‘Can I give you a lift?’ Morgan asked. He felt generous and he had nothing against Robinson: in fact he sympathized with him. ‘I’m going as far as the university,’ he added. Robinson gladly accepted, flung his placards in the back seat and got in beside him. Morgan caught a glimpse of one that read PEDAGOGY YES! DEMAGOGY NO! He pulled the car back on to the road and set off on his way once again. They obviously shared the same destination.
‘You’ve abandoned us then?’ Morgan said, indicating the placards and winding down the window as far as it would go. Robinson could have ideally played Sweat in some allegorical deodorant ad.
Robinson scowled. ‘Since the election has been won according to your plans there is no point in warning the people. So tonight we are protesting at the presence of riot police on the university campus and the planned closure next semester.’
‘But won’t the new government make any difference?’ Morgan asked.
Robinson laughed scornfully at this display of naivety. ‘I assume you are making the joke. I told you: UPKP, KNP — they are just the same. They don’t like students making them trouble.’
‘So you are off to lend your support.’
‘It is my duty, while I can. I expect the PPK to be banned very soon.’
Morgan looked at Robinson with some admiration. He seemed always to be searching for a new set of hopeless odds he could pit himself against. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll put in a good word for you with the new Foreign Minister.’
Robinson looked round sharply. ‘You are going to meet Adekunle already?’
Morgan laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It’s unofficial — a victory celebration I believe.’
‘Fanshawe will be there I suppose,’ Robinson sneered, ‘to congratulate his puppet.’ He spat out the last word with some venom.
Morgan hadn’t considered this possibility. He hoped Robinson was wrong. ‘Adekunle Fanshawe’s puppet?’ he scoffed. ‘That’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?’
Robinson folded his arms across his chest. ‘This is how we see the Anglo-KNP collusion prior to the election. How do you want us to interpret it otherwise?’
Morgan couldn’t think of anything to say. He hoped he hadn’t blundered in telling him of Adekunle’s victory celebration.
He stopped the car outside the university’s main gate. ‘I’ll let you out here, Femi, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if it would be wise for me to be seen delivering revolutionaries to their demonstrations.’
Robinson collected his placards. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed our conversation. It was most interesting.’
♦
As Morgan drew near Adekunle’s house he was waved down by a uniformed guard and told to park his car some distance away. The roads nearby were lined with vehicles but as he approached he saw that the area immediately in front of the house had been left clear and the building itself was lit up with floodlights. He saw loudspeakers rigged up on the first-floor balcony and a dozen or so KNP supporters standing outside the gate. It looked as if Adekunle was planning to deliver a post-election victory address to the party faithful at some point in the evening. The front gate was opened once Morgan had established his credentials and he stepped through and walked down the drive. At the bottom down by the garages were several official-looking limousines and it was with a sinking feeling that he recognized Fanshawe’s black Austin Princess parked alongside Muller’s rather dirty Mercedes. Both cars were also sporting their national flags on the bonnets.
Peter, the Commission driver, snapped out an extravagant salute as Morgan came by. ‘Evenin’, sah,’ he called. Morgan went over.
‘Hello Peter. Mr Fanshawe here?’
‘Yes, sah. I go bring them all.’
♦
‘Yes, sah. Mrs Fanshawe, Mr Dalmire and Miss Fanshawe also.’
Morgan looked towards the house. The downstairs rooms seemed crowded with people. A little victory celebration, Adekunle had said.
‘Are there many people here?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Peter said. ‘Plenty plenty, sah.’
Morgan edged his way through the crowded sitting room towards the bar. The atmosphere was hot and frenetic and there was a mood of euphoria in the air rather like a New Year party. He kept his head down. He didn’t want to see anyone, he was only here because Adekunle had ordered him to attend. He fought his way to the bar.
‘Large whisky please. And soda.’
‘Hello you’ he heard, and looked round. It was Priscilla. ‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘What’s happened to your face? And your hair?’
‘Christmas pud,’ he explained. ‘Too much brandy. Never realized the stuff was so combustible.’ He thought she looked breathtakingly desirable, from the neck down: tanned and glowing with health in a creamy scoop-necked dress.
‘So that’s why we haven’t seen you,’ she said, popping an olive into her mouth. ‘I think Daddy’s been trying to get hold of you for days.’
‘Really?’ Morgan said, touching his elastoplast eyebrow with one hand and trying to control the featherlight cilia of his quiff with the other. ‘I’ve been convalescing,’ he added in explanation. He changed the subject. ‘I thought you and Dickie were going on holiday after Christmas. Skiing, wasn’t it?’
‘We are,’ she said. ‘In fact we shall have to be off soon as we’re driving down overnight to the capital. Plane leaves at some ungodly hour in the morning. Peter’s taking us in the big car. Oh look, there’s Dickie.’
Dalmire approached looking young and clean-cut in a white dinner jacket. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘The prodigal returns. What on earth have you been doing to your face?’ He bent over and whispered in Morgan’s ear. ‘Arthur wants to see you, Morgan. I think he’s in a bit of a bate.’
‘What about?’ Morgan asked.
‘Innocence mainly, I think.’
‘That’s all taken care of now.’
‘And something to do with the Duchess too.’
‘Oh Christ. I suppose I’d better get it over with. Where is he?’
‘Over on the other side of the room. Under that mask thing on the wall.’
Morgan began to ease and weave his way through the packed bodies across the room in the direction Dalmire had indicated. He was halfway there, wedged between an enormous Kinjanjan lady and a gesticulating KNP official when he felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Denzil Jones.
‘Hello, Denzil. Some other time. I’ve got to see Arthur.’
‘Just a word, Morgan,’ Jones wriggled himself closer. He looked downcast and serious. Perspiration gleamed on his blue jowls. He shot a nervous glance around the room. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked, shoving a piece of paper into Morgan’s hand. It was a bill from the Ademola clinic for Hazel’s treatment which it clearly specified along with the penicillin dosage.
‘Doesn’t mean anything to me,’ Morgan said innocently. ‘Have you been overcharged?’ He cursed under his breath: he’d given Hazel money to pay that bill.
‘It’s not bloody true, man!’Jones yelped. ‘It’s not your idea of a joke, is it? Because if it is, it’s not very funny. Not funny at all.’ He looked miserable. ‘Geraldine went mad. She refused to come here tonight.’
‘Sorry, Denzil. Probably some of the buggers at the club.’ He patted Jones’s shoulder. ‘Gheer up, old son.’ He’d always wanted to say that to Jones. He pushed his way on through the crowd.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ he said. Fanshawe was in full regalia: bum-freezer DJ, cummerbund, medal ribbons.
‘Morgan! Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded. ‘And what in God’s name have you done to your face?’