‘A slight accident. I’ve been, ah, convalescing. Needed a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘Oh marvellous,’ Fanshawe said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Marvellous. And what about Innocence eh? Just leave her to rot.’
‘I got her back, didn’t I?’ Morgan said petulantly. He explained the new arrangements he’d made and Fanshawe seemed to calm down somewhat. ‘All the servants came back on time, I assume?’ Morgan said. ‘Did the function go all right?’
Fanshawe put his hands on his hips. ‘Good question. It did actually. But why weren’t you there?’
‘I wasn’t well, I told you. Listen Arthur…’
‘You were missed you know,’ Fanshawe said. ‘Particularly by the Duchess. For some reason she kept asking where you were. Got in a very bad mood when you never appeared.’
Fanshawe thought some more about this. ‘Curious woman…very pleasant though, mind you. Seemed especially put out by your absence.’ He looked suspiciously at Morgan. ‘Make any sense?’
‘Beats me,’ Morgan said. ‘Look, Arthur, I want to talk to you about something important.’
‘Still,’ Fanshawe said, completely ignoring him and clapping him on the shoulder, ‘water under the bridge and all that.’ He gestured at the party. ‘All’s well et cetera.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Kingpin looks like paying off. Lucky for all of us.’
‘That’s actually what I want to talk about, Arthur, I…’
‘Good grief.’ It was Chloe Fanshawe, brushing aside a couple of guests to intrude upon their dialogue. ‘What’s happened to your face? Your hair?’ She was wearing a shocking pink dress encrusted with silvery threadwork and had a triple rope of pearls around the soft folds of her neck. She must have re-dyed her hair, Morgan thought, its blackness was so dense, giving her skin the edible texture and whiteness of marshrnallow.
‘My Christmas present,’ Morgan improvised. ‘Cigarette lighter. Turned the flame adjuster the wrong way. Lit a cigarette and whoomph.’
‘Dear me. Shame…Arthur, come along. I want you to meet…’
Morgan clawed his way back to the bar. Obviously he wasn’t going to be able to break the news of his resignation to Fanshawe tonight. He replenished his drink. He noticed Dalmire and Priscilla chatting cosily and the old envy returned to him for a minute. He turned away and saw Georg Muller and his daughter Liesl coming over. Morgan raised his hand in salutation. He knew her well, she came out every year for Xmas.
‘I want to give you a kiss,’ Liesl said flirtatiously, ‘But I don’t want to cause you pain.’
‘Haha,’ Morgan said. He was getting tired of explaining about his face.
‘What happened?’ Muller asked, looking as smart as he ever did in a rumpled green safari suit.
‘Well there was this baby trapped in a burning house and…oh never mind. How are you, Liesl? You look fit.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. On her high heels she was at least three inches taller than him. ‘I wish I could return the compliment. Kinjanja seems not to be agreeing with you.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Morgan said with feeling.
‘The British are out in force tonight,’ Muller observed wryly. ‘You must all be very pleased about the election.’
Morgan shrugged. ‘It all depends on your point of view.’
Muller laughed. ‘You are a sly fellow, Morgan. I haven’t forgotten the last time we met.’ There was an uncomfortable pause. It suddenly struck Morgan that Muller somehow resented him, thought he’d done something clever and underhand with Adekunle and the KNP.
Liesl broke the ice. ‘The new government has its first crisis anyway. I hear the students have occupied the administration block. The riot squad have been called in again.’
‘I was just talking to the Vice-Chancellor,’ Muller said. ‘It has quite spoiled his Christmas.’
‘I know how he feels,’ Morgan said. Just then he saw Adekunle approaching, the guests parting obediently in front of him like the Red Sea before Moses. Morgan felt a tremble start up in his right leg.
‘Georg, my friend,’ Adekunle boomed. ‘Can I steal our bruised and battered Mr Leafy for a moment?’ Muller bowed his acquiescence and Morgan followed Adekunle’s flowing robes across the room and into the hush of his study.
Adekunle carefully placed his bulk on the edge of the desk. ‘Wdl?’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ Morgan found it hard to concentrate. ‘Congratulations on your victory.’
‘Thank you,’ Adekunle said graciously. ‘But I was thinking more about our own agreement. You said that you decided in the end not to put our proposition to Dr Murray.’
‘That’s right,’ Morgan lied, deciding to pacify Adekunle until he’d had a chance to speak to Fanshawe. ‘It was just all wrong. His mood…he just wouldn’t have been amenable. I could sense it instantly.’
Adekunle lit a cigarette. ‘You are sure of that? You said nothing to him? Because we have other plans now. To have to pay Murray would be most inconvenient.’
‘He still intends to give a negative report on the site,’ Morgan said, telling the truth for once. ‘I assume,’ he added.
‘Good.’
Morgan was perplexed. ‘Why good?’
Adekunle looked at him. ‘Let us just say that I have discovered a…a ‘cousin’ in the Senate office. It now becomes simply a matter of misplacing the minutes of the Buildings Works and Sites Committee meeting when Murray vetoes the site.’ He puffed smoke into the air, a smile of satisfaction on his face. ‘A simple, effective, and, as it turns out, a far cheaper method. I am only sorry I could not have arranged it earlier. Saved you some, what shall we say?…heartsearching, some worries perhaps.’ Adekunle tapped ash into a thick-bottomed glass ashtray. Morgan felt like burying it in his head. So Murray’s report would be intercepted. And now Adekunle was Foreign Minister he couldn’t see Murray pressing any effective charges either. A bit of dirt might be stirred up but knowing Kinjanjan politics it wouldn’t make any difference. He felt suddenly sorry for Murray and his lone struggle for ‘fairness’. He was just too small a man. The Adekunles of his world always came out on top.
‘Ah, what about me then?’ he asked in a feebler voice than he had meant.
‘Yes, what about you, Mr Leafy. I think we shall let you, as the saying goes, lie doggo for a while. You are still under a considerable ‘obligation’ to me as I’m sure you will acknowledge. I can foresee some time in the future when you might be able to repay that debt.’
Morgan knew then that his job was finally gone. There had been some faint hope that Adekunle might have let him off, in a post-victory amnesty now that everything had turned out so well for him. He was glad then that he’d decided to resign. He couldn’t linger on as Adekunle’s man in the Commission, not any more. He felt an odd sensation of relief mingle with his general despair. In a way he’d be glad to get the whole farce over and done with — extricate himself from the enfolding net of lies and complicity. You’d better get a move on, you fat bastard, he swore at Adekunle under his breath, because I won’t be around much longer.
The phone on Adekunle’s desk rang. He picked it up. ‘Yes,’ he said sharply. ‘What?…These damn fools!..OK, OK, send them in…This has to be finished tonight, you understand.’ He put the phone down.
‘These students,’ he said. ‘Setting fire to cars, destroying documents. It can’t be permitted.’
‘No, quite,’ Morgan agreed. ‘Disgraceful.’
♦
Morgan looked blearily out of the bathroom window on the first floor trying to see beyond the glare of the floodlights. He had just been sick in the toilet bowl — the result of the two gins, a buck’s fizz, a whisky and a drambuie he had drunk, one after another, on emerging from Adekunle’s study, snatching drinks from passing stewards as if he were challenging some inebriate’s world record. Celebrating the end of his life, he had told himself.