The Cellar by Minette Walters

listening to the buzzing noise against her ear when she lifted the receiver. Dial 999, Ebuka had said. Muna knew nine was a number from watching Abiola count on his fingers, and she guessed it must be one of the buttons on the keypad, but she didn’t know which or how often she should press it.
    She tried them all, pressing once, then twice, then three times. Most of her efforts resulted in silence or a voice saying ‘the number you have dialled has not been recognised’, but when she pressed one button on the right-hand side three times, she was answered immediately.
    A thrill ran through her body when a woman’s voice asked her which emergency service she required. Muna stood transfixed for several seconds; then she replaced the receiver and memorised the button she’d pressed. She was astonished at how quickly the woman had answered, how clear the voice had been and how easily she’d understood the words. It gave her hope that if she managed to reach the telephone before Yetunde, someone would help her.
    Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before she realised such a call would be pointless if she couldn’t tell the woman where she was. There were houses for as far as she could see from the upstairs windows. How would a stranger know she was in this one? She pictured Yetunde laughing and pulling the telephone from her hand if all she could say was, ‘Please help me. My name is Muna.’
    If she’d known how to read, she could have looked at the envelopes that came through the door from time to time. But such a skill was beyond her. All she could do was wait and listen. Sooner or later, Yetunde would order something to be delivered to the house and Muna would remember what she said. It had never seemed necessary before. What was the point of learning the name of a street when she didn’t even know which town she was in?
    Her opportunity came when Yetunde ordered a taxi to collect Ebuka from his rehabilitation centre. He would require one that could take a wheelchair, and, no, she would not be accompanying him. If Mr Songoli needed help the driver would have to assist him. She gave an address that Muna heard and committed to her memory. It made no sense to her but she practised the words in her head over and over again. Twenty Three Fortis Row En Ten.
    Yetunde had been speaking sourly of Ebuka’s return for days. On Jeremy Broadstone’s advice, she had ordered Ebuka to pretend he had only partial feeling in his hands and was unable to dress or feed himself, for the worse his injuries the higher the compensation would be. The plan seemed to have worked when Ebuka’s consultant ordered him to be moved to a specialist centre thirty miles away where he was cared for at the taxpayers’ expense. According to Mr Broadstone, this demonstrated that the Health Service was acknowledging fault for their patient’s condition.
    Yetunde couldn’t have been happier. Ebuka’s employer had agreed to pay his salary for six months until the nature of his disability was fully determined, Mr Broadstone’s legal suits were progressing well, and she could indulge her laziness to her heart’s content. Even Ebuka didn’t require her to make a sixty-mile round trip to visit him when she couldn’t drive. And this was a mercy, she confided to the lawyer, because her husband had lost his attraction for her.
    She didn’t like men with withered legs who wept continuously about their situation. Was it her fault he’d fallen down the cellar steps? Of course not, so how could he ask her to pick up the pieces afterwards by learning to change his catheter bags, keep his circulation working and his back and buttocks free of pressure sores? She shuddered every time she spoke of Ebuka’s incontinence. It was unreasonable to expect a woman of her class to deal with such things.
    To Muna’s eyes, Yetunde found Jeremy Broadstone a great deal more desirable than Ebuka. She preened herself in front of the mirror when she knew he was coming, and found