The Cellar by Minette Walters Page B

promised. The overcast sky and unremitting rain turned everything grey, even the faces of passers-by, and Muna’s heart lurched in alarm each time someone brushed against her or muttered in annoyance at having to step aside for Ebuka’s chair. Dogs barked behind garden walls, car engines roared, cyclists splashed water into Muna’s boots, and she was as wretched as she had ever been.
    In her dreams of escape she had never pictured herself outside. Her rehearsed English words – ‘Please help me. My name is Muna’ – were always said to an imaginary white who came to the door when Yetunde was out. Yet Muna had never found the courage to put the plan into operation. If the bell rang when she was alone, she hid in a dark corner and held her breath until the stranger went away. It had been safer to obey Yetunde than risk placing trust in a white.
    But now it was necessary to walk among them if she wanted to persuade Ebuka that Yetunde had left the house in anger while they were away, and great though her fear was, she tried to ignore it. Before long, however, she had lost her sense of direction and knew she wouldn’t find her way home if Ebuka became impatient with her. She wasn’t brave enough to ask a stranger where Twenty Three Fortis Row En Ten was.
    Her slender arms ached from pushing the chair across paving stones. Her feet grew blisters inside Abiola’s boots and her small reserves of energy were soon used up. She hadn’t walked so far since Yetunde had stolen her. Tears of exhaustion limned her lashes but she kept her head down so that Ebuka wouldn’t see them.
    Everyone stared. First at the paralysed man and then at the ugly piccaninny behind him. Yetunde had been right to say they’d bring shame on themselves for Muna didn’t think the smiles on the faces of the passers-by were kind. She found them mocking and cruel, and knew Yetunde had spoken the truth. A black should never expect help from a white.
    Her courage deserted her completely when they came to a wide road, lined with shops and filled with vehicles and pedestrians. Ebuka pointed to some strange-looking lights and told her they could cross there, but Muna was too afraid to take another step. She came to a halt, her heart full of dread at the throng of blue-lipped, unsmiling people, hunched beneath umbrellas and jostling each other as cars and buses passed inches from their faces.
    Her teeth chattered with cold. We must go back, Master.
    But Ebuka’s depression had lifted. Where Muna saw mockery in the faces that passed, he saw sympathy and consideration. We’ve barely gone half a mile, he said.
    The house is small compared with this, Master. I’ve never been so far and your chair is hard to push. My legs are trembling.
    Then rest.
    Where, Master? If I squat here, people will ask what’s wrong with me.
    There’s a café halfway down this road. My friends use it. We’ll go there.
    We can’t do that, Master. They will wonder why I look so different from you and Princess. My skin is pale and the flesh on my bones is thin. It’s better to say your daughter is too damaged to leave the house than parade her before people you know.
    Ebuka conceded reluctantly, using his hands to turn the wheels as they made their way back. The effort made him irritable and he took out his ill humour on Muna, criticising her for hiding her face in her hood and dragging her feet along the ground.
    You disappoint me, he growled. I thought you had more spirit.
    I don’t mean to, Master. I’m tired, that is all.
    So am I, Muna, so am I … but you still expect me to protect you from Princess.
    She will kill us both if you don’t, Master.
    You exaggerate.
    I don’t think so, Master. Princess wouldn’t have told the witchy-white you were too sick to leave your bed if she doesn’t intend you to die.
    Any appetite Ebuka had ever had for confronting his wife was gone by the time they reached the gate. Before his accident, his habit had been to leave – walk out of