At 4:00 p.m., Kevin, having lost count of the number of beers he’d drunk, checked his watch but could barely see it.
The motives of El Badry were also no clearer, and yet they’d been discussing him for three hours. What Kevin knew for certain was that Tunji had left his wallet in his Barnet flat, and the bar tab was mounting up.
Not wanting to pay for another hotel, the choice was simple: either catch the train back to Bristol or sleep on the floor of Tunji’s flat. “I need a piss,” he said. “Then I must make a move. Liverpool are playing tonight.”
“Liverpool? That is some genuine crap team, Kev. Come up and watch Arsenal some time.”
“Why, Tunji? Are you offering me a seat in the director’s box paid for out of the salary Barnet College pay you?”
“Nah. I meant watch them on my wide screen, like you do Liverpool.”
“For your information, I do not possess a wide screen, Tunji. It wouldn’t fit in my bloody flat. Anyway, I still need a piss. It won’t be a minute.”
He was gone for more than a minute, and when he returned, Tunji was holding a crumpled newspaper that he’d obviously found lying around. His arms were outstretched. He was reading something on an inside page. “Seen this, Kev?”
“What?” Kevin asked impatiently.
“Shh,” said Tunji, “I’m reading.”
Kevin sat with his arms folded as Tunji’s black eyes moved left to right, left to right. Then they moved up as if he was now reading the next column. Kevin had had enough. “Right, I’m off,” he said, standing up and knocking the table as he did so. Two empty beer glasses rattled.
“Here,” Tunji said. “Before you go, check this out, man. This proves what I’ve been saying. I reckon Big Shot El Badry has already started his clinical trials.”
“What?” Kevin asked. “Give it here.”
“Just a minute, man. I’ve not finished.”
Kevin snatched the paper. “Don’t you know it’s rude to read at the table? Didn’t Mummy Fayinka teach you any table manners?”
Tunji shrugged as Kevin began to read. It was an article about Islamic terrorism in Northern Nigeria, but then, right at the end, it mentioned a hundred deaths from sickness notified to the WHO.
“What do you think, Kev?”
“Quiet.”
“Now what do you think, Kev?”
“Bloody hell,” said Kevin. “But who says El Badry’s got anything to do with it?”
“It’s Nigeria, Kev. That’s why. A hundred cases, it says. Aren’t you able to read, or do you want me to read it to you? Didn’t Mummy Parker ever read to you in bed?”
“Shut up about my mother, Tunji. She had ten others to deal with.”
“Sorry, Kev, but a hundred cases of an unknown disease in Northern Nigeria? Doesn’t that sound like too much of a coincidence?”
“Yeh,” Kevin said, “I know what you mean.”
Both of them were quiet for a few moments. Tunji looked into his empty beer glass. Kevin was staring at the ceiling, thinking about what he’d read and hoping Tunji wouldn’t want another drink.
“I think we need to keep it to ourselves a while, Tunji,” Kevin then said. “We haven’t got any proof. It might be coincidence or you and your vivid imagination. I’ll dig around a bit to see if any of my networks know anything. But I still don’t understand what the bloody hell a rich Arab like El Badry wants with the Malthus Society. It bothers me.”
“Maybe he wants to put the blame on you,” said Tunji. “I mean, you’re the guy in charge.”
“But you’re the Nigerian, Tunji. You’re as black as the ace of spades.
I’m just a poor white teacher, white as freshly fallen snow. Who looks the most likely?”
“But I’ve got a British passport.”
“Yeh, showing Lagos as your place of birth. Think about it, Tunji.”
“Perhaps he videoed us at his apartment.”
“That’s it, Tunji. Good thinking. Perhaps he doctored the video to show you and me sitting next to each other on his leather sofa.”
“Yeh, well,” Tunji said. “I got to go. I’m meeting some mates for a few beers.”
“I thought you didn’t have any money,” Kevin said.
Tunji stalled. “Well,” he said, “not much.”