The Door of No Return

The Lost Prince I knew something was wrong the minute I shut the door of number 13, Arrowsmith House, Tuffley. I'd lived there as long as I could remember. What I didn't know was I'd just closed the door on that part of my life. We were late. Pops had insisted on wearing his kente cloth. He didn't really know how to tie it, and he had to get his coat over the top of the whole thing, so we'd been fussing in the front hall for ten minutes. It was cold outside, bitterly cold, and with only two days to go, I was hoping for a white Christmas. I think it was because I was inspecting the patch of grass at the front, to see if it was snow or frost, that I noticed the footsteps. Someone had been standing there for a while. The frozen grass was broken and crushed; there were patterns of pale steps pacing along the front of the flat, up and down. For some reason I felt a flash of anger. Someone was taking liberties. I scanned the parking lot and thought I saw a shape, a woman -- sort of ageless with a blank gray face. "We'll dazzle them tonight, eh, Zac?" said Pops. I didn't reassure him. That woman's gray look had unsettled me. Instead I took his arm and glanced the length of the housing estate. It looked safe. Fairy lights twinkled in windows -- but people get angry at Christmas. Angry for all the things they want and can't have. So I wasn't taking any chances. "When I get to the part about the Lost Prince, you show them your back." My back is stunningly fit like the rest of me, but that was not why Pops wanted to show it off. A cat ran out from under a car and I jumped. Pops chuckled; I was not in a mood to humor him. "It's cold," I said. "I don't really want to." To tell you the truth, I didn't want to go at all. The Cormantin Club was Pops's baby. He was the founding member, Big Chief, the soul of the whole thing. That's Pops for you. Really the Cormantin Club was just a bunch of old black folks harking back to the days of slavery and drinking. After a few glasses they tried to outdo each other with wild tales. Pops's were always the wildest. "They can't disprove me today, 'cause I got the diaries." He clutched the plastic bag up to his chest. I remember that bag. "I'm going to read them the dying words of King Baktu." Pops stopped and flung out his hand. Funny the things you remember. His outstretched arm, the plastic bag, and that feeling that something was wrong. "Until my son, the Lost Prince -- get it, that's you -- comes back through the Door of No Return and claims his ransom, my soul will never rest in the land of my ancestors. That'll shut the old buggers up." "But Pops,youwrote that bit inyourdiary." "But that's what he said, son, so it doesn't matter which diary it's wrote in." I'd got him a briefcase for Christmas. I figured he needed it! That's when I noticed the two shadows up ahead. I shivered. A cloud passed over the moon like a hand across a face. The pavements darkened. Only the orange glare of the streetlights glittered on the frost. "Then when they see the tribal marks..." "Let's cross over." It was always the same old story. Pops told it over and over, as if nobody had heard it before. That him and me were the last descendants of King Baktu, that King Baktu's chosen son and heir, our great-times-whatever-grandfather, had been stolen away as a child by slavers, that a king's ransom had been raised, but the treasure and the child were lost. It was true that we did have scar marks on our backs. But I know for certain that mine had been put there by Pops. I suppose he was trying to feel important about something. Living on a Gloucester housing estate needed bigging up a bit. The two shadows waited, half hidden behind some large waste bins. As we crossed over, they came forward. I can't remember much about either of them, other than a glimpse of royal blue tracksuit with white stripes. What I do remember was that woman's blank face flashingMussi, Sarah is the author of 'The Door of No Return' with ISBN 9781416915508 and ISBN 1416915508.