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  Philippe is momentarily distracted thinking about the lines of coke he’d done maybe three to four hours before. He couldn’t tell, sometimes he loses sense of time. But he could feel the blood pumping in his veins as she swallows, could hear a shriek in the distance longing to belong, smatterings of light dancing in rear-view mirrors. He could recall his shadow snorting in doorways that were unfamiliar and the lines of the open road dragging him back, limb by limb.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks irritably, peering in the darkness of the vehicle, picking up a rotten scent he can’t decipher.

  Boldly, she grabs hold of his torch. “They took everything, they left me with nothing.” A wavering slithers into her voice and she holds the light right up against her face.

  There is something so disturbingly bleak about that one action, Philippe can’t resist. He yanks the torch back just as a ram’s head pops out of her chest asking for his teeth. He blinks the image away, horrified.

  She’s out of the car now, babbling and unsteady on her feet, rambling about disciples taking her license and registration when she stopped for gas, accosting her out of nowhere like that! He realises she is absentmindedly rubbing his crotch as she speaks.

  Other vehicles zip by, a truck carrying bottled water supplies and a fleet of bikers clearly used to minding their business. The sound of their engines ring so loudly in his ears, he feels he might inherit it for a while, feel it revving when his heart stops and starts, when the bloodshot images from his peripheral vision fall out of his eyes as his head thuds on different surfaces, landing with nothing to cushion the fall but the white hot God splintering in his veins. He watches her red mouth, sees it moistened by semen. He knows he will swell and harden in her hold long after she’s gone. He knows the cactuses, bored and thirsty, will uproot into the roads and cause accidents.

  Later, he drags her into the back seat, takes her roughly, violently. She thanks him for the pardon. Her smile is wide and grateful in the hot air. He doesn’t notice spots of dried blood on her thighs.

  After he comes, his finger catches in a rip on the hot seat. The smell is more intense now, pungent.

  “What the hell is that?” he asks, wondering if she has food stashed somewhere that’s gone off. He knows he can smack her head against the wheel repeatedly, watching till it becomes still, just like the doll in the water.

  She laughs girlishly. “Oh, that’s just Claudine. We’re going to Vegas to play blackjack.” She yanks her white dress down, clambering into the driver’s seat with surprising agility.

  Philippe is already turning his lean, handsome face away, as sweat drips into his slanted eyes. There is the sound of something churning, hurtling towards them. And the sky is vast; he is nothing but a tiny thing stumbling from the Buick.

  His broken torch has the ram’s eye in it glimmering.

  He orders her to pop the boot. When she does, he peers into it closely. Something cloaked in bubble wrap catches his eye. He lifts it out gently. It is alien-like. He can see a small hand through the bubbles, a navel, and grey eyes. The rotten stench is unbearable. He wants to cover his nose but cannot do so without dropping it. He removes the bubble wrap, revealing a still baby. The bubble wrap falls, skimming the road. The baby has tiny green veins running across its face, fine tufts of downy hair. He thinks it makes a sound like engine noise, but that cannot be.

  Before he can say another word, she hits the gas, tearing off into the distance at a ridiculous speed with the boot still open. Somebody crazy enough might just leap and land in that opening, in the darkness of the boot and curl into shapes and things that seem impossible. Philippe does not know her name.

  He is left holding the dead baby, his flaccid penis hanging obscenely out of his trousers and the night beyond the gap hissing sensuously.

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you to my wonderful, kickass agent Elise Dillsworth. Thanks for believing in the work, always having my back and coming along for this crazy ride. Many thanks to publisher and editor Valerie Brandes for guidance and the Jacaranda team for their efforts. Heartfelt thanks to my favourite literary champions; Alex Wheatle for everything and being really inspiring, Yvvette Edwards you are a joyous, magical woman, creative powerhouse Kit Caless for your energy and generous spirit, thanks for all your efforts and support. Thanks to Ben Okri for seeing something in my writing and championing it, Stella Duffy for being open and reading, Rupert Thomson for taking an interest in my work and reading. Thanks to Julian Brown for the years. Thanks to Malaika Adero for publishing some of my work stateside, providing platforms and leading by example. Thanks to David Kwaw Mensah for infectious, endless curiousity about the world around us. Thanks to Rosie Canning and the Greenacre Writers blog team, really appreciate all the support you’ve given me and so many writers. Thanks to the team at Afrikult, you guys are boss and I love what you’re doing. Thanks to Lola Shoneyin and the Ake Festival team for special African memories. Thanks to those wonderful mentors at key stages in my life, Donna Daley-Clarke and Gaylene Gould. Big thanks to Spread the Word, Joy Francis, Words of Colour, Tricia Wombell, Black Book Swap, Zahrah Nesbitt-Ahmed, Bookshy blog, Samira Sawlani, Media Diversified, Obinna Udenwe for spreading the word about my work on the African blogsphere, Ainehi Edoro, Brittle Paper, Nikesh Shukla and Jon Teckman for the lovely tweets and support. Thanks to London libraries for spaces that helped feed my imagination as a teenager. Thanks to Mum, for all that gumption and always being you, to Dad for the vision, for always being fearless.

  About the Author

  Irenosen Okojie is a writer and Arts Project Manager. She has worked with the Royal Shakespeare Company, the Southbank Centre and the Caine Prize. Her debut novel Butterfly Fish won a Betty Trask Award. Her writing has been featured in The Guardian and The Observer. Her short stories have been published internationally, including Kwani 07 and Phatitude. She was a selected writer by Theatre Royal Stratford East and Writer in Residence for TEDx East End. She is the Prize Advocate for the SI Leeds Literary Prize. She was a mentor for the Pen to Print project supported by publisher Constable & Robinson. She lives in East London.

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain 2016 by

  Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd

  Unit 304 Metal Box Factory

  30 Great Guildford Street,

  London SE1 0HS

  www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk

  Copyright © 2016 Irenosen Okojie

  The right of Irenosen Okojie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-909762-29-9

  eISBN: 978-1-909762-46-6

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY