A Good Man in Africa

by William Boyd

  “Hurry!” he yelped in panic. “They’re coming after us!”

  The hedge loomed up in the dark. He didn’t check his pace, merely bent his head down, raised a forearm and charged through. A branch caught him a winding thwack in the chest, but he burst clear and stumbled into the tranquil space of a large garden. Ahead of them lay a dark and securely shuttered house. He heard the noise of more guns firing, a flat undramatic retort, and heard bullets thunk into the boles of trees, shred leaves and twigs from the branches. They’re mad, he thought wildly, they’ll shoot at anything, they don’t care.

  “Come on,” Mrs. Fanshawe gasped, already half way across the garden, tottering along awkwardly in her elegant shoes. Morgan started after her, spurred on by the cries of the riot police clubbing their way through the hedge.

  They ran through into the next-door garden, past a chicken coop that erupted with startled caws and cluckings, on through another hedge, tripping and falling over roots and undulations in the ground. Morgan seized Mrs. Fanshawe’s hand again and dragged her on, his heart punching its way through his rib cage, the blood roaring in his ears, stitches buckling both sides, his legs crude instruments of torture.

  “Stop,” wheezed Mrs. Fanshawe. He stopped. They fell to the ground behind a tree, coughing and gasping from the effort. No one seemed to be following them any more. There was a dull explosion and a barrage balloon of flame sailed into the night sky above the administration offices. Another car gone up, Morgan thought—the petrol tank. Or perhaps the riot squad have called in the artillery, he suggested to himself. He wouldn’t have been surprised.

  By the time they reached the campus perimeter fence it had started to rain. Not a downpour, just a steady drizzle. Morgan held the barbed wire strands as wide apart as he could but Mrs. Fanshawe still tore her dress badly squeezing her bulk through. They crawled up a slope onto the main road. It was like another world. Opposite them was a small village, lantern lights gleaming peacefully in doorways, blue neon over a roadside drinks bar. They sank down on the verge. Mrs. Fanshawe removed her shoes. Both heels had snapped off. In the distance behind them came the shouts and poppings as the riot police pressed home their attack.

  “Thank Christ we got out of that,” Morgan said. A quarter of a mile down the road he saw the lights of the university’s main gate. Several lorries and what looked like an armoured car were parked outside.

  “They were shooting at us, weren’t they?” Mrs. Fanshawe confirmed in an awed voice, massaging her feet.

  “I’m afraid so,” Morgan admitted, sensing delayed shock about to pounce on him like a wild beast. He got to his feet. He had to keep moving.

  “Let’s get you to the Commission,” he said, helping Mrs. Fanshawe up. They limped across the warm tarmacadam to the roadside kiosk. Behind it stood a youth in a baseball cap, his face bizarrely tinted from the fizzing blue fluorescent strip above his head. On the front of the kiosk was written SISSY’S GO-WELL DRINKOTHEQUE. The boy in the cap looked up in astonishment as Morgan and Mrs. Fanshawe appeared out of the darkness.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed, rubbing his face. “Wetin go wrong here? Jesos Chrise!” He shook his head. Morgan looked at Mrs. Fanshawe. The rip in her hem had split up to her thigh, her pink dress was tattered and filthy, and her negotiation of the barbed wire fence had somehow torn a triangular flap from her bodice exposing several square inches of her reinforced nylon long-line bra. Even her normally immovable hair hung in damp tangles over her forehead. She carried a heelless shoe in each hand. Morgan knew all too well what he looked like in his soiled circus-clown outfit. Self-consciously he tried to rub away the pencilled moustache on his upper lip. From the mud huts beyond the roadside bar a few curious faces peered. A small boy ran round the corner of a house and said “Oyibo” but the sound died on his lips as he looked at these strange white people.

  “Good evening,” Morgan said to the youth. “You get car for this village?”

  “You want car?”

  “Yes. I go pay you ten pound if you take us to UK Commission.”

  “Ten poun’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make you give me money now.”

  “No,” Morgan said firmly. “First you drive us, before I pay.”

  The youth left his kiosk and went back to one of the mud huts where a shouted argument ensued. After a few minutes an older man appeared in ragged shorts and a singlet.

  “Good evening, sah,” he said. “My name is Pious. I have a car. I can take you.” He led them down a muddy, stinking lane to where an old black Vauxhall Velox was parked. Morgan got into the back with Mrs. Fanshawe. The interior smelt vaguely of animals, as if it had been used for transporting sheep or goats, but he didn’t care any longer.

  After several attempts the bronchitic engine finally started and they set out on the journey to the Commission. Again Morgan noted the untypical quietness of the roads.

  “Why are there no cars tonight?” he asked their driver.

  “Ammy comin’,” Pious said simply.

  “Army? What do you mean? For the riot at the university?”

  Pious shrugged. “I don’t know. Plenty Ammy lorries passing tonight. Plenty.” Morgan sat back. He remembered Robinson’s hints and Friday’s warning about a coup. He gave up. It was conceivable that the population knew something that the politicians didn’t. Anything could happen here, he now realised.

  The Commission was dark and unbesieged. The Fanshawes’ house was locked up and empty. There was a note from Fanshawe saying they had seen Morgan and Mrs. Fanshawe evade the mob, safely escaped themselves from Adekunle’s house, had left the campus by the back gate and after waiting for an hour had gone on down to the capital. The Joneses, it appeared, were going to put up Mrs. Fanshawe in her family’s temporary absence.

  “Well,” Morgan said, on hearing this, “we’d better get you to the Joneses. It seems as though everything went OK.” He paused. “You could stay here if you want. I can go and get the servants.…”

  “No,” Mrs. Fanshawe said, re-reading the note. “I don’t feel like staying here on my own. But do you think I could clean up a bit at your place first? Perhaps Denzil could come over and collect me.”

  “Sure,” Morgan said. “Fine.”

  Pious dropped them at Morgan’s house. Morgan ran in to get the money to pay him off. It was worth every penny. He looked at his watch. Half past eleven. He felt like he’d been on the run for weeks. But, he reasoned with a wry smile, in a way that was true enough. Pious drove off noisily and for a moment or two Morgan stood alone in his driveway, the light rain falling on his head. Small rain, Isaac had called it. For a second he thought he could hear the pop-gun effect of distant shooting. He wondered what was going on: everybody shooting at everybody else tonight. He shivered at the memory. Thunder mumbled and lightning flashed away to the south west. He smelt the musty attic odour of damp earth and listened to the bats and toads, the creek-creek of the crickets starting up again.

  He went back into his house. Mrs. Fanshawe stood in the middle of the carpet examining the rents in her dress. She gave a tired laugh when he came in.

  “My God, Morgan,” she said. “What on earth must we look like?” Morgan smiled. She looked very strange with her small bare feet, her thigh gaping from the slit in the dress, her hair tousled, half her underwear on show—like a survivor from a plane crash. Only the three strings of pearls belonged to the Mrs. Fanshawe of earlier in the evening.

  “I feel I should thank you, Morgan,” she said.

  “What for?”

  “For everything you did tonight. You were splendid.”

  Morgan bowed his head. “Thanks,” he said, adding awkwardly, “you did alright yourself.”

  This mutual congratulation made them feel embarrassed and they both scrutinised the weave of the carpet. Morgan moved to the drinks table.

  “Do you want a drink?” he asked. “Or would you rather have a bath first?”

  “Oh, a bath, I think,” she said. “Lovely
.” Morgan led her up the corridor and into his bedroom. He showed her the bathroom.

  “There are plenty of towels,” he said. “I’m afraid we can’t rise to a new dress.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she reassured him.

  He went back into the sitting room and poured himself a whisky. He sat down in an armchair and took a sip. Outside in the dark the rain pattered gently on the leaves of the trees and dripped into the gutters. He felt tired. He knew the recriminations and problems ahead of him: the resignation, Adekunle’s wrath, the exposure of Celia. Her name made his features tighten as he remembered the scene at the house. What the hell, he thought with sudden generosity. She could have her visa; it didn’t matter to him really. She was just desperate, in a jam; he’d have done the same in her circumstances—or worse. He’d see she got one tomorrow.

  He got up and poured himself another whisky. He felt let down and demoralised. Everything he’d done had been in vain, he considered. He hadn’t even held on to his job. He heard the creak of the swing door and Mrs. Fanshawe came in. She was wearing his blue towelling dressing-gown and was carrying her dress.

  “Have you got a needle and thread?” she asked innocently. “I’ll try and patch up these tears before I call Denzil.”

  Morgan rummaged around in a few drawers and found what she wanted. Mrs. Fanshawe sat down and began to sew up the dress. Morgan found the domestic scene strangely unsettling. It reminded him uncomfortably of that hot afternoon in her house, fitting the Father Christmas costume, the day he’d … He excused himself, saying he was going to have a shower.

  In the bathroom he stripped off his clothes and washed his dusty, sweaty body clean beneath the cool water. He bent to pick up the soap from the side of the bath and found it wet and slippy. As he worked up a lather he thought it strange to consider that minutes earlier the soap had followed a similar course over Mrs. Fanshawe’s considerable frame. He noticed a sprinkle of talcum powder on the bathroom floor; he saw some black hairs stark against the white enamel of the bath. For some reason he felt a little apprehensive, a ball of air seemed to lodge itself in his throat. He and Mrs. Fanshawe had been through a lot together tonight, he told himself. They had shared considerable danger, been shot at.…

  He pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers and padded back through to the sitting room. Mrs. Fanshawe sat on the sofa, the repaired dress beside her. Her face looked clean, her black hair was combed back from her white forehead, still slightly damp.

  “Have you phoned Denzil yet?” Morgan asked, an unfamiliar catch in his voice.

  “No,” she said deliberately, allowing a silence to fall before adding, “I’ve decided I’d rather stay here tonight, if that’s fine with you.”

  Oh my God, Morgan thought, as he unbuttoned his shirt. No God, no. What was he doing? he asked himself hysterically. What did he think he was playing at? Across on the other side of the bed from him Mrs. Fanshawe removed her dressing-gown, her eyes never leaving his face, a strange relaxed smile on her lips. Morgan’s gaze was locked on to hers, and he was only dimly aware of the large white body in its sensible underwear, caught an unfocussed glimpse of the white breasts tumbling free of the nylon cuirasse that supported them, sensed vaguely the stooping pant-removing gesture that revealed momentarily the patch of dark amidst the creamy plains of her thighs, before she slipped into his bed, pulling the sheet up to her neck.

  Morgan lowered his trousers. After she’d asked if he’d mind her staying, she had risen to her feet and walked over to him. “Let’s have a look at that cut on your forehead,” she commanded, and obediently he lowered his head so she could examine it better, bringing their faces to within a close six inches of each other. Morgan gulped. Suddenly they were kissing, her thin lips pressed to his, her hands running up and down his back. And now she was lying naked in his bed. He eased off his underpants and slid under the sheet to join her. She pulled him close. Hesitantly he allowed his hand to rest on her side, somewhere safe. Her skin felt unbelievably soft and pampered.

  She edged closer. He felt the cushiony weight of her breasts flatten between them. She cupped his face with her hands.

  “Morgan,” she said. “We’ve been through too much tonight not to … not to be with each other now.”

  He nodded wordlessly. He felt his fear and surprise slowly yielding to arousal. He trickled his fingers across her wide thighs. He remembered suddenly that Priscilla’s pants lay in the drawer of the bedside table. What a peculiar world it was, he thought helplessly, where this sort of fateful irony could occur.

  “Do you remember that day you came to try on the Santa Claus outfit?” she asked softly.

  He nodded again.

  “I’ve been thinking about you since then,” she said. “A lot.”

  Surely, Morgan asked himself indignantly, she didn’t think he let it happen on purpose? She must credit him with a seductive technique marginally more refined than … that? As if to prove his point he nuzzled her breasts, touching his lips to a nipple, while she gave an appreciative sigh into his ear.

  The phone rang beside the bed.

  Morgan looked up. “I’d better answer it,” he said. “I’ll take it in the sitting room. It might be …” They both knew who it might be. He pulled on his dressing-gown and ran down the corridor.

  “Yes?” he said, picking up the phone.

  “Mr. Leafy?”

  “Yes. Speaking.”

  “First Secretary at the Commission?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Inspector Gbeho here. Nkongsamba police headquarters.”

  “Hello, Inspector,” Morgan knotted his dressing-gown cord. “What can I do for you?”

  “I phoned Mr. Fanshawe at the Commission but there was no reply. You are the next senior British official in Nkongsamba according to my records.”

  “That’s correct,” Morgan said a little impatiently. “What’s the trouble exactly?”

  “It’s just a routine call, sir, whenever there is a death. To pass on the information.”

  “A death?”

  “Of a British subject.”

  Morgan felt his heart begin to beat faster. He took a deep breath. He shut his eyes, a tremor passing through his body. “I see,” he said. “Who is it?”

  “A man. A Dr. Murray. Dr. Alexander Murray. From the university.… Hello, Mr. Leafy. Are you still there?”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How … What happened?”

  “I believe he was transporting injured students to the Ademola clinic in the university ambulance. The ambulance skidded and crashed. From the rain on the roads. Dr. Murray was killed in the crash.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “No. Some cuts and bruises. Oh yes, the driver broke his leg.”

  “Have you told Murray’s family?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you for phoning, Inspector. I’ll be in touch in the morning.”

  Morgan gently replaced the phone. Murray was dead. He tried to come to terms with the fact. It was hard. He walked out onto the verandah. Dead. Like Innocence. All sorts of ideas and images crowded into his mind. He covered his face with his hands.

  “Who was it, Morgan?” Mrs. Fanshawe called from the bedroom door. She had wrapped the sheet around her. “Was it Arthur?”

  “No. It was the police. Murray’s dead.” He controlled his voice. “Dr. Murray.”

  “Dead? That chap we saw tonight?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “What happened?”

  “Crash. In his ambulance of all things. Something damn bloody silly anyway.”

  “Oh … Are you coming to bed?”

  “Yes. Just give me a second.”

  It was still raining, pattering softly on the roof. He stood on the edge of the verandah and looked out into the night. The thunder passed on towards the coast. The sheet lightning flashed over the jungle to the south. Shango was angry. He thought vaguely t
hat he’d have to see Murray’s family, and as he did so he felt his throat contract and thicken and tears press for a moment in his eyes. Why Murray? he asked himself in despair. A good man like that—there weren’t many of them around—Kojo, Friday, Murray. Why not Dalmire, why not Fanshawe? Why not me?

  “Morgan,” Mrs. Fanshawe called. “Come on, Morgan.”

  He turned to go. Adekunle wouldn’t weep, for one. His land was as good as sold now. Murray wouldn’t like that at all, he thought. In fact, Murray would expect him to do something about it. And perhaps he would, too, now that he had nothing to lose. Perhaps. He thought about it. Innocence could get buried. Celia could have her visa. Maybe Murray deserved his fairness. But what was Morgan Leafy left with? Very little, he answered himself. Very little. No job and no future. Mrs. Fanshawe in the bedroom. And Hazel. Hazel who told him she didn’t want him to leave … but no, he wasn’t sure about Hazel.

  He opened the screen door and walked slowly up the passage towards the bedroom and Chloe Fanshawe. He wondered what Murray would think of this. Not much, he was certain. Alive or dead, Murray somehow managed to barge his way into his life as persistently as ever. And suddenly he didn’t want particularly to go on with it: two large white bodies heaving and grunting in an absurd parody of love.

  He paused at the bedroom door. Chloe Fanshawe lay on the bed, resting on one elbow, the sheet twisted around her large body. She flung it aside.

  “Here you are at last,” she said. “What kept you?”

  “Listen, Chloe,” Morgan began haltingly. “I’ve been … giving things some thought, and I’m not so sure …”

  Outside the rain fell softly in the dark, the toads and crickets made their noises and all sorts of insects began to test and spread their wings in anticipation of the rain stopping. The riot was over, the piazza deserted, smoke wisps curled from the burnt-out cars. Elsewhere in the country units of the Kinjanjan army surrounded Government House, took over the radio and TV stations, and began arresting prominent political leaders. Innocence lay in the muddy compound of the servants’ quarters, and Murray lay on a marble slab in the Ademola morgue. The thunder passed on towards the coast and, somewhere, Shango, that mysterious and incomprehensible god, flashed and capered happily above the silent, dripping jungle.