by Tony Park
Mike led Sarah around the back of the truck. She had fetched the first aid kit from the truck and insisted she let him treat his cuts. As she swabbed his face with cottonwool soaked in antiseptic, Mike told her the truth. The antiseptic hurt like hell, but he found the sensation of her soft fingers brushing his face was soothing.
‘Christ, you were lucky,’ she said, when he had finished explaining.
‘I don’t feel very lucky.’
When she was finished tending his cuts Mike broke away from her. He unlocked the tool locker and switched on a fluorescent light connected to the truck’s spare battery. He rummaged in the locker and pulled out the can of grease.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Evening the odds a little,’ he said, as he fished the plastic-wrapped bundle from the can.
From the other side of the truck Mike heard the sound of beer cans popping and a cork being withdrawn from a wine bottle. There were giggles and squeals again now that the drama was over. The party would go on into the small hours, which was good. Hess, Orlov and their henchman were unlikely to come back to the camping ground with so much activity. Also, Mike reasoned, the criminals couldn’t be sure the police weren’t patrolling the area in search of the phantom car vandal. Still, he couldn’t afford to take any chances now that he and Sarah had been partly compromised.
Sarah watched in fascination as Mike unwrapped the plastic and drew out the pistol and cardboard box of ammunition. He removed the magazine and filled it with squat little bullets.
‘You load it like this,’ he said, holding the pistol in the light so Sarah could see as he slid the full magazine into the butt and slapped the bottom with the palm of his hand to make sure it was fully seated. ‘This is how you cock it,’ he explained as he grasped the slide with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, pulled back and then let it slide forward. ‘That chambers – loads – a bullet into the spout. Don’t point it at anyone unless you plan on killing him. To fire, just pull the trigger. Got it?’
‘Me?’ she asked, recoiling as he held the pistol out to her.
‘I’m fucked,’ he said. His head had started to spin and he felt like throwing up again. He couldn’t work out which he needed most, to vomit or sleep. ‘I’ve got to lie down. Wake me in three hours. The party will probably be just about over by then. I’ll take the next shift until dawn.’
‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ she asked, as she hesitantly took the pistol. She hefted it experimentally and pointed at a nearby tree.
‘I don’t know. My guess is that their man will report back with the story I gave him before the cops arrived. They probably won’t believe it, but I doubt they’ll risk checking on us themselves. I suppose they’ll try to put as much distance between us and them as they can, maybe change their itinerary a bit to throw us off.’
‘OK. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in three hours,’ she said, peering into the darkness beyond the truck.
17
Sarah didn’t wake Mike up after he left her with the pistol. He awoke with the sun in his eyes at seven in the morning. He ached all over, from his stinking feet to the tips of every long strand of cigarette-smoke and blood-encrusted hair. Gingerly he felt a bump and a scabbed cut on the back of his head.
‘You said it yourself, you were fucked,’ Sarah told him when he angrily asked why she had let him sleep in. ‘For God’s sake, Mike, you’ll kill us all if you fall asleep at the wheel.’
There was no hot water in the communal shower block, but at least the cold spray revived him a little. He was still annoyed with Sarah for not waking him, but grateful for the extra sleep. Sarah dozed in the seat beside him as he drove through Zambia and a succession of forgettable farming towns. The continuous whine of the diesel engine and the afternoon heat combined to give him a headache of epic proportions. He pulled a couple more paracetamol from his sweat-stained shirt pocket and washed them down with warm water from the plastic bottle on the dashboard.
Mike glanced over his shoulder into the main cab behind him and thought it looked like the aftermath of a plane crash. Bodies were strewn everywhere – across seats with arms and legs akimbo, on the floor and leaning up against the rear wall of the cab. George was half in and half out of his airline seat with his head hanging back at an unnatural angle. A silvery stream of drool connected his mouth to the floor of the cab. Jane and Julie lay on the floor. Jane still had her party clothes on from the night before and had added sunglasses to protect her bloodshot eyes. She and Julie were the reason they would not reach Kariba that day. Mike was annoyed at the pair of them.
Although their itinerary didn’t call for them to leave until mid-morning he had roused everyone reluctantly from their tents as soon as he was up. Mike couldn’t tell them it was because he didn’t want to risk a return visit by the hunting party. Sarah alone knew why he was so concerned and why he had reverted to army-officer mode.
‘But why do we have to leave so early?’ Linda had asked in a whining tone as she clutched her head.
‘Because I say so, that’s why!’ he had barked. She sulked off and a few of the others had given him puzzled stares.
‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ Mike had asked for the fourth or fifth time as he paced up and down outside the truck in the camping ground. He glanced at his watch and saw it was eleven o’clock. He had wanted to put as much distance between the overlander and Orlov and Hess as quickly as possible. He knew from the accommodation list Theron had given him, and from Sarah’s conversation with Orlov, that they planned on spending time hunting in the safari areas south of the Zambezi before they, too, passed through Kariba. But there was the possibility they would change their plans and come looking for him and Sarah instead.
Finally, a minibus bearing the logo of a white-water rafting company had pulled up with a skid on the gravel road. The sliding door opened and Jane nearly fell in her struggle to get out. Julie supported her mother as she regained her balance.
‘Sorry, are we late?’ Julie asked apologetically after she and Jane had said their farewells to the strapping rafting guides. ‘It was my fault, not Mum’s.’
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ Jane chimed in and then giggled. She looked like she was still drunk, or stoned, or both. It must have been a hell of a party, Mike thought.
‘It’s OK. Just get in the truck. We’ve packed your tent and your gear for you,’ he had said.
‘Ooh, cranky are we?’ Jane slurred.
‘Yes,’ Mike said.
He had felt better once they had cleared customs and immigration on both sides of the river and were at last on the open road. He fished the map from the console between him and Sarah, and the movement roused her from her sleep. They had passed through Livingstone, the older, quieter, shabbier version of Victoria Falls town on the Zambian side, and were heading towards the capital, Lusaka.
Sarah was back in her normal backpacker gear of shorts and tank top. Her hair was tousled and there was still a hint of dark eyeliner under her bloodshot eyes. He thought she looked just as sexy as she had when she was dressed up the previous day.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, yawning.
‘Buggered if I know,’ Mike said.
She smiled. ‘Seriously,’ she said.
‘Somewhere in Zambia. There’s no way we’ll make Kariba, but it’s no real drama. I know a place near the next town where we can stay. It’s off the main road and not many people go there.’
‘Do you think we’re being followed?’ she asked.
‘No. It’d be easy to spot a tail on this road, there’s not much traffic. But it’s safer from now on for us to avoid the usual haunts. If they work out we’re travelling in an overlander they have only to ask one of the other drivers to find out where we’d be likely to stop.’
‘What’s this place called where we’re staying?’
‘Jambo Safari Lodge. Jambo means “hello” in Swahili. Zambia is a kind of transition zone between southern and eastern Africa. As you move north
and east in Africa the people start speaking Swahili and the prices get more expensive.’
Jambo Safari Lodge was really nothing of the sort. Mike found the dirt road turn-off and followed the signs to what was, in reality, a large-scale commercial farm, growing wheat and maize and supporting a herd of beef cattle. The lodge, such as it was, was ten small but tidy chalets clustered around a well-kept lawn and garden, a camping ground and a block of unisex showers and toilets.
They were met by a woman in a green maid’s uniform who directed them to the camping ground. Mike’s passengers slowly struggled awake as he parked the truck.
‘Curer?’ George asked Mike, opening the cool box and selecting an icy can of lager for himself.
Mike was tempted to say something sanctimonious, but he ached all over so he said, ‘Yeah, fuck it, why not. Can’t make me feel any worse.’ He popped the can and took a long guzzle. The cool liquid spread right to his fingertips and the throbbing in his head slowed to a murmur.
‘Christ,’ Terry said, accepting a beer from George, ‘you don’t half look like crap, Mike. I hope the other guy looks just as bad.’
‘Hardly dented him,’ Mike said crushing the empty can. ‘Chuck us another one, George, and let’s get the tents up.’
They set up camp and, like vampires, the crew started coming to life as the red sun slid lazily towards the horizon. It was a moment of peace, watching the sunset and drinking a cold beer. Sam and Terry had started a fire in a cut-down drum in the middle of the camping ground, and most of the others were grabbing chairs out of the truck and sundowners out of the cool box. Mike took another beer, his towel and toiletry bag, and headed for the showers.
Mike stripped and hung up his towel and clothes on the shower room door. The door lock was broken. He shrugged his shoulders, turned on the water and opened his can of beer. Carefully he shampooed his hair, trying not to aggravate the wound on his scalp, then rinsed and took a long draught from the cold can on the ledge beside him. The near-scalding water soothed the bruises on his side, which had turned a nasty purple during the day, and he found his headache was disappearing nearly as fast as his third beer. He was about to start singing when there was a knock at the wooden door of the small shower room.
‘Occupied,’ he called out. To his surprise, the door creaked open, and he turned to face the tiled wall. He turned off the water and looked back over his shoulder.
‘Not pleased to see me?’ Julie Muir asked in a tone of mock disappointment. ‘Did you think it would be my mum?’ She was wearing a cropped, tight-fitting white top that showed off her pierced belly button, and a purple tie-dyed sarong skirt that barely reached the middle of her smooth tanned thighs.
She undid the knot at the side of her skirt and it fell to the floor. She was naked underneath and she said, ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I was for being late today.’
‘Julie, I don’t think this is a good idea . . .’ Mike reached for a towel, but she blocked his reach with her body. ‘Julie, put your clothes back on.’
Her young body was lithe and hard, with not an ounce of fat anywhere. Her breasts were high and firm and the nipples strained hard at the stretch fabric of her top.
‘I know I’ve been bad,’ she said as she hooked her hands under her top and slid it up over her head. ‘You were angry at me and Mum this morning, but you look pretty pleased to see me now,’ she said with a giggle.
‘You shouldn’t be here –’ he tried again, but she cut him off.
‘Because of you and Mum? Don’t worry, she told me. And I told her it was my turn next.’
She stepped into the cubicle with Mike and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He shrugged her arms away.
‘Julie, this isn’t right!’
There was another sharp rap on the shower room door, followed by a female voice.
‘Mike, are you in there?’
‘Shit,’ he said. It was Sarah.
‘Oooh,’ Julie moaned theatrically. A wicked smile played across her lips, and Mike glared angrily at her.
‘Mike? Are you OK?’ Sarah called again.
Julie put a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud and then reached up for the door handle.
‘No!’ Mike said sharply.
‘What?’ cried Sarah. She gave a hard shove on the door just as Julie turned the handle.
Sarah flew into the tiny room, and bumped into Julie. She bounced off the naked young woman, forcing her into Mike’s arms. Julie made no move to cover herself but instead eased her body back against Mike’s and reached up behind her to encircle his neck. He grabbed her hands firmly and tried to place them by her side.
‘Hi Sarah, want to join us?’ Julie asked, then giggled.
‘Sarah, I . . . this is . . .’ Mike stammered.
‘Sorry,’ Sarah said, and her cheeks burned scarlet. She looked at Julie, at Mike and then up at the ceiling. ‘It’s just that, well, I thought, you know, that you might still be hurt and . . . Oh, God . . .’ She didn’t finish, but quickly turned and stepped out into the darkness.
‘Shit,’ Mike said, running a hand through his wet hair.
‘Party pooper,’ Julie said, turning to push her slim body against his.
‘Christ, what a mess. I’m sorry, Julie, we can’t do this. I could lose my job.’
‘Makes it more fun, doesn’t it?’ she said smiling broadly. Then she took a step back from him and became more serious. ‘You’re soft on her, aren’t you?’
‘Who? Your mum?’
‘No, silly. Sarah.’
‘No. What makes you think that?’
Julie picked up her skirt and retied it. Mike looked away as she retrieved her top.
‘You went to pieces. It was like you’d been caught cheating on your wife.’
‘No,’ he protested again, but he wasn’t so sure.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen that look on men’s faces before. Believe me!’
‘I bet you have,’ Mike said, reaching for his towel.
‘Cheeky sod. She’s got it bad for you, as well,’ she added matter-of-factly.
‘No way. She’s made that quite clear.’
‘Sure you don’t want to play with me, then?’
He shook his head and smiled. ‘Get out before I spank you.’
‘Promises, promises,’ Julie said as she shut the door behind her.
18
Sarah and Mike had exchanged the bare minimum of words since she had caught him with Julie in the shower room on the previous evening. He had tried to explain that nothing had gone on, but she had ignored him.
‘Look, I don’t care what did or didn’t go on between you two, no matter how sordid or innocent it was, OK?’ she had protested.
On the rest of the long, boring drive through Zambia to the border crossing at Siavonga, across the dam wall from Kariba, Sarah had alternately slept, or pretended to sleep, and stared out the window. Mike had divided his attention between her and the road. She was wearing olive green pedal pushers and a red tank top. Her small feet rested on the dashboard with the soles pressed against the windscreen in that peculiar position that only a woman can attain and enjoy. Her calves were smooth and firm. He was annoyed with her that she wasn’t talking to him, and with himself for being unable to strike up a conversation.
The temperature and the humidity had climbed steadily as they dropped into the hot, sticky Zambezi valley. It was after two by the time they cleared Zambian customs and immigration and coasted down the hill and on to the top of the massive concrete dam that divided the two countries.
‘Awesome,’ Kylie said, peering down over the man-made precipice to the Zambezi River far below. On the other side of the wall the waters of Lake Kariba shimmered in the afternoon heat.
‘Later on this evening, we’ll go for a game drive,’ Mike said through the window connecting the driver’s compartment to the main cab at the back.
‘Where to?’ Linda asked.
‘Just around the town. Kariba is teeming
with wildlife.’
‘How come?’
‘When they built this monstrosity, in the mid 1960s, the flooding displaced a lot of wildlife and a lot of people as well. Many of the people, and all of the wildlife, couldn’t understand just how fast and how high the waters of the Zambezi would rise once they were blocked. The government authorities rescued the villagers who were left stranded by the flood, and hundreds of volunteers came here to rescue the thousands of animals and reptiles that were left clinging to trees and hilltops. The campaign to save the wildlife was known as Operation Noah. Kariba town never grew big enough to completely displace the wildlife that had always lived on the shores of the river, and now the animals just mingle with the people around the lake shore.’
‘What sort of animals?’ Linda wanted to know.
‘Hippos wander up from the lake into gardens in the evening and leopards snatch family pets. I’ve seen lions on the main road between Kariba and the main north-south highway. There are hyenas scrounging in the municipal rubbish dump every night, and plenty of zebra and antelope species in the hills and valleys along the lake shore.’
The tour group’s main reason for visiting Kariba, however, was to indulge in one of the lake’s best-known pastimes: houseboating. Kariba houseboats are more like mansion-boats. Huge multi-storeyed aluminium-sided floating gin palaces. Ostensibly a houseboat and its tender vessels are meant to be good platforms for game viewing or fishing, but in Kariba a houseboat holiday was as much about drinking and partying as it was about getting close to nature.
Mike was looking forward to getting out onto the lake. After long, hot, sometimes tense days on the road this was to be his two days of pure R and R. With a skipper to drive the boat and a crew to cook, it was the closest thing Mike ever got to time off during an overland trip. There was also the chance that he would once more cross paths with Hess and Orlov. They were leaving on the houseboat the morning after they arrived at Kariba, but their first night in town would be spent, as usual, under canvas.
