Free The Temporary Gentleman by Sebastian Barry

houseboy?’
    ‘No,’ I said.
    ‘I was especially hoping you would remember the incident. The people here are not as a rule inclined to be open with us but I thought that as a European you might be more obliging.’
    ‘I’m afraid the truth is I was very drunk.’
    Thus far he didn’t seem to mind any of my answers, one way or another. He remained perfectly affable. A very good policeman I thought. I had no way of knowing what he was thinking.
    ‘Your full name is John Charles McNulty, is it not? You were in the sappers in the war and subsequently were with the UN here and in Togoland?’
    ‘Yes. Here in Accra, mostly.’
    ‘But you were in Togo, were you not, during the time of the plebiscite?’
    ‘Yes, I was.’
    ‘And what keeps you here in Accra, Mr McNulty?’
    What indeed?
    ‘I am just – pausing, I think, before I go back to Ireland. I am writing a little,’ I said, regretting saying it, but at the same time unexpectedly proud of my strange activity.
    ‘Oh?’ he said.
    I waved towards the table, and the discarded minute-book, as if that said everything that needed to be said.
    ‘May I take a look?’ he said. And before I could say yea or nay in any language, he scraped back his chair and went over to the table and took up this book. He opened it and for some reason read aloud the first sentence he saw there, random, and mysterious: ‘ When I started to bring her almost weekly to the cinema in Galway I realised the pictures were something of a religion for her – I don’t understand,’ he said.
    ‘It’s just a sort of memoir, I suppose,’ I said, as embarrassed now as I had been proud. ‘My wife died some years ago. It is a memoir about her, I suppose. Jottings.’
    ‘Do you think I could take it?’ he said.
    ‘It’s just a personal, very personal account of things. It has no relevance to anyone except myself, and even then, I am not sure why I am writing it. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.’
    He was still scanning through the pages.
    ‘Is it a diary?’ he said.
    ‘No, I don’t believe so. I didn’t catch your name, inspector.’
    He seemed to have become briefly deaf. I devoutly did not wish him to take the book away. I knew if he took it away I would not be able to go on with it, illogical as that was.
    But much to my relief he seemed to lose interest in the book, and placed it back down where he had found it, and returned to the chair. Then he sat for a half-minute saying nothing, but looking at me quietly.
    ‘What was interesting to us when your name came up was not that you were drinking in Osu, or even that Mr Genfi was so badly injured. It was that, when I brought your name to Mr Oko, your landlord, and he spoke of your service in the UN, I contacted them, and was told the reason you were let go.’
    He let this sink in a little, and I smiled, not knowing what else to do.
    ‘Do you want to say anything about that?’ he said.
    ‘I think there might be a certain confidentiality attached to it,’ I said.
    I felt I knew now what was coming. That unpleasantness in Ho was going to haunt me. The Swede, Emmanuel Heyst, and his mad schemes. I had been duped by him, and his promises of easy money. There is no such thing.
    ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘Gunrunning, wasn’t it? Do you see, Ghana is still a volatile entity as I’m sure you appreciate. Certain aspects of things still festering . . . And we are very interested in the reason you have remained here in Accra, with this implication hanging over you of gunrunning in the past.’ Then he said, in the next breath, as if the two things were connected, ‘You might be amused to know that I served for some years in the Ulster Constabulary. There is a long association between Ireland and the police force here, in one form or another.’
    ‘Oh?’ I said.
    Gunrunning. That word ringing in my ears.
    ‘Well, what may one say about that?’ he said, smiling.
    ‘About what?’
    ‘Your activities.’
    ‘There were no activities. It