Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  And then there were the terrible twins. Both were attractive in a disturbed kind of way but she knew nothing about their pasts. There could be horrible truths hidden behind the gruff exteriors. Maybe them keeping their distance was a blessing.

  The next morning, she stumbled down at dawn to share a taxi with Jacques to the airport. The sun was creeping up the sky throwing tree shadows on the front wall of the hotel. Sam pressed her sunglasses closer to her face and slumped in the back seat with him.

  ‘Tired?’ he said.

  ‘Washed out. You?’

  ‘After dinner with Mad Mark? You guess.’

  They checked in at the scruffy counters and made their way to the business class lounge. Were the Consaf travel department aware that there were other classes on an aeroplane? Not that she minded. Plenty of different choices tempted them from the breakfast bar. Sam had some scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with a large cup of tea, made with her own bag. Jacque picked at some fruit. Her look of disdain was comical.

  ‘I must look after my figure,’ he said, smoothing his hands over his stomach.

  ‘You’ll get the squits. Not recommended for long-haul flights,’ said Sam, grinning.

  He finished the fruit and sipped his coffee, peering at her over the brim of his cup. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, his eyes threatened to burn holes in the back of her skull. What was it with him? Why couldn’t he be a simple thug like Hans?

  All too soon, Sam’s flight boarded. She stood up and stuck a hand in his face holding it out on the end of a stiff arm. He cocked his head to one side as if considering his counterattack, but, instead, he grabbed her hand in a bone-crushing shake. She refused to flinch, smiling a goodbye and rubbing her hand only when out of sight.

  Chapter XIX

  Sam opened the door to the street and held it open without looking.

  ‘What’s he done this time?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Simon, affecting to saunter in.

  She blocked his path, trying not to be intimidated by his physical presence. Despite herself, she breathed deeply before speaking, inhaling his intoxicating odour, the mix of cologne and pheromones heady in the air.

  ‘What are you doing here? How dare you come to my flat?’ she said.

  Simon reeled backwards, a hurt expression on his face.

  ‘But you opened the door. Aren’t you glad to see me?’ he said.

  ‘I was expecting Hannah. And don’t be ridiculous. I would prefer never to see you again.’

  ‘So, you have feelings for me.’

  ‘Not the good kind. Why aren’t you with her?’ said Sam.

  ‘She’s thrown me out,’ said Simon.

  ‘And you thought you’d come here instead? Are you on drugs?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I assumed you’d forgiven me,’ said Simon, with a hangdog expression.

  ‘I’ve forgiven Hannah. You, I’ll never pardon. Get out.’

  ‘Can’t I have a coffee first?’

  ‘No, you can’t. Who told you I was back?’ said Sam.

  He gazed at her, a long lazy examination that made her feel naked. He stretched out a hand and touched her cheek, a gesture she used to treasure. She almost fainted as waves of the old desire threatened to overcome her.

  ‘I knew. I could feel y...’

  ‘No, you bloody couldn’t. Go on. Out,’ she said, shoving him.

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t. Hannah had a baby. No matter what had happened in the past, she would not relive the misery of Simon’s wavering interest. She pushed him back through the entrance and out onto the street, slamming the door in his face. She leaned against it panting with exertion and fright. He whimpered outside like a lost dog.

  ‘Go away.’ she shouted with all her might.

  ‘You don’t mean it. I’ll be back.’

  And he was gone.

  Sam sat on the hall chair with a thud, knocking a pile of junk mail on the floor which she kicked in frustration. She held her head in her hands and tried to slow her heart rate. Tears were queuing up to explode, but she forced them back in. I won’t let him ruin my time at home. He is history.

  But how could she forget him when he was the father of her sister’s child and kept turning up to upset her emotions. Life was so cruel.

  ***

  Dirk was drinking a cup of Miriam’s extra strong brew when the telephone rang. He wasn’t expecting a call, and he regarded it with suspicion. He picked up the receiver and listened.

  ‘Dirk? Are you there?’

  ‘It’s me, Charlie. What’s up?’

  ‘That woman you hired.’

  There was undisguised loathing in Charlie Okito’s tone of voice but Dirk affected not to notice.

  ‘Which woman? But you liked your new secretary. Quite a lot from what I can make out.’

  ‘Not her. The one at Masaibu,’ snapped Charlie.

  ‘Sam Harris? She has a name.’

  ‘Well, I won’t have to remember it for much longer,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Already? Is this necessary? What’s she done now?’

  ‘She’s a racist.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You’ll need to do better,’ said Dirk with distain.

  ‘I have proof. There’s a nasty story in the newspaper about the racist South African mining company starving its workers.’

  ‘What? This is crazy. I’m aware you want to get rid of her, but it’s not the right time.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how dangerous she is,’ said Charlie.

  ‘She tells me everything before she does it. How dangerous can she be?’

  ‘I’ll fax you the file. Believe me, we have to act now.’

  ‘Goodbye Charlie.’

  ***

  Simon’s visit had the effect of driving Sam to drink. When she was convinced that he had gone, she walked to the local corner shop at the end of her road along a pavement illuminated by a flickering street lamp. The murky yellow light threw threatening shadows on the road only increasing her anguish, and a cold north wind cut through her anorak.

  She bought a bottle of cheap red wine and a packet of Camel lights, a sure-fire recipe for an evil hangover. Then she walked back fast with the bottle in the pocket of her anorak, the hood pulled up over her head in case Simon was still hanging around.

  Once inside, she locked the front door and put the chain on, not to keep him out, more to shut the door on the emotions which threatened to overwhelm her. There was another solution, apart from getting drunk, to distract her from the incident, and that was to look at her photographs of Fergus taken in stealth mode when they worked together in Simbako.

  Like many commitment-phobes, Fergus was not keen on leaving any trace behind and he used to shy away when she tried to take his photo. This didn’t discourage Sam who got a few good ones with her telephoto lens while he worked on the diamond exploration pits. Staring at these photographs was as close to looking at porn as she ever got, with their close ups of his naked upper body and golden lion curls on his lower belly.

  Sipping a glass of wine while gazing at his masculine form and remembering being held in his arms, swimming in a sea of passion, Sam could soon forget all about Simon. She blew smoke out of the back window of the flat into the night, leaning on the windowsill and gazing into the light pollution that had replaced the stars in Masaibu.

  The problem with drinking a bottle of wine when you are almost teetotal is that you get much drunker than you intended and do things you know are stupid but need an excuse to do, anyway. Sam dialled Fergus’ number. She was tingling with anticipation. Surely, he would be glad she was in London? Even commitment-phobes hardly ever refused the offer of sex on a week night.

  ‘Yes?’ A young woman’s voice. Groggy with sleep. ‘Hello, is anyone there?’

  Sam dropped the receiver back on the cradle. She stared with horror at the telephone and then ran to the toilet to be sick.

  ***

&nbs
p; ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Morné, screwing up his face and knitting his eyebrows together so that they almost touched. He rubbed his face with his hands and grimaced.

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. Philippe Mutombo, the HR manager at Masaibu, has put together a dossier which seems to prove it beyond doubt. Worse still, Charlie claims that an article has appeared in the Goro Daily News calling Consaf a safe harbour for white supremists,’ said Dirk, shrugging.

  ‘Have we got a copy?’ said Morné.

  ‘Not yet. The phone lines were down again, but he has promised to fax me a photocopy of the article as soon as he can.’

  ‘I’m not at all happy with this.’ Morné crossed his arms. Dirk stood his ground. Morné was notorious as a procrastinator.

  ‘But we can’t stand by and ignore it,’ said Dirk.

  ‘No, of course not, but she seemed like such a nice young woman. It doesn’t fit her profile at all. Hasn’t she worked in lots of multicultural environments before? I don’t remember any negative comments on her references.’

  ‘Me neither, but we must do something. The standing of Consaf in Lumbono is at stake,’ said Dirk.

  ‘In that case, it wouldn’t do to let this go unchallenged. What’s your plan?’ said Morné.

  ‘I had already asked her to come by on her way back from leave and give us an update on progress at the project. We can use the opportunity to interrogate her face to face.’

  ‘Okay, but we must give her the right of reply. You seemed to think that she was doing a fantastic job up until now.

  ‘She was. I…’ Dirk trailed off.

  ‘I’m loath to fire her unless we have to. There are no suitable replacements and we are making progress at last.’

  ‘None the less…’

  ‘Yes, I know. Fine.’ Morné groaned. ‘Get her in here.’

  ***

  Sam spent the rest of her break avoiding Hannah and Simon. She found refuge in her parents’ house where the pair only went if invited, Sam’s father having little tolerance for Simon’s ways, his loyalty to Sam absolute.

  ‘Will I ever find someone nice,’ said Sam, slumped at the kitchen table, picking at a piece of coffee and walnut cake, her second.

  ‘Sit up, dear. That’s bad for your back,’ said Matilda Harris, playing for time. Sam subjected her to a glare with her troubled green eyes. Her mother’s face softened as she read the suffering behind the question. ‘Not everyone is that lucky. Perhaps you are meant for other things.’

  ‘Like what? Spinsterhood?’ Sam jabbed at the cake with a fork. Her mother reached over and moved the plate out of her orbit.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being unmarried. Look at your aunt Lottie. She’s the happiest woman alive in her own little house with total control of the remote for the television.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be alone all the time.’ Sam’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘At least you can choose when you are single. Married women almost never have a minute to themselves, and I should know. If it’s not your children crying or hungry, your husband needs attention too. Are you sure that’s what you want? You’re independent and single minded. Marriage might be too much for you.’

  ‘I don’t want to get married, exactly. I want someone to love,’ said Sam, sniffing.

  Sam’s forlorn expression almost broke her mother’s heart.

  ‘You’ll find someone again. What about that Fergus character? You liked him and from what you said, he liked you back. Why don’t you call him?’

  Sam dissolved into sobs.

  ‘I did. There was a girl there. He said I was the one, but he chose someone else.’

  ‘My poor darling.’ Matilda Harris sat at the table and put her arm around her daughter’s heaving shoulders. ‘You don’t know that. Maybe you dialled the wrong number. Anyway, if he didn’t choose you, he has terrible taste. You’re unique and one day someone who appreciates your soft heart and your kind soul will sweep you off your feet. Until then, you must be brave and keep kissing frogs. There’s someone out there. I promise.’

  Chapter XX

  Sam stopped talking, tailing off as the antipathy directed at her became obvious. She expected a positive reaction from the board after her presentation but a sea of blank faces met her gaze. A hot rush of blood suffused her features turning her into a traffic light on red. What the hell was going on?

  She travelled to Johannesburg with high hopes that her progress at Masaibu would convince even the most fervent opponents of her appointment. To her surprise, Consaf had booked her in economy. Consaf never booked their senior managers in tourist class. She would have brushed it off, presuming there had been no free seats in business, if she hadn’t also been demoted to the ground floor in the hotel. It didn’t add up.

  Her performance at Masaibu was stellar by any standards. She had even surprised herself with the effectiveness of her simple techniques, and the best thing was that no one lost their job. Resentment bubbled below the surface in a few cases, but even they would step into line when they understood that the old ways had gone for ever.

  The board must acknowledge the improvements in safe working practices, the reduction of deaths at the hospital, the increase in metres drilled per shift, all done at a reduced cost which had all been achieved since she arrived. It was all there in black and white on the transparencies she demonstrated to the board. But there was no reaction.

  The strong light from the overhead projector made her face even hotter as she fiddled with the transparencies. What had she expected? A round of applause? Why was everyone glaring at her? Morné got to his feet.

  ‘Thank you. I think we can all agree you’ve made remarkable progress at Masaibu so far. However, some issues have come to light that suggest a darker side to your presence there.’

  What? Who did they think she was? Darth Vader?

  ‘It has been brought to my attention that your behaviour has been below the standards expected of our managers in remote sites.’ He coughed and flushed.

  Her mind went blank. She couldn’t imagine anything for which she should apologise. Unless they were furious about her overspending on the safety equipment? But she recuperated the funds from savings in other budgets. The conundrum paralysed her with indecision, so she stood there waiting. No one spoke.

  Finally, she said ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you are talking about.’

  Devin Ryan put his briefcase on the table and stuck both hands into it, sifting through the papers like a police diver looking for a murder weapon in a pond. The triumphant look on his face faded as he failed to find whatever he was looking for.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Paul Hogan, reaching into his own briefcase at his feet and producing a photocopy of the front page of a newspaper which he threw across the table at Sam. She picked it up, hand shaking. It was upside down but the French headline was clear enough. It screamed out in big bold capitals; Manager of Masaibu Project is a Colonial Racist.

  A horrible sensation crept up her back, and hot and cold with waves of shame flooded over her. She turned it around so she could read the rest of the article dying inside under the accusing glances. What on earth had precipitated the article? Why did a journalist in the capital city research an unimportant incident? And how did they find out about it in the first place?’

  ‘When was this published?’ she said, playing for time, her face burning.

  ‘Last week. Front page news.’ Charlie Okito’s indignant voice came over the speaker phone from Goro. ‘I’m firefighting here but I don’t know how to answer the criticism. Someone has to pay for this with their job.’

  His tone changed for the last phrase. Self-satisfied or gloating now. They had played her. She was staring down at the table trying to compose her thoughts. When she didn’t comment, Morné Van Rooyen, the CEO, took over.

  ‘The fact is, we’ve received reports of your racist behaviour direct from camp as well as being reported in the n
ewspaper. One of the local geologists reported you for demoting him from his room and making him share with junior people. You have prevented the manager of the kitchens from going to Uganda to shop for the provisions and are using a white provider instead. She says that you are a racist too. It’s all in the file. What do you say to all this? It seems pretty damning,’ said Morné, knitting his eyebrows.

  All of Sam’s pleasure at her progress with the project and her visit to Johannesburg, to receive praise and advice from the board, had evaporated. God damn it, I’m going to cry. She pressed her nails into her arm to distract herself. Think woman, think. There must be an explanation for this.

  ‘I’d like a glass of water.’ she said, playing for time. ‘Can I see the file?’

  Ryan sneered at her and shoved it hard across the shiny table. Sam almost caught it as it fell, but it opened in the air and the pages scattered onto the floor. No one offered to help her collect them but she didn’t care, it gave her time to think. She shuffled the pages and put them back into the file, smoothing it onto the table, taking her time while she tried to slow her thundering heart rate.

  ‘Do you want an iron?’ said Paul Hogan.

  Sam did not dignify his question with a reply. She tried to focus on the newspaper article which danced before her shocked eyes. Someone had written it in hysterical, accusatory French but she read a few more paragraphs before she found the cause of the headline. “Workers are being starved by this colonial racist witch. She refused them food and sent them home hungry. This is a denial of basic human rights”.

  The fog of panic cleared from Sam’s mind in an instant. It was a set up. Philippe was the obvious candidate for this and Okito’s motives were crystal clear. She had got too close to the truth, and he was getting rid of her before she discovered it. There had to be more to the cover-up than skimming off money from vegetable bills and workers’ salaries.

  There was an oppressive silence in the room and Sam could feel triumph emanating from Ryan and Hogan. She smothered a smile and took a gulp of water, wiping her mouth with the damp paper napkin acting as a coaster.

  She raised her head and stared straight across the table into Ryan’s eyes. He smirked at Paul Hogan who gave him a discrete thumb-up. He held her gaze and raised an eyebrow. She winked at him. The look of shock on his face told her all she needed to know about his motives.