‘Merry Christmas,’ he said as Morgan shambled through the screen door onto the verandah. He was sitting at the verandah table with the remains of his breakfast in front of him. He gestured at the sunlit garden. ‘Quite bizarre,’ he said. ‘Here I am in a short-sleeved shirt eating — what’s it called? — paw-paw in a temperature of eighty degrees while everyone at home’s wrapped up warm watching the telly.’
‘Yeah well,’ Morgan said surlily through his hangover, thinking of last night’s events, ‘that’s what it’s like in Africa: out of the ordinary.’
‘I’ve got a present for you,’ Bilbow said. ‘Well not so much a present, more of a thank you for last night. Saved me life.’ He held out a slim book. Morgan took it. The Small Carafe and Other Poems by Greg Bilbow.
‘Thanks,’ Morgan said gruffly. Til, ah, have a look at it later.’ He sat down in front of his bowl of cornflakes. He rubbed his eyes. Merry bloody Christmas. He felt hellish, like the survivor of some week-long battle. Surely things would calm down now? He looked across the table at Bilbow — the fine, centrally-parted blond hair, the pinched bespectacled face. He didn’t seem to suspect anything about last night, seemed quite happy to accept Morgan’s version of events. That, at least, was something.
Morgan pushed his uneaten cornflakes to one side and thought about his Christmas Day ahead. First he had to get rid of the decomposing body in his car boot, then dress up as Santa Claus and hand out presents to kids: the contrast seemed ghoulishly obscene.
‘Here,’ Bilbow interrupted his thoughts, ‘talking about presents, there’s a cracking big ‘un arrived for you. It’s in t’sitting room. Bloody heavy it was too.’
Lying on the sitting-room carpet was indeed a huge brightly wrapped present about five feet long. Falling to his knees beside it Morgan savagely tore away the wrapping paper.
‘Christ,’ Bilbow said admiringly.
Morgan looked on aghast. It was a massive mustard and black golf bag, the sort carried by champion American golfers, or rather by their tottering caddies. Fumbling at the buckles and catches Morgan unzipped the hood. A complete set of gleaming golf clubs was revealed, newly minted, like lethal weapons.
‘Here’s a note,’ said Bilbow, picking a card from the torn and shredded pile of wrapping paper.’
‘Have a good game. Sam.’ Jesus, who’s Sam?’
‘My uncle,’ Morgan lied, his throat dry. ‘He’s an eccentric millionaire.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Bilbow observed ‘There’s about four hundred quid’s worth there.’
‘Is there?’ Morgan replied blankly. He’d forgotten about Murray. This was Adekunle’s way of telling him the draw had been rigged. Morgan sat cross-legged on his sitting-room floor, his head in his hands.
‘Here,’ Bilbow asked. ‘Are you all right, Morgan?’
The phone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ Bilbow said agreeably. He went over to the phone. ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘Someone called Fanshawe.’
Morgan shuffled over.
‘Leafy!’ Fanshawe screamed down the phone. ‘Get over here. Now!’
♦
Femi Robinson gave a clenched fist salute as Morgan swept past him into the Commission drive. He noted there were no guards at the gate but thought nothing of it. It was Christmas Day after alclass="underline" a holiday for everyone — except for Robinson. You had to admire the man’s stamina, Morgan thought as he stepped out of his car, he could do with a dose of it himself.
Fanshawe was pacing up and down on the Commission steps, his face white and drawn with anger.
‘Merry Christmas, Arth…’
‘It’s gone!’ Fanshawe exclaimed shrilly. ‘Gone. Disappeared in the night. Vanished!’
‘Of course she has,’ Morgan said calmly. What was the little cretin so upset about? he wondered to himself impatiently. Wasn’t that exactly what he wanted?
‘What do you mean ‘of course’?’ Fanshawe’s face was very close to his own. Morgan backed down the steps.
‘For God’s sake, Arthur,’ he protested. ‘You told me — no, you ordered me to get rid of Innocence’s body. Top priority, sole responsibility, remember? Well I’ve simply followed my instructions that’s all.’ He folded his arms across his chest and looked hurt and offended.
‘Oh no,’ Fanshawe groaned. ‘Oh God no! Don’t tell me she’s in the morgue. Disaster. Utter, utter disaster.’
‘Well no,’ Morgan said, surprised at his vehement chagrin. ‘She’s not in the morgue, she’s in the boot of my car.’
Fanshawe stared very hard at him — as if his face had suddenly turned bright green or smoke was belching from his ears.
‘What?’ Fanshawe demanded hoarsely.
‘In my car.’
‘That one?’
‘It’s the only car I’ve got.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Morgan asked, quickly losing such small reserves of patience as he had left.
‘You’ve got to put her back.’
♦
Morgan gazed out of his office window at the lone defiant figure of Femi Robinson. Surely there was some sort of lesson for him in the man’s stupid perseverance, his stubborn isolation? He looked down at his Peugeot standing in the empty car park full in the glare of the afternoon sun. He winced. The boot would be like a pressure cooker: Christ alone knew what was happening to Innocence in there. He turned away, stoking up the fires of hatred for Fanshawe. If only the stupid bastard had followed his advice, he thought angrily, but oh no, you couldn’t have a decomposing corpse anywhere near the Duchess. So flunky Leafy had removed the body as instructed and what had happened? Every Commission servant had gone on instant strike, had refused to stir from their quarters except to announce their action to a startled Fanshawe over his Christmas breakfast.
Fanshawe had sniffed round the boot of Morgan’s car like a suspicious customs officer searching for drugs, stopping every now and then to stare at Morgan in disbelief. The smell and the hovering flies soon convinced him that the body was indeed there.
‘You’ve got to put it back,’ he said weakly. ‘I almost had a revolt on my hands this morning. A riot. It was frightful.’ He leant against the boot of the car and then leapt back as if the metal was boiling hot. ‘How can you drive around,’ he said with distasteful curiosity, ‘with…that in your car?’ He looked uncomprehendingly at Morgan. ‘Doesn’t it upset you?’ Morgan ignored him. ‘Put it back! he said incredulously. ‘What are you talking about? How, for God’s sake, how?’
‘I don’t care,’ Fanshawe insisted stridently. ‘This strike you’ve landed us in is an absolute catastrophe. The Duchess is arriving here after lunch and there’s not a single Commission servant on duty anywhere.’ He looked wildly round the garden as if he expected to see them crouching defiantly behind the trees and bushes. ‘And tomorrow,’ he went on, ‘tomorrow there are two hundred people coming here for a buffet-lunch reception. It’ll be a farce. A total disgrace!’ He rubbed his forehead vigorously as if to disperse the images of milling, unfed and unwatered dignitaries. ‘At least,’ he said, ‘you haven’t delivered her to the morgue. That is something in your favour. We have a chance of salvaging some shreds of our reputation. You’ve got to have Innocence back where she was by tomorrow, that’s alclass="underline" it’s the only way the servants will come back to work. That’s all there is to it. We can just cope today, but tomorrow we simply must have everyone back at their posts. It’s quite impossible otherwise — we’d never live it down.’
‘Hold on a sec,’ Morgan said, controlling the urge to seize Fanshawe by his scrawny throat. ‘I can’t just drive up to the servants’ quarters and tip her out of the boot. They’ll lynch me, for Christ’s sake! What exactly do you expect me to do?’