detective Lot had given the household a week to mourn the departed soul before resuming his investigation, but there was no mourn at all––it appeared as if Cain Martins never existed at all until the detective came reminded the household that someone there had died a fortnight earlier. He was only able to convince them that Cain had existed when he spoke about death in sepulchral tones. Everybody was seated, including Hakeem who was in his best sartorial presentation, and Doctor Adam. On the television, an evangelist was gesticulating furiously, but the sound was muted, so he seemed like a crazed and poorly trained mime. The Dow tape with its hieroglyphic markings ran across the bottom of the screen. The resulting scene was slightly less baffling than the antics of an ant colony.

It was Hakeem who brought to the household notice the obvious, “Why is the photographer not here today? I was expecting my picture to be taken today.”
Eze Chima answered him immediately, “Will you do us a favour and zip those lips of yours?”

“I only asked a question, sir.”

“I said shut your trap or I throw you out of this compound.” He glared at the boy.

Hakeem seeing the gatekeeper’s angry face immediately tightened his lips; a symbol of his acquiescence to the ex-soldier’s command.

The detective spoke:

“It had been almost a fortnight since the death of Mr. Cain Martins, and we all know that it was not a natural death––he died from gunshot wound.

“From my point of view,” he continued, “Two things were bound to have caused his death; it’s either he committed suicide, which is still highly unlikely, or he was killed in cold blood.” He paused to look around for any reaction from others, it was only the police officer who shuddered in disgust, others were as mute as sheep.

“That is what I am here to investigate and I want everybody to co-operate with me in arriving at the truth,” he turned to the doctor, “Doc. Adam, you performed the autopsy, right?”

The doctor nodded.

“Okay, doctor, I need to ask you a question. With a self inflicted gunshot wound there’s always a powder burn on the victim’s hand. Was one discovered on the deceased?”

“The answer is no.” the doctor replied plainly.

Detective Lot nodded in approval, “I thought as much. This means that we rule out the possibility that the deceased committed suicide. That man was murdered.” He called Abigail, “Madam, can I have a room where I can make my interrogations? Starting from Hakeem.”

The boy stood up abruptly, “Why me? Please do not torture me, I did not do anything.”

Lot tried to calm him down, “Be cool, boy, I learnt that you saw the man first.”

“Yes, but he was already dead.”

“That is why you need to help us on this case.”

“You are not going to use coercive measures in getting the truth out of me, are you?”

“Of course not, why would I do that? I trust you’re not going to withold any information regarding this case, are you?”

The boy grinned widely, “I will be glad to help. You see, it is a wonderful thing to be involved in a murder case, is it not?” he did not wait for an answer, “I have never seen a dead man before and that sight is what I’ll always keep green in my heart. But believe me, I am not looking forward to a kind of death like that, I will not like somebody hiding a bullet in my skull. Besides––”

The detective cut him short, “I’ll appreciate your help, thank you.” Death means very little to a boy of fourteen, he thought sadly. He looked at
Abigail, “Madam?”

“Oh, there’s an empty room among the boys’ quarters. You can use that one.”

“Can you provide us with a table and three chairs?”

“Sure,” she turned to the gatekeeper, “Mr. Chima, please make sure they have what they need.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Lot said.

“Ordinarily, my upbringing would require me to say ‘Don’t mention it,’ or ‘A pleasure of mine,’ or ‘You’re welcome’. But they’ll all be lies.”

“Uh––I don’t understand ma’am. Can you please be clearer?”

Abigail smiled, “You’re a detective, aren’t you? Figure it out yourself. By the way, from the little detective stories I’ve read, a detective would have made some startling deductions from the most trivial phenomena by now.”

Lot ignored the insult. In about a quarter of an hour the interrogation room was prepared. The room was as commodious as a coffin, it was also dusty, cobwebs festooned the corners of the ceiling. There was no rug or carpet, and above, the ceiling fan was oscillating loudly without blowing much air. There was an air conditioner, but it did not seem to be working. The light in the room was subdued and the low-wattage bulb was encased in wire mesh and bolted to the ceiling. A fading sign on the wall facing the door: TRUST IN JESUS.

Detective Lot sat in a chair facing the door; he was awaiting his first questionee. The door was opened slowly and Daniel came in, behind him was the boy, who was still grinning from ear to ear like a monkey eating thirty naira sugarcane, and some vitamin deficiency in his teenage body seemed to be screaming for appeasement. The boy sat down and crossed both arms and legs uttering bismillah, he brought his finger to his mouth and bit at the nail, he caught himself on time and stopped the action. Biting his nails was a bad habit he had not been able to stop. Daniel Famous took the third chair, a chair whose right rear leg wasn’t very firm and which had a tendency of collapsing under the police officer’s weight.

“I feel very happy.” The boy said.

The detective was getting irritated to quite a disproportionate extent from the fun the kid was having, the child was simply having no idea the gravity behind cause of a man who had lost his life. He thought the situation on ground was what he should be joking around about.

“Why? Is today your birthday?” Lot asked.

“No, I am just glad to be involved in this. Will I be shown on the television? Will my name be mentioned on the radio? Is my picture going to be printed in the newspapers?” the boy asked eagerly, “I will really love that, I will become famous and my parents will be proud of me. In short, my friends and classmates will envy me, beautiful girls will woo me.”

“Actually, you would be shown on the TV,” said Lot, “Your name would be pronounced on the radio and you would appear in the papers as you have said––”

The boy became very excited, “Really? I will––”

“That’s if you are the murderer, and after becoming infamous you’ll be hanged like a crazy dog. So, I will advise you to rest that wagging tongue of yours, get off your ebullient mood and answer my questions truthfully.”

The boy’s smile vanished like a rat down a hole, he looked at Daniel’s face for intervention but the policeman merely shrugged.

“I am not a murderer, I did not kill anybody,” he started sobbing, “I will never kill anybody in my life. I am not a killer.”

“Hakeem, nobody is accusing you of murder.” Daniel said.

“But he just called me a murderer, he called me a murderer.” He cried some more. “Now, I am being tortured!”

“No, he didn’t call you a murderer. He’s only interested in asking you some questions, that’s all.”

The detective brought out a portable tape recorder, he inserted an empty cassette and pressed the ‘Record’ button when the boy finally stopped his wail.

“According to Famous, you saw the deceased first. How did you come across the body?”

“It was about half past five in the morning when I saw the body, I initially thought he was asleep.”

Daniel was startled, “He was asleep at the side of the road?”

“That was what I thought at first, I thought he was in a complete state of inebriation––as in drunk till unconscious.” He had read his dictionary, “It was when I noticed the wound on his forehead that I realized what had happened. One need not to touch it before knowing that he was as dead as Sanni Abacha, his eyes were wide open like those of an uncanned Titus. May he rest with Allah in his gardens.” He continued, “I quickly rushed to Brother Daniel to report what I saw. We both returned to the scene; the body was lying by the gate of this building so we knocked the gate and the gateman opened it almost immediately, the man was already awake after all––his eyes were as clear as the Islamic rosary. That’s all I know, I did not kill anybody, I am innocent.”

“What were you doing there so early in the morning?” asked Lot calmly.

“I was not being a vigilante, that is one job I detest. I was returning from the minaret. Brother Daniel can testify to that, he saw me holding my Qur’an when I came to call him. That day was on a Saturday and I went to Tajjud vigil the night before, which was on a Friday.”

“Now, I want you to answer this question truthfully.”

“That I killed him? I have told you, I am not––”

“Will you stop flapping your flatulent mouth and let me finish?” Lot roared angrily.

The boy became mute.

“When you saw the body, did you come across any weapon––any gun?”

Hakeem shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, beads of sweat had begun to form on his nose.

“Before seeing the body, did you meet anybody on your way?”

He spoke up this time, “I met many people, most of them were returning from church, but I did not see anybody when I turned into this street. The street was as quiet as a Shehu’s grave.”

“What about when you were going to Daniel’s, did you meet anybody?”

“I met nobody, but I felt the spirit of the dead man following behind me. It made me burst into a run with fear.”

“Okay, thank you, but before you go, how old are you exactly?”

“I will be fifteen by November twenty-eighth.”

“What’s your full name?”

“My name is Ciroma Hakeem Musa and I am not a terrorist.”

The reply surprised the detective, “Who says you are?”

Hakeem spread his hands, “That is the idea. Most people believe every Muslim is a terrorist.”

“Then you’re a devout Muslim, right?”

“A faithful believer in Allah and Prophet Mohammed, salla Allah alaihi wa sallam. I have never gone on a pilgrimage to Mecca, but I pray to Allah five times daily and I do not eat pork.”

“Are you from the North?”

“I am precisely a Fulani but my parents work here in Lagos. My mother sells Tuwo Shinkafa at the car-park and my father imports cattle from Kaduna to sell here in Lagos.”

“You’re a very smart and intelligent boy, I like you.”

The boy’s face brightened up like a Christmas light in a dark alley, “SubhanAllah. Allah be exalted.”

Lot smiled, “I want you to pray to your Allah or Mohammed to give us the wisdom to catch the murderer. Will you do that for us, please?”

“Detective Abdullot and Brother Abduldaniel, have faith in the Qur’an, first paragraph, book four.”

“Care to tell us what it says, Imam Musa?” Daniel asked.

“The feasts were brought among the unbelieving infidels and no longer were they unbelieving.” The boy quoted. “You see, all you need is faith and Allah will help you.”

“Do your parents know how intelligent you are, Hakeem?” Daniel said to Hakeem, the boy’s foibles he had always been finding charming.

Hakeem shrugged, “I doubt it, my father spends more time with his cattle than with me and my mother is always flirting with cab-drivers at the park. They are both illiterates, of course.”

“Thank you, Hakeem,” Lot said, “You can go now.” He pressed the ‘Stop’ button on the recorder.

The boy rose and bowed to the two men, and then he walked out like someone who had just rescued a drowning dog in the presence of an impressed crowd.

Georges Lot turned to Daniel and asked, “What do you think?”

Daniel smiled, “That boy is funny and intelligent. He’s definitely one of those boys who do not mind exchanging banters with anybody they come across. And he speaks English almost perfectly. I mean he never uses contractions. Never ‘I’m’ or ‘you’re’ but always ‘I am’ or ‘you are’.”

“I know what contractions are,” Lot snapped at him, “Was he lying when he was explaining how he came across the body?”

“If that boy was lying, you would have known, sir. He spoke everything he knew.”

A bee buzzed past them and banged its face against the wall.

“The gun was taken away by the murderer.” Though Lot spoke out, he actually spoke to himself.

“Mr. Martins might have committed suicide.”

Lot cast a sharp annoyed look at Daniel and said, “Have I got to tell you thirty-six times, and then again thirty-six that he was murdered? Where were
you when the Almighty passed out brains?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Who are we questioning this time?”

“The gatekeeper, of course.” Lot answered. “Wait a minute, Hakeem said the gatekeeper was already awake when you knocked on the gate, was that true?”

“It seemed so.”

“Then he might have seen or heard something.”

“Or he might know how the body reached the gate.”

hisson3: Nice piece men! I subscribe! Also may I suggest that you adopt 'the brand of cain' as the official title, makes more sense for a detective thriller such as this,rather than Household. @ Mods pls this is front page material, help us tell seun.

Thank you, Hisson. You're welcome on board. Also, I'll consider your suggestion. Thanks again.
Here comes the next chapter:

brokoto: new word alert: non sequitur
i hope this my post is not a non sequitur

No, it's not.

TWELVE

The sensational death of Cain Martins prompted headlines in almost every newspaper in the country, and was featured in network TV., not only because he was a wealthy man, but the interest of Detective Georges Lot in the affair had also spiced up more debates among the media houses and others––Was it Murder or Suicide? Though most people considered Cain Martins a reprobate when he was alive, (and he on the other hand, had not integrated with the society in character-wise since his aberrant behavior did not allow him that humility) his death still pulled a large crowd. The cream of the society were present in the funeral of this wealthy Nigerian. Cain’s death was also considered a paradigm of the destructive side of humanity bad acts. Even the details of the newspapers were quite vilifying in the minutest degree. And surely, fathers would perhaps forge out didactic stories from the affair and admonish their stubborn wards about the tragedic ends of villains.

That same day, the State Morgue released the body of Cain Martins to his wife, Abigail, who announced that a funeral service and burial of her late husband would take place on Friday––a week’s time.

Though there hadn’t been much time, Abigail did her best, with the aid of Barrister Michael Kish, to arrange a grand funeral for her late husband. The chosen church was St. Paul’s Catholic in Anthony Village.

A Requiem Eucharist was arranged, with full choir and a bishop and some others to officiate. Pallbearers included Cain’s associates and staff, all drawn by Abigail’s summons like iron filing to a magnet. Being the death of a rich Nigerian, the church was filled, though inconspicuously absent was Mrs. Philip, Richard’s mother, who had heard the news but did not attend the funeral for a reason Richard could not fathom. He had urged her to attend but she had blatantly refused, saying that she hated attending funerals; he thought his mother was just being too spiritual. Also absent was Cain’s business colleague, Mr. Dele Hassan, who was residing in Rivers. Most people present there were dressed in the familiar funereal black.

Also present in the church were Detective Lot, Daniel Famous, the photographer, and Doctor Adam. Although nobody, except Eze Chima, was aware of the presence of the photographer. The gatekeeper had intentionally invited the man to the funeral to find out if any dirt still needed to be cleaned up. The photographer on the other hand, busied himself by taking photographic shots of the corpse lying in a casket so grnad that a wretched man could be forced to look forward to dying. Detective Lot in particular was not there as a mourner but as an observer, his eyes scanning the congregation. Despite the thin possibility that Cain committed suicide, Lot strongly believed that he had been murdered, and experience showed that murderers are morbidly drawn to a victim’s funeral.

After the funeral, the body was being transported to the cemetery for burial. The detective did not follow them to the site. He had concluded there was nothing there to go for. He never found a personal sanity in interring a body, they would be wasting time and efforts digging a deep, vertically sided hole in orange-coloured earth of the cemetery and lowering the poor body down on straps. He had seen the sort of thing on TV many a time and he had always had much distate at the acts. He asked Daniel not to go for the burial either, and the young police officer had reluctantly stayed back. He had wished he were closer to the widow rather than the gumshoe.

When they were having a walk the detective said, “I want us to work on this case together.”

Daniel did not say anything.

Lot asked, “You saw the body first, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, it was Hakeem who did.”

“Where’s he?”

“Not here, sir.”

“Don’t be a dumb––I know he’s not here. Where does he live and how did you know him.”

Daniel had never worked with Georges Lot before. He therefore felt insulted by the harsh words lashed at him. “He’s just a son of the neighbour living adjacent to where I live.”

“Um––Famous, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, sir.”

Not far away from them were six teenagers playing football. The impressed Daniel watched as the kids were using the front walls of the two houses on either side of the street as goals, and showed amazing accuracy in never hitting any of the windows. He was so captivated by the youngsters’ skills that he wondered if he wouldn’t be the one who ended up breaking a window had he joined them. One of the kids missed either of the houses and the ball went in the direction of the two law-men. Daniel skillfully controlled the rolling ball and did a little pre-intimacy with the sphere-like object before he kicked it back to the kids, smiling.

“With the way you carried that ball,” said Lot, “Football must be your favourite sport.”

“No doubt about that, sir.”

“You’re a fan of the Pillars, right?”

Daniel was startled, how could he possibly know that? “How––”

“The jersey you wore last week.” The detective explained, “It was the Pillars’.” He paused, taking his time to study the young man’s physiques. “What would you prefer? Being the country’s best footballer or being the country’s Commissioner of Police?”

The policeman laughed heartily, “With all due respect, sir. I think that is a far-fetched question, I would surely like to be the footballer. That is my dream, my passion.”

“Then what are you doing in the police force?” Lot asked sharply.

“It’s a long story, sir.”

“Tell me, I like listening to stories.”

As they continued walking on, Daniel let the tale unfold:

He had never wanted to be a policeman; police work never had been Daniel’s first choice for a career. He had applied into the force so as to get even with his folks––an act of rebellion against his parents, for it had been the last thing they had wanted for him. He had been drawn to the uniform and badge because being a policeman had seemed the easiest way to prove his masculinity. Police work was not and never for him. He was still a young man; there was still time to change career.

When Daniel graduated at the age of seventeen he had told his parents that he wanted to go to the university to study Mass Communication, but his parents had disagreed with him, they wanted him to study Medicine and become a doctor. He had also disagreed with them; he got himself recruited in the police force.

In the force, he had always been very unlucky. Two years earlier, he had stopped a motorist at the checkpoint for a bribe, and the motorist had stopped him with a pistol fired point-blank. He’d narrowly escaped being locked up in the coffin because the bullet had only gone a few inches away from his heart and grazed his right shoulder. He spent a month in the hospital. Since then, Daniel had never stayed at the checkpoint nor engaged himself in any act of venality.

Sometimes, he could not remember why he had become a policeman. It seemed not a career choice but an act of madness. A couple of months after his discharge from the hospital, he had wounded a belligerent drunk whom he thought had been armed. Instead of a gun; the man he’d accosted had had a mobile phone in his pocket. With all his misfortunes, he had never allowed himself to be deterred from performing his obligations; even though some of his colleagues in the force mocked and called him names. He was known to most of his colleagues by his nickname Stu, which was short for Stupid.
Initially, he had always wanted, when he was a younger boy, to be a footballer, but he gave up when realized how hard it was to become a professional footballer in this country. Daniel had always admired the country’s football heroes––and he had been a life-long fan of the Pillars.

“But out of everything,” continued Daniel, “My father had not been able to forgive me for the decision I took.”

“You’re the black sheep of the family?”

“Blacker than black.”

“Do you ever visit them?”

“The family? Now and then. The prodigal son returns. They kill the fattest calf like the biblical tale. My parents are always glad to see me, my siblings too. But I always see it in my father’s eyes the disappointment he had in me, no matter how much he tried to hide it.”

Detective Georges Lot frowned, his expression looked serious, “You’re the master of your decision, I can’t decide for you.” He was now letting himself the pleasure of thinking that this young police officer was not perhaps the nonentity that his appearance might seem to signify.

“I know, but it feels better having to tell someone this.”

“I also like football,” Lot said, smiling, “At least I enjoy watching it.”

Daniel beamed, “Really? Which club do you belong, sir?”

An engaging smile crept across Lot’s mouth. He thought he and the boy would get on well together. “I’m a Gateway fan.”

“That’s interesting; we played with you last week Friday.”

“I learned that the match was played at about eleven that night. I never got around to watching it, did you?”

Famous looked disturbed, he started stuttering, “I––um-uh-I didn’t watch it either.”

“Why?”

Daniel replied quickly, “I went to the vigil, but I heard on the NBC Sports that it was a tie, a goal each.”

“Maybe one day I’ll be watching you play on the television.”

Daniel was perplexed, he hadn’t expected that kind of statement coming from anyone, “What are you saying, sir?”

“What I’m saying is––when the opportunity comes, always go for what you desire. One Nigerian football player you know was once a restaurant waiter receiving a meager salary before he became a world-class footballer.”

Daniel lowered his face, when he looked in the detective’s face again; tears had formed lenses in his own eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “Your faith in me has renewed my strength.”

“With enough hardwork and dedication, you’ll surely see it through. Don’t see your being a policeman as a curse. Do you believe in destiny?”

Daniel did not know how to answer the question. The honest answer to that question had never occurred to him. He felt as if he believed it, yet he did not believe it all the same. Crazy, like the way he believed that witches and wizards exist but did not believe in the existence of ghosts. Daniel had always strongly believed that we are the masters of our destinies and we shape them to what suit our purpose––either good or bad. And he also had always believed that whatever happens to a person id his destiny, it’s what he cannot but do. Destiny is the master, it can never be controlled but it rules our lives. Each man will always come to term with that thing after swimming through the cesspool of life––his tomorrow, his Destiny.

“I don’t know if I do, sir.” He replied honestly.

“Well, believe it or not, it has been destined that you’ll be a policeman, and who knows? This destiny may lead you to your greatest destiny; if being a footballer is part of that destiny, you’ll surely become one.”

“But I’m confused, sir, how can I be a footballer when I’m still a mere police officer?”

The detective patted him on the shoulder, “Have faith, my friend. This profession may be an avenue to that profession. All things work with and for a reason, finding yourself in the force is not by accident, it happened for a purpose. Besides, you said you got yourself recruited––nobody forced you to.”

“Yes, sir.”

They continued walking silently.

“Sir,” Daniel called.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, it’s Q and A time.”

“Are you a Nigerian?”

That was not a kind of question he had expected the young man to ask him.

“Wow!” he paused, then he asked the younger officer, “Do you think I’m not?”

“I’m having a personal doubt about your nationality.” He stopped, expecting the detective to say something but when the older man did not talk he continued, “Because you sometimes use some strange expressions when you talk. I’m sorry if I seem to be going too far.”

Lot smiled, “No, you’re not going any farther than necessary. I’m a Nigerian just like you but my mother was a Roman descent, so she taught me many Latin languages when she was alive. Those strange expressions you heard me speaking were Latin. You can see my skin colour, it’s not a bit different from yours, is it?”

“Thanks for satisfying that curiosity of mine, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

They continued walking in silence again, each person deep in thought. A scrap of paper blew along the street and at one corner two rubber tyres burned sootily.

Daniel broke the silence again, “You wanted to ask me a question.”

“Oh, yes,” Lot paused, then continued, “We both know that Cain died from a gunshot to the head.”

“Of course,”

“When you were called to see the body, did you find the weapon––the gun?”

“No, sir.”

“That means, without any doubt, Cain was murdered.”

“But isn’t it possible for him to have committed suicide?”

“If he had committed suicide, then his ghost had probably risen and concealed the gun somewhere nobody could find it.”

“Maybe someone else took the gun when he took his own life.”

“Why would anybody do that?”

“Hakeem perhaps, he saw the body first.”

“Hakeem you say?” the detective feigned surprise. “What would that boy do with a gun?”

“Well, that boy is over fourteen years old and he might decide to keep the gun. You know our Naija teenagers, he might have kept it to use as an object of pride among his peers.”

“Or he might even have been the murderer of Mr. Martins.”

Daniel could not believe his own ears. “My God! That boy is a kid for singing out clear.” He made a screaming whisper.

“A kid. What if he’s a kid? Grow up and stop being a kid yourself, everyday we see murders committed by kids–fourteen, fifteen, sixteen for God’s sake! Or younger. Of all weapon arrests, almost half involve teenagers. A bunch of teenage boys somewhere stabbed a woman a sixty-four times to steal a lousy thousand naira note. Two twelve-year-olds in P.H threw a kid of five from a cliff. In Delta, two ten-year-old boys killed a two-year-old. It’s the same with robberies, assaults, rapes, you name it. Don’t you read the papers? Almost a decade ago, the ten years old Damilola Taylor was stabbed in the United Kingdom by some racist teenagers and left to bleed to death. Search for the name on the internet and read the story about the boy’s death.”

Daniel groaned, “Hakeem is not the murderer, he’s not.”

“I know he’s not, the fact that he’s younger doesn’t exonerate him is what I’m trying to tell you. Mind you, this murder is a well-planned one; it’s not the kind a fourteen-year-old can commit.”

“Glory be to God.” He sighed in relief.

“But Cain did not commit suicide, he was murdered.”

“I’ll say you should not totally rule out the possibility that he committed suicide.”

“Suicide is out of it, I know Cain was murdered.”

“You know?”

“Yes,”

“How?”

“I was called by the deceased.”

Daniel’s heart skipped a beat, his eyes almost popped off their sockets, “When was that, sir?”

“At about 10pm on the seventh.”

“The night of the incident?”

“Exactly, I received a call that night from a man who called himself Cain Martins, he said he had paid a certain amount of money into my bank account for the job I was about to do. He refused to divulge when I demanded the kind of job he was offering me, he said I should come early the next day and I would know, he gave me the address.”

“So that was the reason you appeared suddenly at the crime scene?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“After the call, did you check your bank account to know if he was actually speaking the truth?”

“I did, he really paid some money into my account.”

“How much?”

The detective paused before answering, he didn’t at first want to respond, thinking the statement a non sequitur, and Daniel almost fainted when he did.

“My God!” exclaimed Daniel, “that’s a pretty large sum of money.”

“You see what I mean?” Lot asked, “Does a man pay a detective that whooping sum of money just because he wanted to commit suicide?”

Daniel frowned, “Sir, do you not think the man who called you was not Cain Martins? Maybe it was someone else claiming Mr. Cain’s identity.”

“It was Cain who called me, I know that too.”

“Don’t be too sure about that, sir. Voices can easily be disguised––especially on the phone.”

The detective shook his head, “No, that is not the case. When I came to the crime scene that morning, the first thing I checked on the corpse’s was its mobile phone; I checked the dialled calls, and guess what I found, it was my number, even the exact time I received the call was recorded on it.”
Daniel sighed again, “That explains it, someone tried to stop him from telling you something very important––by killing him.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Okay, I have a question, sir,” he was already feeling free to strike a conversation with the renowned detective, “What would you have done if you had found out that your number was not on the dialed calls of the deceased?”

“Then I may have believed your theory that it was someone else who called me. Then I would have collected the phones of everybody connected to Cain and checked each person’s dialed calls.”

“But won’t it be easier if you had called the number used to call you, and you’ll know the culprit when it rings?”

“A hidden number was used to call me, so the only choice would be to check everyone’s call records.”

Dust tickled in Daniel’s nose and he sneezed, then he said, “Don’t you think that the person might have deleted your number from the phone after calling you?”

“You see, when you commit a murder you make twenty-five mistakes. If you can think of fifteen of them, you’re a genius. The criminal, having succeeded in mimicking the deceased’s voice, may probably fail to perform a simple task of deleting my number from his phone, or he may underestimate me thinking I can not go so far as checking his phone. Many great criminals get caught by a simple mistake.”

“Would you have checked the wife’s phone too?”

“Why not?”

“You would have been wasting your time, sir. Mrs. Martins was sleeping in her room when the whole thing started.”

“Remember, I received that call at about 10pm, she might not be sleeping then.”

Daniel carried an amused expression on his face, “So you think a woman can mimic a man’s voice?”

“Anything can happen, besides, someone else may use her phone.”

“Exactly, someone else might have used Mr. Martins phone to call you, or Mr. Martins was held under duress to call you.”

“The detective thought for a moment and shook his head again in disagreement. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think anybody used his phone or held him under duress––who else would have sent that large sum of money into my bank account if not Cain?”

“Was the account name through which the money came in Mr. Martins’?”

“No, it was through an account by the name Abel Martins.”

“Abel? Why would Mr. Martins send you some money under that name?”

Lot shrugged, “Why else but to disguise his identity? The surname he used, he only changed the first name––like the biblical Cain and Abel.”

“Maybe he was also forced to change his name, too.”

“That even explained that Cain was actually murdered. Why would anybody use his phone or put him under duress if he had nothing up his sleeves?

Someone killed Cain and I’m going to catch that bastard.”

brokoto: thank you Cuddlemii for releasing it.
New word alert: contumacious
I hope i'm not a contumacious member of NL o. thanks OP, you are a very good novelist. . .

Bro, I hope I'm not too. LOL! Thanks for following. Your comments mean a lot to me.

uj_sizzle: Abby's character is infectious and Richard's a pretty weird fellow-i like him.

Update quickly Larry.

LOL! How weird can he be? You haven't seen any of his weirdness, trust me.

Cuddlemii: @Larrysun, sorry the spambot hid you posts(Ten & Eleven) but I released them.
Next time you notice something like that, inform me quickly, I was just lucky to have stumbled upon it while reading your thread.
Other times, I might not be aware, so let me know. Thanks!

Thank you so much, you just made my day, Cuddlemii.
How may I contact you if the problem persists?

ELEVEN

They were all in the house; in the living room, each person looking at the other for an explanation. The silence lasted precisely two minutes before the lawyer spoke first.

“Where’s the driver? I haven’t seen him.” He asked Mr. Chima, who was the only person standing in the room. He had never sat in the room and he was not ready to begin now just because his master had passed on, even after the death of his master, Chima’s sense of servility had not waned.

“I don’t know his whereabouts, sir.”

“The deceased has a driver?” asked Lot.

“His name’s Richard and he’s not here.” Michael answered the detective.

Daniel Famous turned to the gatekeeper. “Sir, can you kindly go and wake Mrs––” he looked with pleading eyes at the gatekeeper to help him with the name.

“Martins. Mrs. Abigail Martins.” Kish helped.

Abigail, in a nightdress, entered the room yawning and stretching.

“I’m already awake.” She said.

Daniel Famous who had always had a private predilection for pretty women opened his mouth wide, his heart began banging violently in his chest so much that he was scared people around would hear. Except in movies, he had never seen a woman as striking in appearance as the widow, and what particularly sent his ventricles aflutter was the fact that she was dressed in negligee. The doctor’s eyes in the spectacles almost popped off their sockets, the detective only stared at her––he took his time to study the woman, his face carried that of a man looking through a high-powered microscope and observing an interesting specie of paramecium. Noticing where almost everybody’s attention was shifted; he could see that the men in the room were looking at her as if they could eat her with a spoon. The photographer was looking at the woman and also at the detective. The only person in the room who did not notice Abigail enter the room was the boy; he was lost in the world of his hand-held PSP Game.

“Oh, naughty me. I didn’t know that Cain would be having visitors.” She smiled, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have slept like a snail. Good morning, everybody. It’s a nice weekend, isn’t it? Don’t mind me, I oversleep on Saturdays. By the way, where’s the host? There’s a photographer––should I go and change to a better dress?”

Silence fell for a millisecond.

The detective stood up and approached her, “Good morning, Mrs. Martins. My name is Georges Lot and I am a detective of the LAGPID.”

Abigail appraised him and brightened up with excitement as she recognized the man standing in front of her.

“I know you! I see you in the telly; you’re that famous detective, aren’t you? I’ve also read about you sometimes ago in the papers. The ways you solve all these enigmatic cases have always appealed to me.”

Daniel was still staring at her agape. It took him a lot of his self-control to prevent himself from drooling at the mouth. He watched her closely as she brightened up when she was speaking with the detective. Daniel was not even listening to what the two were saying. He was engrossed in appreciating how radiant her face looked when she smiled. She looked so lively, so full of excitement and happiness. She hadn’t even known that she had lost a husband. Then he saw the smile disappeared suddenly from her face. From the look she carried, Daniel could see that she had sensed something wrong. Oh, not now, he thought, not when she is so happy. She must not know that her husband had been killed.

“Why are you here?” he heard her asked the detective. “Where’s Cain?” she looked around at the people sitting and said, “Richard’s not here, where’s he, too?” without waiting for an answer she burst out of the room into the compound and out of the gate. She saw some men standing around a body on the ground. Slowly, she walked towards the men and looked at her husband lying dead. She turned away quickly and leaned on the fence weeping. The others in the room had also come out to join her. Except of course, the boy.

“It’s a pity his life had to end this way,” Abigail said softly, “I feel sorry for him.”

“Let’s go back inside. These men will look after him.” The detective assured her.

Down the street came the wailing of sirens of the police car as the vehicle approached. The car stopped and five armed policemen jumped down from the back. Georges Lot approached and spoke to them; they immediately joined the four white-clothed men watching over the corpse. They were careful not to go too close to it so as not to tamper with any evidence––especially prints.

The street had become almost deserted after the arrival of the police car. The crowd that had gathered across the street to watch had fled, thinking there would be gunfire.

The detective, the doctor, the lawyer, the police officer, the wife, the gatekeeper and the photographer––all returned into the house. When everybody, except the gatekeeper was seated again, the detective asked:

“Mr. Um––Chima, you said there’s still a member of this house––the driver, and he’s not here. When last did you see him?”

“I was in my room last night when I heard the sound of one of the cars in the garage. I came out and saw Richard and Oga in the jeep. I tried to ask where they were going but my boss asked me to mind my business. So, I opened the gate when he ordered me to, and they drove out of the compound. That’s what I know.”

“So, that was what happened,” said the lawyer, “Richard drove out with Cain and he killed him. I knew it! I know that boy is a criminal. He has run away, we must find him and bring him to justice.”

“What makes you so sure about that, sir?” the photographer asked Kish.

The gatekeeper opened his mouth to speak but the detective spoke before him, “Nobody should be accused for now. It’s too early to assume or suspect anybody; we still have a long way to go in investigating this case. Nobody is guilty until proven so.”

“This is everything you need, detective,” said Michael Kish, “Richard killed his boss and ran away. What else do you need? Or do you think he will come back here to surrender himself?”

“We are not yet sure of what really happened and I shall be obliged if you will kindly keep your theory to yourself until I ask for it––all right?”

“If you say so.” Michael turned to the gatekeeper, “When you called me you said Cain asked you to do so, am I right?”

“You’re right, sir.”

“Then how come he’s lying dead outside? And why is there only one jeep in the garage?”

Before Eze Chima could answer the lawyer the door of the room was opened and a tall policeman poked his head inside. “There’s a young man at the gate, he called himself the driver.”

The detective smiled at the lawyer, “Maybe he’s come to surrender as you have said.”

“Allow him in.” Lot told the policeman at the door.

“Yes, sir.” The policeman disappeared and Richard came in a few minutes later, he was looking tired and angry. Lot, who was fond of looking closely at new faces, studied Richard and smiled.

“You’re Mr. Richard, right?”

“I’ll prefer you call me Mr. Philip. But you can call me Richard all the same.”

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Philip.” They shook hands. The man’s handshake wasn’t exactly a bone-crusher, Richard noticed, but it threatened to dislocate his second and fifth metacarpal bones. Richard quickly withdrew his hand before he ended up with dangling phalanges. However, he checked his hand still thereafter, to confirmed that there wasn’t one of his fingers still hanging from the detective’s palm.

“I’m Inspector Georges Lot,” said Lot, wondering how many times and people left he still had to introduce himself.

Richard knew the man––the famed Criminal Nightmare, as Silverbird Television had described him. He was not surprised to see Lot, and he did not feign any.

“I believe I wouldn’t be wrong if I concluded that you’re here to investigate the death of my boss.”

“You’re right, and I trust you’ll help us in arriving at the truth.”

“I’ll tell you all what I know.”

“But Richard, honestly, I’m surprised that––how can I put it? Your boss’s death didn’t affect you emotionally.”

Richard sat down, the detective also did.

“And why should that man’s death affect me?” he asked lightly.

“He was your boss, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. Any problem with that? ”

“You don’t seem to show any concern about his death.”

Richard shifted in his seat, “Well, I cannot help my flippancy, can I? But let me tell you one truth, sir. I hate Mr. Martins, and he’s a man I would
hate even in heaven if by chance we ever meet there.”

“Don’t you think what you are saying may later be used against you?”

“I don’t care. If you don’t know, Mr. Martins had the manners worse than those of a lunatic when he was alive and it would be hypocritical of me to pretend I am moved by his death when I’m not.”

“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” Lot quoted, “Freely translated: Say nothing but good of the dead.” The detective believed that in death, the very worst man is accorded respect even by those who know that he was a scoundrel all his life. Because every one of us must die, belittling a dead man is in a way like belittling ourselves. Moreover, if you speak badly about the dead, you somehow are mocking the great inevitable end––and mayhap inviting God to punish you for your arrogance.

“Even if the dead were an annoying nincompoop in his life. That crazy idiot! May he rot in the deepest pit of hell!” Richard growled, which surprised Abigail since she knew Richard to rarely use even the mildest of oaths.

The detective looked at Richard with a blank expression and nodded. Nobody in the room could guess what was running through the detective’s chain of thought unless he said it out. Even saying it out might be complicated to understand sometimes. But from his look at Richard, one may be able to deduce correctly or incorrectly that he noticed in the younger man that, in spite of the angry look Richard carried into the room, Georges Lot could detect a spice of suaveness in the young driver.

“Anyway, we’ll talk about that later,” he said, “Right now I want you to meet these people sitting here. That’s Barrister––”

“I know him.” Richard stared coldly at the lawyer.

As both men shook hands, the lawyer leaned forward and whispered in Richard’s ear. “I told you to watch your steps here but you didn’t; now you’re in for trouble. How would you like spending the next Christmas in a nice little jail? Be sure that I will arrange for you the durance vile you deserve.”

Richard glared into the lawyer’s eyes and whispered in reply, “Let’s wait and see.” Soft-spoken, yet as sharp as a harpist’s plectrum his words were.

Detective Lot noticed the transparent animosity between the two men but he decided not to comment about it.

“Okay,” said Lot, “That’s Doctor Adam of Lagos University Teaching Hospital, he’s probably going to help us on this case.” He pointed to the police officer, “That’s Officer Daniel Famous and beside him is the boy who reported seeing the body.”

Daniel waved in greeting and Richard nodded in reply. I’ve got a policeman I’m going to kick in the gut, he thought.

“That’s the photographer.”

“The photographer is the only one here without a name?”

The photographer was about to speak when Eze Chima quickly helped him out, “His name is Leba.”

“Leba? What a strange name.” Richard commented, “Let me guess, he isn’t here to take my picture.”

“Can I ask this scoundrel a question?” Kish asked the detective.

“No question is needed for now. Questions can wait,” said Lot, “Now, we need to clear up the mess around.”

The doctor stood up, pushed his spectacles up to the top of his nose with the middle finger of his ringless left hand, and consulted his wrist-watch,

“It’s almost ten, we have to move the body to the morgue before the morning sun starts darkening it.”

Doctor Adam went outside in the wake of the others; he called his men and spoke to them. A wheeled-stretcher was carried out of the van, and Cain’s body that was put on it was covered with a black rubber sheet. The stretcher was slid into the back of the ambulance, the door slammed shut and the vehicle pulled slowly away, the siren beginning to moan––destination, The State Morgue, for autopsy.

Before his departure, Doctor Adam called the detective aside and told him something, Lot nodded and shook the doctor’s hand appreciatively.
Without any other person around knowing, the doctor had just told Detective Georges Lot the estimated time of death of the deceased.

TEN

Usually, the drive from Victoria Island to Ikeja never took more than twenty minutes with the speed the Barrister was driving, but one would always have to face the problems of traffic congestion on the motorways. Many drivers don’t always have any choice other than to cut into different streets and roads in a bid to avoid the incessant traffic. That was exactly what Barrister Michael Kish found himself doing, and driving with only one hand on the wheel.

Driving at an alarming speed, Kish expected a slumbering police car to rouse into action and take a serious pursuit after him, but there was no police car coming behind. He was not surprised though, getting arrested for over-speeding in this country was as rare as a lady not getting her bottom grabbed when walking out of a club house. But Michael Kish decided to slow down sooner than later, though. He didn’t want to be regarded a contumacious citizen, and besides, Michael Kish wasn’t a street racer; so he took no special pride in having wheels of speed and fury. Driving fast cars with utter contempt for the laws of physics can be interesting, from the point of view of the driver himself. But it can also be some faster means of adding more population to those already sleeping in Abraham’s bosom; a danger to the driver, his passengers and whomever he may hit in his carelessness. When the car had lost the undesired speed he turned on the car radio, Banky W was singing in praises of Nigeria––a touching song, then Michael took his time to give a deep thought to the weird phone call he had received earlier that morning.

A murder had been committed. Actually, he had not been surprised when the gatekeeper called. He was a lawyer, wasn’t he? And lawyers either defended a convict or prosecuted one. Getting involved in a murder affair was not a new experience to Barrister Michael Kish. He had been involved in countless homicide cases, including divorces, rapes, robberies, and a collection of other major crimes. He had handled eighteen cases from last February to the end of March; twelve of them were manslaughter cases, three missing people cases and three domestic marital problems. Michael Kish had personally made his own study of social defiance and crime, and he knew very well from time being that murder was one of the most despicable misdeeds in the sad gamut of human transgressions. The last case in which he had gotten involved was a political one––embezzlement. His client had been accused of stealing a certain amount of money meant for the repair of a major road in one local government area. Michael Kish had saved the Local Government Chairman, Alhaji Ali Badru, from being sentenced to a couple of years’ imprisonment.

Sometimes, Kish’s profession called for defending the guilty. He knew his client had actually siphoned the money, but business comes first. It was like a talent to him; whenever he defended or accused, Barrister Kish rarely lost.

He was on the express road again after cutting through Thomas Street, leaving the traffic hold-up behind him. To kish, the city of Lagos had changed as much as its people. The city was predictably different: it was bigger, the cars and shops were more numerous and more garish, and the streets were more crowded. He had always been amused and strangely proud about the usual hustling and bustling of the city of Lagos. This was a state of the country where he’d lived all his adventurous life before fleeing to England. For some reason, just being here gave him a sense of belonging, to one’s country, to one’s native land. It was a feeling he’d never had before, and he wondered if he would ever return to the exiled life he lived in England. Driving for another quarter of an hour, he turned left into a single-lane road. The road might have been tarred originally, but now it showed bald patches of sodden earth and weeds sprouting from cracks. He drove for another ten minutes before finally turning left into Adeniji Jones Street. The digital clock on the dashboard agreed with what his wristwatch also revealed–– 08.06.

Ahead, Kish saw a group of people in front of the building’s gate. Some, he saw, were lurking behind cars; some were standing at the side of the road, most of them were jostling for space like spectators at an overcrowded local stadium. He noticed that some people had formed a circle by the side of the large black gate and he stopped his car here and got out slowly with his heart hammering so loud in his chest. By the time he was about turning of the ignition, the radio was playing Banky’s “Lagos Party”.

One with a keen sense of observation would have noticed that he appeared scared of something. Peering into the crowd, the feature of his face was instantly knocked out of true by a seismic visceral of horror and revulsion. The body was lying on its back with a hole on the forehead, and the blood which was already drying up had dripped down the black piece of clothing on it. This was a crime scene, Michael knew, what was unforgivable was vomiting at a murder scene and contaminating evidence. He turned to a nearby bush to retch but nothing came out. He hadn’t had anything for breakfast; there was nothing for him to puke. Sometimes, it pays to skip meals, no matter what the nutritionist may say. Otherwise, Kish might have regurgitated like a fountain.

The body Kish had seen was Cain’s. Martins Cain was dead––shot in the forehead. Seeing the horrible hole on the forehead was turning Kish’s stomach, so he turned his back to it. He was still in that bilious state when he suddenly felt a cold hand on his shoulder and he almost fainted with fright. Quickly spinning round, he was confronted by a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. The man smiled.

“Sorry to have scared you, sir.” The young man said, “That man’s death must have been a shock to you. You know him?”

Kish carefully studied the man facing him; the young man was dressed in a football jersey and a pair of blue jeans. Kish could not place the club or country the jersey belonged to. Football was one sport Michael Kish disliked; he could not find the fun in watching about two dozen men run up and down a wide field in pursuits of a single ball. And since the man facing him looked like a professional footballer in his jersey, Kish felt a dislike for him boiling up somewhere in his guts. He looked handsome in a funny way, though.

“Who are you?” asked the lawyer. He could not believe his own voice, it sounded like something scraped across a rough surface. He coughed to have a clearer voice.

The man did not answer. He instead dipped his hand into a trouser-pocket and produced a card which he handed Kish. Written boldly at the top of the card was: THE NIGERIA POLICE FORCE. He’s a policeman!

“Officer Daniel Famous at your service, sir.” He had what ladies called the bedroom voice, and a mouth carefully designed for kissing. “Do you know the man?” he now asked.

“He’s––he was my friend.” Michael managed to say, with a clearer voice this time.

“A sad one, isn’t it? It’s amazing how you freaked out. Is this your first time of seeing a corpse, sir?”

“I can’t stand blood.” Michael falsely replied.

The policeman studied Michael for some time before speaking. “I understand that you’re the deceased’s lawyer––Barrister Kish, right?”

“Who told you that?”

“The gateman.”

“Where is he?”

“In the crowd. He called you, didn’t he?”

Michael Kish ignored the question and moved towards the crowd, the policeman following behind him. He moved past the body, there was a middle-aged photographer clutching the neck of his camera flashlight bulb as if it were some poisonous serpent. He was bending over the body and taking photos from various angles and under three groupings: an overall shot, a medium, and a close-up. Kish knew very well that such photos often revealed evidence originally overlooked, but he could not fail to detect that the photographer was evidently inexperienced in his job. Kish did not find the gatekeeper in the crowd, but he saw him at the gate looking neither happy nor sad. Michael approached him.

“Mr. Gate–oh, sorry. Mr. um––”

“Mr. Chima, sir. I’m glad you’re here.”

“How did this happen?”

“I don’t know, sir. I think this house needs an exorcist––you know? Some priests to come here and pray over this house, priests who really believe in the devil if there’s anything like that today. Holy water and crucifixes should be brought, too, because this is something that defies all logic. This is utterly supernatural!”

“When was he discovered?”

“At about six this morning.”

Daniel Famous joined them, holding a boy of about fourteen years old in the hand. The boy was a scrawny teenager who looked as if he might profit from an occasional snack of calcium. On his face was adolescent acne, but this facial symptom seem to be make his unusually bright due to the fixed smiled plastered on the face.

“That was when we came to tell him about the unfortunate death of his boss.” Said the police officer.

“We?” asked Kish.

“Yes, at about quarter to six, this boy came to call me that he saw a dead body. We immediately came rushing here and found that man lying there dead. Then, we called the security man out.” The boy wanted to talk but Daniel gave him a pinch, the only thing he believed he could do to keep the boy’s mouth at bay.

“Where’s Abby?” Kish asked Chima.

“She’s still sleeping inside, sir.”

“What!” Kish exploded, with an eyebrow ascending to the forehead. “Her husband is lying here dead and she’s still sleeping?”

“I specifically told him not to wake her.” Daniel chipped in. “I believe that’s the right thing to do for now. I don’t think she will take her husband’s death well enough, and we’re not looking forward to a double-casualty.”

A black car parked behind Kish’s and a solidly-built man came down from it. He was a half-inch short of six-feet and only a slight potbelly bespoke the many bottles of beer he often drank and the junk food he often ate. The man was in his mid-fifties with a strong hard face, piercing eyes and a shock of grey hair at each temple. He had several lines on his forehead, which served only to prove that he frowned a great deal. He walked into the crowd and bent over the stiff detritus of the man named Cain Martins, examining it carefully. The corpse, he noticed, was lying in an awkward position; the right leg was slightly raised and the other was stretched straight but without any footwear. The left sandal was lying some inches away from the body, the hat lying away had been knocked slightly askew, and it appeared as if it had rolled out from the head when the body hit the ground. The most disgusting view was the wound on the forehead; there was a hollow space on it, which undoubtedly housed a bullet. The bullet had probably jerked the head backward when it hit it, bringing out a splinter of bones and blood. There was trickle of partially dried blood, the bright viscid fluid, which had now turned dark, had flowed onto the overcoat. The man stood up and went round the body twice, he bent down again and searched the dead man’s pocket under the overcoat, from where he came up with a mobile phone. Checking the dialled calls on the phone, he nodded, probably agreeing to something he had been thinking. He noticed that, a few paces away from the body, were tracks of vehicle tyres, and he was about rising from his crouch to follow the trails when a shadow covered him.

Daniel Famous knew he should have stopped the strange man from reaching the body, but he felt a sense of recognition––he was still trying to remember where he had seen the man when that same man was busy meddling with the body. When his sixth sense came alive, he quickly walked towards the man to stop him from the body, “Will you please step away from the body, sir?” he said sharply.

The man looked up into Daniel’s eyes. “Why should I?”

Famous could not believe his own ears, “Why should you? You’re in a crime scene for heaven’s sake, and touching the body is disruption of evidence. By the way, who are you, sir?”

The man stood up slowly, he looked into the eyes of the police officer for some time before extending a card he produced from his pocket. Daniel collected the card. On seeing the card, Daniel immediately saluted with a sharp ––tion, sir! He thought as much, it was that incredible detective, why did I fail to recognize him in the first place?

“Now, who are you?” the man asked Famous.

“Police Officer Daniel Famous, sir. Sorry I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“And you want me to give you a medal for recognizing me now?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t stand there like a tired masquerade, I need to know the family members of the deceased.”

Daniel walked the man towards the others who stood watching them; he introduced him to the gatekeeper and the lawyer.

“Gentlemen, this is Inspector Georges Lot of Lagos State Police Intelligence Department. He’s a homicide detective.”

“It can’t be!” Kish cried. “The ingenious detective of the LAGPID? I can’t believe this.”

Inspector Georges D. Lot had a reputation in the country’s police intelligence unit. His name and pictures always showed up in several daily national newspapers. He had received several awards for his undiluted crime-solving abilities and the clever ways he fished out criminals, especially in his field––homicide. The Daily Times newspaper once described him as ‘Godfather of Modern Detective,’ The Punch once called him “Detective Charisma,’ and he was once named ‘Detective Idol’ by The Guardian.

One of the many cases he had solved that made waves across the nation was that of the gubernatorial candidate who was reported to have been assassinated but for the arrival of Georges at the crime scene. After questioning the members of the house and making a few investigations within the first few hours of his arrival, he told the reporters and the police that the governorship candidate was killed not by any assassin but his wife.

With the little evidence and proofs he produced to the police, the wife was arrested, and with a little threat from the police, the wife confessed to the crime. She had been a mistress of her husband’s opponent and had stabbed her husband several times in the back when the man was fast asleep. She had later lied that a group of assassins had broken into their apartment and killed her husband. When asked why she killed her husband, what she had told the police could not be released to the press. The accomplice was also arrested and the truth was unveiled; he had persuaded the woman (with the promise of marrying her thereafter) to kill her own husband and make it look like the work of an outsider. Both paramours were tried, found guilty and hanged publicly. It was an unforgettable event in the history of the nation because for thirteen months, the state was governor-less.

But that astounding act of solving the crime had brought half a dozen awards to Georges Lot’s doorstep. It was one of the detective’s most famous cases. It had even been written up in magazines and newspapers; and there’d been talks about making a Nollywood movie out of it, though nothing ever came of that.

“Garbage is all a human corpse ever is,” said Lot, “and once we’ve learned what we need to, the sooner we dispose of it the better. Burn cadavers! That’s the best way–then if somebody wants to spread the ashes over some lake like the Asians, fine, no harm done. But cemeteries, coffins, they’re all barbaric––a waste of good land. I would prefer being cremated when my soul goes to the beyond to getting locked up in the coffin for the delicacy of earthworms and maggots!”

Barrister Kish, who was still in a confused state, asked, “How did you hear the news?”

“I happened to be in the neighbourhood.” Lot was not a man who just happened to be anywhere. If he ever went sleepwalking, even then he would have a purpose, a plan, and a destination. “But never mind. Who’s that man lying there?” the detective asked the question as though he meant––who’s that idiot sleeping at the side of the road?

“That? That is Mr. Martins, sir. He’s the owner of this house.” Daniel pointed to the massive structure behind the walls of the gate.

“This will be interesting.” Lot said, as he dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. He brought out a stick which he dipped between his teeth; he lighted the cigarette and inhaled deeply, wondering which would rot first: lungs, liver or kidneys?

He spoke as the smoke curled around his nostrils. “Can you people introduce yourselves?” pointing with his cigarette to make emphasis.

Daniel spoke first, “I’m Officer Famous. This boy here came to call me at about 5.45 this morning, he said he saw a corpse so we both came running. The man was really dead when I examined him. We knocked on the gate to call the GM but it took him about five minutes before he could open up.”

“It was about six this morning when I heard a loud bang on the gate.” Said Chima. “I thought for a moment that we were being attacked by robbers. I was about pulling out my gun when I gave a second thought. Robbers rarely rob at six in the morning when dawn is fast approaching. I opened the gate and saw this man and the boy beside him. This one in sports shirt told me that he’s a police officer; he’s the one who called me out to see the dead body. It’s terrible.”

“You have a gun?” Lot asked.

“Yes, a rifle.”

“I’ll like to see it now.”

The gatekeeper went into his room and came back a few minutes later with a long gun. The detective took the gun in his hand and examined it. It was not the kind of weapon a serious violent criminal would favour. It hadn’t been fired more than a few times in not a long time, but it had some kinds of filmy substances on the barrel. He opened the cylinder, touched the inside of the barrel with the tip of his little finger and sniffed. It was the familiar smell of gun bullet and powder, it had been cleaned. He sniffed the outside of the barrel, and was trying to detect any odour of being recently fired when the gatekeeper said harshly to him; “What are you doing, young man? Do you want to eat the gun? If you are going to eat the barrel, please don’t do it here. And besides, I wouldn’t take it likely with you if my gun went down your oesophagus.” That was where both men started to hate each other’s guts; a significant case of hate at first sight it was between them.

The detective smiled at the man, “I’m only trying to check if you’re actually the criminal here, I don’t have to be wasting my time if you are.” He turned to Daniel, “Where are we on this case?”

“Um––I’ve asked a photographer to take several shots of the body, the pictures will be out tomorrow.”

“Good work, officer.” He patted him on the shoulder. “I need to make a phone call.”

Half an hour after the detective’s call, the sound of a medical emergency bus approaching could be heard; the two notes screeching nah-noahs as the medical unit skirted both shoulders of the road to reach the casualty. The ambulance was a minibus with Red Cross emblems and a flashing light on the roof, gathering speed as it made its way towards the detective. The vehicle stopped and an elderly man in white overcoat and a stethoscope hanging on his neck got out. His Adam’s apple looked as if he’d swallowed a coin.

“Morning, sir––” he held out his hand to shake the detective which Lot grabbed warmly. The detective’s hand, the elderly man felt, was like a pair of pliers. The grip from the detective caused the doctor to wince in solemn anguish.

“Glad you’re here, that’s the body.” He pointed to the corpse lying there on the ground.

“Can we carry him now?” asked the doctor, when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple went up a few inches and stayed that way.

“Actually no, there’re still some things we have to put in place.”

Lot turned to the others. “Meet Doctor Adam.”

The boy giggled, “Doctor Adam with a big Adam’s apple.”

Lot faced Daniel, “Hey, do you have your phone with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent, now call your division and ask them to send five men over here. Tell them what happened if you’re questioned.” Lot noticed blood oozing from the scratch marks on the police officer’s left wrist but he didn’t comment about it, it wasn’t any of his business, he thought.

“Okay, sir.” Daniel Famous began making the call immediately.

The detective turned to the doctor, “Doc, can you please tell your men in the van to come out and watch over the body till the police arrive?”

“Okay.”

The doctor went to the ambulance and called the four men dressed in white––they were soon standing around the body.

“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.” Daniel said.

“Good.” Said Lot, “Doctor, did you tell your men not to touch the body?”

“I don’t need to tell them, they know their jobs.”

The detective crushed out his mutilated cigarette, his fingers covered in ash.

“Now, let’s go inside.” He declared, “We have a lot to talk about and a lot to find out.”

Yap, the Note comes before the story, likewise the synopsis.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS, I WILL ALREADY BE DEAD!

No, no! I’m fine. Everything’s okay. I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention to this little foreword. Lord knows, it would have been all too easy for you to just plunge right in and start reading the story and just skip the introduction (I just didn’t want you doing that), especially to those of you who have had the opportunity of reading my manuscripts before. If you are reading my work for the first time, then I welcome you on board because this is actually my first novel.

Now, a little something about how what you are holding in your hand got to be there. A concept that fuels the fire of every writer’s imagination, I believe, is presented through a divine and mysterious providence, automatically bringing to light the simple fact that the art of writing gives one an insight into human nature. I can say this story you are about to read came to me in a mysterious way; it was as if I plunged my hand into a lucky dip of imagination and came up with a handful of assorted plots.

To tell you the truth, I had a few reservations when I was about to begin Household. I was afraid that the story might not reach the required length of a novel which, I believe, is not less than fifty thousand words. The plots had been fully created in my mind, but that uncomfortable dread still persisted since having a story in mind and putting it in black and white are two extremely different things. I knew that if I should apply myself seriously to the business of writing, then I needed to acquire the fund for real world experiences from which to draw on for the creation of my own kind of art. I needed to venture far and wide, and plunge into the turbulent river of life. I must begin the experience gathering process that would give me the materials needed to be a writer.

Therefore, out came reams of papers (A4 plain sheets precisely), I folded each twenty sheets into halves; I dusted my writing table and played music to drown out the sound of nature that may inhibit the development of the plot. With adrenaline flowing, heart racing and sweat dampening my fingers––I began writing volumes of pages. Writing fiction is intellectually and emotionally satisfying––and great fun. If a writer isn’t having fun when he’s working, the stories that he produces are never going to be a pleasure to read. For me; that is where the secret to a successful, prolific career as a writer lies: Have fun, entertain yourself with your work, make yourself laugh and cry with your own stories, make yourself shiver in suspense along with your characters. If you can do that, then you will most likely find a large audience, but even if a large audience is never found, you’ll have a happy life. I don’t measure success by number of copies sold but rather by the delight that I get from the finished work itself. Besides, you are the reason that I may have a career in writing, and when you lay your money down to buy this book, you have the right to expect some fun in return. Moreover, I don’t want any of you to feel that you have to smack me on the head with this book whenever you see me, yelling at me angrily that I have written a load of trash. If this story doesn’t intrigue you, then I’m in deep trouble.

Sometimes, writing fiction can be grueling when one is in the tenth draft of a chapter. After endless fussing with syntax and word choice, after having been at the writing table for twelve hours stretch, there are times when I’d much rather be working as a clerk in a supermarket warehouse, or loading and offloading heavy goods from trucks––or even washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen. Presently though, I am a high school teacher (maybe there’s really no difference after all). Spending over two years researching and writing a book is a remarkably daunting task for a writer who is determined to have his first novel published. I wrote the prologue of this story a dozen times before finally settling down with the one you are about to read. After completing the prologue, it took me quite some time before beginning the real story. The truth is, the more I wrote, the thicker the plot became, and by the time I was half-way through with Household, the story had taken on an interesting and cleverer turn than how I had initially anticipated it. I had to stop in the middle of some chapters to do more research.

Many successful writers in this country have second occupations. You could see them at bus-stops waiting for buses to carry them to their different offices, you could even find some of them selling spare parts in Alaba. After every hectic day, they still go to a corner of their rooms in the night to write down a few pages before slumping on their beds to sleep–waiting till their alarm clocks scold them to get off their slumbers and prepare for work again. I believe that second occupations for writers need to be colourful in order to make good biographical copies. I considered traveling to Niger Delta to kidnap a Chinese for ransom or breaking government fuel pipes so as to get money from black markets. Fortunately for me, my wonderful ex-girlfriend had had that awesome common sense to advise me against carrying out any of the two plans. She said she doesn’t want me becoming a resident of a federal prison or a pile of charred unidentifiable remains. So, I took to teaching. Well, teaching is immensely satisfying if you really try to jam knowledge into those secondary school demons.

Satisfied with how the plot surprisingly revealed itself, and the characters I had created (take for instance the antics of Hakeem Musa and the gatekeeper who frequently mowed the beards and shaved the grass of English expressions with his incessant use of malapropisms and spoonerisms)––I finished the real story.

It took me another couple of months before I could write the epilogue. It surprisingly proved the most challenging part of the story because it appeared as if my imagination took a long vacation, I think they call it writer’s block. I don’t really know what step I took to break this creative impasse. After about what seemed to be an indefinite break, my imagination returned with a historical plot which will no doubt birth another imagination (I pray you come to understand what I mean after reading this story).

At last, Household became whole; my first finished work. Many people whom I had given Household to read have been kind enough to tell me sincerely that they enjoyed my story immensely. But, sadly, they always expected a Soyinka from every writer. And yet, where is the oxymoron in––the ox is a slowpoke? I’m merely a humble story-teller who hopes you enjoy the entertainment in my stories. I make no claim to creating literature; I’m not a writer yet, not quite, but I do strive for intelligent entertainment. After all, a caterpillar, if given enough chance to live, will undoubtedly turn itself to a butterfly. I should really let you know that parting with a portion of your money to buy this book is not a mistake. Welcome to the adventure of my characters in Household who still live and breathe with me.

I do believe that it is worthwhile to try to draw or paint, to compose a piece of music or poetry…or to write a novel.

I hope you enjoy this piece as much as others claimed to have. I’m positive that by the time you see me again you might actually be hugging me…and not smacking me on the head.

Thanks for your attention, and sorry about scaring you before.



Larry Sun
September 2010.

Okay, before the next chapter, let's see a short synopsis about the story; and my note about it. Shall we?

However, you should know that The Brand Of Cain is a subtitle. The main title's HOUSEHOLD.

HOUSEHOLD centred on the adventures of different characters brought together by a sheer twist of fate. Some were born to sweet delights while others were born in beds of thorns. Richard Philip was born poor on the wrong side of the blanket. He found employment as a driver of a rich business tycoon, and the shocking secrets he learnt about his new boss and the gorgeous wife culminated into a well-planned, cold-blooded murder.

The second half of the story introduced Detective Georges Lot and his sidekick, Daniel Famous, a twenty-four year old amateur police officer, who, much to the chagrin of the detective, never believed for an instance that the crime could be solved. The 25-chapter story progressed into a shattering climax and an astonishing denouement.
 
It was already half past five in the morning when a body with a bullet hole in its forehead was discovered by a fourteen-year-old teenager. The unexpected presence of the famous Detective Georges Lot at the crime scene made the affair one of the most baffling ones in the history of the nation.

Shortly after his arrival, Detective Georges Lot realized that he was virtually the only person interested in knowing who actually killed the deceased. The suspicious death was a surprise to the household and the thread with which Detective Lot must darn this mystery was thin indeed, because only Detective Georges Lot would believe the mystery could be solved. A couple of hours before the death, he had been anonymously paid a large sum of money to investigate the case.

With these available clues, the famous detective must bring this criminal to book:

The murder weapon, which was nowhere to be found.

Two different notes written in different handwritings.

A text message sent through a strange number.

In the subsequent chapters, three other new characters would be introduced, and they also play important roles in this story.

brokoto: I hope Mr. Chima was lying o! Hmmm. . .

No, he wasn't. Someone really croaked among the household, and it wasn't Chima.

NINE

At about 2pm that Thursday Richard drove to pick Cain at the airport. Richard was wearing a blue shirt, blue jeans and black boots; however, he did not seem to be casually dressed. Indeed, in spite of the jeans, there was an air of formality about his outfit. He wore those clothes better than most men wore suits. The sleeves of his shirt had been gracefully pressed and creased. His open collar stood up straight and stiff, as if it had been starched and ironed, with Richard still wearing it––like his shirt, his jeans seemed to have been carefully tailored. His low-heeled boots shone almost like patent leather. Richard had always been compulsively neat. His sartorial physique, however, might pose a serious challenge to the apparel industries.

As he was driving, he allowed his thought to drift to Abigail again; he could picture her smiling faces, the funny way she looked when angry, and she had a sense of humour. He would give anything to share his days and his long, troubled life with a woman like that. Laughter was usually a function of sharing––an observation, a joke, a moment. You don’t laugh a lot when you’re always alone; and if you do, that probably meant you should make arrangement for a long stay in the nearest asylum.

The sky was calm and clear. Rain was forecast for tomorrow, though no forecast could be trusted in Lagos. The afternoon sun blazed beyond the shadows of the vehicle Richard was driving. At the airport, Richard got out of the jeep, hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and stood staring up at the blue sky, feeling the mild sun on his face. A hawk glided in a widening gyre, a dark-feathered bird with a hunt for prey. He was so striking in appearance that travellers’ eyes were drawn to him as though he were a celebrity they did not quite recognize, or a handsome Nollywood star whose name escaped them.

A rich ugly-looking man sat with a laptop in his jeep, working the keyboard and the mouse-attached, fixated on the screen. Maybe he was checking out his company shipping schedules, or playing an internet game, or browsing a porn site, perhaps checking his Twitter, You tube or Facebook accounts.
The long double-lined circular drive was filled with dark limousines and expensive cars––Jaguars, Bentleys, Porsches, and a smattering of Lincolns and Hummers. Another driveway was filled with parked cars––Mercedes, BMWs, Audis, and a Volks.

Richard leaned against the vehicle and waited for the arrival of the aircraft, he waited for about fifty minutes before he spotted the aeroplane cruising down from the bright beyond, it came down on the runway with with loud screeches of its tyres as if it was a meteor shower right down from the outer-space. Normally, Cain was supposed to be one of the last people to get off the plane, so that his driver wouldn’t have to go through the rigor of searching for him in the crowd. But Richard knew his boss better; Mr. Cain Martins wasn’t one to obey the normal protocol of reason. So, Richard became more surprised when he spotted Cain alighting from the Bellview Airline; he was actually the last person coming down the steps. Cain was expensively dressed. His brown suit, his white silk shirt and polka spotted bow tie gave him the appearance of a well-to-do dandy, when Richard saw Cain peeked at his watch, he expected it to be a gold Rolex, but from where Richard stood, it appeared to be an old clunky digital; an object somewhat in cotradistinction to the rest of his apparel, which did not surprise Richard much––his boss was obviously a psycho.

Cain smiled when he spotted Richard, a smile which was always ugly to Richard. The smile always seemed to be telling him–‘I’m going to crush you like killing a mouse with a sledge hammer.’

Performing the civic duty of a good driver, Richard went to his boss and collected the suitcases he was carrying; he neither greeted nor complimented his boss. The hatchet each party was wielding was sharp indeed; each man was plotting to play the game in the way he knew how. But it seemed the favourable side of the die had been cast on the boss. Richard noticed that his boss looked unusually contented, satisfied––as if he had no problem whatsoever in the whirling world. Cain got in the passenger’s seat behind the driver’s and Richard went behind the vehicle to open the booth, he deposited the suitcases and was about to close the booth when he decided suddenly to check the contents of the cases. The first he opened contained Cain’s clothing.

“Holy Jesus!” he exclaimed under his breath. Richard had stopped going to church, even if he might go to hell for that, he didn’t care. But sometimes, he found himself using divine names and those of other holy saints of the Bible whenever he was shocked or in pain. He made a sign of a cross; he was suddenly a devout Catholic again. The second suitcase contained money––Nigerian currencies in a thousand denominations filled the case to the brim. Richard didn’t exactly fall to the climax, and no cartoon stars swarmed around his head, but he was rocked. He had never seen so much money in his life. How much is in here? Four million? Seven? Or more? Having the fear of Cain getting impatient and suspecting he had been rummaging through his property; Richard closed the suitcase, then the booth. The overhead sun beat down on him as if he were an egg in need of frying. He got in the driver’s seat, and from the back reflector he saw Cain skimming through the pages of a glossy business magazine and smiling contentedly as if the paper contained nothing but good words. He saw the old man grin and display the peculiar arrangement of his teeth, which were straight and even, but had small irregular spaces between them as though they had once belonged to a smaller person. Richard decided his boss did not know, or Cain knew but pretended he didn’t. Richard turned the ignition and drove the jeep out of the parking lot.

There were dozens of strugglers, dressed mainly in expensive clothes. Taxi stopped and started after picking lone travellers; prostitute made attempts to find profitable beds; lovers embraced their safe spouses who had just returned, while some were giving goodbye kisses to their loved ones who would be boarding the next available flights. Richard’s mind was unsettled as he drove his boss home; something very bad was going to happen soon. It’s in the air, he could feel it–– Cain is planning a dangerous method. A proverb rang instantly in his head––He who sups with the devil must use a long spoon.

* * * * *



There is fire on the mountain
And nobody seems to be on the run
There is fire on the mountain-top
And no one is a’ running…

On the small table in Richard’s room sat a portable CD player and two small speakers. Asa’s record of Fire on the Mountain blared from the speakers. It was Friday, the seventh of August––and the time was about half past ten in the night. As usual, Richard had picked Cain from the office at around six in the evening and he had dropped him home at exactly 7pm. Now, he was on the bed half-listening to the admonishing rhythm of the great Asa. Friday had always carried the worst night of the week for him, but he didn’t really know why. Maybe he disliked Friday because most people dressed up and went out to dinner or dancing or to a show to celebrate the passage of another workweek––while Richard found nothing to celebrate about having endured another seven days in the prison that was his life, and the devil that was Cain. Most of the time, he was always conscious and grateful of an accelerated passage of time. Days flashed, and even weeks seemed condensed, so that Fridays succeeded Mondays, and it was an effort to recall what had happened between.

At about twenty minutes later Richard heard a hard knock on his door. Knocks didn’t always sound on his door, the last knock was about three weeks ago, and it had been Abigail standing on the threshold with tears filling her eyes. The knock came again.

“Coming.” Richard answered. He was lying half-naked on his bed. He got up and struggled into a casual piece of clothing. He could feel his heart starting to race; he had wanted so much to get closer to her again. But the last thing he needed right now, he decided, was one more problem. In fact, he was not looking forward to another slap, although he was not really sure that he would not again do what had warranted the first slap. He reached the door, went through the process of unlocking, unbolting and unfastening before he finally opened the door. He had expected to find Abigail again, but it was Cain with his ugly grin standing there. Cain was unusually dressed in a black overcoat which draped down to his ankle; a pair of black trousers, black sandals, and a black hat covered his head. He looked like an undertaker.

Richard eyed his boss’s outfit and quipped, “Who died?”

Cain’s obvious insobriety, however, disallowed his finding offence from the rhetorical sarcasm.

“Disappointed? It’s not Abigail this time.” Sang Cain, a strong odour of adult beverages emitted from his mouth.

“What can I do for you––sir?” asked Richard, slightly rudely.

“Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“What did you just say, sir? Where––”

“Shut up and get dressed, I said we’re going out, or do I have to kick you to the garage?”

Anger rose to Richard’s face, he stood looking at his boss wrathfully.

“Don’t stare at me like that, you damned oaf!” Cain cursed, “You’re wasting my time.”

The moment had come, he could feel it again. An ugly plan was about to be executed––the game is starting, both knew, and they were ready to play it to the finish. Both men continued staring at each other, they were communicating with their eyes––challenging––throwing down the gauntlets.

Richard returned into his room to redress and prepare, shutting the door at Cain’s face. About two minutes later, he came out dressed in a simple shirt and a pair of trousers, with sandals. He walked straight to the garage with Cain close behind him. Richard got in the jeep and Cain got in beside him. This puzzled Richard, because Cain had never sat beside him in the jeep before, he always sat behind him.

“Where exactly are we going?” asked Richard.

“Just drive.”

The gatekeeper came with a faked confused expression on his face, “Are you going out, sir?” he asked.

“No, I'm going to bed.” Cain lashed angrily.

“We have less than two hours before midnight.”

“Will you keep that mouth of yours shut, old man? Let’s face it, when did the tail start wagging the dog? I know what I’m going to do, you’ll be retiring tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No, you’re not; you’ll soon be, I assure you, old pal.” He turned to Richard. “Can we go now?”

The gatekeeper shook his head slowly and smiled at how ridiculous Cain's threat was to him now as he headed to open the gate, and Richard drove steadily out of the compound, turning right down the street.

Old Chima waited till he could no more hear the faint sound of the jeep as it sped down the road curve, then he made the call.

It was early morning at about six-thirty. The thin ghostly trails of vapour were left behind from a drizzle that had come and gone during the night. The fifty-three years old Michael Kish was awakened by the persistent ringing of his phone. He squinted to see the time: 6.32am. The shrill ring tone of the Nokia assaulted his ears and interrupted whatever dream he might have been having. The curtains which covered the windows rendered the room dark. Michael fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on.

He picked up the phone.

“Hello?” he said in a voice that sounded like someone had kicked him in the throat.

“Mr. Kish?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes?”

“I hope I have not awoken you.”

“No, you haven’t.” Kish said, wondering if it was a question or a statement. “How do I honour this reveille?”

“Sir, you need to come now.”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s Eze Chima, the gatekeeper of Mr. Cain Martins––”

“What’s the matter? Why are you calling me?”

“There’s something very wrong, sir.” The caller paused, “Mr. Martins actually asked me to call you. Please, you need to come now.”

“Okay, calm down. Tell me, what is going on there? Where is Cain?”

“I can’t answer any question now, sir. You need to come.”

“What about Abigail, is she okay? Where is the driver?”

“Like I said, sir, you need to come. I’m told not to answer any question. The situation here is very serious.”

“Okay, listen to me––can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is really going on? Please tell me the truth.”

“There’s a policeman here, sir.”

“A policeman? What is a policeman doing there?”

“I’m told not to answer any question. Just come, sir. Mr. Martins asked me to call you.”

“What’s happening there for Christ’s sake?”

Another pause on the caller’s side. Kish was growing out of patience.

“Hello––are you there?” Kish asked, “Hello?”

“There has been a murder, sir. Come quickly.”

The call was terminated.

uj_sizzle: Good one Larry, i'm loving this.

Thank you so much, UJ. You won't be disappointed, scout's honour.

brokoto: how do you mean? do you need a professional editor or you just need somebody to proof-read it for you?

You can pardon any grammatical error therein, even if the plot seems jejune and the characterization puerile. I need people to proof-read it.
It is currently going through some professional scrutiny in the States.

brokoto: Nothing do you. fire away!

You should know that this work is not yet edited.

brokoto: i don learn 2 new words today: EXECRABLE and PECCADILLO. OP take am easy abeg. no be effrybodi go school like you.
nice one sha.. .

Thanks again, Bro. Did I make an overabundant use of vocs? Pardon me for that, sir.

EIGHT

Everyone demands a spice of danger in their lives. Some get it vicariously––as in street fights. Some read about it. Some find it at the cinema. Too much safety is abhorrent to the nature of a human being. Men find danger in many ways––women are induced to finding their danger mostly in the affairs of sex. That is why, perhaps, they welcome the hint of the tiger––the sheathed claws, the treacherous spring. The excellent fellow who will make a good and kind husband––they pass him by.

Richard was driving back to Cain’s apartment after finishing one of his mother’s culinary delights; a dish of rice hot enough to scorch his uvula. We think a lot mostly when we are alone. And most of our thoughts then were concerned with what we have done in the past, or what we are likely going to do in the future to come.

Richard knew he had a serious apology to make to Abigail; he had made a complete ass of himself when he kissed her. The laughing-always-happy girl had been through hell in life. Who would ever have thought that the girl had been so unfortunate? Nobody would have guessed that she had lost her mother when she was only two and her father murdered by the man who forced her to marry him. Also, she once had a boyfriend who was floating on the lagoon. The platitude that if we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d grab ours back had a new meaning to Richard. That same girl may lose her life by her demented husband. The thought about Abigail being brutally murdered was unbearable to Richard. What method will the crazy husband try to use this time? Will it look like an accident? Surely, the crime would not be connected to Cain. Other atrocities he had committed did not come home to him. Cain was like the perfect criminal on whom no crime could possibly be charged. Moreover, a rich man like him would be difficult to convict. Richard tried to get the thought off his mind and concentrate on his driving.

The horrible thought came again.

Cain had killed his first wife because all her wealth came to him automatically. He had killed Abigail’s boyfriend because he had tried to blackmail him, and Cain hated being a victim of blackmail. What would he gain by killing Abigail? Richard racked his brain but found no motive. A wild thought suddenly struck his mind like a matador––Othello! Othello killed his wife because he thought Desdemona was having an affair with Cassio. Cain might want to kill Abigail because he thought she was having an affair with me. Sweat broke out of Richard’s forehead. Or Cain’s probably a psychopath. Psychopathic killers don’t kill for any reason but for because they enjoyed doing so. They take it as an entertainment––a game. Richard sighed. He remembered what Cain had said on the way to the airport––I like playing games. The greatest punishment was the one inflicted on the people you care about. How much worse that pain would be if you had to live with the knowledge that the innocent person had been dealt early death as surrogates for you, punished for your offence. And the unbearable guilt would be that you didn’t take any action when you had the chance to stop this innocent person from being hurt.

Richard was finding it hard to press the accelerator of the car as the thought continued to expand in his mind. I challenge you to a game of survival. That is what Cain had said. Let’s see who wins. He had said that too. Richard’s hand began to tremble as the meaning of what Cain had said occurred to him. It is simple, very simple––the game. Richard thought with fear gripping his heart, the game is to murder Abigail––and pin the crime on me!
Richard became numb; it was as though all the systems of his body had taken a break. He saw his hand move in astonishment, and he watched it with a certain fascination, not sure if the appendage belonged to him. It must have; when he thought about jiggling the fingers, they jiggled. He held the steering wheel firmly and shifted into reverse. The tyres barked against the tiled road as he jammed his foot down on the accelerator––a bald guy and his wife walking to church, with hymnbooks under their arms, looked at him in amazement as he maneuvered the vehicle roughly. The sweat from the nape of his neck was now trickling down his spine. He drove straight down the road as though he’d signed a suicide pact.

Within twenty minutes of driving like a bat out of hell, he reached the Martins’ building; he drove furiously into the compound as the gatekeeper opened the gate. He jumped out of the vehicle and ran into the main building. He found Abigail in the living room; she was busy brushing her hair and looking at a small mirror she held in front of herself and at the same time was watching Kennis Music Channel.

“Let me start by apologizing for what I did to you last night.” Richard said, out of breath. “I have acted like a complete rotter, and an utter scoundrel. There is no reasonable excuse I can make for my execrable conduct. It was folly and all I can do now is ask for mercy. I know you are a kind-hearted woman and I pray you will be generous enough to pardon my stupidity.”

Abigail laughed, “You have a funny way of asking for apologies. You need not use all these vocs, Richie. What happened last night was just a minor peccadillo.”

“Have you forgiven me?” Richard asked seriously.

“Okay, apology sustained.”

“Thank you––” he breathed out heavily, “Now, you need to get out of here.”

“What do you mean?” she looked at Richard as though he had taken all his clothes off in public.

“You have to leave before he comes back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your husband. He’s planning to kill you.”

She looked at him suspiciously, “Richie, what have you been drinking?”

“I don’t drink, you know that.”

“Then what have you been smoking?” she picked up her brush again and stroked her hair. She turned her attention back to the TV where a young pretty woman was flinging her arms around Kelly Handsome and kissing him madly.

“Please, Abigail, listen to me. There’s a man out there planning to kill you and you sat here knitting antimacassars. Cain’s plotting to kill you. Can’t you get that into your thick skull?”

“If you had been a teenager I wouldn’t blink an eye. There’s a chromosome that goes haywire when you turn thirteen. I’m really finding it hard to believe that such obscenity and filth is coming from the lips yours.”

“Abigail, this is serious, it concerns your life. Please listen to me. I’m not joking.”

“What has been sowing that unnatural garbage into your head?” Asked Abigail, with folded arms.

“Cain knew you came to my room last night.”

Abigail put her hands over her opened mouth in shock, “Oh my God! How did he know that? He was already sound-asleep when I got back to the room.”

“The handkerchief, he saw my hanky with you.”

“I’ve been a fool.”

Richard narrated his ordeal with Cain in the car. He looked at Abigail after telling her the story; she was looking undeciding, as if there was something in her mind she was afraid to say.”

“Abigail.” Richard called.

“Yes?” she raised her face to meet his gaze.

She was intelligent, Richard knew, one look at her and you knew about a million gears were spinning in her head, all meshing perfectly, well-oiled, quiet and productive. “What are you not telling me?”

“What do you mean by that?” she tried in vain to look puzzled.

Richard grabbed her shoulders and looked in her eyes, “You are hiding something very important. Please, tell me now before it’s too late.”

“You’re crushing my shoulders.”

“Sorry.” Richard released his hold, “Please, just try to reason with me. I will never forgive myself if Cain kills you. Besides, I may probably not be able to save myself after being convicted the murderer. We both know that an earthworm can never be innocent in the gathering of birds.” He knew somewhere deep down at the back of his own mind that if anything happened to Abigail, the world would be a far darker and less interesting place for him to live in, even if he were not convicted.

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Everything you know about Cain. I think there’s a kind of evil spirit in him–like there’s a kind of mystery which follows him like a shadow.”

“Just like the mystery surrounding your own life?”

Richard was startled, “What are you talking about?”

A few seconds elapsed before Abigail replied.

“I’ve known you for over a month and I’ve known you’ve not been a happy man since. Please don’t interrupt me, you’ve never been happy. And you rarely smile, whenever you try to, the smile never seem to cover that sadness in you. I initially thought it was because you don’t like the job you are doing, but I now understand it’s worse than that.” She paused, “Before I tell you what you want to know, I want you tell me about that sadness–I want to know.”

“Believe me, my only problem is my job, I need a better job.”

“You can tell that to a fool, okay? But I’m not one.”

“Abigail, there are some problems we keep private. It’s not all our problems we share.”

His decisive reticence suddenly annoyed Abigail and she blurted out, “Oh, I’m sorry. I really made a fool of myself by telling you about my own problem. You can take a hike with your problem, I don’t care.”

For the first time, Richard realized that Abigail really looked angry. Even in anger, she looked very pretty.

“You don’t want to hear it, I assure you.”

“Try me.” She replied, smiling broadly again.

“Okay, let’s start with this,” he said, staring in her eyes. “How would you feel if I told you that my father is dead?”

“I feel sorry, really, but my father is dead, too, remember? I guess that makes the two of us.” She returned his stare.

“Okay.” He looked away. Sweat broke out of his forehead, he checked his palms and found them damp with sweat, and then he rubbed them on his trousers. Telling the story was more difficult than he had imagined it would come. “In 1981, armed robbers attacked my mother’s parents when she was only eighteen years old and she was raped by one of them before their departure. I am the product.” He told her all what his mother had told him, leaving out nothing whatsoever.

Abigail opened her eyes wide, “Oh, my God!”

“The robbers were attacked by the police and killed immediately they left. I am the son of an armed robber––the gene of a cursed soul––the product of a rapist. Who would––”

“Stop it!” Abigail screamed suddenly. Richard raised his head and found tears in her eyes, running down her cheeks in passionate sequence. “Just stop it! Don’t you know girls cry when things like that are being spoken to them?” she wiped the tears with the back of both palms.

“I’m sorry you have to hear it. It’s not a story I tell with pride. We both have sad stories; I just don’t know who has the sadder between the two of us.”

He tried in vain to rid himself of the tears that formed in his eyes. “Now, tell me everything you know about Cain.” He said, forcing a false smile.

Abigail stood up, “I’ll need a modicum of discretion concerning what you are about to know today.”

“Every secret is safe with me––including yours.”

She went into an inner room and returned a few minutes later with a thick file which she gave to Richard.

“I came across that file when I was cleaning the bedroom.”

“When was that?”

“About a year ago, it says in there that on March13, 1978, Cain was admitted in an asylum in Yaba.”

“Christ!” Richard felt a jolt down his spine. He tried to visualize Cain spending some years in a sanitarium, talking to imaginary people and eating flies. He wondered if driving an insane employer hither and yon could subject him to lose his own sanity too.

“In 1983, he was discharged as completely healed. That was when he was twenty-seven years old.”

“Oh––then what are you still doing with a certified lunatic for crying out loud?” he cried out loud.

“Where do you expect me to go?” she demanded sharply, “I’m all alone; I have no family, nobody. Besides, I would be digging my own grave if I tried to leave him.”

“You don’t have much choice now, do you? He’s going to kill you anyway, even if you stay.”

“You don’t know that for sure. There’s nowhere I can go that he won’t know. I think he has employed a private eye to watch everywhere I go. Every time

I drive out, I feel that he’s one step behind me–like a guilty conscience he follows me about. There’s nowhere to go.”

“We can go to––”

“We?” she cast an inquiring look at Richard who carried a stupid expression on his face. “Richie, are you suddenly using the royal plural pronoun?”

“Um––well,” he spread his hands and looked away frowning, when he looked at Abigail, worry lines had wrinkled his face.

“For how long will Cain be staying in Abuja?”

“Three days, he will land at the airport on Thursday afternoon.”

Richard became more worried.

“What’s wrong, Rich?”

Richard looked at Abigail pathetically, “I’m afraid when Cain returns something horrible is going to happen.”

Then he looked suddenly determined.

“But don’t worry, Abigail. I promise no harm will come to you. Everything will be under control. Even if it takes the last thing I will ever do.”

“My hero.” Abigail said solemnly.

Eze Chima came in, “Madam, is everything alright?” he glared at Richard, “Why did you drive in like that?”

Richard glared back at him, “Like what, old man.”

“Like a maniac.”

The driver clenched his hands into a fist and advanced towards the gatekeeper. “Keep a civil tongue in your mouth, old man! Or I keep them for you.”

“Richard!” Abigail lashed at him, “What came over you? This man is old enough to be your grandfather. Are you insane?”

“Leave him, madam. Let him show his stunt, I’m not as feeble as he may be thinking I am.”

“Apologize right now, Richard!” she commanded.

Richard unclenched his fist and said, “I’m sorry, sir. That was very rude of me, please forgive me. I didn’t know what really came over me. It must have been the stress.”

Eze Chima smiled, “It’s okay, I shouldn’t have spoken in such a tone to you either.” He turned to Abigail, “Is everything okay here, madam?”

“Everything is fine,” she replied, “We were only discussing the obvious.”

“I was worried.”

“All’s fine. You can go.”

The gatekeeper left.

“I must have lost my head in anger. I almost beat up that man.”

Abigail smiled, “How are you sure you can beat him in a fight?”

“That old man? Come on, Abigail, give unto me a break.”

“He’s an ex-soldier. He fought in the Civil War in 1968. Believe ye me, he would break your bones.”

“You didn’t tell me that before.”

And truly, if Richard had heard about the old gatekeeper’s ordeals in the final battle of the Civil War in the year 1970, he would have kowtowed before Eze. For the old gatekeeper was one of the bravest soldiers in his own time.

About fifty yards ahead of the twenty-one year old Eze, one of the leading tanks was burning, a soldier’s body sprawled across the hatch, the right arm dangling down towards the main turret, his helmeted head spattered with blood. Another tank, to his left, lurched to a crazy standstill as a shell shattered the left-side track; four men jumped down and sprinted back towards the comparative safety of the boundless, anonymous sands behind them.

The noise of the battle was deafening as shrapnel soared and whistled and plunged and dealt its death amidst the thick forest and the scorching sun. Men shouted and pleaded and ran––and died; some blessed swiftly in an instantaneous annihilation, others lingeringly as they lay mortally wounded on the bloody ground. Yet, others burned to death inside their tanks as the twisted metal of the hatches jammed or shot up limbs could find no final desperate leverage.

Then it was the turn of the tank immediately to his right––two officers leaped down from it, one clutching his arm which had been blown off from the elbow downward, and they just managed to race clear before the tank exploded into blinding flame. Eze and the two officers had struggled only some forty yards before flinging themselves down as another shell kicked up the sand just ahead of them, spewing its steel fragment in a shower of jagged metal. And when Eze finally looked up, he found the one-armed soldier dead; a lump of twisted metal embedded in his lower back.

He and the other soldier got up at the same time and began running; they had seen some of the enemies running towards them and shooting blindly. Eze ran like he had never done before, his partner was also a great runner; keeping a regular and even pace behind him. Eze could feel a wheeze as a bullet shot past his head––an inch closer and his head would be splattered on the ground; he ran faster. The two soldiers could simultaneously see a huge rock some few metres before them, and they were both running like hell towards it. They were almost a few steps before reaching their fortress when Eze saw that his partner had been shot. A small geyser of blood erupted from his neck. He staggered forward several yards, like a sprinter who had crossed the finish line. Then he collapsed to the ground. He had been struck in the lower outside part of his neck, near his right shoulder. Eze Chima could not leave him lying there; he bent over the collapsed soldier and dragged him behind the rock. Then the enemies stopped running towards them, they stood away and continued shooting at the huge rock; the bullets ricocheting to different directions.

Eze cradled the soldier’s head, applying pressure with both hands to the pulsing wound on the back of the neck, desperately trying to staunch the flow. The pressure was not working. Eze felt his uniform becoming warm and wet, and he realized what was wrong. There was an exit wound at the front of the soldier’s neck, perilously near the larynx, from which bright arterial blood was gushing. The soldier was trying to talk but it came out as a whisper.

“Wh-what is your name?”

“Eze Chima.”

The wounded soldier smiled, “I’m Uche. I like being a soldier I am––but I hate wars.”

“Me too.”

Then Uche’s face concocted into that of agony. “I-I feel pain.”

“You will be okay, trust me.”

“I’ll kill those bastards.” He whispered. He wanted to shout but he could only manage a low rasp, loud enough for Eze to hear “Leave me.”

“No, you’ve been hit, you can’t fight them.”

Eze tried to hold him but the wounded one jerked his body away from him. He grabbed his gun and crawled out from behind the rock. He crawled a few feet and then used his arm to raise himself. Immediately, a blast hit his midriff, slamming him to the ground. His abdomen had been torn apart. Recovery was out of the question. For the moment, the enemies’ shooting range was focused on the dying soldier; they were busy disfiguring him with series of bullets. Eze took advantage of the opportunity and bolted; he didn’t want to be trapped behind the rock and then get killed. The enemies would surely not be standing forever waiting for him to come out of his hiding. He ran farther into the thick forest with a speed he didn’t know he possessed. Eze Chima was more satisfied being in the forest than in the open, he could hide anywhere in the forest and never be seen. He could even live in the forest better than most animals.

He was on the run when he met another enemy, they seemed to be everywhere. Eze had always been known by his fellow soldiers to be extremely fast with his weapons, and before the enemy could raise his gun, Eze had shot him as swiftly as he had seen him. The enemy had died instantly but Eze continued firing at him with the stance of a soldier firing at a person who could no more return fire, but whose continued appearance was itself a dire menace. When he stopped firing, the enemy’s gut had been burst open and a small saliva bubble mixed with blood had formed at his lips. Then immediately behind him, another enemy appeared, and in fear, Eze fired blindly, shooting all the bullets in his cylinder. The man staggered backward, making an odd gurgling sound; one of the bullets had pierced his throat, which exploded in a gush of arterial blood. Eze walked slowly towards the dead man, he wiped the tears in his eyes as he saw the dead soldier. They had shot Uche too in the neck, and he––Eze, had paid them back the same way. He was tired and he sat by the dead enemy; he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.

The sun was fighting its final descent beyond the war zone when Eze Chima opened his eyes. The last orange rays were filtering through the thick foliage of the trees. Eze became confused; he couldn’t believe that he had slept all through the afternoon––so he had been unconscious for a couple of hours now. Everywhere was strangely silent; the cries of the injured soldiers, the explosion of tanks, the sharp cracking sounds of gunshots––everything had all stopped. He stood up abruptly. He was thankful that no enemy had come around to find him sleeping after he had killed two of their men in the same spot, they would make him suffer so much that he would have to beg them to kill him. Surely, they would be kind and delighted enough to kill him––slowly. Sweat broke out of Eze’s forehead; he was afraid. What has happened? He thought fearfully. He walked slowly out of the forest into the open war ground, and then he knew what had happened. He sat where he was, severely shocked but apparently uninjured. His eyes looked down at his legs, then at his arms; he felt his face and his chest, then he tried to wriggle his toes in his army boots. Truly, he was uninjured. Just about thirty minutes before he slept off there had been a dozen enemies trying to kill him. And now, there was one man alive here––him. His first conscious thought was a feeling of ineffable anger, but almost immediately, his heart rejoiced as he saw his other colleagues who were alive being carried on stretchers. Most of them had lost one or two of their limbs each. Only then and gradually did a sense of vast relief surge through him––relief that he had survived, without a scratch, and he said a brief prayer to God in gratitude for making him come through. With another stream of tears flowing down his eyes, Eze found himself sucking his lower lip between his teeth. He had actually bitten into the soft tissue; he could taste a trickle of blood.

The war had ended.

uj_sizzle: I read Patterson and I've never seen that book :/

Cross Country is a book to read. I wonder how James got his idea about the book. And his description about the Oshodi Market is really something to reckon with. LOL!

BoboYekini: well, you guys are impressive o. Here goes:

...his first bestselling autobiography was set in Ireland, the second one in america. He grew up in such poverty that he almost lost his sight from poor nutrition, was a high school teacher all his working life.

P.S. the first autobiography is my best ever book, and it was made into a movie, one that I didn't especially care for.

James Herriot.

SEVEN

The sky was black, just like a coven of witches’ cauldron; there was no trace of any white or blue cloud in the firmament. He was in the middle of an ancient cemetery; most of the graves around him were open. There were different shapes and sizes of skeletons in each hole; termites, cockroaches, worms and millipedes seeking solace in brainless skulls and eyeless sockets. He shouted with all his might but he could not hear himself, neither could the vultures perched on mahogany branches ready to devour the little rotten pieces of fleshes and sinews remaining on some corpses. It was as if he had entered a weird conduit between the land of the living and that of the dead. The yard was as silent as every grave should be. One tomb appeared before him. It came from nowhere; he knew it was not there before. Fear took hold of his heart when he read the name carved on it––Abigail! It was also uncovered. It can’t be, no. it can’t. He moved closer towards the grave, expecting to see rats eating up her bowels and worms wriggling from the staring eyes of her corpse. Ten steps left, six, four, and one. He looked into the grave–– a sudden loud sound began all over the grave yard, it was so loud that he had to cover his ears with his hands.

Richard woke up cold skinned, sweating and gasping. His first impulse was to scream like a little girl but he repressed the urge in time. He felt his body and looked at his surroundings to be sure it was only a nightmare and nothing more. The alarm clock by his bedside had evidently rescued him from the bad dream because it was still shrilling. It was 6.35am. Just like every other people who had had a senseless dream like his, Richard began at once to forget about it. Half of it was gone by the time he stood up from the bed; three-quarters of it by the time he finished taking his bath and began to towel off; all of it by the time he finished his breakfast of a loaf of bread that tasted like a roll of tissue paper.

Richard dressed up and went to the garage. He was to drive his boss to the airport; Cain would be catching the early flight to Abuja where he would spend three days. Richard resumed his daily protocols of checking the car for any fault; he checked the fuel gauge, the filter, the gear, brake––everything was perfect. He sat in the car to wait for Cain to come out. At exactly half an hour later, Cain came out of the building with a briefcase dangling under his left arm. Cain got in the car and ordered Richard to drive.

On the way to the airport, Richard noticed his boss was unusually quiet. He had known his boss a choleric, prissy-mouthed, mannerless old cow who always complained about anything and anybody. Richard’s mind became restless; Cain’s silence meant something very bad was coming.

“Richard.” Cain called from behind.

Richard hesitated a moment before answering. “Yes-sir?”

“Do you read Shakespeare?” asked Cain plainly.

Richard was taken aback. The last question he expected Cain to ask was the one concerning the Bard of Avon.

“I’ve read some of his books, sir.”

“Name them.”

Richard paused again before replying. “Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, Romeo––”

Cain cut him short, “Wasn’t he a phenomenal writer?”

Richard could not reply, the strangest thing was happening and Richard was particularly lost. The traffic control system flashed red and Richard stepped on the brake. Cain waited for Richard to drive before resuming his speech.

“Have you read Othello, Richard?”

He could not answer.

“Answer me, Richard. Have you read Othello?”

“Yes, sir. I read it a long time ago.”

“Do you remember its casts?”

“Some of them.”

“Give me the names you can recall.”

“Iago, Desdemona, Roderigo, Emilia.”

“Othello was written between 1602 and 1604 and was first published eighteen years later––1622.” He paused and asked, “You remember Desdemona, don’t you?”

“The Moor’s wife.”

“Let me refresh your memory about Othello. The plot of the story revolved around four distinct characters; Othello, Desdemona, Iago and Cassio. In summary, Othello killed his wife, Desdemona, because he was made to believe by Iago that she was unfaithful to him. He believed Cassio was bedding his wife.” He paused, and then went on, “Cassio himself was also injured, Desdemona was murdered and Othello committed suicide––all because of a handkerchief. See the disaster a handkerchief can cause. Othello found his wife’s handkerchief with Cassio and murdered Desdemona because he suspected her of infidelity.

Richard was feeling uncomfortable. This man is trying to drive at something. Murphy’s Law is in action: Whatever can possibly go wrong will go wrong, and at the worst possible degree.

The next question almost paralyzed Richard.

“Richard, how did your handkerchief get to my wife?”
He felt as if his world had just come to an end. The handkerchief, oh my God!
Richard had given his handkerchief to Abigail when she was crying and he had not remembered to collect it back from her. How could I have been so careless? Richard was the only person in the house who used a brown handkerchief, and Cain recognized it.
Richard opened his mouth to speak but no word could emerge.

What am I going to say now? He thought, Will I tell him that his wife only spent about two hours in my room discussing all his atrocities and I offered her my handkerchief because she was crying?
The idea sounded stupid and insane to even Richard himself. He remembered all what Abigail had told him about this man, that he’s a devil; a wolf that can kill without blinking an eye. Sweat broke out of Richard’s forehead.
“I told you that you will get into trouble with me one day, did I not?” Cain’s voice was cold, “I know that bitch came into your room at about eleven yesterday evening and left some minutes past twelve.”

“She came to–to–” he could not find the right word to say.

“To satisfy your sexual urge?” Cain asked sharply. “You’ve got a zipper and something’s behind it, isn’t it?”

“Stop that, sir!” Richard roared. He stamped his foot on the brake viciously; the car slumped forward suddenly before stopping. His eyes were glistening with sweat and his eyes were becoming red from anger and fear.

“Now, what are you going to do now? Kill me?” he laughed, “It’s not as easy as that, young man.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Do you like games, Richard? I like playing games. I challenge you to a game of survival, let’s see who wins.”

Cain grinned wickedly, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth, it seemed like there were a thousand teeth in that mouth. “I have a plane to catch; I don’t want to be late, okay?”

As though he was under a spell, Richard started the car and continued driving. He could feel it within him. The game had started.

* * * * *

It had been exactly four weeks and three days since Richard had left his mother to live with the Martins. After dropping Cain at the Murtala Muhammed International Airport, Richard decided to check on his mother. Having reached the destination, he parked the jeep and got out, he looked around; the environment had not changed a bit. By his left, Richard looked with horror filled eyes at a cock mating a duck. Sacrilege! He picked up a stone and hurled it at them. Jesus! He thought, what type of eggs will the duck lay? His mother lived in the same street she had lived in for the past twenty years––a street of drab houses devoid of any kind of beauty or interest.

As he walked on, there was a group of spindly-legged little girls in front of an almost dilapidated building holding hands and dancing to the repeated chant:

Who’s in the garden?
A little fine girl,
Can I come and see her?
No, no, no, no…

As Richard continued walking, he spotted a big and dirty looking black dog sleeping in the shade of the veranda of the building opposite his mother’s. As much as Richard liked animals, he had always feared dogs who grew way taller than the height of his knees from the ground, and he had never tried to move close to any. He crossed to the other side of the road, part of him was waiting for another large retriever to lumber around the corner of the structure adjacent to his mother’s, with teeth bared, just looking for a plump leg to bite. However, no animal or person came forward to greet or attack him. A hen and half dozen chicks scratched in the dirt nearby. Before he reached his mother’s abode, a very bent old woman limped out from a very bent old building from which some children had ran out from moments earlier. She used a walking stick to support her gait and stomped after the little devils giving unsolicited advice to passers-by, most of it very wise. She was chasing the troublesome kids from her house and trying to wave her stick and threatening beatings even the children knew would never be administered.

Richard found the door of his mother’s house unlocked and feared gripped him for an instant; he opened and got into the house quietly. He sighed in relief as he found his mother sitting in a couch doing needlework with her glasses on the very end of her nose, and a glass of water on the stool next to her. She was busily engaged in her stitching so much that she was unaware of Richard’s presence. He stood at one corner of the room studying his mother. As always, Richard had been startled and disarmed by his mother’s beauty. As a young woman, he knew his mother must have been remarkably beautiful. And now, at forty-six, she could pass for twenty-two; when she was thirty-five she had had the power to rivet the attention of every man, a power that she may no doubt still have at sixty. At her age, the hair of most women had begun to go grey but Richard’s mother was not one to yield to nature. She possessed the deeper beauty of the beatified: the sweet humility and the tenderness that came with her gorgeousness, the appealing glow of care and character that, in their last years of this earth, no doubt marked the faces of those who were later canonized as saints.

Richard had meant beauty as a thing apart from sexual desire alone, beauty as an ideal, beauty striking that it spoke to the soul––women and men, babies and centenarians alike, were drawn to Rosemary, wanted to be near her, and deep in their eyes when they gazed at her was something like pure hope and something like rapture, but different and mysterious. The love so many brought to her was love she also gave to them in return. But she refused to get married again. When Richard was a child, he had confused his mother with the Virgin Mary, and now that he was older he saw no reason for changing his opinion.

Why can’t she just find herself a nice, decent man who will take care of her in lieu of just sitting here all alone? Richard thought, I should talk her into that one day.

The rooms had changed since the past month he had left his mother; the whole of the house had been repainted, there were picture of what Richard knew to be his ancestors’ on the walls of the small sitting room. Most of them were pretty bad, he thought, though they might have looked better if they had been cleaned. He didn’t know what prompted his mother to put the pictures there when he was now no more living with her, and he was more concerned about why she refused to get them cleaned when the walls were already painted. He wanted to ask his mother but he thought better of it.

“Mum.” Richard called.

Mrs. Philip looked up and found her son standing at a corner by the door. She got up immediately and a beatific smile spread across her face.

“Oh, my son,” she was happy, “Is this really my Richard? Come and sit down. Oh, Richard. Why are you here this morning Richard, are you ill?” Mrs. Philip had always been paranoid about her son’s health and safety. She knew it, admitted it, but could do nothing about her frequent paranoia. Every time Richard got a cold was little, she was sure it would become pneumonia. When he cut himself with a sharp object, no matter how small the wound, she feared the bleeding, as if the loss of a mere drop of his blood would be the death of him. When at play in primary school, Richard had fallen out of his merry-go-round and broken his leg, she had nearly fainted at the sight of his twisted limb.

“I’m fine, mother,” he replied, “I’ve been standing here for quite some time and you did not even notice me come in. Why did you not lock the door? Don’t you know it’s dangerous?”

“Oh, forgive me. I thought I did lock it.”

“What are you doing with those, mama?” asked Richard, pointing at the needle and thread on the stool.

“No, nothing really––I was only trying to make a shawl.”

“A shawl?”

“Yes, a shawl, babies’ shawl.”

“What do you need that for?”

She spread her hands, “Nothing. I was only trying to keep myself busy. You know, having nothing to do can be quite boring sometimes. Besides, the shawl can come in handy one day––my grandchild can use it.” She smiled and winked playfully at her son.
Richard did not find it funny at all.

“Did you get the money I sent you?”

“Oh, yes I did. Thank you.”

“I drove my boss to the airport so I thought I should check how you are fairing before returning. I hope there is nothing wrong?”
His mother thought before replying.

“I think there is.” I had a dream tonight and it really disturbed me. The dream was about you.”

“A dream about me?” he remembered about his own dream too; though he had forgotten about that dream in the morning, it still littered the floor of his mind like something broken and not yet swept up, and his mother also having a dream about him made him uneasy. Is there a link?

“In that dream I saw a shepherd with a dog and about two dozens sheep on a green field. A few minutes later, the shepherd went away leaving the dog and sheep. Immediately, the dog transformed into a wolf and killed a sheep. The wolf cleaned the blood which stained its mouth on the shepherd’s garment which he left behind, and the wolf changed back into the dog it was initially. Incidentally, another sheep’s body was stained with the dead one’s blood. The shepherd returned, saw the dead sheep and found the one stained with the blood among the other flock. The shepherd thought it was the stained sheep which killed the other, so he picked up his gun and aimed it at the sheep, intending to kill it. He was about to pull the trigger when I woke up.”

Richard raised his face to the roof, “God, how much awful news it does take a man to endure for a lifetime?” he faced his mother, “What has that got to do with me, mama?”

“It has a lot. Just immediately that wolf turned to the dog your face appeared in the process.”

Richard was baffled, “My face? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, the dream was an enigma to even me. But you must be very careful––be careful.”

“It was only a dream; you don’t have to take it seriously. Forget about it, mama. It’s mere bagatelle.”

“Baga-What?”


“It’s meaningless.”

“Richard, the dream is not meaningless––it’s not.”

They were both looking in each other’s eyes for a long time. They didn’t need to talk; they had exchanged ten thousand words in just the brief stare they shared.

tpia@:
waiting for the name of the book. . . . . .

AUTHOR'S NAME: JAMES PATTERSON
BOOK'S TITLE! CROSS COUNTRY