The Dark Chronicles

by Jeremy Duns

  I flicked the torch across the surface again.

  He hadn’t written them down incorrectly – I’d misread them. The word wasn’t ‘АЭРОФΛОТ’, but ‘АФРОСПОТ’. I was so used to seeing the name of the airline in Section reports that my mind had automatically taken in a similar-looking word and jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  So what the hell was ‘Afrospot’?

  *

  At the Yacht Club, the party had moved into the bar. Manning was deep in discussion with his wife and Sandy: West Africa, no doubt, was winning again. When he caught sight of me, he nearly tripped over himself running over.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘What happened? Did you get caught in the rain?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I decided to take a shower and forgot to undress.’

  He coughed into his hand. ‘Did Slavin show?’

  I took him by the arm and led him down a corridor and into the men’s changing rooms. I gave the place the once over, glancing into the WCs and the shower stalls to make sure nobody else was there. Once I was satisfied we were alone, I turned to Manning.

  ‘Slavin made contact about half an hour ago,’ I said.

  ‘Did he have any information about the woman?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone put a bullet through the back of his neck before I could find out.’

  It took an instant for the words to penetrate, and then his face crumpled and his eyes lost their spark.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s rather a blow.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is, rather.’ I wondered if he was so comfortable out here that he’d forgotten what our game was about, or if he was just worried about Pritchard’s reaction, and was seeing his pension float away. I walked over to a basin and washed some of the mud off my hands and face.

  ‘Did you see the shooter?’ Manning asked.

  I took a towel off a nearby peg and dried myself. ‘Not clearly. He got away very fast.’

  ‘Ah. Pity.’ He picked up a piece of tarpaulin peeking out from beneath one of the benches and stood it up against the wall. ‘Terrible mess some people make,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to raise it at the next meeting.’ Then he looked up at me, as if he had suddenly remembered that his role in the Yacht Club was of secondary importance to a dead Russian. ‘The office called,’ he said. ‘London cabled to say that Henry’s flight lands at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.’

  On the drive over from Ikoyi, I’d held, somewhere at the back of my mind, the hope that Pritchard might not be able to make it out here for a few more days. Now it was settled: I now had less than eight hours before he arrived and started asking questions – and all I had to go on was a word scribbled on a matchbox.

  Manning was shuffling his feet, anxious to get back to his drink.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the airport at half-seven,’ I told him. ‘But tell me something – does the phrase “Afrospot” mean anything to you?’

  He considered it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Perhaps a local brand of pimple cream?’ He chuckled, pleased with himself.

  ‘Did you notice the woman I was talking to earlier on?’

  He grimaced. ‘Yes, I saw her,’ he said. ‘But don’t you think you should leave the love life for later, old chap? Go back to your hotel, have a good night’s sleep, and we’ll sort all this out come morning.’

  I counted out ten beats, timing them to a dripping tap somewhere behind me, letting Manning understand that I was not interested in talking sex, or rugby, or my father, and that this would be the last time I wasted valuable seconds on him. He coughed after the seventh beat, and I relieved him of the tension.

  ‘Did you notice if she left?’

  ‘I saw her setting out for the hard about ten minutes ago. Might still be there.’

  ‘The hard?’

  ‘Um – near the jetty – take a right and you’ll see the path leading down to it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and headed for the door.

  ‘What about my car?’ Manning called after me. ‘Sandy’s already giving another couple a lift, and I’m not sure Marjorie and I will squeeze in.’

  ‘I’ll let you know in a couple of minutes,’ I shouted back.

  *

  I checked the bar just in case, but she wasn’t there, so I hooked my jacket over my head and headed outside. The chairs had been stacked up in columns and a steward was doing the rounds of the tables with a tray, picking up bottles and glasses and bowls while the rain blew against him.

  I found Isabelle in a lifejacket, tethering her boat to a pole.

  ‘Didn’t fancy another swim, then?’ I said.

  She looked up, startled, and then smiled a little wearily as she put the voice to the face.

  ‘You didn’t say you had your own boat,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t have the chance. You left. Anyway, you have to be a regular sailor to be a member of the club. They don’t…’

  ‘Allow social members. I remember.’

  ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Angry? What gives you that idea?’

  ‘You left very quickly. As though I had said something wrong.’ She finished tying the knot and looked up, her gaze challenging me.

  ‘You didn’t say anything wrong,’ I said. ‘I had a meeting to go to. An interview.’

  ‘At this time?’

  ‘I’m back now.’

  ‘Do you expect me to bow down at your feet?’

  So she was going to play it that way. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Have you ever heard of something called Afrospot?’

  She stared at me for a few moments, and then gave a sudden, astonished laugh. ‘You want to take me there?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I just want to know what it is.’

  She jumped into the boat, and I thought for a moment that she was going to unmoor it and sail off. But instead she removed the lifejacket, then lifted one of the seats and took out a black hand-towel and a pair of boots.

  ‘It is a nightclub,’ she said, raising her arms and wriggling into the centre of the towel, which it transpired was a dress. ‘In Ebute Metta.’

  ‘Is that in Lagos?’

  She nodded. ‘About half an hour away by car. Do you have a car?’

  I glanced up at the bar, and saw Manning standing at the window, looking worried. ‘Yes. What road do I need to take?’

  She smiled, and pointedly looked me up and down. ‘They’ll never let you in, mon vieux. Not without me.’ And she jumped out of the boat.

  IX

  I steered us onto the main road and Isabelle indicated I should take a right. Manning wouldn’t be too pleased when he realized I’d left, but he’d soon get over it: I was Larry Dark’s boy, after all.

  ‘It is not a new club,’ she was saying. ‘But it has a new owner recently, and more people visit. It is fun – you will see. Now it is your turn to speak: tell me why you are so interested in this place.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Just that I heard it mentioned and wondered if there might be a story in it.’

  She laughed softly. ‘I am not a fool, Robert! You didn’t even know it was a nightclub. This means there already is a story. Something big, non?’

  I had no idea. It was just a word on a matchbox. But the Russian had only written the name of the club – no date or time. That suggested he was confident he would meet his contact whenever he turned up there, which in turn pointed to that contact being either a regular at the club or, more likely, someone who worked there.

  Isabelle was looking at me expectantly. ‘There might be a story,’ I told her. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  She eyed me keenly and told me to take the next left.

  *

  We arrived at the club just after one. A ramshackle two-storey house, it looked like it was hosting a private party that had got out of control. An overpowering smell of marijuana wafted from the doors, along with the muffled sound of frenetic music. There were a few dozen
people by the entrance, talking and dancing in the fug while they waited to be let in. A hand-painted sign announced that tonight’s performance would be by ‘the magnificent Black Chargers’.

  As we approached the door, the Nigerians in the queue looked us up and down. A young man wearing a wide leather belt and an open-necked dress shirt shouted something to his friends, who all laughed uproariously.

  I glanced at Isabelle.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ she said.

  I asked her if she could try to find a way through the queue. If this was a dead-end, I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night on it. She walked over to one of the doormen and started talking in very fast pidgin English with him. The man listened to her solemnly, then gave a nod and let us past, much to the chagrin of some of the crowd.

  ‘I told him we are press,’ she whispered to me. ‘He said the intermission is coming soon and we can interview the owner. Is that okay?’

  As there was a chance that the owner himself might be the Russian’s contact, I told her it was fine. A group of heavies frisked us, Isabelle paid the entrance fee and I followed her onto a tiny but packed dance floor.

  ‘Let’s dance!’ she shouted into my ear and, before I could answer, she had whisked me into the centre of the floor, where we were absorbed into the crowd of young Nigerians flailing their limbs around. The music was now deafening. On stage, at least a dozen musicians were playing trumpets, guitars and several sets of drums, all at a feverish pace. Every once in a while, a blast of notes emanated from a trombone attached to a small, wiry man in an iridescent suit, who seemed to be the chief Black Charger. It was like listening to a big band accompanying a voodoo ceremony.

  Isabelle was swaying back and forth, her eyes fixed on me. I tried to play along with her, but my mind was too occupied to do anything other than shuffle my feet aimlessly and try to avoid colliding into others. The song was very repetitive, almost like a stuck record. With the heat and humidity, the frantic jostling crowd, the headiness of the marijuana and the nearness of Isabelle’s body, I struggled to keep a clear head. After a few minutes, the song built to a dramatic climax, and my ears were left ringing in the relative quiet that came after.

  Isabelle was smiling ecstatically, sweat dripping off her. ‘C’est magnifique, non?’ she shouted in my ear, and I nodded. The band began making their way offstage, and were disappearing through an entrance covered by a beaded curtain. Isabelle found the doorman who had let us through. Money changed hands, and we were passed to one of his colleagues. Another swift transaction and we were shown through the curtain and led down a long corridor until we reached a door marked ‘Artists’ Green Room’.

  *

  ‘Welcome to the Afrospot, my friends!’ said the trombonist, after he had been told by the doorman that we were press. ‘My name is J. J. Thompson-Bola. Have you been enjoying the show?’

  We nodded our heads like obedient schoolchildren. The room was almost as packed as the dance floor, with musicians and hangers-on chatting and smoking and laughing. Standing in one corner was a rather stern-looking middle-aged woman in a traditional dress and headgear made from the same material. She was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t place – it was almost as though she knew me, or thought she did.

  J. J. was now bare-chested, and a couple of young women were wiping his torso down with a sponge: he looked like a boxer limbering up for another round. As he rotated his shoulders and rolled his head around, his eyes fixed on Isabelle. ‘You are reporter?’ he asked her. ‘For which newspaper?’

  ‘Agence France-Presse,’ she said. ‘It’s a news agency…’

  ‘I know what it is,’ he snapped, bringing his head back to its natural position. He paused, perhaps realizing there was little point in antagonizing the press unduly. ‘I think I have met you before. Is that so?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I wrote an article on the cultural festival last year—’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember.’ A woman handed him a bottle of Fanta orange squash and he gulped down a few swigs. ‘So why have you returned? Could you not resist my charms?’ He grinned impishly, and the middle-aged woman smacked her lips in mock disapproval. Could she be his mother, come to cheer on her son’s performance?

  Isabelle smiled at the flirtation. ‘I told my editor about how your brand of high life is becoming more popular, and he was interested in another story, but this time to be centred around only you.’

  J. J. beamed. ‘Is that so? Well, tell your editor that he is a fine person with wonderful taste.’ He laughed suddenly, and looked around the room for approval – some of the hangers-on joined in the laughter. He held up a hand and the laughter stopped. He turned to me. ‘And who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Robert Kane,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘The Times of London. I’m also writing a piece on Lagos nightlife.’

  ‘The Times!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know it well.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Certainly – I used to take it when I lived in London. Last year you ran an excellent article about my cousin. He has been imprisoned by the government on bogus and trumped-up charges for the last eighteen months, and he is rotting in a cell in Kaduna at this very moment.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.

  ‘But how is London these days? I often think fondly of the nightclubs I used to visit there. I am trying to recreate a certain aspect of them here in Lagos. The Flamingo, the Marquee, Ronnie Scott’s…’

  ‘Ronnie Scott’s? I was there last night! I saw a very good American group.’ I struggled to remember the name, but my mind had gone blank.

  ‘Dexter Gordon? Ben Webster? What instruments? I saw all the big names when I lived there. But now these Americans, they try to take over our country with this new soul sound. It is not real music. Our audience here’ – he gestured dismissively in the direction of the dance floor – ‘wants us to play James Brown, James Brown, all night. That does not interest me – to be James Brown in my own place. I studied for three years at the London College of Music. It was an excellent grounding in the kind of thing I am trying to achieve here.’

  ‘I’ve heard they have a very good course,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, so you know it?’

  ‘I know of its reputation,’ I said, which seemed to satisfy him. I wasn’t sure how far I could push things. The Russian probably had an introductory phrase to feed his contact – without it, I was lost. I didn’t even know if this man was the contact. But it was moot: before I could think of anything else to say, he abruptly announced that it was time to go back on stage, and everyone began shuffling out of the room.

  ‘Did you get your story?’ Isabelle asked me as we moved back through the crowd.

  ‘Not really. I might try to talk to him again after the show. Do you mind staying on?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t danced in a long time.’

  As J. J. and his band settled into another of their numbers, and Isabelle started twisting and turning round the floor, I considered the encounter. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but it hadn’t materialized: I was no nearer to discovering who the Russian had wanted to meet here. J. J. ? One of his musicians? One of the bouncers? It could be almost anyone. Or perhaps he hadn’t been due to meet anyone. Perhaps it was just somewhere he had heard about and intended to visit, or had visited, as recreation. Because it was a terrible choice for a meet. Any cover that might be offered by the crowd was completely offset by the fact that, apart from Isabelle and me, everyone in the place was black. Not ideal if you were a Russian looking for a secret rendezvous. If I were the contact, I’d certainly not have agreed to it.

  Unless, of course, the contact wasn’t actually supposed to make contact. What if the Russian had instructions to come here to find something rather than someone? That would explain why he hadn’t needed a date or time – whatever he was after would simply stay here until he came to collect it.

  I was suddenly wishing I had paid more attention in the g
reen room.

  I looked over at the entrance we’d come through from backstage. Two of the heavies were meant to be guarding it, but they had both advanced into the hall too far, and were now out of visual contact with each other. I shuffled round the back of them, waiting for my chance. It came a few minutes later, when J. J. had the crowd moving their arms up and down with the horns – the heavies got swept up in it, and I quickly slipped through the curtain and into the corridor.

  *

  There was no answer when I knocked on the green room door, so I stepped inside. Empty. I got to work at once, pulling out drawers, looking in bags and boxes, scanning every inch of the room as I moved around it. I found a collection of J. J.’s garish stage outfits, a sizeable stash of marijuana, and a few bottles of whisky and rum. The papers on the table were either posters for upcoming concerts or set lists. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, and God knew what I would do if one of the heavies were to walk in now. In desperation, I turned to some larger cases for instruments that had been propped up against the wall, shoved in a small space behind a rickety bookcase. I squeezed past the bookcase and ran my finger down the line, clicking open their latches one by one. Empty. Empty. Empty…

  A piece of sacking fell towards me. I caught it with both hands and sat it upright immediately. It wasn’t sacking, in fact, but a soft canvas bag with leather straps. A gun bag. I undid the straps and saw the curved magazine. An AK-47? I leaned forward. No – it was a sniper rifle. As I took this in, I heard something move behind me. I snatched the rifle out of the bag and swivelled round, pointing it at the figure in the doorway.

  ‘You should leave this room now,’ said Isabelle. ‘The police have arrived.’

  X

  The music in the club had stopped and I could hear the clatter of boots coming down the corridor towards us.

  ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps looking for drugs. Raids are frequent in this city.’

  Or they’d found the bodies on the golf course and I was the focus of a manhunt. But how had they known who to look for – and where to find me?