by Tony Park
Me too.
2
Richard took a sixpack of Windhoek Lager dumpies from the surgery fridge where the blood and drugs were kept. Whichever way it went with Janine, he wouldn’t want to be stone-cold sober.
Helen had left for the day, which saved him having to answer questions about what he was doing that evening. He still didn’t know for sure. The Skukuza doctors’ surgery was set on the staff village side of the fence separating the national parks’ employees living area from the public rest camp, and the surgery could be accessed by guests in the camp via an entrance on their side. Richard walked through it and into the public area. He’d left his car on the camp side as he had driven to the workshop behind the petrol station to get his flat spare tyre fixed during his lunchbreak and then parked on the camp side to get back in time for an appointment. As he walked to his old Discovery 2, he freed a green bottle from the plastic wrap and used the opener on his key ring to crack it. He’d finished the first before he had driven past the big thatch-roofed Skukuza reception building. He took it slow driving through the gate, as the nightly stream of self-drive tourists hurrying back to camp before the dusk curfew was pouring in. Once he was over the annoying speed bumps he shifted up through the gears to fourth and opened another beer, this time with an opener he’d riveted to the dashboard. As he approached the four-way stop, he’d finished the second bottle and was starting to think a little clearer.
Richard’s phone beeped. He fumbled in his top pocket then checked the screen of the cheap Nokia. Low Battery, it flashed, then beeped again and died. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled. He’d plugged it in this morning, but the phone was old and the battery barely held a charge these days. Not good for the camp doctor to be out of contact, but the faux-snakebite victims could damn well wait half an hour while he tried to sort his life out.
He could have turned right before the stop sign and driven through the Skukuza staff village, but it didn’t really pay for his patients to see their GP drinking and driving. Sticking to the public roads took a bit longer, but he could drive faster. Although the park’s speed limit was fifty kilometres on the tar roads, he had a sticker on the back of the Discovery which showed he could drive at sixty-five. It was handy for emergencies and pressing appointments, such as Janine van der Merwe’s breasts.
Richard flicked the top off the third beer as he followed the road towards the Paul Kruger gate. He saw the traffic cop’s bakkie poorly camouflaged in the bushes and flashed his lights a few times. The national parks traffic enforcement officer, who was there to catch tourists speeding to leave the park via the Kruger gate, stepped out onto the road to flag him down, but then raised a hand and smiled and waved when he recognised the doctor’s vehicle. Richard raised his bottle to him in salute, and the man grinned wider. He knew Ezekial was an alcoholic – took one to know one. Richard had diagnosed himself as borderline, though, which gave him a small measure of comfort. He reflected on what he’d said to Raymond Philpott and smiled. ‘Better than being a drug addict, I suppose,’ he said to himself.
The beer tasted good and was altering his mind nicely. He’d left the surgery with noble intentions, but they were fading. Fast. He floored the accelerator and crossed the N’waswitshaka River. He thought about Janine van der Merwe’s nipples. They were, quite simply, astounding. He’d never, in any examination, professional or not, come across any so perfectly formed, free of lumps and blemishes, and as long and as hard when erect. She liked him to play with them when they kissed. He’d take one between his first and second fingers, teasing it, holding it like a cigarette, and brush his thumb along the tip.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said to himself as he finished the third beer. He slowed as he neared the turn-off. What was he doing?
He was becoming aroused. His hormones had always ruled his life. He shifted down to second. The smart thing, he knew, would be to turn around and go home, to stand her up. Perversely, that was also probably the wrong thing to do. Which, he wondered, was the greatest moral misdeed he’d committed with and in relation to Janine: sleeping with a patient, sleeping with another man’s wife, breaking off a relationship with a woman who’d told him she loved him and would leave her husband for him, or standing her up now she wanted to talk again? He was a cad, no doubt of it, but he wasn’t rude. Richard sighed. The right thing, of course, would be to meet Janine and break it off, again, once and for all.
He turned left onto the gravel road that led to Ten Minutes – it was a place she’d specified in her note, not a time. Richard knew it well, as did everyone in the Skukuza staff village, so it wasn’t a good enough code to fool his nosy receptionist. The broad sandy stretch of non-perennial riverbed was exactly ten minutes’ drive from the staff village and it was a favourite hangout for bush braais and sundowner drinks after work. The river usually only flowed once a year; the rest of the time there were barely a few pools, which staff kids loved to splash about in. It was like a beach in the middle of the African bush, complete with the odd lion, hyena and leopard patrolling the shore. When he’d first taken the job as the Skukuza GP, Richard had thought it insane to let children play in such a place, but Africa had a way of breeding contempt for danger through familiarity. He hadn’t been lying to Philpott when he’d told him he’d had a leopard up a tree in his front garden the previous week. When he’d arrived at Skukuza a year ago, he would have freaked out, but last week he’d sat on the porch taking pictures of it, a cooler box full of beers next to him.
Janine and Lourens had driven around to his house, ostensibly for a look at the leopard, as had several of his neighbours once the word had got around. When Lourens had gone to the toilet Janine had taken the front of Richard’s bush shirt in her hands and tongue-kissed him. He’d ground against her, returning the passion and the need. Technically, he reflected as the Discovery bounced along the track, the last minutes of the ten ticking away, he hadn’t had sex with Janine, but it was a bit of a Bill Clinton definition. In the past few weeks they’d done pretty much everything else. There hadn’t been time in the kitchen while Lourens was relieving himself. He smiled, then shook his head to clear the beer fuzz.
‘Fuck it.’
He tossed the empty bottle on the floor of the truck, cracked open a fourth and took a sip before putting it sensibly in the cup holder. He knew what she wanted here in the last golden rays of light, on a blanket she’d probably bring with her. When Lourens wasn’t out in the field he often worked nights in the investigations office, monitoring teams in the field. He was fighting the good fight against rhino poachers and his wife was going behind his back. Richard alternated between his ever-present desire for a female body and disgust in himself. He’d served with soldiers in the British Army who’d received the dreaded Dear John letter and back then he hadn’t been able to imagine what sort of a man would do that to another man. Now he knew. He had called her and suggested they end the relationship before it went further, but now she wanted to see him again.
‘Enough,’ he said aloud in the Land Rover as his headlights picked out Janine’s Isuzu bakkie next to a mound of sand that had been excavated from the river. Richard parked behind a front-end loader. SANParks was quarrying sand to spread on the tar roads. They did it every summer to minimise the effect of the seasonal rains but this January the heavens had brought a deluge that had washed away roads and bridges. The park was a mess and the N’waswitshaka was still flowing strongly even though the floods had mostly subsided. The Isuzu’s driver door opened and a long leg, barefooted, swung out.
Janine was pushing forty with two kids, and she pretty much melted his resolve when he saw her in those denim short shorts. He knew she jogged and worked out every day, did whatever she could to relieve the boredom of being at home and unemployed in the staff village. She’d done a degree in marketing or PR or some such thing, he recalled, but affirmative action had closed off most of the plum jobs that once would have been available to white rangers’ wives. Janine probably needed someone to tell her she was st
ill sexy, still desirable, and she was – very much so.
Richard ran a hand through his mop of damp salt and pepper hair. He took a moment to consider his current situation. He’d pretty much made a cock-up of his entire life. Sure, the shrinks put the blame on other places, other people, other times, but there was still enough of the soldier in Richard to know that he could have pulled himself together, could have done better. He was a disgrace to his family and a poor excuse for a doctor. And although he knew perfectly well that it was wrong, all he wanted to do was have sex with this woman right now. He took another sip of beer then replaced the bottle in the holder and got out.
He thought he saw her tongue moisten her lips as she walked towards him, hips swaying, feet squeaking in the sand. She brushed a strand of dyed blonde hair from her face. He wasn’t keen on sand so his mind drifted to the bonnet of her pickup.
‘Richard . . .’ she said, stopping just out of reach.
For once in your life, he tried to convince himself, do the right thing. ‘Janine . . .’
‘No.’ She closed the gap between them and reached out to him, putting a French-tipped finger to his lips. He shut his eyes. He was incapable of doing the right thing, he knew it. He smelled her perfume, opened his eyes and felt his body surrendering, betraying him. Why fight it? She wants it. She probably wasn’t getting it from Lourens and, if the truth be told, the man was an arrogant, rude bore. ‘Don’t say anything, Richard,’ she whispered, ‘just listen to me.’
He nodded. He kept his hands to himself. He could do slow.
‘Richard, I’ve wanted you since the day I met you, but . . .’
His eyes widened. But?
‘Richard, this is wrong. I can’t be unfaithful to Lourens and –’
They both turned at the sound of a big engine revving hard. They stepped back from each other and Richard felt himself deflating – mentally and physically. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the spotlights mounted on the approaching Land Cruiser bakkie’s bullbar. Two Africans in green bush uniforms, R5 assault rifles slung over their shoulders, stood in the back of the truck. It sped towards them and for a moment Richard wondered if the driver intended to run him down. The vehicle stopped just in front of him, the door opened and Lourens van der Merwe, all six foot three inches and ninety-five kilograms of him, climbed out. Richard had given him his annual check-up two weeks earlier. He was all muscle and very little fat. There was nothing wrong with the man, which was a worry for Richard. He stood his ground.
‘Doc, what the hell’s going on, man? I tried your phone five times but it’s switched off. Aren’t you supposed to be on call?’
‘I am. Problem with . . .’
Lourens waved away the excuse. ‘I checked your house then called Helen. She told me she thought you might be here.’ He looked at his wife for four seconds, no more, his huge hands bunched into fists at his side; then he looked back at Richard.
Richard was ready. He’d ‘milled’ during parachute training in the army – put on gloves and tried to beat the shit out of a fellow recruit who gave as good as he got until the drill sergeant told them to stop. It was all about developing controlled aggression. He’d also boxed a bit for the regiment. He was, of course, older and flabbier now, and Lourens had it over him in weight, muscle and youthfulness. What was coming, though, would do him good, in a masochistic kind of way. Perhaps a few bruises from Lourens might assuage the guilt he occasionally felt for the other husbands he’d wronged.
‘We’ve got a man down. Anti-poaching patrol found some Mozambican rhino poachers. We drilled two of them and we’re in pursuit of the third, but they got one of my men. He’s taken an AK round to the chest. Chopper’s coming and they’ll fly him to Nelspruit.’ Lourens pointed his right finger like it was a pistol, and fired at Richard’s heart. ‘But I want you on board.’
Richard nodded. ‘I’ve got my bag in the back of the Discovery.’
‘Fetch it. You’re coming with me. You can pick up your vehicle later.’ Lourens turned and walked back to his truck. He reached inside and talked into a radio handset, in Afrikaans. Richard got his medical bag – an old army medic’s pack – and hoisted it into the back of the Land Cruiser. His Afrikaans was basic at best, but he gathered Lourens was talking to the national parks helicopter pilot. Lourens got into the front of the bakkie and motioned for Richard to get in the passenger seat. Lourens looked at his wife and spat out a few more words that Richard guessed meant: ‘I’ll deal with you later.’
‘Lourens . . .’ Richard began as the Afrikaner swung the truck around in a three-point turn and gunned the big four-litre engine for all it was worth.
Lourens looked straight ahead into the darkness that had descended on the bush. ‘Unless it’s about my man, I’m not interested. The helo will pick you up on the tar road and you’ll go. And my advice to you, Doctor Richard Dunlop, is that you keep my man alive and that he stays alive, otherwise people will find out that you weren’t on call when we needed you.’
Richard nodded.
There wasn’t room for a helicopter to land safely at Ten Minutes, so Lourens had organised the landing to take place on the tourist road nearby, which was turned from night into day by the helicopter’s landing light. The journey to the pickup had been quick, leaving no time for excuses or explanations. The helicopter settled. Richard grabbed his backpack from the rear of the Cruiser. ‘Are you coming?’ he yelled to Lourens over the noise of the chopper’s whining engine. The pilot gave him a thumbs-up, indicating it was clear for him to approach.
‘No. I’ve got to get back to the ops room. We’ll talk later. Save my man.’
Richard nodded.
He climbed into the chopper and buckled his seatbelt as the pilot lifted off. Richard looked down and saw Lourens was already driving the short distance back to Skukuza. As the pilot, Andre, banked he noticed the headlights of Janine’s bakkie weaving through the bush. Richard burped beer and the pilot grinned and shook his head.
He’d been for a ride in this helicopter before, out with one of the vets who was darting rhino. The parks people were putting passive transponders in the rhinos so they could track them because a record number had been poached in Kruger the previous year. As a doctor, Richard couldn’t understand how people could be so well educated yet still believe in the mumbo jumbo of traditional medicine. Rhinos were being slaughtered for their horns, not to produce a fabled aphrodisiac but rather for the relief of fever and, according to the latest rubbish, as a cure for cancer. The illegal trade in wildlife products was big business and the perpetrators were becoming ever more organised and ruthless.
Through his headphones Richard heard the pilot radioing the anti-poaching patrol on the ground telling him he was inbound with the doctor and would be at their location in four minutes.
‘They’re not far from Renoster Kopjes,’ Andre told him through the intercom. ‘These guys are getting more desperate by the day, hey.’
Richard gripped his bag and looked down at the faded camouflage pattern. Funny, he thought, how the combination of the whine of the jet engine and the smell of the burning fuel and the colour of his bag could produce such a response. His skin felt clammy and sweat pricked at his underarms. He felt his heart beating faster. He didn’t know if he could do this, didn’t know if he could save this man. He saw a strong hand-held spotlight being strobed on and off below, guiding them in. The flickering light intermittently caught the shirtless black man on the ground and the glint of the blood as the helicopter began its descent.
Richard saw a movement in the cone of the landing light ahead. ‘Hey, look there!’
The pilot nodded and radioed the leader of the anti-poaching unit. ‘I’ve got movement to my front, one hundred metres. One male with a rifle. Looks like an AK, over.’
Richard knew the dilemma. There would be men on the ground wanting the helicopter to follow the fugitive, perhaps the man who had wounded their colleague. At the same time their chief concern must be f
or the wounded man.
The running man stumbled then fell and, still trapped in the light as the helicopter continued its descent, he turned and pointed his rifle at them. Richard saw the muzzle flash just as the pilot did. ‘Holy shit,’ the pilot said.
‘Put us down,’ Richard barked. ‘There’s a man dying down there.’ If it was a chest wound, that wasn’t an exaggeration. The pilot nodded and switched off the landing light.
Richard hoped Andre, the young man flying the helicopter, was good enough to land by the comparatively weak illumination of the spotlight that was now being held steady on the road. Richard thought the man holding the light was brave as the startled poacher might aim for it. More likely, though, the Mozambican was running as fast as he could. As they touched down, bumping as the skids hit one after another, Richard heard gunfire over the scream of the rotors. Some of the patrol were in pursuit. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced out the images of the dead who rose up from his nightmares. Now is not the time, he told them, now is not the time.
‘Doc . . . Doc!’ Andre punched him on the arm. ‘Come on, man, get out. I’ll keep the engine burning. Go get him, Doc.’
Richard opened his eyes, nodded and grasped the door frame. One of the patrol members, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, his uniform wet with blood, had already opened the door and was beckoning to him. Richard dragged his pack out and ran, bent at the waist, to where the wounded man lay. He unzipped a side pocket of the pack, pulled out a box of disposable gloves and snapped on a pair as the patrol leader told him what had happened. One shot; the bullet had passed through the man’s chest and out his back, tumbling on the way as was typical of an AK round, not taking time to smell the roses.
The man was in his mid-twenties, Richard guessed, his abdominal muscles defined, shiny and hard as chiselled stone. He was fit. He’d need to be. Richard peeled back the big, blood-soaked pad of the wound dressing. The man wheezed and winced, as the blood gurgled and frothed from the hole. Sucking chest wound.
