Follow Me Down (17 page)

166 DAYS BEFORE

DECEMBER

I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited for a Monday. I was up before Mrs Delaney came to wake me and once I’d perfected my eyeliner, I all but ran to breakfast.

I couldn’t get my food down quick enough, knocking over a mug of coffee and getting oatmeal on my skirt in my haste to get to class, but when I glanced through the window on my way out of the dining hall to see Scarlett swaggering across the Green, the reality of it set in and I realised that it wouldn’t be as I had imagined. He wouldn’t ask about my weekend with a secret smile, he’d do what he always does and sweep into class with a smile for me and one for her and that would be it. It would be as though nothing had happened at the theatre, as though I’d imagined the tips of his fingers lingering on my shoulders and the sudden stutter of his eyelashes, and I would be left wondering if it was in my head again, like a passing fever that was making me see things that weren’t there.

But when I got through registration, then history, then finally – finally – I knew I’d see him in my second class, he was already there and the shock of it made my heart leap into my throat. I was supposed to get there first and be doodling nonchalantly when he arrived so he’d have to say something to me first. But there he was, his head stooped and a hand in his hair to keep it back as he leafed through a book and I didn’t know what to do. So I stared at him and when finally he looked up to find me lingering in the doorway, he smiled, the skin around his mouth creasing and I wanted to touch each line with my finger. But before I could reciprocate, I heard my name and turned to find Mrs Delaney standing behind me.

‘Come with me, Miss Okomma,’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked with a frown, but she didn’t respond, just put her hand on the small of my back and led me out of the classroom.

I asked her again as we walked towards the foyer, but she told me to ‘Come along’ as the doors around us closed, one by one, and classes began. Then it was just us, the corridor stretching out in front of us, long and empty and suddenly endless as I wondered what was wrong, where she was taking me.

I could feel the cold from the courtyard as soon as we stepped into the foyer and as we approached the open doors, a rush of wind made the ivy clinging to the frame flutter wildly. It made me shiver and I thought of last night and how I had woken up convinced that I’d left the window open. When I got up to check, the corners of the leaded window were clouded over, the point of each diamond tipped with frost and I remembered thinking,
This is it
. And it is; it’s almost December and for the first time this morning, I felt the wet promise of winter in the air. Most of the trees are bare now, exposing views of Crofton I’ve never seen before: the red clay roofs of the science block, the glint of the canal, the hills that seem to roll on and on.

I’m not the only one to notice; I heard everyone grumbling about it in the shower this morning. ‘It’s bloody miserable,’ Molly said, hopping around in the stall next to mine, which elicited a chorus of mumbled
yeahs
from the other girls. I was too excited about seeing him to care, but I felt it then, walking through the courtyard with Mrs Delaney, the breeze scratching at my cheeks as we walked past the groundsman who was pushing an empty wheelbarrow across the Green.

The sky was the colour of salt and when I looked up at it, I felt a flutter of panic. It was a turnout day. Had Mrs Delaney found something in my room? She couldn’t have; apart from the bottle of Patron hidden in one of my boots, there was nothing to find. Even so, a bottle of tequila wasn’t enough to pull me out of class for. But when we got to Burnham and she led me to her office, the flutter of panic became a rattle that made each of my bones shudder.

She made tea and when she sat next to me on the couch and reached for my hand, every part of me started shaking, all at once. She didn’t say anything for a very long time and I willed her to, because that’s what scared me most, the silence, the fact that she couldn’t say what she had to say. That it was too hard, too awful.

Finally, she squeezed my hand. ‘I have some news, Adamma.’

I felt my heart in my throat then, thumpthumpthumping as I waited for her to look at me again. But she didn’t, so I stared at her eyelids, at the pale blue eyeshadow caught between the creases of her skin, like veins in marble.

Say it
, a voice in my head murmured as I squeezed her hand.
Say it
. She squeezed my hand back, a little too tightly, her wedding ring digging into my knuckle, and that was the last thing I felt before she said, ‘Your father’s been shot.’

The world stopped; I felt this sudden shudder, then nothing. I glanced out of the window and up at the sky, sure that I would find the birds stuck, mid-glide. I imagined cars on the freeway, suddenly still, trains stuttering to a halt. And my heart was suddenly quiet, like a clock stopping mid-tick. I felt nothing as my gaze darted around her office, landing on the framed photograph of the blond boy on her desk and the mugs of tea she’d made that were going cold. I felt no shiver of panic, no pinch of fear, and I don’t know how long I was quiet, but it was long enough to make her ask if I was OK. When I turned to look at her again, I wondered how many times she’d done this. How many girls she’d sat in this room and said, ‘I have some news.’

What a thing to be practised in.

‘Adamma.’ She squeezed my hand again and suddenly I felt everything, my heart, the panic, the fear, her wedding ring digging into my knuckle.

The words were in my mouth –
Is he dead?
– but they didn’t feel like my own, as though I was in a classroom running lines with Scarlett, me the Hamlet to her Ophelia.

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue
.

‘Adamma,’ she said again and I made myself look at her. ‘Your father has been shot, do you understand?’ I nodded. ‘I don’t know the details, but I know that he’s been taken to hospital and we need to get you to Lagos as soon as possible.’ I nodded again. ‘The Nigerian Embassy has booked your flight so let’s go to your room and I’ll help you pack a bag.’

She went to get up, but I wouldn’t let go of her hand. ‘My mother,’ I breathed. ‘She’s giving a lecture at Brown today. She flew to New York last night.’

She squeezed my hand again. ‘The Nigerian Embassy is trying to reach her.’

‘Ear plugs,’ I remembered, pointing to my ear with my free hand. ‘She can’t sleep without them. She probably can’t hear her phone.’

Mrs Delaney nodded. ‘Come on. Let’s get your bag ready.’

‘I don’t know where my passport is,’ I muttered as she helped me to my feet, still holding my hand. I felt like a sleepy toddler being taken to bed.

‘It’s probably in your tuck box.’ She patted my hand. ‘If not, we’ll find it.’

She led me down the corridor and into my room. With everyone in class, Burnham was strangely quiet. I didn’t hear anyone giggling in their room or blow-drying their hair, didn’t hear the murmur of the television as we passed the lounge.

My room was as I left it: strange, bare, the surfaces clear – the desk, the nightstand, the shelves – everything piled on the bed so that they could be cleaned. The smudge of purple on the carpet under the mirror where I’d dropped an eyeshadow was gone, as was the smell, the strange but comforting smell of my perfume mixed with a hint of chlorine from my damp bathing suit and the towels that always fester in my hamper until I take them to the laundry room. This morning my room smelled of lemon. Not real lemon, synthetic lemon. Cartoon lemon, my mother calls it. I usually like that smell, it reminds me of home, of Comfort in her neat white apron shooing me out of the kitchen while she cleans the floor, but today it smelt different. Stronger. All I could smell was lemon, no perfume, no chlorine. My room didn’t smell like my own and it made me feel even more disoriented.

Mrs Delaney took my holdall out of the closet, put it on the desk and unzipped it. ‘Come, Miss Okomma,’ she said, walking over to the chest of drawers.

I didn’t move. ‘Is there enough time to get to the airport?’

‘Of course. The embassy has arranged for a car to collect you at six o’clock.’

‘Six o’clock?’

‘Yes. You’re booked onto the twenty-two twenty from London Heathrow.’

‘What?’ I felt a punch of panic. ‘There must be a flight before then.’

She shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not. That’s the first available one.’

‘That can’t be true! There are dozens of flights from London to Lagos.’

‘Not direct ones. Not at this short notice.’ She didn’t look at me, just opened my washbag and inspected the contents, before putting it in the holdall.

‘I’ll get an indirect one then. Emirates fly to Lagos. What about KLM?’

‘The embassy doesn’t want you to change. They’d rather you got a direct flight. Besides, an indirect flight won’t get you there any faster, especially if there’s a delay and you miss your connection. It’s all much of a muchness.’

It was like running up a flight of stairs, trying to breathe became harder and harder. ‘But I can’t wait until six o’clock. What am I supposed to do? Sit here?’

She didn’t acknowledge me, just walked back to my chest of drawers, opened one and pulled out a cardigan. ‘I’ve only packed you one jumper, but I don’t think that will be enough. Hospitals can get very cold.’

‘Mrs Delaney—’

A girl appeared in the doorway. ‘The administration office sent me to fetch you, Mrs Delaney. They’ve been trying to put a telephone call through to you.’

‘Tell them to take a message,’ she said, tucking the cardigan into my holdall.

‘It’s the Nigerian Embassy. They say it’s urgent.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll be right back.’ She stopped in the doorway and smiled at the girl. ‘Please stay with Miss Okomma until I return. She’s had quite a shock.’

The girl stepped into the room. She said something – asked me if I was OK, I think – but I wasn’t listening as I took my cellphone out of the pocket of my blazer and checked the time. 10.43 a.m. English lit was about to finish. That gave me seven hours and seventeen minutes. It was too long. I thought of my father, alone in the hospital, bleeding into the white sheet beneath him and the panic overwhelmed me and I ran to my closet.

‘Are you OK, Adamma?’ the girl said again, but I didn’t look up.

My hands were shaking so much, I couldn’t find my keys in my purse, and when I did, I dropped them before I opened my tuck box. When I did, I looked under the jewellery boxes and photos and when I saw the green cover of my passport, I pulled it out.

‘Can I get you anything, Adamma? Would you like a cup of tea?’ I heard the girl ask as I zipped up my holdall and darted past her towards the door. When I didn’t answer, she asked me where I was going, but I didn’t stop, just ran and kept running until I was at the front door, then through it. I don’t think I stopped for breath until I was halfway across the Green. The groundsman shouted something, but my heart was beating so hard in my ears that I couldn’t hear what he said as I ran for the road.

I glanced over as everyone wandered out of the main hall into the cold, breath puffing from their mouths in clouds as they exchanged gossip on their way to their next lesson. Someone called my name, but I didn’t stop, I just kept running, the thought of my father, broken and alone, making me desperate to close the distance between us. It was miles – miles and miles – 4,484 miles, five countries and two deep blue seas, and it felt impassable, but with each step I was closer, closer. Then I was across the Green and approaching the road.

I looked at the horizon of tarmac beyond the trees and ran faster. Then it was in front of me and it was like running towards the sea. I heard the car before I saw it, heard a howl of brakes and leapt back, just as the car skidded in front of me, braking so hard I don’t know how it didn’t run over my toes. The tyres scarred the road. I stared at them, at the two black lines on the frosted tarmac, my heart trying to fight its way out of my ribcage, and when the car door flew open, I took another step back.

‘Adamma! What on earth?’ Mr Lucas said with a gasp, leaping out.

I gasped too, my eyes losing focus for a moment. I shouldn’t have stopped, it was like I’d been swimming and someone had pulled me out of the water by my hair. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe, the cold air as heavy as damp towels on my lungs. I wanted to reach for his arm to steady myself, but I told myself not to touch him.

‘My father’s been shot.’

He stared at me as I panted. ‘What?’

‘He’s been shot!’ I could hear myself saying it, but it didn’t sound like my voice. I was going to wake up in a moment, I was sure, wake up in my room at Burnham, in my narrow single bed, frost clinging to the corners of my window.

He reached for my arm as my legs were about to give away. ‘Oh goodness, Adamma. Where? In London? Is he OK?’

‘I have to go,’ I breathed, but I couldn’t move. I could feel myself leaning into him and tried to pull away, but the more I tried, the more I leaned into him. It was as though everything had turned around and up was down and left was right.

‘I’ll take you back to Mrs Delaney.’

‘No. I have to go.’

I dropped my holdall as I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me, putting an arm around my shoulders and picking up the holdall. ‘Go where, Adamma?’

‘To the airport.’

‘Come on,’ he said, opening the car door.

When he steered me towards his car, I remember thinking how pretty it looked, the dark blue roof frosted over so it looked sugared. The tan leather was cold, and it groaned as I took my holdall from him and sat in the passenger seat. He was listening to Radio 4, to
Book of the Week
, and as I listened to the voice describing a snowy scene in Alaska, I suddenly felt awful that he’d missed it because of me.

He waited for me to put on my seat belt, then closed the door. I watched him walk around the front of the car, frowning and smoothing down his tie as he did, and when he climbed into the car next to me, I thanked him again. But he didn’t say anything, and when he started the engine and began reversing, I realised what he was doing and threw my hands out, grabbing the dashboard. ‘No!’