Where the hell were we? It didn’t look like it could be a Nigerian town, or even an officers’ mess - it looked like one of the new towns outside London. Neat white Snowcem bungalows lined both sides of the road, and each had a small garden in the front fenced off by low hedges. There were even a few sun loungers, and I wondered for a moment if we had fetched up in some sort of luxury holiday resort; perhaps I had fallen asleep and we’d driven into some tropical paradise. But that wasn’t right - it was quarter to ten, so we couldn’t have been more than fifty miles from Aba, and probably less as the roads would have slowed us down. The smell of the swamp was still here, too, and every bit as fetid.

Before I could contemplate my surroundings any more, I was prodded in the back again, and Isabelle and I were marched towards one of the bungalows. We reached a small wooden gate and one of the men struggled with the latch for a few seconds before getting it open. We walked up the narrow path to the door.

A small plate was fixed next to the doorbell: ‘561. Sebastian Tilby-Wells and Family’. A former British army base, then? But why would the British have a camp out here? And looking down the street, it looked very grand for the military - even Fort Gosport didn’t have this level of build. I tried to imagine Sebastian Tilby-Wells, and saw a very tall man with a neat ginger moustache and a burnt pate, bossing around his fat little wife and their fat little children.

Scarface fiddled in his shirt pocket and brought out a key with ‘561’ stamped on it. He unlocked the door and we were pushed into darkness.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘Do not try to leave, or you will be shot.’ He cocked his trigger to make sure we’d got the message, then closed the door and locked it.

XVI

XVI

I ran my hand along the wall until I found the light switch. We were in a large living room: two armchairs, a divan, a coffee table, a couple of dead house plants. At the far end, an integrated kitchen, long metal windows - and an air conditioner. I walked over and switched it on, but nothing happened.

Isabelle slumped into one of the armchairs and asked me if I had any cigarettes left. I tossed her the pack and lighter, and walked over to take a look at the windows. They were unlocked.

That was interesting. I rolled them back to find a veranda, complete with deckchairs and flowers sticking out of what looked like old petrol drums.

‘They had it good, didn’t they?’ said Isabelle.

I turned. ‘Who? Where are we?’

She laughed, her face momentarily obscured by a cloud of smoke. ‘You are very serious. “Who? Where are we?”’