by Tony Park
‘Sorry, Matthew, but three’s a crowd and that chap in the chopper charges by the minute. Can’t stay for tea. Michelle, grab your bag and let’s go.’
‘Go where, exactly?’
‘Victoria Falls. I owe you a shopping trip, remember? Trying to make up for the last time I stood you up. I’ve got us a room booked at the best hotel in town.’
‘Fletcher . . . I’ve got nothing to wear.’
‘That’s why we’re going shopping. Now move it, girl!’
She shook her head and grinned at him when she realised he’d been staring at her. She wore a headset with a microphone attached, which allowed them to communicate over the noise of the helicopter’s engine as they flashed over the green, freshly watered Zimbabwean bush.
‘What about your German hunting clients?’
‘They decided to leave two days early,’ he replied, his voice crackly with static in her ears. ‘It was a brilliant hunt. They got what they came for and opted for a couple of nights of comparative luxury in one of the big hotels on Lake Kivu. I was pleased to get rid of them, to tell you the truth. They were a pretty painful lot. Very Aryan, and very anal.’
‘They didn’t like the pit toilets?’
He laughed. ‘With the tips they left, we’ll have gold-plated flushing commodes on the mountain in time for their next trip!’
‘That good, huh?’
He grasped her hand and squeezed it. ‘Better than I could have imagined, Michelle. The Congo business is going to be a real winner for us.’
‘Us?’
‘You know what I mean.’ The glee disappeared and he suddenly looked serious. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it down here in time for Wise’s funeral.’
‘It was a sad service. Such a waste of a strong young man.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask you – where’s Shane?’
‘Oh, he went to the Falls as well – but by Land Rover. He decided to visit Charles Ndlovu’s family to see how they were doing.’
Fletcher frowned and Michelle imagined it was because he still considered the old ex-ranger a traitor which, of course, he was. She thought it was good of Shane to take an interest in the welfare of the man’s family, but right now she couldn’t fault Fletcher for anything. The helicopter ride was extravagance incarnate, and she couldn’t imagine how he would top it when they landed.
‘See the spray up ahead,’ came the pilot’s voice over the intercom.
Michelle leaned forward in her seat and saw the plume of mist rising from the great cleft of the escarpment. ‘A rainbow!’
Fletcher took her hand and again and said, ‘Hang onto your stomach.’
The township of Victoria Falls flashed beneath them in a heartbeat and the pilot pushed the nose of the chopper into a steep dive. Michelle gave an involuntary scream as she felt her tummy ride up and collide with her lungs. They were in the spray now, the sheer walls of the gorge on either side of them. Below them the churning white rapids elbowed their way through the narrows. Next she was pushed into the soft leather-upholstered seat as the helicopter clawed its way back into the perfect azure sky. The pilot made a few lazy circles up and down the Zambezi upstream from the Falls themselves and Michelle craned to see hippos polka-dotting the shallows and a family of elephants making briskly for the salvation of the river.
She looked across at Fletcher and saw her smile reflected in his face. It was a lovely, over-the-top gesture for him to collect her like this, and to remind her of his feelings for her. She hadn’t had this much fun since her other flight over the same spot, with Shane, on the day of her first parachute jump.
Michelle looked back out of the Perspex window on her side, mentally chiding herself. Her moment of euphoria with Fletcher had been spoiled. Shane had popped into her head and she realised she was unconsciously comparing not only the two experiences, but the two men.
Fletcher was as immaculate as the bush allowed, in his new tailored suit and starched shirt, arriving like some modern-day knight on a steed powered by a jet turbine engine. Shane seemed always to be either in uniform or a T-shirt and shorts. His mount was a smoky Land Rover or a Cessna with no doors that smelled of sweat and old vomit. She forced herself to bring this train of thought to a halt. ‘What a lovely view.’
‘Not half as lovely as from where I’m sitting.’
She looked back at him and saw him leaning against the opposite wall of the fuselage, staring longingly at her. She slid closer to him, moulding her body into the crook of his, and kissed his lips.
A white BMW with an African chauffeur in a black suit was waiting to collect them when the helicopter settled onto the shimmering Tarmac at Victoria Falls Airport. Fletcher folded a handful of US dollars into the pilot’s hand as he shook it.
Michelle felt self-conscious in her dusty green T-shirt and cargo pants as she slid across the car’s cool, squeaky-clean leather seat. ‘Where are we staying?’
‘Just you wait. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.’
They passed the hangar where she had completed her rudimentary parachute training, which brought a secretive smile to her face, then turned left and headed towards the town. She saw the sprawling, whitewashed Sprayview Hotel, where Shane had drowned his sorrows after Charles’s funeral. It would be odd, she thought, if he were still in town and they bumped into him. Awkward.
‘Left here, please, driver.’
Michelle groaned inwardly as they drove through the entry gates to Victoria Falls’ largest casino, a garish new development dominated by a replica of the Great Zimbabwe stone tower, which looked as though it were made of papier-mâché.
‘Classy, hey?’ Fletcher said.
She tried to think of something polite to say, but he cut her off with a playful slap on her thigh. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only joking. We’re not staying in this monstrosity, but they do have the most expensive shops for woman’s clothes in Zimbabwe.’
She smiled at his use of the singular – woman instead of women – a peculiarity of the male Zimbabwean vocabulary. Inside the casino was a cool, moodily lit shopping mall, which boasted plenty of overpriced stock but very few customers. Part of her felt as though she were betraying some ideal by even being seen in the midst of such opulence. Never mind that it was on the arm of someone suspiciously like a sugar daddy.
‘Stop looking at the price tags,’ he said. ‘Just pick something you like. And you’d better find something other than those bloody hiking boots to wear.’
Michelle made a show of annoyance, but it was secretly kind of a nice to be indulged like this. She tried on four different dresses, finally settling for a floaty, strappy, maroon creation. She walked out of the changing room on tiptoes, holding her hair piled high.
‘Well?’
Fletcher was sitting in an armchair. He dropped the fashion magazine he’d been flipping through onto the floor. ‘My God.’
‘It’s a bit over the top.’
‘Not for dinner at the Victoria Falls Hotel. Not for my girl. You look so good I’ll have to go armed, to fend off the young bucks.’
She giggled and disappeared back into the change room, but then his words hit her. His girl?
She quelled her misgivings as she changed back into her cargoes and boots, but her heart fluttered almost to a stop as she re-emerged and he reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and produced a tiny box covered in black flock.
‘Oh, madam!’ squealed the African shopgirl, who had just finished wrapping the dress.
Michelle had the same reaction, though she was lost for words as Fletcher made a slow show of opening the little box.
He smiled broadly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a ring.’ Inside were a pair of diamond earrings.
‘Fletcher, they’re beautiful. You’re being crazy, though. All this will cost a fortune.’
‘I’ve nothing else to spend my money on, Michelle. Come, you’ve got your evening dress. Now you’ll need some things to wear around town.’
If t
he casino reeked of new money and excess, the Victoria Falls Hotel wafted bygone splendour and colonial decadence. In its own way, Michelle thought, the place was as over the top as the gambling den, but if she had to pick her luxury accommodation, this was the place.
The afternoon’s shopping had been exhausting. The novelty had worn off for her pretty quickly and she had rushed through the purchase of her second and third outfits, some new lingerie and a pair of completely impractical, though gorgeous, strappy high heels to match her new dress. She had barely had time to shower and put on her new makeup before dinner, so there was no opportunity for anything else. Fletcher had sat in a lounge chair in the plush hotel suite, reading the Financial Gazette – one of Zimbabwe’s few independent newspapers – while she showered. She’d welcomed the few minutes to herself. Even when they were together in the Congo, Fletcher was always coming and going on safari and she’d had time alone to read and work on her wildlife study.
She’d felt uncomfortable and constrained in the dress and heels when she’d emerged from the bathroom, pirouetting dutifully for his delighted inspection, though when they’d entered the dining room she had felt – for the first time in her life – not like a fish out of water among wealthy, sophisticated people. The wine had further relaxed her and she thought to herself how handsome Fletcher looked as they sat on the terrace of the restaurant sipping coffee and Amarula cream liqueur.
Fletcher asked the red-jacketed African waiter for the bill and reached across the white starched tablecloth to put his hand on hers.
‘You know I love you, don’t you, Michelle.’
She nodded. ‘You were too good to me today, Fletcher.’
‘That was just a beginning. I don’t need you to say you love me, you realise.’
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this strongly about anyone.’ She sipped her liqueur.
‘That’ll do me, for now,’ he said, squeezing her free hand. The waiter’s return interrupted them, and Michelle used the pause as an excuse to depart for the ladies’ room.
When she rejoined him they walked out hand in hand, across the internal courtyard to the old part of the hotel and upstairs to the suite. She was tired after the day’s rush of events and wondered if he had considered that she might have wanted a room of her own. True, they had slept together several times, but even in the bush she had her own tent, her own space. As they walked down the corridor she saw a maid emerge from Fletcher’s room and close the door. She curtsied to Fletcher and said, ‘It is done, sir. As you asked.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, folding some Zimbabwean bills into her hand.
Michelle wondered what else he could possibly have thought of. ‘I suppose I should have asked you if you wanted a room of your own,’ he said, hand on the doorknob.
Suddenly she felt bad. How could he read her thoughts, her emotions? She was more like a churlish brat than a grown woman. This rich, handsome man loved her and had showered her with gifts, and she felt a strong attraction to him. Why the hell wouldn’t he have assumed that she would want to sleep with him tonight? ‘It’s fine, Fletcher. Really.’
He opened the door and she was momentarily dazzled. Lighted candles, perhaps a hundred of them in the otherwise darkened room, sat on every spare inch of space, on side tables and the mantelpiece over the fireplace, on windowsills and the writing desk. They might have made the room unbearably hot, but the French doors to the balcony had been left ajar and the faint breeze coming up off the river made each tiny flame dance, and produced a comforting, shimmery aura of heat and light.
It would have been corny if it weren’t all so incredibly beautiful. Michelle realised she had never in her life been truly romanced. It was a new sensation. She saw the vintage champagne in the dewy silver ice bucket by the bed, with two upturned crystal flutes. He’d forgotten nothing.
She stopped by the bed and scooped up a handful of rose petals from the cover and held them to her nose. As she drank in the intoxicating aroma she felt his finger running down her spine, from the base of her neck to the zip at the rear of her dress. She shivered at his touch.
‘Nervous?’ he whispered.
‘Excited.’
She felt the coolness on her back as the zipper came undone, his lips on her shoulder. The expensive gown fell to the floor and she stepped out of it. She stood there in high heels and her new lingerie, unsure whether to make the next move or to wait for him. He had choreographed the entire day and evening, though he hadn’t let her in on the script. Eventually, she looked back over her shoulder and saw him standing two paces away, arms folded, simply studying her in the candlelight. A slow smile played across his face and he nodded, as though to himself. He looked as though he were pleased with his creation.
His trophy.
24
Shane was nervous. Maybe even scared. It was a new sensation, and he didn’t like it. He paced the drawing room at Isilwane Lodge, sucking on his cigarette like an asthmatic on oxygen.
The television reporter who had telephoned Isilwane looking for Fletcher had called again while Shane was visiting Charles’s family and demanded Lloyd provide her with Fletcher’s satellite phone number. Foolishly, the guide had eventually relented and Shane had returned to the lodge to find he had been set up.
‘Why do I have to talk to her?’ he’d protested to Fletcher down the crackly satellite call. He’d been surprised to hear that Fletcher had been in Victoria Falls on an unscheduled rendezvous with Michelle the previous day. They had almost crossed paths. ‘Can’t she go to the Falls and interview you?’
‘I’m on a plane out of here tonight. I’ve got more clients on their way to the DRC and have to be back now-now.’ The repetition of the last two words meant ‘immediately’.
‘Shit,’ Shane had grumbled. ‘I don’t think we should be talking about the poaching problem up here. For one thing, it died down before we left for the Congo.’
‘I know it did, Shane, and it was due to your good work. You’ve got a good story to tell, so do so. That’s all these reporters want – a little colour. She’ll make a hero out of you, and it’ll be good PR for the lodge and the business. Trust me, I’ve been interviewed by the same woman before. She’s on side. Her husband’s actually ex-Australian Army, so she’ll be soft on you.’
No amount of talk could persuade Shane that what he was about to do was wise, or would be easy; however, he’d taken the time to jot down some thoughts in his notebook about what he wanted to say in the television interview Fletcher had dropped him in. He wanted to help maintain working relationships between the lodge and the local authorities by talking about the good work done by national parks and police in controlling poaching in this part of Zimbabwe; to drum up more business for Fletcher by stressing that Zimbabwe, despite its political problems, was safe enough for hunters to visit; and, finally, to point out that controlled, legal hunting actually helped promote conservation of endangered species by raising money for the national parks service and promoting sustainable use of wildlife.
‘The woman is here, boss,’ Lloyd said. Shane had heard the vehicle pull up outside and it had sent his pulse racing.
‘Great. I mean, show her in, Lloyd. Thanks, mate.’ He put his notebook back in his pocket.
‘Hello, Sarah Thatcher, Satellite News Network,’ said the woman as she strode across the stone-flagged floor, hand outstretched.
He was surprised by the firmness of the woman’s grip. She was pretty, dressed in trendy urban bush gear, but there was a hardness to her features that spoke of no-nonsense toughness. She handed him a business card and he pocketed it. The cameraman’s name was Jim Rickards. Long hair, in a ponytail. ‘G’day,’ he said. An Aussie – not that it made the man an instant friend. Far from it.
‘Thanks so much for agreeing to the interview, Captain Castle.’
He smiled at the woman’s feigned fawning. ‘I don’t imagine you call your husband Major Williams, Ms Thatcher.’
‘You’ve done your research,
I see.’
‘As I assume you have. I’m Shane.’
‘Sarah. We’ll have to watch this one, Jim,’ she said in a theatrical aside to the cameraman, who had positioned two dining chairs in the centre of the drawing room.
Shane looked behind him and noticed that a stuffed buffalo’s head would be in the shot. ‘I’ll move this way a bit, if you don’t mind,’ Shane said, sliding the chair two metres to the right, changing the backdrop to the innocuous view out of the French doors to the lawn.
‘Light’s better where it was, mate – if that’s all right with you.’
‘No, it’s not – mate. I don’t shoot animals and I don’t want you setting me up to look like some big bwana.’
Rickards looked at Sarah for support, but she just gave her TV smile and said, ‘It’s Shane’s place, Jim. The garden will look nice in the shot, don’t you agree?’
The cameraman shrugged, readjusted the digital camera on its tripod and then crossed to Shane, who had taken his seat, and affixed a lapel microphone to his shirt. At Rickards’ request, Shane gave his name and his position, as head of security, as a sound check and tape identification for the video.
Sarah took her seat, attached her own microphone and pulled an A4 notebook out of her nylon day pack.
‘Whenever you’re ready, Sarah,’ Rickards said.
‘Shane, once again, thanks for taking the time to talk to us. As I explained to Mr Reynolds on the phone, we’re doing a story about the war against poaching in Zimbabwe, including the great work you’ve done up here in your concession.’
Shane nodded, aware that everything he said from now on would be taken down and, probably, used against him. He put his palms face down on his trousers to try to soak up the sweat.
The reporter cleared her throat and said, ‘Shane Castle, you’re at the front line in Africa’s battle against poaching. How deadly is this war?’
Shane had received some media interview training as a young officer cadet at the Royal Military College in Australia and Sarah’s words reminded him instantly of something the PR officer instructor had told the class – journalists would always try to put words in an interviewee’s mouth. He wasn’t going to fall for that one.
