1 CHAPTER ONE: DAWSON’S CLOSE

Barrister Clark's Residence, London, England

September 3, 2000, Tuesday 16:26

Caesar Clark looked thoughtfully at the face of the pool of tea in his mug.

"So, Dad do you feel lonely?" he asked casually.

Edward Clark looked up from his own brew and stared pensively at his son. Looking rather miniature in his huge, white wooly sweater, he looked like a wizened old professor with his gray flecked hair and glasses.

"Of course I am, Edmund" he answered a bit defensively, "London isn't exactly a place of warmth."

Caesar glanced at the icy rain lashing ruthlessly against the double-glazed windows and he had to agree.

"Why don't you get yourself a woman, dad? Before you freeze to death."

Barrister Clark's small spectacles nearly fell into his cup of tea.

"Edwin! I'm surprised at you. I'm not even officially divorced from your Mom yet."

"So what, Dad? You two are separated. She lives in Nigeria while you're here in England. Who's going to care? Anyway she doesn't seem to mind sleeping around back home."

"Edmund, don't talk about your mother like that. We are different people. She can do what she wants."

"Do you know your problem, Dad? You are too nice. You are incapable of saying a bad thing about anyone."

"That's not a good thing?"

"You should express your feelings. It helps get things off your chest."

"I do express my feelings. Sorry to disappoint you if they're not harsh."

Caesar sighed exasperatedly.

"You talk as if you are still in love with her."

"I am still in love with her."

"Oh, great. Do you think she loves you in return?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself, Edmund? She's your Mom. She'll tell you the truth."

Caesar groaned in finality and frowned again at his mug.

Caesar Clark and Cassandra Okafor did not share the conventional mother-son relationship. She had once worked for the Nigerian Embassy in London and that was when she met Edward Clark, a young British lawyer working in the city. A romance had blossomed between them and they had married. Unfortunately her pregnancy had been troublesome and nearly fatal and the baby could only be removed by Caesarian operation. Hence Cassandra nick named him Caesar which Edward felt was done out of spite and later on in life so did her son think as well.

Caesar's mother was extremely beautiful, she had everything a man could want from a woman -a golden complexion, long rich dark hair, an angelic face and the body of a goddess. That beauty was double edged.

Even though it opened doors for her it also turned out to be her albatross. She was in hot demand, both by whites and blacks and she was continuously pestered. Like any dyed in the wool Nigerian she used this to her advantage and naturally she was wild at heart.

However poor Edward was not, he was uptight and aloof like his British counter parts and could not take the pressure any more so eventually one cold, wet, autumn morning he sat her down and called it quits. Cassandra decided to go back to Nigeria and insisted she take Caesar along with her. Edward was not in any mood for messy divorce proceedings and child custody cases so he let her do as she wished but not without her promising that his son could visit him from time to time.

Growing up for Caesar wasn't easy. Even though he had his mother's beauty, he had his father's pride and many a time he could not understand his mother's excesses. She jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend, most of the time as stepstools for her political ambition. She decided never to marry again and never to have any other children so Caesar remained her only child.

He refused to follow his mom's political footsteps and normally took solace in reading and writing and very soon ended up an investigative reporter for Newsday. As usual his reports were always vehemently against the Federal Government and the so-called elite of the society which he hated with a passion. Later he switched to his dad's name so he couldn't be linked to his mom.

"Well, Dad, I'll be off" he announced as he tentatively placed the mug down on the side stool, "I have an assignment to carry out."

"Alright. Take care, Son."

"I will."

"What's this assignment about anyway?"

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"Oh, nothing. Just to interview some demented old clown who should have been shot years ago."

"Edwin!"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. My language is becoming too colorful, right? Give me a break, Pa, I'm not like you."

"You should try to emulate me" scolded the Barrister.

"Nah. Life will be too boring. Anyway haven't you heard that children are usually the opposite of their parents?"

"To my chagrin unfortunately."

"Your problem not mine. At least I'm sure my own kids will be well behaved.'

"Speaking of kids, do you have a steady girlfriend?"

"Don't start now, Dad. I'm off." He got up to leave.

"I hope this assignment of yours isn't dangerous?" his Dad asked concerned.

"I almost wish it was. Only then will it be worth the ticket. Bye."

He had no idea that in less than a day he would eat those words.

Dawson's Close, Manchester City, England

September 3, 2000, Tuesday 18:43

The black taxi stopped him by a sign that said Dawson's close ending his journey from London. He glared at the mop of barley-blond hair with the black taxi cap pressed unsuccessfully over it.

"Why are you stopping? " he demanded " I'm going to the last house on Dawson's close."

The taxi driver shrugged.

" Restricted Area, " he replied "Private vehicles only."

Caesar didn't think that was true but he didn't push it. He paid the amount on the meter and hauling out his overnight bag started down the close.

Caesar Clark was not pleasantly surprised by the assignment bestowed upon him. To be more precise he was mildly enraged. He had been given the task of interviewing Peter Marquis one of the big party bigwigs of Nigerian Politics, international business man and notorious philanderer. He was vacationing in his "English Retreat" just one of the numerous villas he had on different corners of the globe. News Day had been seeking an interview from this "Echelon" of high society for months now and at last he graciously granted them an interview. Caesar failed to see why they should give a hoot about what he felt was a glorified rogue and more importantly why they should send him to do the interview.

"Because," the Editor told him cheekily as he stood complaining in her office, "You're a junior reporter here".

"But I'm in the crime section," complained Caesar, "Not in society people."

The Editor was not impressed by this clarification. She sneered at him.

"There is no crime story of significance for you to investigate. Anyway you should be happy you're going to England. Now run along." Caesar had left the office seething with suppressed fury and suspecting that the Editor was secretly in love with Peter Marquis. He wondered how he could go through with it without the celebrity politician seeing the hate lurking in his eyes.

As he walked along the quiet street he glanced at the houses he passed on either side of the road. Each was a red brick affair all looking exactly alike. Like all the houses had been built exactly the same time. They had the same size of front yard space with the green grass mowed perfectly well. Trees lined the close but the green foliage had been replaced by a golden blaze of brown as the summer had almost entirely faded to autumn. Brown leaves billowed around his feet as the cold gusts of wind tugged at his trench coat. Caesar yanked up his collar and sighed. England.

Peter Marquis' house ended the close, lying between the two sides like it was the head quarters. Caesar was surprised and slightly envious that a black man, a Nigerian for that matter, could acquire a place of such taste in Britain. He had lived in London for most of his childhood and he knew the whites there were rather xenophobic if not particularly racist. Times were changing he supposed and it was common place for rich Nigerians to buy houses in Britain possibly to the chagrin of the more conservative locals. Those Nigerians still roasting at home loved to hear stories of those lucky people and extolled them. Caesar on the other hand did not see reason for glorifying looters of the father land's treasury and if he had his way would like nothing better than to see all of them taken to an island, lined up and shot. As for Peter Marquis he would love to shoot him personally.

Caesar opened the little gate which squeaked in protest and walked up the tiled walkway to the door. There was even an old-fashioned doorknocker – a ring through a gargoyle's mouth. Caesar resisted the temptation and used the doorbell instead. The door opened exactly ten seconds later. His carefully prepared deadpan expression evaporated instantly.

A young white lady stood before him, her hand still on the knob, a semi – polite quizzical expression on her face. She would have been gaunt if not for the extra flesh in the right places and the olive – green wool sweater she wore accentuated those areas. Her hair was long and a straw blonde and it flopped untidily over her shoulders. Her washed out blue jeans clung to her long legs like a second skin. Her face was rather long, nose beak like with thin pressed lips underneath. But what arrested him were her eyes. They weren't blue but an arctic gray and they were as flat and as lifeless as the Dead Sea. For some reason a cold shiver crawled up his spine.

"Yes?" she asked laconically. She studied him the way you would study a strange insect that had just crawled out from under a rock.

"I'm looking for Peter Marquis" he said a bit uncertainly, "I'm Caesar Clark, a reporter from News Day, a paper based in Nigeria. We were to have an interview this afternoon here in his residence."

A strange look crossed her face which Caesar could not decipher and her eyes glittered for a fraction of a second.

"I' m very sorry" she said apologetically and smiled a ghost of a smile," Mr. Marquis has gone."

"Gone?"

"He traveled actually. Europe. Says he will be there for the rest of the year."

Caesar's mouth fell agape in bewilderment. "Oh. When did he leave?"

"Last night."

"I must admit this is strange news. Especially since be promised us he would have the interview today."

She shrugged.

"Stranger things have happened."

"And you are…?"

"Mel. His girlfriend. Now if you'd excuse me I have something on the fire."

"But ..er.." He found himself speaking to the gargoyle door knob.as the door was shut in his face. Caesar raised an eyebrow. It was true that English hospitality was as warm as the weather. He shrugged to himself and turning round started up the close A furtive glance backward and he saw Mel staring at him from an upstairs window. The curtain flickered and the face was gone. Bemused, Caesar continued to walk on. Suddenly he was aware of someone trying to get his attention.

She was at the door of one of the houses, beckoning to him with her hand. Caesar knew he was the only one on the street so he didn't try to point at himself. He walked up to where she stood.

She was a tall stately brunette and well endowed. She wore a bathrobe that had little success in containing her voluptuous figure. Her hair was cut short and covered her head like a skullcap. Huge candid eyes stared at him over a rather big nose and full red lips. She looked friendly and eager to please. She was a total contrast to the other lady he had just met.

"Hi" she said,. "I saw you knocking at Peter's place. I don't want to seem nosy but are you his friend?"

Caesar smiled beatifically at her.

"No., I'm a reporter from Nigeria, Caesar Clark's the name. His …er… girlfriend informed me that he had traveled abroad."

He was surprised to see a look of concern jump into her eyes.

"Would you are for a cup of tea?" she asked earnestly, "I need to talk to you."

Well, well, thought Caesar this assignment was getting more interesting by the minute.

"Sure, but why not?"

Her home was a comfortable place, ankle deep rug, earthenware fire place and soft feminine décor. She offered him a sofa and a cup of steaming tea which he accepted. The brew was excellent and he told her so and she shyly thanked him.

"So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked as he took another tentative sip. The British and their tea, he thought, in America it was all about coffee and in Nigeria,,, well kola nuts. In his village anyway.

"Well ..er.." she seemed uncertain, not sure of what to say.

"You can be frank," he prompted, smiling encouragingly, "It's much easier that way."

She smiled back. Caesar found himself beginning to like this white woman as she sat on a couch nervously fiddling with the belt of her robe. He also felt something stirring deep inside him and he tried unsuccessfully to ignore it.

"I know Peter you see". She began with more confidence. "Started off as a normal cordial neighbor thing but after a while we became close. Very close."

Caesar nodded in understanding. Why should he blame Peter? Who wouldn't want to be close to this woman, especially physically?

"Well I must admit he's a bit of a playboy" she confessed, " women are always in out of his place." Caesar didn't think nodding again in understanding would be a good idea so he deadpanned instead.

"But we continued as steady friends (or steady lovers, thought Caesar wryly) and we see each other regularly. Then one day about a week ago, he disappeared."

A week ago? Thought Caesar surprised. That was about the time their interview was granted.

"Are you sure it's a week ago?" he asked, "The lady I met at his place told me he left yesterday for Europe."

"That's a lie" Once again Caesar saw the look of concern in her eyes. "He hasn't been seen since last week. Never saw him enter or leave his home for days now."

"But this lady insisted it was just yesterday. His girlfriend should be in a position to know, don't you think?"

"Girlfriend? What girlfriend? That girl you saw at the door I've never seen before in my entire life."

"But you told me that he was a play boy. She should be one of the various ladies that come to see him right?"

"You don't understand. I have never ever seen her before. All the others at least I know who they are. I've never seen this one with him before he vanished and she surfaces from nowhere. Its like he never lived there at all."

Caesar found all this interesting but he failed to see what it had to do with him.

"Why don't you call the police?" he suggested.

"I really can't. It might cause me some embarrassment if I happened to be wrong and you probably know that in this country people normally mind their own business."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find out for me if he's okay."

Caesar raised his eyebrows.

"And how do you propose I do that?"

"Find out from the airport if he really did travel. Contact his relations back home. You're a Nigerian, aren't you? You know your people's ways."

"Listen you know this Peter better than I do. You'd probably know more about his movement than anybody else does. Friends confide more in each other than their families."

"Yes, yes. But please I'm begging you to just help me out. I would really be very grateful. I can't help thinking something has happened to Peter. Didn't you see that girl? She looks absolutely evil."

"Hmm. Yes she does," he said thoughtfully, "Okay do you know what I'II do? I'II sneak into the house at night and look around. If I see anything that points to foul play then I'II comeback and inform you. Then you can now call the police."

She looked at him in disbelief.

"Isn't that a bit over the board?"

"Telling a complete stranger to ask about a friend you're sure something has happened to when he might be in fact safe and sound in Europe right now isn't over the board?"

She smiled.

" Guess so." She gazed at him for a long time and he felt slightly disconcerted.

"I knew you'll help me out," she said softly.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

"You just look so nice like a guy who won't turn down a damsel in distress."

"Who's in distress now? You or Peter?"

They both laughed. Caesar felt the atmosphere thicken with anticipation. He knew what was happening. He had a theory that said: "under certain harmonious conditions any woman whatsoever is susceptible to intimate physical interaction with whoever it is she's with at that moment even a complete stranger." He knew those harmonious conditions had set in: the easy laughter, the heat of the fire on a chilly day, the dim chandelier lights, the trust she had in him, the fact that they were all alone.

"So "he said cheerily "I guest I will have to wait till night falls. What are we going to do till then?"

"Well…" she said uncertainly "We can…" Caesar placed his half finished cup on a side stool hear him and got up. He went over to the woman and reaching down caught hold of one end of her belt. She watched him expectantly.

"Do you know that I haven't got your name yet."

"Holly."

Caesar smiled.

"Nice name. And I'm not just making conversation." he tugged at the belt. It loosened and the robe opened allowing her body to escape. She wasn't wearing anything else. He took her hands and pulled her to her feet.

Peter is not a greedy man is he?"

"No he's not "she said smiling.

"Then he won't mind if I fill in for him for a while."

She smiled again.

"No he won't."

"Alright then."

He released her hands and placed his own inside her robe. His hands filled up as he cupped her flesh. She gasped as he kneaded the hard knobs between finger and thumbs. He bent forward and took her mouth. The lips were soft, her breath hot and musky. His tongue darted in eagerly and molested hers, wreathing it to submission. He shoved himself against him and he felt an equal and opposite reaction from her body. She reached down and grabbed him through his trousers. He gave a deep groan. Damn it he thought, he wanted to stay in control. He pushed her roughly and she fell ungracefully on the couch. She looked at him in surprise.

He dropped on his knees and bending forward took one of the melons in his mouth. A moan escaped from her mouth as his tongue wrapped round the teat and slowly massaged it. Then he switched over to the other and meted out the same treatment. He stole a glance at her face. Her eyes were clamped shut, perspiration on her forehead, nostrils flared, her breath whistling through her teeth. He smiled wickedly. Now to get fully back in control.

His fingers traveled down south till it got to vee of her legs. It climbed the grizzly mound and one of his fingers sank into the sticky crevice. He grinned in satisfaction as she let out a helpless wail. In…out…, went the finger… in …out. He suddenly decided his tongue would do more justice to the task at hand and so spreading her legs apart, sent it to replace the finger. In … out….In…out.

He distantly heard Holly whimpering. She had not yet given up the battle. Her fingers found his fly again and this time she pulled the zipper down pronto. She groped around before yanking him out. Caesar winced as the tables were turned and so did the position. She decided to redefine the definition of a blowie. Caesar found himself spiraling towards the edge at breakneck speed. Once he was over the edge there was only a bottomless pit to welcome him.

He gathered up all his reserve and pulled her off. Growling like an animal he gave her a suplex move he had watched wrestlers do on T.V and pinned her underneath. Finding her wide open he thrust in immediately for the kill.

It was juicy, hot and intense. Heartbeats increased as the tempo accelerated till the pressure was almost too much to bear. In …..out…..In…out. Then they burst. Together. He roared and she screamed and both went over the edge into the blackness below.

When Caesar woke up sunlight no longer came through the double glazing. The living room was submerged in darkness. He felt something warm under him and regular breathing sounds came to his ears. Holly still slept. He got slowly to his feet and moved away without disturbing her. He quickly dressed up again and after a moment's thought tore out a sheet from a pad in one of the pockets of his trench coat. He scribbled a note for Holly telling her that he had gone over to Peter's place to look around and that she should not even entertain the thought of coming there herself. He would be back soon. He cheekily slipped the note in her cleavage and let himself out of the house.

The night was crisp and cold, the close looked empty. Rain clouds completely obliterated the moon and stars and he was thankful for that. He moved swiftly and silently towards the last house. Inevitably he began to think of the lunacy of the whole situation.

His Editor had sent him to conduct an interview and since Marquis wasn't around he should have taken the first plane back to Lagos. What the hell did he think he was doing? And all because of some Caucasian chick named Holly. She was sweet no doubt and fantastic in bed but the risks involved were grave. If he was seen by any of the neighbours or by that chick. Mel and they called the bobbies then they would come down on his black arse so hard he wouldn't know what hit him. A Nigerian caught breaking and entering possibly with the intention to **** and maim some poor white lady. Not good. Not good at all. With all these thoughts coming through his head he finally reached the gate of the house.

Here's where the real danger begins, he thought. Without any further ado, he nimbly hurdled the gate. His shoes hardly made a sound but he was instantly alert. He looked up at the house. All the lights were off. All around was graveyard silence. Caesar cautiously crept round the building to the back. He saw the kitchen window. He came up to it and inspected it briefly. Not too hard to force, he thought but how much noise will it make? But he was already possessed by the fatalistic spirit of misadventure and he went straight ahead.

The window squeaked open and he winced. He paused for an eternity, straining his ears for any sound. Nothing. He proceeded to lower himself into the kitchen.

The first thing he noticed was the strong smell of disinfectant. The room reeked dreadfully of it. He pulled out a pencil torch he had bought at the airport and snapped it on. A thin bean of white light ended at a huge halo on a wall. He swung the beam round, taking in everything he saw. Just kitchen ware but everything was immaculately clean. Almost too clean, he mused. But it was the smell that really irked him. He walked over to the door, opened it carefully, and passed through into the hallway, which was darker than a gorilla's butt hole.

The more and more he advanced the crazier he thought his mission was. By God what if Mel or whatever her name is woke up and nabbed him here? If the cops got him it would be Rodney king in England.

The living room was plum and plush under the beam of his flashlight. He even saw a Benin mask on the wall. Caesar smiled. At least Peter was trying to maintain his culture in a foreign land. Maybe he would like him for that.

Caesar wondered whether he should go upstairs. It would be complete madness. That girl was sure to wake up. That's if she is in the house anyway. The place was deathly still. He began to feel spooked. Then after a moment's hesitation he began to climb the stairs

Thankfully they didn't squeak but it was a long slow journey to the next floor. The landing was as quiet as the rest of the house. Thee was a door near him. Very, very carefully he turned the handle and pushed. The door swung open slowly and soundlessly.

It was the masters bedroom. It was empty. The huge king sized bed looked old and unused. There was general air of stillness that crept under his skin and gave him goose pimples. He moved inside.

Everything seemed intact. The closet had men's shirts and suits even a traditional dress. A drawer was full of underpants and singlets. He even saw an expensive range of shoes. There were some large suit cases, a briefcase and a travelling bag. Only then did he really start to get nervous. All this meant that Peter was still around and that he never went to Europe. But if that was the case then where the hell was he? The silence in the house seemed to be squashing him. At that point he decided to leave the house immediately

The journey back to the kitchen was swift and silent. An icy draft was coming in through the open window. He took one last sweep round with the torch and the halo rested on a metal bin near the sink. He hesitated. He knew he should check the bin because that might give him some valuable information. Muttering a curse he went over to it, sprang the lid and bringing out a pencil from his pocket poked around inside. After a disgusting search through stale tea bags, rotting vegetables and empty smelly tins of baked beans and corned beef, he saw a damp piece of cloth. Hooking it with the pencil he raised it carefully to about half an inch from his nose. His eyes widened with shock. There was a dirty odor but the smell was unmistakable. My God, he thought. Chloroform. Suddenly he was aware of a shadow behind him. He turned quickly but it was too late. Something struck him across the head with the force of a sledgehammer. He toppled backwards into nothingness.