Not enough oil. And the knife’s too small. Damn!
Tossing the knife aside, Magali slid her fingers into the gash and pulled. With a sound of creaking leather, the two halves of jackfruit came apart. She set to work with the knife again, jabbing at the core to prise it away. Meeting resistance, she grabbed and tugged, ripping out chunks the size of golf balls. Bits of it clung to her fingers, covered her hands in slime. She poured on more oil, rubbed them together. The slime turned into a slippery, viscous syrup. She sighed, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her arm.
Not a good idea, this. What had she been thinking? Still, at least they’d have a laugh when she told Charlotte.
Where is she, anyway? Should be back by now.
She stepped out onto the balcony. Here and there in the puddles of light from the rare, feeble street lamps, gaggles of youths were wandering moodily about, gesticulating and shouting. On the market square where she’d bought the fruit, a couple of men, urged on by supporters, appeared to be spoiling for a fight. Magali’s breath quickened. She ought to ring Charlotte, tell her to be careful. The riot still wasn’t over.
Unless they’d already got her. Stopped the car and dragged her out and… No, don’t be silly. They wouldn’t do that to a tourist.
She went back in, tore off a strip of kitchen roll, and wiped her hands. It made little difference. She was rubbing and scraping, wanting to giggle, inclined to groan, when the phone rang.
‘Charlotte?’ Gingerly, she held it between the tips of her fingers.
‘Just to let you know I’m on my way. Shouldn’t be long.’
Magali let out a quiet sigh. ‘How was it? Did you find everything?’
‘Mmm. Took me a while to find the mozzie coils. But the supermarket was fine. Still not a lot of choice, but more than Sofidep. A bit pricey, though. How about you? Feeling better?’
‘Yes, it seems to be easing.’ An attack of cystitis she’d overplayed in order to do the cooking. ‘I went out, actually. Thought I’d get something special for dinner.’
‘Special? What for?’
‘Do you know what day it is? Anniversary?’
‘Um... Your divorce?’
‘Not far off,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You and I met a year ago today.’
‘Wow! That’s nice. Nice of you to remember.’
‘Well, it changed my life quite a bit. To put it mildly.’
‘Mine too.’ A couple of seconds passed. ‘So what’s on the menu?’
‘Fish curry. Skipjack.’ There was so much more that could have been said, but then, she thought, they’d have time over dinner. Twelve unforgettable months. ‘And there was going to be jackfruit but I’m afraid it’s got the better of me.’
‘You mean you actually bought one? Whole?’
‘Yeah, I went overboard a bit. Thought it’d last the whole holiday if I freeze it. But right now it’s staring up at me like something out of Alien. And emitting this musty smell that stinks out the whole flat.’
‘We’ll do it together when I get back,’ Charlotte said. Then muttered an expletive. ‘God, this road’s dodgy!’
‘Take care when you get into town. There’s some sort of riot going on. Nothing serious, or at least... It’s got a bit quieter now but there are still some men roaming around. Or boys.’
‘Really? I didn’t notice anything.’
‘Not when you left, no. It started after. Just a demonstration, but then it got out of hand. You know they had that festival or whatever before we arrived? Well, someone –’
A sudden thud, a shriek of surprise. A succession of crunching and cracking, followed by another thud.
Then silence.
‘Charlotte!’
No answer.
‘Charlotte? What happened? Are you all right? Charlotte!’
A few seconds of crackle. The line went dead.
She’d gone off the road. There was no other explanation. She was in a ditch somewhere, maybe the car had turned over.
No, not a ditch, just the verge. She’s all right. Maybe a little concussed, she’ll ring any moment.
Several minutes passed. Magali called the number a dozen times. Nothing. She paced the room, phone in hand, whimpering. Finally reached a decision. Rather confront a horde of Muslims in a frenzy than stay here stupidly staring at her phone, waiting for a call that never came.
She drew down the blinds, shut all the windows, hid the laptops in the cavity behind the washing machine. Even in the midst of panic, the procedure had to be followed. And then, half sobbing, she was outside. Lost. Alone. 5000 miles from home. Running about in the dark, telephone stuck to her hand, useless. No one to call, no one to come to her help. The world reduced to this seething pit of hostility.
No. Calm down, get a grip. You’re not alone if you speak the language. This is France for God’s sake! The people are friendly.
That, at any rate, was what she’d been led to believe. Except they weren’t. Not now. She’d been in the country – no, France – just two days and the way things were going, if they spotted her, they wouldn’t help her, they’d lynch her.
She needed a car. A taxi. Where are they? God damn it! Where are the bloody taxis?
Any car. Just stop the first that comes along and ask the driver... what? My friend’s in trouble, please can you help? I need you to drive me...
Where? She had no idea. Up the road. There was only one. Charlotte was on it, she had to be. Somewhere.
A car came up the street, picking her out in the headlights. Magali cautiously raised a hand, the driver slowed as he passed, staring. Her hand dropped back to her side.
Alone. Scared.
Outside the Sofidep supermarket, she dithered. Walk up to the road above the town? There’d surely be cars passing there. Or down to the centre? She’d seen a couple of police vans by the mosque. Too busy to help her? Are you mad? Can’t you see we’ve got a riot on our hands?
But the road above was dark and uninviting. She chose the centre, striding down the street and taking a right above the market square. Then she turned towards the mosque. She was halfway down the street when a group of youths appeared at the other end, brandishing sticks. Looking for a reason to use them. Car windows? Already done that. Let’s find someone to kill!
For a moment, they were as surprised as she was. What the fuck? A mzungu woman here on her own? One of them saw her phone, took a step towards her.
Magali turned and fled.
At the corner of the street, she looked back. They hadn’t bothered to follow. She heard the sound of shattering glass and a cheer went up in the still, warm air of the evening.
Magali hurried back up the road to the flat. Were the neighbours in now? They’d know what to do, they’d help, that was the spirit here. We’re all in this together. But just as before, when she rang the bell there came no answer. Five other flats, every one of them empty. Where were they all? Sheltering in the Nyora, no doubt, the mzungu watering hole, the only place in town that could be called a restaurant. Sensible enough – safety in numbers. Unless the Muslims decided to storm it. Smash the bar to bits, butcher the infidels.
She clutched her phone, scratched at the glue on the screen. It clung to her fingers, got under her nails, wrapped itself round her brain. For the umpteenth time, she tapped the number. The same, desolate succession of beeps came to taunt her.
The anniversary. The day she opened her door and Charlotte was there, desperate and bereft. Since you’re a private detective, I’d like you to find the person who killed my son. Oh, yes, how her life had changed!
Magali stood in the corridor, biting her lip, head bowed.
A ravine. Upside down. She can’t get out. Broken bones, bleeding. Dead.
She went back outside. She was approaching the Sofidep junction when a car came towards her. Followed by another. And another.
She hesitated. Stepped out into the road. Waved.
A gasp of relief as she recognised the driver: he lived in the flat over the landing. White, friendly, concerned. Young wife beside him in the car.
‘Look, I’m awfully sorry but my friend’s had an accident. I need to go out and find her, I’ve had no news, her car must have –’
‘Of course,’ said the neighbour. No second thoughts. Solidarity. ‘But where?’
‘She was coming back from –’ The phone came to life in her hand. ‘Wait a minute!’ She jabbed the screen. ‘Charlotte!’ A rush of relief. ‘What happened? Are you OK?’
‘I’m... Yes, I’m fine, it’s just... Oh, hell, Magali!’
‘What’s the matter? What happened?’
‘I hit a girl and...’ Charlotte’s voice was concentrated misery. ‘She’s dead!’