Making Wolf (29 page)

“Never mind.” He hung up on me. I went to one of the windows, trying to see the gate through the gaps, but there was a resounding crash, and the front door swung open, lock shattered.

“Mr. Kogi,” he said. He had two other men with him, and it was difficult to tell if they were the ones I was familiar with. He wore sunglasses too this time.

“Isn’t it a bit hot for black suits?” I said. I realized I was still holding the phone to my ear. I dropped my hand. One of the men closed the door best he could seeing as the hinges were now off alignment.

They fanned out in the living room, and one went down the corridor into the kitchen and up the stairs before returning and nodding to the leader. “Clear,” he said.

“Why are you here?” I said. “I mean, I’m not going to ask how you found me, but our business is over.”

“Sit down,” the leader said. “I still have to debrief you.”

He removed the sheets from some of the furniture, and we began.

Our shadows grew long. We went over the same ground several times. What route did we take to the base camp? How many soldiers did I see before getting to Ali’s headquarters? Who was Han? What did he look like? What was he wearing? Was he armed? Who first handled the Epoch canister? Who liked it the most? Do I think they would have wanted to destroy it? Did I get injured at all?

The other two both took notes, and there was a recorder on the table they had placed in front of me.

When it was over, they packed up. The leader gestured to me, indicating I should give him something.

“I did what we agreed,” I said.

“You did. And you are out of trouble in that regard. But this is still Alcacia, and there is still the matter of a briefcase of money in your possession. Or did you think I wouldn’t know?”

“I was going to mention it.”

“It’s good that I saved you the trouble then. Give it here.”

I gave the case to one of the other agents and stood back. The agent opened it and nodded to the leader.

“Don’t I deserve compensation for the work I did?” I had to ask the agent for a cut otherwise he would have suspected there was more money somewhere. Which there was.

“Ibi a ti n’sise l’a ti n’jeun,” he said. He took two bundles of cash and threw them my way. “Do not be greedy. With the fame from the newspapers, you’ll have more investigative work than you can ever complete. Your business will be booming from now on.”

“Business?”

“Make sure you do not mention this money to anybody, you hear?”

“Yes.”

They were gone. I sealed the front door best I could, but I had no hammer or nails.

I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty. How could they have kept the interrogation up so long? But then I supposed they had had a lot of practice with political prisoners. I went to get more water.

While I drank I reflected on information I had obtained through reverse-engineering of the questions the man asked me. The Epoch canister had a tracer in it that was activated on my signal. The helicopters homed in and let loose their missiles. There were no prisoners taken, although a lot of Front personnel were not accounted for. This was apparently normal in the crushing of insurgencies. The rebels tended to escape by blending into the surrounding villages, renouncing their association with the organization. The same thing had happened in the PCA camp, but most of the fighting there was hand-to-hand and room-to-room because they had bunkers underneath the buildings that protected them from the aerial bombardment.

It was getting dark, but I only had to gather my items and go to a hotel. I would have to bank the money and convert everything to pounds. It was a decent sum considering the rest of my expenses in the money belt and the Epoch fee. It was more liquidity than I had ever had in my life. I could take it easy for a while, contemplate my life. I packed.

When it was all done I looked out one of the gaps in the boards on the window. There were lights on in Nana’s house. I thought I should say goodbye to Nana’s parents at least. And possibly see Nana again. I did wish and hope that she would still fancy me.

I went over. The streets were dark, patchily lit by the lamps. Moths were doing their kamikaze thing. Nana’s gate was ajar, no gateman in sight. I walked past her father’s chair, which had been overturned. I eased the gun into my hand and opened the front door, which was unlocked.

“Weston! Come in! Come in and drink from the overflowing cup of my fucking vengeance!’ said Churchill.

I don’t know what the date is.

That was all I could think. It seemed important that I know the date of my own death, a nagging Ides of March vibe that would not let me go.

“Churchill,” I said. “What have you done?”

“It does seem a bit much, doesn’t it?” he said.

The entire lounge was in disarray. There were spindle-shaped drops of blood leading from the front door to an unconscious Mr. Hastruup, who was in the middle of the room. There was blood all over his clothes and in a pool under his head. The leather sofas were torn up, the television screen broken, the ceiling fan ripped out of its moorings. The carpet was crumpled up like a used handkerchief, and there were books strewn everywhere. The heavy wood bookshelves and cabinets that Nana’s dad had had made by a famous carpenter were all broken up. How had I not heard any of this from next door?

In his left hand he had Nana’s hair. In his right hand he held a knife with which I assumed he had shorn her. Nana herself was sobbing at his feet, naked and with patchy hair.

“After World War Two the French and Italians used to do this to collaborators. Women. Whores who fucked Nazis for biscuits and cigarettes and petrol rations.”

I pointed the gun at him. “Drop the knife.”

“No.” He scattered the hair over Nana’s quivering form, then he seemed to consider her head. “You know, I think I might have missed a bit.”

Church himself was wounded. He was bare-chested, with black denim trousers and combat boots. His left arm was bandaged, dressing dirty and blood-stained. He also had dressings on his head and round belly. He swayed slightly but held the knife firm. There was no tremor in that hand, and the muscles worked just fine. His eyes were slightly glazed, perhaps drugged, but he smiled that perpetual smile of his. Uncaring. Unbothered.

“Nana, are you all right?” I asked, stupidly.

“She’s fine, aburo. Hair grows back, broken teeth can be fixed, fractured jaws sewn back together. She will still be beautiful,” said Church. “Now, take off your money belt and give it to me.” He stopped smiling and studied me as potential prey. I could see it in the set of his chin, the slight narrowing of his eyes, and the change in the angling of the blade.

“I have the gun.” But did I? I was more afraid of him than he was of me. If he was even afraid at all.

“Weston, I’ve had RPGs and hollow points and white phosphorus-bearing cluster bombs trying to kill me all day. I am not afraid of your gun and I know you don’t have the cullions to pull the trigger. Wa kan je iya l’owo mi
.
Stop the useless posturing and give me the fucking money belt right now.”

“I killed Taiwo.”

“No, you didn’t. That was a mistake. I was there, remember?”

“…”

“There is no shame in this, Weston. It’s not your area of expertise. Stop wasting my time while them out there continue to search for me
.
Se kia kia.”

I looked at Nana.

“Don’t worry about her,” said Churchill. “She still cares about you. She didn’t tell me where you were even after I did that to her father. What does that tell you, hmm? I was about to start really going to work when you dropped by.”

Fuck it.

I loosened my belt with my left hand, holding the gun uselessly with my right, feeling continuous waves of shame and fear and self-loathing. I pulled off the money belt. He could have it. I just wanted the nightmare to be finished.

“Throw it over here.”

I did.

He examined it, saw the money, and donned his smile again. “Good boy. Good boy. I need this for my expenses now, all right?”

“Just get out,” I said. I didn’t know if Nana’s father was wounded or dead, but his body did not move.

“I’m leaving,” Church said. He fastened the money belt around his waist and rooted around the mess. “You know, the Israelites used to do this thing once a year. They’d get a goat or a lamb, I can’t remember which. They’d lead it outside the city gates, abusing it, flogging it, swearing at it all the way. Innocent animal, but they’d do this. Then, outside the gate, they’d put the animal to the blade, kill it. It was supposed to take all their sins on itself and die for them.” He finally found what he was looking for, a gray shirt and white singlet. He started to dress. “This country needs me, Weston. Me and D’Jango and people like us. They need us to place their sins on us so that we can take their transgressions outside the city gates and die for them. Our rebellion may not have worked, but it will drive the government in power to some kind of change, even if it’s just to avoid the emergence of other groups like us. We are part of the path to democracy, Weston.”

“So you commit rape and mass murder so that we won’t have to? Do you tell yourself that so you can sleep at night?”

“I sleep fine, Weston. That nonsense about murdering sleep is for the storybooks.” He spat on his boot and wiped off some dirt. “How is your slumber?”

He stepped over Nana toward me, swapped his knife over to the side nearest me and winked, walked past. I turned around, and he was at the door. A few more seconds and he would be gone.

I shot him in the back. I pulled the trigger, but the gun misfired. Church heard the click, spun toward me, and the gun was in his hand before I could react. He pocketed it and grinned.

He said, “I understand why you did that, and I forgive you. But don’t do it again. You’ll break my heart, and I don’t want my heart to be broken.”

He stared hard at me, and I was aware of the knife in his hand describing tiny circles in the air. Then he left.

I calmed myself and called an ambulance service.

While I waited at Nana’s bedside, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Church being out there in the wild, but, if he had wanted to kill me, he would have. I felt this empty spot in my belly—an absence of revenge. I wanted to kill him, to get justice for…for what? What did he deserve? What did I deserve?

Nana woke and did not want me there. She pressed the button to summon the nurse and ordered me out.

“I don’t need you to save me or avenge me, Weston. I’ll take care of my family, you take care of yours.”

Outside the hospital, the police turned up and arrested me for assaulting Nana and her father and for burglary. I was able to get a phone call to the agent. It took twelve hours to get me out of police custody. When I finally got out, rubbing the skin of my wrists from the handcuff chaffing, the agent was waiting for me with a car. I raised my eyebrows, questioning.

“Part of the service. You get to choose the destination.”

“I like that.” He opened the car door, and I got in beside one of his drones. “I was just thinking, since we’ve been through a lot together and all, you might find it in your heart to tell me your fucking name. Just a thought.”

I turned to him. He was smiling. It was tight-lipped and tense, but a smile all the same. He shrugged.

“If it’s that important to you, call me Joe.”

“Thank you. See, I don’t think—”

“Shut up; it doesn’t make us friends.”

“Sorry.”

In the hotel I soaked in a bubble bath. I felt vaguely human again. I had counted all the money and still came out decently in the black.

When I plugged my phone back in, the voicemail was full. The messages were mostly from strangers. Journalists wanting an interview or a comment, one persistent person from the British Embassy, my father, but the bulk was from people with problems they wanted me to solve and inquiries about my fee.

I did see the kernel of a business here. I looked at the boarding pass for my flight. I thought about getting stuck on the underground and the smallness of my flat and chasing shoplifters in the car park and dead or dying dreams and aspirations, and my sister Lynn. I thought about the constant grayness of London skies, the unbelievable number of people who wore black, the hostility of strangers, the drunken youth, the politicians who lie just as much as the ones in West Africa.

I called my father. His PA picked up the phone.

“Tell Mr. Kogi that I am interested in buying Blossom’s house,” I said.

“Tell him yourself; he’s been waiting for your call.” A few bars of Chopin and I was through to my father’s phone.

“Weston.” His voice sounded drained of the aggressive undercurrent that usually characterized our talks.

“Father.”

“I…eh…I’ve been told about your activities.”

“…”

“I think you should have been more careful. This affair was potentially risky for me, for my business.”

“You mentioned this before, father.”

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to let you know that if things had gone wrong and resulted in injury to you, I would have been displeased.”

“Stop it.”

“As you wish. I have a letter on my desk from the widow of Enoch Olubusi. She thanks you for your role in bringing her husband’s assassin to justice and offers—”

“Father, I am not interested in that. I want to buy Aunt Blossom’s house. Who did she leave it to?”

“I don’t think I am comfortable with you owning family property,” he said. Gruffness creeping back in, I noticed.

“Once you’ve sold it, the house will no longer be family property and you can take the money into the family coffers.”

“It’s what the image of you living in Blossom’s house implies.”

“I grew up there after you left my mother to die in penury. That’s image enough. Give me a figure.”

“Where will you get the money?”

“None of your beeswax. How much?”

“What will you do with it?”

“How much do you want for it?”

My hotel suite was high above Ede, and I could see most of the city in all its glorious filth. I would have to sift through that feculence in order to do my new job. Kogi Inquiries. I tested it on my tongue.