10:30 curfew. Then he remembered there was no phone in the flat; there was nothing to stop her staying out all night for all he’d know about it. He felt a violent rage building up inside him. Calm down, he told himself, calm down. Just because he was being blackmailed by an unscrupulous politician, just because the girl he wanted to marry had got engaged to his subordinate, just because his mistress was out getting up to God knew what with her “brother,” there was no reason for him to lose his rag, was there? Come on, he said to himself with withering scorn, be reasonable, it could be worse, couldn’t it?
He ordered a large whisky from the steward and asked for the telephone. This was placed on the end of the bar for himand he edged his way round to it, stealing a sip from his glass, and dialled his home number.
“Allo?” It was Friday, Morgan’s house boy. He came from Dahomey and spoke French; his command of English was erratic.
“Friday,” Morgan said, “it’s master here.”
“Masta ’e no day. ’E nevah come home yet.”
Morgan turned his face away from the crowd; the anarchic fury exploding in his head caused him to squeeze his eyes shut as tightly as he could manage.
“Listen, you stupid bugger, it’s
me,
” he rasped into the receiver. “
C’est moi, ton maître.
”
“Ah-ah,” Friday exclaimed. “Sorry-oh, masta.
Désolé.
” He went on with a stream of apologies.
“Never mind, never mind,” Morgan rapped out. “I’ll be home at ten. Tell Moses I want an omelette. Yes, when I come in—a cheese omelette.” That should make them sick, he thought with evil satisfaction.
“Excuse, masta, can I go? My brother he …”
“No you bloody well can’t,” Morgan shouted, slamming down the phone. To his surprise he felt his hands shaking. Make them wait in for me, he thought blackly, they’ll just watch my television, eat my food and drink my booze. It was a full-time job getting your own back on the world, he reasoned; you couldn’t afford to weaken.
He heard someone call his name, and looked up. To his dismay he saw the grinning faces of Dalmire and Jones at the other end of the bar. They were beckoning him over. “Over here, Leafy,” he heard Jones shout beerily. It sounded like “Woava yur, Leefi.” God, he thought, that Welsh accent’s got to go. He pushed his way sullenly round to where they stood. Dalmire and Jones were a little tipsy. They were still in their golfing clothes and had obviously been drinking since the end of their game. Morgan thought they were like a couple of schoolboys who’d slipped away from an outing and dodged into a pub.
“Hello there, Morgan old man,” Dalmire said heartily, resting a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. His speech was a little slurred, his normally even features slackened by the alcohol. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have another whisky, please,” Morgan said, trying to drive the coldness from his voice. He emptied his glass and put it on the bar. “Large, if you don’t mind.”
“A pleasure, squire,” Dalmire averred.
“Bloody ’ell,” Jones said, shaking his round dark head in admiration. “You can certainly put ’em away.” He giggled stupidly. Morgan noticed beer froth on his upper lip. Dalmire slapped Morgan powerfully on the back.
“He’s a good man, is Morgan,” he said thickly. Morgan wished he wouldn’t use that ghastly rugger-club expression. “Bloody good man,” he continued challengingly. “Fed me gin at half past three this afternoon. Bugger keeps it in his filing cabinet.” There was an explosion of laughter at this from Jones. Morgan glowered.
Jones grinned conspiratorially. “Quiet celebration, eh? Great news about Dickie and Pris, what do you say, Morgan? Marvellous.” He slipped his arm round Morgan’s shoulders. “Better not let Arthur catch you though,” he breathed into Morgan’s ear.
Morgan was about to describe in graphic detail what he would do to Fanshawe with the said
He ordered a large whisky from the steward and asked for the telephone. This was placed on the end of the bar for himand he edged his way round to it, stealing a sip from his glass, and dialled his home number.
“Allo?” It was Friday, Morgan’s house boy. He came from Dahomey and spoke French; his command of English was erratic.
“Friday,” Morgan said, “it’s master here.”
“Masta ’e no day. ’E nevah come home yet.”
Morgan turned his face away from the crowd; the anarchic fury exploding in his head caused him to squeeze his eyes shut as tightly as he could manage.
“Listen, you stupid bugger, it’s
me,
” he rasped into the receiver. “
C’est moi, ton maître.
”
“Ah-ah,” Friday exclaimed. “Sorry-oh, masta.
Désolé.
” He went on with a stream of apologies.
“Never mind, never mind,” Morgan rapped out. “I’ll be home at ten. Tell Moses I want an omelette. Yes, when I come in—a cheese omelette.” That should make them sick, he thought with evil satisfaction.
“Excuse, masta, can I go? My brother he …”
“No you bloody well can’t,” Morgan shouted, slamming down the phone. To his surprise he felt his hands shaking. Make them wait in for me, he thought blackly, they’ll just watch my television, eat my food and drink my booze. It was a full-time job getting your own back on the world, he reasoned; you couldn’t afford to weaken.
He heard someone call his name, and looked up. To his dismay he saw the grinning faces of Dalmire and Jones at the other end of the bar. They were beckoning him over. “Over here, Leafy,” he heard Jones shout beerily. It sounded like “Woava yur, Leefi.” God, he thought, that Welsh accent’s got to go. He pushed his way sullenly round to where they stood. Dalmire and Jones were a little tipsy. They were still in their golfing clothes and had obviously been drinking since the end of their game. Morgan thought they were like a couple of schoolboys who’d slipped away from an outing and dodged into a pub.
“Hello there, Morgan old man,” Dalmire said heartily, resting a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. His speech was a little slurred, his normally even features slackened by the alcohol. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have another whisky, please,” Morgan said, trying to drive the coldness from his voice. He emptied his glass and put it on the bar. “Large, if you don’t mind.”
“A pleasure, squire,” Dalmire averred.
“Bloody ’ell,” Jones said, shaking his round dark head in admiration. “You can certainly put ’em away.” He giggled stupidly. Morgan noticed beer froth on his upper lip. Dalmire slapped Morgan powerfully on the back.
“He’s a good man, is Morgan,” he said thickly. Morgan wished he wouldn’t use that ghastly rugger-club expression. “Bloody good man,” he continued challengingly. “Fed me gin at half past three this afternoon. Bugger keeps it in his filing cabinet.” There was an explosion of laughter at this from Jones. Morgan glowered.
Jones grinned conspiratorially. “Quiet celebration, eh? Great news about Dickie and Pris, what do you say, Morgan? Marvellous.” He slipped his arm round Morgan’s shoulders. “Better not let Arthur catch you though,” he breathed into Morgan’s ear.
Morgan was about to describe in graphic detail what he would do to Fanshawe with the said
Similar Books
