by Tony Park
He could tell the Zambezi River was running high and fast by the tall plume of spray that was visible as he crested the hill that led into the town of Victoria Falls. He had the address for Charles’s home from the old man’s personnel file. He took a right turn into the industrial estate and followed the deteriorating road past the UTC garage, hardware stores and builders’ yards until he came to a neighbourhood of modest brick houses dating from the 1960s. The whitewashed walls were spattered with mud the colour of dried blood where the rain had pelted into the grassless yard and flowerless beds. The roof was made of crumbling asbestos. With hunger, AIDS, inflation and unemployment to contend with, the people of Zimbabwe were a long way off caring about mesothelioma. Shane had been surprised to learn the country still mined the deadly fibre and exported it to Eastern Europe.
Outside the house was a new-looking Nissan Sunny taxi, its bright blue paint gleaming, tyres blackened. Someone had taken the time to clean the vehicle since the last rain, which had probably been that morning.
Miriam Ndlovu opened the door. She was a plump woman, dressed in a simple but neatly pressed blue cotton dress. ‘Hello, Mister Castle. This is a surprise! How are you?’
‘Fine, and you?’ Her reaction was predictable – he hadn’t telephoned to let her know he was coming because Charles had never had the phone connected. He thought he read something else in her face as the smile quickly vanished.
‘What can I do to help you?’ she said, as a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, appeared behind her. Shane recognised him from the funeral. ‘This is my son – Charles’s eldest – Fortune.’
Shane shook his hand and saw Charles’s eyes in the son, who was tall and muscular, and well dressed in dark slacks, a crisp white business shirt and polished loafers. He wore a mobile phone in a leather pouch on his belt. ‘How do you do, Mister Castle?’
‘Please, both of you, call me Shane.’
‘Fortune is a businessman. That is his taxi outside – he owns it,’ Miriam said quickly, gesturing to the vehicle.
Despite the civility, Fortune, too, was unsmiling. He stood behind his mother poised like a boxer, easing his weight from one foot to the other, his hands held loose by his side.
‘It must be hard to keep a car on the road these days, with the fuel shortages and the cost of spare parts,’ Shane observed.
‘People always need transport and, besides, my father made sure we were cared for,’ Fortune began. A sharp glance from his mother stopped him from elaborating.
‘Have you come from Mr Reynolds?’ Miriam asked.
Shane was taken aback by the question. Fletcher had not even attended Charles’s funeral. ‘No, this was my idea. I just wanted to see how you and your family were getting along.’
There were a few pregnant seconds of silence before Miriam’s innate sense of hospitality got the better of whatever it was that was concerning her. ‘Please, come inside, Mister Shane. Tea?’
Fortune stood aside, but Shane felt the other man’s eyes drilling his back as he moved past him and down the corridor to the lounge room.
Miriam motioned for Shane to take a seat on a velour-covered lounge. The home was neat and, despite its grubby exterior, it was freshly painted inside and the furnishings looked new. Shane couldn’t help but wonder, uncharitably, if his old friend’s deal with the enemy before his death had paid for the family’s relatively comfortable lifestyle and the shiny car out front. In the hallway was a white top-loading washing machine, still covered in shrink-wrap plastic.
‘We are not the only family in Zimbabwe with an automatic washing machine,’ Fortune said, following Shane’s glance.
‘Hush, Fortune,’ said his mother, returning from the kitchen with a tray bearing three cups of steaming tea.
‘Don’t think us ungrateful, Mister Castle,’ Miriam continued as she lowered herself into a yielding armchair opposite Shane. Fortune remained standing. ‘When I asked if you had come on behalf of Mister Reynolds, it was not to ask for money.’
Shane’s confusion was mounting. ‘I’m sorry, Miriam, but I don’t think Fletcher Reynolds would have been offering money under any circumstances.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘I simply came out of respect for an old friend, even if Charles did . . .’ He saw the anger flash in Fortune’s eyes and knew he had touched a nerve.
‘My father did nothing wrong! Nothing!’
Shane sipped his tea, eyeing first the son, then the mother over the rim of the dainty, flower-patterned china. The cup, he noticed, was not the usual cheap dross found in the Chinese- and Indian-run discount stores.
‘I meant no insult to your father, Fortune. I remember him as a good man – for all the excellent work he did in the national parks service and with my men and me. But the fact remains that he did do business with poachers, and Fletcher Reynolds could never forgive him for that.’
Fortune looked hard at his mother, who gave a small shake of her head.
‘I do not understand this. You work with Reynolds,’ Fortune said, his tone more accusatory than factual.
Shane nodded. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. He’d lived in danger and on his wits long enough not to ignore his innate warning signs. ‘Fletcher told me Charles went to him to ask for money, for you and your family, to be paid as a death benefit,’ he said to Miriam.
The woman exchanged a few words in Ndebele with her son, perhaps clarifying the term ‘death benefit’, Shane thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And the matter was settled.’
To Shane’s knowledge the matter was settled by Fletcher telling Charles to get lost. Miriam, however, seemed to harbour no ill will over the decision, which had turned her husband into an informant for criminals and an armed poacher. ‘Miriam, did Charles say anything to you in the days before he died – anything that might have given you a clue why he did what he did?’
‘A husband and wife discuss many things which are private, Mister Castle. Some things are best left unsaid, in memory of a good man. It’s odd, though,’ she said, putting down her cup and saucer on a polished side table. ‘Charles said you might come visiting one day.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
Shane waited for Charles’s widow or son to say something else, but the room was silent. Again, he felt the physical manifestations of his unease. He drained his cup and placed it on the armrest of the lounge.
‘What if we want money?’ Fortune said.
Shane looked into the boy’s hard eyes. ‘You seem to be doing better than many people.’ He disliked Fortune’s tone and, at that moment, felt about as charitable as Fletcher had been. He had come to the house to check on his old friend’s family and suddenly felt as though he were about to be shaken down. ‘Find more passengers for your cab.’
‘If you joke with me, Mister Castle, I could go to the police. It would not go well for you or your employer.’
Shane rarely played cards, but he’d been told on more than one occasion he had a good poker face. He stood and took a step towards Fortune. The boy was on the other side of the room, but still took an involuntary pace backwards. ‘You don’t want that any more than I do.’
Fortune swallowed, his bravado disappearing as quickly as it had surfaced. ‘Please, please, Mister Castle,’ Miriam said, hauling herself up out of the chair. ‘No one bears any ill will over what happened. Fortune was speaking out of turn. No one in this room wants the police involved in this matter. It should be laid to rest, along with Charles.’
‘But, Mother —’
‘Hush, Fortune. Mister Castle has come to see us out of respect. Nothing more, it would seem. And for that,’ she said, turning to face him and taking his hand in both of hers, ‘we are grateful. Please forgive my son if he caused offence.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ Shane said. ‘I’d better get going, anyway.’
Fortune walked ahead of him to the door and opened it. ‘Safe journey, Mister Castle. Please give our
regards to Mister Reynolds.’
‘I’ll be sure and do that,’ Shane said, brushing past him. He stepped out into the cloying heat, aware only at that moment that the house had actually been airconditioned – an unheard-of luxury for the widow of a slain national parks ranger, and probably for the average commercial poacher. Yet Fortune had insisted his father had done nothing wrong. Shane looked at the shiny taxi cab and then, halfway down the garden path, turned and looked at the mother and son, still standing on the doorstep. ‘It’s good you have this cab, Fortune. I’d hate for you to end up like your father.’
Shane saw the fear flare in Fortune’s eyes – as illuminating and sudden as a match struck in a darkened room – before the door closed.
22
Larry Monroe wondered how many of the Illinois National Guardsmen and women queued up outside the base medical centre at Camp Lincoln would die in Iraq.
The soldiers were members of a transportation company. They’d be running supply convoys in and out of Baghdad – probably one of the most dangerous duties in the war. As they waited to be checked and jabbed prior to their deployment, they laughed and joked with the unnatural boisterousness of the willingly condemned. Proud to serve. Good to go. What a crock.
He pictured a body lying in the dirt, blood oozing from fresh wounds, the stench of bowels voided at the moment of death. He screwed his eyes tight to try to rid himself of the image, but failed. Unlike most of these boys and girls, he had seen death first-hand. It wasn’t something to look forward to.
The sign outside the medical centre welcomed the citizen soldiers to Company C, 205th Area Support Medical Battalion. Next to the letters was the emblem of the Illinois Guard, a yellow silhouette of Abraham Lincoln’s head on a blue shield. He wondered what old Abe would have made of Iraq, of the African-American faces of nearly every other man and woman in the queue, of the black men Larry had seen killed.
‘Major Monroe, sir? You okay?’ asked the sergeant standing beside him.
‘Sure, Bernice. Just a headache,’ he replied to his chief clerk’s enquiring look. ‘How many more to process, anyway?’
She consulted her clipboard. ‘Nearly halfway through, sir. Still forty-five to undergo medicals and four for return trips to the dentist.’
Larry nodded. He’d had to call Charles Hamley in to do the dental checks and patch-up surgery needed to get as many of these soldiers fit enough to die overseas. Chuck had made no complaint about the call-up, even though he’d been back in the country less than twenty-four hours, fresh off the airplane from yet another safari to Africa.
‘Oh, my aching back. I spend too much time in the office these days, and not enough time in the practice. ’Bout the only time I look in people’s mouths nowadays is when I’m in uniform.’
Larry instantly recognised the voice. He turned around and saw Chuck Hamley not more than a couple of yards behind him, stretching theatrically. Speak of the devil.
Larry had quit his own civilian job as a senior executive in a health insurance company in Springfield. He was moving with his wife and kids to Utah in a couple of days, as soon as his week’s military service was up. ‘How you doing in there, Chuck?’
‘Well, at least one of those boys’ mommas is going to be pleased tonight. He’s got a mouth full of cavities, impacted wisdom teeth that are keeping him on meds, and he needs root canal work ASAP. He’s 4F for now. The only good news for him is that Uncle Sam’s going to be footing his dental bill and he’ll miss out on his sightseeing tour of the Red Zone.’
Larry nodded and made a note on his own clipboard. ‘We had a guy knocked back because of asthma this morning. I thought he was going to cry. I don’t know why these guys are so keen to go off and get themselves shot at.’
‘By God, I wish I was young and fit enough to go. You should reconsider your decision to leave the guard. We need people with your experience now more than ever.’
‘I’ve done my time.’ In truth, Larry knew that Chuck was still in the acceptable age bracket for overseas duty and suspected his lumbago was not nearly bad enough to have had him classified unfit. He’d been as sprightly as a man half his age when stalking big game in Zimbabwe. Larry suspected the diminutive dentist hadn’t received his call-up papers because of political interference. As for himself, Larry had been cured of the need he’d once felt to test his mettle in battle. The idea seemed ridiculous to him now.
Chuck said, ‘Sergeant, give us a moment, if you will. Go sharpen your pencil or something.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the female noncommissioned officer said. She walked down the entry stairs of the medical centre and started randomly questioning soldiers in the line, checking to see if their paperwork was in order.
‘Sounds like you might be going soft on us, Larry,’ Chuck said.
‘What do you mean? Because I’m leaving the guard?’
Chuck put his hands in the small of his back and leaned backwards, stretching his muscles again before straightening. ‘Six months ago you would have sold your wife and car for a chance to go to Iraq or Afghanistan. Something you want to talk about, Larry?’
Monroe looked out at the line of men, hair clipped so closely the pale skin of their heads almost reflected the morning sunlight. ‘No, Chuck, I’m fine.’
‘Had me a great safari, this time around. You really should come back over again, Larry. I’ve got a beautiful sitatunga’s head being shipped to me by Fletch next month.’
He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Once was enough for me.’
‘Look at me.’
Larry turned and looked at Chuck. The dentist was at least six inches shorter than he, but he had a commanding presence. They both wore the brown oak-leaf insignia of majors on their collars, so it wasn’t an issue of rank. Larry didn’t know whether it was the man’s money or his nature, or a combination of both, but at times he could be downright intimidating. ‘What do you want, Chuck?’
Chuck leaned closer to him, invading his personal space. Larry smelled cologne and wondered what the man’s patients must think of its invasiveness. ‘What I want, Larry, is your word, as an officer and a gentleman, that you won’t betray me.’
‘Whatever gave you the idea that I would?’ Larry felt the sweat prickling under his arms.
The other man lowered his voice to barely a whisper. ‘You’re weak, Larry.’
‘If you’re talking about Africa . . .’
‘What the fuck else would I be talking about?’
23
‘The pictures are fantastic, Matthew, but remember you need to get a clear shot of each side of every dog,’ Michelle said as she sat next to the young researcher in the Main Camp cottage which had once been her home.
‘I know, I know,’ Matthew Towns moaned theatrically and good-naturedly. ‘But tell me more about the Congo.’
Michelle had been worried that she might come across as too meddlesome in the wild dog research program – which she had started – and had already proved herself right. Matthew was more than capable of carrying on her work, and she had to stop herself from stating the bloody obvious. ‘It’s so different from here,’ Michelle said.
‘Dangerous, too. It must have freaked you out with that guy getting shot.’
Worse for Wise, she thought. She would be interested to see when she returned what progress, if any, the police had made in finding the killer. ‘It is dangerous, but the countryside is spectacular and the wildlife – the primates, in particular – like nothing you’ll ever see down here. Coming face to face with a fully grown silverback was the most awesome experience I’ve ever had in Africa.’
‘How are you getting on with the boss?’ Matthew asked.
‘Fletcher’s great to work with and, for a hunter, he has a great affinity with wildlife.’
‘That sounds like the textbook answer.’
Michelle felt herself start to blush.
‘Helicopter?’ Matthew cocked an ear, a puzzled look on his face. As he stood and moved to the window, th
e thwop of blades chopping at the heavy afternoon air getting noisier by the second, he said, ‘Check it out. It’s landing near the warden’s office.’
Michelle shared Matthew’s curiosity and walked out into the front yard of the cottage. In all her time living in Zimbabwe she had never seen a helicopter land in the park. She recognised the craft as a Bell Jet Ranger. On its side was a sign that read Victoria Falls Helicopter Joy Flights. ‘He’s a long way from home.’
They were joined by a small crowd, mostly women and children, who filed out of their modest staff bungalows to stare at the hovering machine. As one, the onlookers turned their backs or raised their hands to their eyes when the rotary downwash blew up a sudden fierce dust storm. The clouds abated, though, once the skids touched the ground.
Michelle wiped her eyes and blinked in surprise. ‘Fletcher!’
He ran, bent double to keep his head below the still-spinning blades, grinning broadly and clutching a bouquet of red roses. Petals dislodged by the wash followed in his wake as he crossed the distance to her. He was dressed in a cream linen suit, blue oxford shirt with a striped military-looking tie, and expensive brogues, now white with dust.
‘Close your mouth or you’ll start catching flies,’ he said as he stopped in front of her.
‘What . . . ? When. . . ?’
He took her in his arms and kissed her. She was dumbfounded; he was still supposed to be in the Congo. ‘Do you have a bag?’
‘What? Um . . . yes, my things are in the cottage. I only just got down here from Isilwane. I was planning on going out for an afternoon drive with Matthew and staying the night here in one of the lodges.’
Fletcher released Michelle from their hug and strode across to the young researcher. ‘You must be Matthew Towns. Fletcher Reynolds.’
The two shook hands. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last, Mister Reynolds. It’s great what you’re doing, funding our research and all. Would you like to come out tracking the dogs with us this afternoon?’