William Shaw - She's leaving home

Okonkwo’s face looked the color of stone. “I am so sorry.”

“What about Constable Tozer?” Breen asked.

“What about my wife?” demanded Professor Briggs.

“Ezeoke is mad,” said Okonkwo. “Your wife is an idiot, Mr. Briggs.” His breath was shallow. “She thinks Ezeoke is a god. A revolutionary god. He can do no wrong.”

“Shut up,” said Professor Briggs.

“You should have told me where he was yesterday,” said Breen.

“I’m sorry. I thought I should help him.”

Blood was bubbling from his mouth now. Okonkwo did not seem to notice. “I think we will lose the war. What do you think, Mr. Breen?”

Okonkwo’s skin had turned gray.

“What war? What’s he on about?”

Okonkwo closed his eyes. Breen leaned closer.

“What is the layout of the house?” he asked. “Where is Tozer?”

Okonkwo didn’t answer. His breathing slowed. His hand was opening and closing slowly.

“We have to know. Where are they?”

The sound of sirens came from across the marshland, louder and louder, until their wailing filled the air around them.

By the time they had arrived, Okonkwo had stopped breathing altogether.

The policemen complained of the cold. They stamped their feet. “We could take him.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I don’t think.”

“You’re the copper from London. What’s up with your mate?”

“He’s got food poisoning.”

From inside the house, Ezeoke shouted, “What is happening?”

“Eddie Okonkwo is dead,” said Breen.

Ezeoke didn’t answer.

“What’s he going to do?” The local inspector had brought guns. Police crowded round the house with.303s. They were excited. Things like this happened once in a local policeman’s life.

“Shoot the cunt, I say,” said one lanky policeman.

Some police were pushing inquisitive locals down the street. There was an inevitability to what was about to happen now.

He thought of Okonkwo and Ezeoke, men filled with a fervor for politics. The world was suddenly full of people like them, shouting for change, willing to see blood spilled. The kind of men who didn’t run from knives but towards them; who were sure about what the world was and what it should be. Breen could never be like that. For him, the world was a place seen from a distance, a curious puzzle. He thought of Tozer, comatose in the room just a few yards away. He could fight for her, he knew, but never for a country or an idea. Maybe it was just a lack of passion; a lack of imagination. But he only wanted to save one person.

He thought of his dead father and the woman his father had lost. He felt he had never known him as well as he did now. They were not so different.

“Sergeant?”

Breen walked over to the local inspector. He was a round man with a moustache and a mournful expression on his face. He shook hands with Breen. “Nasty old day,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Professor Briggs says you know the man with the gun.”

“That’s right, sir.”

He nodded. “Go and talk to him.”

“Why, sir?”

The inspector looked at him. “Just go and talk. You’ll know the kind of thing to say.”

“Yes, sir.” He knew what would happen now. Darkness filled his chest.

It had started to drizzle. The ambulance man had tried to give him his jacket back but he hadn’t wanted to wear it; it had Okonkwo’s blood congealed on the cloth by the vents.

He looked out towards the gray light on the eastern horizon. A pair of fishing trawlers was setting out from some nearby port. They looked small against the big sea. Waves slapped onto the shingle, out of sight, below the cottage.

“Go careful. Keep him talking as long as you can.”

“Yes, sir.

“Good luck.”

Constables with rifles were surrounding the house.

He walked slowly down the short path towards the shotgun. As soon as he could, he tucked himself back behind the sculpture.

“Sam,” he called. “You there?”

No answer.

“Did you hear? Eddie is dead. He was shot. They thought he was you.”

“You killed him. You English people.”

“You’ll die too.”

“Why should I care?”

“It’s pointless, Sam. There’s nothing to be gained. Please.”

No answer. Breen heard a noise behind him and turned. A policeman with a gun was crouching just behind the wall, pointing his rifle past Breen. Breen shivered. There was no shelter. His white shirt stuck to his skin.

“Please, Sam. Send out the women at least.”

“If they are harmed, it will be your fault. You killed Eddie Okonkwo. You shot him like a dog.”

“You killed Morwenna Sullivan. That was your fault.”

“It was her father’s fault. He stole our money. He promised me guns. He was a liar and a thief. It was him I wanted to hurt.”

The police had stopped moving now. They were all in position, he assumed.

“So you kidnapped Morwenna?”

“Our entire country is being held as a hostage. Hundreds are dying every day.” Breen was shivering uncontrollably now, his jaw juddering with the cold. “He took our money. I am tired of talking, Mr. Breen. All I want is to go home to Africa. All I want is to go home.”

“You can’t go home, Sam. You don’t have a home anymore.”

“I have to.”

Breen thought he could bear it no longer. Rain trickled from his hair into his eyes. This was taking too long.

“Your daughter loved her,” said Breen.

“That is not love,” shouted Ezeoke.

A gust of wind rattled the windows of the house, sending raindrops flying down the collar of Breen’s shirt.

And then the shooting started, and the screaming. Wild, lurid, loud, pained screaming. Seabirds flew up from the shoreline. Breen crouched down below as the bullets flew, shattering wood and glass, smacking into brickwork. Dust sprayed all over him, sticking to his dampened shirt. His eyes stung. Glass sprayed out onto the gravel behind him. The smell of cordite stained the air.

All that was left was the sound of a woman still screaming, pausing briefly for breath, and then screaming again.

The terrible screaming gradually faded in volume and then stopped. As he crouched by the sculpture, he heard wood splintering; the sound of men breaking down the front door.

Breen could not see. Only by keeping his eyes closed could he stop the excruciating pain of the brick dust in his eyes. He took in the world in brief blinks, each one feeling like sandpaper was passing across his corneas. His ears still rang from the gunshots, but he heard well enough to make out the sound of policemen breaking down the front door, tramping inside and shouting. “Keep Briggs out of here. His wife is dead.”

A hand touched him. “You all right, chum?”

Painfully he looked. A young police constable was standing over him. “Who was screaming?” Breen asked.

“Don’t know. It’s a bloody mess in there.”

Breen stood and looked around. He stumbled through the broken door of the cottage. In a series of blinks he viewed the living room. The walls were cratered by gunshots, and glass and splintered wood from the window lay across the floor. He noticed Ezeoke first. The man was slumped against an ottoman, blood soaking through his trousers from a wound somewhere in his leg. His hands had been cuffed. He had a dazed look on his face, as if he was just waking from a sleep.

Mrs. Briggs was just behind him, sprawled across the small living-room floor. She was dressed in a black polo neck and a miniskirt and, yes, she was dead. A bullet had smashed part of her jaw away. White teeth protruded through a bloody mess. Her top was spattered with blood.

“Where’s Constable Tozer?” he croaked.