William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘No,’ she said bluntly, as they all did. Celia leant back against the headboard and drew her knees up. ‘Why should I? He’s been through all his so-called cousins and nieces who hang around the house. God knows what he gets up to when he’s away from home.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve…?’ He let the question hover unfinished in the air.

She looked at him steadily. ‘No. But let’s not talk about that.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He wasn’t sure how he felt about that admission. He had thought he was something of a liberator — exclusive. He put it out of his mind.

Celia had gone to the house in advance of him, told the servants they could go home and, as soon as the coast was clear, had driven back to where he had parked the Peugeot — three hundred yards down the road — and picked him up.

Bereft of the pragmatic necessities brought about by sex in the back seat of a car their love-making had taken on a new and unfamiliar character that Morgan had found strange and a little discomfiting. It had been passionate and emotional — largely on Celia’s part — straightforward and humour-free. She had caressed him almost maternally, whispering endearments, holding him tightly to her and he had felt like saying ‘Hang about, just stop there a minute. This is sex, mature pleasure, not a love affair.’ But he hadn’t, and to his consternation had found himself joining in, closing his eyes, gasping romantically, dabbing little kisses here and there.

When the lights went back on things had sobered down, and the loosed and soaring emotions had been wound in like kites. Morgan lay on his back thinking about it all, a frown on his face. He wasn’t sure if this was the way he wanted his relationship with Celia to go.

‘Penny for them,’ she said.

‘What?…Oh, not worth it,’ he smiled. She snuggled up to him and he put his drink on the bedside table. The air-conditioner was on and the roof fan beat above the bed too. The sheet lay dry across their two bodies. Morgan relished the absence of sweat. ‘It’s been a marvellous day,’ he said, half-meaning it.

She kissed his chest. ‘Hasn’t it,’ she agreed with enthusiasm, ‘hasn’t it just.’

♦

Morgan whispered goodbye as Celia let him out of the front door. It was nearly four o’clock and still quite dark. He cautiously walked up the wide drive, through the open unattended gates and along the road to where he’d left his car. He felt tired, mentally and physically. The prospect of work in four hours was singularly unappealing.

He fumbled in the dark for his car keys.

‘Good morning, Mr Leafy,’ came a deep voice at his shoulder. The shock was so great his heart seemed to leap from his chest and bounce off the inside of his skull. He whirled round in fear and appalled surprise, his pulse thumping wildly somewhere in the region of his throat. It was Adekunle.

‘Oh my God. Shit. Jesus,’ Morgan whimpered in frantic despair, the keys falling from his hand to tinkle on the road. Adekunle bent down to retrieve them for him. Morgan accepted them back with trembling fingers.

‘Did you have a pleasant night?’ Adekunle asked sardonically, no trace of anger in his voice. ‘Did you ‘make a catch’ with my wife?’ His cultured tones accentuated the Kinjanjan expression, he seemed astonishingly calm.

‘Listen,’ Morgan began defensively, trying to control an overpowering urge to take to his heels. ‘I don’t want you to think…’

‘Don’t tell me what to think, Mr Leafy,’ Adekunle interrupted, hostility creeping into his voice. ‘I don’t need your observations on that matter. At all.’ He paused. ‘No, we have a problem with you here; the cat is now among the pigeons, as the saying goes, don’t you think?’ At the word ‘we’ Morgan looked around and saw two dark figures standing sortie yards off. Adekunle allowed him to take this in before saying, ‘I wonder what your Mr Fanshawe will say when I make my protest to him about the…ah, nocturnal activities of his staff.’ He poked Morgan savagely in the shoulder. ‘What do you think his reaction will be, Mr Leafy?’ Morgan couldn’t answer: he was trying to stop himself being sick all over Adekunle’s shoes. Adekunle prodded him again. ‘You are a very greedy man, Mr Leafy. Very big appetite. My wife and your black girl in town.’

Morgan felt his legs were about to collapse spastically beneath him. He leant shakily against his car. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked faintly. ‘About Hazel and…and tonight?’

‘It’s my business to know these things,’ Adekunle said silkily. He said it ‘beezness’, emotion cracking his Western accent. ‘I have some very loyal servants working for me. No small detail escapes them.’

Morgan strove to make out Adekunle’s features in the gloom. He felt queasy with fear and terror-struck anticipation. Surely Adekunle wouldn’t go to Fanshawe with this? he reasoned; the shame, the loss of face would be too acute. But then he remembered that Hazel was to be reckoned with too.

Perhaps it might be best if Adekunle simply set his hefties on him.

‘Look,’ Morgan, began desperately, ‘I don’t know what you mean to do but I think you…’

‘One moment, Mr Leafy,’ Adekunle broke in venomously. ‘You are making an error there. It is a question of what you are going to do. For me.’

Morgan felt hysterical laughter rise in his throat. ‘Me?’ he repeated slowly as if he were mentally retarded. ‘For yow?’

‘You have hit the nail on the head first time, as the saying goes,’ Adekunle congratulated him. Morgan saw with a sudden terrorized clarity the impossibility of his situation. If Adekunle went to Fanshawe that would truly be the end, there would be no conceivable way he could talk himself out of it. He groaned softly to himself. Sleeping with Kingpin’s wife! Fanshawe would go mad. And he could imagine how Adekunle could play it up: Fanshawe would see it as the end of all his expansionist dreams — the oil refinery, the investment, his new posting — he’d take it as a personal affront. And there was Hazel too. Morgan felt the blood drain from his face. If he wanted his life to continue in anything like the way he’d planned he would have to do whatever Adekunle asked of him. The alternatives were too mortifying and disastrous to consider. Adekunle had him in the palm of his hand.

‘What are you going to do?’ Morgan croaked. He didn’t care: as long as he could save his neck and his job.

‘As I told you, Mr Leafy, I am going to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. In return for which you will do me a favour — nothing too difficult for a man like you.’ He paused. ‘We are both civilized people, men of the world, Mr Leafy. I think we can both benefit from this…this indiscretion on your part. You retain your job, your status and your reputation. While I…’ He left it unsaid.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Morgan said tiredly. He couldn’t see how he could be of any benefit to Adekunle: he just wasn’t powerful enough.

‘All I want you to do is get to know somebody,’ Adekunle said. ‘That’s all. Just get to know him.’

‘Who is this somebody?’

‘Dr Alex Murray. Perhaps you’re familiar with him already?’

Adekunle gave him other instructions that night. First, he was to stay away from Celia — their affair was effectively over. Adekunle, it soon transpired, was making his London trip in three days’ time and under no circumstances was Morgan to approach Celia while he was away. He assured Morgan that he would know immediately if he made any attempt to get in touch. Second, he was never to tell her about their meeting tonight: Celia was to remain ignorant of Adekunle’s knowledge of the affair. Morgan dolefully agreed to every condition — the only contact he was permitted to make was to be in the form of a brief note pleading a sudden increase in work or any other rational excuse he could think up.