by Tony Park
‘Well, Sarah, perhaps I could just start by saying a few things about the current situation here in this part of Zimbabwe.’ He followed his opening remark with the three messages he had prepared earlier, finishing with an assertion that legal hunting was helping with the sustainable management of wildlife in the country.
Sarah smiled politely, as though she had been expecting his considered words and corporate message. ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s the case, and no one would doubt you’ve done a terrific job controlling poaching.’
‘Yes, we have been able to control poaching in this area by our close cooperation with national parks staff and local police.’ Damn, he thought to himself, he had just fallen for her trick and used her words about ‘controlling’ poachers.
‘Control, in the same way that one might eliminate pests? By killing them?’
He swallowed hard. ‘They’re your words, not mine.’
‘You haven’t killed any poachers?’
‘Um . . . No, I didn’t say that. With the help of the local authorities we have been very effective in . . . in ensuring that . . .’
‘Effective in killing,’ she said, smiling again. ‘How many men have you personally killed, Mister Castle?’
Shane felt like a shipwreck survivor who had just climbed into a lifeboat only to find it full of holes. ‘Look, what I was trying to say is . . .’
‘Zimbabwe has a shoot-on-sight and shoot-to-kill policy when it comes to armed poachers in national parks and dedicated safari areas, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it does,’ he said, almost relieved at being given a reprieve with a simple factual question.
‘And, presumably, people like yourself involved in,’ she made a show of checking her notebook, ‘ah, yes . . . security, have the right to defend yourself?’
Shane fought to control his breathing. He was determined not to let her ruffle him, to make him lose his cool. ‘That’s correct, and as I was saying before . . .’
‘So, you have fired your weapon, at poachers, in self-defence?’
‘Yes.’
‘And killed men.’
‘What I have done is . . .’
‘Have you or have you not killed people in your current job?’
He looked at the ceiling, unsure whether or not to answer the question. When in doubt, tell the truth. ‘Yes.’ At least, he thought, that might get her off his back and move on to a more relevant question.
‘Unarmed men.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, Mister Castle. You were a party to the shooting of two unarmed men, in the same incident in which you and your anti-poaching patrol also killed several armed poachers.’
‘No!’
‘On or about the tenth of September this year you came across two unarmed men, bearers working with a gang of Zambian poachers you had just been in a firefight with, and ordered them to start running so you could have some sport with them before you executed them in cold blood.’
‘Look, I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, but that is a complete and utter lie. I have never, ever, in my life been a party to the shooting of an unarmed man and furthermore I reject —’
‘You served in Iraq as a contract security officer, didn’t you?’
Shane sat back in his chair and looked from the reporter to the cameraman. Rickards made a show of looking back down into the eyepiece of his camera. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Sarah riffled through some papers at the back of her notebook, content to let silence reign for the few seconds it took. ‘Ah, yes, here we are. I’ve got a printout here of a BBC story which names you as the suspect in the shooting of a wounded Iraqi man in Baghdad.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, he was —’
‘He was an injured man, trapped in a burning vehicle, according to the story, who you chose to execute rather than try to capture or assist. Even terrorists are human beings, Mister Castle.’
Shane closed his eyes, seeing the burning man again, hearing his screams as the Americans urged him to let the guy burn slowly to death. He put his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
‘Mister Castle?’
Shane knew that whatever he said next would only tighten the hangman’s noose. He had no idea what the woman was talking about regarding the so-called unarmed poachers, but his past seemed to be rushing up behind him like an out-of-control freight train.
‘Keep the tape rolling, Jim,’ Sarah whispered to the cameraman, before changing tack. ‘According to Zimbabwean police records, at least eight poachers have been shot and killed, supposedly in self-defence, on the Isilwane Safaris concession in recent months. How do you explain that number of deaths? That’s more than have been killed in the entire country in the last twelve months.’
Shane looked up at the woman, then at the accusing lens of the camera. He saw his reflection, eyes red-rimmed, mouth slightly open. ‘You killed a wounded man in Iraq, and at least two unarmed Zambian men here, in cold blood,’ she spat at him. All pretence of politeness had vanished from her demeanour. ‘Is this your definition of security? Eliminating all potential opponents, armed or otherwise?’
‘I don’t know who’s feeding you this rubbish but —’
‘Deny it. Tell me you didn’t shoot that injured human being.’
He felt the rage rising in him and fought to contain it. He knew he should say something positive or clever to steer the interview back to what he wanted to talk about, but all he felt was contempt for the creature sitting opposite him.
‘You wouldn’t understand a thing about —’
‘Try me,’ she hissed. ‘I’ve had guns pointed at me, bullets fired at me and, yes, I’ve had to shoot back. But I’ve never seen a man put another down like a dog, Mister Castle, like you did.’
Is that what he’d done? The screams filled his head. The laughter of the Americans. His fury at the insurgents who had tried to kill him and his human cargo and comrades all surfaced again. The dead bodies of his mates in the Range Rover stared back at him through the shattered glass. She was right – not in her interpretation, but in her facts. He had euthanased the Iraqi, as one might a suffering pet. He had justified it to himself over and over, yet there could be no explaining his actions, his motives, to this woman.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Sarah replied.
Shane stood, removed the clip-on microphone from his shirt and tossed it towards the cameraman. ‘This interview’s over. I’m not going to get a fair hearing here and you’ve got your facts screwed up. Please leave the premises now.’
‘But I’m not finished. . .’
‘Oh yes you are. Get up,’ he said to Rickards.
‘Okay, okay, man, cool it,’ the cameraman said. He unclipped his camera from its tripod and folded the legs under one arm. At the same time he dexterously transferred the camera to his shoulder and continued filming as he started to walk backwards. Sarah unplugged her lapel microphone to allow him to move unhindered.
‘Please tell me you’re getting all this,’ Sarah said under her breath.
‘Yep, and it’s gold,’ he replied.
Shane heard the whispers and followed them out, reaching out to cover the camera’s lens with his hand. ‘Get out now, please.’
‘And thank you for the money shot,’ Rickards said. He paused, defiantly, on the front porch of the lodge.
Shane’s hand connected with the lens and Rickards toppled backwards, landing on his bottom on the gravel.
‘Hey, that’s assault!’ Sarah said, loud enough for the camera’s in-built microphone to pick up.
‘Jesus – get up, you silly bastard,’ Shane said, reaching down to give the man a hand up.
‘Don’t you touch me!’ Rickards wailed, as though Shane were trying to grab him. He wriggled away on his posterior, the camera still on his shoulder and, no doubt, recording.
Shane shook his head. He knew he’d behaved badly – and blown the interview – b
ut the whole thing was rapidly descending into the farcical. It would have been funny if it weren’t all so tragic.
‘I’ll be in touch with Mister Reynolds,’ Sarah called from the driver’s seat of her rented four-wheel drive.
‘Don’t bother, you won’t be welcome back here,’ Shane said bitterly.
She started the engine as Rickards climbed into the back seat and swung the camera out through the window, its lens pointing at Shane. ‘I don’t need to come back here. I’ve got everything I came for.’ She smiled again.
Shane lifted his right hand, with all bar the middle finger folded into his palm.
‘Oh my God, Shane!’ Michelle laughed. ‘You gave her the bird? That’s priceless.’
‘You can laugh. I’ve probably lost my job over this.’ He opened another two Zambezi Lagers and passed one green bottle to Michelle. He sat on the edge of the swimming pool at Isilwane Lodge.
Michelle swam to the side of the pool to accept her beer from him. The cool water was bliss after the hot drive down from Victoria Falls. Lloyd had come to collect her after Shane’s disastrous brush with the media. She didn’t like seeing him down, and had hoped to talk through a few feelings of her own with him.
‘You’ll be fine. It’s just a beat-up, I’m sure. They got sick of saying that shooting poachers was a good thing and now, to make it all newsworthy, they’ve got someone else to say it’s a bad thing.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right, but it still bugs me that she could get it all so wrong, or that someone could claim that I shot two people in cold blood.’
‘That does sound very specific. Maybe Fletcher’s got some enemies who want to get back at him. This is a small country and he’s doing so well that perhaps someone’s resentful.’
Shane nodded. ‘I’ve thought about that. Now that he’s built up the business there’s always the chance that one of his senior army or political allies might want to take over the lodge as a going concern. It’s possible someone could be spreading lies about Fletcher, but it irks me that someone would say it was me who did the killing. That’s personal.’
She noticed the way he stared off into the distance as he drank from his beer bottle. There was more to the way he was feeling than a poor performance in front of the camera. He was tougher than that, she thought.
‘You said she asked you about Iraq as well?’
‘Yeah. That was below the belt.’
‘What did she ask?’
He looked down at her and set his drink on the pavers beside him. ‘I killed a man in Iraq, Michelle.’
She shrugged. ‘I never wanted to ask, but I guessed you would have. You were a soldier.’
‘No, this was when I was a contractor. It was just before I came back to Africa.’
‘Still, it was your job.’
‘It was an insurgent. A terrorist. The fire fight was over and he was in a burning car.’ He looked away again.
‘He was wounded and you shot him.’
‘You know?’
‘That reporter isn’t the only one with access to the internet, Shane. I’ve Googled you as well as Fletcher. I wanted to know what sort of people I was working with. I must admit, I was a bit disturbed when I read the first reports, about you being investigated by the Iraqi police and all, but I had to look a little harder to find the press release from your old firm that said the investigation had been dropped and you had been cleared of any wrongdoing.’
He smiled.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I didn’t even know they’d put out a press release about me. Well, I’m sure Sarah Thatcher didn’t get that far in her research, but thanks anyway.’
‘What for?’
‘For not judging me.’
‘I did judge you, Shane. I weighed all the evidence I had about you, your past and your job here in Africa, and added in some evidence from the time we’ve known each other. The verdict was you’re not a bad guy.’ She leaned over and punched him on the thigh.
He smiled again, but once more his eyes roamed out towards the granite kopjes in the distance. There was more on his mind than the reporter’s unfair and misguided questioning, though it didn’t seem he was in a mood to open up. At least on that front he was back to normal.
‘I didn’t ask you how your date with Fletcher was,’ he said, changing the subject.
She shrugged. ‘Nice.’
‘All champagne and caviar and five-star hot and cold running servants?’
‘Stop teasing. It was romantic, though.’ And no expense spared, she thought to herself. ‘Tell me, what does a big war hero like you do to impress a girl?’
He looked at her, as if trying to judge the seriousness of her question. She stared back at him silently. He scratched his chin. ‘Tell her I love her, I suppose.’
‘No fancy dinner, no grand gesture, no diamond earrings?’ She placed her index finger behind her right earlobe and batted her eyelashes.
He squinted down at her, as though unable to see the stud. ‘Only if I thought the girl was a shameless materialistic gold digger and I was so old and butt-ugly it was the only way I’d get her to notice me.’
She flicked her hand and splashed water up into his face. ‘Meanie!’
‘You started it.’ He stood and leapt high into the air. As he descended he raised his knees and clutched them to his chest, hitting the water in a bomb that sent a wave over the edge of the pool, with enough force to send their beer bottles rolling.
Michelle came up for air spluttering, hair plastering her face. She lashed out at him blindly, splashing more water at him, but he was too fast for her. She shrieked with laughter and begged for him to stop. When he did, she started splashing all over again, and he reached out and grabbed her wrists to still her.
‘Enough!’ she yelled.
He laughed and, as she shook the hair from her eyes, she realised it was the first time she had ever seen him really do so. His face looked so different, softer, more open. He released her wrists, took a step back from her in the water, and said, ‘Sorry, hope I didn’t hurt you.’
‘Not at all. God, I haven’t laughed like that for ages.’
‘Me either,’ he said, then looked away. He put his hands on the edge of the pool and boosted himself up out of the water. ‘Think I’m gonna go dry off. There are a couple of things I need to get done before we leave.’ He walked away.
It seemed that whenever she got close to him he pushed himself away from her and retreated back into his shell. The journalist’s questioning had obviously opened some old wounds, but it seemed there was more on his mind than she would ever get to know about.
She had also wanted to talk to Shane about Fletcher – particularly what Shane thought of him, not as an employee, but guy to guy. She’d woken that morning to breakfast in bed and Fletcher already dressed to travel. He’d said goodbye to her before she had even had time to finish her food. She was a little disappointed that he had to rush back to the Congo – she had envisaged a day spent together sightseeing or just lazing around – but consoled herself with the fact that he had come to Zimbabwe solely to see her. Their lovemaking the night before had been slow and tender. He knew how to make a woman respond, but seemed to have a set order about how he did things. When she’d grabbed for his manhood at one point, eager for him to enter her, he had removed her hand and told her to wait. She guessed he was being deliberately dominant, thinking that was what she wanted – but she’d simply been madly, infuriatingly ready for him at that precise moment. By the time he did get around to entering her she had been too distracted by his earlier brush-off to orgasm before he did, or even while he was inside her. She was sure, though, that in time they would get to know each other’s moods more intimately.
Michelle sensed, from Fletcher’s gifts and the elaborate measures he’d taken to create a romantic mood at the hotel, that he might be close to asking her to marry him. Some women would think she was mad to turn down a man like that. All that wealth aside, it would mean s
he could live her dream of a life spent in Africa doing wildlife research, without the added concern of not knowing where her next round of funding would come from. What worried her was that every time she considered her feelings for Fletcher, money always seemed to come up as a key point in his favour.
Shane dressed and checked the time. If he hurried, he might make Hwange Police Station before the CID office closed, which he guessed would be four pm. It’d mean a drive back to the lodge in the dark. Driving at night was never a good idea in the bush because many animals were on the move in the dark, but he had no other option. He and Michelle were due to start the long process of flying back to the Congo the next day, with a trip to Bulawayo in Dougal’s Cessna.
‘Hey, you look like you’re going somewhere,’ Michelle said, padding up the hallway towards her room with a towel wrapped around her body. She had left a trail of wet footprints on the stone floor and he did his best not to look at her legs.
‘I’ll be gone for the afternoon. Just need to visit an old contact.’
She cocked her head and frowned. ‘Sounds mysterious. Have you got a girlfriend somewhere I don’t know about?’
He fastened the Velcro of his watch strap and ran a hand through his wet hair. ‘You see right through me. Tell Lloyd not to worry about dinner for me.’
‘What are you up to, Shane?’
‘Nothing.’
The old steam locomotive on a concrete plinth near the turn-off from the main Bulawayo-to-Victoria Falls road to the town of Hwange was a reminder that this was coal country. The Wankie Colliery – the business still kept the name the town had used under white Rhodesian rule – was one of the few things still working in Zimbabwe.
Shane drove past the monument, bypassing the town itself, to the sprawling police camp a little further down the road towards Bulawayo. The two-storey main building looked as though it dated from the seventies – the dying days of white rule. Inside, a constable in khaki trousers and a starched blue-grey shirt directed him to another building, which housed the Criminal Investigation Division. Shane followed the directions, walking past a parking lot crammed with police vehicles in varying stages of disrepair.