Smokescreen

by Anne Mather

  Nevertheless, eating breakfast that morning with Lilian and the baby, she had been made acutely aware of the ambiguity of her position. If she had married Henry for his money, if she had been the gold-digger Alex had believed her to be, the situation might never have developed. As it was, she had only herself to blame for allowing him to bring the child and its mother to the house, and now that they were there, she couldn’t help but feel that their rights were stronger than hers.

  After all, Alex was Henry’s son, and Sacha was evidently Alex’s son. Even Henry had not ruled out the possibility of that development, and the provisions of the will covered this contingency. But Henry had not known he already had a grandson, or that Olivia would be foolish enough to feel sympathy for Alex.

  The sound of someone moving behind her made Olivia glance round now to see Francis coming through the french doors, scratching his head. The heat did not agree with him, that much was obvious, and his fair skin had an unhealthy sheen, the growth of his beard the only colour in his face.

  ‘Do you want some orange juice?’ Olivia suggested, getting to her feet and eyeing him sympathetically. ‘Oh, Francis, you do look pale. Didn’t you get any sleep?’

  ‘In there?’ Francis cast a sceptical look over his shoulder. ‘Have you any idea what the temperature is in my room?’ He snorted derisively. ‘Room! I should say my cell, my cubicle; the twenty-four square feet I can call my own!’

  ‘Sit down.’ Olivia invited him to take her chair, and poured some of the wilting orange juice into a glass. The ice it had contained had long melted, but at least it was cool and refreshing. ‘Here, drink this,’ she said. ‘It will make you feel better.’

  Francis took the chair she offered and gulped the orange juice greedily. Watching him, Olivia was concerned for his appearance. He really was not reacting at all well to these conditions, and she was very much afraid he wasn’t fit to drive the last fifteen miles to Gstango.

  ‘God! What a place!’ he muttered, setting down the empty glass on the table. ‘Who would choose to live here? They must be out of their tiny minds!’

  ‘It is hot,’ agreed Olivia, fanning herself with a languid hand. In cream cotton shirt and pants, she didn’t think there was an inch of flesh where her clothes were not sticking to her, but unlike Francis, she was invigorated by the challenge.

  ‘Hot! It’s the fiery furnace!’ declared Francis, tipping his head back wearily. ‘Hell must be something like this, only cooler.’

  Olivia’s smile was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Francis, I shouldn’t have brought you here. It’s obvious you’re finding it a lot harder to stand than me. I should have come on my own. I shouldn’t have involved you.’

  ‘Hey…’ Francis gave her a wry look, ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to make those kind of statements. Me, the macho male!’ He grimaced. ‘Some macho male, I am. Here we are, miles from civilisation, and instead of thinking: me, Tarzan, you, Jane, I’m flaking out at the first hurdle.’

  Olivia hesitated, and then put slightly damp fingers against his forehead. It was burning up, and her sense of responsibility deepened as she realised he really wasn’t at all well.

  ‘I think you should stay here, Francis,’ she said propping her back against one of the wooden struts that supported the verandah. ‘It would be crazy for you to venture any farther into the bush. I think you’ve got a fever.’

  Francis’ brows descended. ‘You’re not serious! Do you think I’d allow you to disappear into the jungle with strangers!’

  Olivia sighed. ‘I know how you feel, Francis, and it’s sweet of you to be concerned about me, but really, I’m not as helpless as I look.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ Francis was disbelieving. ‘Who was it who nearly had hysterics at the hotel in Ashenghi, when she found a spider in the wardrobe?’

  ‘That was different.’ Olivia was impatient. ‘I just don’t like spiders, that’s all.’

  ‘And don’t you think there’ll be spiders at Gstango? And lizards, and other crawling insects—’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Olivia shuddered and moved away from the verandah rail, just in case some other form of insect life should choose to take advantage of the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt. ‘I’d manage, Francis, honestly. And—and I’d feel better if you were at least resting here.’

  ‘Well, forget it.’ Francis was determined, too. ‘When the jeep arrives, I’ll be ready. I’m not letting you out of my sight until we get back to England.’

  Olivia shrugged, and as she did so, she heard the unmistakeable sound of a vehicle approaching. It was difficult to see anything through the heavy belt of trees that formed a barrier round the small compound, but presently the jeep burst from the bush and came to an abrupt halt in front of the mission, its tyres throwing up a flurry of pebbles.

  It was an open-topped vehicle, and Olivia was glad the sun was beginning its swift descent into oblivion. At least in darkness they would not be troubled by its overwhelming glare, even if the mosquitoes were more active after sundown.

  The German pastor and his wife came out to see them off. Herr Schmitt had lived in Africa for most of his life, and was by now incapable of imagining any other existence. Conversation between then had not been extensive, owing to the problems of language, but over supper the night before, they had been able to tell them that a man called Alex Gantry had been living in Gstango. This morning they had sent a message to the police at Gstango, informing them of the enquiries which were being made, and this afternoon, they had been informed, transport would arrive to take Mrs Gantry and her escort to the small mining town fifteen miles north of Bakoua.

  Remembering what Alex had said about Gstango being only fifty miles from the capital, Olivia couldn’t help wondering where they had gone wrong. They must have covered well over a hundred miles in the past two days—or perhaps it only seemed that way!’

  ‘Mrs Gantry?’ The black driver of the jeep had mounted the shallow steps to the verandah and was now addressing himself to Olivia.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  ‘Inspector Roche sent me to escort you to Gstango, Mrs Gantry. Sergeant Kasaba, at your service.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Olivia smiled, relieved to find that his English was almost perfect. ‘Er—this is my—friend, Francis Kennedy. We’re both ready to leave whenever you wish.’

  Sergeant Kasaba inclined his head, and after exchanging a few words with the Schmitts, he carried their leather holdalls down to the jeep. They had left most of their belongings at the hotel in Ashenghi, being advised by the authorities there that they would find suitcases an encumbrance on their trip into the bush.

  Francis offered to sit in the back of the jeep, but Olivia wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted he took the sprung seat beside the driver, and she clambered into the back, along with a spade, several bamboo canes, twine, and a rifle.

  It was almost dark by the time the lights of the settlement had disappeared behind them. The jeep pitched its way through rough jungle for some distance, before emerging into open savannah, and Olivia was soaked by the drops of moisture that fell from the trees they passed and plopped down on to her head and her bare forearms. At least, she hoped it was only rainwater, she thought uneasily. Who knew what manner of creature might hang in the trees waiting for an unwary traveller? The idea of snakes was about as attractive as that of the spiders earlier, and she hunched her shoulders up round her ears and maintained a stalwart silence.

  ‘You have been long in my country, Mr Kennedy?’ she heard Sergeant Kasaba asking Francis, but she hardly listened to their stilted exchange. She was too intent on the prospect of reaching their destination, and the eventual revelations it would entail.

  It seemed hours before they reached Gstango, but Olivia had lost any real conception of time. Besides, there was something rather eerie about driving across Africa at night, with the unfamiliar sounds of the animals for company. She thought she heard lions at one point, and her heart almost stopped beating at the realisation of how lit
tle protection the jeep afforded. But more disturbing still was the unearthly cry of the hyena, that reminded Olivia of all the horror stories she had ever read.

  They reached Gstango soon after seven o’clock. Olivia was amazed to find that contrary to her expectations, the small mining community had developed itself into quite a thriving little town. There were shops and prefabricated housing, and even a cinema, advertising an American film. There was a hospital—of course! That was where Lilian had worked. And a combined fire and police station, not far from the mine itself. The only thing it seemed to lack was an hotel, and Olivia’s heart sank dejectedly at the prospect of maybe having to drive back to the Mission tonight.

  ‘Inspector Roche will see you here,’ announced their driver, drawing up outside the lighted windows of the police station. He climbed down and came round to help Olivia. ‘If you will come this way.’

  Francis was frankly swaying on his feet by this time, and although Olivia ached from the jolting journey in the back of the jeep she was more concerned about him than herself.

  ‘Would—would you rather stay here?’ she ventured, touching his sleeve, but Francis shook his head.

  ‘What—with all the mosquitoes?’ he asked, trying to make light of his condition; and Olivia let him lean on her as they approached the building.

  But there was another hitch. There had, explained an official, been a slight accident at the mine. Inspector Roche had been called away only minutes before. His suggestion was that Mrs Gantry and her friend should be shown to their accommodation, and the inspector would find time to speak to them in the morning.

  Olivia’s spirits swooped, but she saw that Francis was taking the news with infinite relief. Of course, she was being completely selfish, thinking of herself again, she thought, in sudden recrimination. After a night’s sleep, Francis would, she hoped, feel better, and one day more or less was not going to make that much difference.

  ‘Where are we to stay?’ she asked, realising she ought to be grateful they were not being asked to return to Bakoua and come back again tomorrow. At least the good inspector had arranged for them to stay overnight, which was something in a community of this kind.

  They were shown to bungalows, not far from the police station. Evidently they were normally used by members of the mining administration. They were single units, comprising living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, and to Francis’ evident disapproval, he was expected to occupy the one next door to Olivia’s.

  ‘I can sleep on the couch in the living room,’ he exclaimed, although his appearance evidently belied such a claim.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Olivia reassured him firmly, squeezing his arm through the damp cotton of his shirt. ‘Honestly, Francis, I’ll be fine. And besides, the walls aren’t so thick that I can’t attract your attention, if I need to.’

  Francis was not happy, but weakness and weariness were taking their toll. And besides, Sergeant Kasaba seemed totally bewildered by the Englishman’s attitude, and Olivia guessed he could see no reason for Francis’ concern.

  ‘There is food in the refrigerator,’ he indicated, as if this would appease Francis’ objections. ‘Or can I bring you something from the company canteen—’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  Francis turned even paler, and Olivia hastily rescued the situation. ‘We’re not hungry, thank you, Sergeant,’ she assured him firmly. ‘And as you say, if we are, we can help ourselves. Thank you for your hospitality—we’re really very grateful.’

  Sergeant Kasaba went away with a slightly more favourable attitude towards their uninvited visitors, and Olivia pushed Francis towards his own door.

  ‘Go to bed,’ she told him gently. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Right now, I think all we both need is sleep.’

  Nevertheless, despite what she had told Francis, Olivia was not entirely happy when she settled down for the night. It wasn’t that she was nervous, exactly. It was just that it was all so strange, so different from what she had imagined; and she was a little apprehensive, too, of what Inspector Roche had to say to her.

  She must have fallen asleep, however, because when she opened her eyes again it was with the distinct awareness of having been disturbed. Something, or someone, had awoken her, and her skin crawled uneasily with the knowledge of her isolation. Was Francis awake? Would he hear her if she called him? And how could she disturb him, when she didn’t even know what had awakened her? It could have been the sound of a car outside; they were near enough the road. Or it could have been the siren from the mine. She had heard a wailing sound earlier. It could be any one of a hundred different sounds which had aroused her from her slumber, and the idea that it was something threatening was all inside her head.

  Even so, she was intensely aware of her own vulnerability beneath the single sheet which was all that covered her. She was wearing no pyjamas or nightgown, nothing which might conceivably be described as night attire. She had slept naked since her arrival in Tsaba, and she had seen no reason to change her routine. She had showered earlier, beneath the tepid spray that issued from the tap in the bathroom, and she had felt delightfully cool when she climbed into bed. But she wasn’t cool now. She was sweating. And her nerves tightened anxiously as she strained her ears for any sound.

  The opening of her bedroom door was totally unexpected even so, as was the stream of light issuing through from the living room. It profiled the frame of the man who had opened the door, but cast his face into shadow, and an involuntary cry escaped her lips.

  ‘What the hell—’ The man groped impatiently for the light switch, and Olivia cowered beneath the sheet as lamplight flooded the room.

  ‘Liv!’

  ‘Alex!’

  They both spoke simultaneously, but it was Alex who first recovered himself. ‘Liv!’ he muttered angrily. ‘For God’s sake, I thought you were still in Bakoua!’

  Olivia clutched the sheet under her chin, her whole body quivering at the sight of the one man she had least expected to see. What was Alex doing here? How had he got here so quickly? And what was he doing in her bungalow, when she had imagined him thousands of miles away, with his family in England?

  ‘I—why—why are you here, Alex?’ she got out falteringly, as he thrust his hand inside his shirt and massaged the taut muscles of his chest.

  ‘Why?’ he snapped shortly. ‘Surely you can guess why. I came after you, of course. As soon as I found out what harebrained scheme you had in mind.’

  Olivia expelled her breath. ‘There—there was no need. I don’t need your assistance. Francis is with me—’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Where is he?’ Olivia gazed at him with shocked eyes. ‘Why, next door, of course. Where did you think he would be? In here with me?’

  ‘It would make more sense,’ muttered Alex savagely, and Olivia’s fears and resentment exploded in an angry retaliation.

  ‘Don’t judge everyone by your standards!’ she retorted hotly, wishing she could get out of bed and confront him. He always put her at a disadvantage. He could stand there, arguing with her, arrogantly superior in his shirt and jeans, while she was forced to hide under the covers, like a frightened rabbit. ‘And you still haven’t explained what you’re doing in here? Unless you hoped to expose our relationship!’

  ‘Whose relationship?’ he demanded, approaching the bed, viewing her with dark disturbing eyes.

  ‘Why—why, mine and Francis’, of course,’ she declared tremulously. ‘That is what you’ve insinuated, isn’t it? That we’re more than just friends?’

  ‘And aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course not. Francis—Francis is a friend, a good friend. Something you seem to know nothing about.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  He towered over her, a terrifying threat to both her body and her senses, and she knew she had to keep talking or Armageddon might overtake her.

  ‘I—I wish you would leave,’ she said unsteadily. ‘You have no right to be in here.’

  ‘Wrong
. This is my bungalow—or at least it was, before I went away.’

  Olivia’s lips parted. ‘I—I don’t believe you—’

  ‘That’s your prerogative.’

  Olivia was thinking fast. Was he speaking the truth? Would Sergeant Kasaba—or Inspector Roche, for that matter—have put her in Alex Gantry’s bungalow, probably believing she had come here on Alex’s behalf? It was not as unreasonable as she had at first imagined.

  ‘Then—I’m sorry,’ she muttered unwillingly. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘That I can believe.’ Alex inclined his head. ‘After what happened the other night, I’m sure you’d have taken anyone’s bungalow but mine.’

  Olivia hunched her shoulders. ‘The other night—I was distraught—’

  ‘And you’re not now?’

  ‘No.’ Olivia moistened her lips. ‘Alex, we can’t talk now. I—Francis might overhear us—’

  ‘That’s unlikely.’

  ‘Unlikely?’

  ‘Sure. Hadn’t you noticed? The bedrooms are situated on the outer walls of the bungalows.’

  Olivia glanced round. He was right, but she had been too tired earlier to notice it. It was the kitchen and the bathroom that shared the party wall with the bungalow next door.

  ‘Well—well, anyway,’ she stammered, forcing back the sense of panic that was rising inside her, ‘this—this is neither the time nor the place to conduct this kind of conversation. We can talk in the morning—’

  ‘As we did in England?’ he reminded her harshly.

  ‘That—that was different. And besides, you weren’t there.’

  ‘And you left before I got back.’

  ‘I shan’t be leaving here,’ she declared tautly. ‘Not until I know the truth.’

  ‘Is that so?’ His lips twisted wryly. ‘Well, I can supply you with some facts you won’t find in Gstango.’