by William Boyd
“Damnation!” Fanshawe swore, his brows knotting fiercely. “Intolerable bloody country,” he seethed. “They just go about their business—without a care in the world, as if it was an ordinary day—stepping over dead bodies without a second thought … Savage, unfeeling brutes.”
“Well,” Morgan said thoughtfully. He liked beginning his sentences with “well”: it gave them a pondered, considered tone. “That’s only from our point of view you know, Arthur. Shango’s a fairly top-notch deity out here and we have to respect …”
“I’m not interested in this hocus-pocus rubbish, Leafy,” Fanshawe hissed through clenched teeth. A drop of spittle flew out of his mouth and landed on Morgan’s sleeve, but he charitably decided not to draw attention to it by dabbing it away with his handkerchief. He was cool. He had also noticed the pointed use of his surname. Fanshawe was really heating up, he thought; it was all getting on top of him.
“This bloody juju claptrap gets right up my … For Christ’s sake, man, the Duchess of Ripon is coming here tomorrow. The Queen’s personal representative! It’s impossible.” Fanshawe shook his head vigorously. “It can’t be here.”
“Well, …” Morgan began.
“I do wish you wouldn’t keep beginning all your remarks with ‘well,’ Leafy, it’s most irritating,” Fanshawe burst out temperamentally.
“Sorry, I’m sure,” Morgan said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “I was just going to say that the Duchess is hardly likely to wander over to the servants’ quarters.”
“That doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference,” Fanshawe expostulated. “It’s the principle of the thing. For heaven’s sake, this is Commission property; you just can’t have it littered with decomposing bodies. And,” he added contemptuously, “if you can’t see that then I’m sorry for you. Very sorry indeed.”
A strained silence ensued. With his thumb-nail Morgan pushed back some encroaching cuticles.
“I suppose we’d better get it over with,” Fanshawe said suddenly and marched towards the body. “Come on,” he called to Morgan. Morgan joined him, wondering what he planned on doing.
“What are you going to do?” Morgan asked, looking round apprehensively at the audience of children and mothers that had gathered.
“I’m going to have a look, of course,” Fanshawe said, the points of a blush appearing on his cheek bones.
“Why?”
“Ah, to see for myself,” he said, smoothing his moustache, adding vaguely, “check up, you know.” Morgan realised that Fanshawe was fascinated: he felt the cloth was keeping something from him.
“It’s not a pretty sight,” Morgan cautioned.
“Please, masta,” a voice called from the crowd. They looked round, it was Isaac. He advanced a few paces. “I beg you, sah, nevah totch ’im one time. Make you go leff am, sah. Dis no respec’.”
“I am only going to look,” Fanshawe declaimed pompously. “Now don’t worry, Isaac.” He whispered to Morgan, “Pull back the cloth.” Morgan felt like saying, pull it back yourself. He was beginning to resent the assumption that he was some kind of mortuary assistant. However, he obeyed the order.
Fanshawe lurched back as if he’d been punched in the chest. His eyes bulged. “God,” he said hoarsely. Morgan breathed through his mouth. The crowd edged forward to catch a glimpse. Morgan threw the cloth back over Innocence’s body. He stepped away carefully.
“Phew,” he said to Fanshawe, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. “It’s amazing how quickly … you know, how fast everything …”
Fanshawe was pale and obviously shocked. He led Morgan unsteadily a little way down the compound.
“That does it,” he said vehemently. “She’s got to go. She has to. It’s … It’s obscene, that’s what it is. I’d no idea that sort of effect … well, happened. Get rid of her. That’s all. Away from here. Get rid of her, Morgan. Any way you can.”
Morgan felt the anger of the subordinate who always gets the dirty jobs. “But how, Arthur?” he protested. “Just tell me how and I’ll do it. Be reasonable, for God’s sake. You can see how impossible …”
“I don’t care!” Fanshawe almost shrieked. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. It’s been days now since I asked you to take care of everything. If you had just handled things properly the first night we wouldn’t be in this frightful mess now. Get an armed guard, anything. Just get rid of that body before the Duchess arrives.” He stared furiously at Morgan for an instant, his jaw clenched, the muscles and tendons standing out on his neck. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and marched off back to the Commission.
Morgan stood in the compound, rigid with bile-churning rage. Fuck you! you stinking little shit! he mouthed at Fanshawe’s retreating back. He made twisted vampire claws with his hands and savaged the air in front of his face. He turned and glared at the crowd, slowly dispersing now. They might have been waxworks, moon-men or zombies for all the understanding their minds shared with his. But there again, he thought, the same could be said about the gulf that existed between him and Fanshawe.
Morgan had to confess that the Innocence-problem seemed insoluble. His one good idea was swiftly quashed by Fanshawe. Morgan had gone down to the Commission’s front door and consulted Isaac about the juju ceremony. If he had the money now, Morgan asked, how long would it take to pacify Shango? Isaac thought about it. If the fetish priest could come this evening, if the goat, the beer and the other accessories were purchased forthwith, then the whole ceremony might possibly be contracted into two days. But, he warned, tomorrow being Christmas day the fetish priest might demand extra money for working on a public holiday. Fine, Morgan said, thanks.
Back in his office he had phoned Fanshawe.
“I think I’ve found a way out of it, Arthur,” he said.
“Yes. Go on,” Fanshawe snapped.
“What we do is do it their way. We’ve been swimming against the tide so far. So, now we get the juju man, slaughter the goat and get him to exorcise the demon or whatever. I can’t see any other alternative.”
“I thought there was some kind of money problem.”
“Yes, there is. But only as far as Maria is concerned. But I thought we could pay for it.”
“Out of the question,” Fanshawe said immediately. “We don’t want to establish that precedent.”
“Hold on,” Morgan said, losing patience. “Give it some thought. Couldn’t we lend it to her at least?” Mean bastard, he said under his breath.
“Well, perhaps. We could consider it. But tell me, how long will this ‘exorcism’ take?”
“Couple of days. I can get on to …”
“No! No!” Fanshawe jammered. “Impossible. Don’t you listen to anything I say? It’s got to be away by tomorrow. The Duchess …” Morgan let him rant on. His scalp crawled with hatred at the man’s intransigence. “… and remember, Morgan. I’m making this top priority. Forget Kingpin, forget the elections. I just want that body away. I’m making it your sole responsibility.”
And very handy for you too, Morgan thought bitterly, replacing the phone on the receiver, but where did that leave him?
At four that afternoon he decided to go home. At the gate stood Femi Robinson on his own, holding up a placard that read, NO SUEZ IN KINJANJA.
Morgan stopped his car and leant out of the window. “Isn’t that a little extreme?” he called. Robinson approached the car. He was still in his polo-neck and gloves. Somehow he’d managed to pull a beret down over his afro. His BO preceded him like a cloud of mustard gas. His worried face shone with moisture; rivulets of sweat slid down his jaw bone. A bleb hung from his chin.
“Don’t you think,” Morgan indicated the placard, “that it’s also, well, a bit subtle?”
“The message is directed at you British,” Robinson said belligerently. “Not at my own supporters.”
“And where are they, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“They are both buying beer from the trader down the road.” Robinson scowled whe
n he saw Morgan laughing. “You can laugh,” he accused, “but soon it will be on the other side of your face.”
“I’m sorry,” said Morgan, suppressing his grin. “But what you said … it’s a joke, quite well known.”
Robinson suddenly relaxed. He smiled. “I admit their fervour is not so great today, but there will be more soon. You must beware. I believe your High Commissioner has apologised. But it is not sufficient. The diplomaticisation of the problem is a smoke-screen. And,” he banged his fist on the window sill, “if the KNP win?” He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head sadly.
“Thanks for the warning,” Morgan said. He put the car in gear. Robinson took a pace back and brandished his placard.
“I shall remain,” he said, “to ensure you are not forgettin’.”
As soon as he returned home Morgan showered and crawled into bed for a siesta. He shut his eyes and told himself to relax, ordered every sinew and tendon in his body to ease off, advised his heart to slow its pace. But Fanshawe’s hysterical commands seemed to bounce around the inside of his head like a series of powerfully struck squash balls: “You’re responsible … top priority … twenty-four hours …” He supposed it was some form of indirect punishment for the embarrassment he had suffered over Adekunle’s effective PR job for the KNP. Morgan wondered if Adekunle had fixed the draw yet. He felt suddenly weak and helpless: an impotent Sisyphus who’s just been informed there’ll be two rocks from tomorrow—a fagged-out Hercules with a gross of labours to complete. He wanted to weep and blub. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair.…
There was a ring at the doorbell. Dispiritedly, remembering Friday and Moses didn’t come in until later, he pulled on his dressing-gown and shuffled grumbling down the passageway to see who it was.
Standing there was Kojo, his wife and their three children. Kojo was wearing a shiny black suit, gleaming shoes and a bright red tie. He was carrying a large enamel basin containing something covered by a cloth. His wife, a tiny smiling woman with a creamy caramel skin and huge dangling earrings, was in a lacy blouse, luxuriant black velvet wrap-around and head-tie. The three boys were miniature replicas of their father with small black short-trousered suits and red ties, closely shaven hair and serious-nervous faces. Confronted by such daunting spic and spanness Morgan was suddenly aware of his exposed hairy shanks and bare feet, his shabby dressing-gown and tousled hair.
“Kojo,” he said. “Hello … yes, what um … hello.” He was very surprised to see them.
Kojo smiled at his confusion. “Good afternoon, sah, how are you? I have brought my family to greet you.” He paused, waiting to see if comprehension would dawn on Morgan’s face. “For Christmas,” he added finally. Morgan understood. Such courtesy visits were annually paid by employees and servants. Tomorrow he was expecting the nightwatchman, the gardener and the man who cleaned his car once a week, but Kojo had never been before.
“Of course,” Morgan said. “Go inside, please. Sit down. I’ll go and put some clothes on.”
Cursing with irritation he went back to his bedroom and pulled on his clothes. He returned to his sitting room to find the tiny family occupying the edges of two chairs and a settee.
“Yes,” he said stupidly, rubbing his hands together in a bad imitation of a genial host. “I don’t think I’ve met your wife and sons before.”
Kojo stood up. “This is my wife Elizabeth.” Elizabeth half rose to her feet as Morgan shook her hand and she gave a demure curtsey. “Yes, sah,” she said.
Kojo led him on to the three boys. “And these are my sons: Anthony, Gerald and Arthur.”
“Named after Mr. Fanshawe?” Morgan asked curiously.
“Yes, sah. I requested his permission.”
“Good,” Morgan said, his mind empty of conversational gambits. “Good, good, good. Yes,” he said abruptly. “I know. What’ll you have to drink? Gin, whisky, some beer?”
“Please, a soft drink. But before, please, I have this gift for you.” Kojo pushed forward the enamel basin on the carpet. Morgan scrutinised the dark cloth covering its contents. For some reason he was reminded of Innocence’s shroud. He thought his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because he was sure he could detect a tremor of movement below it. Then, from underneath the cloth, came a faintly musical croak. Morgan leapt back in alarm, causing Kojo’s boys to giggle softly to themselves.
“Jesus Christ!” Morgan exclaimed, then wished he hadn’t used the profanity. “It’s alive!”
Kojo drew back the cloth to reveal a large turkey, its legs securely trussed. With an effort he lifted it up by its roped legs and held the bird out, upside down, to Morgan. “Merry Christmas, sah,” Kojo said. The turkey’s stumpy wings were also tied together and it vainly tried to flap them. Its pink wattles hung over its startled face. Between the dangling combs its glaring, maddened eye seemed to stare in accusation at Morgan. Feeling slightly queasy he reached out and grasped its scaly stick-like ankles. As he took the weight, the turkey twitched its head, parted its beak and gave a sotto voce “gobble-gobble.” Morgan promptly released his hold and the terrified bird dropped heavily to the floor where it gave a great gobbling shriek and shat greenily on his carpet. Kojo’s family fell about in delighted mirth at his feebleness, Mrs. Kojo with her arms folded across her stomach, politely bent over to hide her face, the three boys laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders.
Kojo picked up the panicking bird. “Sah,” he said considerately. “If you don’t like it, I can remove it.”
Morgan grinned sheepishly. “Yes,” he said. “I think you’d better handle things.”
Kojo took the turkey out to the garden and tied one of its legs to a bush with a long piece of string, while Mrs. Kojo expertly cleaned up the mess and Morgan served up the soft drinks. They chatted politely for five minutes or so but soon Kojo rose to his feet and announced their departure. Morgan rushed into his study and wrote out a cheque for ten pounds which he sealed in an envelope and slipped into Kojo’s hand at the front door.
Kojo tucked it away in his suit pocket. “T’ank you, sah,” he said simply.
Morgan watched the little family wander away up his garden path in the soft late-afternoon light, the small boys looking curiously back at him. He heard them chattering excitedly. He wondered what they would be saying about him, what they thought of the stupid fat white man who was too frightened to hold a turkey. He walked out into his garden and strolled round to the back near the kitchen. The turkey stood at the extremity of its bit of string, tugging futilely with one foot while it tried to peck at the ground just beyond its reach. It was a big bird, in good condition. He wondered how much it had cost: not ten pounds anyway, he told himself unkindly; at least Kojo got what he came for.
Dusk was advancing and he heard the insect and animal orchestra begin to strike up. He went morosely back into the house. It seemed huge and empty and he felt its vacant rooms and dark corners whisper with melancholy and depression.
“Come on,” he said out loud to himself, striding to his hi-fi to select Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers, “you’re not a bloody Romantic poet.” As the music boomed out he heard the turkey gobble outside in the garden and he looked at the dents and hollows Kojo’s family had made in the cushions of his armchairs and settee. Their absence seemed more absolute despite the evidence of these shallow templates of their bodies. He felt suddenly angry at his mean-minded interpretation of their motives in visiting him. Kojo had never come before and now Morgan felt obscurely pleased and flattered that he had brought along his family. He thought that, in fact, Kojo probably liked him for some reason. This cheered him up and he began to hum along with Frank. He smiled to himself remembering how he’d dropped the turkey and the bird’s reaction as it had hit the floor. What had Kojo said? Typical Kojo: tact itself—“If you don’t like it I can remove it.”
“If you don’t like it I can remove it.…”
Friday bounced into the sitting room. “Bon soir, masta,” he
said cheerfully. “Dis na fine bed for garden. Extra.”
Morgan looked at him, a mad idea taking shape in his head. He would show them. Yes. He would show the bastards.
“Tell me, Friday,” he asked ingenuously. “What are you doing tonight?”
Chapter 5
“There she is,” Morgan whispered, crouching behind the trunk of a dwarf palm. He pointed fifteen yards in front of him to the dark bundle that was Innocence’s body, just distinguishable in the moonlight. Friday squatted beside him.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he croaked. “I go see ’im.”
They were hiding in the small grove of trees and ill-tended yam and cassava allotments that stood behind the wash-place at the northern end of the servants’ quarters. It was half past three in the morning. To his left Morgan could see the straggling line of tall nim trees that bordered the Commission grounds—and separated the servants’ quarters from the garden—and beyond them the unlit mass of the Fanshawes’ house. There was a clear three-quarter moon in the sky, which palely illuminated everything and caused the buildings, trees and bushes to cast dagger-edged impenetrable shadows. Twenty yards behind them the Peugeot was parked on a dusty track, its boot gaping in expectation. With some effort he and Friday had pushed it up from the main road to a point as close as possible to the servants’ quarters.
Beside him Morgan could sense Friday’s fear coming off him like perfume.
“I thought you weren’t frightened of Shango,” he whispered angrily.
“Comment?”
Christ almighty, Morgan swore to himself, wondering what sort of an accomplice he’d chosen. He tried again. “You say me you nevah fright for Shango. Tu n’as pas peur de Shango,” he translated as an afterthought.
“Is true, masta. But I dey fear for os if dis people livin’ for here catch os one time.” He gestured at the dark lines of the housing blocks. He had a point there, Morgan had to admit. Up to now it had been the dogs that he was most concerned about but so far they hadn’t met any. There had been the odd bleat from a tethered goat and a heart-stoppingly strident cock-a-doodle-doo from an irate rooster, but as everyone knew Kinjanjan cocks crowed at any time except dawn, no one, apparently, had deemed it anything out of the ordinary.