In the bathroom he stripped off his clothes and washed his dusty sweaty body clean beneath the cool water. He bent to pick up the soap from the side of the bath and found it wet and slippy. As he worked up a lather he thought it strange to consider that minutes earlier the soap had followed a similar course over Mrs Fanshawe’s considerable frame. He noticed a sprinkle of talcum powder on the bathroom floor, he saw some black hairs stark against the white enamel of the bath. For some reason he felt a little apprehensive, a ball of air seemed to lodge itself in his throat. He and Mrs Fanshawe had been through a lot together tonight, he told himself. They had shared considerable danger, been shot at…
He pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers and padded back through to the sitting room. Mrs Fanshawe sat on the sofa, the repaired dress beside her. Her face looked clean, her black hair was combed back from her white forehead, still slightly damp.
‘Have you phoned Denzil yet?’ Morgan asked, an unfamiliar catch in his voice.
‘No,’ she said deliberately, allowing a silence to fall before adding, ‘I’ve decided I’d rather stay here tonight, if that’s fine with you.’
♦
Oh my God, Morgan thought as he unbuttoned his shirt. No God, no. What was he doing? he asked himself hysterically. What did he think he was playing at? Across on the other side of the bed from him Mrs Fanshawe removed her dressing-gown, her eyes never leaving his face, a strange relaxed smile on her lips. Morgan’s gaze was locked on to hers, and he was only dimly aware of the large white body in its sensible underwear, caught an unfocused glimpse of the white breasts tumbling free of the nylon cuirass that supported them, sensed vaguely the stooping pant-removing gesture that revealed momentarily the patch of dark amidst the creamy plains of her thighs, before she slipped into his bed pulling the sheet up to her neck.
Morgan lowered his trousers. After she’d asked if he’d mind her staying, she had risen to her feet and walked over to him.
‘Let’s have a look at that cut on your forehead,’ she commanded, and obediently he lowered his head so she could examine it better, bringing their faces to within a close six inches of each other. Morgan gulped. Suddenly they were kissing, her thin lips pressed to his, her hands running up and down his back. And now she was lying naked in his bed. He eased off his underpants and slid under the sheet to join her. She pulled him close. Hesitantly he allowed his hand to rest on her side, somewhere safe. Her skin felt unbelievably soft and pampered.
She edged closer. He felt the cushiony weight of her breasts flatten between them. She cupped his face with her hands.
‘Morgan,’ she said. ‘We’ve been through too much tonight not to…not to be with each other now.’
He nodded wordlessly. He felt his fear and surprise slowly yielding to arousal. He trickled his fingers across her wide thighs. He remembered suddenly that Priscilla’s pants lay in the drawer of the bedside table. What a peculiar world it was, he thought helplessly, where this sort of fateful irony could occur.
‘Do you remember that day you came to try on the Santa Claus outfit?’ she asked softly.
He nodded again.
‘I’ve been thinking about you since then,’ she said. ‘A lot.’
Surely, Morgan asked himself indignantly, she didn’t think he let it happen on purpose? She must credit him with a seductive technique marginally more refined than…that? As if to prove his point he nuzzled her breasts, touching his lips to a nipple, while she gave an appreciative sigh into his ear.
The phone rang beside the bed.
Morgan looked up. ‘I’d better answer it,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it in the sitting room. It might be…’ They both knew who it might be. He pulled on his dressing-gown and ran down the corridor.
‘Yes?’ he said, picking up the phone.
‘Mr Leafy?’
‘Yes. Speaking.’
‘First Secretary at the Commission?’
‘That’s right.’
‘This is Inspector Gbeho here. Nkongsamba police headquarters.’
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Morgan knotted his dressing-gown cord. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I phoned Mr Fanshawe at the Commission but there was no reply. You are the next senior British official in Nkongsamba according to my records.’
‘That’s correct,’ Morgan said a little impatiently. ‘What’s the trouble exactly?’
‘It’s just a routine call, sir, whenever there is a death. To pass on the information.’
‘A death?’
‘Of a British subject.’
Morgan felt his heart begin to beat faster. He took a deep breath. He shut his eyes, a tremor passing through his body.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Who is it?’
‘A man. A Dr Murray. Dr Alexander Murray. From the university…Hello Mr Leafy. Are you still there?’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How…What happened?’
‘I believe he was transporting injured students to the Ade-mola clinic in the university ambulance. The ambulance skidded and crashed. From the rain on the roads. Dr Murray was killed in the crash.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘No. Some cuts and bruises. Oh yes, the driver broke his leg.’
‘Have you told Murray’s family?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you for phoning, Inspector. I’ll be in touch in the morning.’
Morgan gently replaced the phone. Murray was dead. He tried to come to terms with the fact. It was hard. He walked out onto the verandah. Dead. Like Innocence. All sorts of ideas and images crowded into his mind. He covered his face with his hands.
‘Who was it, Morgan?’ Mrs Fanshawe called from the bedroom door. She had wrapped the sheet around her. ‘Was it Arthur?’
‘No. It was the police. Murray’s dead.’ He controlled his voice. ‘Dr Murray.’
‘Dead? That chap we saw tonight?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘What happened?’
‘Crash. In his ambulance of all things. Something damn bloody silly anyway.’
‘Oh…Are you coming to bed?’
‘Yes. Just give me a second.’
It was still raining, pattering softly on the roof. He stood on the edge of the verandah and looked out into the night. The thunder passed on towards the coast. The sheet lightning flashed over the jungle to the south. Shango was angry. He thought vaguely that he’d have to see Murray’s family and as he did so he felt his throat contract and thicken and tears press for a moment in his eyes. Why Murray? he asked himself in despair. A good man like that: there weren’t many of them around — Kojo, Friday, Murray. Why not Dalmire, why not Fanshawe? Why not me?
‘Morgan,’ Mrs Fanshawe called. ‘Come on, Morgan.’
He turned to go. Adekunle wouldn’t weep, for one. His land was as good as sold now. Murray wouldn’t like that at all, he thought. In fact Murray would expect him to do something about it. And perhaps he would too, now that he had nothing to lose. Perhaps. He thought about it. Innocence could get buried. Celia could have her visa. Maybe Murray deserved his fairness. But what was Morgan Leafy left with?
Very little, he answered himself. Very little. No job and no future. Mrs Fanshawe in the bedroom. And Hazel. Hazel who told him she didn’t want him to leave…but no, he wasn’t sure about Hazel.
He opened the screen door and walked slowly up the passage towards the bedroom and Chloe Fanshawe. He wondered what Murray would think of this. Not much, he was certain. Alive or dead Murray somehow managed to barge his way into his life as persistently as ever. And suddenly he didn’t want particularly to go on with it: two large white bodies heaving and grunting in an absurd parody of love.