White Rage by Campbell Armstrong Page A

world.’
    â€˜Tea’ll soon be ready.’ Sally Kincaid appeared in the kitchen doorway.
    â€˜I have to prepare for a class tomorrow,’ Helen said. ‘I can’t stay long.’
    The man said, ‘You’ll stay for tea, surely.’
    â€˜Mandatory,’ Sally said.
    Helen Mboto stared at the cheap synthetic material of the man’s trousers. She could smell him. The sweat, the material, perspiration and chemicals. The smell was offensive. She got up from the sofa and the man placed his hands on her shoulders and shoved her down again.
    She was baffled by his aggression. A joke, maybe some playful gesture? A local custom? But he wasn’t smiling.
    â€˜You’ll fucking stay,’ he said.
    â€˜What’s going on, Sally?’ Helen asked. ‘Does your friend have a problem?’
    Sally said, ‘You don’t leave until you’ve had your tea. Rule of the house.’
    â€˜This is some kind of, what, joke?’
    The man said, ‘No joke. You don’t leave until we tell you.’
    Helen Mboto remembered something she’d read, an old newspaper story about how foreign girls were press-ganged into lives of vice, bought and sold and shipped off to the Middle East or Japan. Is this why she’d been brought here? No, her imagination was flying away with her. She was panicking.
    â€˜Sally, explain this, please, I don’t understand,’ Helen said. ‘Your friend’s behaviour –’
    Sally said, ‘We’re only trying to be hospitable.’
    The man said, ‘The very words I used.’
    â€˜I’d really like to leave,’ Helen said.
    â€˜No chance,’ the man said.
    Helen Mboto was too proud to make an imploring gesture; she’d never begged for anything even though she wanted to beg now: please let me leave . She felt endangered, cornered by an incomprehensible hostility. She made to rise, but the man stopped her again. She reacted the only way she knew how. She lowered her face and sunk her strong teeth into the man’s thigh and he howled even as he tried to step away from the damp she had on his skin. She released him and he backed off a few feet, eyes filling up with tears.
    She got up from the sofa and thought she’d rush for the door, she had time, maybe a few seconds, she was strong, athletic, quick. Before she’d gone a few steps she felt pressure against the back of her neck.
    Sally Kincaid said, I’m holding a gun. Stand very still.’
    â€˜That black cunt bit a hole out of my leg,’ the man said. ‘That fucking nigger cunt.’
    â€˜Sit down, Helen. Sit down and drink your tea. You, Beezer, quit moaning.’
    â€˜You’d moan if you’d had her fucking fangs sunk into your leg.’
    Helen sat. ‘I want to go home.’
    Sally said, ‘Be a good girl. Do as you’re told.’
    The man limped inside the kitchen. Still complaining about his wound, he came back with a cup of tea. The string of the tea-bag dangled over the rim. He thrust the cup at Helen.
    â€˜Drink, Helen.’
    â€˜I don’t bloody want to drink.’
    Sally Kincaid pressed the gun into Helen’s ear. ‘Do it.’
    Helen took the cup. ‘Please don’t shoot.’
    â€˜Then drink.’
    Helen didn’t trust the tea. Why should she? It was probably drugged. Or poisoned.
    She dropped the cup to the floor.
    â€˜Oh my,’ Sally said. ‘Clumsy. What are you going to do about her attitude, Beezer?’
    The man punched Helen hard in the mouth and said, ‘Black fucking cunt.’
    Helen felt a shellburst of pain. Blood flowed from her lips. ‘Let me go home. Please. I’ll say nothing about this.’
    The man had something in his hand. ‘Looks like silver, swings like lead.’
    Helen stared at Sally and said, Tell him not to harm me, Sally. Please.’
    Sally Kincaid said, ‘He’s a very bad boy, Helen. I can’t tell