The Cellar by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online Page B

so. He knew they were taking payment for the bad things he and Princess have done to me. They’ll come for you, ugly boy, if you think to hurt me … and next time they’ll do more than make your body writhe on the floor and foam spill from your lips.
    She vibrated her tongue against her palate to produce a snakelike hiss and felt a satisfying fulfilment when Olubayo fled across the hall and up the stairs to his room. He would do what he did every night, sit before his screen, pulling at himself and grunting like a pig. It’s what made him stupid.
    It was another week before Yetunde took the rod to Muna. She’d been content to leave the girl alone as long as she performed her duties. Mr Broadstone’s visits, and the occasional unannounced appearance by Inspector Jordan or the police liaison officer, persuaded her to keep calling Muna her daughter and allowing her to wear floral prints instead of black.
    At the outset of the investigation, she’d ordered several dresses in Muna’s size out of fear the police would notice the girl always wore a kaba that was too big for her. Later, she seemed to feel they might as well be put to use, or perhaps she’d even come to prefer a servant who could be seen by strangers, for she allowed Muna to open the front door when the bell rang and bring trays of tea and sugared almonds to the sitting room.
    In front of visitors, she always thanked Muna prettily on these occasions, calling her a good girl or a kind girl, but Muna suspected it galled her to do it. Every so often she caught a flash of enmity in Yetunde’s eyes as if she were contrasting Muna’s improved circumstances with her own diminished ones.
    Her temper came to the boil one morning when Muna failed to make shortbread biscuits as sweet as she liked. A torrent of pent-up abuse poured from her mouth. She accused Muna of everything from murdering Abiola, attempting the same with Ebuka and causing Olubayo’s seizure before seizing her by the arm and dragging her to the kitchen. You’ll not get up this time, she warned, flinging Muna to the floor and taking up the rod.
    Muna twisted on to her back and cried out as loudly as she could. If you do this, the white will believe you did the same to Abiola, Princess. This is the day the gardener comes. He’ll hear my screams and repeat what I say to the police.
    It was enough to stay Yetunde’s hand.
    This is what I will shout, Princess. ‘No, Mamma, no. I have done no wrong. Please don’t kill me the way you killed my brother. You can’t beat two children to death and hope to escape punishment.’
    Yetunde’s eyes blazed. What lies are these? Who taught you to speak them in English?
    I learned them from the white, Princess. She told the Hausa speaker she believes it was you who took Abiola’s life. She will know it for certain if you take mine.

Seven
    Autumn was well advanced by the time Ebuka came home from hospital. The flowers were dying and the trees that lined the street had turned from gold to russet red. Since the gardener left, the grass on the lawn had become wild and unkempt, and weeds grew in the beds that lined the gravel drive.
    Yetunde had dismissed the man on the day Muna had drawn attention to him, claiming she couldn’t afford him. Muna had watched his departure with regret. In truth, she doubted he would have heard her if she’d called from inside the house, or taken notice if he had – he seemed overly timid when speaking to Yetunde – but his presence had saved her from a beating.
    She plotted other ways to protect herself from Yetunde’s anger. Ways that came to her at night in dreams so real that she knew the Devil had not abandoned her. She hid weapons in each room of the house – knives from the kitchen, a hammer and a chisel from Ebuka’s toolbox, Abiola’s cricket and baseball bats, a heavy doorstop – and made sure she could remember where they were.
    She practised using the telephone whenever Yetunde went out by studying the keypad and