by Tony Park
Caesar moved forward and reached into his pocket. From it he pulled Charles’s old green parks and wildlife beret, with its polished badge featuring a waterbuck’s head. He nodded to a plump woman – Shane guessed her to be Charles’s wife – and laid the hat on the coffin. He stood, for a second, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him, then stepped back.
‘He dishonoured that uniform,’ Wise hissed.
‘He was a victim,’ Caesar said.
After the coffin was lowered into the ground, between the last resting place of a twenty-year-old man and a five-year-old girl, Shane broke the small knot of relatives and introduced himself to the woman.
‘I am Miriam,’ she said, extending a hand. She was flanked by a weeping teenage girl in a maroon and white school uniform, and a young man in a hand-me-down black suit, who nodded stiffly when introduced. ‘My son and daughter. He spoke so highly of you, Mister Castle. I know – I am sure – he was sorry for what happened.’
‘He thought of you and your children first and foremost, and always told me so,’ Shane said. It was true. For all his faults, including the philandering that indirectly cost him his life, Charles had made it abundantly clear that he lived for his family.
‘Try not to think ill of him, Mister Castle.’
‘I’ll remember the good times, when we were together as friends.’
She dabbed the corner of her eye with a damp handkerchief. ‘He would never have hurt you, Mister Castle, or your men.’
Shane started to feel uncomfortable. While he understood Charles’s motive, nothing excused betraying the team. ‘I understand.’
‘He did nothing wrong, Mister Castle.’
‘I should be going, Miriam. It was nice to meet you.’
Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks as her son took her by the arm. Miriam looked back over her shoulder as she was led away. ‘He did nothing wrong, Mister Castle.’
He looked away from her. The gravediggers’ bodies glistened with sweat as they worked. Shane lingered long enough to see the beret, once proudly worn, covered with dirt.
‘Hello, are you drunk?’ Michelle asked.
At the sound of the familiar voice, Shane turned slowly on his stool at the long bar in the Sprayview Hotel. He looked, theatrically, back at the three empty green Zambezi bottles in front of him, and calculated how many there would have been if the bartender hadn’t slowly been taking them away. ‘Statistically speaking, yes.’
‘I heard you buried Charles today. I’m sorry.’
Shane shrugged. He smiled, though, as it was good to see her. Wise and Caesar had stayed for a few drinks then gone their separate ways in search of female companionship: Caesar to his girlfriend, Wise to a whore. Shane had allowed himself to feel alone and morose for a while, a stranger in a bar full of tourists off two overland trucks. They were all young backpackers – half-naked and half-stoned on one substance or another.
Michelle looked around and, with a tilt of her head, drew Shane’s eyes to two girls sitting at a nearby table. One was pointing and saying something to her friend. ‘I think I might have muscled in on someone’s turf,’ she said.
Shane looked over his shoulder at the girls and shrugged. ‘Jailbait.’
‘Mind if I join you, then?’
Shane dragged another seat over, with the toe of his boot, without standing.
‘Please, don’t go to any effort.’
The sarcasm was lost on him. ‘What’ll you have?’
She ordered a gin and tonic. He signalled for another beer. ‘I hope you’re not driving home tonight,’ she said.
He told her he had booked himself into the hotel for the night, so he didn’t have far to stagger.
‘So you’re writing yourself off in memory of Charles,’ she observed.
‘Call it a tradition.’
She didn’t press him. She changed the subject instead. ‘The dentist, Doctor Charles Hamley the Third, left this morning.’
‘Our wealthy benefactor.’ Shane realised he was slurring a little. ‘Gimme an ice water as well,’ he said to the barman.
‘What do you think of him?’ Michelle asked, raising the drinking straw to her lips.
Her lips were full, soft, shiny with newly applied lip gloss. He’d noticed she had only started wearing it since she had moved into the lodge. She was wearing the green dress with the elephants on it, the one she had tried on in front of him on their trip to the Falls. He wondered what that glistening mouth would be like to kiss, how it would feel caressing his body. ‘Um . . . don’t know. Bit of a weasel. Call me old-fashioned, but praying in the middle of the bush after a fire fight seems a little odd.’
‘Surely there are religious soldiers.’
‘Sure,’ Shane said, waving a hand. ‘No atheists in foxholes and all that crap, but mostly it’s just, ‘God, get me through this and I’ll never cheat on the missus again,’ or, ‘Thanks, big fella, I owe you a few Sundays’ . . . that sort of stuff. No one I know goes on about the Lord smiting down evil-doers when they look at a corpse.’
‘He gives me the creeps. Are we doing the right thing, packing up and heading for the Congo because Chuck says so?’
Shane shrugged. ‘Fletcher pays my team’s wages, so we go where the money is.’
‘Spoken like a true soldier of fortune.’
Shane raised his beer. ‘Nice work if you can get it.’
She frowned. ‘But don’t you feel a little apprehensive about going up there? I mean, there’s been a war going on there for decades.’
‘That’s been the story of my life lately.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But I still feel uneasy about it.’
‘Fletcher might not go if you don’t.’
She leaned back on her bar stool. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He’s in love with you, isn’t he?’
She looked away. ‘I don’t know. His marriage went bust because he ignored his wife in favour of his work. Now his business is doing really well, I don’t think he’d change his mind over me.’
‘I would,’ Shane said.
‘What?’
He instantly regretted letting the words slip out. He felt foolish and, all of a sudden, drunk. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. Forget it.’
‘No,’ she said, appraising him, as though trying to work out how sincere he had been. ‘That’s nice. But I wouldn’t want to stand in his way. What we’ve got, it’s not like a marriage. I don’t want him to give up business opportunities to stay with me, and later regret it.’
‘But I’m guessing you don’t want to give up Isilwane Lodge for some national parks rat hole, either.’ He took a swig from his beer.
‘What are you insinuating?’
‘Don’t get all huffy. Tell me you don’t prefer conducting your groundbreaking research from an airconditioned gin palace with hot and cold running servants.’
She laughed. ‘It is kind of nice having my underwear ironed and my eggs over easy.’
‘Fletcher told me he’s planning on taking you to a hunting show in Dallas next year. Are you going to go and sell out to help him get more business?’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said sternly, then smiled. ‘And nasty. Truth is, I don’t know about the States. Other conservationists go to those international gun love-ins to raise money, so part of me thinks, why not? On the other hand, I might not want to give up that much of my independence.’
He pondered how much he would give up to be with a woman like Michelle Parker. He realised he was getting maudlin. ‘So, are you coming to the Congo or not?’
She stirred the remains of her G and T with her straw, then looked up. ‘I’m in. It can’t be any more dangerous than Zimbabwe.’ She checked her watch. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to run. I only drove up to get my camera repaired. Don’t know if there’ll be any camera shops in the DRC. I’ve got to get back to Fletcher . . . I mean, the lodge, before dark.’
‘See ya.’ Shane watched as she walked away. He considered foll
owing her, but ordered another drink instead and looked around the bar.
He thought he saw one of the backpacker girls at the table, now sitting alone, attempt to catch his eye, and rather than look away he stared straight back. Shane thought that if he half closed his eyes she could pass as Michelle, but when she walked over, he realised it was an illusion. Still, she was attractive – blonde curly hair, green eyes and a nice smile – and very young. Shane guessed she was no more than nineteen. Her colourful skirt was low on her hips and she wore a white cotton singlet with the top few buttons undone.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Here.’
‘You sound like me – like an Aussie, I mean.’
‘I grew up there.’
Shane said nothing as she talked about where she had been and where she was heading. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra and when she leaned closer to talk over the noise of the bar, he could see her nipples and feel them firm against his arm. As he started to pay more attention, she put her hand on his arm, and he felt himself stirring. He had a quick vision of Michelle’s disapproving face, but quickly brushed it aside. She belonged to another, so how the hell could he feel guilty?
‘By the way, I’m Shane,’ he heard himself saying.
‘I’m Annie. It’s nice to meet you. You look like you’ve had a lot more African adventures than I have. Have you been to Kenya yet? I really want to go there and I’d love to know where you reckon the best places are.’
They moved from the bar to a table in the corner as Shane began to tell the girl of his travels and his work. He tried to downplay what he did for a living, but her eyes got wider and her interest mounted when she drew out of him what a ‘contact’ with poachers actually entailed. She hung on his words and Shane was enjoying the power he felt. It was reassuring to know that, unlike Michelle, Annie was actually impressed by his job. As he described how he lay in wait watching the rhino poachers on the border, she moved her hand up his thigh until it rested in his crotch.
Annie started to stroke his jeans, and Shane felt himself harden at her touch. He leant across to kiss her, but she turned her head.
‘Not here,’ she said, standing and taking his hand. He let himself be led through the swinging doors at the side of the bar, and through another door into the female toilets. He pushed her up against a basin and kissed her deeply. He probed her mouth hard and fast, and she matched him. Hungry.
She wrapped one leg around him and ground herself against his leg. He reached under her skirt and pushed the flimsy g-string aside. She grabbed his hand, untangled herself and dragged him into a cubicle, locking the door behind her.
She was wedged hard against the tiled wall as he sought out her hard nipple and sucked deeply. She moaned, so he bit down on it. Annie gasped as he pushed two fingers deep inside her. She fumbled as she undid his belt, button and zipper. He grunted encouragement as she took him in her hand and found a rhythm.
Annie slipped down the wall and sat on the toilet seat. She sought out his cock with her mouth and Shane leant back as she sucked him deeply, wrapping her tongue around his balls and returning to the head in quick succession, never losing the rhythm.
Then she stood again, pushing him onto the seat, and sat astride him. He slipped inside her with almost no effort, and felt a flood of warmth engulf him as her body squeezed his. He bucked up against her, and she responded, pushing down on him hard and then pulling away to the point where he could bear it no longer. The sound that left his mouth when he came was animalistic, and she shook above him for what seemed like minutes before they were both still.
‘Thanks,’ she said as she stood up and adjusted her clothes. Before he could reply, she had left the cubicle and was washing her hands and face at the basin. As he buckled his belt, he heard her laugh with a friend in the hall outside the ladies’ room. Shane shook his head and thought again about Michelle.
‘All yours,’ Fletcher said, pushing the chair back from the computer desk in Isilwane Lodge’s office. He stood and rubbed his back. ‘Damn machine is killing my eyes and back. Give me the bush any time. I don’t know how people can sit in front of these things all day.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Shane said. He sat his beer down on the desk and nodded his thanks to Fletcher. Once a week he used the computer to check emails and to surf the net in search of properties for sale in Africa. With each passing month his bank balance was getting closer and closer to the figures listed on the real estate pages for small game farms and lodges.
It was only two days until Shane, Caesar and Michelle would depart for the Democratic Republic of Congo. Fletcher was leaving the next day, with Wise, to organise transport, supplies and last-minute administration on the ground before the others arrived. All of them were packing and preparing themselves for a stay of at least three months. Michelle had made good progress in recruiting a new research assistant to look after her wild dog program – a young English guy named Matthew Towns who was already in Zimbabwe on holiday. As a result, Michelle was ready to travel to the Congo immediately and start her assessment and recording of game on the concession where Fletcher would be hunting. Lloyd, Fletcher’s chief guide at Isilwane, would be staying in Zimbabwe to manage the lodge during the wet season. Fletcher had already organised a new tracker in the DRC, who would know the mountains and jungles around the Virunga National Park – an environment that would have been as familiar to Lloyd as the surface of the moon.
Shane had been busy organising flights and equipment for the team, but realised he had left himself precious little time to learn about the country they were heading to. He wanted to see what he could dig up on the internet.
Shane entered www.cia.gov in the web browser’s address bar. The Central Intelligence Agency might not have been able to predict or stop the greatest terrorist act of the twenty-first century, but they could tell you the gross domestic product, population figures and currency exchange rate for any country in the world. He clicked on ‘The World Factbook’ and scrolled down a list until he came to ‘Congo, Democratic Republic of’.
The Factbook was a mine of basic information for someone like him – he thought of it as a Lonely Planet guide without the tips for gay and lesbian travellers and budget places to eat. The country formerly known as Zaire and, before that, the Belgian Congo, was colonised by the tiny European nation in 1908. He studied the map of what was now known colloquially as the DRC. It was a huge chunk of Africa, bordered by nine other nations. The country touched on nearly every type of climate and landscape the continent had to offer – a transition zone between the dry bushveld Shane was familiar with in southern Africa, through to the equatorial rainforests of central Africa to the west and north, the jungle-covered mountains of the Ruwenzoris to the east, and even the deserts of Sudan on its north-eastern border.
Laurent Kabila had led a rebellion that in 1997 toppled the country’s longest-serving dictator, Mobutu Sese Seko, who had stayed in power, with a little help from the sponsors of the website Shane was browsing, for thirty-two years. Kabila changed the name from Zaire to DRC, but no sooner had he taken power than he faced his own insurrection, which was backed by his neighbours in Rwanda and Uganda. Other African countries, including Zimbabwe, Angola, Namibia and Chad, rallied in support of Kabila and sent troops, but the international effort wasn’t enough to stop the new president from being assassinated in 2001. Laurent’s son, Joseph, inherited his power.
Shane knew the country was still far from stable, and the situation wasn’t helped by the continued presence of refugees and fugitive rebel soldiers from some of DRC’s neighbours – many of whom were hiding up in the region where Fletcher would soon be taking wealthy hunters. The rumour mill in Zimbabwe had it that their own government had been lured north to support the Kabila clan on the promise of mining concessions and other economic sweeteners. Shane read that as well as diamonds, there were mines extracting copper, uranium, silver a
nd something called coltan, which was apparently used in computer chips.
He sat back and scanned the pages for other information that might be of use to him and his men. Poaching was listed as a major environmental issue, along with deforestation by refugees looking for firewood and building materials, and mining. The AIDS rate was high among the sixty million inhabitants, and the adult life expectancy was less than fifty years.
There were, he noted, more than two hundred ethnic groups in the country, the majority of them Bantu. That was bad news for him, because Wise and Caesar were Ndebele and therefore spoke a language closer to Zulu than any local dialect. To top that off, the official language was French, with Swahili also in common use – two more tongues neither he nor his men spoke. He wondered if Michelle, having been brought up in Canada, spoke French. Bottom line was that they would need a translator if they picked up any poachers.
Shane exited the CIA page and did a Google news search on the DRC. He found another online story about endangered wildlife and ecosystems in the country’s five national parks, including the Virunga, near where they would be operating. It was bleak. Park rangers had been engaged in gunfights with armed refugees and rebels, some of them Rwandan Hutus with blood on their hands from the massacres in their own country. Poachers, whose ranks included government soldiers as well as rebels from within and outside the DRC, had decimated all wildlife species with an economic value.
He whistled softly to himself as he read an account of four hundred armed men attacking a national parks outpost. Shane leaned back in the swivelling office chair and clasped his hands behind his neck. He was heading into what journalists – with only a little licence – would call a war zone. Himself and two men.
Why, he wondered, would Fletcher want to risk taking well-heeled American and European clients into such a dangerous area?