A Darkening Stain (8 page)

‘You know me, Heike,' I said. ‘Who was the Peace Corps worker?'

‘Robyn.'

I dead-eyed her.

‘With a “y”,' she added.

‘Aha-a,' we said, tipping our glasses at each other. ‘Just checking there.'

‘I'm flattered,' she said, sounding the opposite.

‘This
ouistiti
place...?'

‘It's run by a guy called Michel Charbonnier.'

‘You know him?' I asked.

‘He's a creep.'

‘What sort of a creep?'

‘A sex creep.'

‘Touchy, feely?'

Breathey, breathey.'

‘I'll keep my distance.'

‘I don't know how you do it, Bruce.'

‘Bring myself to the marks for the Michel Charbonniers of this world?'

‘He's probably the lighter end of it too.'

‘You'd have liked the guy I was with this evening.'

‘The one who thought you were interesting? I don't think so. That hotel-barroom mutual back-slapping bullshit isn't my kind of conversation.'

‘I've got to go away tomorrow too ... an all-nighter.'

‘With Mr Interesting ... on our day off?' she said, irritated. ‘He must have made a big impression. Where're you going?'

‘Maybe Grand-Popo.'

‘What sort of an answer is that?'

‘A tricky one.'

‘This isn't going to be a row but...'

‘I've noticed that when one of us isn't drinking we don't row.'

‘When
I'm
not drinking. You're never not drinking.'

‘If it's not going to be a row why's it already sounding like one?'

‘I don't
want
it to be a row but...'

‘No more “buts”. You've softened me up. Ask your question.'

‘What's the attraction?'

‘Of the work?'

‘It's not the money, is it?'

‘Why do you think Bagado likes the work?'

‘Note,' she said, pointing at the imaginary stenographer, ‘he didn't answer the question. Bagado, well, Bagado has different motives. He has a
sincere
belief that he's acting for the force of good against evil. He's on a mission, a crusade.'

‘And I just like rummaging in drawers.'

‘Maybe that's it.'

‘I'm not as cynical as you might think.'

‘Most of the time you seem to be acting for the good.'

‘That sounds like Bagado talking,' I said.

Silence.

‘You never told me very much and nowadays even less,' she said.

‘I don't tell Bagado either. He's a policeman. I can't. And anyway, you don't want to hear.'

‘True.'

‘So what does Bagado say about me?'

‘You won't like it.'

‘Maybe I'll withdraw the question then. I get enough unpalatable stuff rammed down my neck all day without having to hear what my friends say about me, behind my back, to my wife.'

‘Not yet, Bruce.'

‘Not yet what?'

‘I'm not yet your wife.'

‘I said
wife?
'

‘Your slip's showing. The Freudian one.'

I reached over. She leaned back. I ran my hand up the back of her neck. She resisted. I forced her into a kiss until she broke away.

‘I won't take that as a proposal. If it's subliminal it doesn't count,' she said. ‘It's still in the head.'

‘And you want it from the heart.'

‘I didn't want it to sound
too
much like romantic trash.'

‘Leave that to me, I'm good at the pulp end of things.'

I got an inadvertent look.

‘What else has Bagado said to you?'

She shrugged and sipped her glass, which was empty.

‘You two've been going through my school report again.'

‘He doesn't think you're
bad...'

‘I know, I know ... he thinks I'm “morally weak”.'

‘He thinks your only guiding principle is your own fascination.'

I called Helen in with the Red Label. She dragged it in kicking and screaming. I poured a finger and brimmed it with water.

‘One thing you might want to remember is that if Bagado hadn't come along, I wouldn't be involved in
any
of this. I was doing fine until...'

‘
He
embroiled you in
his
crusade?'

‘Yes, I think that's fair. He's the one who involved me in bigger things. People killing and getting killed and sometimes for no other reason than a base human emotion like ... jealousy.'

‘Jealousy?' she said with mock outrage, not rising to the bait. ‘Jealousy's a
very
strong emotion.'

‘Especially sexual jealousy ... so I've heard.'

‘Maybe for men.'

‘No, no, women too. How'd you like it if I told you I'd been sleeping with somebody else, you pregnant and all.'

Her face stilled in an instant and she started in on me, eyes jutting.

‘See what I mean?'

She sat back, caught out.

‘You and I are different,' she said.

‘No, we're not.'

‘Our relationship is based on sex.'

‘Is it?' I asked.

‘That's how it started, remember the desert?'

‘The
ground,
' I teased.

‘Piss off.'

‘There
is
more than just sex ... isn't there?' I said, reaching for her hand.

‘Sometimes,' she said, allowing me a fingernail. ‘And if you did sleep with someone else, whether I was pregnant or not, I'd ... I'd...'

‘I believe you.'

‘How did we get on to people killing each other...?'

We laughed and I gulped some Johnnie Walker.

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘An example of my over fascination, how I get over ... No, I know what I was going to say. Africa. What I've learned from Africa, from this work, is that I'm not indifferent any more. My life's not set in aspic like it was in London. I don't just work, play, sleep. I'm not protected from ugliness by my job. Reality isn't TV I see the limbless poverty at every traffic light, the fat people in bars eating money sandwiches which, as you've probably gathered, means I don't totally and unequivocally love the place. It drives me crazy. I go mad when the Africans decide not to do things, when they tell you everything except the one thing you want to hear, when they disappear off to their village without a word, but then I'm charmed by their innocence, the way they join their lives to ours. That's Africa for me—not a whole lot between those two mood swings—wild anger and happy delirium.'

‘Have I ever seen you on one of those deliriously happy days?'

‘You were asleep last night so you didn't see it.'

She leaned over and kissed me and went for the watered down whisky while she was at it. I pulled it away.

‘Just a smell,' she pleaded.

‘Seven months to go,' I said, and let her have a sip.

‘Longer than that. I don't think babies like milk cut with Red Label.'

‘This one will,' I said, slipping a hand up her top. She pulled away.

‘Don't,' she said, ‘we're not finished yet.'

‘We must be after all that crap.'

‘Bagado,' she said, flatly, ‘doesn't think you're much good at the work.'

‘Don't let
him
speak at my funeral.'

‘He says you're good at the business stuff—loading ships in the port, managing gangs and transport—but crime. Solving crime. Seeing what's going on around you, making deductions, cracking problems ... no.'

‘No?' I said, lightly.

‘That's what he says ... and you know why?'

‘You're going to tell me. I can feel it in my water.'

‘You get involved in events. You get carried away. No objectivity.'

‘Very interesting. Is that it now? Can we...?'

She came around my side of the table. I pushed my chair back and she sat astride me and put her arms around my neck and her lips up to mine.

‘That's it,' she said.

‘You know something,' I said, pushing her top up over her head, finding no bra. ‘Talking about solving crimes. I solved one of Bagado's yesterday. Five men dead in a ship's hold. Suffocated, no sign of violence. How did they die? I came up with fresh timber. Then Bagado came within an inch of telling me he wouldn't mind somebody taking Bondougou out of the game. What does that sound like to you?'

‘Role reversal,' she said, and pressed my head down on to her breasts.

‘Thanks.'

‘Now shut up.'

I lifted her up on to the table and stripped her panties off. She tore at the front of my trousers. I sucked on her nipples until they were nut hard. She grabbed me and steered me into her and my knees gave at the feel of her soft, wet warmth. I drove into her lifting her off the table, my hands and arms full of her creamy back. She held my face to hers with the back of her hand round my head and rucked up my shirt.

‘Turn the lights off,' she said. ‘I'm not entertaining the whole street.'

She wrapped her legs around me. I walked to the wall and lashed out at the lights. Half her face appeared in a corner of light from the street. Her head rose and fell against the wall. My trousers sank to the floor with the weight of keys and money and the jolt of each thrust.

‘Just don't go indifferent on me,' she said, and dug her heels into my buttocks, urging me on.

I left Heike sleeping and took a taxi into the Jonquet at midnight. I found the L'Ouistiti in front of the taxi rank to Parakou. The bar left you in no doubt as to its intentions. Even the name, to my ear, had a girlie mag, fluffy bra, stripper's pout to it.

The building's plasterwork was as flaking and pitted as an old doxy's make-up and, rather than redo it, they'd just slapped some blue paint on top—gloss, as if that would make it better. Now the paint had started coming off in dermatological skeins so that ‘scabby' was not being unfair. The lighting, beyond the plastic strips of the fly curtain, was red and sore as if the room had been chafed raw. The girls standing in the rasping light, who weren't hitting on customers yet, had their smiles up on the shelf with the bottles of grog. They were neither drinking nor smoking. They were talking amongst themselves but not chitchat. It looked more medicinal than that.

I'd hardly got my leg over the back of the moped when my arms were taken up by a girl on either side, so that trying to pay the driver left me in an Olympic wrestling hold requiring a knot expert. They bundled me towards the entrance. The bar was narrow and stretched a long way back and looked intestinal in the light, the few punters inside ulcerating against the walls.

A sailor type was slumped across two high-backed wooden chairs, leaning on an elbow, his face sweating, his eyes tearful and his Adam's apple working overtime swallowing bad memories. A girl had a hand in his pocket, massaging his wad. My two girls tried to steer me in there next to him but I sailed on past, heading to the back of the place where there was a big guy sit
ting on a high stool next to a door. He had to be stoned, the way he was sitting, both legs hanging off the stool, his body doubled over, an elbow on one knee and his head floating in his hand like a nodding dog. He straightened when I hove into his tunnel vision.

‘Charbonnier?' I asked.

The guy's lids, heavier than obols, stayed at half mast, so I leaned in on him and gave it to him louder in his ear. He reached over to the door with the speed of a hog-filled anaconda and rapped on it twice, finishing with a flourish and a how-about-that look. I wouldn't have minded giving him a how-about-this elbow in his what-the-hell mouth, but one of the girls had started work rubbing my already sore penis and I shrugged the two of them off.

Inside there was a small-boned Beninois fellow with an accounts book and a calculator in front of him. He stuck a pen behind his ear and folded his arms.

‘Le blanc? II est dedans?'
I asked.

He nodded. All these guys had been to some French waiters' school.

‘Fe veux le voir,'
I said

He leaned back and pressed a button on the wall, speedier than his friend. A door buzzed open. A pair of hands was sitting behind a desk. The hands, in a cone of light, were arranging a line of grass on three cigarette papers stuck together. The owner of the hands was in the dark and it took time to get used to the contrast and pick him out and when I did he still hadn't adjusted the astonishment out of his face.

‘Hi, Jacques,' I said, getting it quicker than usual.

‘What the fuck are you...?'

‘I got lucky,' I said. ‘Want me to call you Michel now?'

‘Take a seat,' he said, going back to his work. ‘I hope you smoke.'

‘I gave up.'

‘Tobacco?' he asked. ‘There's no tobacco in this.'

He started to roll the monster spliff which was his bulkhead against a long night of Christ knows what nastiness he had raking through his brain. I took the seat in the hot room across from him, my back to an open netted window. The glow from the desk lamp picked up his thin face, a worn and sweating face that was lined in a way that meant he sneered a lot ... probably at himself in the mirror of a morning if he could bear it. He'd lost most of his hair, apart from a few strands he'd combed over the creamy whiteness of his pate. He had a tan line across his forehead from wearing a hat, a Panama that was hanging on the wall behind him.

While he finessed the joint I found my gaze locked on to a framed line drawing on the wall which I thought was a still life of a bowl of fruit, but on closer inspection proved to be an Oriental woman weighing a pair of huge balls and about to fellate an impossibly large cock.

‘That one gets the girls every time,' he said.

‘On the first train out of here?'