Safari

by Tony Park

  Shane combed his hair, brushed his teeth to remove the smell of alcohol from his breath, and girded himself for his next battle – dinner with four American millionaires.

  9

  He stood out from all of them, even Fletcher.

  He was conspicuous by his silence, and notable for his dress – the most casual of all of them. The youngest male, the tallest, the fittest.

  Michelle studied him, from her seat in the lounge area of the lodge, like the scientist that she was. She started with the physical characteristics – a thick mass of barely kempt jet-black hair; broad shoulders, narrow waist, firm everywhere he should be. Dark eyes to match the hair; big hands; long, almost elegant, fingers wrapped around the frosted beer glass. The only flaw – physically, at least – was the nose. Squashed, with a kink in the centre almost like a zigzag in the cartilage, presumably the result of a fight, perhaps on a sporting field.

  He stood there, on the fringe, saying nothing as the others dribbled on about baseball, ice hockey, football, rifles, hunting. His reluctance to engage was not shyness, or politeness.

  Arrogant. That was how she summed him up. As attractive a specimen as he was, she had the feeling he would rather have been anywhere else in the world than in the comfortable surrounds of the hunters’ lair that night. In that, at least, they had some common ground.

  The eyes – hard to study without him catching her – were so black as to be empty. No, that was the wrong word. There was something going on behind them, certainly something more than sport and shooting. They moved slowly, taking in each of the men sitting around her, until they finally rested on her.

  Michelle looked away, too quickly, and asked one of the Americans about the route of his flight home, whether he would be stopping off anywhere. She realised he had been doing exactly the same thing as she. Quietly, methodically appraising every individual in the room, including her. It made the downy hair on the back of her neck stand on end, though when she looked back at him he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he said something that made the maid smile behind her hand as she scurried away to fetch another bucket of ice from the kitchen.

  They had been introduced, as he’d arrived, and she had offered her hand. The fingers might have the reach of a piano player’s but they were coarse, like sandpaper. His face was wind and sunburned. Fletcher had said something about him being out on ‘patrol’, whatever that entailed, for four days.

  ‘I hear you’ve been out bush,’ was all she’d thought to say to him.

  ‘For a while,’ he’d replied.

  They had left it at that.

  The Americans were similarly dark featured, but that was where their resemblance to the Australian – who apparently had been born in Zimbabwe – ended. They were uniformly overweight, balding or with thinning hair, and their accent was from New York. Italian-Americans. Chunky gold pinkie rings, chains, protruding chest hair, designer safari clothes.

  ‘I’m in sanitation – I clean up other people’s shit, pardon my French.’ Laughs all round. The others were in construction, newsstands and trucking. All in their late forties or early fifties. Money to spare. The shit, news, building and transport worlds paid inordinately well, it seemed.

  Fletcher paid just the right amount of attention to her during pre-dinner drinks. She would have shuddered if he had been cloying, or overly attentive. Instead, he’d been friendly, giving each of his guests, including her, the same amount of time. He’d been as stand-offish with Shane Castle as the other man had been with the rest of the crowd. Something going on there for sure, Michelle guessed. She wondered if it concerned the day’s events, which were being retold ad nauseam.

  ‘You shoulda seen this guy,’ the sanitation man said to Michelle, not for the first time, as he scraped his heavy mahogany armchair over the polished stone floor to get closer to her. ‘Like Billy the Kid, he was! Boom, boom, bada-boom. Two shots in each of them scumbags – first one, then the udda!’

  Fletcher smiled modestly. ‘Bit of luck and some old training.’

  ‘A regular John Wayne,’ the newsstand magnate chipped in.

  ‘Just like Fancy Paulie in Brooklyn,’ the trucking king added, though this earned him an elbow in the ribs from the shit man.

  Michelle smiled at the repeat of the story, though the whole thing alarmed her, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, poaching really did seem to be on the increase in their part of the country. Secondly, Fletcher Reynolds, a man she had recently become intimate with, was in the thick of this war on crime, almost on a daily basis, trading bullets with armed men. It scared her a little, but as she looked across at Fletcher, who shrugged off the accolades, she saw him in a new light. He was a man who could face the prospect of death and kill to protect Africa’s wildlife, and then sit there a few hours later playing the convivial host with effortless nonchalance. Courageous. Modest. Ruthless, when he had to be. Completely in control. Kind of exciting.

  ‘Two shots, that’s all they got off,’ the construction man said to Shane, trying to involve him in the conversation.

  ‘Fuhgeddaboutit,’ Shane said, raising his glass.

  Michelle put a hand to her mouth and coughed, to stop from laughing.

  The builder, with a brow that overhung his narrowed eyes, fixed Shane with a cold glare, then broke out in a bellow of laughter, raising his bourbon in response to the toast. ‘You Italian? You should be!’ The others joined in. There was no dampening their revelry, and Fletcher’s glance at Shane ensured he stayed quiet until dinner.

  Eventually Fletcher prised the businessmen from their leather-upholstered cushions and spirits and led them into the lodge’s dining room. The stuffed heads of all of Africa’s big five glared down at them through dinner and almost turned Michelle off her meal. She had eaten in a smaller, more intimate dining room when she had visited, one without any dead animals, except those on the plates, of course.

  ‘So, you was in the special forces, huh?’ the builder, whose name was Sal, asked Shane over marinated impala steaks.

  Shane nodded. ‘Special Air Service Regiment.’

  ‘I gotta son in Iraq right now. He’s US Marine Corps. Tell me, is it as fucked-up over there as the news media says?’ He muttered an apology to Michelle, who waved it off, interested in hearing Castle’s answer. She had protested against the invasion of Iraq by America and her allies before leaving her job as a university science tutor in Toronto to come to Africa. She was no fan of Saddam Hussein, but she detested the way the American and British governments had trumped up charges of a horde of weapons of mass destruction in order to start a war over oil.

  ‘It’s like anywhere else. There are good people and bad people, Sal.’

  ‘Fuckin’ A-rabs,’ the sanitation man said. ‘Kill ’em all and let Allah sort ’em out, I say.’

  Michelle held her tongue.

  Shane continued. ‘The ordinary people in the street – most of them – just want an end to the killing. But there are too many outside influences there at the moment with a vested interest in not letting that happen.’

  ‘Like America and Britain,’ Michelle spoke up from the end of the table.

  Fletcher sat back in his chair, watching with a half-smile on his face.

  ‘And Al Qaeda and Iran,’ Shane countered.

  ‘They didn’t start the war in Iraq, but it’s giving them a chance to show the Muslim world they can give Uncle Sam a bloody nose,’ Michelle said.

  ‘Someone once said that all that’s required for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing,’ Shane said.

  ‘Fuckin’-A, bubba,’ the sanitation man said, and pounded the table. He had clearly had a couple of sundowners too many and made no attempt at all to apologise for his language. Not that Michelle minded too much. She had a pretty foul mouth herself at times, though this self-righteous, jingoistic justification of the war really did offend her.

  ‘Saddam was evil, for sure,’ Shane continued, ‘but I’ll agree with you, Michelle, that the main thi
ng the coalition’s achieved so far in Iraq is giving Al Qaeda a battleground on which they can hurt the West.’

  His concession surprised her. She had been getting herself ready for a fight.

  ‘So what, now you’re saying we should bug out? My boy hates that kinda chicken-shit talk,’ Sal chimed in.

  ‘Nope. We’ve got a job to finish, but there are better ways of fighting terrorists than invading a sovereign country – smarter ways.’

  ‘So, if you say we gotta job to do, how come you’re here and not there?’ the American asked. Everyone else listened intently.

  Shane looked up the table to where Fletcher sat, at the head. ‘Because it looks like we’ve got ourselves a better war here to fight.’

  The Italian-Americans banged the table in applause and the sanitation man stood and raised his glass of red wine, again, to Fletcher Reynolds and the monumentally successful safari they had all enjoyed.

  Michelle rolled her eyeballs during the toasts and, looking across the table, saw that Shane Castle was watching her. Smiling.

  During dessert Shane said little, and noticed that Michelle seemed uptight. Every couple of minutes she fidgeted in her seat and, at one point, made a loud scraping noise that almost stopped the dinner table conversation as she shifted her chair to her left.

  The sanitation supremo, whose name was Anthony, was sitting next to her, on her right, and his left hand was under the table while he ate.

  She excused herself as orders were taken for coffee. ‘I’m going outside for some fresh air,’ she said to Fletcher. It seemed to Shane their host either ignored or missed the pained look on her face.

  ‘Hey, wait up, I’m coming too,’ Anthony said. ‘I been dying for a cigarette.’

  ‘This isn’t America, you know,’ Fletcher said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘You can smoke inside and no one will sue.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind if he goes outside,’ Sal said. ‘Ever since I quit those damned things I can’t stand the smell.’

  Shane produced his pack from his pocket, excused himself with a nod to Fletcher and followed Michelle and Anthony out. Fletcher resumed his conversation about Zimbabwean politics with the newsstand magnate.

  Outside, Shane put his cigarettes back in his pocket and moved silently along the veranda, sticking to the shadows under the overhanging thatch roof.

  ‘Look, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m attached,’ Michelle said in a pained voice.

  ‘Hey, whose gonna know out here in the middle of the bush? You want some more money for your research – I want a little companionship. Strictly business. Name your price, baby.’

  Shane heard the stinging crack of an open palm on flesh, and stepped out of the shadows to see Anthony rubbing a flabby jowl. ‘What the fuck!’ the American said. He grabbed Michelle by the elbow.

  Shane was starting to move when Michelle raised her right knee up hard and fast into Anthony’s groin. The big man doubled in pain, wincing and drawing a breath as he tried not to yelp. Shane paused behind a tree, ready to cover the few metres between himself and the other two in less than a second, if he needed to.

  Michelle twisted her arm out of the panting American’s grasp and stepped back a couple of paces from him.

  ‘Jesus Christ . . . what the fuck did you do that for?’ he groaned. He stood and glared at her, then started towards her.

  Shane emerged from his cover. ‘Everything all right here? I heard a noise.’

  ‘Anthony here has a sore tummy,’ Michelle said, winking at Shane.

  Anthony looked at him and was plainly sizing him up. The man already knew something of Shane’s background. ‘Yeah, right, musta been something I ate.’

  Anthony straightened his safari jacket and walked back inside.

  ‘Were you following me? I can take care of myself,’ Michelle said.

  Shane held up his cigarettes and offered her one. She declined. ‘So I see. I hope you don’t wind up with a zebra’s head in your bed.’

  ‘God, can you believe that asshole?’ She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘He was trying to feel me up under the table. Creep.’

  ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘Not as much as I hurt him!’

  He smiled. He guessed you had to be tough to live out in the African bush all by yourself, male or female. ‘I just remembered, I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘If you’re going to proposition me, beware. That was just a warm-up.’ She made a fist.

  Shane put his cigarette between his lips and pulled the army notebook from his pocket and flipped through some pages. ‘Eighteen wild dog. Zero-five-thirty-five. This morning, on the road between here and Pandamatenga. I can give you the GPS coordinates, if you like.’

  ‘That’s Rembrandt’s pack! It has to be!’

  ‘I didn’t ask their names. Four adults – one male, collared, three female; three sub-adults, undetermined sex; and eleven pups. The male’s collar was day-glow orange with reflectors. Quite a healthy pack, by the look of it.’

  ‘That’s them.’ She explained about Rembrandt’s death and the two years she had spent tracking wild dog in general, and this pack in particular. Michelle said the reflective collar was one of a number of initiatives that had been trialled to improve the endangered dogs’ chances of surviving. As well as being preyed on by lions and hyena, many dogs were also killed by drivers, particularly at night. Hence the reflective collar.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I get any more sightings while I’m out,’ he said.

  ‘While you’re out hunting?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite put it that way.’

  ‘But it’s true, though, isn’t it. You’re hunting men. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any sympathy for poachers, but don’t you find it difficult to sleep, knowing that today was the end result of your work – two more bodies in the morgue?’

  She was very direct – surprisingly so. He’d picked up the vibe from her over dinner and had no plans to engage her in conversation – other than to report the wild dog sighting – until the lecherous gangster intervened. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I should go in and say goodnight. I haven’t had much sleep the last four days. Are you going to tell Fletcher what his guest wanted from you?’

  He saw her indecision, and it surprised him. The man had assaulted her, physically, even though he had come off the worse for it. ‘I don’t know. They’re going tomorrow, and Fletcher’s business is just starting to take off. I can deal with losers like Anthony.’

  Shane started to go, then thought of something. ‘When you first tried to give Anthony the brush-off you said you were “attached”. Was that true, or were you just trying to get rid of him?’

  ‘Everything all right out here?’ Fletcher’s silhouette dominated the French doors leading to the dining room. Shane heard the note of concern in the older man’s voice. He must have guessed something was up.

  ‘Just chatting,’ Michelle said brightly. ‘I’m coming back in now if you’re offering coffee and port.’ Fletcher made way for her, nodding to Shane as she walked back in.

  Shane finished his cigarette and ground it out on the grass. She hadn’t answered his question. She didn’t need to.

  The dining room was empty except for her and Fletcher. The Americans had retired, led by Anthony who had only stayed a few minutes after Michelle’s return. Shane had drifted away without returning to say goodnight to any of them. She sat opposite Fletcher, facing him across a white tablecloth stained with ruby drops of wine.

  Her heart had been pounding when Shane had emerged from behind his tree. She had never been accosted like that before and, while it was unnerving, she was proud of the way she had handled herself. She wanted to tell Fletcher, but didn’t want him to make a big deal out of it, as she sensed he might. He was so damned old-fashioned he might challenge Anthony to a duel, or take a horsewhip to him. The thought made her smile.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, draining
her wine.

  He inspected the bottle of South African red. ‘Empty. I’ll open another.’

  ‘Not on my account,’ she said, placing her hand over her glass.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘It was a long drive today, and quite an eventful night.’

  ‘Eventful?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You must have been daydreaming about another party. I thought you would have been bored stiff – or repelled by my guests.’

  She gave a little laugh to cover her mistake. ‘No, it was fine. They’re . . . interesting characters.’

  ‘You can say that again, but they’re loaded. I’ve met some terrific people hunting, of all nationalities, but these guys . . .’ He let the sentence hang there.

  ‘Have money?’

  ‘Precisely. And while I’m no longer a beggar, I can’t afford to be too choosy right now, although hopefully that will change one day. You looked a little edgy when you came back inside from the garden.’

  ‘Edgy?’

  ‘Did someone say something to upset you, Michelle? Shane?’

  ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. Shane was fine. It was nothing. It was a little warm inside and I just needed some fresh air.’

  ‘Was it Anthony?’

  ‘I was fine, Fletcher. Though I have to admit, I think Anthony probably spends more time around strippers and whores than educated women. Even if he offers you money for research, I don’t want to take it. I don’t trust him and his cronies.’

  ‘Michelle,’ he reached across the table, laying his hand on hers. She didn’t move, and looked into his eyes. ‘If I thought someone had hurt you, or wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have them in my home, and I would do anything – anything – to ensure no harm came to you.’

  ‘That’s sweet, but I can take care of myself. I’m not a little girl.’

  ‘I know that. Will you consider staying here tonight, in one of the spare rooms, rather than driving back to Nantwich?’

  After asserting her independence and saying nothing was wrong, she couldn’t very well tell him the truth: that she was nervous about being under the same roof as Anthony and his gangster buddies. She looked down at his hand on hers. It felt nice. His skin was cool and dry, and the gesture seemed more one of reassurance than romance. ‘I’ve got all my stuff back at the cottage. I should go.’