The Delta

by Tony Park

  He and Tracey had made up last night, with her swearing her love for him and earning his forgiveness well into the small hours of the morning. She’d pouted when he’d returned to the tent, after eleven – late for a man who had to be up before dawn each morning – and asked him what had been so secret about the committee meeting that had prevented her from attending.

  ‘Just politics, babe,’ he’d said.

  Stirling had initially felt bad about passing on Bernard’s request that only committee members attend the dinner, seeing no reason why his partner should be left out. But after hearing what Steele proposed, and the chorus of support from the members that reached a crescendo by the time the port and cigars had come out, he was glad she hadn’t been there. Even Sabrina Frost had come around in the end.

  It was surreal. What had begun as a lobbying and public relations campaign had progressed to a virtual military coup which, if successful, would see the formation of a new country, or at least gain a greater measure of sovereignty for the people of the Caprivi Strip. He shook his head. Madness.

  John had radioed Xakanaxa two hours earlier, reporting that he had found Chapman and that the American had been rescued by a stranger who would need accommodating at the camp.

  ‘I’m full, John, over,’ Stirling had replied.

  ‘You’ll make room for this person, trust me, over,’ the Aussie had said.

  ‘John, I repeat, there is no room at the inn, over.’

  ‘There will be, John, out.’

  Stirling saw that as well as Elliott, John and Chapman, who was riding in the back of the cruiser like a dog, with his head sticking out the hatch and tongue lolling, there was a fourth person in the vehicle. He had his bush hat pulled down low over his eyes. Stirling sighed. He had no idea where he would put this stranger. He walked down the wooden ramp as the Cruiser pulled to a halt.

  ‘G’day,’ John said, climbing down from the driver’s seat. ‘Special delivery. Two guests, but no tip required. All in a day’s work.’

  Stirling nodded to Sam, who lifted his hand in greeting as he opened the side door of the four-wheel drive. As soon as the stranger in front opened the passenger door he saw it was a woman, with shapely legs capped by ragged, cut-off shorts. He walked around the truck’s protruding front bumper bar.

  ‘Hello, I’m—’

  She flipped up the brim of her hat and smiled. ‘I know who you are.’

  His jaw dropped. He couldn’t speak. Pricks of light glittered at the periphery of his vision.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me after all this time?’

  He managed to lift his hands, opening his arms. He was so totally taken off guard he didn’t have time to register the different emotions that tumbled and turned in his mind.

  Sonja closed the gap between them and wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. ‘Oh, Stirling,’ she said, her voice muffled by his chest, ‘it’s so good to see you again.’

  ‘I …’ He hugged her and then gently placed his hands on her shoulders, moving her away so he could look at her. She stared up at him. ‘Sonja.’

  She nodded. ‘Ja. It’s me.’

  He tried to think of what to say. Behind him he heard the slap of sandals on the wooden decking. ‘Hello John, hiya Elliott. Sam.’

  Tracey stood beside him in the sand. ‘Hello,’ she said to Sonja. ‘I’m Tracey Hawthorne. Looks like you two know each other.’

  Stirling let go of Sonja. Sam hovered by the Land Cruiser. Stirling would deal with him later, but how was he to handle this meeting? ‘Um … Tracey, this is …’

  ‘Sonja Kurtz. I used to live here. When I was a kid. When Stirling and I were younger.’

  The two women shook hands.

  Stirling’s mouth felt dry ‘Tracey is—’

  ‘Stirling’s significant other, I suppose you’d call me,’ she said, wrapping both of her hands around his left bicep. ‘You must tell me all about what he was like as a boy. I bet he was naughty!’ Tracey rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

  He felt his face colour. ‘Sonja, I had no idea … I’m …’

  Sonja took a step back from them and forced a smile. ‘Stirling, I hate to impose, but I was hoping you might have a staff tent or somewhere I could kip for a couple of days.’

  He ran a hand through his hair, but Tracey clung firmly to his other arm. ‘Of course. No problem. John told me he had someone who needed somewhere to stay.’

  Tracey looked up at him. ‘We’re awfully busy, Stirling. Perhaps in the staff compound?’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Sonja said.

  Sam cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me. Stirling?’

  Stirling looked at him, the memories of the night he had caught the American and Tracey rising like bile. ‘Sam?’

  ‘I presume you have a safari tent for me stay in?’

  He presumed. The hide of the bloody man. Stirling swallowed his anger for now – though he fully intended to vent it later. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll have someone show you to your suite in just a second, if—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Sonja will be sleeping in my safari tent tonight – alone – and for the duration of my stay.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Sam. Your booking has been arranged. You, Cheryl-Ann, Gerry and your replacement cameraman each have your own suites.’

  ‘I’ll bunk in with Gerry. He won’t mind. Sonja can have my tent. I insist on it.’

  ‘Sam, I’m fine,’ Sonja said.

  He shook his head. ‘No, I won’t hear of it. You’ll stay in my suite and Wildlife World will be paying for all your meals, drinks and other incidentals.’

  Sonja looked at Stirling and all he could do was shrug.

  ‘It’s the least I can do after your friend here saved my life, Stirling,’ Sam said.

  Stirling didn’t like people taking control of his camp, but the American’s offer did solve a problem. Sonja couldn’t come and stay with him and Tracey, and the staff compound was actually full. The camera crew’s replacement pilot also needed accommodation and had taken the last bed. Sonja would have been sleeping on a cot in someone else’s hut. ‘Very well. Tracey, could you please show Sonja to tent eight?’

  ‘Of course, darl.’

  Bloody hell, Stirling thought. He wondered what he had just put in train as his new girlfriend led the first love of his life away. He cleared his throat. ‘Sam, if you’ve got a minute?’

  ‘Sure.’ Chapman squared his shoulders as though girding himself for a fight.

  ‘John, Elliott, thanks so much, guys. Please go through to the dining area. Brunch is being served, so help yourselves. On us.’

  ‘You ripper,’ John said, clapping a hand on Elliott’s shoulder. ‘Come on, mate, let’s get stuck in. It’ll be better tucker than the research camp.’

  Once the other two were out of earshot, Stirling walked over to the Land Cruiser, where Sam was retrieving his daypack. ‘Cheryl-Ann, Gerry and the new man, Jim his name is, will be at brunch in a few minutes. Ray’s in Maun hospital with a broken arm and is under observation for suspected concussion. Apparently Cheryl-Ann tried to sign him out, but the doctors wouldn’t allow it.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Sounds like Cheryl-Ann.’ He put his pack down on the ground. ‘Look, Stirling, I just want to explain …’

  Stirling took a step forward and stood toe to toe. They were of equal height and build. The American didn’t flinch as their eyes met, like a couple of impala rams about to lock horns to establish their dominance. He dropped his voice. ‘Save your explanations. Tracey was in tears after you left. She seems to think she might have led you on, but I’m not so sure. If you’re the sort of man who thinks that if a girl dresses in a certain way or is friendly to you then you can assault her, then I don’t want you in my camp, no matter how rich or famous you are. Are we on the same channel, Mr Chapman? Are we watching the same program, Coyote Sam?’

  Stirling watched the other man for a reaction. He half hop
ed he’d raise his hand to him, or try to malign Tracey. He wanted so much to finish what he’d started and to plant his fist in the middle of that big, perfect, all-American pretty-boy face of his. Chapman opened his mouth and Stirling’s fingers curled.

  Sam moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘We are.’

  Stirling felt cheated, impotent. He wondered if he should klap Chapman just for the hell of it, to let his message sink in. The red mist cleared, though, just as it was about to overtake him. Something else in his brain reminded him of the conversation with Cheryl-Ann. The extra mentions of the camp’s name, guaranteed in the program, and the glowing review on the Wildlife World website. He’d been furious at Cheryl-Ann, as well, but as much as he tried he couldn’t dismiss what the producer had said to him at the close of their brief meeting that morning.

  ‘And Stirling,’ she’d said, ‘speaking as a woman who’s been around the block a couple of times and worked with some pretty big-name celebrities, keep an eye on your girlfriend. She’s a star-fucker – a groupie.’

  Stirling turned his back on Chapman and hopefully on the whole damned mess. He started walking back up the ramp to reception. He had even more to occupy his mind now that Sonja had returned to Xakanaxa.

  ‘I see you know Sonja,’ Sam said.

  Stirling stopped and turned.

  ‘She’s a great girl. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said she saved my life.’

  Stirling raised his right index finger and pointed at Chapman. ‘If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Who, Sonja?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stirling walked back up the ramp to reception.

  ‘So tell me, Tracey, how long have you and Stirling been together?’ Sonja tried as hard as she could to sound as though she was just being polite, making small talk.

  ‘Let me see … three months, thirteen days and,’ she checked her watch, ‘forty-one minutes. I came here with my mom, from Johannesburg, as a guest, and the rest … well … the rest you can figure out for yourself.’

  She was skinny. And young. Too skinny. Too young. A Johannesburg Kugel from her painted toenails to her dyed blonde hair. Sonja followed her pert young bum up the stairs. Water spattered the ground beside the tent and Sonja looked up to see where it was coming from. A sprinkler irrigation system had been set up on top of the roof and a constant trickle ran down over the waterproof fly sheet above the green canvas safari tent.

  ‘Bush airconditioning, Stirling calls it,’ Tracey said.

  ‘It’s new. Everything looks new.’ At the foot of the stairs leading up to the platform on which the tent sat was a welded steel sculpture of a leopard. The artist had captured the slinking cat’s essence – a balance of strength and stealth.

  Tracey nodded. ‘Yes, Stirling’s put a lot of work into renovating and replacing things around the camp. The place had gone to rack and ruin under the previous manager. He was an alcoholic, apparently.’

  ‘He was my father.’

  ‘Oh, you’re that Sonja. Sorry.’

  Cow, Sonja thought. She obviously knew exactly who she was. ‘Yes, that one.’

  The small deck in front of the safari tent was shaded by the roof’s overhang and a mopane tree. The view looked out across a channel of the Khwai River, which was about four metres wide at this point and led to the Xakanaxa Lagoon. It was much narrower than Sonja remembered it. Tall pampas grass and reeds sprouted on the far side of the channel. A hippopotamus grunted somewhere nearby. Tracey unzipped the green mosquito mesh door and led the way into the suite, which Sonja had to admit looked beautiful.

  Sonja dumped her bag on the fine cotton duvet. At the foot of the king-sized bed was a bedspread in leopard print. Looking around, she saw the room was trimmed with the same fabric. The leopard suite had a sexy, predatory feel about it, which she liked. She did not, however, like the girl, at all. ‘And what do you do here … ?’

  ‘Tracey.’ She flicked a lock of straightened blonde hair from her face. ‘I’m the catering manager.’

  ‘You tell the African chefs which dish to cook each night.’

  Tracey pursed her lips. ‘You’re joking, right? It’s a demanding job.’

  Sonja smiled and shrugged. ‘I lived here for several years. I know all the jobs – I did most of them when I was a teenager.’

  ‘That long ago? Well, brunch is ready when you are. You should freshen up. Seriously.’ Tracey wrinkled her nose.

  Sonja bit back the retort as the waif-like creature walked out onto the deck and down the stairs, her tread as light as a rat’s. She sat on the big soft bed and took off her hiking boots and socks. Unfortunately, the smug little bitch was right. The rest of her clothes she stripped as she walked to the rear of the tent and opened the wooden door which led to the open-air shower. She kicked her smelly clothes into a pile as she turned the hot tap on full. The gas hot water geyser kicked in with a woomf and Sonja’s mind flashed back instantly to the exploding helicopter gunship. Would they find her here? She doubted it.

  She was filthy. She looked at her fingernails which were brown with the horse’s blood. She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed hard. ‘Enough,’ she said out loud. She looked up into the trees to see if she could spot a pretty bird, or a squirrel or even a lizard. Something alive.

  It was no good, the tears sprung from her eyes and her body started to shake with the sobs as something in her fucked-up brain forced her to replay the scene of the horse lying there, bleeding. She felt the M4 in her hands and saw the animal’s head across the open sights. She felt the kick in her shoulder of the single round, saw the entry hole and heard the horse’s final shudder. And then it was over.

  She held her face under the scalding water, sluicing the tears away, and wondered if she would ever be normal. She unwrapped the plastic from a translucent bar of soap and scratched at it, filling her dirty nails so that when she squirted the nicely scented shampoo into her palm and started lathering and massaging her scalp her nails would be cleaned as well. Wincing, she peeled the dressing from her thigh. The wound was still puckered, but there was little blood oozing and the skin was a healthy pink. ‘Fucker.’ She wished she could have killed the man who shot her.

  Short showers were part of barracks life and she was finished in less than three minutes.

  Her only regret, as she towelled herself dry and turned on the complimentary hair dryer, was that she would have to get into her dirty clothes. She ran her fingers through her hair as she blasted it, but then she thought she heard someone calling. She turned off the dryer.

  ‘Housekeeping! Madam? Sorry?’

  Sonja took a cotton kimono from a hanger and belted it around her waist. When she stepped into the main part of the tent there was an African maid standing with a small pile of clothes in her hand. ‘Madam, these are for you.’

  Sonja shook her head. She didn’t recognise the woman, who was in her late teens or early twenties. ‘Not mine. They must be for Mr Chapman. Is it his laundry or something?’

  The woman held a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘No, madam, not for Mr Chapman. From Mr Chapman. He is saying that this is a gift, for you, madam.’

  ‘A gift?’

  The maid smiled and placed the clothes down on the bed and turned to walk out. ‘Um … thank you.’ Sonja padded to the bed. On top of the clothes was a folded piece of paper. It was a note, handwritten on Xakanaxa stationery. Hi Sonja. Please don’t think me presumptuous but I noticed you didn’t have much luggage. Feel free to return or exchange anything you don’t like. Just wanted to say thanks for the last couple of days. Sam C.

  She reread it. It was predictably verbose. She sorted through the stack of clothes. There were two safari shirts, one short-sleeved in green and the other long-sleeved khaki, in two different sizes, although either would have fitted. She smiled. There were also two pairs of trousers – the kind with the removable lower legs that zipped off. This was tourist-only wear and normally she wouldn’t be seen dead in them, but she had not
hing else that was clean. She tried on both pairs of trousers but the second fitted better so she left those on. The short-sleeved blouse was fine. Her sports bra was rank, so she left it off. Her breasts weren’t huge, but she was proud that at thirty-eight years of age they were still pert enough for her to go without if she wasn’t exercising.

  She ran the brush through her damp hair and tied it back while she thought about the gift. No man had ever bought her clothes before. The selection would be limited in the Xakanaxa gift shop and she probably would have bought the exact same articles, so there was a practical sensibility about it. It wasn’t as though he’d bought her lingerie or a cocktail dress. However, the fact that he’d even thought about her and her dilemma of what to wear to brunch was … what was the word? Sweet? It wasn’t a word that filtered through to her world very often. ‘Weird,’ she said out loud. She giggled – something she hadn’t done in quite a while.

  Reluctantly she reached for her dirty socks and boots, then dropped them on the floor with a thud. ‘Fuck it.’ She unzipped the lower part of her new pants, turning them into shorts, and walked out of the tent, barefoot. She padded down the sandy pathway to the dining area feeling like a kid again.

  THIRTEEN

  Sam tried to remember his manners and not talk with his mouth full, but it was hard. The food was good and the buffet table was still groaning invitingly, but it seemed everyone wanted to hear everybody else’s stories all at once.

  He’d helped himself to bacon, both lamb and pork sausages, fried tomato, toast, mushrooms and ordered two fried eggs, sunny-side up, from the cheery African woman cooking the eggs to order. His plate was almost empty already, but he knew he still had room for more.

  John Lemon was next to him at the long wooden dining table, now onto coffee, while Cheryl-Ann was seated opposite him. On one side of her was a sun-tanned square-jawed English guy called Steele, who said he worked in security, while on the other was another Australian, a thin guy in his thirties called Jim Rickards, who had an unfashionable ponytail and a big mouth.