‘Thank you, Denzil,’ Fanshawe snapped. ‘We know what they’re saying.’ He turned to Morgan. ‘What’s it all about, Morgan?’ Everybody looked at him.
‘Why are you asking me?’ he protested. ‘I don’t know anything.’ But before another word could be said there was a crash of breaking glass from upstairs and screams from the women guests. There then followed a hail of stones directed at the house. The party broke up in confusion, people running, screaming, crawling under tables, huddling in terrified groups as stones and rocks came flying through the open French windows, thudding and skittering onto the carpet. Chairs and sofas were upturned to form flimsy barricades behind which terrified guests crouched.
Morgan rushed to the front door and opened it an inch. He was in time to see Peter abandon the Commission car and take to his heels. At the top of the drive some thirty yards away Morgan saw a line of Adekunle’s uniformed servants manning the firmly closed gates. And beyond them, clutching a megaphone, the small dark figure of Femi Robinson.
‘UK OUT,’he bellowed verbosely. ‘NO EXTERNAL INTERFERENCE WITH KINJANJAN AUTONOMY.’
Unable to chant this the crowd satisfied themselves with shouts of ‘FAN-SHAWE,FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE.’
A stone thudded into the door. Oh my Christ, Morgan thought, I told him we’d be here. Robinson must have convinced a good few of the demonstrating students that their protests would be more effectively directed at Fanshawe than at the university authorities. It must have seemed a golden opportunity: the conspirators caught celebrating. Morgan felt sick. He looked round and saw the object of the mob’s abuse equally whitefaced with fear.
‘How did they know I was coming here tonight?’ Fanshawe whimpered. ‘Morgan, this is ghastly. You’ve got to do something.’
‘Me?’ There were more wails and screams from the guests as another volley of missiles spattered against the house’s façade. Morgan saw Adekunle and Muller striding towards them.
‘Is this your doing, my friend?’ Adekunle hissed at Morgan.
‘Me?’ Morgan repeated, dumbfounded that he should be so singled out in this way. ‘For God’s sake no!’
‘ADEKUNLE IS A PUPPET OF UK,’ Robinson screamed outside.
‘FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE,’ agreed the crowd.
‘Students,’ Adekunle spat out the word. ‘Phone for the police,’ he ordered an aide.
Muller peered out of the door. ‘That gate is going to go soon,’ he observed calmly. ‘Look. They are burning a Union Jack now.’ Morgan looked over his shoulder and confirmed it.
‘FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE,’ the crowd chanted tirelessly. It was a very chantable name, Morgan thought.
‘My God, what if they break through?’ Fanshawe squeaked in terror to his wife, Jones, Dalmire and Priscilla, who had joined the group in the hall. They all ducked as another window shattered somewhere above them.
‘KNP IS A BRITISH POLITICAL PARTY,’ boomed Robinson’s amplified voice.
‘This is disgraceful, intolerable,’ Adekunle ranted. ‘My house is being destroyed. My reputation ruined. I am meant to be giving a victory speech. There will be journalists and TV here in an hour.’ His words were almost drowned by the thumping beat of FAN-SHAWE, FAN-SHAWE from hundreds of straining throats.
‘It seems to me that it’s only you British they want,’ Muller stated coldly. ‘They’ve no argument with the rest of us here. If you go maybe they’ll leave us alone.’
‘Well!’ Mrs Fanshawe expostulated, her eyes roasting Muller’s thin body.
‘Typical bloody Hun remark,’ yipped Fanshawe from her side.
‘Yer,’ Jones added patriotically. ‘Who won the war boyo, eh? Answer me that if you damn well please.’
‘Daddy, Daddy, what’ll we do?’ Priscilla whined. Dalmire hugged her to him reassuringly.
‘FANSHAWE IS A FASCIST IMPERIALIST CRIMINAL,’ Robinson trumpeted, setting up a blood-curdling yell of accord from the mob.
‘You have to get out!’ Adekunle shouted suddenly. ‘Get out! Get out of my house. I’m ordering you.’ His eyes were wide with panicky alarm.
‘Hold on,’ Morgan countered angrily. ‘We can’tjust wander off. They’ll stone us to death.’ As if to illustrate this point forcefully more stones clattered against the door.
‘I don’t care!’ Adekunle proclaimed. ‘Muller is right. They only want you. Go to your own houses. Fight your battles on your own ground.’
As the saying goes, Morgan thought sarcastically. He thought he’d never seen a more pathetic craven bunch. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ All heads turned to face him. ‘They want Arthur, right? So let’s give them Arthur.’
‘Leafy!’ Fanshawe squawked, swaying back on his heels. ‘Are you out of your mind? What are you saying, man?’
‘Not you, Arthur,’ he said, a surge of confidence flooding through his body, ‘Me. I’ll go in your place as a decoy. I’ll lead the crowd away and then the rest of you can make your escape.’ There was a sudden silence in the hall as they considered this idea. Morgan wondered what had made him suggest this course of action. Drink, yes. Guilt too. But above all a desire to get out, do something.
‘But how will they know it’s me and not you?’ Fanshawe asked, hope flickering in his eyes.
‘I’ll take the car,’ Morgan said. ‘You lot can take mine, it’s parked back up the road. Head straight for the capital and the High Commission. Dickie and Priscilla can even catch their plane.’ He thrust his car keys into Fanshawe’s hand. ‘And,’ he said in a flash of inspiration, ‘let me change into your suit.
Tell the guards to fling open the gates and I’ll drive out hell-for-leather.’
‘It might work,’ Muller said.
‘Do it!’ Adekunle commanded.
As quickly as they could Morgan and Fanshawe swapped clothes, the females present modestly turning away. Fanshawe’s jacket and trousers fitted Morgan like a second skin; bracing his shoulders back, forcing his chest out, the sleeves stopping in mid-forearm, a two-inch gap of leg visible between his turn-ups and socks.
‘It’s a bit small, isn’t it?’ Mrs Fanshawe said, raising her voice to be heard above the relentless swell and crash of her husband’s name being shouted outside.
‘I’m only after the effect,’ Morgan panted, hastily knotting the bow-tie. ‘They’ll just see someone in black and white dash into the car.’ Adekunle meanwhile gave orders to a servant to inform the guards at the gate of the plan and the man slipped unwillingly out of the front door and sprinted up the drive to pass on the instructions.
‘OK?’ Morgan asked, wanting to be off before second thoughts could catch up with him.
‘We need a moustache,’ Dalmire suggested and Priscilla rummaged in her handbag for an eyebrow pencil. She drew a thin moustache on Morgan’s upper lip.
‘How do I look?’ he asked, and everyone laughed nervously. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. As soon as the crowd break away, get into my car and head off. They may besiege the Commission tomorrow for all we know.’ He stood poised by the door. He felt surprisingly calm. He was glad to be getting out of the house. He was fed up pissing about in this country.
‘Wait,’ Mrs Fanshawe suddenly announced. ‘I’m coming with you. It’ll be far more convincing if we both go. Arthur’s hardly likely to make a dash for it without me.’
‘No, Mummy,’ Priscilla cried.
‘Chloe. I can’t allow it,’ Fanshawe piped up.
‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Fanshawe exclaimed. ‘When you leave here go to the Commission and we’ll try and meet you there. Don’t wait long. If we’re held up go on down to the capital. There are plenty of people I can stay with until things calm down. I’ll be in no danger.’ She would hear of no arguments in opposition. ‘Don’t you agree, Morgan?’ she asked.