William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘That’s something at least,’ Fanshawe said ungraciously. ‘But how about our other problem?’

‘Innocence? Ah. Yes. I’m afraid not much progress there. I had a couple more undertakers out, but they wouldn’t touch her.’

‘Damnation,’ Fanshawe swore angrily. ‘Everything’s going wrong. Listen, Morgan, I want two things from you: some sort of denial or apology from Adekunle, and Innocence out of the way before the Duchess arrives.’ He spoke of her as though she were a tree that had fallen down and blocked his drive.

Morgan cursed at him under his breath. ‘You won’t get a peep out of Adekunle, I can tell you that right now,’ he said harshly. Then, ‘Sorry Arthur, lot on my mind. I’ll see what I can do.’ He thought: you horrible, revolting little shit.

‘Very well,’ Fanshawe said in a hurt offended voice. ‘Try and come up with some results for once.’

He hung up, swore at Fanshawe again, and thought grimly how fragile loyalty was. He gazed emptily at his desk top. Disaster was mounting on disaster. What was he going to do?

There was a cocky rat-a-tat-tat on his door and Dalmire came in. He looked smart and fresh and annoyingly cheerful.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Dalmire said. ‘Got held up by a demonstration at the university. Then I arrive here and guess what? We’ve got one of our own. What’s it all about?’ Morgan sullenly indicated the newspapers. Dalmire glanced at them. ‘God,’ he said. ‘He’s got some cheek, hasn’t he?’

‘Well, yes and no,’ Morgan said ambiguously. He didn’t feel like explaining the intricacies of Project Kingpin to Dalmire at the moment. ‘Were they demonstrating about this,’ he indicated the newspapers, ‘at the university as well?’

Dalmire had moved away to the window. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Something quite separate. Apparently there’s some threat to close down the university by the government. They say they won’t reopen after the Christmas holidays because of general student bolshiness,’ he smiled, as if his mind was on other matters. ‘I’ve no idea what it’s all about, but there were hundreds of students all round the admin block. It seems they intend staying up, occupying the rooms over the holidays. One of these sit-in things or whatever they’re called.’

‘Christ, typical,’ Morgan said in disgust, but thankful at least it had nothing to do with Kingpin.

‘Ever been skiing?’ Dalmire asked out of the blue.

‘What? No, doesn’t appeal. Why?’

‘We were thinking about skiing — me and Pris — for our hols.’ A dreamy look lit up Dalmire’s eyes.

‘Honeymoon, don’t you mean?’ Morgan said, trying to keep the resentment and impatience out of his voice.

‘No, no. That comes later.’ Dalmire paused, he seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re going on holiday. Leaving after Christmas. I thought it might be fun to go skiing. New Year on the slopes, a welcome in the mountains, that sort of thing.’

‘HOLIDAY?’ Morgan exclaimed, appalled. ‘But you’ve only been out here for a couple of months. Christ, my last leave was in March.’

‘I’m taking it off my leave, don’t worry,’ Dalmire said hastily. ‘It was Priscilla’s idea actually. Arthur said it would be fine.’

Morgan felt he was about to splutter inarticulately with rage like some gouty brigadier, but with an effort he composed himself. The lucky bastard, he thought, envy mixed with outrage at the gross injustice. That was what came of marrying the boss’s daughter. Dalmire, however, appeared quite oblivious of his resentment.

‘So what do you think?’ he said. ‘About skiing?’

‘Sounds great,’ Morgan said, thinking: maybe he’ll break his leg. Maybe he’ll break his back. An evil idea edged its way into his mind. ‘By the way, Richard,’ he asked, ‘did you hear what happened to Innocence?’

♦

Three little boys watched as Dalmire sat down heavily on the verandah. He had turned quite pale. ‘Oh my God,’ he said dully, holding the back of his hand up to his mouth. Morgan blanched himself and threw the cloth back over Innocence’s body, disturbing the cloud of flies that hovered above it.

‘Pretty gruesome, isn’t it?’ Morgan said.

Dalmire swallowed and puffed out his cheeks, ‘My God,’ he said again. ‘That’s repulsive. Revolting. To think…’ he paused and then added in explanation. ‘It’s the first dead body I’ve seen.’

A small fire had been lit near Innocence in a little charcoal brazier onto which leaves and green twigs were occasionally flung. A smudge of bluey smoke hung about this end of the compound, meant, Morgan assumed, to drive away flies and overlay any smell.

Dalmire got to his feet and walked unsteadily away. Morgan felt a little sorry for him: it was a mean sort of revenge but it was intensely satisfying nonetheless to see him so shaken up.

‘Oyibo, oyibo,’ a little naked girl shouted in delight, dancing on the verandah and pointing a stubby plump finger at the trembling Dalmire.

‘The kids,’ Dalmire said. ‘What about these kidsjust running about? It’s unreal.’

‘Yes,’ Morgan agreed, walking over to join him and looking back at the scene: Innocence’s covered body, the wash-place, the juju spells, the smoking fire, the wandering semi-nude children, hens pecking in the dust. He didn’t feel as mature and dispassionate as he was trying to sound. ‘But it’s Africa.’

They were walking slowly back to the Commission in thoughtful silence, when a shrill call came across the lawn.

‘Morgan. Oh, Morgan.’ It was Mrs Fanshawe. She was standing by the edge of her drive beckoning him over.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said crossly. ‘What does she want?’ Then, remembering she was Dalmire’s future mother-in-law, added apologetically ‘Sorry, Richard. Bit unsettled.’ Dalmire, however, was too preoccupied with intimations of mortality to take offence and waved his excuses away.

‘Morning, Chloe,’ Morgan said as he approached. Mrs Fanshawe was wearing a tight-waisted, sleeveless dress in a brilliant ultramarine that contrasted strongly with her almost ethereally pale skin and raven hair. It also made her look twice her normal size, somehow.

‘Just been over to see Innocence,’ he said, like some charitable WRVS helper. ‘Unfortunately no one’ll move her.’

‘She’s still there?’ exclaimed Mrs Fanshawe raising her hands to her temples. ‘Oh it’s too ghastly.’

‘Yes, it’s been quite a day so far,’ he said ruefully, ‘what with our demonstration. Did you see it?’

‘It’s still going on,’ she said scornfully, ‘if you can call it a demonstration. I’ve just come back from town and there are still three of them loitering by the gate. This funny little man with some sort of beard and a huge head of hair shouted at me as I drove in.’ They walked towards the house. ‘He was wearing a black polo neck and leather gloves. Looked miserably hot.’

Morgan was wary about the friendly chatter: she wanted something. ‘That’ll be Femi Robinson, urban guerrilla,’ he said. ‘Got to wear the authentic anarchist gear you know.’ They chortled together patronizingly over this as they entered the sitting room.

‘Drink?’ Mrs Fanshawe asked. ‘You must need one. Surely you’re not still on orange juice.’

‘No no,’ he laughed falsely. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic if I may.’ Anything Dalmire can do, he thought.

Mrs Fanshawe looked at him appraisingly. ‘Always thought G and T was more your drink, you know? Could never understand your lust for sherry.’

Morgan was startled. What had come over the woman? he wondered, she’d never been so familiar. He was asking himself what could be behind it all when he was served a gin and tonic by a red-eyed Maria. He thought suddenly of her mother cooking slowly in the hot sun.