Free That Night in Lagos by Vered Ehsani Page A

stumbled to his feet and stared at me, the whites of his eyes more pronounced.
    “I mean, I shall do it myself,” I amended my statement as I attempted to block Koki’s words from my mind.
    The poor man was conflicted as to which evil was worse: the captain’s anticipated ire or my immediate and threatening presence. I must have looked a frightful sight, for he set out to find a sailor intoxicated enough to enter the captain’s quarters. Sometime later, a stout and muscular fellow of Mediterranean origin appeared on the deck of a nearby ship bearing the Spanish flag.
    “Madam,” he roared as he stomped down the plank that connected the deck to the dock. “This had best be an emergency of epic proportions. There had best be a fire in our warehouse, a gaping hole in our hull, a tsunami in the bay, a…”
    “All of that and more,” I interrupted him. “When does your ship depart?”
    Flustered at the interruption to his grand speech, the man gaped at me. “What matter is it to you?” he demanded. “And don't you wish to know to where we sail?”
    “As long as it is away from these shores, I shall be satisfied,” I replied, shivering as a breeze brushed my damp brow.
    The captain narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you a fugitive of the law, miss? I won’t tolerate criminality aboard my ship, or near my ship or…”
    “Nothing of the sort,” I said, interrupting him yet again. “There’s been an emergency, and I must depart for England at once.”
    The man rubbed at the stubble peppering his chin. “Well, we depart on the morning’s tide. Thing is, we aren’t set for England but for Spain, to the port of…”
    “Close enough,” I blurted out, involuntarily glancing behind me in the direction of the constabulary. It wasn’t visible from the port but I could still visualize it. If I breathed deeply enough, I imagined I would inhale the coppery scent of blood. “Please show me to my quarters.”
    I veered around the astounded captain and strode up the plank, ignoring his protestations that he had no quarters suitable for travelers, particularly those of the female persuasion.
    “Don’t mind my persuasion,” I advised him. “Just furnish me with a room that has a horizontal surface upon which I can sleep and a door that I can lock. You will be reimbursed handsomely enough.”
    The man muttered in another language, and I’m certain it would translate into a disparaging comment about Englishwomen. I was even more certain that the translation was irrelevant, as long as a room with a door could be procured; the view was secondary.
    While small yet satisfactory quarters were provided, and better yet with a solid and lockable door, I was unable to close my eyes, never mind sleep. Every creek of the wooden deck set me on edge as I waited for the screams of the dying. Every slosh of waves against the hull caused me to cringe as I saw the puddles of blood. Only when the ship had left Lagos far behind did I at last slip into a restless slumber. Yet even in those moments of sleep, I knew that the memories of Lagos would follow me home.

    It was a longer trip home yet I didn’t notice the passage of time. The crew left me to my own devices, perhaps sensing my lack of interest in social interactions. That suited me very well, for I was deeply enmeshed in the nightmares that chased me even during my waking moments.
    Once home, I submitted my report, although I was certain Prof Runal had received news already; the old dog had a way of sniffing out information, particularly the sort that involved dismembered bodies and supernatural beings. He for his part made little comment, apart from asking after my health and suggesting I take a leave of absence.
    I confined myself to the house, despite Mrs. Steward’s assertions that all I needed was some fresh air.
    “After all, Bee,” she said with a sniff and a wave of a lavender-scented handkerchief, “the best means by which to recover from as lengthy a convalescence as