Instruments Of Darkness Read Free

said it like most people talk about pizza.
        We chatted about rice, his home in Korea, storms in the Pacific and favourite ports. He wasn't an African fan. On the way here he had discharged containers in Abidjan and Tema, picked up some containers of old cashew nut in Lomé, and was now going to Lagos to discharge hi-fi and load cotton, then on to Douala or
        Libreville, he didn't know which, and it didn't matter because he hated both. He liked Ghana. They had a good Korean restaurant in Accra. I knew it. They served me a gin and tonic there which came with a stretcher.
        He walked me around the ship. I felt like royalty except I couldn't think of anything nice to say. It was one of those ships that takes a bunch of Koreans two weeks to build. Five holds, one aft, four forward with the bridge in between. The lifting gear on number 5 hold at the rear of the ship was broken; the captain put his hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry, that the rice was in the four forward holds. The fifth hold had the hi-fi in it for discharge at Lagos, and that was where they would fix the lifting gear.
        We looked at the rice, which wasn't very interesting. How long can you look at a pile of sacks? The captain said something to a man holding a four-foot spanner who would never be clean again. I thought about showing some interest, but instead leaned on the slatted metal cover of number 2 hold and earned a first degree burn for my trouble. Moses stood by the gangway, not learning any Korean at all. It was time to blow. The smell of hot painted metal was taxing my nose's interest in life.
        I held my hand out to the captain who said: 'You must have lunch,' and we both turned at the same time because Moses was showing us how to get down a gangway starting on his feet and ending on his nose.
        'Moses!' I shouted.
        He was holding the car door open for me which he had done on the first day he worked for me and never since.
        'Yes please, Mister Bruce, sir.'
        'Lunch?'
        'You forget something. Mister Bruce.'
        'No.'
        'You have meeting.'
        'I have?'
        'The meeting with the man with the dog.'
        'The man with the dog?'
        'Yes please, sir.'
        I turned to the captain and shook his hand. 'Sorry, I have a meeting with a man with a dog. Next time, I hope.'
        As I got in the car, I saw Moses was sweating.
        'I don't see no woman, Moses,' I said down my shirt front.
        We drove off, me grinning and Moses shouting: 'You go make me eat dog! Mister Bruce. I no eat um. I no eat um never.'

Chapter 2
        
        The port was at a standstill; only the sun was out working on the scattered machinery and the corrugated iron roofs which creaked and pinged in the terrible heat. The shade of the buildings guarded sprawled stevedores who, rather than slow broil on the hot ground, lay across wooden pallets sleeping. The Peugeot's tyres peeled themselves off the hot tarmac.
        There was no traffic outside the port. We looked left down the Boulevard de la Marina and fifty metres down the road a parked car's engine started. We turned right and headed east into Cotonou town centre. Moses's eyes flickered from the windscreen to the rearview.
        The sun leeched all the colour out of the sky, the buildings, the people, the palms, the shrubs, everything. Through the open window a breeze like dog breath lingered over my face as I manipulated the wing mirror. A madman with dusty matted hair stood in dirty brown shorts inspecting his navel. He slumped to his haunches as we drove past and started parting the dirt on the road as if something had fallen out. We passed the agents' offices. The air conditioners shuddered and dripped distilled sweat into the thick afternoon air.
    'He following us, Mister Bruce.'
    'Slow down,' I said. 'Turn left.'
    Moses dropped down to a fast walking pace and the car, an old Peugeot 305, settled