Shilo's Secret

by Stephan, Judith

  *

  There was a knock on her door. Probably the white wine spritzer she had ordered from room service. When she opened the door slightly, Stratt stood there, obviously freshly showered in clean denims and an emerald green golf shirt bearing the lodge logo on the chest pocket. He carried a silver tray with her drink on it.

  “I suppose you came for your shirt,” Shilo said meekly.

  “No, I brought you your drink … and I also brought you this,” he said, holding up a brown paper packet. “May I come in?” He need not have asked as he was already pushing past her into the room. “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward,” he said, “but you need some urgent pharmaceutical attention.” He placed the drink on the night table and then withdrew two bottles from the bag. “These are called Macrosun,” he said pointing to the small, brown bottle, “they are to help with the pain of the sunburn and to reduce some of the symptoms of possible sun stroke. Take two now and two tonight before you go to bed, and then follow the instructions on the bottle. And this…” he continued, “will have immediate effect. Sit down.”

  She could not believe his audacity at the instruction and looked at him suspiciously, not knowing what to do or what his intentions were. She sat on the bed again. She watched in the mirror as he climbed on the bed and knelt directly behind her. She could sense the closeness of his hulk of a body. He took a dollop of the transparent blue gel in one hand, and lowered the straps of her dress off her shoulders with the other. He spread the cream on her shoulders and upper arms with amazingly gentle fingers. She was astounded at how such a huge, rough man, with such gigantic, unrefined hands, could be so gentle. His fingers caressed her tender skin as the ice-cold gel soaked in.

  “This is getting in the way,” he said, as he took the towel turban off her head, allowing her wet tresses to fall down her back.

  Then he moved closer until she could feel him pressing against her back, and she could feel his warm breath on her hair, could smell the same masculine cologne she had smelled on his shirt, as he bent towards her and as he slid his hands down to the bottom of her arms. He then massaged her neck and moved his hands around to massage her burnt chest area. Her hands came up instinctively and touched his as if to stop their progress, but dropped again. It was so soothing … and she hated to admit it… terribly erotic. His fingers swept the top of the rise of her breasts and her heart was pounding as her eyes met his momentarily in the mirror. She realised he had been watching her reactions all along. She blushed. Thank God it could not be seen through the sunburn.

  “Right,” he said suddenly, “now you do your legs.”

  He set the jar down on the table next to the bed and turned to leave.

  “Stratt?” she called softly, “Thank you.”

  He smiled, flashing perfect white teeth: a warm, welcoming smile. “It’s only a pleasure, Madame. At Malebane, we aim to please. You won’t be able to go into the sun for several days … but if you want, or rather if you are prepared to get up at three tomorrow morning, I’ll take you on a night ride to the waterhole.”

  “I don’t know…” she stammered, hating how insecure and indecisive she sounded.

  “Tell me tonight,” he said, “and see if your aunt and sister want to come along too.”

  As Stratt walked back to his room, he smiled to himself. Miss Prissy had really enjoyed his massage … he had seen her reactions: her closed eyes, her faint smile and dreamy look. And she had actually been quite civil to him this time … she had even thanked him. Maybe there was hope for her yet. And he had enjoyed touching her … although he had only meant to tease her like he had on the game drive … but he had become aroused as his fingers had caressed her, as he had seen the dark smudges of her nipples beneath the thin material of her dress … although that had not been the original intention. She must have felt it too, when he had moved closer.

  *

  At about five-thirty, after three stiff whiskies, a young girl entered the pub. She must have been about nineteen or twenty (much the same age as Shilo), but she was fairly plain. Her pale cheeks were pinched from the cold and she sported a woolen cap over her straight mousy hair. She was wearing a long corduroy skirt and scuffed suede boots. She had on a bulky jacket over her polo neck jersey. He watched carefully to make sure she was alone, and after merely greeting the barman and ordering a cider, she too moved from the counter to a booth, and watched the television news while she sipped her drink. She was definitely not waiting for anyone as she never checked her watch and did not once glance at the door while patrons came and left. He ambled over.

  “Are you alone? I am, and I would love some company, especially from such a pretty, young thing like you. May I join you for a drink?” he asked.

  At first she seemed surprised and a little reluctant, but flattered all the same, and after a few more complimentary remarks, she finally gave in and he settled himself opposite her in the dimly lit booth. Things were just going so well tonight.

  The rest was so easy. She was going to walk home, so he offered her a lift. She was obviously very impressed with the BMW and sympathized with the stories of his recently deceased wife. She did not even see it coming. He pointed at something to the left, and when she turned to look out of the car window, he picked up the hammer and bashed it into her skull.

  He loaded her into the trunk, and drove out of Pennington-on-Dee into a quiet lane in a forest on the outskirts. There he draped her, face first, over a tree stump, so that the blood from her head wound drained onto the snow. He looked at her for several minutes, and then left.

  Twenty minutes later, he was speeding southwards towards London, belting out ‘Oh Sol La Mia’ at the top of his voice. The woman had found him so becoming, so appealing. Why didn’t Shilo want him as badly?

  CHAPTER 3

  That night the lodge guests, who numbered nearly twenty in total, were treated to a campfire and a traditional South African braaivleis(7). Michaela and Shilo sat with several others around the roaring pyre on tree stumps and logs. Africa at night was spectacular. The night sky was so clear, so deep, with a trillion stars winking back at them from the hazy blur of the Milky Way. The moon seemed unusually large and a giant thorn tree was silhouetted against it: a sentinel over the camp.

  It was also extremely dark outside of the circle of light created by the campfire and electric lights from the lodge, so eerie with a thousand unidentified noises screaming from the veld and a hundred pairs of reflective eyes lurking in the undergrowth.

  Shilo was in a great deal of pain. Although the medication had helped, she still felt achey, had cold chills and bouts of shivering even though the night was warm. Across the campfire area, under some trees adorned with fairy lights, she could see Stratt and two other men chatting idly. Aunt Dorianne, who had not suffered from the sun as Shilo had, as she had on her large-brimmed hat and long-sleeved shirt, was in excellent spirits. She had befriended another divorcee from Ireland. They sipped sherry after sherry with Philip and found everything hilariously funny.

  After they had all eaten their fill of spicy sausage called boerewors(8), lamb chops, baked potatoes cooked in aluminum foil on the fire, stiff African pap(9) and tomato and onion sauce and an abundance of assorted salads, Stratt fetched his guitar and began to sing some traditional camp fire songs and some popular ballads. Shilo was impressed and surprised at his smooth yet sensual voice. It was a cross between Brian Adams’ huskiness and the rhythmic smoothness of Paul Simon.

  It was during a rendition of “Lady in Red” that she realised that he appeared to be singing directly to her. His eyes, even though they were engulfed in his shadowed face, seemed to be gazing at her through the gloom. She shuddered. It couldn’t be true. She quickly lowered her eyes but when she looked up once more, his eyes were still upon her and she recalled the sensual massage of a few hours before, and scolded herself over and over for enjoying it so much... Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, what could possibly happen between you and some commoner from
one of the colonies? She forced the thought from her mind and decided to start a conversation with her sister. She thought that this would be a subtle indication to Stratt that she was not paying any undue attention to his cheesy ballad.

  “Michaela?” she started.

  “Sssh!” her sister snapped, “I’m enjoying this … it’s almost like he’s singing to me.”

  It was then that Shilo noticed that Michaela was wearing a red blouse – and it suddenly dawned on her how presumptuous she had been. Stratt had been singing “Lady in Red” to Michaela, and not to her. She felt a pang of betrayal, and a glut of envy that rushed through her uncontrollably... Her egotistic arrogance had deceived her once again... What a little fool she was. Stratt was not interested in her. Why should he be? She had only treated him like dirt since their arrival. This afternoon had just been a dutiful act of kindness and nothing more, and she chastised herself for reading anything else into it. She tried to convince herself that she was glad that that issue had been sorted out now in her mind… they were from two different classes…. Two different worlds. It could and would never work.

  They were brought steaming mugs of strong coffee or hot chocolate into which they dunked traditional hard biscuits called rusks(10), and they toasted marshmallows in the diminishing flames, and joined in the singing well into the night. Shilo joined in this assumed gaiety, but was silently sulking – regretting her departure from her secure little English world into this land of uncertainty and doubt.

  Shortly before eleven, couples starting drifting off to their rooms, and the ring of guests around the glowing embers began to disintegrate slowly. Dorianne approached Shilo and Michaela.

  “I’m off to bed, girls,” she said grinning, “I think Maureen and I have had a little too much to drink. Philip kept on giving us sherries on the house.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Michaela, and stood up and stretched, “I need a shower; I feel all smoky.”

  Shilo sat alone, mesmerised by the dying fire. Then she too stood up, aware of her tightening skin. Suddenly, a rush of dizziness and nausea made her feel like fainting. She swayed dangerously and clutched a nearby pole bearing a glass orb of a light.

  “Lady Delucci? Are you alright?”

  And there was Stratt standing in front of her, his guitar in his right hand.

  “I’m just feeling a little dizzy,” she said faintly, “I will be fine.”.

  “Probably too much sun – it could be the start of sunstroke. Let me feel…”, he said putting out a hand to feel her forehead.

  “Get your hands off me!” she snapped.

  “For God’s sake, woman! I’m just trying to help you... I need to feel your head to see if you have a fever,” he snapped, “Please don’t flatter yourself. Feeling you up is furthest thing from my mind.” If only she knew the truth, Stratt thought to himself.

  She visibly recoiled at his outburst, and he immediately regretted it. She allowed him to place his smooth hand on her forehead, trying to ignore the electric jolt that went through her as he touched her. His words had hit home. He was right. Why on earth would he want to touch her?

  “You’re ice-cold,” he said.

  “I’m just fine. You’re right, I’ve probably just had too much sun. A good night’s sleep is all I need.”

  “Does that mean our date is off?” he asked.

  “What date? I don’t have a date with you, do I?” her tone was leaning to sarcasm again, but she checked herself.

  “Our early morning date to watch animals at the waterhole. I can wake you at three-thirty, if you feel up to it. I promise you, you won’t regret it,” he said enthusiastically.

  She hesitated, obviously deciding to decline, but she found herself impulsively saying: “Okay, that will be lovely.” Her head said, what the hell are you doing, girl?

  She turned away, and walked briskly and self-consciously towards her rondawel. Her heart beat in her chest like a jungle drum and she felt his eyes burning into her back.

  CHAPTER 4

  Melanie Thomas’ body was found at about nine o’clock as a farmer took his tractor down the lane to his neighbour’s farm. It was caught in his high beams, and it didn’t take too long for him to realize what it was. She lay there, face drooped down towards the ground, blood coagulated on side of her face and neck from her crushed skull and pooling black and sticky on the ground. Her hands and legs lay awkwardly in the dirty snow.

  Sergeant Andrew Corbett was the first on the scene, and the minute he saw her, he saw the connection between this murder and the four others that had happened in as many weeks. They were all women, they all had been murdered in different ways, in remote out of the way villages and all were found in very awkward positions: This one over a log, the other spread-eagled on the ground, two sitting on elevated objects (a bench and a rubbish bin, to be precise) and the most recent one against a back alley wall. The indignity of it all really got to him. He had called a profiler in after the third body had been found. A profiler very familiar with the sordid, yet organized mind, of a serial killer. But there had been nothing yet. There was nothing they could use to point them in the direction of a suspect. There were no witnesses who had come forward. No one had seen anything. The killer was good. Very good – but everyone was human, right? He had to make a mistake soon. And Corbett would be waiting.

  *

  Shilo’s slumber was deep yet restless. She had left the bathroom light on because the African darkness was so extremely claustrophobic, thick and suffocating. And she felt very afraid. There were so many noises: Rustling in the vegetation outside, the chirrup of night insects, the calls of the birds and animals, the creak of the wooden beams as they contracted with the cool night air, the sound of insects hitting the ceiling and the window screens in some nocturnal flight. But she did not hear Stratt’s gentle knocking at a quarter past three.

  Stratt stood outside her door and knocked repeatedly, progressively louder each time. But there was no answer and no sound came from within the room. Eventually he tried the door. It was unlocked and so he let himself in.

  Shilo lay underneath the mosquito net like a princess. The covers were long since kicked off in the torturous heat, and she wore a pair of silk shorts and matching camisole in electric blue – appropriate in a London apartment, in a five-star hotel, but certainly not in Mpumalanga, South Africa.

  She lay just outside the rectangle of light from the bathroom door. Her long auburn hair was spread out on the pillow like an oriental fan, her slim, shapely figure silhouetted against the stark whiteness of the sheets, her skin shining silvery-white in the moonlight. He reveled in the sight of her, and stood still just watching her sleep. He felt guilty at his almost lecherous gaze. Something about this enigmatic woman touched him deeply.

  But something was wrong. Very wrong. She was groaning softly, and her head tossed and turned as if she were locked in some ghastly nightmare. He lifted the veil of the mosquito net, and touched her forehead. It was burning hot and dry. She had a raging fever, evidence of severe sunstroke. He fetched some ice water from the thermos flask on the dresser and tried to wake her. His gentle shaking and the calling of her name caused her eyes to flicker open, and she tried to speak but her mouth was dry.

  “What are you doing here?” she finally asked. Her voice trembled and was hoarse.

  “Here, have some water,” he said, lifting her head off the pillow and cradling it as he let her take small sips from the glass.

  “Where am I?” she whispered.

  “It’s fine, Shilo,” he soothed, forgetting the Lady Delucci title she had insisted on before, “I came to wake you for the game drive, but you are sick. You have a fever and you need to drink plenty of fluids. Africa is giving you a taste of sunstroke …”

  She tried to pull the bedcovers up, still coherent of who was there and what she may be revealing to him, as she suddenly became aware of her near nakedness. Stratt helped her. His hands touched her smooth skin on her back and arms accidentall
y as he did this, and although it could have been a sensuous moment, it was searing hot and dry. She needed water. He had to get this fever down.

  “I’m sorry to let myself in like this, but I knocked for nearly five minutes.”

  She smiled wanly.

  “My head is throbbing terribly,” she said, her voice slurring slightly, and she placed both her hands on the sides of her head and closed her burning eyes, “and I’m so thirsty.”

  He held her head up again and helped her to drink more water.

  “Listen, Shilo, I have to quickly go to the reception. They’ve got some medication there for your fever. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you want me to call Michaela or Dorianne?” he asked.