by William Boyd
“Here we are again,” he said with a mad note in his voice; then, like some nameless fiend or apprentice devil, he scurried back from tree to tree to his car.
Morgan stopped the Peugeot some distance up the road and watched the wreck quickly burn itself out. He felt tears trickling from his eyes but put that down to the searing they had received when the car went up. His hands were caked with dust from the verge where he’d rubbed them in a demented Lady Macbethian attempt to drive the clinging feel of Innocence’s skin from his palms. He felt very odd indeed, he decided: a freakish macedoine of moods and sensations, still high from the alcohol, his nostrils reeking with the smell of putrefaction, a fist of outraged sadness lodged somewhere in the back of his head, his body quivering from the massive adrenalin dose that had flooded its muscles and tissues. He resolved not to move an inch until everything had calmed down.
A short while later he heard the astonished shout and clamour of excited voices as the body was discovered. And when he drove by after a further ten minutes he saw briefly a cluster of lanterns beyond the wash-place. He drove a couple of hundred yards past the Commission gate, then parked his car at the side of the road and walked cautiously back. He wanted to change out of his ridiculously festive Santa uniform and he was also desperately keen to wash his hands. He was glad to see the Commission itself was completely dark, though he noticed Fanshawe’s house was brightly lit. He assumed the Duchess was being entertained there as he saw several cars parked in its drive. He wondered if they had been aware of the blaze on the dump.
He quietly let himself into the Commission and crept through the hall and up the stairs. On the landing he decided to clean up first before he changed back into his clothes. He tiptoed into the guest bathroom and softly closed the door behind him. He switched on the light and gave a gasp of horror-struck astonishment when he saw his reflection in the mirror. His face was black with dirt and smoke and scored by tear-tracks. One eyebrow had been singed away leaving a shiny rose stripe and the sparse hair of his widow’s peak had been heat-blasted into a frizzy blond quiff, like an atrocious candy-floss perm. His startled eyes stared blearily back at him in angry albino pinkness.
“Oh Sweet bloody Jesus,” he wailed in dismay. “You poor bloody idiot.” Was it worth it, he asked himself, was it worth it?
He had only begun to wash his hands when he heard the voices in the hall. He heard Chloe Fanshawe’s loudly yodelled goodnights and the sound of two people coming up the stairs. He felt panic clench his heart into a tiny pounding ball. He switched off the light in the bathroom and stood nailed to the middle of the floor wondering what to do, until some faint instinct of self-preservation steered him towards the bath. He stepped in and drew the shower curtain around him, seeking some form of safety, however flimsy.
He heard modulated English voices. Someone said, “Did you unpack everything, Sylvia?” and Sylvia replied, “Yes, Ma’am.” Ma’am would be the Duchess, he reasoned, wondering who Sylvia might be: probably a lady-in-waiting, chaperone or first companion of the bedchamber or whatever it was, he decided. He thought hopelessly that perhaps no one would need to use the bathroom.…
The light went on. Morgan froze behind his shower curtain.
“… Ghastly little man, I thought,” he heard the Duchess say. “And his wife! Good Lord, what an extraordinary … oh I don’t know, the people they send out here.” Morgan’s instinctive dislike was strengthened by this general slur. The door was shut and he smelt cigarette smoke. He tried not to breathe. Through the semi-transparent plastic of the curtain he could make out a dim grey shape. He heard a zip being run down, the rustle of a dress being lowered. He saw the shape sit down on the WC, heard the straining grunts, the farts, the splashes. Ah, he thought to himself, a manic giggle chattering in his head, so they do go to the toilet like everyone else. There was the noise of paper crumpling, the flush, clothes being readjusted, the running of water from the taps. He heard the Duchess mutter “bloody filthy,” at the state he’d left the basin in, then the water stopped. The door was opened.
“Sylvia?” came the voice more distantly from the passageway. “When exactly are we leaving tomorrow?”
Morgan breathed again, perhaps he might make it after all. He wondered if he had the time to clamber out of the bathroom window and make his escape across the back lawn. Maybe Sylvia would only have a pee as well and that would be it. He felt so tense he thought his spine might snap. But he had no time to dwell on the state of his body as there were more steps on the landing outside. Christ, Sylvia arriving, he thought. Some obscure need for disguise made him reach into his pocket for his cotton-wool beard which he quickly put on. He heard the door click shut, smelt cigarette smoke and he knew the Duchess had returned. Please God, he prayed with all the intensity he could muster, please just let her clean her teeth. I’ll do anything, God, he promised, anything. He held his breath in agonised anticipation. He heard a rustle, a snap of elastic, the sound of something soft hit the floor.
He saw a shadow-hand reach for the shower curtain. With a rusty click of metal castors the curtain was twitched back. Morgan and the Duchess stared at each other eye to eye. He had never seen dumbfounded surprise and shock registered on anyone’s face quite so distinctly before. After all, the thought flashed through his brain, it’s not every day you find Father Christmas in your bath. The Duchess stood there slack and squat, quite naked apart from a pale blue shower cap and a half smoked cigarette in one hand. Morgan saw breasts like empty socks, floppy-jersey fat folds, a grey Brillo pad, turkey thighs. Her mouth hung open in paralysed disbelief.
“Evening, Duchess,” Morgan squeaked from behind his beard, stepping from the bath with the falsetto audacity of a Raffles. He flung open the bathroom window, lowered the lid of the WC, stepped up and slung his legs over the window-sill. He glanced back over his shoulder. He didn’t care anymore. Her mouth was still open but an arm was across her breasts and a hand pressed into her lap.
“Listen,” he said. “I promise I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He dropped down six feet onto the tar-paper roof of the rear verandah, crawled to the edge and hung down, falling onto the back lawn. As he tore across the dark grass towards the gate he felt curiously exultant and carefree as he waited for the Duchess’s screams to rend the night air. But nothing disturbed the impartial gaze of the stars and the convivial silence of the scene.
Bilbow stuck his head out of the spare bedroom when Morgan let himself into the house twenty minutes later.
“Bloody hell,” Bilbow said, looking at Morgan’s face. “What happened to you, Santa? Reindeers crash? Sledge get shot down in flames?”
Morgan didn’t bother to reply—he was too busy pouring himself a huge drink.
“By the way,” Bilbow said, wandering into the sitting room. “Some chap called Adekunle’s been ringing all day. Says you must phone him as soon as you get in, doesn’t matter what time it is. Make any sense?”
It didn’t. So he went to bed.
Chapter 7
Morgan stood next to the caddie cage—a kind of miniature POW camp where the caddies lounged—waiting for the caddie master to select him a boy. A Boxing Day sun shone in the clear pale blue sky and it was already hot for ten o’clock. He was due on the first tee by 10:30 but had come down early as he wasn’t keen to remain in the house. He had not phoned Adekunle as requested, neither had he made contact with Fanshawe to see what the reaction had been to the miraculous reappearance of Innocence. The phone had gone twice while he was eating his breakfast but he had ignored it. On his way to the club he had been held up by a big election march on behalf of the UPKP weaving its way through Nkongsamba’s twisted streets en route for a rally at the football stadium. So eventful had his life become of late that he had forgotten that voting commenced tomorrow.
A young boy in a grubby Hawaiian shirt hefted Morgan’s clubs onto his shoulder. He had transferred some of Adekunle’s gleaming beauties into his own well-worn plastic and canvas golf-bag a
s he had been unwilling to attract amused comment or speculation over Adekunle’s monstrosity, which was of such generous proportions that it could have functioned happily as a Great Dane’s kennel or motorbike garage when it wasn’t being transported round a golf course. Besides, he was sure it would have taken at least two caddies to lift it anyway, and he wanted as little company as possible today. He moved slowly over towards the first tee. Many golfers had made an early start as the tournament was intended to wind up around lunchtime. In fact, he and Murray were driving off third from the end. Morgan nodded and smiled at those he knew, and he received many curious glances in return. He was aware that he looked a little peculiar, what with his frizzy teddyboy quiff (flattened for two minutes with a water-loaded comb, springing perkily back up as it dried), one eyebrow replaced by an oblong of elastoplast, red eyes and a shiny pink nose. He slipped on a transparent green sun-visor to protect his tingling sensitive face from the increasingly hot glare. Half-heartedly he rehearsed his bribe speech like a nervous best man at a wedding, but the words refused to form themselves into any convincing order, and when they did he thought he sounded like some oily dockside pimp: “Hey meester, you want feelthy peectures?” That sort of approach would never work with Murray. Generally speaking, he was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on what he had to do later in the course of the morning. The trauma of Innocence’s death, the body snatch, the … whatever the opposite of body snatch was—the body drop, the mind-blowing confrontation with the Duchess, had robbed him of any satisfaction he had planned to derive from this symbolic act of corruption. It had now become a simple exercise in self-defence, in skin saving, because he knew—more than ever now—that in order not to lose control irretrievably of his life he had to hold on to his job.
Also he felt terrible. The tensions of the last two nights plus the strenuous drinking had combined to produce a hangover of mythic proportions. It seemed as if his entire body had been tenderised by one of those jagged wooden mallets used for bashing steaks. His tongue felt twice as large as normal, as though it was striving to loll out of the side of his mouth like a dog’s, and he had a neuralgic headache that loosened every tooth in its socket and made his sinus passages hum like tuning forks.
He swished a golf club around experimentally. He hadn’t played golf for three months or more and he heard his back and shoulders creaking and clicking under the unfamiliar strain. Checking up on his backswing he suddenly saw Murray walking past the caddie cage towards him and felt his heart lurch with nerves and panic. Then he saw Murray’s son and the sickness turned to irrational anger. Why had he brought his wretched kid along with him?
Murray came up. He smiled evenly.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Leafy. I see we’ve been drawn together.”
“Yes, quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” There was a pause. “Ah … look, by the way, I wanted to apologise about the other night … the phone call. I was a bit upset. You know, the dead body and, well, everything, generally. I didn’t realise your position exactly.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Murray said. “I haven’t been.”
“Good. No hard feelings then.”
“No feelings at all, Mr. Leafy.” He looked closely at Morgan. “Your face alright?”
Morgan laughed. “Slight accident with my gas cooker. Blowback I think they call it. Ha-ha.”
“I see.” Murray looked closer. “Gives you a curious expression.” He paused. “I hope you don’t mind my son coming along—playing some of the shorter holes?”
“Not at all,” Morgan forced a smile in the boy’s direction. “Have a good Christmas?” he asked.
Morgan played very badly. The fairways were burnt almost white from the sun and were as hard as a road. He developed out of nowhere a curling, fading slice on almost every shot including his putts. The small greens, known as “browns” because of their tar and sand surfacing, proved elusively hard to hit, the balls skittering over them again and again, refusing to slow down on the baked ground. Murray agreed to call him Morgan, chatted amiably enough and coached his son with a professional brevity and acuteness. Because of the boy’s playing some of the shorter holes they waved through the twosomes that were coming behind and soon they were at the tail-end of the tournament, which, Morgan thought, actually suited him quite well.
They completed the first nine holes by midday and paused at a fairway drink-shack to slake their thirst. Morgan had scored a dire 63 on the outward nine—Murray a useful 37—and it was shaping up to be his all-time worst ever round of golf in more ways than one. He had imagined that, after everything he had been through, bribing Murray would turn out to be a piece of cake, but as ever the physical presence of the man unsettled him. He felt nervous, adolescent, and drained of self-confidence.
The first nine holes had sent them up one side of a river valley and back down the other. The second nine branched out into the thick forest that surrounded Nkongsamba. There was a sharp dog-leg after the eleventh, and they wouldn’t see the club house or the outskirts of the town again until the sixteenth. Morgan watched Murray drive off easily and fluently. The ball sailed a straight two hundred yards and bounced another fifty leaving him within easy range of the brown. Morgan squared up to his ball. He decided to give it everything he’d got, show this old man how to hit a golf-ball, pretend it was Fanshawe’s head he was striking. He took a prodigious swing and cracked the ball with all his force; it shot off and out in a steady curve to his right, plunging into dense and thorny rough.
“Shit!” he swore, then apologised for the boy’s sake.
“You shouldn’t try to hit it so hard,” Murray advised. “Relaxation’s the key to this game.”
“That’s the fiendishly annoying thing about golf,” Morgan complained, knowing relaxation was just about the last state he could achieve at the moment. “It’s such a, you know, controlled game. Everything’s held-back, sort of restrained. You can’t thrash away at things, soak up the aggression, tire yourself out like you can in other sports. Every time I wind myself up for a massive effort I know it’s going to be disastrous.”
Murray looked at him quizzically, as if this admission held the key to his character. “But that’s what it’s all about though, isn’t it? Knowing when to hold back. Staying in control. Using the head and other wooden clubs.”
Morgan laughed uncomfortably; he didn’t welcome the implied criticism. “I suppose I’m just the wrong personality for the game,” he said ruefully.
“Don’t give up so easily,” Murray said as he walked over to the rough with him. “Keep at it. It may come right one day.”
They poked around in the tangled thorny bushes looking for Morgan’s ball. They threw up thick clouds of dust, flies, tics, grasshoppers, uncovered a calcined coil of human faeces, but no ball.
“Do you like it out here?” Morgan asked Murray as he hacked at the undergrowth with his club head. “Dust, heat, stink … impenetrable jungle.”
“Well enough,” Murray said. “I probably like it as much as I’d like anywhere. It has its advantages as well as its disadvantages.”
“You’re quite content then,” Morgan established a little belligerently.
Murray released the bush he was pulling back. He smiled. “Is anybody quite content?”
“Well, I know for a fact I’m not,” Morgan confessed. “But you seem to be—of all the people I’ve met.”
Murray pointed his club at him. “There you go,” he said, “telling me how I feel. A piece of advice: don’t confuse seeming with being. You can never know anything for sure, of course, but it’s a pretty safe maxim.”
“Goodness. Quite a philosopher. So you’re not happy then?”
Murray laughed. “This has taken rather a serious turn for a harmless game of golf, hasn’t it? I think we’d better give your ball up. Play another?”
“No thanks. I’ll just walk this one through.” He watched Murray play his ball up to just short of the brown.
“Are you going t
o stay here all your life?” Morgan asked conversationally as they strolled after it.
“No,” Murray said. “I shall leave when I can.”
“Aha,” Morgan said in triumph. “So you don’t like it here.”
“What exactly are you trying to prove?” Murray asked with an amused smile. “It’s got nothing to do with liking the place; it’s just that there are other things I want to do with my life apart from working in Africa.” He eyed his chip shot, played, and ran the ball onto the brown five feet from the hole.
“Such as what?” Morgan inquired. “What do you want to do next? Go back to Scotland?”
“No,” Murray said, sighting along his putter. “I’ve not planned anything really.” He putted the ball into the hole. “What I’d like to do is go somewhere warm—I don’t think I could survive another British winter—Portugal maybe. Go swimming, sailing, play a bit of golf, read a bit more, watch my family grow up … that sort of thing. Fairly average and unremarkable ambitions, I’m afraid.”
“And that’s it?” For some reason Morgan felt a sense of disappointment.
“What did you expect,” Murray rebuked him jokingly, “that I wanted to be President of the World Health Organisation? I’ll be ‘content’ enough, thank you, if I can manage the other things.”
They played the next two holes. Morgan’s nerves returned and the sun shone down with uncomfortable force as they hit their way further into the forest. The fairways became enclosed on both sides by tall trees and dense undergrowth. Thin paths broke out from one green wall, meandered across the golf course and disappeared into narrow openings in the jungle on the other side. If your shot was inaccurate there was virtually no hope of ever finding your ball. Morgan lost another three, Murray kept to par, even the boy played better than he did.