A Good Man in Africa (42 page)

“I think we made it,” he said huskily to Mrs. Fanshawe.

“Yes,” she said in a quiet voice, sitting upright again. “Do you … do you think the others will have got away?”

“I should think so, we caused enough of a distraction. And anyway, I think it was clear that their argument was with us … that is, with Arthur.”

“Poor Arthur,” Mrs. Fanshawe said, putting her hand up to her mouth. “He’ll be so terribly upset about all this.”

Morgan made no reply to that. He peered ahead of him. He had no idea where he was. The residential areas of the campus were a maze of these quiet dark roads. He looked quickly at Mrs. Fanshawe. She had hardly spoken, hadn’t screamed or made any kind of a fuss, just sat clinging to her seat. He was impressed. They came to a crossroads and he stopped the car.

“Any clue which way?” he asked, turning to face her.

“Oh Lord, you’ve got blood on your face,” she said. Morgan touched his forehead above his right eye. His fingertips came away dark and wet.

“I was hit by a stone,” he said. “Probably looks worse than it is. Just a scratch,” he added bravely.

“I think if you turn left here it should take us to the main gate.”

Morgan did as she advised. He noticed the roads were strangely empty. They had seen no other cars and many of the staff houses showed no lights. Everyone battening down the hatches with a campus revolution on their hands, he thought. He heard a heavy rumble of thunder. The promised rain was approaching.

“Thunder,” he commented, just wanting to say something. “That should damp their spirits a bit.”

They drove round a sharp bend. As they did so the headlights picked out the lone figure of a man standing at the corner of a road junction. Morgan drove past and then slammed his foot on the brakes.

“Why have you stopped?” Mrs. Fanshawe asked, surprised.

“That was Murray.”

“Who?”

“Murray. Dr. Murray. That man standing by the road there.”

“So what?”

“I … I’ve got something to tell him. Won’t be a sec.” Morgan got out of the car and jogged back up the road.

“Dr. Murray,” he called. “Alex. It’s me, Morgan Leafy.” Murray was standing at the roadside in his usual outfit of grey flannels, white short-sleeved shirt and tie. He looked closely at Morgan in the dark.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked in tones of real astonishment. Morgan realised suddenly what kind of outlandish figure he must cut in his shrunken formal clothes, his scrawled
moustache, elastoplast eyebrow and bloodied forehead. He told Murray about the riot outside Adekunle’s house.

“Mrs. Fanshawe and I made our escape,” he concluded. “Drew the mob away, I think.”

“Quite the hero,” Murray said drily. “I wouldn’t carry on much further up this road though if I were you,” he went on. “There’s a pitched battle going on between the riot police and the students occupying the administrative offices. You’ll run right into the middle of it. Listen.” Morgan heard above the shrill of the crickets in the grass and hedges a distant shouting and a kind of firework-popping effect.

“I’m told the riot police are blazing away at anything that moves and there’s tear gas everywhere.”

“Oh Christ,” Morgan said. “What do we do now?”

“There’s only one other road out of the campus but it’s miles back in the other direction. I doubt you’ll be able to find it.”

“What are you doing out anyway?” Morgan inquired. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind,” Murray said. “I’m waiting for my ambulance to come and pick me up. Apparently my clinic’s full of injured students. Broken heads and broken bones. And some gunshot wounds.”

“Oh.”

“If you want to stay at my house you’re very welcome. It’s just up the road there.”

“Thanks,” Morgan said. “But we’ve got to try and reunite Mrs. Fanshawe with her family and get them down to the High Commission. I think we’ll try and skirt round the riot, sneak out of the main gate.”

“Well, be careful,” Murray warned. “Those riot squad boys are not the most amenable characters.”

“We will,” Morgan said. There was a pause. “Look,” he said a little awkwardly, “the reason I stopped was that I wanted to tell you that I’ve decided to resign my job tomorrow. I’ll be leaving soon—so you don’t need to worry about me when you make your report. Just as well,” he shrugged. “You were right. It’s better to face up to it.” He tried to grin in the darkness but it didn’t really come off. “I feel it’s the right thing, you know. This place and me … well, never really got on. I think in a way I’ll actually be quite glad to be shot of it all. So,” he spread
his arms, “give Adekunle the works. There’s nothing he can do … you know, that’s going to foul things up for me. I’ve, ah, beaten him to it. Ha ha.” The hollow laugh died away.

“I shall,” Murray said. “Don’t worry.”

There was a silence. It seemed to form like a wall between them. There was so much that he suddenly wanted to say to Murray: vaguely articulated ideas, half thought-out notions, old apologies, explanations.

“One more thing,” Morgan said. “I almost forgot. I found out tonight that Adekunle’s got some chum in the Senate who plans to ‘lose’ your committee’s minutes. I’d take a few copies if I were you.”

“I will,” Murray said. “Many thanks. They’ll never buy that land from him, don’t worry.”

“Great,” Morgan said, patting his pockets like a man searching for matches. “Good,” he nodded. “Sure we can’t give you a lift somewhere?”

“No thanks. The ambulance will be here any minute.”

“Right.” He looked round. “Well,” he breathed out loudly. How could he say what he felt to Murray? “I just wanted to see you … tell you about things.” He let his eyes rest on Murray’s face but it was too dark for him to distinguish his features clearly. He held out his hand and Murray shook it briefly. He held the dry cool hand for a second. “Well, I’ll, ah, see you, Alex. Maybe next week? Perhaps I could look by … before I go. I just wanted to put you in the picture now.”

“Fine,” Murray said. “Thanks, Morgan. It was good of you.”

Morgan gave a half wave, muttered something indistinct and walked away. Thunder mumbled in the sky overhead. In the car he looked back and saw Murray standing there, saw the faint gleam of his white shirt.

“What shall we do?” Mrs. Fanshawe asked, looking at the line of riot police that effectively cut them off from the main gate and safety. Morgan could think of no reply at the moment so he kept his mouth shut. They were hiding behind a dense bush some fifty yards away from the administration block which looked as if it had been the target for an air strike. Three cars blazed furiously in front of it, casting a flickering orange glow over the white walls of the arts theatre, the bookshop and the senate offices. Every visible window had been smashed, makeshift barricades of office furniture blocked walkways and entrances and thousands of sheets of paper blew across the piazza and around the foot of the clock tower. Ahead of them stretched the dual carriageway that led to the main gate and across which now stood a three-deep line of fully equipped riot police who were slowly advancing towards the occupied administrative offices. From the darkness came screams, shouts and catcalls from marauding students who occasionally crept close enough to the regrouping riot police to pelt them with stones and any other missiles that came to hand. The air tingled with dispersing tear gas, making their eyes water and their skin itchy. From time to time an edgy policeman loosed off a warning round into the air.

Morgan thought the atmosphere reminded him of the fateful lull before a battle. Like melodramatic stage effects the thunder grumbled distantly and lightning flickered along the western horizon. It looked as though the centre of the storm was passing Nkongsamba by, but a few fat drops of rain had fallen to add to their discomfort.

After leaving Murray they had driven on up the road going slower and slower as the noise of the tumult ahead increased. They thought about retracing their steps and looking for the back gate, but their ignorance of the route and the prospect of bumping into frustrated rioters made them decide eventually to abandon the battered car and try to skirt round the trouble, leaving the roads and cutting through several gardens to reach their present position behind the bush. Morgan looked at Mrs. Fanshawe. Her pink dress was torn at the hem and looked grubby; the pearls round her neck individually trapped the flames of the burning cars. She showed no signs of flagging yet.

Morgan, however, felt exhausted, the tensions of the drive knotting and cramping every muscle in his body. He felt morose and uncaring too, troubled by his strange meeting with Murray.…

“Morgan,” Mrs. Fanshawe hissed. “If those men keep walking in this direction they’re going to stumble right over us.”

“Oh God. Christ yes, you’re right. What do you want to do, Chloe? Shall we go back to the car? Perhaps we could hide in one of the houses?”

“Let’s just get out of this lunatic asylum,” she said. “If we cut back into the gardens again,” she pointed to the gardens of the houses that lined the dual carriageway, “surely we can work our way round to the main gate.”

“Yes,” he said, complimenting her on her presence of mind. “Good idea.” He felt a sudden compulsion to lie down and go to sleep. He watched the advancing riot police fire half a dozen canisters of tear gas at the besieged administrative offices. Two of them exploded prettily on the piazza, sending thick orange-tinted clouds of gas spreading among the trampled flower-beds and ornamental fish-ponds.

“Morgan!” Mrs. Fanshawe rebuked him. “Let’s go, for heaven’s sake!” He looked up and saw the line of police about thirty
yards in front of him, some with round shields, gas masks and long truncheons, some with rifles carried at port arms. An icy douche of raw terror sluicing through his veins, he seized Mrs. Fanshawe’s hand and, keeping in a low crouch, they scurried from the shelter of their bush and dashed across a patch of open ground making for the high hedge of the nearest garden.

An immediate shout went up from the police, and from the corner of his eye he caught the muzzle flash of rifles as they were fired. He didn’t hear the sound of the shots, just a curious slapping noise in the air around his head which he half-registered as the effect of bullets passing close by. He gave a heaving sob, straightened up and dragged Mrs. Fanshawe on behind him. He heard the pounding of heavy boots as some of the riot squad decided to give chase.

“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.