Robert Wilson - Instruments of Darkness

He put the phone down and went back to the papers. He pulled one out and waved it at me. I took it from him. It was a photocopy of a British passport. It belonged to a man called Steven Kershaw.

‘When you say he’s gone, what do you mean? He’s quit the job. He’s flown back to the UK or what?’ I asked.

‘He disappear,’ said B.B. ‘He never dere when I call.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Find him,’ he said. ‘His wife keep calling me and I don’t know what say to her.’

‘Have you got a photo of him?’

He reached over to the papers again, winced as some ash fell into his chest hair and he slapped himself hard there, coughing the cigarette out which fell into his crotch and he came out of the chair roaring like a bull elephant. I got the cigarette out of the chair. He sat down again and took the cigarette off me as if I’d been trying to steal it and plugged it back into his mouth.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘Is big problem.’

He found the photo. Steven Kershaw was early forties and dark. He had dark brown hair, dark skin, and dark eyes. The hair was thick and cut short with a side parting. He had a moustache which rolled over his top lip into his mouth. From his face he looked as if he carried a little extra weight but wasn’t fat.

‘Is he English?’ I asked.

‘Yairs,’ said B.B. ‘But his mother from Venezuela or someting like dat.’

‘How tall is he?’

‘Smaller dan you.’

‘Most people are.’

‘Yairs. Less dan six foot.’

‘Is he big?’

‘He not fat like me. He fat small.’

‘Does he have any scars, or marks?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about the moustache?’

‘I tink he shave it.’

‘What was he supposed to do?’

‘I organize flat for him. I organize warehouse for him. I organize bank accoun’ for him…everting.’

‘To do what?’

‘Sheanut. I buy sheanut from Djougou and Parakou in de north of Benin. It come down to Cotonou in trucks. He weigh de sheanut, pay de suppliers and store it. When we get contrack we ship it.’

‘How long has be been missing?’

‘Since last week. He supposed to call everday. He no call.’

‘What about the money in the account?’

‘No, no. He no teef man,’ he said waving the cigarette at me. ‘He no chop de monny. De monny still dere.’

‘What sort of cash does he have?’

‘Expense monny. Four hundred parn, two hundred thousand CFA, someting like dat.’

‘Credit cards?’

‘I don’t tink so. He declared bankropp in UK. Thassway I giff him de job.’

‘Car?’

‘Nissan Sunny. ACR 4750.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘A Syrian friend. He introduze us.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dey call him Dama.’

‘His address?’

‘You know de road out of Lomé to Kpalimé. You cross de lagoon, up de hill, he has de big house on de right at de traffic light.’

‘You said Kershaw’s been here before?’

‘Das right. Not wokking for me. For his own accoun’.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I don’t know…but I tell you somet’ing, Bruise, he a very capable man, he understan’ de business very well. A very good head for trade and a good attitude, you know.’

Either that was true or B.B. found it necessary to cover himself for his poor judgement to a complete stranger.

‘What do you think then?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe…You know Africa…dese African girls…maybe he lose his head. Dese girls dey change your head. Dey make you weak. Dey drife you mad.’

B.B. sounded like a man who knew. ‘You know dey get beautiful girl mush more beautiful dan English girl, dey fall in lov and deir head come off.’

‘Where’s the flat?’

‘In Cadjehoun. When you come into Cotonou from Togo on de right side.’

‘That big block?’

He nodded and gave me the flat number. He wanted me to organize the sheanut business for him as well until I found Kershaw, so he told me where the warehouse and office were and gave me a set of keys. He also told me about a weekend house that Kershaw used in Lomé near the Grande Marché. It was a house that belonged to an Armenian friend of his who wasn’t using it. He asked if I wanted a fee. I said yes and he ignored me. He asked me if I wanted a game of backgammon. I asked him if he meant instead of my fee, which he didn’t understand, but it meant that he heard the word ‘fee’ again.

He lit another cigarette in addition to the two still smoking in the ashtray. We walked out of the house to the garage.

‘What’s he like, Steven Kershaw?’ I asked. ‘What’s he like doing?’

‘He like to go to bars. He like girls. He like to play cards. Yairs,’ he said, thinking, ‘he’s a lively fellow. He like to tok a lot. He like to tok to women. Thassway I say maybe de African girls give him trobble.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘Dere he haff problem. De monny. It break de marriage.’

‘She still calls him?’

‘Yairs,’ said B.B. thinking about that. ‘He like to draw. His wife say she going to send art material to him in Lomé. Yairs, he always sketching, you know – trees, birds, people. He show me a drawing of myself. I tell him thass no very good. He say, “Why?” and I say it make me look like baboon.’

‘My fee is fifty thousand CFA a day plus expenses.’

‘Whaaaaaat!’ he roared. His face fell and his coal eyes bored into me.

‘Fifty thousand CFA a day plus expenses.’

‘My God, maybe I do de job myself.’

‘Two hundred and fifty thousand CFA in advance.’

‘Whaaaaat!’ he bellowed, and stormed back into the house. The big woman in the garage smiled at me. I smiled back. B.B. returned and handed me a sheaf of

notes.

‘Is good business you’re in,’ he said, subdued now.

‘I don’t earn fifty thousand everyday.’

‘Is true,’ he said, smiled and shook my hand.

I left B.B. standing in the garage holding on to his shorts and smoking and talking to the big African woman. The preacher was still giving them hell on earth in the church next door. The palms looked bored stiff. I drove back past the Shangri La and kept going to the roundabout and turned right on to the motorway to Tema with the bit between my teeth and Heike on my mind. At the toll booth a boy tried to sell me a Fan Milk yoghurt, then a set of screwdrivers and finally a duster. I blew him out on all three.

At the Tema roundabout, I saw the dark clouds hanging over Togo. The storm was heading this way. The women at the side of the road were already packing up their long oblong loaves of sweet Ghanaian bread. I stopped and bought some for Moses.

I thought about B.B. as I moved towards the storm. The old Africa hand who’s ‘still a small boy’ but shrewd as a grifter. The millionaire who lives like a student on a tight grant. The guy who doesn’t have to do anything but has to do something. The guy who’s got a bit lonely over the years. He enjoyed having a crack at Jack. He was enjoying the Kershaw intrigue. He enjoyed men and their weaknesses. He was bored by strengths. You didn’t make money out of people’s strengths.

The first drop of rain burst against the windscreen. The tarmac turned to liquid. The windscreen wipers went berserk. I felt cool for the first time in a week. The thunder rumbled like a wooden cart on a cobbled road. Sometimes I felt the car floating, aquaplaning along. The road didn’t feel solid and I wasn’t sure whether I was in control.

The patches of tarmac – which were all that was left of the road – in Aflao were steaming after the rain and people wandered about in sodden clothes looking like refugees. The rain had made the town look ten times dirtier than it was, which was inconceivable. I stopped and bought some grilled plantain to chew on.