William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

He allowed his thoughts to switch to Fanshawe and the reception for the Duchess that would be going on at this very moment. He hadn’t troubled to inform anyone that he wouldn’t be present. It was just as well, he considered. He was sure Duchess wouldn’t object — he knew with a strange certainty that no one would hear about their meeting in the bathroom. Shivering slightly at the memory, he recalled the stark unappealing nudity. Another example, he suddenly realized, of the old seeming⁄being gulf: just another middle-aged lady-nothing regal, nothing remotely special or different there.

♦

They walked down the fairway of the fourteenth hole. It was a long one, par 5, and represented the extremity of the golf-course’s thrust out into the jungle. They turned back towards the town after this. Morgan felt an unfamiliar weakness in his knees, a quiet roaring in his ears, his heart beating strongly in his head. He checked that Murray’s son was out of earshot.

‘How…’ he cleared the squeak from his throat. ‘How would you fancy ten thousand pounds?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Pardon?’ Murray looked round in surprise.

‘Ten thousand pounds. How would you like it?’ he repeated with leering cupidity.

‘You offering?’ Murray said with a smile.

‘No, I mean…You could do a lot with ten thousand. I mean one could…’ He back-pedalled a little. ‘You know, I was just thinking it’s a…sort of handy sum. Not like winning the pools but…useful just the same.’

‘Yes,’ Murray said non-committally. ‘I suppose you’re right. Very useful. Why?’

Morgan’s fortitude seemed to collapse in upon itself like a dying star. ‘You can have it if you want,’ he said quietly.

Murray stopped in his tracks. ‘Sorry?’ he said frowning. ‘I can have what?’

‘Ten thousand pounds. You can have it.’

‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ He waved away his son who was walking back towards them to see why they’d stopped. ‘What do you mean, I can have ten thousand pounds?’

Morgan swallowed. He felt the heat hammering down on his head. His singe marks stung with sweat. ‘I will give you ten thousand pounds,’ he said slowly. ‘If…if you do something.’

‘Come on, Dad,’ the boy shouted.

‘I see,’ Murray said. He looked serious and saddened. ‘If I do something. And what is this something?’

‘You have to put in a positive report on the new hall of residence and cafeteria site,’ Morgan said in a rush.

Murray’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He fixed his penetrating gaze on Morgan’s sweating face. ‘The hall site? You want me to change my mind. How do you know…? Wait, wait a second…What has the University of Nkongsamba’s building programme got to do with you, for Christ’s sake?’

Morgan removed his sun-visor and wiped his brow. He felt he was about to die. Desperation mounted in his body like flood-waters behind a flimsy dam. He tried to keep calm.

‘Well, not me so much. I’m acting for someone.’

‘Who?’

‘I…I can’t tell you that, obviously.’

Murray gripped Morgan’s arm. ‘What the hell have you got into? You stupid bloody fool.’ Morgan felt his head spin. Everything was going wrong. Why was Murray interrogating him like this? He saw Murray thinking hard.

‘Who’s behind it?’ he said again.

Morgan tried to pull himself together.’I’m not at liberty…’ he began pompously, but Murray interrupted him with an upraised palm.

‘Let me guess,’ Murray said. ‘It’s Adekunle isn’t it?’

‘No!’ Morgan said hastily, realized he’d countered with give-away swiftness, said ‘Who?’ in a futile attempt to regain lost ground. He saw there was no point in denying it. ‘Yes,’ he admitted in a low voice.

Murray released his grip. ‘I thought so,’ he said as though to himself, ‘I’d been suspicious,…’ He returned his attention to Morgan who stood there looking at the ground. ‘I’m sorry, Morgan,’ he said feelingly. ‘Very sorry. But I just can’t let this one go. You can understand my position. I have to report it.’

That was it. The weight was too much for the hurriedly assembled collection of twigs and branches. The flood-waters burst through, sweeping everything away. Morgan felt the prickle of tears on his eyelids, brimming behind his lashes. Too late he closed his eyes, squeezed them tight shut but the tears seeped through, fat and hot, trickling down his fat hot cheeks as his legs gave way beneath him.

♦

Murray’s son stood aimlessly with the two caddies some dozen yards off. He looked puzzled and angry, Morgan thought, watching the boy throw stones into the bush. Morgan was sitting propped up against a tree at the edge of the fairway. He wondered if he’d passed out or if his brain had simply refused to record events, so embarrassing had they been — a kind of merciful amnesia to spare him further torments.

Murray stood beside him looking down. ‘All right now?’ he asked considerately.

Morgan scrambled to his feet rubbing his eyes. ‘Christ,’ he said shakily. ‘Sorry I fell to pieces.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But if you knew what I’d been through the last few days you’d be amazed that I can still function normally at all.’

‘Adekunle?’

‘No. Not entirely. Other things as well. I’ll tell you about them some day: they’ll make your hair curl.’ Morgan dusted the grass off his trousers. ‘All things considered, Adekunle’s been quite reasonable under the circumstances.’

Murray handed him his sun-visor. ‘I think we’d better call it a day,’ he said. ‘Head back to the clubhouse.’ Morgan agreed, and they walked off in silence back up the fairway, Murray’s son and the caddies remaining a discreet ten yards behind. Morgan shot a glance at Murray’s face. It was set firm in concentration, his brow lowered in a frown. Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the knots of tension his muscles had twisted themselves into. Paradoxically, he felt better: one problem at least was over — resolved — however unsatisfactorily. He wouldn’t have to bribe Murray again.

‘Look,’ Morgan said, keen to break the silence. ‘I’m sorry. I…I was acting under instructions.’

‘I take it he’s threatening you with something?’

‘God yes. You don’t think I’m his partner, do you?’ Morgan looked offended.

Murray apologized. ‘What has he got on you?’ he asked.

Morgan let out a long breath. ‘I think it’s probably better if I keep that to myself. Let’s just say he knows something that I’d rather my boss didn’t. Nothing criminal,’ he added hastily. ‘More in the scandal line — if you know what I mean.’

‘I see.’ Murray ran a hand through his hair. ‘It sounds like a real mess to me.’ He paused. ‘What would happen to you if Mr Fanshawe found out about whatever this scandal is?’

Morgan shrugged. He told himself it didn’t matter so much now. ‘Oh I don’t know. Disgrace. Sent home. I’ll lose my job for sure. Fanshawe and I aren’t exactly best buddies anyway at the moment.’

Murray didn’t say anything to this and they continued their walk in silence. Back at the clubhouse they paid off the caddies and put their clubs in their cars. Morgan slung his in the back seat. He wasn’t ever going to use his boot again.

He suddenly felt the familiar panic seize his heart as he contemplated the results of Murray reporting him. He had been lying to himself earlier: losing his job did matter — more than anything, and the thought of an ignominious return to Britain made him feel sick. Somehow he had to persuade Murray to go easy; the man seemed to like him, perhaps he’d agree to help if he knew how he really felt. He walked over to Murray’s car and overheard his son ask, ‘Dad, why was that man crying like that?’ and he wished the poisonous little brat would clear off.