by William Boyd
Morgan knew that if he didn’t approach Murray soon it would be too late and he grew progressively more unhappy about the task ahead. The game of golf, he now saw, had been a bad idea. Perhaps if Murray had shown resentment at his rudeness the other night, if he’d been sniffy and stand-offish, made it clear that he didn’t like him that much, found the idea of a round of golf in his company distasteful, it would have been less of a problem. He had been expecting something like that, he supposed: the Calvinistic cold shoulder. But Murray had been amicable and considerate, and he realised that his dreams of destroying him held no appeal, were non-existent really because, he saw, the Murray he detested lived on only in his mind—had little or nothing to do with the man walking by his side. There would be no satisfaction in watching this Murray crumble now—he just didn’t hate the man enough; in fact, surprised as he was at the admission, he almost liked him. Murray was right, he thought; he had confused seeming with being. He’d established an idea about the man in his head on the basis of a couple of incidents and had never really bothered to check its veracity. With a depressingly acute flash of insight he realised that he did the same with almost everyone he met.… But all these speculations were academic; Murray still had to be bribed and that was that—his own survival depended on it. He was only sorry that this new-found knowledge about his victim made the success of his venture almost inevitable; Murray was as human and fallible as he was.
He allowed his thoughts to switch to Fanshawe and the reception for the Duchess that would be going on at this very moment. He hadn’t troubled to inform anyone that he wouldn’t be present. It was just as well, he considered. He was sure the Duchess wouldn’t object—he knew with a strange certainty that no one would hear about their meeting in the bathroom. Shivering slightly at the memory, he recalled the stark unappealing nudity. Another example, he suddenly realised, of the old seeming/being gulf: just another middle-aged lady—nothing regal, nothing remotely special or different there.
They walked down the fairway of the fourteenth hole. It was a long one, par 5, and represented the extremity of the golf course’s thrust out into the jungle. They turned back towards the town after this. Morgan felt an unfamiliar weakness in his knees, a quiet roaring in his ears, his heart beating strongly in his head. He checked that Murray’s son was out of earshot.
“How …” he cleared the squeak from his throat. “How would you fancy ten thousand pounds?” he asked suddenly.
“Pardon?” Murray looked round in surprise.
“Ten thousand pounds. How would you like it?” he repeated with leering cupidity.
“You offering?” Murray said with a smile.
“No, I mean … You could do a lot with ten thousand. I mean one could …” He back-pedalled a little. “You know, I was just thinking it’s a … sort of handy sum. Not like winning the pools but … useful just the same.”
“Yes,” Murray said non-committally. “I suppose you’re right. Very useful. Why?”
Morgan’s fortitude seemed to collapse in upon itself like a dying star. “You can have it if you want,” he said quietly.
Murray stopped in his tracks. “Sorry?” he said frowning. “I can have what?”
“Ten thousand pounds. You can have it.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” He waved away his son who was walking back towards them to see why they’d stopped. “What do you mean, I can have ten thousand pounds?”
Morgan swallowed. He felt the heat hammering down on his head. His singe marks stung with sweat. “I will give you ten thousand pounds,” he said slowly. “If … if you do something.”
“Come on, Dad,” the boy shouted.
“I see,” Murray said. He looked serious and saddened. “If I do something. And what is this something?”
“You have to put in a positive report on the new hall of residence and cafeteria site,” Morgan said in a rush.
Murray’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He fixed his penetrating gaze on Morgan’s sweating face. “The hall site? You want me to change my mind. How do you know …? Wait, wait a second … What has the University of Nkongsamba’s building programme got to do with you, for Christ’s sake?”
Morgan removed his sun-visor and wiped his brow. He felt he was about to die. Desperation mounted in his body like flood-waters behind a flimsy dam. He tried to keep calm.
“Well, not me so much. I’m acting for someone.”
“Who?”
“I … I can’t tell you that, obviously.”
Murray gripped Morgan’s arm. “What the hell have you got into? you stupid bloody fool.” Morgan felt his head spin. Everything was going wrong. Why was Murray interrogating him like this? He saw Murray thinking hard.
“Who’s behind it?” he said again.
Morgan tried to pull himself together. “I’m not at liberty …” he began pompously, but Murray interrupted him with an upraised palm.
“Let me guess,” Murray said. “It’s Adekunle, isn’t it?”
“No!” Morgan said hastily, realised he’d countered with giveaway swiftness, said “Who?” in a futile attempt to regain lost ground. He saw there was no point in denying it. “Yes,” he admitted in a low voice.
Murray released his grip. “I thought so,” he said as though to himself, “I’d been suspicious …” He returned his attention to Morgan who stood there looking at the ground. “I’m sorry, Morgan,” he said feelingly. “Very sorry. But I just can’t let this one go. You can understand my position. I have to report it.”
That was it. The weight was too much for the hurriedly assembled collection of twigs and branches. The flood-waters burst through, sweeping everything away. Morgan felt the prickle of tears on his eyelids, brimming behind his lashes. Too late he closed his eyes, squeezed them tight shut but the tears seeped through, fat and hot, trickling down his fat hot cheeks as his legs gave way beneath him.
Murray’s son stood aimlessly with the two caddies some dozen yards off. He looked puzzled and angry, Morgan thought, watching the boy throw stones into the bush. Morgan was sitting propped up against a tree at the edge of the fairway. He wondered if he’d passed out or if his brain had simply refused to record events, so embarrassing had they been—a kind of merciful amnesia to spare him further torments.
Murray stood beside him looking down. “All right now?” he asked considerately.
Morgan scrambled to his feet rubbing his eyes. “Christ,” he said shakily. “Sorry I fell to pieces.” He took a deep breath. “But if you knew what I’d been through the last few days you’d be amazed that I can still function normally at all.”
“Adekunle?”
“No. Not entirely. Other things as well. I’ll tell you about them some day: they’ll make your hair curl.” Morgan dusted the grass off his trousers. “All things considered, Adekunle’s been quite reasonable under the circumstances.”
Murray handed him his sun-visor. “I think we’d better call it a day,” he said. “Head back to the club house.” Morgan agreed, and they walked off in silence back up the fairway, Murray’s son and the caddies remaining a discreet ten yards behind. Morgan shot a glance at Murray’s face. It was set firm in concentration, his brow lowered in a frown. Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the knots of tension his muscles had twisted themselves into. Paradoxically, he felt better; one problem at least was over—resolved—however unsatisfactorily. He wouldn’t have to bribe Murray again.
“Look,” Morgan said, keen to break the silence. “I’m sorry. I … I was acting under instructions.”
“I take it he’s threatening you with something?”
“God yes. You don’t think I’m his partner, do you?” Morgan looked offended.
Murray apologised. “What has he got on you?” he asked.
Morgan let out a long breath. “I think it’s probably better if I keep that to myself. Let’s just say he knows something that I’d rather my boss didn’t. Nothing criminal,” he added hastily. “More in the scandal line—if y
ou know what I mean.”
“I see.” Murray ran a hand through his hair. “It sounds like a real mess to me.” He paused. “What would happen to you if Mr. Fanshawe found out about whatever this scandal is?”
Morgan shrugged. He told himself it didn’t matter so much now. “Oh, I don’t know. Disgrace. Sent home. I’ll lose my job for sure. Fanshawe and I aren’t exactly best buddies anyway at the moment.”
Murray didn’t say anything to this and they continued their walk in silence. Back at the club house they paid off the caddies and put their clubs in their cars. Morgan slung his in the back seat. He wasn’t ever going to use his boot again.
He suddenly felt the familiar panic seize his heart as he contemplated the results of Murray reporting him. He had been lying to himself earlier; losing his job did matter—more than anything, and the thought of an ignominious return to Britain made him feel sick. Somehow he had to persuade Murray to go easy; the man seemed to like him, perhaps he’d agree to help if he knew how he really felt. He walked over to Murray’s car and overheard his son ask, “Dad, why was that man crying like that?” and he wished the poisonous little brat would clear off.
“Alex,” Morgan called. “Can I … can I have a word?” Murray came over.
“This is incredibly embarrassing for me,” Morgan said, “but I have to ask. Please don’t report this to anyone.”
“But I’ve told …”
“I’m begging you,” Morgan said earnestly. “Please. I will lose my job, you see, and it’s the only thing in my life that means anything to me, that’s any good at all. Please.”
“What are you asking me to do?” Murray said. “Pretend all this never happened?”
Morgan squirmed. “Well … yes.” But he saw immediately that it wouldn’t be enough. “Couldn’t you just forget about making that negative report on the site? You see, if you do veto the project Adekunle will go to Fanshawe anyway. That was the deal: I had to stop you from doing that.”
Murray lowered his voice. “So in fact you want me to give the all clear for the hall project. But why should I?”
“For me,” Morgan pleaded. “Otherwise I’m finished. I mean that. Not just my job. Everything.”
“Why is this project so important to Adekunle? Is he bidding for the contract through Ussman Danda?”
“No,” Morgan said quietly. “He owns the land.”
Murray looked up at the sky. “Jesus Christ,” he laughed sardonically, “no wonder he’ll pay ten thousand pounds.”
“That’s still available, by the way,” Morgan interjected.
“I’ll forget you said that,” Murray responded harshly. He paused. “You’re asking me to let that hall project go through for your sake alone—so that you can keep your job.”
Morgan looked at the ground. “Yes,” he said ashamedly. “I know I’m a bloody fool, that I got myself in this mess but …”
“No,” Murray said flatly. “I’m sorry, Morgan, but no. I just can’t—won’t—go that far.”
“But why not?” Morgan beseeched unreasonably. “Why not? What’s so important about the University of Nkongsamba, Adekunle, this country? What does it matter to us—people like us? In the end there’s absolutely nothing we can do; the Adekunles of this world’ll win through eventually. Let them build the bloody hall there.” He felt like a man seeing the end of his tether twitch beyond his grasp.
“It’s got absolutely nothing to do with the University of Nkongsamba,” Murray said patiently.
“Then why won’t you do this one little thing?” Morgan asked despairingly. “I’ll go down on my knees if you like.” He felt the familiar sensations of intense Murray-hatred returning. “Is it because it’s ‘wrong’?” he asked sarcastically. “You don’t want to do the ‘wrong’ thing, is that it? Can’t you see that life’s just not that simple? Good/bad, right/wrong. It just doesn’t work that way any more.” He spread his hands. “You’re way out of touch, Alex, out on a limb; nobody else is playing by those rules, so why you? Why is it so important for me to lose my job?”
Morgan saw Murray’s jaw muscles tighten. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn about your job,” he said in his steely Scottish voice. “If you’re a big enough bloody fool to get entangled with people like Adekunle then that’s your problem. As for your simple reading of how my mind works, that’s off-target too. I’m not concerned about ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as you put it either; if I’m interested in anything, it’s in seeing a bit of fairness in the world, and I just don’t think it’s fair that some greedy bastard like Adekunle should cheat his way into several hundred thousand pounds at other people’s expense. And I’m afraid for your sake that I can’t just sit back and let him get away with it. And now that I’m in a position to see that he doesn’t, nothing’s going to stop me. I won’t worry too much about whether it’s right or wrong but at least I’ll be secure in the knowledge that some justice has been done, that one fat bastard hasn’t had it all his own way. I’m sorry, but I can’t see my letting you keep your job, and thereby allowing the University of Nkongsamba to build a hall of residence on a rubbish dump and provide Adekunle with a small fortune, as being remotely just or fair. It may sound stupid but I couldn’t forgive myself.”
Morgan’s shoulders slumped. He felt exhausted. He felt angry because there was no response he could make: he agreed with everything Murray had said.
“Look,” Murray continued in a less passionate tone. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t make any report until January the third which is the day my committee meets again. Adekunle’s had it now. I’m not naive enough to believe I can ever prove he owns the land, but nothing he can do can stop my negative report. That gives you time to sort things out yourself—and I promise I won’t mention your name in connection with this.”
“But Adekunle will, don’t you see?”
“That’s why I’m giving you the time. Pre-empt him. Go to Fanshawe yourself; tell him everything before Adekunle can.”
Morgan groaned. “No, it won’t work. I could never tell Fanshawe these things. You don’t know him, don’t know his expectations. He’d go raving mad.”
“It’s your only option,” Murray said. “You never can tell about people, what they’ll think, what they’ll do. You may be surprised.” He waved at his son. “See Fanshawe,” he advised, “lay things on the line. But remember: January the third and I make my report to the Buildings, Works and Sites Committee.” He paused and touched Morgan fleetingly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’ve got to do it.”
Morgan watched him go to join his son.
Chapter 8
Morgan lay on Hazel’s bed staring up at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. Hazel had gone out to buy him more beer as he had drunk his way through the six bottles in the fridge during the course of the afternoon. He had come to the flat straight after his catastrophic round of golf with Murray, gone into hiding like a fugitive, lying low. Before he’d left the club he’d phoned Bilbow, told him to make himself at home and said that he didn’t know when he’d be back.
“That Adekunle chap came round this morning just after you’d left,” Bilbow had said. “Seemed very keen to see you. Oh yes, and if that Fanshawe character rings up once more I think I’ll blow me top. He’s phoned half a dozen times today already. What’ve you done to him?”
Morgan’s heart sagged. What were Fanshawe and Adekunle after? “Never mind,” he’d told Bilbow. “Just keep telling them you don’t know where I am.”
“As you wish, squire,” Bilbow cheerily acknowledged.
Morgan had passed the day in a perplexing succession of moods: deep Stygian gloom, devil-may-care indifference, throat-tightening self-pity and his usual apocalyptic universe-hating rages. The sole alteration in the pattern was that Murray did not appear as major target of his vengeful fury. It was no longer the same between him and Murray now, he realised; the old clear-cut division had been replaced by something more complex and puzzling. The front-line had dis
appeared. This was a turn in events that he found distinctly off-putting, for it seemed to take no account of the fact that Murray had bluntly told him that he was not going to change his mind about the negative site report—the pivot upon which the future hinged as far as he was concerned. He just couldn’t understand why he was letting the man off so lightly.
The next morning he lay contentedly in bed watching Hazel get dressed. The sun shone through the slats in the shutters. The traffic sounds came up fuzzily from the street below.
“Where are you going, by the way?” he asked her.
“To vote, of course,” she said.
“Christ yes!” he exclaimed. “That’s right, it’s election day today. God. Do you know I’d completely forgotten. Who are you going to vote for?”
Hazel picked up her handbag and adjusted her wig. He wished he hadn’t asked; he knew what she was going to say. She looked round. “KNP,” she said simply. “For a united Kinjanja.”
Morgan’s benign morning mood disappeared. He thought suddenly of his fate and the grim alternatives in front of him—either he told Fanshawe or Adekunle would. He sat up in bed, a serious look on his face.
“I think there is something you should know, Hazel,” he said. Hazel stopped at the door. “I’m afraid things may be changing soon.”
“In what way?”
“I think I might be leaving. Going back to the UK.” He scrutinised Hazel’s face for her reaction. She appeared to be considering the news, her bottom lip thrust out, her almond eyes narrowed.
“For why?”
“Well … I’m in a bit of trouble, you see, and they’ll send me back home as a punishment,” he said. Hazel shrugged. “How … How do you feel about that?” he asked, beckoning her over to the bed. She sat down beside him. He put his arm round her shoulders. “Will you be sorry?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. “I don’t want you to go.” But he couldn’t see any tears in her eyes.
