by Tony Park
Her anger at Shane’s apparent coldness had cooled by the time they returned to the hunting camp. She retired to her tent, leaving Shane, Fletcher and Caesar to toast their departed comrade in a macho-bullshit drinking session around the campfire. Fletcher, she noticed, had been similarly unemotional while talking to Shane about the loss of one of his employees. She knew soldiers had to get used to death, but this was unhealthy. At least Caesar, shivering through the onset of his returning malaria, had shed tears for his friend.
Fletcher had come to her tent later, reeking of beer, but she had feigned sleep and he had left her alone. True rest had eluded her for most of that night as her mind replayed the images and sounds of the day.
Dougal drove through Bulawayo to the cemetery on the Main Street extension. Like every other in sub-Saharan Africa, it was overcrowded and busy.
‘They’ve opened up a new plot here in the old cemetery,’ Dougal explained as he slowly navigated the narrow road between rows of headstones that looked to be at least a hundred years old. ‘The new graveyard outside of town is about full, so the municipality’s been trying to find more space between the old graves.’
They were going to lay Wise to rest amidst a jumble of fresh earthen mounds in what had once been a car park. Red mud clung to Michelle’s shoes and cellophane from withered bouquets of flowers fluttered by in the strong, hot breeze. Dark clouds masked the sun’s glare and promised seasonal rain that afternoon. Michelle saw wilted photos of young Africans cut down in their prime pinned to rough-hewn wooden crosses. She averted her eyes from a tiny mound on which someone had placed a pink teddy bear. A lump came to her throat. Wise deserved better than a pauper’s grave amidst the victims of the AIDS plague. She hoped the boy’s family would use some of the compensation money Shane had taken with him from Fletcher to erect a proper headstone one day. The easiest thing would have been to bury Wise in the DRC, but Fletcher had discounted that option from the outset, offering to pay to ship the casket back to the young man’s home town. Shane had decided to accompany the body. It was how it was done in the army, Shane had said – when a man was killed he was escorted home by a comrade.
Michelle had deliberated about staying with Fletcher or returning to Zimbabwe for the funeral. Fletcher would be busy with his German clients, so she wouldn’t have any more time than usual to spend with him. She hadn’t been close to Wise – not as Shane had been – but she had liked the young African and had been near him when he died. On that basis alone she thought she should attend his funeral.
Then there was Shane. Although it should have been none of her business, the way he had acted since Wise’s death worried her. The hard man facade didn’t fool her. She reckoned he was hurting very badly and she wanted to help him, to comfort him. The realisation struck her there and then, in the cemetery. She cared about him.
The graveside service was brief. Michelle and Shane stood behind Wise’s sobbing mother and stoic father. Shane had told her the old man was a bus driver, and Wise’s mother a seamstress. Shane smiled and gently nudged Michelle in the ribs at the sight of the six attractive young girls on the opposite side of the open grave, who shot each other dagger-like glances every now and then. She guessed they were all Wise’s girlfriends, though it seemed none knew of the existence of the others. She’d gathered that was Wise’s style. Shane had told her on the flight from the Congo that he and Caesar had found a gross of condoms in Wise’s kitbag. It was so unfair, Michelle thought. He’d been a strong, fit young man who excelled at his job which, despite some of her misgivings, was about protecting something precious. As the mourners moved forward to pay their last respects, Shane pulled a cloth badge from his pocket.
‘What’s that?’ Michelle asked.
‘It’s a set of my old SAS parachute wings. Wise made a jump into combat and did a fine job.’ He tossed them on top of the coffin, took a step back and stood briefly to attention.
‘He was so proud of the work he did and he admired you greatly.’
Shane and Michelle both turned to face the voice and saw Wise’s father standing beside them. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir,’ Shane said.
‘Death is an all too common occurrence these days, Mister Castle,’ the grey-haired man said, gesturing around them. ‘We thanked God when Wise returned safe from the fighting in the Congo. I tried to stop him working for you, you know.’
Shane nodded.
‘But when we saw him, on leave,’ the father continued, ‘we noticed how he had matured, how he had become more responsible, how proud he was to serve with you. We knew he had made the right decision. Did he die quickly, Mister Castle?’
‘He did. There was no pain.’
Michelle watched how easily Shane delivered the lie. Cold eyes. Unflinching nerve. A chill went down her back, even though she knew he was only trying to be kind.
‘Will the police catch my son’s killer?’
‘That man should hope the police find him before I do,’ Shane said.
Michelle could see it was no empty threat.
‘I am a religious man, Mister Castle, and I believe one should turn the other cheek . . . but I am pleased you have told me this.’
Shane pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Wise’s father. ‘Nothing can compensate for the loss of a son, sir, but this is from Mister Reynolds.’
Wise’s father put the envelope in the inside pocket of his threadbare black suit without opening it. ‘He has a sister, studying at university in South Africa. She could not make it back in time for the funeral, but this money will go towards her studies.’
Michelle offered a few words of sympathy to Wise’s mother and they hugged. The family slowly departed and the girlfriends sashayed past the grave, until only Shane and Michelle were left. As he stared at the cheap coffin at the bottom of the hole, she reached out and took his hand and he squeezed hers. She thought she felt a pulse through the grip, which was so firm it was close to hurting. ‘It’s a dangerous business you’re in, Shane. Wise knew that.’
He nodded.
‘Is it worth it?’
‘I don’t have a choice. This was where I was born, Michelle. No matter how violent, how bad it gets, I couldn’t live anywhere else again.’
‘I think I know what you mean. I’m not looking forward to going back to Canada. Where are you going now, straight back to Goma?’
‘No. Being here at the funeral reminded me of some unfinished business I have to see to. I want to look in on Charles Ndlovu’s widow, at Vic Falls.’
‘Won’t that just be opening an old wound?’ she asked.
He looked away from her, back down at the coffin, then at the gravediggers, who hovered nearby, shovels in hand. ‘I owe it to Charles. His family weren’t responsible for what he did, and he was a good man.’
Fletcher had arranged for Dougal to fly Michelle to Isilwane Lodge and offered her the use of a Land Rover if she wanted to drive down to Main Camp in Hwange National Park to see how Matthew Towns’ wild dog research was progressing.
Dougal drove her and Shane from the cemetery back into the centre of Bulawayo and stopped outside a cafe, across from the old whitewashed colonial-era town hall. ‘I’ve got to pick up a few things for the lodge on Fletcher’s behalf at Haddon and Sly. Can I trust you two kids to say safe for half an hour while I’m queuing for meat and bread?’
They waved goodbye and Shane nodded a greeting to a green-uniformed security guard who stood outside the coffee shop, wooden baton in hand. ‘Must be to keep out the party animals,’ Michelle said.
Shane ignored her remark and followed the security guard’s line of sight. Since his time in Iraq it was second nature to him, particularly being back in an urban area, to size up possible threats. He saw the gang of five scrawny teenagers in grubby clothes, across the road, loitering outside the iron-railing fence surrounding the municipal offices car park. Shane looked up and down their side of the street and saw no sign of trouble. The security guard obviously did a reas
onable job of controlling his patch.
Inside the cafe was a world away from the struggling parade of humanity and crumbling public edifices beyond the wide plate-glass window. With its polished timber floors and liberal use of zinc-coated corrugated iron for decoration, the eatery wouldn’t have been out of place in London, New York or Sydney.
The white maître d, with her platinum hair and French tips, blended into her surroundings as easily as a chameleon. Her style matched the decor and, as it turned out, the menu – chic, cool and expensive. A black African waiter showed them to their table. His bow tie looked as though it were strangling him, but he managed a broad smile and a friendly welcome that might have made him fifteen per cent in Manhattan. Shane wondered what tips were like in twenty-first century Zimbabwe. Not good, he reckoned.
Shane looked out at the streetscape and was transported back to Africa. A boy of eight or nine led a middle-aged blind man – perhaps his father – through the throng of lunchtime shoppers. Maybe one in twenty dropped a crumpled note in the boy’s tin mug. People had long since given up using coins as currency in Zim. A two dollar coin, which in Shane’s lifetime had been the equivalent of two greenbacks, was now worth less than a washer. Enterprising metal workers were picking up coins, drilling their centres out and using them for that exact purpose.
Unlike what he would have seen in the days of his childhood, there were very few white faces in the crowd outside. Zimbabwe’s Europeans had always been in the minority, but their numbers had plummeted dramatically in the wake of the seizures of white farms in the first years of the new millennium. Those who were left were either diehards who had enough money to support themselves and cling to their principles, or those who simply couldn’t afford to leave and start anew in another country. Many of the latter were elderly people living hand to mouth on government pensions which couldn’t hope to keep pace with inflation. Stories of old white people killing themselves rather than seeking or accepting charity were, sadly, not urban myths. A grey-haired man in elastic-waisted shorts, carpet slippers and a patched off-white shirt shuffled past the window.
Life was just as tough for the average African, particularly those who supported the opposition party, but at least the blacks could usually count on the support of their extended family. If the old murungu aimlessly wandering the street had kids or grandkids, they were probably living in Perth or Shepherd’s Bush or Ontario. If he was lucky they might be wiring him cash.
Shane turned his attention to the patrons of the cafe. As with the outdoors, there were more black faces than white, but the Africans were well fed. The men wore Armani and their women’s hairdos were bigger than their backsides. Poorer women and their men, who had never seen a fashion magazine, favoured the reverse proportions. The whites were split between those who were still doing well – perhaps smart currency traders or import merchants making a fast buck on the country’s inability to manufacture virtually anything these days – or the dispossessed former gentry squandering a few thousand Zimbabwe dollars on a weekly luxury of coffee and raisin toast.
‘You don’t like it here, do you?’ Michelle asked.
He looked across at her and shrugged.
‘Is it being in a city, or the people?’
‘A bit of both, I suppose.’ There was something else bothering him, too. Someone else. He couldn’t look into those green eyes for too long without losing his concentration. He watched an Indian man chase a small boy in rags out of the fruit and veg store a couple of doors down. The boy weaved expertly through the honking traffic, two bananas clutched to his chest. The cafe security guard looked on with a pronounced lack of interest. Seemed the Indian wasn’t one of his customers.
‘Shane, who do you think killed Wise?’
‘Could have been anyone. A friend of the guy who tried to roll him, the prostitute’s pimp, maybe just a thief.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘I’m not,’ he said, sipping his coffee. ‘But we’ll probably never know.’
‘You’re holding something back.’
True, he thought. It was a physical sensation, not just an emotion. He had trouble breathing when she looked into his eyes, as though there were a hand around his lungs, restricting them. His stomach felt fluttery. It was a half-remembered sensation from his teens. First girlfriend, first kiss. Childish. Stupid. Incredible.
‘You know he had a fight with Patrice.’
He nodded, pleased at the chance to say something half meaningful, rather than just stare at her. ‘Yeah. Fletcher told me after Marie told him. Sounded like that prick Patrice was ready to have a go at her when you were on your gorilla trek.’
Michelle licked coffee froth from her lips. Shane looked out to the street again. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘both Marie and Patrice were acting kind of crazy. Wise was just trying to keep a lid on things, and he did a good job. I don’t think Patrice is mad enough to try to kill Marie but . . .’
‘Wise might have been an easier target. You’re a good mind-reader, Michelle.’
‘I can’t read your mind, Shane Castle.’
And of that, he was grateful, because when she smiled, exposing those perfect, even teeth, he experienced the shortness of breath again, damn it. There was no way around the fact that she belonged to another man, and that man was his boss. It was against his personal code and everything he’d learned and practised as a soldier to cut another guy out like that – although it did happen often enough, even in the regiment. SAS men attracted beautiful women but, like the proverbial moths, those women soon found there was a host of ways to get burned hanging out with fiercely competitive guys who spent most of the year away from home either trying or learning to kill other men. As well as not wanting to alienate his own source of income, he reckoned that if the impossible were to happen – if he tried to explain his feelings to Michelle and she reciprocated – then she would be out of a job as well. He’d joked about running a game reserve and accommodating researchers, but that was all it was – a joke. He might have enough for a plot of land somewhere, but he was a long way off being able to support a woman too. The teenager inside him wanted to grab her hand and tell her how he felt around her, but the army officer told him to stop acting like an idiot and get his mind back on his job.
He wasn’t sure about Patrice. He’d raised his concerns with Fletcher, but been told the guide had a rock-solid alibi. Apparently he was home in his village while Wise was in Goma. Shane didn’t share his boss’s faith in Patrice’s integrity – or that of his wife who had sworn her man was home. He hoped Caesar had the good sense to stay out of the guy’s way while they were away.
‘Time for another proper caffeine fix before we head back to the bush?’ Michelle asked, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Certainly.’ Despite the pain and discomfort, he wanted this time alone with her to last forever.
When Dougal returned to collect them, they arranged that Shane, as well as Michelle, would travel in the Cessna to Isilwane. From there, Shane would borrow a vehicle and make the short drive to Victoria Falls to see Charles’s widow, while Michelle drove down to Main Camp.
On board the cramped little aircraft, Shane reminisced about his first flight to Isilwane as they cleared the hills that marked the border of the national park at the start of the Matetsi Safari Area. Dougal buzzed a herd of sable antelope to clear them from the airstrip and put the Cessna down with hardly a bump.
Lloyd was there to meet them. ‘How is the Congo?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Shane replied.
‘There was a woman here yesterday, looking for the boss,’ Lloyd said.
‘Really?’ Michelle said.
‘She is a journalist, from the television. I telephoned Mister Reynolds on the satellite phone and told him.’
‘What did she want?’ Shane loaded the last of their bags into the back of the old Series III Land Rover pick-up.
‘She wanted to know how many clients we had in the last few months of the season, an
d where they were from. She also asked me about the anti-poaching patrols and how many men had been killed. But I told her nothing.’
‘Good work,’ Shane said, clapping Lloyd on the arm. One thing his time in the army had taught him was that journalists were bad news.
‘Fletcher’s never shied away from publicity in the past,’ Michelle observed. ‘Do you know where she went, Lloyd?’
‘To Main Camp. She said she had heard that Mister Reynolds sponsored the wild dog research and she wanted to film the work there.’
‘Uh-oh,’ Michelle said, pulling a face. ‘I’d better call Matthew and find out what’s going on.’
‘It’s probably nothing. You know how these reporters are – if they’re short of a story they just go back and rehash something that’s been done before. What was the woman’s name, Lloyd?’
Lloyd looked skywards as he searched his memory. ‘Sally . . . no Sarah. Sarah Thatcher.’
The name rang a bell. Shane recalled the blonde television reporter from the story he had seen while still in Iraq. ‘Same one who did the “war on poaching” story a few months back. Told you – same shit, different day.’
It was early afternoon and, as the drive to Victoria Falls was less than two hours from Isilwane, Shane told Michelle he would leave immediately and get the visit to Charles’s widow out of the way.
The parched landscape he left behind had been transformed by a month of good rains. The mopane trees sported shiny, bright green butterfly-shaped leaves, and every herd of impala he passed was populated with tiny lambs, their ears looking too big for their dainty faces, spindly legs appearing barely strong enough to support their weight. The pans were full of water, and elephants wallowed gloriously in mud baths, revelling in their survival of another dry season.
Shane drove slower than usual, the rear of the empty Land Rover sliding away a couple of times as he rounded bends on the rain-slicked dirt road. When he made the main tar road, great clods of mud drummed on the aluminium panels inside the wheel arches as they flew free of the tyres’ deep tread.