‘You and Penny understand each other very well, don’t you?’
‘We always have. We’re very alike.’
‘She adores you.’
He decided to test her. ‘So she bloody-well should.’
She looked startled, then she laughed. ‘Not this time, Richard. This time you don’t fool me.’
His heart leapt.
‘And David,’ she went on. ‘Even David likes you the way you are.’
‘So he bloody-well should.’ He was grinning.
She stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘So what I’m saying, you miserable old bastard, is I’ve got your number. You’re not as tough as you like to pretend.’
Richard stood too and said with as much dignity as he could, considering his heart was hammering around in his chest, his legs felt weak and he was grinning from ear to ear, ‘I am not old.’
Suddenly she was in his arms. ‘But you are miserable,’ she said against his chest.
He tilted her chin. ‘I was miserable,’ he corrected her. ‘I was miserable without you.’
‘I was miserable too.’
‘Serves you right.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she said dryly.
But he kissed her long and hard instead.
They heard a discreet cough and sprang apart. David was standing at the doorway. While he did not look terribly pleased to see them like that, neither did he look resentful. ‘Dad, I’m going into the reserve. Can I take the Land Rover?’
‘Be careful.’
‘I’m always careful, Dad.’ He looked at them, his face expressionless. ‘If it’s okay with you, Dad, I’ll spend tonight at the rangers’ camp.’
‘Okay, son. See you tomorrow some time. Be home before dark.’
When he had gone Steve crept back into Richard’s arms. ‘There is no way,’ she whispered. ‘There is just no way around it. Oh, God, Richard, make love to me before I have to leave.’
‘We’ll find a way. There must be one.’ But he knew it would be impossible.
The previous afternoon Philamon had checked his traps. They had been broken and scattered. Snap traps had been sprung and the pits filled in. ‘Who would do this thing?’ he thought. Philamon had no conscience about poaching. The word was meaningless to him. His father and his grandfather had always made their living selling skins and tusks to traders, just as Samson’s relatives had. In a land where the seasons often failed and the crops often died, whole villages would have starved but for the income from wildlife trade. The fact that, in an attempt to protect the animals, the government had declared huge areas as game reserves, meant little to a man who could not comprehend imaginary lines on a map. The wildlife was his inheritance, nature’s bounty, and as free for him to take as the wild fruit growing on trees.
In the eyes of the law, Philamon was guilty. In the ways of his tribal traditions, the animals he so cruelly trapped and killed were nothing more than a means of providing for his family. Like most Africans, the law of the jungle applied to his attitude towards the animals. And, in fairness, who could blame him? This law, the survival of the fittest, even applied to his own family. If he could have expressed the law in English he might have said something like, ‘This is why we have so many children, most of them die before they reach puberty. A man needs children to help him in his old age so we have as many as we can and, hopefully, a handful will survive to take care of us’. There was nothing defeatist in this attitude, Philamon would simply be stating a fact.
Richard had once convulsed him and Samson when he told them he was taking Winston to the veterinary surgeon. ‘What is this person?’ Samson had asked.
‘He is a doctor for animals.’ He had been surprised they did not know.
Both men collapsed with laughter and then indicated that they thought the white man was quite mad. If they had a ‘God’s will’ approach to their own children, their consideration for the feelings of animals hardly stood a chance.
So Philamon was nonplussed when he found his traps destroyed, wondering at the mentality of someone who was effectively taking the food from his table. He knew the game wardens were not responsible, they did not destroy traps, they confiscated them. And this was part of his enjoyment of trapping animals. Childlike, he took great delight in fooling authority. He suspected that the destruction of his traps was the work of Matabele bandits.
He decided to sit the next few nights out in the game reserve with the rifle Richard had given Samson and, having made that decision, returned to Pentland Park.
David had seen Philamon return and knew he had been resetting his traps. For two years, every time he was home from school, he spent most of his time destroying as many traps as he could find. He understood that people like Philamon and Samson felt no disgrace, no sorrow and no guilt over the suffering of poached animals. He was like them in a way, a child of Africa, and he appreciated that tribal ways were strong in them, stronger than the ways of the whites. So, in his own quiet way, he simply went behind them destroying their traps. One day, he knew, he would be in a position to do more.
He would have gone straight into the reserve as soon as he saw Philamon return the previous afternoon but he was worried about his father, keen to sort out the Steve mess with him and worried about Penny. So he delayed going until today.
He drove to Adam Robinson’s cottage. He had a close relationship with the head ranger and spent a great deal of his time helping out around the place. Adam had promised him a job once he was finished university. He spent the day helping Adam track a buffalo which had fallen down a river bed and broken its leg. The game reserve had a strict rule. If an animal hurt itself naturally, regardless of whether man’s intervention could save it or not, the rangers left it alone to die or heal, as fate intended. If, however, an animal was hurt by man’s interference, it was darted, brought to the main camp, penned and doctored. This buffalo, however, had become a rogue. A car load of tourists had been subjected to a severe battering by the enraged animal. A ranger on a bicycle had been gored. Despite the fact that the broken leg was healing, Adam had to shoot it.
Locating the beast took most of the day. They found the buffalo in some dense thicket around three in the afternoon. All they could see of the animal was an eye and part of its boss. Adam took his rifle, which was lying across the dashboard, held in place by brackets which had been specially welded there. With no hesitation he aimed and fired. The buffalo went down immediately, two tick birds scrambling into the air in alarm. Reloading quickly, he pushed his way into the thicket where a second bullet was fired into the animal’s brain as insurance. Life to death had occurred in a fraction of a second. He returned to the vehicle, not speaking. What had been done had been necessary but it was not a part of his job he enjoyed.
‘I’ll send the boys back for the meat,’ he said curtly.
David nodded.
‘Still want to be a ranger?’ Adam was driving fast.
‘Every job has its down side.’
‘Good lad.’
Back at camp David helped Adam change a dressing on the leg of a half-grown springbok, injected antibiotics into a furiously reluctant warthog and then spent half an hour feeding a two-month old lion cub which had been found wandering alone and weak with hunger three weeks earlier, its mother the victim of a snare. Adam found him there. ‘C’mon, lad, don’t play with him.’
‘Sorry.’ David knew it was wrong to get too close to the animal. ‘He’s great though isn’t he.’ He scrambled up.
‘Time you were heading off home.’
David looked at his watch. Nearly six o’clock. Reluctantly he left the cub. ‘I guess he’ll be too big to handfeed next holiday.’
‘Probably just as well. You’re turning him into a pet.’
David put out his hand and Adam shook it. ‘See you next holiday, lad. Good luck with the exams. You can work here until you start university if you like.’
‘I’d love it.’
He had lied to his father. He had no i
ntention of staying with Adam Robinson. He planned to spend the night in the reserve looking for traps.
There were three main areas where he knew the traps had been set. He reached the first one just before eight and, relieved to find no animals in them, destroyed them. Sharpened sticks were snapped in half and flung away, pits filled in, and steel and wire stacked near a tree for collection later. He moved on to the second place and set to work, releasing a trembling and frightened grey duiker, which had fallen into a pit meant for a big cat. The tiny hare-like deer was a female and had no horns. David was glad of that. He once heard of a man dying of septicaemia, having been gored in the leg by a male duiker. The pit was narrow, with no room to move, and releasing the animal would have been more difficult if he had to avoid those sharp little horns. As soon as he set the duiker onto the ground it squatted, frozen in its fear. Then it made off in a zigzag run making small dipping leaps occasionally. David watched it go, a smile on his face.
A large grey shape followed him. David knew Bloomer Ears was there, he was often nearby and appeared to have developed a special attachment to him. The elephant never approached him, keeping a distance of around thirty metres between them, but he stopped when David stopped, waiting patiently, and would amble after him when he moved on. He would then follow the Land Rover as it moved through the reserve. David, respecting the elephant’s wild nature, was comfortable in his company but made no effort to make closer contact with the beast.
By the time he arrived at the third area it was 11.30. The heat, left over from the day, had long gone. Moisture in the air and a light breeze had dropped the temperature to just 9 degrees Celsius. He pulled on a dark grey sweater and, as an afterthought, a black knitted beret. The traps in the third part of the reserve were spread over an area of perhaps twenty-five hectares. David left the Land Rover and walked. Bloomer Ears, who had kept up with the vehicle easily with his shuffling fast gait, followed.
Philamon was getting sleepy and had almost decided to give up and go home when he heard a vehicle approaching and saw the sweep of lights as it turned off the track and stopped. The lights went off and he heard the door bang shut. Alert now, he strained his eyes and ears to pick up the sound of footsteps. His rifle was already cocked, ready for firing. For thirty-five minutes he heard nothing but then he picked up the sound of a twig snapping off to his left, the rattle of a chain attached to a snap trap, then the thump of the trap being thrown to the ground. He peered around the tree but could see nothing. Then he caught the glimmer of a torch about 100 metres away. He crouched down and aimed his rifle at the centre of the torch.
The torchlight went off to one side, then glowed steadily as the person holding it laid it on the ground while he dismantled a wire noose. Philamon watched and waited. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette as it moved in front of the light, and then the torch was picked up again and the light moved towards where Philamon hid.
The person holding the torch must have been aware of the location of all the traps. This amazed him because he had long ago developed the ability to conceal them so they were practically undetectable. There was a pit directly in front of where he hid. He waited. The light from the torch grew steadily stronger as it got closer. Then it stopped and Philamon heard a gasp of annoyance when the pit was found. Again, the torch was laid on the ground but this time the silhouette was in front of its light, giving Philamon a perfect shot.
He pulled the trigger.
NINETEEN
Richard was lying with his arm around Steve. Their lovemaking had been filled with tenderness, sad and bittersweet. ‘Whichever way you look at it,’ he said, ‘it always comes back to the same thing.’
She lay curled into him, her fingers stroking his chest. ‘I will always love you.’
‘I will always love you. Can’t we . . .’ He shook his head, turned towards her and held her. ‘Oh, God, my love, what a bloody mess.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Carry on here I suppose.’
‘We could meet. Once or twice a year, we could go to Greece or London or . . .’
‘And break our hearts over and over.’ He kissed her. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Back to Oz.’
‘Back to your boyfriend?’
‘No.’
He smiled and went to kiss her again. Then he froze. He heard an unfamiliar voice, deep and gruff. Then Wellington arguing. He gently removed his arm from under Steve’s head, slid from the bed and dressed quickly.
She was, as yet, unaware of anything amiss. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Someone’s here.’
She flung back the covers and climbed from the bed. He took the time to admire her lithe body but the voice coming from the other side of the door dragged at his memory. He was sitting on the bed tying his shoelaces and Steve was buttoning her shirt when the door was flung open.
Joseph Tshuma stood, filling the doorway.
‘What have you done to my car?’ he roared.
Using all his power of self-discipline he finished tying his laces before standing. Tshuma’s face showed the results of some fairly rough handling, one eye was puffy and skin was missing from one cheek. ‘How the hell did you escape?’
Tshuma strode into the room. ‘My car, you bassthard. What happened to it?’ He was still lisping. He pushed past Steve, literally shoved her out of the way. Another man filled the doorway.
Richard was suddenly afraid. It was one thing to be with Greg and Samson in the low country. It was quite another to be in his own home with people he loved and feared for. Facing Tshuma in the bush gave everyone an equal chance. In his own home it was a violation and this feeling put him at a disadvantage. None of these thoughts showed. He shrugged. ‘Gardener left the door open while he was cleaning it. The puppy got in. It was a mistake, an honest mistake.’
Tshuma ground out ‘Watch them’ as he strode from the room. The other man had a panga.
Richard heard Tshuma shouting and Wellington pleading, then keys rattling and the sound of a rifle being loaded. ‘No!’ he shouted, but the panga was raised, threatening, and he could do nothing but wait.
They heard a shot, then a second one. After the second shot the puppy yelped and whimpered for nearly thirty seconds before becoming mercifully quiet. Richard could only guess at Moses’s fate.
Tshuma returned, holding the rifle, grinning coldly. ‘Where’s my little whore?’
‘You animal,’ Steve gasped.
Tshuma looked at her. ‘I have no reason to hate you. Don’t give me one.’ He snapped his fingers to the other man, ‘Go and find my little whore.’ Then he turned back to Richard. ‘Into the lounge.’
Richard put his arm around Steve. ‘Leave her alone. She’s been tainted enough by you.’ He was shoved roughly. ‘Move it.’ He saw that Tshuma was distancing Steve from the rest of them and was relieved.
They stumbled into the lounge. Penny was ushered in a few minutes later, barely awake, her filmy nightdress doing nothing to hide the curves of her body or the dark patch of her groin. Wellington and Elizabeth were forced to join them, a third man herding them in front of him. Elizabeth took off her apron and went to put it around Penny’s waist but Tshuma stopped her.
‘Let’s not hide the little whore’s assets.’ He was grinning in real amusement. ‘How’s my bastard coming along?’ The other two were eyeing Penny in obvious pleasure.
‘Dead,’ she spat out.
‘Tut. Never mind.’ It appeared not to matter. ‘We can always put one back. It might not be mine but it will be black. We’ll all have turns at it later, you might enjoy that.’ The others licked their lips.
Richard had never doubted his daughter’s courage but he felt deathly afraid when she sat down, crossed her legs to hide her body, looked up at Tshuma and said coldly, ‘You can try, I probably won’t notice.’
A fire flared briefly in Joseph Tshuma’s eyes, then died away. He turned to Richard. ‘Your friend, Mr Tanner, has gone to meet his maker I’m afraid.
It was a very long way to fall. He screamed all the way to the ground.’
The other two dragged their eyes away from Penny’s breasts and snickered.
‘How high were we flying?’ Tshuma asked one of them.
Richard suddenly recognised him. He was the Security Forces helicopter pilot assigned to take Jeff and Tshuma back to Harare. There had been several other prisoners and Security Forces men in the helicopter with them. ‘Three, 4,000 feet.’
‘The others?’ he asked. His throat was dry. Poor Jeff.
‘Our men have gone their separate ways. Your men . . .’ he grinned again, ‘. . . well, let’s say they weren’t all that far behind Mr Tanner.’
‘My God,’ Steve burst out. ‘You’re insane.’
Tshuma shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Steve, please stay out of it.’
She looked at him coldly. ‘When you speak to me,’ she grated, ‘you will address me as Miss Hayes.’
Oh, Steve, shut up, darling.
But she continued. ‘If you insist on behaving like a thug and a barbarian you should expect to be treated as one.’
Tshuma sneered at her, stung by her criticism. ‘The well-balanced Australian. Fair’s fair. Treat people equally. Judge us as individuals. Christ, you Australians have turned conscience into an art form.’ He walked over to her and looked her up and down. ‘Very well, Miss Hayes, I don’t like you much either.’
Leave it, darling.
She looked back at him, unflinching. ‘I could have liked you,’ she said slowly. ‘You can be quite charming. Or at least, I thought you were. But this madness . . .’ she flung her arm out to the room, ‘. . . this doesn’t make sense. What do you hope to achieve?’
Stop now, Steve. Please, darling, stop now. He knew Tshuma had to be at the end of both his strength and his patience. The punishing walk across the Tuli flatlands, then capture, then God knows what to reach Pentland Park, the man would have had hardly any time to rest. Added to this, the pain of teeth being knocked out and Richard’s kick hurting like hell obviously from the way he walked, Richard silently begged Steve to stop pushing the man.
Storms Over Africa Page 37
