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  The prosecutor jumped to her feet. ‘March 17, Your Honour.’

  ‘Matter postponed to March 17. Accused is remanded in custody.’ Before Ifasen had a chance to ask the magistrate what had happened, his arm was gripped by the orderly and he was led, two steps at a time, back down to the holding cells. He started to protest but the orderly held a chubby finger up to his lips. The stairs smelt of antiseptic and were still damp in places. He tried not to step on the wet patches as he was hurried down to the cells below.

  The orderly handed Ifasen over to a policeman and then shuffled back up the steep stairs. Ifasen tried to ask the guard a question, but the man just shook his head. He took a fistful of Ifasen’s shirt and escorted him down a long passageway. He stopped at a closed door and kept holding Ifasen tightly while he negotiated the keys. The metal door crashed loudly against the wall and the keys clanged as the policeman unlocked the thick grate. Ifasen was thrust into solitude again, the dark sealing the space between him and the walls.

  FOURTEEN

  RICHARD SAT IN his car, waiting for Abayomi to come out of the building. He felt foolish sitting double-parked in the street in his shiny Mercedes. A vendor wearing a Yankees cap came up to him and offered him cigarettes. He did not open his window, waving the man away from the coolness of the interior. A couple walked past, arm in arm, pushing a baby’s pram. The woman’s hair was long and thick, a shining black mass that shimmered as she walked. Her partner had the bulging arms of a bodybuilder and a handsome, square face. They presented a beautiful picture, made all the more so by the tiny pram the man was pushing in front of him, held with one massive fist. Richard was surprised to see them turn into the entrance of the run-down apartment block, stepping over the debris that littered the foyer. They did not try the elevator but simply lifted the pram up the stairs, working together.

  A young woman in white hot-pants emerged from the shadows and sashayed over to him. When she tapped on his window, Richard tried the same trick as with the vendor, but she leant forward, her loose top falling forward to reveal small, pointed breasts and the sweep of her stomach. She wagged her finger at him and made a rolling motion, gesturing to him to open the window. Laughing despite himself, Richard pressed the button and the window slid down. The woman was pretty, her hair Afro-bushy and her make-up expertly applied. She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth beneath her tender lips.

  ‘Hello,’ she said engagingly. ‘My name is Sophie. What is your name, nice man sitting in your nice car?’ She batted her eyelids and pushed her face closer to Richard’s. He became aware of her body heat.

  Her manner was so direct that he found himself unable to dismiss her. ‘Richard,’ he answered meekly. He was afraid that she would strut around the car and climb in the passenger door or, even worse – his heart quickened – open his door and climb across him. She pulled down the edge of her loose shirt some more, making sure that Richard had the full view of her torso.

  ‘Come on, baby, come with me and I’ll make you feel all better. Come with Sophie, baby.’ Richard wanted to turn up the air conditioning but he couldn’t reach forward without bringing his face closer to hers. He shrank back, pushing his head into the headrest.

  Then with relief he saw a statuesque figure striding across from the building. ‘Gettaway you,’ Abayomi shouted before launching animatedly into a language Richard had not heard before. The effect was immediate: Sophie withdrew from the window like a snake retreating into its hole. She moved quickly, walking backwards, her eyes thin little slits of resentment.

  Abayomi climbed into the passenger seat, her long legs extending beneath the dashboard. The car filled with her distinct scent, and Richard felt a wave of blissful excitement wash over him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘I think we’d better get out of here before I get into more trouble than I can handle.’ He looked back towards Sophie’s retreating figure. As he engaged the gears, the young prostitute stepped up onto the opposite pavement, still walking backwards. Feeling a safe distance from her competitor, she promptly lifted her top, displaying a smooth belly and pert, brown breasts. Richard could not suppress a gasp and nearly stalled the car as he tried to accelerate away.

  ‘Do try to concentrate,’ Abayomi said drily. ‘You will make us have an accident in your fancy car.’

  ‘I’m glad that you saved me from her. She was quite … formidable,’ he replied, laughing. But his passenger seemed unusually tense.

  ‘Her name is Otunla. She is seventeen.’

  Taken aback, Richard looked up again at the pavement; the young woman, almost his daughter’s age, had vanished. ‘But where is her family?’ he asked.

  ‘Her family? Her family is in Lagos.’ Abayomi seemed surprised by the question, but offered no further explanation.

  ‘So she came here to look for work?’

  ‘I suppose you could put it like that,’ Abayomi said. ‘Her family sold her when she was fourteen. She was the only thing they had of any worth, so they sold her to a wealthy businessman. He sold her to another man when he got bored, and that man brought her here. Now she works for him.’ She paused, as if thinking. ‘Yes, she is formidable. Desperate people are formidable, because they cannot afford to lose.’ She looked out of the window as they turned into Beach Road, clearly wanting to end the conversation.

  The sea churned, the leftover anger of a windy night. A Hassidic couple, with several children, walked along the beachfront promenade. The man’s black suit made Richard feel prickly with sweat. He leant forward to increase the fan speed. Abayomi was wearing a bright headpiece made from yellow-and-green cloth, folded into a tight scarf. It made her seem even younger and gave her an air of sporty toughness. He found it difficult not to look at her and to keep his eyes on the road. He looked in his rear-view mirror and caught sight of the gecko stuck on the inside of the back window. He felt a surge of self-consciousness and hoped that she had not noticed it; the playful toy now seemed silly.

  He had been gratified, but surprised, when she had phoned him again, inviting him to come and see the ‘real Africa in his city’. Her cousin on the Yoruba side of the family had given birth to a boy, she told him. There was to be some kind of ceremony at her uncle’s house. Though the phone call had again intruded into his other life – he had been driving Raine to a dance class when he answered – he had said yes without hesitation.

  He wondered now, as they drove in silence, whether the invitation had been intended as a reward for his legal advice. Perhaps, he thought cynically, he was simply a means of transport. Yet, he was unable to banish the feeling that she cared for him. He was grateful that the series of traffic lights was green and he could pretend to be concentrating on driving. He turned onto Somerset Road in Green Point, passing the Italian delicatessens and Portuguese fast-food outlets. He tried to catch her eye but she kept looking out of the window.

  They were driving through the city centre when she spoke again: ‘You must understand, Richard, that her story is not unusual,’ she said, still serious. ‘I think it is important that you remember this story I have told you.’ She paused, looking across Richard at the stone walls of the Castle. Searchlights were mounted on the corners. A bergie had finished washing his clothes in the moat and was stringing them out on the ornate balustrades to dry. Jaywalkers dashed across the street in front of him, laughing as they scampered across the lanes. ‘We do not know people’s stories,’ she added. ‘We don’t know why they have ended up where they are. We don’t know who they are.’

  ‘But I feel I know you.’ It was meant to sound tender, to lighten the conversation. But Abayomi only sighed and looked out towards the harbour. White-and-grey seagulls drifted above the massive tankers tied by delicate threads to the quayside.

  ‘Have you ever suffered a trauma, Richard?’ she asked. ‘Not something upsetting or maybe unpleasant. A real tragedy.’

  Richard felt chastened, although her tone had been matter-of-fact. He shook his head: a myriad small incidents,
no more than annoyances, sprang to mind. Minor car accidents, a broken toe, the death of his grandmother, a mugging where his cellphone had been taken. Once when he had been a student he was caught in a bar brawl and ended up with a split lip. But his life had never been subjected to the kind of injury that he knew she was talking about. His life, like that of his peers and friends, remained full of easy opportunity and choice.

  The wasteland of District Six flashed past as they picked up speed. He glanced across to her, waiting for her to divulge something of her past, but she was silent. Though the mood in the car was grave, his senses were still heightened, and he wanted to reach across to her to lessen the distance between them.

  A brown layer of smog hung over the suburbs as they rounded onto Hospital Bend. The familiarity with which Abayomi sat in the passenger seat, where Amanda usually sat, made the situation seem quite surreal. The presumptuousness of her forbidden presence next to him was unsettling. Is this how it is to have an affair, he wondered. Was he having an affair? He drove this route home every working day, and yet now it all seemed so different, seen with fresh eyes. The curve of the road was somehow exhilarating. The wildlife grazing on the slope made his heart ache with the joy of being in Africa. Svritsky, the trial, Quantal Investments – all were distant, unworried memories. Could it be this simple? To rediscover happiness, to stumble once more upon an invigorating life? To find euphoria, once seemingly forever lost?

  They turned off the highway and into the suburbs of Mowbray, cutting back along the Main Road past the face-brick police station. The road was chaotic with taxis and university buses, all jostling and pushing in front of one another. A breweries truck lumbered along, taking up both lanes, the awning secured around the bottles of fresh beer. Richard was surprised at how busy the suburb was on an ordinary weekday. He had forgotten how life on the streets continued while he sat in his sealed offices. Abayomi gestured for him to turn down a side road. Cars were parked on either side, with young men lounging inside or sitting on the bonnets. They stared at the sleek car as it glided past.

  At the stop street Richard became aware of a movement behind him. A police van pulled up, on the wrong side of the road, the passenger window level with his own. A policeman glared out from behind the glass, taking them in.

  ‘Just wait.’ Abayomi placed her hand on Richard’s arm as she spoke. ‘They are just looking.’ He let the car idle and looked back at the policeman, smiling. The man’s eyes moved slowly from Richard to Abayomi and back again. Then he snorted something unheard to his partner. Richard felt a sting of humiliation as the van pulled away, tyres screeching. My God, they think I’ve picked up a whore, he thought, suddenly aware of the obvious appearance of the two of them together in his smart car.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they think, Richard,’ Abayomi said, reading his thoughts. ‘Perhaps they think one thing, perhaps another. But it doesn’t matter, does it?’ She did not wait for a response and gestured for him to drive further. They entered a slightly wider road, with small semi-detached houses on one side and larger freestanding houses on the other. Halfway down, the road became congested with parked cars and people crossing.

  ‘Looks like a big crowd,’ Richard said, driving further down the road until he found a safe gap to park his car.

  Men were standing outside on the pavement, dressed in loose shirts that reached halfway down their legs. Some wore stitched V-neck tops that fell in a single sweep to their feet. Many wore tight white caps and long white trousers. The men greeted Abayomi warmly, kissing her on both cheeks and patting her head affectionately. Her mood seemed to lighten at once. She in turn smiled at them and answered with drawn-out vowels and exaggerated gestures. One of the men nodded his head towards Richard as he spoke. Abayomi half-turned to look at Richard as she replied in Yoruba, laughing. Richard stood, uncomfortable, waiting for the mirth to pass.

  Then she gestured to Richard to join her, her smile genuine and uncomplicated. ‘This is my cousin Banyole,’ she said to him. ‘This is my friend Richard. He has come to see how we do things on the dark side. I promised him a human sacrifice.’

  The man laughed in a deep voice, holding out his hand. ‘You are welcome with us, Richard,’ he said, holding his hand in a strong grip. He opened his arms in a show of hospitality, allowing them to pass and step down into the small garden.

  The front door of the house was open and an elderly woman stood in the doorway watching them. Her skin was very wrinkled, repeatedly turned in small folds, each softly pushed against the next. But her eyes sparkled with youthful delight at Abayomi’s arrival, and her tongue moved like a fowl in her mouth. ‘O! O! Okeke,’ she clucked, before launching into an outburst of Igbo. The words ran across one another, popping and clicking like a rushing stream of glass balls.

  Abayomi replied by leaning forward and wrapping her arms around the woman. They held each other for a long while, eyes closed, neither moving. For the first time, Richard thought he saw an unmasked reaction in Abayomi. He felt as if he was intruding and started to step backwards. But the old woman’s eyes quickly opened, like small shutters being released. She looked at Richard for a moment and then gave him a slow wink. He was taken aback, not sure whether to laugh or ignore the gesture and pretend it had been meant for someone else. The woman peeled off from Abayomi, stepping out towards him with her arm extended, a light fold of skin swinging beneath. Abayomi quickly launched into an earnest explanation in Igbo. Richard wished he could understand: the obvious need to justify his presence made him uncomfortable, but he hoped that she described him as a friend. The old woman nodded in acknowledgement, but kept looking Richard up and down unashamedly, as if appraising a potential purchase. Richard almost expected her to walk around him to get a better view of his form. Then she turned to Abayomi to make her judgement known.

  ‘Auntie!’ Abayomi’s mock-scolding only brought a naughty grin to the old woman’s face.

  Richard smiled broadly, as if he was being complimented and took the woman’s hand in his. Her skin was soft – it seemed to have been freshly powdered – and her thin fingers clasped his with surprising energy. He had assumed that the woman spoke no English, but as he was about to ask Abayomi to translate, she switched: ‘You are welcome in this house. Please, come and make yourself comfortable. And do not leave my sight, for I shall watch you through the day. An old lady like me can only watch, not like our young beauty here, who likes to play like a young horse in the field.’

  Abayomi stuttered a further complaint but the old woman ignored her, patting his arm fondly. ‘Let us go inside and we can begin.’

  Richard looked at Abayomi for guidance. She nodded, and he took the old matriarch’s arm in his and walked into the house.

  The first room was a large one, presumably the lounge, but all the furniture had been removed, save for a low coffee table in the centre. The space was already filled with people standing and talking loudly to one another. The old woman led him through the crowd. She had no need to push or ask to be let through; everyone stepped back to make a path for her and she walked as if oblivious to the surrounding throng. Richard smiled at the people around him and many smiled back. A number of men greeted him politely in English.

  He looked back to the doorway to see if Abayomi would follow, but she was engaged in conversation with another woman at the entrance. The woman was holding her hand to her mouth, while Abayomi spoke in animated bursts, shaking her head in distress. He wanted to make his way back to her, feeling disappointed that she had not shared her problems with him, but the old woman tugged at his arm and he was powerless.

  On the other side of the room, the woman introduced him to the father of the newborn baby. Smooth-skinned and slight, the man looked more like an adolescent than the father of a child. He greeted Richard with a slight bow, pressing his guest’s outstretched hand with both palms. ‘You are welcome,’ he said, bowing again. Slightly bewildered by the respect meted to him, Richard bowed back diffidently. Before he could engage th
e young man in conversation, his elderly companion pulled him further into the house. She led him towards the doorway of the kitchen. The smells were exotic, filling the passage with a swirling festivity of spicy aromas. Richard drew breath, as if he could feast on the air itself.

  He relaxed a little and let himself be swept along. Inside the kitchen, the woman presented him to a particularly elaborately dressed man. Layers of white cloth, richly embroidered, were wrapped around his neck, and a headpiece pulled down on the sides of his head.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ the man said. ‘My name is Babatunde. I am the pastor. You are welcome in this home. Please be comfortable among us.’ The man’s face was still young but his graceful demeanour was that of an older, wiser man. Richard’s reaction to religious figures was automatically one of suspicion, but the man’s gentle introduction disarmed him and he felt his cynicism dissipate.

  ‘Thank you,’ Richard said, trying to match the man’s gravitas. ‘I … I have certainly been made to feel welcome. It is an honour to be present today.’ He could barely believe that the words – so formal, so sincere – came from his mouth.

  The pastor seemed pleased by this response, nodding sagely. Then he added: ‘So long as you are hungry, you will always be welcome among us.’ He stepped back, gesturing towards the feast. An array of pots, baskets and trays had been prepared, all burgeoning with reddish stews, bread rolls and rice flecked with tomato skins. ‘

  Now come, let us begin,’ he said.

  Richard’s companion nodded in agreement and escorted him back to the main room. He looked for Abayomi in the crowd, but the bony fingers would not leave his wrist and he was dragged to the centre of the room. The table was covered by a light white cloth; shapes pushed up at different places, suggesting the presence of containers beneath. He caught sight of Abayomi: she had her back pressed against the wall and looked distracted. There was nothing Richard could do and he resignedly took up his position close to the table, the old woman pressed against his side.