The Hunter (2 page)

‘I’m too scared to sleep alone,’ Darlene said.

She had lingered at the entrance to her own suite after dinner, standing in the dark while the lodge’s security guard waited patiently for them to say goodnight and scanned the bush around them with a torch in search of night-time predators and buffalo. Darlene had thanked Brand, again, for rescuing her that morning, and turned in. In truth, Brand knew the credit for their survival lay with Pretty Boy Mapogo. The lion could have killed him, or her, or both of them before any firearm could have been located in the gate office or the glove compartment of some tourist’s Audi to stop him. Pretty Boy had charged and Brand had stood him down, but Pretty Boy had made the call that it wasn’t worth his while killing the defenceless humans.

Brand believed the lions in the Kruger Park and elsewhere in Africa were taught, probably by their mothers, what they could and couldn’t eat. Poor Mozambican illegal immigrants walking across the park in search of a new life in South Africa: yes. Rich white foreign tourists and heavily armed game rangers: no. Pretty Boy had let them live, but now that Darlene had slipped back to his room, he wasn’t going to give the lion all the credit.

‘Come here,’ Brand said, his voice rough from the cigar. He fancied he saw her shiver a little in the moonlight, despite the night’s heat. She had changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Brand knew he should call the security guard and have the man walk her back to her suite, but instead he led her inside. His curtains were open and beyond the balcony he could see a sky studded with stars.

The king-size bed was encased in starched white cotton of a high thread count whose cool crispness contrasted nicely with the scarred skin of his back and the warm softness of Darlene’s breasts as she pulled off her T-shirt and snuggled up to him.

‘You saved my life,’ she whispered in Brand’s ear as he enfolded her in his arms.

‘It was the lion,’ Brand confided to Darlene in between deep, sensuous kisses. ‘He did the smart thing and overcame his initial urge to kill us.’

‘I have urges too,’ she said into the side of his neck as he felt her hand move down between them.

Darlene’s body was lean and angular, her muscles firm. Her body felt sculpted, the artist some part-time surfer or ex-Marine personal trainer cashing in on the housewives and divorcees of Orange County. There was a hardness to her. Brand recalled that she was an executive in an IT company of some sort. He was sure she went about her business with the same single-mindedness and methodical efficiency as she was now using in going after him.

Her hands were on him, then her mouth and, wanting to prolong the experience, Brand brought her face back to his and kissed her deeply as he opened her with his calloused fingers. In the moonlight he could see her eyes, and the tear that formed at the corner. Her sexual aggression was a mask; she was still shaking inside. He kissed the teardrop away. ‘You’re safe, now.’

‘It’s not the lion,’ she whispered, and turned her head on the pillow. Brand stopped touching her, hovering above her on one elbow.

‘Am I your first, since the divorce?’

Darlene nodded. ‘I’ve never been with any man other than my husband in all my life.’ A new tear formed and rolled down her cheek.

Brand took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her pretty face to him. ‘You’re beautiful, Darlene, and he was a fool to lose you.’

She started to speak, but Brand let go of her chin and put a finger to her lips. He felt the taut muscles of her thighs ease as he moved his other hand down her body. It would have been easier for Brand if hers was just another case of khaki fever, but there were other issues at stake here and he did not want to hurt her.

What would it have been like, he wondered, as he kissed her again, to have been with just one woman? The African fish eagle mated for life, as did the dainty little steenbok, so the concept was not without precedent in his world in the African bushveld.

‘Please,’ she said, and that was all he needed to hear.

2

‘M
y name is Linley Brown and I’m a drug addict,’ I said to the group.

‘Hi Linley,’ came the ragged reply, which echoed slightly in the empty church near Sandton City, Johannesburg’s shopping mecca. The eight others were mixed in every sense of the word; there were men, women, blacks, whites, an Indian and a coloured. The demographic ranged from an eighteen-year-old boy who had sold his body to pay for his habit to a well-dressed matronly Afrikaner housewife. We were the Rainbow Nation of substance abusers, and our poisons – coke, heroin, prescription painkillers (my drug of choice), tik and crack – mirrored our rich cultural diversity.

I saw my eyes in theirs: sometimes glazed, sometimes fidgeting from side to side, pupils dilated, others like pinpoints. I saw the hopelessness and the belief, probably wrong, that this time they would make it; this time they would get clean. I checked my watch. This was the lunchtime ‘express’ meeting, giving those of us with jobs time to get back to work and the shopaholics a chance to feed their other addiction after cleansing themselves, for an hour, at least.

‘It’s been sixty-three days since I took my last painkiller,’ I said. I saw the rentboy roll his eyes, as if a pill-popping white woman in her early thirties didn’t have the right to be here among the hardcore users, but everyone else smiled or nodded or murmured an encouraging word or two.

‘Do you want to tell us how you’ve progressed?’ asked Mark, the convenor. He was a good-looking guy, late twenties, and a reformed cocaine addict. He had nice eyes, and I could tell by looking at them that he had succeeded. The pupils were normal, the whites clear, but there was a soft sadness to him, as if he would carry forever the burden of the sins he had committed to feed his addiction, even if he was now free of his demons and helping others to exorcise theirs.

‘OK, I think. I still have nightmares about the car crash that killed my friend, in Zimbabwe, but like I said last time, in a funny way that’s what forced me to come here, and to take control of my life.’

‘I know it’s hard for you, but tell us a bit more about that day,’ Mark said.

I nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I was stoned at the time the car burned. We were in the hills between the Dete Crossing turnoff and Binga, heading to Lake Kariba to catch a houseboat.’

I sniffed and looked around the group. The rentboy was inspecting his fingernails, but most of the others were leaning forward on their chairs, perhaps grateful to hear a tale as sad, and possibly sadder, than their own. ‘My best friend, Kate, was driving my car; we were taking it in turns. We were on a bridge and a warthog came from the other side. Kate swerved to miss it and lost control and we went over the edge, through a section where the guardrail was missing. My car was ancient, from the 1950s. It had been my grandmother’s and it didn’t have seatbelts. I was in the back getting us drinks from the cooler box when we went off the bridge. Kate was knocked out and trapped behind the steering wheel.’ I drew a breath and screwed my eyes shut, but it was no good. ‘We were carrying a plastic container of petrol in the boot, which you’re not supposed to, but there were fuel shortages. There was a fire. I got out, went to her side to try and free her. There was nothing I could do for her, but . . .’ I opened my eyes and felt the tears flow down my cheeks.

‘Go on,’ said Mark. His eyes were searching mine, to see if I was under the influence of something. My lapse in concentration as I experienced yet another flashback to the burning car had no doubt set off some alarm bells.

‘The thing is, I can still see her body behind the wheel of the car. I can still smell her burning.’ I looked down at my nails to focus my thoughts, not wanting to hold those dark eyes any more. I’d had the French tips done that morning, as I had a job to go to straight after the narcotics anonymous meeting. The varnish was flawless and my shoes were new, pinching slightly, but gorgeous. I smoothed the silk of my dress, which cost more than that bitchy little rentboy could make in a year.

‘I have the need for the drugs, the craving, always. I wonder if it will ever go away.’ I looked to Mark and around the circle of others on their hard-backed chairs in the musty-smelling place of worship and was not encouraged. The matron looked at the floor and the rentboy at the ceiling. This was not America; there were no high fives or ‘praise-the-lord’s or ‘you can do it, girl’s. This was the new South Africa, Mandela’s tarnished dream personified in we nine, plus Mark, as we faced one new problem one day at a time. I didn’t want to be in South Africa, I wanted to be home in my native Zimbabwe, but there was no money north of the border. Like three million other Zimbabweans I had headed south to
eGoli
, Johannesburg, the city of gold. This was where the money and the work was, and too many people in the dwindling white community in my home country knew me for me to be able to stay there and work among them.

‘As well as thinking about the car crash I’ve also been going over, in my mind, some of the things my addiction caused me to do, or at least things that happened when I was stoned.’ This time, when I looked at him, the rentboy’s eyes were downcast. I felt sorry for him then. I had done the same as him, though not on the street. I had done disgusting things for drugs, things I would never have imagined myself doing, and perhaps our lives, our backgrounds, weren’t that dissimilar in other ways. When he looked up I gave him a little smile; if he wouldn’t support me then at least I would try and be supportive of him. He nodded in return. ‘I hate myself for some of the things I did. I want to erase that part of my life, but I know I’ll never be able to.’ I looked at Mark. ‘Perhaps there is something I can do; some sort of penance that would atone for my sins?’

‘I’m not a priest, and not even overly religious, though I do thank the church and the local minister for letting us use this place for our meetings. I can’t tell you to go and say ten Hail Marys to ease your conscience, Linley, but you do have to look forward. That’s something I can tell you from experience. You’ve made the decision to change your life and to move on. You need to define yourself by your future life and the choices you make from now on, not by your past.’

I nodded. It was easy for him to say; Mark was a merchant banker whose employer had taken him back once he had got himself clean. He wore an expensive suit and I knew he drove the latest model Audi. My clothes were a disguise, not a reflection of my way of life or my bank balance. In fact, I had nothing, not even the insurance payout, which the brokers back in England were taking their sweet time processing. When the money came through I would leave South Africa for somewhere else on the continent – I fancied Kenya because I’d never been there. I would lead a good, clean, honest life, free of all my demons, both chemical and human.

There was nothing else I could add. I looked at the diamond-encrusted Cartier watch I was wearing and my silence cued Mark to ask if anyone else wanted to contribute to the meeting.

At the end, as we all rushed back to our day jobs, someone came up behind me and touched my arm. I spun around. It was the latte-skinned boy who probably still sold himself. He took his fingers off me. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to say . . . well, I mean, like, I think I know what you were talking about in there.’

‘It doesn’t matter whether we take pills or tik or stick a needle in our veins, we’re all in there for the same reason,’ I said. He looked down again. It was my turn to touch him, on the arm, my finger connecting with his hard bicep. He kept himself in shape and I hoped he wouldn’t succumb to his habit again and risk the damage to his physical and mental health that came with it. ‘We can
do
it, right?’

Johnny looked up at me and I saw his eyes start to glisten. I always looked at people’s eyes before any other part of them. I could tell, now, if a person was honest or dishonest straight away, but I’d had to learn this the hard way. ‘
Ja
, Linley. We can. And whatever you did,’ he forced a smile, ‘it’s not nearly as disgusting as some of the things I’ve had to do.’

It was good he could laugh about his past, which might also still be his present. I smiled for his benefit, but there was too much darkness in what I had done and what had been done to me for me to ever make it the subject of a joke. I resolved not to be judgemental of him or any of the others in the group again. ‘You’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.’

But I didn’t really believe that.

*

In the undercover car park at Sandton City I pushed the alarm thingy on the key ring and the lights on the new Mercedes convertible flashed and the door locks clicked. I looked behind me to make sure no one was following me, and eased myself into the low-slung status symbol.

The forward edge of the leather seat was cool against the skin behind my knees, below the hem of my dress. I liked the feeling, but not the smell; it brought back too many bad memories. This wasn’t my car; I couldn’t afford something like this. It was a loaner from Lungile’s brother. I plugged my iPhone into the cord and dialled Lungile’s number.

As I reversed out of the car park spot and drove out onto the street she answered and I used the hands-free. ‘
Howzit
.’

‘Hi, girlfriend,’ Lungile said.

I heard traffic in the background. ‘You’re finished at the salon.’

‘Yes, and I look a-
may
-zing, if I do say so myself.’

I envied Lungile her self-confidence, even if was sometimes just for show, or for my benefit. She had her own troubles, mostly her seriously ill mother’s medical bills. ‘I’ve finished my meeting; I’ll pick you up outside the hairdressers in about ten minutes. OK?’

‘
Yebo
.’ Lungile hung up.

I smiled, properly, for the first time that day. Lungile was amazing and I loved her. By the time I started school in 1986, Zimbabwe had been independent and black-ruled for six years. The president, Robert Mugabe, had been doing terrible things to the Matabele people in his first few years of office, wiping his political opposition from the face of the earth, but I was too young to know about any of that.

Unlike my parents I went to school with black kids all my life. I remembered seeing Lungile for the first time when I was packed off to high school to board. My father was against me boarding, but my mother put her foot down, for the first and probably only time in her life. Lungile had the most amazing, perfect afro I had ever seen, and when the teacher asked us all what we wanted to do when we finished school in six years’ time, Lungile said she was going to run for parliament and eventually become president. Most of the class laughed. I was a shy, scared kid with limited horizons – I said I liked the idea of working in a bank, like my mother had before she met my father – but Lungile just smiled at her mockers as if to say, just you wait and see.

But my best white friend and I both liked her and by the end of first term Linley Brown, Kate Munns and Lungile Phumla were known as the terrible triplets.

I stopped at a robot, as the locals called traffic lights in South Africa, and glanced into the rear-view mirror, not to look for potential car hijackers but to check my makeup. We were going to a big job, Lungile and I, and both of us were dressed and made up to impress. Image was everything in this city of status and designer must-haves. My throat suddenly felt thick as I saw the younger me, minus the encroaching crow’s-feet, and remembered the three of us laughing and playing pranks on the intractable girls of both colours who could not see beyond the divisions of the past to a new, fun, funky future in Africa. The only time I’d ever truly been happy in my life, except for the brief time I’d spent with my one serious boyfriend, George, was at boarding school. I blinked. Damn it, I did
not
need tears now. Lungile
should
have been in politics – our country needed someone smart and full of love, like her – and then she would not have been forced into doing this kind of job. But there was no work for her in Zimbabwe and nothing in South Africa, other than what we were about to do, that would pay for her mother’s chemotherapy.

I looked away from the mirror, out at the traffic. A guy in a
bakkie
tried to catch my eye, but I ignored him and floored the accelerator, trying to outdistance my memories. But they were there, behind me, always.

‘Oh, Kate, I do miss you,’ I said aloud.

*

Given the right circumstances Lungile could have been a supermodel if the whole president of Zimbabwe thing didn’t work out. She was tall, slim and fine-boned, and the four-inch patent leather red heels she wore made her tower above the two men who walked past her and turned their heads for a second glance. Her hair was straightened today, lacquered into perfectly sculpted bangs. Her lips shone with fresh gloss; she was the picture of a well-to-do black diamond trophy wife, right down to the impressive rock on her left-hand ring finger.

I stopped the Merc and she folded herself into the sports car. Outrageous shoes aside – for these were her trademark – Lungile was dressed in a demure grey skirt, matching business jacket and white blouse. She did, in fact, look amazing. ‘
Howzit
,
sisi
?’

‘
Lekker
,’ I said, but felt less than great. The meeting had shaken me, as it always did, and I wondered if I could stay away from the pills once I had some more cash in my purse. I couldn’t truly make a clean start with the money I made from the day-to-day work Lungile and I did so well together; I needed the insurance payout to set myself up again and I’d been surprised to learn it took months, not weeks as I had hoped, for a claim to be processed and paid. I smiled for Lungile’s benefit, but I also knew that once I had a big enough stake I would have to say goodbye to my friend. We loved each other, as long-term friends do, but I was smart enough to know that if we stayed in close contact it would only be a matter of time before Lungile’s high-living, partying lifestyle led me back to my recent excesses. She needed to end this gig as well, and I hoped me disappearing might force her to try her hand at something better.