A Good Man in Africa (41 page)

“
Leaving?
” she gasped. “What do you mean, ‘leaving’?”

He tried to smooth down his candyfloss forelock. “I’ve got myself into serious trouble,” he said, still thinking it wise to keep Adekunle out of it. “My fault. My stupidity, but it’s very serious. I’d lose my job. So I’m resigning. Tomorrow. I’m going back home.”

Celia gave a stifled cry. “But you can’t.”

“Can’t what? my darling.”

“You can’t resign your job.”

He smiled at her tenderly. “I have to,” he said. “I’m in a terrible fix. If you knew, you’d see it was the only way. There’s no alternative.” In the dark of the room he saw her cheeks streaming with tears. He felt his heart swell. She was loyal; she cared for him.

“
No!
” she said in a mad, tearful croak. “No. You can’t resign. You can’t,” she repeated. “You can’t, not yet. I need you. I need you for the visa. You’re the only one who can get me the visa.”

“Visa? What visa?”

She beat at his chest with her small fists. “You’ve got to get me a visa for Britain,” she sobbed, her face contorted with grief and dismay. “I’m a Kinjanjan. I have a Kinjanjan passport. I can’t fly home without a visa. You’ve got to get me one. I need a visa to get home and only you can get me one.” Slowly she fell to her knees on the floor.

Morgan stood there. It was as if everything in his body had stopped moving for a second. Brief suspended animation. His mind flashed back to his early meetings with her. He recalled now, how almost from the first there had been innocent inquiries about his job and responsibilities—the momentary alarm when Dalmire arrived, relief when she found out he was still in control. He let out a long quivering breath as the truth hit him with agonising force; he had just been a part of her escape plan—an important one, but a part nonetheless. She couldn’t get free access to Britain with her Kinjanjan passport; she needed a visa. So she found somebody who could supply one without her husband knowing.

Morgan looked down at her crying on the floor. Used again, Leafy, he said to himself. You bloody fool. He felt angry at his conceit, bitterly furious for convincing himself that there was something special here, something different. It was just like everything else, he said to himself with sad cynicism, exactly the same. But what did it matter to him, really? He was an aristocrat of pain and frustration, a prince of anguish and embarrassment. He moved to the door.

“I’m sorry, Celia,” he said. “But it’s too late now.”

Out on the landing he wiped his eyes, took a few deep breaths and flung wild knockout punches at some invisible opponent. Funnily enough, he found he didn’t hate or resent
Celia. He just felt angry with himself for failing to see the facts. Murray was right: it was the old seeming/being trap again, and he fell into it every time. Where was that penetrating insight he prided himself on? he asked. Where’s the gimlet eye that strips away duplicity and pretension, that uncompromising assessor of human motives? He heard a dull roaring in his ears. He leant against the wall and shut his eyes but it didn’t go away. He opened his eyes and it dawned on him that it was coming from outside. He ran to a window and looked out. The crowd seemed suddenly enormous. A dark mass beyond the floodlit garden pressing up against the barbed wire fence and filling the road. They were chanting something rhythmically. He saw a small figure in black leading the shouts with a loudhailer. He listened. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“FAN-SHAWE,” the crowd roared. “FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.”

Morgan dashed down the stairs. The guests had spontaneously backed up against the wall furthest away from the demonstration. There was a hum of uneasy discussion, but people were more occupied casting wary glances about them searching for emergency exits, as if in a basement night-club with a notoriously fallible sprinkler-system. The Commission staff stood to one side looking increasingly uncomfortable. Morgan joined them.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“We were just about to go,” Fanshawe spoke up nervously. “Dickie and Pris had to drive down to the capital for their plane.” He gulped. “Peter had brought round the car to the front door. We saw this huge crowd had turned up. We thought they were KNP supporters, but as soon as I stepped out they went mad. Shouting and jeering.”

“Yer,” Jones chipped in. “Like some kind of signal. FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.”

“Thank you, Denzil,” Fanshawe snapped. “We know what they’re saying.” He turned to Morgan. “What’s it all about, Morgan?” Everybody looked at him.

“Why are you asking me?” he protested. “I don’t know anything.” But before another word could be said there was a crash of breaking glass from upstairs and screams from the women guests. There then followed a hail of stones directed at the house. The party broke up in confusion, people running,
screaming, crawling under tables, huddling in terrified groups as stones and rocks came flying through the open French windows, thudding and skittering onto the carpet. Chairs and sofas were upturned to form flimsy barricades behind which terrified guests crouched.

Morgan rushed to the front door and opened it an inch. He was in time to see Peter abandon the Commission car and take to his heels. At the top of the drive some thirty yards away Morgan saw a line of Adekunle’s uniformed servants manning the firmly closed gates. And beyond them, clutching a megaphone, the small dark figure of Femi Robinson.

“UK OUT,” he bellowed verbosely. “NO EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE WITH KINJANJAN AUTONOMY.”

Unable to chant this, the crowd satisfied themselves with shouts of “FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.”

A stone thudded into the door. Oh my Christ, Morgan thought, I told him we’d be here. Robinson must have convinced a good few of the demonstrating students that their protests would be more effectively directed at Fanshawe than at the university authorities. It must have seemed a golden opportunity—the conspirators caught celebrating. Morgan felt sick. He looked round and saw the object of the mob’s abuse equally white-faced with fear.

“How did they know I was coming here tonight?” Fanshawe whimpered. “Morgan, this is ghastly. You’ve got to do something.”

“Me?” There were more wails and screams from the guests as another volley of missiles spattered against the house’s façade. Morgan saw Adekunle and Muller striding towards them.

“Is this your doing, my friend?” Adekunle hissed at Morgan.

“Me?” Morgan repeated, dumbfounded that he should be so singled out in this way. “For God’s sake, no!”

“ADEKUNLE IS A PUPPET OF UK,” Robinson screamed outside.

“FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE,” agreed the crowd.

“Students,” Adekunle spat out the word. “Phone for the police,” he ordered an aide.

Muller peered out of the door. “That gate is going to go soon,” he observed calmly. “Look. They are burning a Union Jack now.” Morgan looked over his shoulder and confirmed it.

“FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE,” the crowd chanted tirelessly. It was a very chantable name, Morgan thought.

“My God, what if they break through?” Fanshawe squeaked in terror to his wife, Jones, Dalmire and Priscilla, who had joined the group in the hall. They all ducked as another window shattered somewhere above them.

“KNP IS A BRITISH POLITICAL PARTY,” boomed Robinson’s amplified voice.

“This is disgraceful, intolerable,” Adekunle ranted. “My house is being destroyed. My reputation ruined. I am meant to be giving a victory speech. There will be journalists and TV here in an hour.” His words were almost drowned by the thumping beat of FAN-SHAWE FAN-SHAWE from hundreds of straining throats.

“It seems to me that it’s only you British they want,” Muller stated coldly. “They’ve no argument with the rest of us here. If you go maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

“
Well!
” Mrs. Fanshawe expostulated, her eyes roasting Muller’s thin body.

“Typical bloody Hun remark,” yipped Fanshawe from her side.

“Yer,” Jones added patriotically. “Who won the war, boyo, eh? Answer me that if you damn well please.”

“Daddy, Daddy, what’ll we do?” Priscilla whined. Dalmire hugged her to him reassuringly.

“FANSHAWE IS A FASCIST IMPERIALIST CRIMINAL,” Robinson trumpeted, setting up a blood-curdling yell of accord from the mob.

“You have to get out!” Adekunle shouted suddenly. “
Get out!
Get out of my house. I’m ordering you.” His eyes were wide with panicky alarm.

“Hold on,” Morgan countered angrily. “We can’t just wander off. They’ll stone us to death.” As if to illustrate this point forcefully more stones clattered against the door.

“I don’t care!” Adekunle proclaimed. “Muller is right. They only want you. Go to your own houses. Fight your battles on your own ground.”

As the saying goes, Morgan thought sarcastically. He thought he’d never seen a more pathetic craven bunch. “Listen,” he
said. “I’ve got an idea.” All heads turned to face him. “They want Arthur, right? So let’s give them Arthur.”

“
Leafy!
” Fanshawe squawked, swaying back on his heels. “Are you out of your mind? What are you saying, man?”

“Not
you
, Arthur,” he said, a surge of confidence flooding through his body, “
me.
I’ll go in your place as a decoy. I’ll lead the crowd away and then the rest of you can make your escape.” There was a sudden silence in the hall as they considered this idea. Morgan wondered what had made him suggest this course of action. Drink, yes. Guilt too. But above all a desire to get out,
do
something.

“But how will they know it’s me and not you?” Fanshawe asked, hope flickering in his eyes.

“I’ll take the car,” Morgan said. “You lot can take mine; it’s parked back up the road. Head straight for the capital and the High Commission. Dickie and Priscilla can even catch their plane.” He thrust his car keys into Fanshawe’s hand. “And,” he said in a flash of inspiration, “let me change into your suit. Tell the guards to fling open the gates and I’ll drive out hell-for-leather.”

“It might work,” Muller said.

“Do it!” Adekunle commanded.

As quickly as they could Morgan and Fanshawe swapped clothes, the females present modestly turning away. Fanshawe’s jacket and trousers fitted Morgan like a second skin; bracing his shoulders back, forcing his chest out, the sleeves stopping in mid forearm, a two inch gap of leg visible between his turn-ups and socks.

“It’s a bit small, isn’t it?” Mrs. Fanshawe said, raising her voice to be heard above the relentless swell and crash of her husband’s name being shouted outside.

“I’m only after the effect,” Morgan panted, hastily knotting the bow tie. “They’ll just see someone in black and white dash into the car.” Adekunle meanwhile gave orders to a servant to inform the guards at the gate of the plan and the man slipped unwillingly out of the front door and sprinted up the drive to pass on the instructions.

“OK?” Morgan asked, wanting to be off before second thoughts could catch up with him.

“We need a moustache,” Dalmire suggested and Priscilla rummaged in her handbag for an eyebrow pencil. She drew a thin moustache on Morgan’s upper lip.

“How do I look?” he asked, and everyone laughed nervously. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go. As soon as the crowd break away, get into my car and head off. They may besiege the Commission tomorrow for all we know.” He stood poised by the door. He felt surprisingly calm. He was glad to be getting out of the house. He was fed up pissing about in this country.

“Wait,” Mrs. Fanshawe suddenly announced. “I’m coming with you. It’ll be far more convincing if we both go. Arthur’s hardly likely to make a dash for it without me.”

“No, Mummy,” Priscilla cried.

“Chloe. I can’t allow it,” Fanshawe piped up.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Fanshawe exclaimed. “When you leave here go to the Commission and we’ll try and meet you there. Don’t wait long. If we’re held up go on down to the capital. There are plenty of people I can stay with until things calm down. I’ll be in no danger.” She would hear of no arguments in opposition. “Don’t you agree, Morgan?” she asked.

“A brilliant idea,” Adekunle contributed.

“Well, it’ll certainly be more realistic,” Morgan admitted. “But are you sure …?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She said goodbye to her family: Fanshawe like some woebegone derelict in an outsize Salvation Army suit; Dalmire and Priscilla proud and young (Priscilla sniffling a bit but probably glad she wouldn’t miss her ski holiday, Morgan thought). Adekunle and Muller stood behind them—Adekunle fierce and outraged, Muller looking quite unconcerned. Beyond them Morgan saw Celia hunched miserably on the stairs.

Jones slapped him on the back. “Good man, Morgan,” he said. “You give ’em ’ell.”

With a nod to each other, Morgan and Mrs. Fanshawe paused briefly at the door, then flung it open and dashed down the steps to the car. There was a great shout from the multitudes behind the fence as the objects of their venom appeared and a fresh salvo of stones was launched. Morgan leapt into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, Mrs. Fanshawe doing the same beside him almost simultaneously. Peter, thankfully, had left the key in the ignition and Morgan started the engine. Stones
pinged off the bodywork of the car. The crowd surged forward against the fence screaming and shouting.

“Get down,” Morgan yelled. “Here we go!” He put the car in gear and accelerated up the drive, hunched over the wheel, his hand jammed down on the horn. Taken aback at this sudden blaring charge, the crowd at the gate recoiled in terror, unwilling to be mown down. The guards dragged wide the gates and in seconds the large black car thundered through, people flinging themselves madly out of the way. Morgan swung the car fiercely onto the road, all the windows simultaneously shattering as a barrage of sticks, bottles and stones was hurled at this new target. He glimpsed Femi Robinson extricating himself from a bush, brandishing his megaphone in frustrated rage. Elbowing a hole in the fragmented windscreen, Morgan gunned the motor and sped down the road away from Adekunle’s house. On both sides the massed demonstrators pelted the car as it flashed by. A small stone came in through the right window and glanced off Morgan’s head. Reflexively, he swerved the car and it ploughed off the road, lurching into the shallow ditch. Morgan snatched a look back out of the window and saw the mob streaming after him in hot bellowing pursuit, the leaders a mere twenty or thirty yards away. Frantically he changed down, rammed the accelerator to the floor and the car leapt out of the ditch, its rear wheels spinning furiously, sending up great gouts of dust and gravel. Without thinking of where he was going Morgan took the first turning that presented itself, drove until another road branched off, turned down it, took a left, a right, another right. Very soon all sounds of pursuit died away. He motored steadily along the narrow tree-lined campus roads, the panic seeping from his body, bungalows lying sedately on either side, the wind whistling through the shattered windows, cool on his face.