by Edna Dawes
‘Don’t stand there, help him!’ she cried, and went on her knees to see how badly hurt he was. ‘Jan, what have they done to you? Is it safe to move you?’ She sounded calmly professional despite her inner fears. He would accuse her of being ‘nursy’ again.
He couldn’t answer. Every indrawn breath turned into a spasm of coughing and retching, and his knees were drawn up in pain. A swift examination told her he was not wounded in any way; there was no blood except on his mouth and the side of his head where the small gash had been re-opened. The Africans, recognizing authority and competence, followed her instructions to help the hurt man back to his room, but seemed reluctant to tell Margaret what had happened . . . if any of them had, indeed, seen it . . . then vanished to their own quarters.
For a good ten minutes Jan lay on the bed, fighting to gain control of his breathing while Margaret looked on, knowing she could do nothing to help him. When he made an effort to sit up she told him to stay where he was for a little longer.
‘You told me you knew what you were doing,’ she accused.
‘So I was wrong,’ he croaked. ‘I wasn’t expecting him to have two companions. They held me while he had a field day. I suspect he lost his temper and took his revenge for being made to look a fool in front of you this morning.’
‘You mean it was Craig?’
‘Yes. Surely you realized that!’
Chapter Six
After giving him a drink of water Margaret tried to wipe away the blood from his mouth, but he pushed her aside and dashed the back of his hand across the oozing cut.
‘Don’t fuss! You’ll be wanting to kiss it better in a minute. I don’t have time to be mothered. The longer I wait, the worse it will be. I have to get after them.’ He started to get off the bed, but staggered and sat down again.
Margaret seized her chance. ‘Whether you like it or not you are going nowhere for at least an hour.’ She pushed him flat on his back. ‘Therefore you have no choice but to be mothered. While you tell me about Craig I’ll clean up your face . . . not that it will improve that scowling expression. Then, I’ll get you some breakfast.’
‘I’ll give you ten minutes to act nurse, after that I’m off,’ he vowed, ‘so make the most of it.’
‘Please explain about Craig,’ she said, returning with the sticking plaster, cotton wool, small bowl of water and scissors.
‘Russell Martin’s death scared him badly – that much must have been obvious even to you. Once I had a good look at the body I realized he had been murdered. I couldn’t accept that a lion had attacked him.’
‘Chris thought the same. He said he wouldn’t believe it even if you did.’ She cursed herself for that slip.
‘Yes, that’s Chris, all right,’ he mumbled through the cotton wool.
‘It’s my fault for telling him you had no doubts. Why didn’t you voice your real opinion?’
‘Because Craig went along with my first hasty analysis and I began to get suspicious. If I could see those injuries were faked to look like an animal attack he must surely have reached the same conclusion . . . but he continued to expand the theme with a lot of nonsense about killer lions which may have fooled you but increased my conviction that he was not playing straight. His sudden desire to get rid of me was a little too dramatic, and although he has always been ambitious, he has more sense than to think the authorities would promote him as Warden at the age of twenty-six.’
‘Are you telling me that Craig murdered Dr Martin?’ Margaret halted with the iodine half-way to his face.
‘No, I would hazard a guess that his pals across the border were responsible for that. Aaah! Watch what you are doing with that stuff!’ he cried as she dabbed his cut lip.
‘Sorry. Shall I kiss it better?’
‘You wouldn’t know how!’ He sat up slowly and shook his head to clear the giddiness. ‘Your ten minutes are up. If I wait any longer their dust will settle.’
Margaret watched with some misgivings as he rose painfully to his feet, and asked, ‘What are you hoping to gain? There are three of them against one, they are armed and you are not . . . and I fail to see how this recklessness will help Chris, or Schroeder Freight. That is why you are being so pig-headed, isn’t it?’
He ignored her and went through to the veranda, but she followed him. ‘Jan, if you kill them you’ll make matters a hundred times worse.’
He turned to face her. ‘What the hell do you take me for! Go back to your test tubes, you are beginning to sound almost emotional.’
She showered and dressed quickly, keeping an eye on Jan as he filled the stolen police truck with petrol and swung a couple of cans in the back as spares. Then he collected several water bottles to hang from a hook in the driving cab, and stowed away a container which probably contained food. Margaret ate an apple while she boiled a kettle for two mugs of instant coffee, and when it was ready, took one out to him.
‘Oh, thanks,’ he said, turning from his task and taking the coffee. ‘What are you all dressed up for?’
She was in a cream skirt and blouse, with a wide cotton hat on her head and a shoulder-bag slung over one arm. ‘I’m coming with you.’
He nearly scalded himself. ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous! You have been dragging on my conscience long enough. I’ve delivered you safely to Myala – now stay here.’
‘I can’t. I’d be terrified to stay in this place with a handful of Africans. Please, Jan, you can’t go off and desert me. I don’t know a thing about this country and its people.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ he assured her roughly. ‘I’ve never seen you unable to cope.’
‘Of course not . . . because you have always been with me. If you go away I’ll have no one to turn to, and when it grows dark I shall imagine horrors in every shadow.’
For the first time in their relationship she reverted to feminine guile. Contrary to his belief, she knew how to use the weapons with which nature had endowed her, and turned upon him the full battery of wide, frightened eyes, pleading frailty, and subtle flattery of his male superiority. He was a man . . . and fell for it, of course. The memory of her bending over him in a brief cotton gown with her hair tousled round her face made him sigh and rub at the back of his head with an agitated hand.
‘I . . . oh, damn it, I’ll have to get a message to the authorities and tell them to send someone to collect you. I’ll go across and instruct one of the Rangers to get through on the radio as soon as he can. Don’t worry, they’ll rescue you before nightfall.’ He drained the mug and limped off towards the huts where he had been beaten up that morning.
The Africans were all there. Now the white Wardens had gone they were unwilling to do anything decisive. With the instinct of the true African they sensed there was trouble ahead and stayed in their quarters, unwilling to become involved. Most of them were aware that Russell Martin had been murdered – the method was not unknown to them – and feared being drawn beneath the wrath of the killers. Tribal warfare was still rife, and they knew the penalties of falling foul of certain factions.
When Jan returned he found Margaret sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, bag and dark glasses in her lap, looking all set to go with him.
‘What’s the idea?’ he asked sharply.
‘You do intend leaving now, don’t you?’ It was sweetly enough said.
‘Yes . . . alone. I’ve fixed for a message to be passed on your behalf. He’ll get through at nine o’clock.’
‘I’m not stopping here without you, Jan. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.’ This time she must have overdone the performance because he saw right through it and cursed himself for having been such a fool.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, Maggie. You may have looked pathetically innocent in that baby outfit you sleep in, but the “poor little me” act doesn’t fit the girl you have reverted to. Get out and stop being a damned nuisance. I have wasted enough valuable time over you as it is. Stay here and use that female ploy on whoever turns up to rescue you.�
��
‘You are not fit to go off alone.’
‘OUT!’ he insisted.
‘No.’
‘Now look here . . .’
‘Where would you have been without me in the Dakota!’
‘If you are not out in ten seconds, by God, I’ll drag you out,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘This is no time to start playing sex games.’
In answer to that she reached across and switched on the ignition.
‘Right!’ he stormed, losing his patience and his temper. ‘You bloody well asked for it.’
Their departure from the headquarters would not have disgraced Le Mans, and Margaret received the beating Jan would love to have given her from the hard seat as she was literally bounced up and down like a ball. He took a vicious pleasure in hitting all the ruts as he drove flat-out along the rough track, and hoped most heartily that his unwelcome passenger would be black and blue with an elephantine headache before long. At a time like this he could not bother with her idiotic attempts at being provocative. Many a girl had found herself regretting having pushed him too far and ended up being forced to carry out what she had threatened. He had done, on Margaret’s behalf, all that could be expected of him. If she was determined to put herself through further discomfort it was her affair. He no longer felt responsible for her, and certainly was not going to waste valuable time by arguing and attempting to pull a struggling female from a seat she was determined to occupy.
When he eventually abandoned the truck she could drive herself back to the bungalow. A fresh surge of anger heated him when he thought of the time he had lost by falling for that show she had put on. How in heaven’s name had he been so easily taken in when the performance had been more worthy of one of his girl-friends than this smooth Englishwoman! Every lurch set his own head throbbing and did nothing to aid the gnawing ache low in his stomach, but he kept going as a reminder to himself never to underestimate her again.
Margaret was not at all sure why she had let herself in for this punishment. The maternal instinct seemed to be growing alarmingly, for she had been unable to accept the idea of Jan dashing off into the wilds with no one beside him although it was a sure bet he would be dead against her accompanying him. She had thought she had him over a barrel until he foiled her with the solution of using the radio-telephone. There had been no alternative but to start being precocious . . . and now he was so mad she dared not speak to him.
Every so often she scanned the golden sky for any sign of an aircraft. If Jan found out that she knew Chris was flying in to Myala this morning a wrung neck was the very least she could expect – from both the Schroeder brothers! Chris was assuming she would have told Jan of his proposed arrival, and what his reaction would be when the Africans informed him his brother had driven off was better not to dwell on. Although she had got her way, it was at considerable risk to tempers and opinions. Maybe she had mishandled the situation, she thought with a downward plunge of her spirits. I am not equipped to cope with life lived at this level and it seems to be controlling me instead of the other way round.
A sudden picture flashed before her dust-filled eyes of her sister Alison rushing home from work so that she could go to a pre-Christmas party with young Mike. They would set off into the bitterly cold night, little knowing that half-way across the world two people were hurtling through the thickening undergrowth, separated by anger, on the trail of gun-runners. Next week, it would be Christmas day. In Norfolk, her family would be sitting down to the usual heavy dinner, and opening presents. Where would she be? Judging by the present state of affairs, still forcing her unwelcome company on this accident-prone South African!
The track forked just ahead of them and Jan had to slow down to decide which branch to take. In fact, he stopped and got out to inspect the ground for evidence, and Margaret watched him thoughtfully. If there was one good thing which had come out of their misfortune it was that she was beginning to understand him a little more. His eyes were still stormy when they slid across hers as he entered the cab, but she had the impression that her behaviour had been overshadowed by a worse source of anger. He swung off along the right-hand track which headed into wilder solitary landscape, and a mile or so further on it narrowed into nothingness which meant they were driving over grass and dodging trees.
Margaret was just wondering how Jan knew he was going in the right direction when her attention was caught by a clownish face peering over the top of a tree.
‘Oh Jan, look . . . a giraffe! And there are more!’ she added excitedly. ‘Aren’t they the most interesting animals you have ever seen! I have been waiting nearly a year for this. Do stop for a minute and . . .’ She turned to him and her voice tailed off as she remembered the circumstances which had defeated her ambition to work here.
‘We’re not on a sight-seeing trip,’ he grunted.
After that she contented herself with watching absorbedly from the window trying to photo-memorize all she saw to bring out again when she had the time to enjoy it. The giraffes had broken into an ungainly canter as the truck rushed past, and she had smiled to herself at the sight. There was a large herd of wildebeest and zebra grazing together as they often did, and any amount of buck ranging from the miniature exquisite steenbuck to the various families of horse-sized but nevertheless delicate creatures which make up the whole endearing species. Most of these were only seen at a distance for Jan’s approach was not designed for animal-spotting, and the racing vehicle scared them. Margaret longed to ply him with questions which she was sure he would willingly have answered under different circumstances.
The vast array of birds was too active for her to recognize any although her knowledge of African species was very limited. The vivid colours and strangely compelling cries were enough to content her that day, and new hope that she might return at a later date added to her gladness at the sight of them. Then, at last, came the sight every visitor to Africa longs for. Jan spotted them first and slowed to a crawl. He said nothing, but Margaret detected a look of pride on his face when she breathed, ‘They really are the royalty of the animal kingdom!’
She had turned to look from the window on his side of the cab as they slid past a small group of lions sitting like assembled statuary with the ascending sun burnishing their coats to luminous gold. The animals regarded the truck with sleepy slit eyes and compressed mouths in their tawny muzzles. To Margaret they appeared to be saying, ‘Yes, you are passing unmolested because we are too lazy to do anything about it. Come again tomorrow and it might be a different matter!’ As if to emphasize the fact, one lioness rolled over in slow motion throwing her giant paws above her head in a monster travesty of a playful puppy, but her companions remained squinting with deceptive watchfulness at the distance beyond.
Jan accelerated once they had passed the beasts and Margaret said, ‘Even if I have to return to England straight away, I shall be grateful for the last few minutes.’
He kept his screwed-up eyes on the distance ahead. ‘Knowing you, I doubt if you will accept defeat so easily. Even if the opportunity to work at Myala falls through, no doubt you will be able to wangle a job in one of the other Reserves. Use that big-eyed technique on someone who doesn’t know you and you’ll get what you want.’
She rounded on him. ‘All through our association you have condemned me as cold, yet you are equally bitter when I behave like the girls you admire so much!’
‘It’s your timing I deplore . . . and it was hardly worthy of good old, stiff upper-lip, true-blue Margaret Ward.’ He said the last in a fair imitation of her cultured tones. Unaccountably she coloured vividly. He had made her sound such a prig!
‘Is it because I am English that you dislike me so much?’ she asked curiously.
‘I don’t dislike Helen – she is English.’
‘What then?’
Since he had just been mentally listing all the justifiable reasons for his anger against her he brought it out pat, like a preflight instrument check.
�
��Practically your first words to me were that you had never had to struggle for anything in your life . . . it all came to you for the asking. I took you to Van Heerdon’s party where you sat aloof like a psychiatrist observing the mentally-disturbed at play. You continued the theme at my flat.’
‘I didn’t ask to go to that party!’
‘Don’t interrupt! You have a supremely over-estimated opinion of yourself with regard to the rest of the human race. They are simply there to be studied through your biologically microscopic eyes, and all their faults and weaknesses are noted with long-suffering forbearance. You, on the other hand, are blameless. Vices such as smoking, drinking, or bedding with a man play no part in your life. Your diet consists of all the health-giving foods, you cycle everywhere – since you never play love games, I suppose you have to get your exercise some other way – and no doubt you have never gone to sleep without cleaning your teeth and brushing your hair a hundred times.
‘There has been no lack of evidence that you regard me as juvenile, dissolute and delinquent, and you jump up to protect me with maternal indignation when the law catches up with me, but it’s time someone told you a man likes to fight his own battles rather than let a militant do-gooding female do it for him!’
‘Now I know, I’ll leave you to inject your own morphia and dress your own wounds as best you can,’ she put in shakily.
‘Don’t fling that at me,’ he snapped, taking his eyes from the bush and flicking them over her. ‘I am not talking about normal acts of humanity, and you know it! It’s the tendency you have of treating me as a tiresome little boy who has to be pulled back on to the path of righteousness.’