away. Clenching his jaw muscles he brought the torch beam up to play on Innocence’s face. He remembered her well, a fat jolly woman who was always in attendance at the Fanshawes’ functions. Now she lay dead on her side, the top half of her body twisted round so that her face blankly contemplated the sky whence the fatal lightning shaft had come. Not far from her body lay a galvanized steel bucket and scattered wrung bundles of washed clothes. Morgan imagined what must have happened. Washing some clothes when the storm broke, throw them into the bucket, prop bucket on head or shoulder and waddle-dash across the short distance from the wash-place to the shelter of the verandah. But she’d never made it. Morgan found himself wondering if lightning made a whooshing noise, if there was a crack, smoke.…
He was quite emotionless as the beam hit Innocence’s face, only a taut, stretched feeling in his body. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, as if frozen in mid-yell. On her right shoulder and down the right side of her face was a curious scorch or burn mark, an oozing weal purple against her chocolaty skin. The rest of her body appeared quite untouched and solid inits ungainly repose. Her clothes were sodden—a cheap nylon short-sleeved blouse, a native cloth wrapper-skirt—drenched by the downpour. Her right hand was held out along the still damp ground, pale palm uppermost, fingers slightly curled.
Poor Innocence, he thought, what a way to go.
He rose to his feet and walked back towards Isaac, who had been joined by the constable. Morgan returned the torch to him.
“Look, Isaac,” Morgan said. “We have to move her.” He felt a little unsteady on his feet. “We can’t just leave her lying there, for Christ’s sake. Where’s her house?” Isaac indicated a doorway in the middle of the block. “Has she any family?” Morgan asked.
“There is one daughter, Maria,” Isaac told him. Morgan remembered her too, a slim teenage girl who also worked for the Fanshawes. She was only fourteen or fifteen. He sighed.
“Right,” he said. “Isaac, will you and Ezekiel”—he mentioned the Commission porter—“help me move her into her house until we can get an undertaker to come. Ezekiel?” he called into the crowd and Ezekiel emerged, a large bow-legged man with a pot-belly. He joined them a little unwillingly.
“Constable,” Morgan instructed, “if you take the arms with me, and you—Isaac—with Ezekiel take the legs. OK? Come on then.”
Nobody moved. There followed a brief impassioned burst of conversation in native dialect. Then Isaac spoke:
“We cannot totch her, sah. Please, I beg you once more. Ifin you totch her before, you will bring yourself trouble. Bringing everyone wahallah. You no go die well,” he finished up solemnly.
Ezekiel nodded in glum agreement. “Plenty wahallah, sah, for every people.”
The constable drew Morgan to one side. “Excuse, sah. This people are believing for Shango. They think that ifin they move this dead woman, they go die themselves one time.” The constable smiled condescendingly. “They think Shango is angry with them. They have to make big juju here. Bring one fetish priest before.”
Wahallah, juju, fetish priest, lightning gods.… Morgan stood in the dark compound, smelling the damp warm night, listening to its noises all around him, his eyes fixed on the body of the dead woman, wondering if it was all some frightful dream he was having. He massaged his temples with both hands. “Constable,”he said conspiratorially, “will
you
help me move her—get her out of the way at least. The two of us should manage.”
“Ah.” The constable spread his hands. “I cannot. If I move the body before they make juju they will think I make Shango angry. They will not like it.” He shrugged his shoulders in apology. “I must go. I will make my report.” He saluted, turned and walked out of the compound.
Morgan felt waves of panic break in his mind. He thought
He was quite emotionless as the beam hit Innocence’s face, only a taut, stretched feeling in his body. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, as if frozen in mid-yell. On her right shoulder and down the right side of her face was a curious scorch or burn mark, an oozing weal purple against her chocolaty skin. The rest of her body appeared quite untouched and solid inits ungainly repose. Her clothes were sodden—a cheap nylon short-sleeved blouse, a native cloth wrapper-skirt—drenched by the downpour. Her right hand was held out along the still damp ground, pale palm uppermost, fingers slightly curled.
Poor Innocence, he thought, what a way to go.
He rose to his feet and walked back towards Isaac, who had been joined by the constable. Morgan returned the torch to him.
“Look, Isaac,” Morgan said. “We have to move her.” He felt a little unsteady on his feet. “We can’t just leave her lying there, for Christ’s sake. Where’s her house?” Isaac indicated a doorway in the middle of the block. “Has she any family?” Morgan asked.
“There is one daughter, Maria,” Isaac told him. Morgan remembered her too, a slim teenage girl who also worked for the Fanshawes. She was only fourteen or fifteen. He sighed.
“Right,” he said. “Isaac, will you and Ezekiel”—he mentioned the Commission porter—“help me move her into her house until we can get an undertaker to come. Ezekiel?” he called into the crowd and Ezekiel emerged, a large bow-legged man with a pot-belly. He joined them a little unwillingly.
“Constable,” Morgan instructed, “if you take the arms with me, and you—Isaac—with Ezekiel take the legs. OK? Come on then.”
Nobody moved. There followed a brief impassioned burst of conversation in native dialect. Then Isaac spoke:
“We cannot totch her, sah. Please, I beg you once more. Ifin you totch her before, you will bring yourself trouble. Bringing everyone wahallah. You no go die well,” he finished up solemnly.
Ezekiel nodded in glum agreement. “Plenty wahallah, sah, for every people.”
The constable drew Morgan to one side. “Excuse, sah. This people are believing for Shango. They think that ifin they move this dead woman, they go die themselves one time.” The constable smiled condescendingly. “They think Shango is angry with them. They have to make big juju here. Bring one fetish priest before.”
Wahallah, juju, fetish priest, lightning gods.… Morgan stood in the dark compound, smelling the damp warm night, listening to its noises all around him, his eyes fixed on the body of the dead woman, wondering if it was all some frightful dream he was having. He massaged his temples with both hands. “Constable,”he said conspiratorially, “will
you
help me move her—get her out of the way at least. The two of us should manage.”
“Ah.” The constable spread his hands. “I cannot. If I move the body before they make juju they will think I make Shango angry. They will not like it.” He shrugged his shoulders in apology. “I must go. I will make my report.” He saluted, turned and walked out of the compound.
Morgan felt waves of panic break in his mind. He thought
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