THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JONATHAN BLOOM

By Martin Sowery

Copyright 2013 Martin Sowery

Prologue

Imagine a scene viewed from a distance: a residential street in a fashionable part of London where there are not many pedestrians at this hour of day. Light traffic moves carefully past the vehicles parked on either side of the road. A newcomer arrives and pauses to admire the wrought iron railings that front the smart brick facades of a row of town houses. He's still only for a moment, then he strides up up three stone steps and slaps his palm firmly against the porcelain doorbell of the particular residence he has selected.

He's a youngish man; well dressed. At any rate he's wearing a good suit, though something in the wearer's manner makes it seem more casual than smart. He came here by taxi a few minutes ago. For some reason he instructed the driver to drop him two streets short of his destination, even though a very light rain is falling and he doesn't have the look of one who walks for pleasure. Anyway, it's more like dampness in the air than true rain; not enough to distress his carefully cut black hair.

One or two passers by move along the street while he's standing at the door, but he's not kept waiting long. It seems he was expected. Another man opens the door and welcomes him inside after a brief handshake. The other is also wearing a suit, but his style is more precise and neater than his visitor's. Seen together, the two men have a similar look, although the visitor is taller and not quite so slender. Each face has an expression that could be described as watchful. They could be brothers perhaps, or maybe rivals.

The householder eases the door closed behind his visitor. Although it looked like an ordinary door from the street, the guest notes that sophisticated security fittings are controlled from within. His host leads him up an impressive staircase and through a small but beautifully decorated hallway, into a drawing room, where he directs the visitor to sit in a chair upholstered in soft antique leather. He excuses himself and leaves the room for a moment.

The visitor takes in his surroundings. Everything is expensive and carefully arranged. Much of it is old in a European style; but there are odd examples of tribal art, masks on the wall and carvings, in wood and stone, that seem a little incongruous here. There's a burgundy chesterfield that matches this armchair where the visitor is now sitting; with a pair of tall blocks of veined green marble flanking either side of it. An oversized table lamp of ornate polished brass sits on top of each column. The floor is polished wood parquet and in front of the chesterfield there's a gorgeous rug with a rich, deep pile and just the hint of a pattern, so subtle that it's hard to say exactly what colour predominates.

The host returns to the drawing room; but it's only for a moment. He's just checking on something. The visitor gives him the confirmation he seeks and the other excuses himself once more.

Now the visitor stands and begins to inspect the room, touching various objects that catch his attention. He picks up one of the brass lamps and holds it above its marble base for a moment, as if weighing it. He bends down to feel the pile of the thick rug with his smooth palm. He walks across to the fireplace and begins to inspect the small items displayed on the mantelpiece.

When the other finally comes back to the doorway of the drawing room, his visitor is holding a silver, jeweled box of some eastern design. It would be gaudy, if it were not so small and exquisite. The visitor senses the host's displeasure and replaces the box on the mantelpiece. The other frowns, only for a moment.

Then he advances into the room and he's holding a pen in one hand and in the other he has an envelope that's stuffed thick with some kind of wad, together with a single sheet of printed paper. He goes across to a desk that is generations old carved walnut topped with a blotter of antique leather. He sets the paper and the envelope down on the desk, but rather than joining him there, the visitor beckons his host, as if he wanted to point out something in the room from this own perspective.

The other frowns once more, as if he were starting to find this visit tiresome. He shrugs and steps towards his guest.

Everything has happened so slowly up to this point, but suddenly events speed up. The visitor seizes hold of the heavy brass lamp and in the same swift movement brings it swinging around in an arc that connects the weighted base to the head of the unsuspecting other. The point of impact is the back of the skull, just a little higher than the earlobes. The victim stands motionless for a second, then exhales a soft sigh and drops to the ground. The visitor aims one more blow down at the head of the body lying on the thick rug, but this time it's with all his strength, swinging from behind the shoulder.

When the visitor stands fully upright again, he's still holding the brass lamp. It hasn't broken or bent, although the shade is torn and crushed; partly bent around his wrist. Something like blood but more than blood is dripping from the base of the lamp onto the rug. A stain of deep red, small at first, is spreading across the thick pile, obliterating the delicate ambivalence of the original colours.

For a while, the visitor stands watching the growing stain. He's panting a little, from his recent exertion or from excitement. The fallen body doesn't move at all. Finally satisfied, the visitor drops the lamp onto the rug and disconnects its cable from the plug set in the floor. Stooping, he grasps the victim's wrist, checking for a pulse. He keeps trying that for a minute or so, then he grunts and folds the rug over the body so that it's wrapped tightly. There's no blood leaking onto the parquet floor, so far as he can see.

Once he's completed these arrangements, the visitor starts to move around the flat with more urgency. There are many things to be done and not much time. There's a plane he needs to catch in a few days' time and his first task is to locate the tickets.

First Day

The noise that had become as familiar as toothache was suddenly absent. In the moment that the fasten seat belt signs clicked off, the usual rush to stand in the aisle, followed by a period of cramped and pensive waiting. Finally, a breath of natural air, as the door locks were released and then out at last from the cursed tube and down the steps on legs that felt strangely clumsy, eyelids fluttering in the brilliant midday sun of a new continent.

Seen from the hot tarmac, Victoria Falls International Airport met the expectations of most travellers. It presented a shabby exterior that had been new when the world was a different and wider place. Inside, the arrivals facility had a decaying look about it, although everything seemed to run smoothly. The fittings were old fashioned and knocked about by hard use and some of the flooring was coming away. Nevertheless, the place was bustling with human traffic and all of the various functionaries in attendance seemed to have some idea of what their responsibilities were, even if those functions weren't obvious to the casual onlooker.

By the time the new arrivals from Johannesburg had crossed the space between the British Airways jet and the official beginning of Zimbabwe, baggage handlers were already tossing their packs and bundles through the open hatch in the side of the building that served in place of a belt carousel.

The passenger who had occupied seat 15B on the Johannesburg flight smiled as he compared the primitive effectiveness of these arrangements with what he had left behind in Europe. Back home, they had up to date technology and advanced management skills to ensure travellers could expect to be subjected to delay, confusion and discomfort in equal measure. It was refreshing to see how simply things could be done when there were no layers of management to direct them.

The new arrival was a tall, dark haired man of slender build. On more than one occasion he'd overheard some woman describing his appearance as elegant and now that had become how he liked to think of himself. He had quick darting eyes that took an interest in everything going on around him; but at the same time he seemed very much at his ease. He registered the way the airport employees were dressed in cheap but clean clothes that showed they weren't paid much but took pride in what they did. He noticed the cracked but well-swept floors; the haphazard piling of baggage and the calm efficiency of the officials, with their old-fashioned English procedures and ageing Chinese computer system.

The facility was pleasingly efficient, in a primitive sort of way. No need to worry about the passport and visa he was carrying. If his papers hadn't been challenged in London or Johannesburg, they would certainly be acceptable here. He had a range of passports in his luggage that he'd recently acquired from a friend in unusual circumstances. All of the photographs on them looked something like him.

Passenger 15B reminded himself that he was supposed to be an old hand in Africa and should not be seen to find anything about his current surroundings unusual or noteworthy. He reminded himself to stay wary, though none of the others seemed like types who'd be suspicious; at least based on the brief conversations they'd shared since first meeting, as they waited for the short connecting flight to the Falls. They'd naturally fallen together at Jo'burg airport; and he was confident that he´d made an impression as a likeable, straightforward kind of chap who had a sense of humour but didn´t like to push himself on other people. He was complacently aware that the girls in the party had been the ones paying him most interest. Being handsome and unattached he was used to that sort of attention; and he knew how to be charming when it suited.

In fact he´d charmed everyone; patiently listening to them talking about themselves, which was what people most liked to do after all. You only had to smile and nod in the right places and everyone was prepared to consider you a good chap. And none of them had noticed that he'd said very little about himself.

Just now he was standing slightly apart from the group, watching them busy themselves over papers and luggage and reminding each other about the detailed arrangements of the trip.

Only one of them looked like the genuine outdoors type. He said his name was Andrew Parker: short, strong sort of build, carrying a few kilos round the middle. Dressed in faded khakis; the very picture of the white man in Africa, though apparently he was a claims assessor for an insurance company in everyday life. Clothing and pack all serviceable and worn, like his weathered face. Only the close-cropped red hair and beard didn't quite match the image.

The two youngish women had paired up on the way out. 15B was confident they hadn´t known each other before. They were different types. The pretty one with long dark hair who introduced herself as Emma had arrived with more luggage than everyone else. From the way she kept stealing glances at the men of the party, he decided that this one was looking for romance, but maybe not so experienced with men as her manner tried to suggest. Back home, Emma was probably Emily, or something equally sweet and innocent, but here on holiday and in Africa she was allowing herself some freedom. It might be interesting to explore that space between who she was trying to be and what she was really like. She had that sort of full-bodied figure that he sometimes enjoyed. Emma would be quite easily managed, he decided.

Her friend Jill was more difficult to read. Jill looked like she could be any age between late twenties and early forties: just the right range for him. Good body; a little hard and boyish maybe; but no surplus flesh. Medium height; nice brown hair; face a little wrinkled around the eyes but with good cheekbones. It was those eyes that made him unsure: they had that independent look in them that made men like him imagine that she might be more interested in girls than boys.

Among the men, he'd already decided that George was queer. No doubt about it. Not that George was camp, but there was something in the way he carried himself. He kept fussing to see that everyone else was alright. He moved his fleshy hands about too much when he talked and he talked too much. He dressed with more fashion and care than was normal in a man of his age. George was a little overweight and clumsy and perhaps he was the one who seemed most out of place in Africa, with the exception of the Johnsons.

The Johnsons were an elderly couple from some nondescript town in the middle of America, which 15B forgot in the instant that they named it. The man was a dried up stick and the woman's frame hunched shapelessly over a substantial paunch. She breathed with a slight wheeze, even standing still in the airport. Maybe the two of them had booked the wrong holiday by accident. In any case, it seemed likely to 15B that one or both of them wouldn´t survive a fortnight in the African bush; a reflection that for some reason caused him to smile.

The final member of the party was a thirty-something male who'd made so little impression on 15B that even his name had not stuck. He'd said that he was a teacher of some kind. The two of them were about the same age, but 15B was happy to suppose that his contemporary wouldn't provide much competition so far as the women were concerned; or in any other way for that matter. The traveller was willing to admit that he tended to use up and discard women quickly (what was it that one of them had said recently? - that she felt she'd been damaged by him). Still he sincerely believed that he'd be doing Emma a favour by taking her on and sparing her the sickly attentions of this teacher. At least she'd have some fun to remember along with any bruising that might be involved.

Passenger 15B had introduced himself as Jonathan. Mr. Jonathan Bloom, of London; an enthusiastic naturalist and wildlife photographer in his spare time; besides his other accomplishments. He'd visited Africa several times in the past; and like the others he'd been attracted to this trip by the promise of something a little different: more off the beaten track than regular safari tour operators offered. Jonathan had been looking forward to the trip so much that he'd even talked to his friends about it; which was unusual because he had few friends and even with close acquaintances he was normally cautious about sharing personal details.

The other members of the party didn´t need to know that Jonathan Bloom made his living in the city as a moneylender; advancing funds to young well-heeled men who didn´t have the time or patience to match their expenditure to their income; or that he had definite but non-specific connections to what the police liked to call organized crime. Still less did they need to know that Jonathan Bloom had never in fact left London for Africa; or that the passenger who had been occupying seat 15B normally answered to the name of Julian Bowen.

Julian enjoyed having secrets: knowing something that others didn't confirmed what he had always known about himself; that he was smarter than other people. So he was in a good mood as they cleared customs and discovered a tall, spare black man with a shaved head and a gap toothed grin waiting for them outside. The black was holding up a piece of card on which the words "Wilderness Tours" had been traced faintly with a ballpoint pen.

The representative shook hands with everybody and told them to call him Michael. He explained that they would all meet Mr. Kriegman the next day; and meanwhile he would take them to their hotel. He didn´t say much else; just scooped up the bags of the Johnson´s, and an extra one of Emma's that she was struggling with, then without looking back he strode outside to where a big four wheel drive vehicle was waiting for them in the car park.

***

Julian Bowen had always felt that life would not be worth living unless he could enjoy the best of everything. Unfortunately he was also too impatient to wait long for anything: and since he had not been born with the family advantages that he'd have liked, it had not always been easy for him to acquire all the luxuries he needed. His parents had managed to fund his time at a well-thought-of boarding school and later a decent university, but then it had come as a disagreeable surprise, after completing what with some exaggeration could be called his education, to realize that from that point on, he would be expected to make his own way in the world.

Fortunately, Julian possessed the sort of effortless charm that enabled him to rely on the help of a network of more industrious chums he´d gotten to know at school and university. He had perfected the knack of being able to ask for a job or a loan or whatever other assistance he might be in need of in such a way that the chap who was helping him out almost felt that Julian was doing him a favour by accepting the favour.

In this way he'd drifted through his twenties in a succession of positions that didn't require him to work too hard, running up some sizeable debts in the process. He was always well paid and he'd seldom found the actual work beyond him even if he faked qualification for most of his employments. Generally he knew that once he managed to secure a position, by whatever means were necessary, there was no reason to fear that his duties would be beyond him. Such was the nature of the age, Julian had concluded. Providing you steered away from pretending to be an engineer or some kind of scientist, there was nothing about any job that took more than a week or two to master. And if you did get stuck there was always some competent junior around who you could be persuaded to do the work for you without letting on.

The problem wasn´t that he found work a challenge - rather the opposite. However much they paid him, he'd get bored eventually. And anyway it always seemed that sooner or later his expenditure would inevitably overtake his income to the point he'd need to move on. There were so many more interesting things to do than turning up at an office each day: parties to attend, girls to pursue, new restaurants and fashionable resorts to visit. Invariably he would let things slide and then he'd be covering his tracks for a while until eventually he'd be found out. After that, he'd be shown the door promptly; and the friend who´d sneaked him in would find himself in trouble as well; which wouldn't bother Julian except that each time it happened he had one less patron to call on. Gradually, as the years rolled on, his list of potential benefactors was starting to wear thin.

The job that he might still have at the moment, unless his employers had already decided to take him off the payroll (Julian had not checked his email for a while) was a case in point. He´d got in at the bank through Teddy Jameson, who was supposed to be his oldest and closest friend. Teddy was doing well in investment business. Merchant banking was a lark that had always interested Julian, who was sure he would have the right talents for it. He would have played the Teddy card years earlier, but of course he´d needed to wait until Teddy had climbed the slippery pole far enough to steer the thing his way. Julian had been confident Teddy would never be able to refuse him anything.

Their friendship went back to school days and the rugby field, which for Teddy made it a sacred thing. Julian had always been indifferent to sports and he was blessed with the kind of body that stayed healthy and strong without needing exercise, but at the school he and Teddy attended, rugby wasn't easy to avoid and besides Julian could see even back then that morons who got excited about chasing a ball round in the mud might be useful for him to know later on in life.

This was all early on, when he'd been having some problems adjusting to life at boarding school. His mother would send him tearful letters about how much she was missing him, as if it hadn't been her and father who'd packed him off there. Usually Julian would be too angry to reply. The rugby field was a good place to use some of that anger without the risk of getting into trouble.

When he broke Teddy Jameson´s leg with an overenthusiastic tackle, no-one blamed Julian, except of course Julian himself, who expressed his remorse very publicly. Teddy took it very well and said it was just one of those things. It was almost as if he felt he should apologize for his leg not being strong enough to save Julian the embarrassment of having injured him.

Even after the break didn´t heal well and Teddy learned he would always have one leg slightly shorter than the other, it didn´t occur to him to blame Julian. The two boys were bound together by the incident. In the strange way that school society works, they both acquired status, Teddy famous as the boy whose leg had been shattered so badly that it was gruesome to think about, and Julian as the ferocious tackler who snapped limbs. Teddy conceived for Julian a lasting and genuine affection that Julian indulged without ever confessing to his friend or anyone else that he had walked onto the pitch that morning having already decided that he was going to break Teddy Jameson´s leg and knowing how he would do it. Not that he ever had anything personal against Teddy. He had only wanted to know what it would feel like to smash a bone.

And in fact Julian had found that it felt good - it gave him a sense of power. The fact that his victim remained unaware of the crime and sometimes even acted as if he were indebted to Julian for his injury made the memory of it all the more satisfying.

When he finally went to see Teddy about a job, his old friend told him not to worry too much about qualifications; he would be a natural as an investment banker once he had mastered a few tricks of the trade. And that was how it worked out. There was nothing complicated about it: either you were persuading customers to run their investments through the bank, or else gently steering their funds in the direction of investments that were the banks favoured stock of the moment. Either way it was only a question of manipulating people and making sure that they always had a good time when you took them to the best restaurants and social events. And you were paid to do that too. For a while, Julian's results were so good that it seemed he had done Teddy a good turn by joining the firm rather than the other way around.

But before too long, the familiar problems resurfaced; only now worse than ever. In this new life, the partying never stopped. Life was a booze-soaked downhill race. Money came and went faster than ever. The bank was indulgent about staff absence provided that results were delivered; and Julian had an iron constitution. Unfortunately, he lacked the sense that should have told him when it was time to ease up or quit, nor had he any sense of guilt to send him crawling into the office on days when he didn't feel like he could face work.

Julian started to spend too much time away from the desk; and like all the others he started to depend a little too much on the white powder to keep his senses dialled up to maximum all the time. You were always on; that was part of the life that made some of his colleagues burn out and crash so quickly. Julian saw it happen to others but told himself he was too smart to fall into that trap.

He didn't suffer from an addictive personality, as least not so far as cocaine or other stimulants were concerned, but the drug was one more expense and, like the best champagne, you could only charge so much of it to the client´s account. He was developing more expensive tastes in other ways too. Even though the bonus he assuredly merited each month was more money than he'd ever had, it made little impression on his debts as he discovered that so much of what he'd previously considered to be the good life was really just making do. The modest balance in his account at payday was cleared out earlier each month as time went on. Julian considered himself a realist; and soon the time came when it was clear to him that his present agreeable circumstances could not continue indefinitely. He therefore resolved to make the absolute most of the banker's life for as long as he could make it last.

It was around this time that he first met Jonathan Bloom. A colleague he barely knew pointed the man out at a party, noting that he and Julian had the same initials and even looked alike. Julian couldn´t remember who the colleague was - it was that kind of party. Through the haze, he´d squinted at Bloom, who was shorter than Julian and didn´t really resemble him at all.

He remembered asking what was so special about Jonathan Bloom. The colleague (Julian could recall that the man was an idiot and a loser, but that applied to most of his colleagues and in fact most people other than Julian himself) confessed that he had serious financial problems. He said that even with the fantastic bonuses he earned (he mentioned a sum obviously calculated to impress though it seemed quite paltry to Julian) spending was always ahead of earning until finally he couldn´t see how he might stay afloat. In fact he´d reached the end of his line of credit with the bank, though he could´t afford to default on his personal account as that would mean a sacking. Julian snorted dismissively through this confession, as though it were not an accurate description of his own situation.

Without Jonathan Bloom´s help, his colleague said, he wouldn't have been able to go on. So how did Bloom help? He lent money privately to chaps like them, at extortionate rates but what did the rate matter? Bloom might be a useful person for Julian to know if he should ever end up in the same situation himself. Nice enough chap too, for a loan shark.

Julian waved away the suggestion that he might one day be in need of borrowed cash, but Jonathan Bloom interested him. Looking at the man more closely you could see why idiots like his present friend might see a resemblance between them. Bloom wore a good suit and seemed quite at home in the gathering even if he was one of the few who still could stand up without swaying.

"What sort of funding does he have?" He asked the colleague.

"As much as you need. Up to half a million, they say. I´m not in for anything like that much of course."

Now Jonathan was positively intrigued.

"And he just hands over the cash?"

"I suppose he has a book somewhere where he writes down who owes what, but basically that´s it."

"But what if, say, I took his money then told him I wasn´t going to pay it back?" Julian asked.

The colleague had then explained that welching on a debt to Bloom would be a very bad idea. Jonathan Bloom handled the money and kept the accounts, but the money was not exactly his. It wasn´t good form to ask where it did come from, but everyone knew that the people whose money it was didn´t treat delinquent loans in quite the same way as the bank's own recovery team. They weren´t the kind of lenders who asked their solicitor to write you a nasty letter if you missed an instalment or two.

Later, Julian got himself introduced to Jonathan Bloom, saying that his own name was Arthur Bliss. At the time he had no clear idea why he used a false name. Bloom never asked him to prove who he was or showed any suspicion on that score. Maybe it didn´t matter to him what his clients called themselves provided they behaved themselves; if they didn't he would know where to find them anyway. Only later did Julian reflect that although Bloom might know what Arthur Bliss looked like and where to find him, the name in Bloom's books wouldn´t mean anything to his bosses unless Bloom was around to point Julian out to them.

Julian decided to become Jonathan Bloom´s friend, but that was not so easy as it seemed, even though they were always at the same places (how come he´d never noticed the man before?) and despite Bloom always being perfectly friendly and chatty with him. Bloom never seemed ill at ease with anyone. He was as charming as Julian himself in his own rather reserved way, but there was always something about him that remained hidden.

At first Julian was careful not to let on that he even knew what business Bloom was in, but when he asked for the first small advance, Bloom seemed to have been expecting it. Julian suppressed a tiny surge of the rage that he always felt when he was not master of a situation; but the deal was made smoothly enough.

He´d not wanted to go to Bloom for cash. It was something else about the man himself that had interested him. Besides Julian knew that there was no way he would ever be able to repay his debts. The money situation was so bad by now that he´d even made some feeble attempts to cut down his spending, though of course that was utterly impossible. Even so, once he had the cash from Bloom's first advance in his pocket, it was so easy to go back for more. For a time it was as if he'd discovered a bottomless pit of money and he started to enjoy life properly again. Some days he could forget entirely about the need to pay the money back; but there were other times when the realization of what he was getting into would strike him with such sudden force that his hands became a little shaky.

There was some talk about chaps who had missed due payments to the moneylender needing a stick to walk with after that oversight and dark tales about others missing fingers or toes. Everything was said as if it was a joke and Julian had never met any supposed victims, but the days when his hands started to shake at the realization that he would never be able to repay what he had borrowed were the times when he started to daydream about killing Jonathan Bloom.

Julian supposed that everybody must ponder murder from time to time. He'd experienced the feeling many times in his life before, but without seriously thinking that it would come to anything. And yet now here he was in Africa, with plenty of time to think about how his daydreams had led him here and what he needed to do next to perfect his scheme.

***

Stephen Green was a short, dark haired man with an impatient expression and manner that caused people who hadn't met him before to assume he must have an aggressive character. They´d take him for the sort of man who overlooks important details as he hurries through life. But in fact, Green didn´t miss even tiny insignificant details; it was just that he registered them more quickly than most people and he didn´t often feel the need to comment on what he saw.

When he was working, Green wore a dark suit that matched his businessman´s haircut and general demeanour; except when professional reasons demanded that he blend into a situation where a suit would be out of place. Today though, he was wearing slacks and a heavy knit cardigan over an open necked shirt: not exactly untidy, but he´d been called out on a Sunday and even though he´d had enough notice to change, it was worth making the point that he was giving up weekend time.

Not that Saturday or Sunday or Christmas Day made any difference to the man he had come to see. Green didn´t exactly like the Fat Man, but in business you rarely got to select clients for charm, especially in the business Green was in. The Fat Man and he were uneasy in each other's company, although circumstances brought them together more often than either of them would have wished. The Fat Man usually claimed to be Egyptian, or that he'd been born Egyptian at least. Sometimes he said he was Maltese. Green had never visited either place, but he had the sense that something of the Fat Man´s origins had stayed with him, however many years he had lived in London.

"I need you to go to Africa, right away," the Fat Man told him.

"I don´t get mixed up in any of that Islamic shit. I told you before. Everyone is too unpredictable and my kind of face is not exactly welcome in those parts if you take my drift."

"I´m not talking about North Africa. I mean down below the equator. Lions and tigers; elephants. That kind of Africa."

"They don't have tigers on the African continent."

"You see, you know all about the place. This job will be a piece of cake for you."

"Who do you want me to find?"

"The name is Jonathan Bloom. The information you need is in this envelope. Don´t leave it lying around."

Green snorted. He took the envelope but didn´t open it for the moment.

"Owes you money I suppose?"

"It´s not that he owes us money, it´s that he has some of our money with him. He was a man I trusted and now we can't find him."

"Ouch. Not a very smart guy then. You suppose he thinks that Africa is far enough to run?"

"I don´t suppose anything. We made some enquiries; had a look in his flat. It seems this is a holiday he booked months ago. Maybe he intended to explain why he hasn´t made his payments when he got home, but I am kind of anxious that he isn´t planning to return home at all."

"You want me to bring him back to London?"

"No, it´s gone beyond that. He hasn´t done what he was supposed to do and the money wasn´t there when it was needed. I don't need to know anything about this Bloom's business you understand? Only that it happens with my blessing and I have money invested. But not all of my money is my own, you see. When he has a payment due and he's doesn't make it, I have to make good with my own funds. So now his business is my business... and now there is a problem. When I have a problem like this, I get rid of it."

"I see. And how do I get paid for making this happen?"

"Bloom took quite a lot of our money. There was nothing at his flat. It´s safe to assume that he either has the cash or the means to get it with him. What you find, you keep - it´s already written off. Let me know if you´re not happy with that when you get back. But not too soon after you get back."

"Understood. But if it´s as much as you say, I´ll take my expenses and a success fee if it´s all the same to you. You can have the rest back, what he hasn't spent at least. Your suggestion is generous and I appreciate it, but in my experience, people get emotional at times like these and I wouldn´t want anyone later on to start thinking that I was becoming greedy."

"We can discuss that when the job is done."

The Fat Man didn´t sound emotional but you could never tell. He was certainly capable of changing his mind about not wanting a large sum of money back.

There was a large, glass topped desk at the far end of the Fat Man´s office, with an impressive view through the picture window behind it. But the Fat Man never sat at the desk; he felt more comfortable sprawled on the black leather sofa that took up most of one wall; a tiny laptop open on the low coffee table that stood before it. Green was perched on the edge of an armchair that was as deeply cushioned as the sofa, his back erect but relaxed, not quite sitting to attention taking nothing for granted at least.

"Mr. Bloom has been a disappointment to us, Stephen. He had been doing so well. We know that your people are good with money and I never expected that he would do anything stupid."

'Your people' was meant as a barb. Green didn´t mind the racial slur, but it annoyed him the Fat Man assumed he could be so easily stung. He thought about asking the Fat Man which of the two of them was the shylock, but he held that comment back.

When he got back to Marble Arch, Green found a café in which to open the envelope he´d been given. The contents turned out to be interesting. There was a number that he was supposed to ring and leave a message that would explain whether or not the job was done and if he had the money. There was an information pack that was thorough, if it was reliable. The Fat Man´s people had thought to check out that Bloom had actually taken the flight he was booked on. There was a good passport, credit card and driving licence; even a health visa to prove that Green had taken the vaccinations he might need to travel between the countries he´d be visiting. There was a business class ticket to Johannesburg and a connection on to Victoria Falls. It seemed that Green had already checked in for the flight, but they hadn´t left him much time to pack.

As he made his way back from central London, Green´s sense of gloom deepened. His life was being thrown into turmoil once more by these people and their stupid disagreements.

He wouldn´t be able to make the class on Wednesday, and probably not the Wednesday following either. Just when he was starting to make progress. He´d started to attend a cookery school and it turned out this was something he was good at. He´d always been interested in food and wine; and now he'd learned that the kitchen demanded patience and an attention to detail that was second nature to him as a result of his day job.

Cooking brought him into contact with new sorts of people. Good people, with jobs and families and ordinary lives; not like himself. Green had even allowed himself to daydream about taking it further, maybe opening a small restaurant.

The tube train was crowded enough that he had to stand. The swaying and lurching was uncomfortable, but Green had learned to ignore discomfort when it couldn´t be avoided. What did annoy him was the young man standing next to him making no effort to stop the movement of the train banging his body into Green´s side every time the train lurched in a certain way.

The kid was tall and stupid looking, wearing a light t-shirt that exposed his thick pink arms, even though the weather wasn´t warm. The arms were decorated with cheap looking tattoos. Green noticed that the boy had a complicated hairstyle that seemed to involve shaving parts of his scalp.

The most irritating thing about the lad was that he was wearing a set of headphones and either they were so designed or the music playing on them was so loud that everyone in the carriage had to hear the noise.

Green enjoyed music. That's to say he liked classical and certain types of jazz that had a structure so that even when everything sounded completely wild there was order beneath. Mingus was his favourite just at the moment.The thing was, when Green needed music, he wanted to listen to it, not have half heard fragments disturbing his attention. And he didn´t care much for modern urban music at the best of times. Not that he didn´t get it. He understood that the music of a city will be insistent and that the boastfulness of its lyrics is be in proportion to the insignificance to which each of its citizens is reduced. There is a weight to cities: the press of so many humans in one place makes them feel like rats in a cage. When you crowd rats together till there's no room in the cage they start to bite each other.

All this was clear to Green. He just didn´t want any part of it. He tapped the boy on the shoulder and the dull face looked down at him.

"Would you turn that off please?" he asked as politely as he could.

The boy looked first incredulous, then anger started to replace confusion on his face. Green didn´t wait for the inevitable expletive-laden response.

"I asked if you´d turn that noise off please; it´s disturbing everyone," he repeated helpfully, just in case his first comment had been lost in the racket.

The boy´s anger was fully loaded now. Green could see it in his watery blue eyes. The bulky frame stiffened in readiness for some sudden movement. Green held the boy´s stare calmly. There was something about his look that was unnerving and it drained something from the other. A moment later the boy shrugged and clicked off the player. He turned his back on Green and shuffled a few steps away from him.

Green reflected that he should call up the cookery teacher and make some apology. He didn´t want anyone to think that he was giving up his place on the course for good.

***

As Green was preparing to follow Jonathan Bloom to Africa, Julian Bowen was being introduced to the realities of transportation for the next fortnight

"Mr. Bloom. You get in the back with the two young ladies. It´s a little raised up but we don´t go far today. Tomorrow we rotate the seating so it´s fair for everyone."

Michael directed them to board the vehicle. It was an extended Toyota Land Cruiser that had been fitted with strengthened suspension and seating for eight in the elevated section behind the driver. It was open-topped, with a canopy stretched over a tube metal frame to protect against the sun. Going to be breezy on a long run, Julian thought.

Michael began to load the bags that he´d had them dump beside the Cruiser into a rugged looking high sided trailer that was hooked up behind. When everything was stowed to his satisfaction, he climbed in the driver´s side of the vehicle and a minute later they were underway without another word from him. At first they had assumed that he didn't speak English well, but it turned out that Michael disliked wasting words, just as he disliked waste of any other kind.

In any case, Julian was relieved that he took them to the good hotel rather than the vulgarly modern one next door. They were greeted effusively by various categories of staff, each kitted out with a uniform particular to their function. An hour later, having showered, he lay on the bed reflecting that the colonial splendour of this place was more like what he required of life than what the coming days would offer. He knew from here on he must expect that there would be little comfort on this trip. It would be business not pleasure for him. Even right now, they were sharing two to a room. Julian had taken care to be bunking with the teacher, rather than that sweaty outdoorsman or sweet precious George, and he'd wasted no time in despatching his roommate to seek out photo opportunities and local colour so as to have the space to himself. But really, this was supposed to be a holiday and they were asking him to share a hotel room with another man.

He´d briefly inspected the grand rooms of the hotel, the ornamental pools and garden and the ample halls lined with the horns and antlers of big game, prints and photographs of old Africa and visiting royalty. He´d stepped out onto the lawn at the rear of the hotel and taken in the magnificent view out past the old colonial flagpole. Patiently grazing wild pigs and curious black-face monkeys kept an eye on him as he watched steam rising above the trees from the distant falls and listened to the roar of the Zambesi pouring over the cataract and into the torrent flowing on in the canyon below. Everything about the place so far met with his approval.

Now the others had hurried off to see the Falls before access was closed down for the evening. Julian had excused himself with some nonsense about needing to be in touch with his office before they set off into the wilds - what office, they must be wondering.

The truth was he liked what he'd seen of this place. He didn´t want to share his impressions of the Falls with a bunch of tourists, which is what they were when all was said and done. No, he promised himself, this is where I shall come back later, as a traveller, when the job is finished and I have earned this luxury.

And tomorrow, he thought, we meet our guide. Michael had proved to be an interesting enough character. It would be diverting to find out what kind of oddball would set himself up as the boss of an operation like Wilderness Tours.

Day Two

Don Kriegman checked his watch yet again in the early morning half-light. He stamped around the compound, re-checking items he'd already checked twice. Surely by now his party would have finished their breakfast of kedgeree and champagne or whatever sort of over ripe crap they served at the hotel these days. They should be here or at least on their way by now. He and Michael had been up since five, putting the last preparations in order before he sent the boy off with strict instructions to herd them back without delay. The boy was worth his pay out in country but he needed more experience in managing the tourists.

You had to be firm with clients - that was the thing. Even then, you never knew what the next lot would be like; or if there would even be a next lot. It was a hand to mouth business, like hunting. The guests were more unpredictable than wild animals, although like the animals they had patterns of behaviour that you could get to know. At least this new bunch had all been in country before, or so they claimed. Hopefully they wouldn´t be the soft complaining sort - those guys were the worst.

These days, when the big tour operators had packages to suit most punters, Kriegman was left with two kinds of clients. There were those looking to do it on the cheap and then the second and third timers who were looking for a more hard-core experience - maybe even to get into some places that were supposed to be closed to tourists. Kriegman didn´t like to help them with that: he´d have preferred to keep his Africa entirely closed to tourists if it had been possible, but of course it wasn't his choice; more a question of survival. In any case, considering some of the memories that plagued him, he couldn't pretend that nannying tourists round bush that should be left alone was the worst thing he'd done.

Keep your mind on the job. Assuming these clients were not whiners and that the experience they claimed was at least partly genuine, then most likely the problems would come with the ones who thought they knew better than him and wanted to tell him how to do his job, or else believed that paying his fee meant they owned him. One thing was certain; there'd be some kind of problem with at least one of the punters. There always was. Every time they went out, the first days were about finding out what kind of arseholes he had to deal with this time. Something else that Michael needed to learn.

Thinking like this didn´t improve his mood and he had not even met the clients yet. He started to brood over the spare whisky bottle that remained locked in the drawer of his office; and at six thirty in the morning that was not a healthy feeling to have. He turned his attention to the Land Cruiser. Michael had gone to collect the guests in the Nissan bus that was broken down and rusting and something of an embarrassment, but the guests were committed and paid up now, so there was no need to impress them.

Just now Kriegman's task was to make sure everything was present and locked down tight on the Toyota: water, fuel, food, tools, spares and whatever else they might be very sorry to find they had forgotten if they needed it out on the savannah. You were pretty much on your own out there, even if Kriegman's brochure tended to exaggerate how for they'd be off what he considered to be the beaten track. The trick was to get them into places that were just lonely enough to make clients believe that they had experienced the true wilderness.

Kriegman could remember when the bush really had been empty and wild. Now they were starting to fill this country with rules and regulations the same as everywhere else. The thought of that made him spit on the ground in disgust.

A short time later, the boy brought the new party along in the bus. As they swung into the compound, Kriegman leaned back against the Cruiser, arms folded. He remained stationary as he watched them climb down from the truck, looking for signs. He concluded that they were as sorry looking a bunch as he might have expected. The old couple looked half-dead already and worse, he remembered that they were Americans. The young girl looked man-hungry (well he was too old for that to be a personal threat) and there was some plump clown wearing shorts, or were they trousers, that had a bright floral pattern and ended somewhere around his ankles. Just the thing for alerting shy animals to their presence. The rest of them might do, but for sure he would have to watch the one who'd dressed himself up as the great white hunter: likely he was going to be the know-it all.

Kriegman took a deep breath and stepped forward to shake hands and get things underway, starting with his seven golden rules of the bush, followed by an explanation of what discomforts they would face in the coming days, and concluding with a brief summary of his views on people who whined when things didn't go exactly to plan.

***

The guide had warned them that the first day would be mostly driving and that it would be uncomfortable. So far he was keeping his promises. They just had to get through it, he'd said: no light aircraft transfers, no floating hotels. On this trip they would be travelling the old fashioned way. Kriegman had even weighed the luggage before they started out, to make sure there was no overloading of the trailer.

What would he have done with a too heavy bag, Julian wondered? He could picture the old boy sorting through Emma´s pack and throwing out whatever he decided wouldn´t be needed.

Kriegman was a curiosity alright; so much the stereotype of an old Boer settler that you had to wonder if there was a tinge of self-parody about him. Julian guessed not. The guide was a big man, all ways round. He´d have been over six foot three in his prime, before age and the hard living out here had started to take its toll. Thick ankles and massive calves showing between his desert boots and shorts: the rest of him looked just as solid, apart from the middle age paunch that hung over his belt and the slightly watery eyes. Even in his present near ruined state, there was still physical power in the man that made Julian wary.

God knows how many years Kriegman had spent out here and yet still the sun burned his face and arms a red that never deepened to brown: but there was something else in the redness of the face that Julian recognized. The fine-broken veins that showed in his oversized and exceedingly ugly nose suggested a drinker.

There was time to think about everything between bouncing about in the back of the Cruiser and trying to find the least uncomfortable position. Julian found himself wondering how a man like Kriegman ended up in the business of being a guide. It seemed that he knew the country well enough, but he didn´t hide his impatience with people. He spoke at his clients as if he was daring them to challenge him. Julian imagined a history for him. Probably he´d lost the family farm through some misadventure and after that he was reduced to running tours on a shoestring as the only alternative to leaving his beloved country. Whatever the truth of it, Kriegman would need watching - him and the black driver who seemed to do all the work and was more intelligent than he let on.

Time passed and the landscape became monotonous to all of them, but conversation was not easy in the open Cruiser. Julian didn't mind. He still had his jumble of thoughts to organize, starting with the events of the last few weeks.

He supposed that it had all started with that girl. Just a silly little incident really, hardly important, but it was after all that when his daydreams had started to feel less like fantasy and more like a plan.

***

The girl at the house party had been pretty, but not too pretty. By the time she and Julian decided to leave early, she´d already had plenty to drink, but she seemed able to handle it and her conversation in the taxi wasn´t so dull as to put him off.

When they arrived at her flat, she poured large drinks for both of them and then went to change her shoes and make whatever adjustments women needed when they came home from a party. Julian ran a critical eye over the flat. It was nice: smart location too: she must have a good job, or some family money. He was already running a couple of almost girlfriends at the moment, but he´d remember this address for future reference.

Sally, or it could have been Sarah, came back into the room wearing a pair of flat pumps, but she still had on the dark, figure hugging dress that had first drawn his attention to her. She laughed rather too loudly and she threw her head back when she did it: probably knew that it showed her long straight hair off well. It was the heavy, shiny sort, cut well and blonde for this month at least, that weaved sinuously around her constantly mobile head like something with a life of its own.

"Here´s to people who know how to enjoy themselves," she told him, curling a strand of the luscious hair round one finger.

"I can drink to that."

The wine was a good one, so far as Julian could judge by this stage of the evening. She gulped hers down and then splashed some more into the oversized glass from the bottle that she´d banged down onto the coffee table.

"What did you think of that place, though?" she asked him; not for the first time.

"Fairly horrible," Julian admitted.

"Absolutely ghastly, you mean. They´re not really my friends you know. In fact I hardly knew anybody there. I only agreed to go out of charity".

"I wasn´t going to go either, but I´m glad I did now."

She smiled at him for that comment. He liked the smile: there was something about it that was dirty, or trying to be.

"You know why the two of them are still together," she said. "You could see that she can´t stand the sight of him, I suppose? But they have a villa in Italy and she changes her car every six months."

Julian didn´t want to hear that story again.

"We shouldn´t waste any more time talking about them," he told her. "We´ve escaped, we should be thankful. Tell me something about you."

"About me?"

She was pretending to be amazed that he would want to know about her and he was pretending to be interested. She laughed again, took another gulp of her drink and stood up. Then she made a show of walking across the room to start the music player, conscious that his eyes were on her.

"You have lovely er, shoulders," he commented.

"Ha, you were looking at my bum."

She turned her back on him again and wiggled her hips provocatively.

"I bet you´d like to spank it."

"I would actually."

There was something serious in his voice that made her turn around.

"Really, I would," he insisted.

"Oh. All right then," she replied like a child accepting a dare.

She´d said too much to take it back without spoiling their game and now she had to show that she was ready for anything. He bent her over the coffee table and pulled her skirt up and her pants down. She was giggling as if this was familiar play, even if a bit sudden; but her gasp when he brought his hand down hard on her rump told him that if she had submitted to this before it had only been as a soft pretend game. Julian was hitting her hard; and for a moment she was shocked, not knowing how to react.

When he took her though, she was ready enough. He pushed his full weight into her as she lay face down on the low table, smiling to himself as she started to gasp in a different way. But he wasn't going to let her go so easily and he didn´t want it to end just yet for either of them.

Julian enjoyed his night. He made the girl do some other things that perhaps she thought she´d tried before; and one or two that she certainly hadn´t. He wasn´t too interested in her reaction, but every so often he saw that confused look on her face, like she wasn´t sure that they were still playing a game but if they were she didn´t want to be the first to chicken out. He loved to see that expression on the faces of his women. They were so sure that they were the ones calling the shots that it was easy to take them off balance.

Later, when he'd finally finished with her and she was sleeping, exhausted, beside him, Julian sat up in the bed with his back propped up on the overabundant pillows and watched her. He felt exhilaration, a sense of mastery; and almost complete calm. He looked at the sleeping girl with something that was close to tenderness. Her mouth was a little open and he noticed a mark at the side of it. She was going to have a little bruise where he´d turned her over and slapped her around a little after finishing with her behind.

He could easily slip out now and be gone by the time she awoke, she wouldn´t stir. But that would be like running away and then she might start to see herself as a victim, which could be dangerous for him. He knew precisely what he´d do. In the morning, he´d send her to the kitchen to make coffee; and when she came back they´d both act like this had been something each of them had wanted to try - a fantasy that they´d shared with each other. Sally or Sarah had an image of herself as a strong woman who was in control of her own life. To feel that a man had compelled her regardless of her consent would contradict that self-image. Easier for her to rationalize what had happened as a joint experiment.

He guessed that before he left, she´d ask if they were going to see each other again. He had his answer ready for that too; he´d just say he didn´t think so. She could colour in her own meaning to that outline after he was gone. How the story might look to her when she was done didn´t really interest him.

These were good times to be alive, Julian reflected, especially for people like himself who knew just what they wanted and were prepared to go out and get it. Most people were like cattle, not sure of what they felt or wanted: it made them easy meat.

The next morning went exactly according to plan. He was out of her flat by ten, protesting he was already horribly late for the office, although in fact he had a phoney lunch appointment out of town so he wouldn´t be expected at his desk.

"You never told me your name," she said to him at the last.

She was nursing a stained coffee mug and looking rather sulky with her hair all over the place. The dressing gown she´d wrapped around herself was quite nice, but anyway they never looked quite the same to Julian after he´d enjoyed them once.

He almost laughed out loud at her comment. It was true.

"It´s Bloom," he told her. "My name is Jonathan Bloom."

***

And so the truck rattled on, with no sign that they might be approaching a destination any time soon. Julian possessed the kind of animal spirit that adapts itself to conditions that it is not able to change for the moment. The swaying and bumping didn´t put him off his train of thought.

There was the money to think about too: the two hundred and fifty thousand in cash that he´d hidden at his flat was a tidy sum, even though Julian had hoped that there might have been more stashed in Bloom's office. He knew himself better than to imagine that even twice the amount he'd scored would have lasted him long. Almost certainly, by the time he returned to London he´d have been sacked. He'd not bothered to tell the bank he was taking a holiday. His last few weeks had been more days off than days at work. Poor Teddy would feel terribly let down and it would reflect badly on him, Julian supposed, but that couldn´t be helped.

No, there was nothing left for him at the bank and when he returned to England to resume life as Julian Bowen it would be time to start looking something new. He wasn´t sure what that would be, but the cash at home meant that there'd be no immediate urgency. More importantly, for the first time in a long while he was free of debt and the worry that went with it. Perhaps some proper travelling in decent hotels would be a good way to recuperate for a month or two, once this ordeal was finished.

Julian could make himself at home in most environments when need arose. He supposed it was a legacy of boarding school. He didn´t consider the safari to be much of a hardship; although what could have attracted an intelligent man like Jonathan Bloom to subject himself to it voluntarily and pay good money for the privilege would remain a mystery to him.

Really he knew very little about Bloom, although how much did you need to know about someone to impersonate them? Julian had spent his entire life pretending to be someone else. You didn´t need to prepare or research, you just took your lead from the people around you and met their expectations for as long as it suited you. The only time Bloom had really shared anything personal with him was when Julian got him talking about Africa and his plans to return there as soon as he could. He was suffering from some kind of enthusiasm that broke through his normal reticence. It wasn't much, but the information had been enough to turn Julian's half-formulated plan into a design. Afterwards he'd only needed to get into Bloom´s apartment, which was easy enough; because that was where you went to borrow more money or make the occasional repayment.

For a man with a lot of cash about the house, Bloom had been relaxed about security, but then he knew his customers. They were all young men with big incomes and bigger expenditures who worked in the city. Physically stealing money would have been demeaning and old fashioned for them. There were so many easier ways to get cash. Besides, everybody knew that if you crossed Bloom you would have someone much more threatening than him to deal with.

That was why it was not enough to kill Bloom. The man had to disappear and never be found, taking the cash with him. And there must be nothing about his disappearance that would be linked to the seventy thousand pounds showing in his books as due from Arthur Bliss.

The actual killing had been easy and straightforward - in fact it was something of an anti-climax. Julian merely waited for the right moment to strike Bloom on the head with the nearest heavy object that was to hand. Bloom went down with just a little sigh that it was hardly worth the trouble of expressing. Afterwards Julian confirmed to his satisfaction that there was no breathing; and then the deed was done. He paused for a moment to consider his own state of mind, wondering whether he might be experiencing any of the guilt and horror that was popularly supposed to accompany homicide.

As expected, he'd discovered no sense of remorse in his mind - only a little concern that he might be caught, perhaps, that was more than offset by positive feelings. He was filled with a sense of a great weight being lifted off him. It was more than the money; it was freedom. And something more, a conviction that he'd earned and been granted powers beyond the ordinary. It is surprisingly easy to kill, he'd concluded. Not at all like people try and make out.

Getting rid of the body was harder though. Julian couldn´t use his own transport because after all this was London and where would you park? Jonathan´s own BMW was the same model and colour as Julian's lease car, though the specification was better; and his apartment had a space in the shared basement garage that opened onto the street behind the fashionable block. Clearly that had to be his transport.

He waited for hours until the early morning, when he judged it would be safe to haul the body into the tiny elevator. He was glad that he'd thought to arrange the limbs in a posture that would be easy to carry. By the time he left the flat the corpse was stiff and seemed to have become much heavier as the heat went out from it. He found a large laundry bag that he managed to squeeze most of the body into: it didn't offer much in the way of concealment even when he'd swung it over his shoulder with some full length coats over the top, but he didn't see anyone between the downstairs hallway and the boot of the car.

A killer less sure of himself than Julian might have been amazed at his good fortune in reaching the vehicle undetected. Julian had expected no less. He shut the boot quietly and went calmly back upstairs to collect the soiled rug and the ruined lamp. He parked the car in the street outside his own flat. There wasn't a legal parking place, but one more ticket would hardly matter and anyone seeing it would assume that it was his own BMW that he'd left parked at his private gym. Then he went on to an all night party that he had the address for. He was careful to slip in unnoticed. If any of the guests were asked later, they'd have the impression that he'd been there throughout.

When it came to disposing of the body, Julian had decided in advance that nothing elaborate would be needed. He wasn´t going to waste time trying to hack off identifying features. The body went in a weighted sack and the sack went in the sea at a place where he had checked that the currents would carry it away from the shore. By the time the sack rotted, he supposed that the body would have done the same.

Returning to London, Julian seriously considered swapping the number plates on the two BMW´s, now that he'd appreciated the superiority of the higher specification model, but in the end he told himself that this was the sort of greedy and foolish mistake that had trapped lesser men than him. He left Jonathan´s car parked in its proper place, feeling virtuous at having resisted temptation for once in his life.

Next, he had to carry out the second part of the plan, which was what had brought him to this god forsaken continent. The plan was an outline. Julian had not yet decided the details of how everything should be done. He'd always found it best to work things out carefully but not too minutely. Be prepared to react to the situation around you; that was the way; and anyway life became too dull if there was no more to it than executing a design. In terms of satisfaction, making the plan work was as important for him as the thought of getting away with the money: it was the proof of his superiority. He´d always been able to get hold of money somehow, but this adventure was something new entirely. And as with so many other things in life, the most important thing was going to be to get the timing just right.

***

Julian had done some research on Africa for his own specific purposes, but the reality was different to what he had read, and even hotter and dustier than he´d imagined. He didn´t mind heat so much, though it was difficult to imagine how someone carrying as much meat as Kriegman could tolerate it. The dust was a bore, but it gave him the excuse to cover his face with a bandana as they were travelling. It seemed that these people photographed anything that moved and plenty that didn't. Julian needed to be careful to ensure that his face didn't appear in any of their pictures.

Strangely, whenever they stopped for a toilet break or to satisfy official requirements, it seemed like the Johnsons were the ones least affected by the conditions. They moved so slowly anyway, in their long sleeved tops and slacks, only their dry wrinkled faces and hands showing and always at one another´s side, like two affectionate tortoises welcoming the sun that moved the cold blood in their veins.

Andrew Parker, on the other hand looked a sodden mess. Whenever he climbed down from the vehicle, his cotton shirt was completely soaked up his back and under his arms. The rear of his shorts were wet through where he had been sitting. Observing how his glowing red face now complimented his red facial hair, Julian reflected that the heat made Parker look more repulsive than usual. It didn´t seem to distress him though. In fact everyone took the conditions in good part and even Emma made a joke about the dust ruining her complexion.

Just now, Parker was busy showing her some gadget he´d brought with him, bragging as usual. It was a kind of navigation device that used GPS satellite technology. He claimed it would work anywhere. He offered it to Michael, who gave a quick appraising glance and handed it back.

"Do many people get lost out here?" Julian asked the driver.

"It happens."

Parker chipped in to say that if you were trying to survive in the bush or desert the most important thing after water was fire. Then he went into an explanation of how you could start a fire by finding soft wood that you made a little hole in. You had to surround the hole with kindling, then you took a hard stick and spun it around in the hole to make friction and eventually a spark. Julian commented that all this sounded fine in theory, but he doubted it would work in practice.

"You can do it," Michael confirmed.

"But would you ever try to start a fire that way?" Julian asked him.

Michael didn´t say anything in reply. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a cigarette from the pack there, then he produced a lighter from his trouser pocket and lit the cigarette. He took a long drag and exhaled, holding the lighter up for their examination before replacing it in his pocket.

After they passed Kisane there was no more of what Julian would recognize as a road. They were headed in the direction of Savuti but that was a long way off and they would need to camp on the way. Kriegman told them that they would mostly avoid public camping areas on this trip. He preferred to stick to the private concessions where he had understandings with the agents. If the facilities there were limited that was all part of the experience they had signed on for.

They made a halt in the late afternoon in a little wooded space not far off the track and close to running water. The ground was level but there was little else to indicate a camping area. Michael was out of the vehicle immediately, hauling the tent bags off the top of the trailer: one for each pair of campers.

"Where are the toilets?" Julian asked Kriegman.

The guide unbuckled a shovel from the back of the trailer and handed it to Julian.

"There," he pointed to a space in the trees. "Not too far from the camp. Don´t want the hyenas to catch you with your pants down in the night. And make sure it´s deep enough, at least a metre. We don´t want any overflow and the ladies always shovel too much dirt on top of their doings."

"Isn´t that Michael´s job?"

"Everybody has a job, right?"

Julian didn´t argue. For now he was everyone´s friend. There would be payback later. Afterwards they set up tents as directed and Kriegman lectured them on the rules of camp once more while Michael got busy with preparing food.

Day Three

Julian´s tent mate was Simon, the teacher whose name he had kept forgetting. Simon possessed the modest virtue of being the only member of the party apart from Julian himself who didn´t seem to be obsessed with photography. He was quiet and shy, which suited Julian. He would be easy to manage.

In spite of Kriegman´s dire warnings, none of them had been eaten by wild animals that night. They were awakened before it was light and used their head torches to dress before taking the breakfast that Michael had already set out for them.

Most of this day was spent at the Chobe reserve where the big herds were to be found. Normally Kriegman saved this place for the end of the trip, since everything else could be an anti-climax for animal lovers, but these clients were supposed to have seen all the obvious stuff before. For them, Chobe was a stopover en route to more remote places.

Julian knew next to nothing about photography and cared less, so he´d decided to drop that part of Jonathan Bloom´s character rather than risk making a fool of himself. He knew he wouldn´t be able to fake a conversation about lenses or shutter speeds in this company. He´d only brought his own digital camera that was next to useless for wild life, although he had made sure to add the expensive, high-powered binoculars that he found in Bloom's flat to the other luggage that had already been packed.

Julian kept the bandana wrapped round his face and smiled indulgently at all the camera enthusiasm, but within an hour he was first fatigued and then infuriated by the constant halts, the irritating clicking and the excited whispering that accompanied each new photo opportunity. Didn´t these people already have enough photographs of elephants and giraffes? Wasn´t one elephant pretty much the same as another?

The girl, Emma, was clicking away with the rest of them, although it gave Julian a smug feeling to note that when she thought he wasn't looking, she spent as much time looking at him as at the animals.

"You´re not taking pictures?" She asked him.

"Not so much on this trip," he replied. "I have so many already from my other visits. And I think looking at the country through a lens can get in the way of experiencing it fully. Don´t you agree?"

"Oh yes," Emma replied, putting her own camera down for a moment. "I´ve always thought that seeing and touching something is the only way to really know it."

They exchanged discreet smiles, as if they had shared a secret that the rest of the party would not understand. Complicity is so important in bonding, Julian reflected. He noticed that Simon was making notes in a little jotter that he carried everywhere; and that Jill took fewer photos than the rest although she seemed to take more time over each one of hers than the others did.

"You have a good eye," Julian told her, having no idea if it was true. "I couldn´t help noticing. Are you professional?"

"Oh no, I just enjoy making pictures, but you know, composition is important; and all that."

Julian nodded as if he understood perfectly what all that was. This camera frenzy was idiotic; he knew that much, but least he could be pleased that they were all in such a state of excitement about the animals. Arousal of any kind could so easily be nudged in a different direction, and both girls were full of enthusiasm at the moment. He hadn´t ruled Jill out of his plans entirely, although Emma was still his favourite. Shared tents and the strict instructions that Kriegman had issued not to stray out of camp would create complications, but complications made Julian's style of hunting all the more interesting.

By early evening, his companions were a few steps closer toward their seeming ambition to record every individual African animal bigger than a stimbok on camera. Julian was looking forward to the next day when they would be putting in a high mileage and heading into the wilderness proper. His final image of the day was looking out of the tent flap before he zipped it closed for the night. Kriegman was slouched heavily on one of the camp chairs that ringed the remains of their fire, hunched over and staring out into the blackness, with a cigarette burning in one hand and a tin mug likely charged with whisky in the other. The starlight and the red glow of the embers made him seem like a pensive devil.

"And I suppose that the truth is that each of us is damned," Julian thought.

It was black inside the tent. Simon was already asleep or pretending to be. Julian lay awake for a long time listening to the sounds of the night and thinking his private thoughts.

***

Don Kriegman had grown up on a farm. His family and friends were farmers. The world he'd lived in was full of comforting certainties.

For instance, he couldn't remember, when he was young, there being any kind of issue about the situation of the blacks. They weren't quite human and that was just an accepted fact of life. It didn't mean that you needed to be harsh with them all the time. You could even look out for them; especially the good ones who knew how to put in a decent days work.

But then he remembered his father warning him that every now and then you had to let them feel who was in charge. There didn't have to be a good reason for it; in fact it was more effective if there was no reason at all. Made it all the more clear that your small act of brutality was about who they were, not what they might have done.

And yet, Kriegman didn't remember his father as an unkind man. The old chap had explained that the occasional arbitrary punishment; though it might seem cruel and unjust to a young boy like him, was actually a necessary kindness to the blacks, because it preserved the order of things, which was for everyone's benefit. Without the white man's presence, he told Don, this great country would decline to the state of savagery that had existed before their coming.

It was all bound up with religion of course. Both his parents were churchgoers, but maybe even more important than going to church was the sincere belief in a god given divine mission of the Kriegman's and their people to deliver their country from the twin evils of a black ascendancy and the evil communists who were the would-be harbingers of that apocalypse. Young Donald didn't know what a communist was. He didn't know what a harbinger was either, but it wasn't necessary that he should. If you heard a word often enough you got the sense of it.

With the passage of years, it was hard now for Kriegman to put himself in the mental space of that young man who had sincerely if quietly believed in the Afrikaaner god, without ever questioning why such things should be. Thinking about it now, it seemed to him that his mother had been the literal believer in their family, while for his father maybe belief was accepted as part of the glue that stopped everything from falling apart. There was no way to know the truth of such things now and since Kriegman himself no longer believed in any god, it was possible that his recollections of the old man were becoming obscured by his own prejudices.

And perhaps the Kriegman that he'd become had really turned out to be the sort of hard, practical individual that the men of his father's generation believed a man needed to be. The paradox was that the rough life he lived gave such a lot of quiet time for reflection, when inward directed thoughts came unbidden. The fact was that Don Kriegman knew himself well, in spite of his own best intentions.

He'd grown up with a bible around at all times, and he knew now looking back that he'd done those things he ought not to have done and left undone those things which he ought to have done. In fact he'd been especially good at leaving things undone. And the same god whose nature it was always to have mercy didn't exist, so he was screwed. Who else but god was he going to talk to these long nights, after the tourists had crawled off into their tents? Michael, who was up on the roof of the truck laid on his back and looking up at the stars? Not likely. The black would have been embarrassed beyond words to hear him start off about his useless thoughts, and rightly so. Bad enough that your boss can't set off on safari without a few bottles of whisky hidden away, without having to listen to him spouting nonsense.

The young Kriegman hadn't questioned the natural order of things. How could he have? To say that humans were not created equal was to state something so obvious it was a waste of breath. Among the white races there was inequality too. South Africans were the toughest, hardest working, most honest and brave people on Earth, but even white South Africans were not equal when you compared the soft, pampered lives of the Capetown city dwellers with real folk: farmers like his own family who were the salt of the Earth.

That all men were not created equal had been so clear and self-evident that Kriegman didn't question it even when he turned into an intelligent young boy who read books other than the bible without anyone telling him he had to, though only when he was sure that no-one would catch him at it. His guilty secret was that he couldn't understand how it followed that the clear inequality of the races meant you needed to be hard on the blacks and coloureds and work at keeping them down.

For instance, anyone could see that it would be a waste of time having the same kind of school for blacks as for whites, because the blacks weren't clever enough to benefit; but every so often you might find an intelligent one, and the young boy couldn't see why it was so important that this one in particular had to be held back.

It was his mother encouraging him to read the bible so much that was to blame. Being a dutiful son, he'd done his best to oblige her, but some of the same passages that would have his mother nodding appreciatively over the cadence and sound of the words set him to puzzling over what they were meant to tell him. He had been assured that the words held truths that the communists and other trouble makers would never understand, so when Kriegman found their meaning problematical or hard to relate to the world as it was going on around him, he was obliged to treat that problem seriously.

These were secrets that he kept in his own heart and so far as he could see, none of his friends or family suspected that he was not just like them. He never went out of his way to let a black man know that he was dirt, but when witnessed others doing this, he accepted that it was unavoidable and necessary. Physically Kriegman was big and courageous. He played in the front row. No one ever questioned his bravery in a ruck or maul. To be thought of as someone who was weak or lacking, in spite of these accomplishments, would have been unbearable.

Then there was national service and after that university. Later he decided that of the two he learned more in the army. The experience of fighting made it harder to believe that what you were doing was for some high and noble cause beyond just staying alive, but at the same time the army was like an extension of the rugby field, where you discovered even more about the importance of having mates you could depend on and who could depend on you in turn.

After that, he had a good job working outdoors, went back home and married a local girl. Seven years, one daughter and then divorce. The daughter spoke to him still but not with the affection he'd once hoped for.

Kriegman's life in a nutshell, except that somehow over the years, the certainty he'd felt about what was right had worn away. The image of that younger self was still faintly visible to him, but he hadn't been that person for decades now.

And then, when Mandela was freed and it looked for a time like everything was going to go to pieces, everyone he knew dealt with it in different ways. Almost no-one wanted to leave, because if you leave your own country, what are you? Some suffered rage or denial: others adjusted to the new realities as if they'd never known anything different. All kinds of reactions and Kriegman had his own.

But all of this was nonsense and the whisky wouldn't last out the trip if he kept going on in this way. The embers popped and Kriegman selected a small piece of wood to add to the fire. Then he took another sip of the whisky.

He wasn't one for introspection normally, and he didn't willingly let his intelligence off a short rein unless there was a good reason to do so. Certainly he was not the sort of man who'd admit to you that he may have been in the wrong about anything that happened long ago. Once you gave in to that kind of weakness, the doubts came crashing in and you were finished. For instance, it was only in quiet times like these, when he'd been drinking, that he'd even acknowledge to himself his regret that he'd not spent time with his daughter when she was younger. The wife and he were better apart; that much was clear.

And it was even rarer for him to own up to that nagging feeling that he had about the life he'd lived, and maybe even give it a name. Guilt. He knew for a fact that it was stupid and wrong to expect white people to feel guilty about the old ways. Times change, countries change and life goes on. The people he'd known all his life hadn't been bad people in the past and they weren't bad people now. None of them had a reason to feel guilty.

If he felt guilt, it was purely personal; and the basis for it was, the whites I lived with didn't know that how we behaved was all wrong. But I knew. I knew for years that it was wrong and I kept the knowing hidden and never let it change anything that I did or said.

There, he'd admitted something to himself. Was he supposed to feel better now?

Kriegman struggled to his feet and stumbled a little on the way to the latrine. It wasn't the alcohol, just that his legs were getting stiff with age. When he returned he thought that it was time he should retire to his tent; but instead he sank back into the folding chair. He left the bottle where he'd stowed it, with the stopper in and the glass wiped and put away. No more booze for the night and no more uselessly musing about life. There was a present to be considered with its own immediate problems. He'd rather think of that than try to sleep with the thoughts had just been spinning around in his head.

For instance, there was something about the young Englishman Bloom that Kriegman didn´t like or trust, but what it was he couldn´t put his finger on. It wasn´t that Kriegman minded having a Jew in the party. Their money was as good as anyone´s and they were mostly American, and so more willing to part with it than his European clients. He may have occasionally hinted that he didn´t much care for the Jews, when he´d been drinking, but then he didn´t care much for the English, the Yanks, the Germans, French or Italians either. And don´t get him started on the Japs and Chinese. In fact, Kriegman didn´t even think much of other South Africans, despite South Africa being the greatest country on earth. Look at the mess they´d made in their own beautiful country - the blacks in charge now, spoiling things even more than the whites had done before them. No, it was people in general that Kriegman objected to these days, not any particular race.

He was not an old man yet, but in some ways he felt ancient. He didn't have any desire left, that was the problem. All he hoped for was to be allowed to die in the real Africa, which please God should last out whatever time he had left. That and not to end up rotted and useless or a burden on anyone. It wasn´t a lot to ask, even for a man who'd never tried to do more than survive, with a few cheap sins of omission on his conscience. The people he should have cared for more than he had weren't waiting on any sudden confession or repentance from him, and so far as Kriegman himself was concerned, regret was a luxury that made you weaker the more you indulged it. He wasn't a man to permit himself self-knowledge to the extent of needing to ask for forgiveness, even from himself.

So he put such points out of mind once more and returned to the problem of Bloom. Not the Jewish thing then; and to be truthful, you wouldn´t even know that he was Jewish. He didn´t have the look, or that manner that some of them had when they seemed to feel almost obliged to demand more for their money even though they were only paying the same as everyone else; like they had standards of being difficult to live up to. Now that he thought about it, Bloom was good-natured and patient with everyone, even that fool Parker. And it wasn´t those English good manners that everybody mistook for genuine good nature until a few days without home comforts broke the pretence. Some of the Brits turned petty and spiteful at that stage, but Bloom wasn't just being polite. He was really working at being everyone´s friend. He'd even tried to make friends with Kriegman.

Kriegman could understand wanting to get on with other people as a concept. The kudu and impala and the wild pigs were all very different creatures, but they stuck together when they were close to the long grass because then it was useful to have extra pairs of eyes. They had temporary shared interests. But still, there wasn´t one animal that was on good terms with all the others, because some wanted to eat the others or avoid being eaten by them; and animals that didn't meet on the food chain and had no mutual interests just ignored each other. Maybe that was it about Bloom. The members of this party were very different and it wasn´t possible that he should share interests with all of them, yet he talked to all of them as if they were his mates. So he was pretending, but so what? And why? What was he selling: what did he have to gain?

In Kriegman's job, it was interesting to watch people and see how much they were like animals; and it was important to watch developments between them so you could see any bust ups coming before they got serious. But you had to be patient; and Kriegman had more immediate concerns than Bloom to think about. Human motivation was a puzzle that was at least as complicated as animal behaviour, but even animals constantly surprised you just when you thought you knew them well. It was better to keep your eyes open than to waste time constructing elaborate theories before you had enough information. Just don't be taken off guard.

By now, it was getting close to morning and he couldn't remember sleeping at all. Soon he'd have to get that lazy good-for-nothing black roused and on with the breakfast time preparations, or they´d miss half the day before they were ready to move on.

Day Four

Their mornings were always busy. The day began as a race to break camp and put in as many miles as possible before the day was fully heated up. There was a rhythm to it though, no need to get flustered or bad tempered about it. They rose before it was light, but even so Michael had already prepared breakfast for everyone while they were sleeping. They'd collapse the tents and set the sleeping bags to air for a few minutes, then load up the trailer before cleaning up the meal. No one spoke much at that time. After the first day, each pair of campers had slipped into a routine with the tasks allotted between them. On a road trip, repetition is comforting. As the landscape changes the familiarity of chores provides a free space for the mind.

At least that was the way it seemed to Jill Stevens. As she carefully folded the tent that she and Emma had slept in, her thoughts were occupied with musings about their guide. Jill didn´t know what to make of Kriegman. She was sure that none of the others did either. From time to time they´d exchange glances and shake their heads over the things he said or did. But after all, they were all here because they wanted to experience something that was genuinely African. Kriegman was rough and strange as the country.

The driver was easier to read. It was clear that Michael kept some part of himself withdrawn from them. At first he seemed aloof and still he didn´t use three words when none would do. Even so, somehow you just knew that he could be trusted and the longer you were around Michael the more you felt like he was on your side.

By contrast, Kriegman had a wildness about him. At times he seemed to be daring the world to contradict him. For sure he was a creature of the country of his birth. South Africa had been the first place that Jill had visited on this continent, a long time ago, and some of what she saw in Don Kriegman reminded her of what she had found both admirable and appalling about the country at that time.

She remembered one night, when they´d just come out of a restaurant. The man she was with in those days had that thing about always needing to feel he was getting a bargain, as if his self-worth would be threatened by paying full price. He´d been going on about the high quality and low cost of their meal, clearly delighted with the evening so far. The restaurant was on one of those retail parks where there was security on the gate. They were in relaxed mood as they looked for their rented vehicle.

Nearby was a fast food outlet that the local owner had done up in imitation of one of the big international franchises. You saw those clones spring up everywhere in the developing world. Same plate glass, plastic furniture, harsh lighting and primary colours. There were sounds of an argument and as they got closer they saw three black youths outside the café; two shouting and gesticulating at a third who was trying to placate them. One of the aggressors suddenly punched the other boy and immediately his friend joined in the attack.

Jill´s companion hadn´t moved except to make a feeble attempt to pull her back. She didn´t have time to think. In those days she´d carried her camera everywhere and she advanced quickly on the boys taking pictures all the while. The flash drew their attention straight away. As soon as they looked at her, she held her mobile phone high in the air.

"Police come. Police come. You go now."

The two attackers paused for a moment then they ran off. The victim had been knocked to the ground and kicked. He was winded and his face was bleeding, but he´d not been seriously hurt.

Her own man had been sincerely angry with Jill then. The incident had been none of their business, he'd said. Didn´t she know anything about the violence in this country? People were shot just to rob them of their mobile phones. What if the boys had been carrying weapons? What they'd seen could have been a set up.

"They were going to really hurt that boy," she replied.

"For all you know, maybe he deserved it. He could be a thief or anything."

Jill hadn´t responded to that, but her private thought was that even a thief didn´t deserve to be beaten senseless on the pavement. She saw the man a few times more, but really their relationship ended that night.

For all his faults, she sensed that Don Kriegman wasn´t a man who´d stand by and pretend not to notice such a situation, though she imagined him resolving the situation more directly than relying on an imaginary policeman. It was a comforting thought, when you were out in the wilds and completely dependent on someone. Jill didn't know if she liked Kriegman, but she had decided she could trust him.

***

Green arrived at Victoria Falls feeling quite fresh. He´d slept his usual hours on the flight down and the north to south direction meant there was no time difference to adjust to. The hotel was comfortable in an old fashioned sort of way, and it seemed that the bad mood that air travel usually brought on had missed him this time out. He thought that he might even eat out later; get the feel of the place.

When he´d showered and dressed he took a stroll through the afternoon streets. There was a tribal art sculpture park on the corner. Baboons were going through the litter bins and annoying each other while a few solitary wild pigs went about their business in the open space where the railway line cut through the centre of town. The place was both more developed and more primitive than what he´d imagined.

Everyone he met either wanted to sell him something or guide him somewhere. No, he didn´t want to see the Falls just now, but if he did, he would follow the street sign directing him there. Thank you no, he didn't want to hear just now about the attractions of the ethnic market, and he didn´t have room in his luggage for animal carvings, or any use for a souvenir collection of hyper-inflation era Zimbabwean paper money.

The vendors were as insistent as those you always found in places of this kind, where dollar rich visitors were hanging around for a few days before moving on to distant attractions. At least they were friendly enough. It was just unfortunate that no-one he spoke to on the street, nor any of the taxi drivers he approached, had any idea where he might find the address that he´d been given for the tour operators who Bloom was supposed to be travelling with.

Green wasn´t entirely surprised. The street name hadn´t come up on his internet search or in the foldout glossy map that he´d picked up from the information centre. Possibly it was a local name that only meant something to the locals if you happened to be standing within a hundred yards of the place.

The name Wilderness Tours didn´t ring bells with the locals, which wasn't astounding either. There were more than enough local tour operators, all with similar sounding titles. From the brochure that Green had in his pocket, it seemed that Bloom had chosen to travel with a shoestring operation. If they sourced their business overseas and collected the clients at the airport, Wilderness probably didn't advertise in town and wouldn´t be broken hearted if the likes of taxmen and local officials would struggle to catch up with them.

Green had already tried the telephone number of the supposed office. The call was connected somewhere, but although he let it ring for a long time, no-one picked up at the other end. None of these setbacks dismayed him unduly. Bloom's holiday was supposed to last for two weeks and it ended as well as started here, so he should have plenty of time to sort things out before the target returned.

In the evening he set off from the hotel in the direction of the main street. Other guests were being collected in taxis, though the distance was negligible. Green walked past the guests waiting at the rank and up the lane that led from the hotel to the crossroads. He'd travelled plenty, but when you first arrived, it still felt odd to be in a town with no street lighting after dark. After all this was supposed to be the third world.

After browsing a few street menus, Green settled on a restaurant that promised him the true taste of Africa. He asked for a corner seat and a beer and settled down to study how things worked. The other customers were mostly couples or small parties. The woman who came to take his order was European. He put the menu down closed on the table.

"What´s good?" he asked her.

"All very good. We have a choice of meat; kudu, impala, crocodile."

"That means nothing to me. I´ll pass on the crocodile; I hear they live on rotted meat. You have beef I suppose?"

"Beef or chicken if you´d prefer."

"You decide," he told her. "Whatever it is, don´t overcook it and not too many potatoes."

She nodded and left him. The beer wasn´t so bad. The night was pleasantly cool and so far no sign of any mosquitoes, though the net over his bed at the hotel was a reminder of the malaria shots that he´d skipped. He wondered if there was any difference between mosquitoes that carried diseases and the other kind. Probably they were all carriers. He put that thought out of his mind. Now was the time to think about potential difficulties, but tropical diseases weren´t top of the list. For example, he didn´t have a gun, since air travel and weaponry didn´t really mix.

On reflection though, he was probably better off without a weapon. The man he was after was some kind of book keeper; unlikely he´d be dangerous. Guns always meant added complications when it came to not leaving a trail behind. He supposed the Fat Man´s organization could sort out something if need arose, but then again, making any contact with his employer wouldn´t be welcomed just now. The Fat Man didn´t like any contact, even indirect, until a job like this was finished. He'd always been careful that way; keeping a distance, stressing that he was just a businessman, pretending that he didn´t get excited or emotionally involved. Yeah, of course not. Fats had this idea that kosher businessmen were cool and rational. Probably he´d be shocked if he ever had dealings with one. But anyway let's leave things as they are: no gun required.

The food arrived, brought by a young African girl - quite pretty. The dish was a kind of stew, dark meat in a sauce that was too thick. The plate was filled up with rice and potatoes and some local vegetable that Green didn´t recognize. He cut into a little of the meat and saw that there was no pink left inside.

Green pushed the stew around with his fork for a while as the good humour he'd felt for a time subsided to what was normal for him.

The real problem, he thought, is going to be the money. It should be easy enough to find Bloom. Where could he hide in a country like this? Right now, the Fat Man believed he didn´t care about the loot, except he wanted it known that no-one who stole money from him lived long enough to spend it, but now that Green had seen the numbers he was sure that his patron's lapse of cupidity would be temporary. That was a lot of cash, even if Bloom might have blown a slice of it already. Green had been serious when he said he preferred to take his fee and return the rest. Someone who loved money as much as the Fat Man would change his mind about what was fair once he started to think about a lowly soldier like Green getting hold of a wad like that. Green's prudent course would be to deduct enough commission to leave himself well paid for the job and leave it at that.

But suppose that somehow the money was already gone? Green wasn´t fool enough to rely on the Fat Man's hint that he would be looked after whatever became of the cash. That offer was like one of those insurance policies that are supposed to give you peace of mind but if you do need to make a claim you find it cheaper to take a deep breath and stand the loss yourself. If Green even mentioned that conversation again to the Fat Man, the best he could expect would be a dirty look. This job was an eat what you kill, no-win, no-fee kind of deal. And worse than that, if he did come back empty-handed, Fats would have people watching him like a hawk to see if he was behaving like someone who'd come into money.

In the criminal line of work that was Green's world, things fell apart when someone like Bloom stopped being honest. Everything depended on relationships of trust, even though you could only trust anyone up to a point. Green going queer on them made everyone consider everyone else as maybe unreliable; and then you were living in dangerous times.

Judging from this town and this plate of food, Green had concluded that there wasn´t much that you could blow a fortune on here. The money wasn´t being spent just now; at least not in Africa. On the other hand, it was never likely that Bloom would have arrived in Africa with a backpack stuffed full of cash. Maybe he was here to turn the money into something else - could diamonds be a possibility? There was information that would need to be extracted from him and the extraction would be complicated and probably unpleasant. Thinking about that aspect of the work didn't help Green´s digestion.

He called the girl over and asked her to take his plate and bring the bill.

"But you haven´t touched it. Don´t you like?"

"I´m sure it´s wonderful," Green lied. "I just decided that it wasn´t really what I wanted after all. No problem about the bill. I pay."

He went back to the hotel and enjoyed a rare steak and most of a decent bottle of red. Green would have agreed with Julian Bowen that the finer things in life were important. Food and drink were too pleasurable not to have the best that was available. A difference between them was that in Green´s view, such pleasures were best enjoyed in moderation.

Day Five

The next morning, Green went to visit the waterfalls. They were pretty enough, but he wasn't really a man for scenery. By the time he was done, it was lunch time and he thought that maybe he'd try to find a place to drink that wasn´t filled with tourists, somewhere he might have a chance to discover something useful. He found a likely looking establishment at the edge of the park, next to the camp ground. They served beer on a terrace out back for customers who found the shade of the bar and its constant TV reruns of European football games too much for daytime.

The beer was cheap and refreshing, but there weren´t many people around. There was bass heavy music coming out of a homemade speaker system and a big screen television showing soccer from the English league, with the sound off. Green sipped from his bottle and watched the game for a while. A skinny young black approached him to ask for a light.

"Sorry, I don´t smoke."

The youth nodded and trotted across to the hatch that served the customers on the patio. When he´d got a light for his smoke, he returned to Green´s place.

"Good music, yeah?"

"I suppose."

"You need to be here in the night, man. The drinks are cheap. The music. White girls on holiday and looking for a good time. Beautiful girls... well some of them."

"You like it here?"

"Oh yeah. And you know, I´m lucky. Because I´m handsome, they´re all fighting to be with me. I have to be careful not to break their hearts, but I´m a good person, you see. One day I´m going to choose one of them to be my special woman, but hey, you see me. I´m too young for that just now."

"It sounds like you have a good time."

"I have a great time. Hey, you have a good time as well. Stick with me. Maybe buy me a few beers that cost nothing for you, and I make sure of it. I´ll tell you a secret. This place is okay and it´s cheap but there are better places. I can take you, show you. Girls come to me, like I said, I don´t have to chase them. It´s easy for you to start a conversation with one of them if you´re with me. Know what I mean? The place I´m thinking of has the best girls, the very best."

"I´m looking for something else," Green interrupted him. "A friend of mine is out here and I promised to look him up. He´s with this company, see the brochure? – Wilderness Tours. I need to find the office. You see the address at the bottom there."

The youth took the paper doubtfully and stared at it for a moment. Green wondered if he could read.

"That place looks like shit," he told Green. "You should tell your friend don´t go with a company like this. If you want a proper safari, I know the best. I can take you, get you a good rate."

"I don´t want a safari. I want to find this place. Do you know where it is or not?"

Again the boy looked doubtful.

"Yes, yes. I know where it is, I think. Just let me be certain. Maybe we have another beer and I will think about it."

By the time Green returned from the bar, the boy was positive that he knew where the tour company had its offices. He could take Green there right away, but maybe it would be better to check with his friend Mason first. Mason knew where everything and everybody was. He was out of town just at that moment but he´d be back later on. By evening he´d be back for sure and then they would find the place in no time. Green thanked him, drained the last of his beer and stood up to leave.

"I´ll see you at seven, no later," the boy called after him. "My name is Precious, remember, everybody knows, Precious."

Green raised an arm in acknowledgement as he walked away, but he didn´t look back.

He tried some other places, but he was having no luck that day. It was just possible, he´d started to think, that the whole going off on safari story was a put up job - a diversion. Maybe Bloom had never come to Victoria Falls at all. It would have been easy to buy a new ticket in Johannesburg. He could be in Switzerland turning the money into something more negotiable right now. Perhaps Wilderness Tours didn´t exist either.

Hours later, Green hadn´t been back to the hotel and it was still a hot day. He was wearing the same loose fitting sports shirt and khaki slacks he'd put on that morning; and feeling somewhat uncomfortable. Green drew a line at shorts, seeing no reason to make himself appear ridiculous just because he was in a different country. He wasn´t naturally sweaty, but by now he did feel jaded. It was time for a shower and to freshen up and then he could think about what his next move should be. In any case there wasn´t much daylight left and he´d nothing to show for a wasted day.

"Hey man, good to see you."

It was the kid from the bar, with the elaborate hair and big eyes.

"Precious. You remember me," the kid insisted.

Green started to walk on, but the boy turned and fell in step with him.

"I spoke to my man Mason. Sure enough we can take you to that place you need to find. Mason knows that place well. Don´t even need a cab, we can walk from here."

It sounded unlikely, but Green had tried everything else.

"Let´s go then."

"Good. That´s good. But first we have to meet Mason. I know the bar where he´s at."

Precious led them out of town on a road that served a residential area. There seemed no danger of getting lost although the light was fading fast. The streets were broad and straight, though without footpaths or lights. Before too long they crossed a junction and Green saw that they were walking alongside the wall of a compound. At the end of the lane, Precious took a sharp left and Green realized that they were standing at the front entrance of a bar, bigger than the others he had seen.

The heavy gates were closed and topped with razor wire, but there was a separate little door set into one of them that was being held open by someone offering to let them in. Whether he was a doorman, or just someone hoping to collect tips by hanging around in the doorway, was impossible to say.

Inside the compound there was a long bar with a block like building behind it. Along the edge of the broad surfaced area that fronted the bar was an open kitchen, with some tables and beyond that a grassy area of open space. Green supposed that later in the night, drinkers would be crowded into the space between the kitchen and the bar, but for now the whole place was quiet.

Mason was waiting for them in a place that the bright lighting in the compound did not illuminate, by a large tree that shaded an area close to the outer wall. He was older than Precious and not so excitable. He looked at Green carefully before he spoke.

"My associate," he said, nodding towards Precious, "tells me that you have someone you want to find."

"It´s not a big investigation. I only need the address of an office."

"But still, Mason continued in the same slow, confident tone, you need our help. I suppose it must be worth something to you. Twenty dollars maybe?"

"Twenty US to tell me where a street is?"

"I hope you weren´t expecting to pay in Zim dollars."

"I´ll give you ten when we see the place."

"Okay, but first you buy us a drink. Cheap enough here for you rich people. After that we go."

Green sat patiently for half an hour as Mason sipped his beer and Precious gave Green more details about all the European women who threw themselves at him every night. When their bottles were finally empty and Mason suggested gravely that they should have one more drink for the road, Green only said quietly that they needed to be moving unless his friends were simply wasting his time.

Back in the street, away from the lights and loud music, the night was now very dark. Mason walked on ahead and Precious stayed closer to Green. They had to stay in single file to avoid the intermittent traffic that passed by in both directions. Where they were headed did not have the look of a commercial area, but then it seemed that Green's standard expectations of town geographies didn´t apply here.

The houses of the neighborhood were well set back from the road even though they were modest dwellings, without garden walls or fences for the most part. There was plenty of land to build on. The tarmac was bounded by a grassy open area on either side that was greasy to walk on and distanced the road from the houses that were the only source of occasional light. The whole enterprise had felt like a wild goose chase from the beginning and soon they were coming to the point where there were no more houses.

Here, Mason stopped. They were at the top of a small rise. Below them, the road continued through an area that was even darker than the path they had already travelled. Green couldn't make out anything of what might be ahead. The road surface under his feet was crumbling away and there was nothing here that would indicate the presence of a holiday company´s offices or any other form of enterprise.

"The place you want is just down there," Mason told Green. "The road winds round to the right and then on your right you´ll see the sign. Now pay us."

"I said ten dollars when you show me the place. So far you´ve shown me nothing."

"The price is twenty dollars. We´ve come a long way and twenty is nothing to you. No need for us to go any further with you. Unless you want us to walk you home. That will cost you extra."

"Ten dollars when I see the sign," Green insisted.

Mason sighed.

"Now I´m thinking that the price is going to go up some more."

"How much do you have in your wallet?" Precious demanded.

He was trying to make his voice sound tough.

"None of your business. Do either of you know where the place is or is all of this bollocks?"

"Now you are insulting us, little guy," Mason told him. "You hurt our feelings. The price goes up for sure."

Precious stepped in closer to Green. He was a head taller, and he leaned over to put his face close to Green´s in a way that was supposed to be menacing.

"Don´t be stupid man. We got friends in that bush only waiting on in case Mason whistles. They come out of the dark, then you have real trouble."

"Yes; friends, it's true," Mason agreed, "and they all need to be paid, so give us what you have now."

The kid was leaning in way too close, inviting the punch that Green planted hard into his stomach. As Precious started to double over, Green put both hands behind the boy´s head and pulled it down onto his upraised knee. Precious wouldn´t be as pretty in the morning, but he'd be stunned for a while rather than badly hurt.

Mason stepped towards him and Green was a little concerned that the heavier man might be hiding a blade, so he grabbed the wrist of Mason´s outstretched hand and yanked it towards him, turning the wrist over and bringing his free hand round to press firmly into the triceps muscle of Mason´s trapped arm, as the momentum of the bigger man carried his body forward with its full weight. Mason screamed and Green guessed that the arm was probably broken, but the idiot still didn´t go down easily, obliging Green to treat him to an old fashioned kick in the balls for good measure. That took the air and any present disposition to fight out of him. They´d both live with no lasting injuries, which was a bonus for them.

Green took two ten dollar notes out of his wallet and let one of them flutter to the ground beside each of the groaning bodies. Then he set off in the direction Mason had pointed, on the off chance that there might be anything to see out there but bush.

Day Six

Green had been surprised to find that Mason wasn't lying about knowing the whereabouts of Wilderness Tours. It made him feel a tiny pang of guilt about the recent altercation, but a deal was a deal. Where the road straightened out, there were three industrial units that were little more than huts; shabby even in the glow of his pocket torch. All the units were surrounded by chain link fencing that he was reluctant to scale that night, but the weathered signboards hanging beside the gate of each unit informed him that the first was used by a builder and the second by a satellite dish provider, while the tour firm occupied the third.

In the yard in front of the office he made out the shapes of some smaller huts and an old micro bus that looked as if it might be rotted past use. Also scattered around were the remains of an old four by four that was definitely not going anywhere since the wheels were gone and the engine was blocked up on bricks just by the fence.

Green didn´t stay longer than the time it took to confirm that he was in the right place, just in case Mason really did have friends who weren´t too far away. He went back to the hotel, cleaned up and enjoyed a good night's sleep.

The three industrial units looked even more desolate in the still cool light of next morning. No one was around. There was a decent padlock on the gate at Wilderness Tours, but as far as pedestrians were concerned it was made redundant by a gap in the fencing down the far side that was big and well trodden enough to be the principal access unless you were driving.

Inside the yard, the main building was shuttered and locked and Green couldn´t tell much from the outside of it, except that if Wilderness Tours had a sales and marketing department, they didn´t come by this place very often. Behind the main hut there was a fuel tank supported on bricks over a concrete base, and an old car with panels of various shades and a passenger side door that was barely attached.

There was also a back door that yielded easily to Green´s efforts to force it.

There was a lot of dust inside the unit. Someone had left without bothering to wash the used mugs that were dotted about, but from the neglected state of the interior it seemed be unwise to conclude that this meant they´d left in a hurry. There was a lot of equipment in racks, more strewn over the floor. Green didn´t waste time trying to work out what any of it was for.

He came across a lightweight table with a single folding chair in front of it and a few battered maps piled on the grimy surface. One of them was spread half open on the table and a route had been traced out on it in marker pen. Green folded up the map and put it in his jacket pocket. He couldn´t be sure that it marked out the path of the current tour, but if he needed to go after Bloom, this looked like being his best help. The whisky bottle that had been used to weight down the map had been emptied recently. The ring left on the map was not quite dry.

Why a supposed big hitter like Bloom would hook up with an operation like Wilderness was a mystery that might have some bearing on where he could be found; but for now at least Green could conclude that the company did have some official existence even if it was the kind of business where the proprietor was in the habit of sleeping at the premises. There was an unrolled sleeping bag on the floor and a sticky patch on the wood next to it where something whisky-ish had spilled from an upended glass tumbler.

There was also a computer. Mains power had to be connected because the standby light was on. Green thought it unlikely that Wilderness would have any administrative personnel turning up to work that morning while the field staff were out in the wilds. More likely it was a one man show. In any case, the padlock and gate would ensure he'd have enough notice of anyone who did come. Green settled down to see what he could learn from whatever was stored on the computer.

***

After the first nights of camping in the wild, Kriegman told the travellers that for this evening only, they were going to enjoy luxury. His idea of luxury turned out to be a commercially operated campsite with rudimentary toilets and showers, even a bar. That night they would eat in the terrace area next to the bar which was designated as a restaurant when enough guests were around to provide custom. After this night, he warned them, they would mostly eat whatever Michael could throw together from what they carried or were able to pick up along the way.

They were a little quicker putting up the two man tents by now, but by the time each pair had unpacked their kit and taken their turn in the shower the light was already fading.

Julian was grateful that at least there was alcohol, even if he'd normally have considered the wine that was on offer fit only for cooking. As it was, he refilled his mug with Cape red often enough. The others didn't seem to be much interested in drink. Even Kriegman barely touched a drop, so far as Julian could see. Must be a secret drinker then, given the ruin of his broken-veined face, or maybe a recovering alcoholic. The food was simple but plentiful and it was clear that heat and travelling had not affected anybody's appetite.

"These people here love us so much that they have arranged some entertainment for us," Kriegman told them. "Bring your drinks out onto the terrace."

Seating had been laid out for them on either side of the wooden deck, facing an empty central area. In the dark beyond the terrace, they heard muffled drumbeats and stamping. Then the drums picked up a steady, strong rhythm and a few moments later the dancers arrived.

It was an all female troupe; six girls dressed in traditional costume; headdresses, halter-tops and short-fringed skirts. They were barefoot but with ornate shakers strapped around their ankles. Two older women, more modestly dressed, followed them in while keeping up an insistent simple beat on the drum that each of them carried. The rhythm was stressed and embellished by the handclaps and foot stomps of the dancers, who began to chant in close harmony as they emerged into the performance space.

The dancers were all young girls, three of them with ample breasts and hips and some plumpness around the middle that suited their shiny black skin. Two taller girls were lean to the point of being skinny, while the leader had the body of a classical dancer. She and the one who looked like a sister to her initiated the changes in the dance and took most of the solo parts. The lead girl had an incredible vocal range that she used to decorate the group chanting with a variety of soprano bird screeches and trills, while her sister added deeper click sounds to the harmony.

The dancing was intense from the start. At first the response of Kriegman's party was a little stiff; they clapped along reluctantly and behind the beat. But the dances were long and varied and the shifting rhythms hypnotic. Before long the audience started to move and sway unselfconsciously to the djembe drumbeat.

It was clear to see that the women's dances were intended to mirror aspects of village life. Some of the actions were unmistakably based on everyday domestic chores. Others had to do with husbands or lovers. Judging from the movements of the dance, village life included healthy amounts of sex. The pattern of each dance was the same. First a combination of chant, handclaps drums and stamping established the fundamental beat, then the girls would take their solos or duets, which became more intense as more complex rhythms began to spin off the underlying beat that never faltered, punctuated by vocal trills and birdlike calls of the principal dancer.

The basic steps were steady and powerful, every stressed beat hit with the thump of a stamp and the rattle of the ankle shakers. The legs and hips were a constant sinuous ripple of muscle that moved in double time to the beat, in contrast to the slow movements of the arms and shoulders that were almost rigid. Head, neck and arm movements were sudden and dramatic, but without the rest of the body losing expression of the complex rhythmic flow. Below the waist kept the beat while above the waist told the story.

The dance looked exhausting, but the girls didn't sweat or seem fatigued. They shared smiles with each other between the songs as if they were dancing only for their own enjoyment, appreciating and encouraging each other's efforts.

After the fourth or fifth dance, the drums picked up a slower, simpler beat and the young leader told them in halting English that the young girls of their party should join in with this next dance. Girls from the troupe shyly approached Jill and Emma and escorted them gently to the stage, where they joined the chorus, clapping and swaying as best they could.

This was a story dance and it became clear that the English girls were taking the part of novices, young girls who needed to be introduced to the skills of womanhood by their more experienced sisters. In turn they had to follow and mimic the actions of the leader, who mimed a variety of essential tasks. After they'd done that there was a change in the beat that demanded they move their hips more, which caused some good-natured laughter on all sides. Clearly these were movements that symbolized a different kind of growing up and awakening. Then the main girl led each of them in turn away from the dance to where the drummers were sitting.

Emma was first. One of the older women had put down her drum, while the other still kept up the beat. Emma had to kneel in front of the old lady as she took both of Emma's hands in her own and stared steadily and hard into her face. The lead dancer stood beside the old lady all the while and still the other dancers and the one drummer maintained the beat.

When the old lady had seen what she needed to see, she released Emma's hands and beckoned to the lead dancer, who bent low to hear her whispered words as Emma stood up. Then the young girl whispered something to Emma before leading her back to the main group and then taking Jill over to the old lady where the same process was repeated.

Once the English girls had completed their mime tasks and received the wisdom of a mother or grandmother, they were permitted to take their seats to warm applause and that dance finished soon after. Then the dancers launched into their final number which was even more spectacular and extended than what had gone before. The show finished to enthusiastic clapping and cheering.

"What did you think of all that?" Emma asked Jill later.

The two of them were tent buddies and they had finally settled into their sleeping bags for the night.

"You mean the dance?" Jill replied. "It was strange. At first I thought it would be embarrassing. I mean it's very much for the tourists I suppose; African tribal dancing. But then the girls seemed to be enjoying themselves and it was infectious. I still don't know if it was genuinely traditional dancing, but there was something about it anyway."

"It was sexy though, wasn't it?"

"Mm, yes."

"Made me feel like I need a man."

"I know which man you're thinking of Emma."

"You mean Jonathan? But he is gorgeous isn't he? Quite a hunk. And he speaks to you in that so polite way but all the time those eyes that look at you like there's something wicked and animal in them. As if he was dangerous."

"Maybe he is dangerous Emma. Maybe you should be careful if you don't want to be hurt."

Emma laughed.

"Don't worry about me mum. I'm on holiday remember. I can be with whoever I like if it's only for a fortnight, can't I?"

"Well you know what I mean. What did the old lady tell you about your life?"

Emma giggled.

"Oh, you know. The usual fortune teller's stuff. She said I'd meet a good man and a bad man and that I must be careful to know which was which."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

"Except that I was hoping there might be more than two men in my future."

"You're like a teenage girl. It must be these African sunsets. But why did you even come here if you only want to meet men? That's a different sort of holiday altogether."

Now Emma sighed.

"I do love Africa; and I am quite independent you know. I'm here on my own aren't I? Anyway I'm too old now for the sort of holidays you mean. The girls of my own age that I'd go with are all married with young kids. I'd be the desperate ageing nympho who gets sloshed every night on her own, propping up the bar."

"You'd be snapped up in a minute and you know it."

"Jill, you'd be surprised. Anyway, we've only talked about me. Tell me what the old lady saw in your future."

"She didn't say much about the future. She told me that I was a strong woman, and that I should stop living the life of a weak woman."

"Does that mean anything to you?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

They were quiet for a moment. Outside the tent, there was still some movement around the camp as the last of their party prepared to retire for the night.

"Well, you know what I think about it," Emma said.

"What?"

"I think the old lady just mumbles any rambling thought that comes into her head; and the young girl pretends to translate, but really she's the one telling you what she thinks she sees. She was pretty shrewd, that one, don't you think? She had all the other girls organized and she could probably read the likes of you and I easily enough."

"You're not superstitious then?"

"I don't think so," Emma replied. "I mean, in the end, human lives are not so very different from each other are they? There's just a few kinds of people and the same things go on happening to them; only the names and the small details change."

"You don't sound very satisfied with that."

"I think maybe that is why I love Africa, Jill. When I'm here I at least have the feeling that all the normal rules don't hold me anymore and maybe something unexpected could happen. I'd like that."

"Perhaps," Jill replied. "I'm going to sleep now anyway. Just remember what they say about being careful what you wish for. You might not like what you get. Goodnight."

Day Seven

The days on the road quickly established a rhythm of their own. From the beginning, it was obvious to Julian that even if Kriegman sat in the boss's seat, Michael was the one running the trip. It was he who answered the incessant questions about the lives and habitats of birds and mammals all the while keeping the Land Cruiser moving smoothly over terrain that was never less than difficult. At the same time, the driver was constantly watching out for tracks and other signs of animals that were always close but often hard to spot in the scrub and woodland.

The black man had a strangely precise way of speaking, choosing his words carefully. Julian was reminded of that old duffer who´d tried to teach them Latin back at school; although unlike Mr. Huddlestone, Michael didn't have even a hint of a tremor in his voice, just a tiny inflection of accent and the occasional chuckle that was a surprisingly loud and uninhibited when it came. Julian decided that he wasn't a bad sort really. It was a shame.

As soon as they'd entered the bush proper, Michael had become a different person, alert to everything. His eyes picked out every detail in the landscape. He'd slow the truck to walking pace to explain the meaning of tracks in the sandy soil that the rest of them hadn't even seen were there. He showed them where the predators had been and what kind of prey they had been tracking, pointing out the difference between the tracks of leopard and hyena. There were always little pinpricks in the sand where the nails of dogs had been, but the cats kept their claws retracted until they were needed. Rather like myself, Julian reflected.

It seemed that for Michael, driving the Cruiser was just an extension of walking. As the roads became more difficult he piloted them through heavy drifts of sand that threatened to submerge the axles without seeming to pay much attention to his driving, his attention still fixed on the trail. Once or twice they did become temporarily stuck, but eventually Michael was always able to work the wheels free of the clinging sand that sucked at them, or else coax the truck over the low ridges that seemed too steep for the little traction they had; backing off to build up enough speed so that the momentum of their charge would carry them over the top and down the other side in a controlled slide.

Kriegman just sat there nodding quiet approval to all of this, or else from time to time he might say, yes those were hyena tracks all right. Julian doubted that the watery eyed guide was capable of seeing the imprint of a hyena claw when it was pointed out to him, but even so he noticed that Michael showed the old man genuine respect. In fact the two of them seemed to like each other.

Whenever there was an opportunity, Julian would chat with the boss and his man, even more than with the others. He was gently probing all the time, interested to see where any arguments might start; but when he tried to encourage Michael to say something critical about Kriegman, the response was surprising:

"You must understand that Don is a white South African of the old school. His manner is brutal and he does not have words to say what he feels, but he has a good spirit."

They were the most eloquent words Julian had heard Michael utter, but he filed them away for future reference reflecting that loyalty was just one more human failing that it was easy to exploit.

***

Only one more ridge to cross, Kriegman told them: and then they would be in the true savannah: but this ridge was not the easiest. The gradient was steeper than what they had already traversed. Enough vehicles had passed this way before them to gauge the only track into deep parallel trenches that the winds and gravity had filled with light sand. Thick bush crowded the track on either side; more dense than in the surrounding country, except where elephants had bulldozed their personal highways across the terrain. Only a narrow corridor was available for the passage of vehicles.

Michael ran the Cruiser directly at the slope, though it seemed obvious that they would not cross the summit. They did manage to gain a good distance before the spinning wheels finally gave up purchase in the deep sand.

Michael eased back into neutral and then reverse. He kept the engine revving and sawed the steering wheel from side to side as they backed down the slope, half-rolling, half sliding. By the time he stopped they were back at the foot of the slope, but in front of them the track was now cut deeper and broader.

They took another charge at the slope. The result was the same; a little bit closer to the summit, but short. Before they reversed back again, Kriegmann spoke briefly to Michael and then turned to face the rest of them.

"Okay," he said. "Everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Johnson out here."

They climbed down from the truck. This was unusual, Julian thought. Normally Kriegman forbade any of them to leave the vehicle unless it was for a planned stop or toilet break. Even then he ordered them to stay close to the vehicle. The unspoken assumption was that they'd be killed by hungry lions or crushed by rampaging elephants the moment they stepped out into the bush alone. Kriegman didn't appear to trust his clients any more than if they had been children. In fact, so far as Julian could see, children was exactly what he considered them to be, and he didn't make much effort to pretend he liked kids.

So now they were standing by the side of the track, not far from the summit of the ridge, waiting for Michael to launch another assault on the slope.

"When he gets to us here, he'll be practically stopped," Kriegman told them. "You three, climb on the trailer and lean as far backwards as you can get without falling off. We want more weight on the back to stop her just sliding around, but be careful. The rest of you, when he slows enough, you get in behind the truck and push with all you've got. I'll give the word."

They heard the engine note change and the gears engage. The Cruiser picked up speed as it raced towards them. Then it was onto the steeper part of the slope. The engine began to complain and progress stopped matching the revolutions of the wheels as they tyres slipped a little. Precious speed dropped away rapidly on the short climb and by the time Michael reached their position, the angry whine of the straining engine was barely moving the Cruiser forward at all.

"Now!" Kriegman shouted, getting his own broad shoulder braced against the back of the truck.

They all did as they'd been told. The Cruiser battled to maintain forward momentum. For a moment, as the engine screamed, it felt to be slipping sideways, but then suddenly the worst of the gradient was over and Michael found some purchase for the wheels.

"Leave it," Kriegman ordered.

The truck had no time to wait. Those making weight on the back of the trailer jumped down and the others stepped quickly out of the space between the trailer and the vehicle. Michael was picking up speed again now. He'd have to keep going hard over the top, where the sand was still deep and then skate down the other side a little before stopping for them at a place where he could be sure of getting started again.

"Good job everyone," Kriegman told them.

Then they heard a sharp crack and the noise of the engine died away. All of them started to run after the vehicle.

As soon as they crossed the rise they could see what had happened. Just beyond the summit, the trunk of a medium sized tree lay across the track. It had been growing close to the trail and it was obvious that an elephant had recently decided to rip it out and make a snack of the roots, which were chewed away. The big, pan-flat tracks all around told their own story.

Michael would have seen the obstruction moments before he hit it, without much time to react in any way. The trunk was slender and already partly buried in the sand, so that he'd see a chance to pass over it with the speed he was carrying. There'd been just enough time to brake, but if he'd stopped their way would have been blocked by the tree, with no obvious way to get around it. Instead, Michael's decision had been to keep going as hard as possible.

When they came to the Cruiser, a little further down the back slope, they could see that the vehicle had crashed over the trunk, doing some damage to the bull bars at the front, but more importantly twisting the right front wing of the vehicle upwards. The wheel arch was now pressed into the tyre, although the tyre itself seemed not to have punctured. The wing wasn't so much crumpled as bent inwards.

The trailer was in worse shape. The lightweight frame and wheels had bounced over the tree easily enough, but the weight of the load coming down hard had snapped one of the suspension springs. Now the right side wheel was sticking out from the body of the trailer at a sad angle and the trailer itself was listing dangerously.

Michael was already out of the vehicle, examining the damage.

"What do you think?" Kriegman asked him.

"Not good," Michael replied.

The two of them got to work, while the rest stood or sat around, the women concerned and the men trying hard not to feel useless. Andrew Parker observed the work closely, but even he seemed to know better than to offer helpful advice at this moment.

"They've got a heavy jack," he reported. "They're trying to get it braced against the frame of the truck to bend the body back out to shape."

The process seemed to involve a good deal of physical heaving and straining and some colourful swearing from Kriegman. In between there appeared to be progress of sorts. After a while the guides stopped for a break. Michael took the chance to make a closer inspection of the trailer and then he moved a short distance away from them, for a private smoke. Kriegman came across to join the others.

"Is it still bad?" Julian asked him cheerfully.

Kriegman spat into the sand before replying, but his voice sounded reasonable enough.

"You can see for yourselves. We're not going far as matters stand."

"But you can fix it?" Julian persisted.

"With the truck, the problem is to get some leverage on the wheel arch. The jack keeps slipping off and we can't get to the underneath properly for all the bloody sand. We might need to dig out and put something solid underneath. With the trailer, the metal's snapped. I'm kicking myself. We carry a spare but I used it last month. There might be another back at my compound, but it's not much use to us there."

"And what if you can't fix it?"

"Then we're fucked aren't we?" Kriegman gave Julian an unpleasant smile and walked back to the cruiser. He aimed a futile kick at the offending bent wing before lowering himself slowly and painfully to the ground to inspect the damage done by the tree one more time.

Julian turned to Andrew Parker, their alternative source of wilderness knowledge.

"If he can't make it work, then I suppose we radio for help," he suggested.

"That two-way they have in the cab is probably not much good for that, unless there happens to be someone already close to us," Andrew told him. "Mostly, the tour guides use the walkies to talk between themselves when they're in the game parks."

This was interesting news for Julian, who seemed to be fascinated by the details of their situation, despite being the one least concerned about their plight.

"Aren't you worried at all," Jonathan? Emma asked him.

"Oh, I'm sure it will be alright in the end," Julian replied. "It's just a bit of a bore having to stand around like this."

Sometime later, Kriegman and Michael managed to get the right wheel arch of the Cruiser free of the wheel and into an approximation of its previous shape. There hadn't been any damage to the sub-frame as far as they could see. Neither man gave any outward show of urgency. This was a country where time moved differently and it was more important that things should be done right first time than that they should be done as quickly as possible.

Next, they turned their attention to the trailer. After some discussion, Michael walked back to the Cruiser and returned with a length of rope. The two men got the heavy jack set against the trailer, but there was no way to brace it between the wheel and the frame. Michael produced a smaller jack and managed to get that one wedged. Once they'd levered the wheel into a position that looked close to how it should be, Michael took the length of rope and crawled under the trailer so that he could lie on his back and see the damage.

"My god, he's going to try to hold it together with the rope," Andrew Parker told them.

They watched Michael looping the rope around something and then tugging hard to bring one metal part in close contact with another. He repeated the action several times, lashing the snapped parts of the joint together as tightly as he could.

When he crawled out from under the trailer, the two men carefully released the pressure of the jack and moved it aside. The wheel settled a little into place. It looked fine, at least for now.

"Will that really hold?" Julian asked Kriegman.

"We'll see," was all the reply he got.

"I think it will be useable," Michael told him. "You have to be careful that the rope is not rubbing on any sharp surface that can wear it away; but maybe now it will last for a while."

And so finally, they were ready to move on again. Everyone climbed back into the vehicle and for the next few miles they were all waiting to hear the snap that would come as the trailer with all their supplies lurched over and toppled into the dust. When that didn't happen, it wasn't long before they all stopped worrying about it. Only Julian kept turning over the incidents of the day in his mind for a long time, and some part of his thoughts kept a thin smile playing on his lips as they continued due west.

Day Eight

Having crossed the main ridge, the tour made steady progress along nameless tracks, interrupted by frequent stops to view and photograph the animals. But by now Julian was bored with the sight of all these grass eaters. The cold ferocity in the eyes of the motionless crocodiles that they'd watched at Chobe had held his attention, but now the river was far behind. If he had to spend time looking at nature, he preferred that it should be red of teeth and claw.

The next morning, they came across a scene that stirred him. A pack of wild dogs had made a recent kill and were tearing into the flesh of their still warm prey. Michael told them that the dogs were the most successful hunters on the continent because they could keep a good pace for many kilometers. Once they had separated a target from its herd they would easily wear down prey that had an initial burst of speed much faster than them, simply by refusing to allow it to rest.

The dogs were efficient killers, but without finesse. Julian preferred big cats. He hadn´t realized they would be able to get so close to the lions, dozing under the acacias. Even a leopard that had recently finished gorging itself and was butchering a kill in order to store leftovers in the high branches of a tree seemed untroubled by their presence. These were ambush predators which didn´t expend energy unduly; unlike the dogs running yapping after their prey. The cats would wait and plan and only make their spring when they were ready. There was elegance about that way to make a killing which Julian could identify with.

Emma was now flirting with him more or less openly, although it seemed that Jill was not minded to compete with her for his attention, which was a pity. Julian had more or less decided that Jill was interested in girls not boys. In any case, now he had his own prey in clear sight.

The thing with Emma wouldn't mean anything to him of course, but she provided a distraction. The days would be too tedious otherwise; and all his life, Julian had been more frightened of boredom than of anything else. He would have been bored to real tears now if there had been nothing more interesting to do than listen to Andrew Parker's droning voice asking their guide questions that were only intended to show how much Parker already knew about the dark continent. And whenever anyone else managed to get a question in, one second after Michael had patiently responded, Parker invariably felt obliged to supply an additional comment from his stock of African wisdom. Julian longed for Michael or Kriegman to tell Parker to shut up. A row between them in the confined space of the Cruiser would liven things up a bit.

However, even Parker could be useful when Julian wanted to steer the conversation a certain way. You only had to show some mild interest in a subject and he would tell you more than you wanted to know about it. Julian got him talking again about the two way radio in the cab. It would be useful in an emergency, he supposed.

"Not really," Parker informed him. "They are very limited in range; only good for line of sight really. The guides use them to work together, so that if one of them spots an interesting group of animals he can let the others know where they are."

"Is that right, Michael?" Julian asked. He didn´t entirely trust any response Parker gave him.

"Yes, the range is limited normally, although some days you find you have a signal from miles away. You can never tell with radio. Very unpredictable."

Julian needed to follow this up.

"But that means when we don't have a signal on the mobiles, we're out of contact with anyone. What happens if we break down?"

"This is Africa," Kriegman told him. "If we break down we put it right ourselves. That's why we carry spares and just about anything else we might need."

"My GPS will work anywhere though," Parker added.

"But we don't have everything we could need really," Julian persisted. "I mean, for example, wild animals can attack. We don´t have a gun between us do we?"

"It´s not legal to bring a gun here," Andrew Parker said.

"The animals stay away from our fire and we don´t bother them," said Michael.

"We won't need a gun out here, but I´m a South African," said Kriegman. "I don´t travel without a weapon."

He patted the glove compartment on the dash before him.

"That´s interesting," Julian replied. "I don´t know anything about guns but I wouldn´t think that a pistol would be much good against animals."

Kriegman twisted in his seat so that he was facing directly back at Julian.

"A Glock is good against the most dangerous animal in Africa, other than the mosquito."

"Ah, you mean people."

"My friend, out here is peaceful. In and around Jo´burg there are places where people will tell you that you can´t go. But that´s my country, you know. No one can say to me there's any part of it I should be scared of. Do you understand me?"

Julian nodded. Kriegman turned back to face the track. He regretted having spoken like that to a client. There was no need for it, but he´d wanted to shut Bloom up. Something about the man was getting under his skin, no point denying it. Julian was quiet for a while afterwards, but he was smiling again under his dusty bandana.

***

Changes in the landscape they passed through were sudden. It seemed like weeks since they'd seen a blacktop road. All the time the land was getting drier, although everywhere there were signs that some of the tracks would be underwater if the rainy season ever arrived. They started to come across small dry pans where the water had evaporated and the elephants had moved on leaving only droppings and the trunks of a few dead trees that had been pulled out of the ground and had their roots chewed away. What seemed to be footpaths that crisscrossed the sand roads were only the bulldozed tracks of wandering elephants. There were no people out here; or so it seemed.

In the delta, the land had been coloured a deep rich green wherever water flowed, contrasted with parched brown dirt on every slight elevation. But now that country was far behind, and everything around them was dry and yellow as far as the eye could see.

There was no live grass to speak of, just a few green stalks that nestled deep in a floss of golden straw. The trees were not so large or numerous. Here and there a fat giant boabob, or an umbrella thorn seen in the distance, with slender boughs rising up from a low thick trunk to that certain height where the tree decided to spread a flat green canopy across a broad sweep of sky. Lacking the deep roots of these giants, everything smaller was just scrub, poking out of the earth and clinging on to life until the day when the rains came. They passed through natural orchards of dark bush. Densely packed boughs growing almost vertically twisted around each other spreading a carpet of copper leaves over the ground. Then for a while the vegetation would be more sparse. Silver-barked bushes with light golden leaves would be all they saw. Nothing grew much more than a metre high and you sensed everything that lived pushing down towards the water which was somewhere beneath the dirt that was more sand than soil.

Then even the bushes thinned out as they came to land where only the deepest roots could reach water. There were no big animals to be seen anymore, just birds and the occasional mongoose: maybe a few wild pigs sleeping under the shade of a solitary thorn bush. Even the termite mounds became more widely spaced and not so high. But heat and dust were with them always.

"You´ve seen the wetlands and the woodlands and the rest," Kriegman told them. "Where we are headed now is the place where savannah meets the desert."

***

The night sky was a canopy of profound darkness, so black that all of the countless stars which filled the space above their heads shone with a steady radiance - each one a tiny point of clear, precise light. The moon was razor thin, like a carved brilliant sliver of luminescence.

"If you want to see stars properly, you have to come to the empty places," Michael told Julian.

They had just finished cleaning up after a meal that everyone had helped prepare. The night air was chill. For the first time everyone was glad to put on the warm jacket that their tour notes had insisted was an essential item for the trip.

"When we reach the real desert tomorrow, you will see the night sky as it should be, perhaps for the first time in your life."

Julian couldn´t remember the driver having spoken to him up to now except when it had been needed to give necessary information or answer a direct question. Obviously Michael felt more relaxed now they had finally reached territory that could be called empty.

And it was true that the stars were amazing, so many and so bright; all the unfamiliar constellations of the southern hemisphere presented to their view. Michael showed him how to find Alpha Centurii and from that the Southern Cross which he could use for navigation.

"So now, in darkness, you will always be able to find the due south."

Julian could see the gleaming white of his smile, even with their head torches extinguished.

"On nights like this, I sleep in the open," Michael told him, "on top of the jeep."

"It sounds like that would be cold."

Michael shrugged. They finished stacking the dishes. Julian wished the driver a pleasant night´s stargazing and made his way back to his tent.

Some hours later, when he thought that Simon must be asleep, he ducked inside his sleeping bag to check his watch. Close to one o´clock, just as he´d planned. His sense of timing was always reliable. The tent flap being unzipped made a noise that seemed loud in the night, but no one was listening for it and if they heard anything they only would think it was someone needing to use the latrine that had been dug some distance away from the tents.

He moved quietly. Emma was already waiting for him by the tree that he´d pointed out to her earlier. Julian switched off his head torch and put it in his pocket, then he reached forward to click off the girl´s light.

"It´s scary out here," she whispered. "And cold."

It felt like she was shivering a little as she pulled him towards her and kissed his mouth.

"It is cold," he said.

"But we can get warm," she whispered, holding him tighter.

"Mm, yes," he replied. "We can do that."

***

Julian had already known that Michael sometimes slept on the canopy of the Land Cruiser before the driver told him about it. He watched all of them closely enough to know their habits. He´d also noticed that Michael had some kind of condition that meant he needed to go to the toilet often. When he got up in the night and had to go out into the bush you could usually see where he was from the lighted tip of whatever weed he was smoking out there. He didn´t hurry back. Julian reckoned that from Michael leaving the truck it would be unattended for at least ten minutes before he was likely to return.

It was turning out to be a busy night for Julian. After he finished with Emma and sent her back to her tent he waited and watched for a long time until finally he heard the springs of the Land Cruiser creaking as someone climbed down from it and then a head torch was lit and a silhouetted figure set off into the scrub. Julian kept his own torch switched off. There was just enough moonlight to make his way to the truck.

As he expected, Michael or Kriegman had kept the ignition keys with them, but there was a spare set behind the driver´s sun visor - an obvious place. Security against human intruders was not a priority out here. Julian held the keys in his hand and felt an urge to just start the engine and drive away, leaving them all behind. He could picture the looks on their silly faces as they realized they´d been marooned. But that wasn´t really the best idea, he knew. He should stick to the plan. Anyway he had no illusions about being able to make his way to any roads worthy of the name without Michael´s driving skills.

The glove compartment was locked but the ignition key opened it. Sure enough there was a little zipped up leather bag inside, and in that he found a loaded pistol and a spare clip. He examined the weapon for a moment working out as best he could in the darkness where the safety catch was and what he would need to do to fire it. The gun was tiny compared to what he had expected. It would hardly have fit in Kriegman´s fat fist. Finally satisfied, he replaced the pistol in the bag and the bag in the glove box, which he clicked shut very carefully and softly.

When he returned to their camp, he took a minute to ensure that Simon was still asleep before feeling around for the sharp kitchen knife he´d slipped into his jacket pocket whilst helping with the washing up. He examined it inside the sleeping bag. It was perfect. People in this country know how to keep a good edge on a blade, he thought, approvingly.

Day Nine

It wasn't long after Julian returned to his tent before the first hint of dawn started to appear in the sky and Kriegman made his usual circuit of the tents to rouse them, Julian was still fully alert. He had not slept all night, but strangely he felt no trace of fatigue. In fact he felt rested and ready for anything.

The day began with some confusion. When they had packed up and were ready to start, Andrew Walker discovered that he had lost his GPS device. Kriegman eventually lost patience and told him that he'd most likely left it in the side pocket of one of the tents that were now packed up and stowed away on top of the trailer. There was no time to look for it now. They had a long day ahead of them with many kilometres to cover and they needed to set off right away. Parker was in a grumbling mood for the rest of the morning, but he didn´t get as much sympathy from the others as he felt he deserved. Jonathan Bloom just smiled and told Parker he was sure it would turn up sooner or later.

***

Julian´s plan was deliberately simple. Jonathan Bloom must go to Africa and there he must meet with an accident which would convince everyone he was certainly dead, even though no body would ever be found. The wild animals would dispose of evidence, including Bloom´s travelling companions; and he would be presumed lost with them. No one would spend too long searching the bush for a complete set of bones of all the victims.

In the worst case scenario, it might be discovered that the tragic fate of Bloom´s safari had not come about accidentally, but even if that was discovered and even if blame somehow attached to Bloom, it wouldn´t matter to Julian. Everyone would know that Bloom was just a shady character with criminal associations who´d gone off the rails, run away with gang money that didn´t belong to him, and then went crazy enough to kill some tourists before the lions finished him off.

He´d thought at first that it would be enough to leave the party stranded in the bush and let nature do its work, but once they set out it became clear to him that he would have to deal with the guide and his driver first. He could leave the rest of them to their fate knowing that in two days they´d be dead meat, with every hyena for miles around squabbling over their remains. Having seen Michael going about his work, Julian was sure that their driver would find a way to walk out of the bush, maybe bringing the rest with him. Julian didn´t intend to make the mistake of underestimating Kriegman either.

Julian didn´t feel any great sense of reluctance about this change of detail. He could still remember some of the thrill that had surged through him as he´d bashed in Bloom´s skull. It had been a good feeling, of power and exhilaration, and it had been over too quickly. Afterwards for a time it had felt like he could do anything in the world he wanted. In fact he still had some of that feeling now.

The plan would involve some inconvenience for Julian. Some might even call it dangerous, but Julian didn´t see things that way. Self-doubt was something that he only understood by seeing how it affected other people. In any case, the discomfort he might suffer on this trip would be nothing compared to what might happen to him if Bloom´s friends ever had any cause to suspect that he had their money.

There was an emergency pack in the trailer and Julian had already had Andrew Parker, the supposed expert on all things African, explain to him what the contents were and how they might be useful. Julian had a compass of his own and a good map in his bag and he´d studied the terrain in advance. A less self-confident man might be daunted by the prospect of a three day hike to relative civilization, but Julian only imagined it as an extension of the outward bound summer camps that his old school had used to organize for boys who weren´t going on holidays with their parents at the end of summer term.

Julian had no doubt at all of his ability to walk out of the bush, but just in case his navigation should be a little awry, he intended to make his way out to the east. He´d make for the three famous hills that he´d seen in photographs, rising steeply out of this flat landscape like the remains of giant pyramids. Supposedly they were formed from the lava plugs of ancient volcanoes whose sides had eroded, but anyway they made a landmark he´d see at least a day before he reached it.

Those hills were in all the tourist guides. He knew that there was a visitor centre too. He´d arrive there with a story about his car breaking down, if he needed to say anything at all. Nothing too specific. The details would come to him when he needed them.

It was a good plan, he thought, simple, foolproof and quick. Julian had enjoyed a hearty breakfast as the day brightened. Thinking things over, he had decided that he liked the sense of freedom and emptiness in this continent. He´d come back here to enjoy at his leisure when the current business was out of the way, most certainly.

Soon they were underway, with Parker still complaining about his missing gadget. No one took any notice and eventually he shut up. They settled into the lurching, bumping roll of the truck that had a kind of rhythm of its own once you got used to it.

Seating positions were established by strict rotation, so everyone got to share the discomfort of the back row, the relative ease of the middle, and the best views that you had at the front. This meant that Julian had a good excuse not to sit next to Emma, who would be watching his movements too closely today. They had exchanged a few meaningless words before the start that morning and he´d treated her to a smile he judged tender enough for what they had shared. He´d received her own simpering, happy grin in response. Women were so quick to think they owned you, if you gave them the chance; and Julian always found their fascination wilted horribly quickly once he'd had them. They were like flowers that dried up in the night, leaving him looking for fresh blooms to pluck.

Julian had set his place alongside the Johnsons as part of establishing his role as a team player who accepted tedium without complaint. For the first part of the day the three of them were on the back seat, where the bench was higher and bounced about more. In order for you to have a view, the seat was raised so high that you had to rest your feet on an iron bar that protected the water and food containers stored on the floor beneath. There wasn´t sufficient leg room for Julian, though the old people were so short and shriveled up that they had more than enough.

In the back, the sun beat upon the half of your body that was exposed, unless you had the middle seat, which was reserved for Mrs. Johnson. The wind battered you unhindered by the front windscreen. On the plus side, conversation was next to impossible at the speed they were travelling just now, so Julian was left alone with his thoughts.

At around eleven, with the sun high above, they stopped for a comfort break and to rotate the seating. Those who had been in the back moved up one place closer to the prime space behind the driver and guide. Kriegman told them something more about the country they had been travelling through and what they could expect to see further on. This was mostly a transit day, he warned them, and they shouldn't expect to see too much. Julian smiled; he had other ideas about that.

By one thirty they were in need of food and another break. Michael steered them off the track and into the notional shade of the only tree of any size. It stood naked and leafless, alone in the flat plain with no apparent sign of life. A cold buffet lunch was spread out on the bonnet of the Land Cruiser. George took a photograph of the party with the dead tree in the background and desolation all around. Everyone was in the frame except Julian who happened to bend out of shot to take something from his pack just as the picture was taken.

The lunch things were swept into a plastic bag for later disposal, and then they were ready to go on again. They would make good time from here on, Kriegman told them, even if the country was a little empty and flat. The final rotation of the day put Julian and the old couple on the front bench. After lunch everyone took their appointed places with some reluctance and stretching of stiff joints. Then Michael fired the engine once more, slipped the truck into gear and they moved on again.

***

Jill Stevens was daydreaming; her thoughts punctuated by the lurching progress of the offroader as it bumped and skated through the sand and dust. The effect of sun and lunch had lulled her into a pleasant stupor, even though the movement of the vehicle was more fairground ride than luxury cruise. This day was monotonous, but a part of her awareness remained focused on the landscape, experiencing it even as her thoughts drifted. She felt happier in this country, even with nothing happening and a certain amount of physical discomfort, than she would have been at home with all her possessions around her.

She knew the feeling well. It was a sense of contentment at just being where she was, regardless of what sights they might chance upon. There was something about Africa that felt like returning to a home that you never knew existed. Maybe it was like that for all humans. Just being under this sky gave her simple pleasure that was different to anything she experienced in Europe, where it seemed that every good thing came bundled with unwanted complications.

Jill was sitting in the back of the Land Cruiser, next to Emma, with George squeezed in at the far side of them. She´d decided that she liked George. He usually had something sharp and witty to say but he never needed to be unkind about it.

Emma was nice too, but she was too obviously on the lookout for a man. Jill was afraid for Emma that she would make an embarrassment of herself over one of the men. Well, not one of them; it was clear enough she´d set her sights on the handsome one, Jonathan Bloom. In fact, Jill wasn´t sure something hadn´t happened between them already. She reminded herself that it was none of her business. Jonathan seemed nice enough as well. He certainly was good looking. It was just that Jill couldn´t believe he would really consider Emma as more than a bit of holiday fun. He didn´t seem like the serious type at all, but then maybe that was what Emma was looking for, as she´d claimed.

Jill couldn´t really believe that either. Although she and Emma were very different, they´d sat on a long flight together and now they were sharing a tent. Of course they´d talked about everything. Even some carefully-worded details of Jill´s own romantic entanglements had been let slip. There are some people you don't need much time with before you understand them better than they know themselves. Jill had met girls like Emma before on trips like these - intelligent women with qualifications and a good career who´d been too busy pursuing their life plans to learn how to manage men until they were already at an age where they were supposed to know it all. They felt compelled to pretend they were more knowing than was the case and got themselves into trouble by not knowing what was appropriate behaviour.

Emma was bright and had a good heart. It was just that she didn´t know how to give out signals without being too obvious about it. Jill herself had quickly passed from being irritated by Emma´s clumsy social skills to feeling sorry for her and worrying in case she made herself look ridiculous.

Now Jill took a quick glance at Emma and saw that she was sitting with her eyes fixed on Jonathan Bloom, ignoring the landscape, with a big silly smile on her face. The expression told her more than words could. They´ve done it already, somehow, Jill thought. How did they manage that? She hoped for Emma´s sake that the thing with Bloom wouldn't turn out to be more pain than it was worth.

Jill tried to settle back into her own daydreams, but then something very strange happened. Mr. Kriegman, in the front passenger seat, muttered something to Michael and then he stood up and started to turn round to face them, as he normally did when he had some information to give. But just as he turned, Jonathan Bloom, who was sitting directly behind him, stood up as well. Jill saw that Jonathan passed his right arm in front of Mr. Kriegman, doing something that she couldn´t see and pulling the guide towards him, off balance. Mr. Kriegman looked surprised and opened his mouth but without saying anything. Jonathan Bloom didn´t say anything either, but his other arm reached for Kriegman´s shoulder and dragged him violently to the side. He must have been very strong to do it, because Mr. Kriegman was a heavy man, but Jonathan Bloom pulled him up over the side of the vehicle and he toppled down into the dust. Jill looked back for a second and saw his body lying face down, twisted up and still.

They all lurched forward in their seats as Michael slammed on the brakes, well not quite all. Jonathan Bloom had been ready for the deceleration and now Jill saw that he´d stepped into the space left by Mr. Kriegman.

"Keep driving," was all he said.

But Jill could see now that he was holding a knife against Michael´s neck. It looked like one of the meat knives they´d been using for cooking. She could see that it was covered with blood. They had to do something quickly, but what?

"Faster," Bloom commanded.

Julian knew that he had moments before anyone reacted. A few seconds later he grabbed the wheel with the hand that was not holding the knife and wrenched it towards him. The vehicle ran up the bank and into one of the few trees that grew in this place. The tree was no match for the Land Cruiser and timber splintered as the vehicle ground to a halt with the front end riding up over the remains of the trunk and the back sunk deeply into the sand.

The impact banged Jill´s head against the bench in front of her. When she recovered vision she saw Michael leaning back in his seat with his head rolled to the side at an unnatural angle. His mouth and eyes were wide open and there was a lot of blood coming out of a deep wound in his neck.

The engine had stalled and for a brief moment there was silence. Jonathan Bloom had taken the keys from the ignition and he was opening the glove compartment. He took something from it and when he showed them his hand he was holding a tiny pistol. He seemed absolutely calm, though neither Jill nor any of the others could speak or think just at that moment.

"I don´t mean to shoot any of you, but you can be sure I shall if you make me," Bloom told them. "Sit where you are, put your hands on the seat in front of you where I can see them, and don´t move. Keep facing forward."

They did as they were told. Bloom clicked the catch beside the driver that opened the bonnet and then climbed down from the vehicle. He inspected the front of it briefly before taking a look under the hood. Then, after reminding them to stay exactly as they were, he disappeared to the rear of the cruiser. No one looked round. They heard him shuffling some things out of the trailer, and then the tailgate was opened. Minutes went by. No one else moved and no one spoke. The heat was unbearable.

Next they heard the sound of liquid gurgling out and spilling onto the sand and after that Bloom reappeared, carrying his expedition backpack with his sleeping bag and some plastic containers of water strapped to the outside of it. He´d emptied the contents of the emergency pack and some other useful items into his bag after discarding what he didn´t expect to need. He had an old fashioned metal canteen slung over one shoulder. Bloom walked to the front of the cruiser and stood on the running board where they could all see him.

"Front offside tyre is punctured," he announced. "I thought the radiator would be burst at least, but they make these things tough. I´ve cut the oil line though, so I wouldn´t waste time trying to dig her out."

He lifted the little receiver off its cradle on the two way radio and smashed it into the dashboard where it shattered to pieces; all the time making sure that the gun in his other hand remained visible to them.

"Just in case," he said. "And there´s no reception here anyway, but I need your mobile phones. Now."

The way he shouted the last word seemed like even more of a threat than the gun he was holding. Dumbly they passed the useless devices to the front for collection. All except Andrew Parker and Mrs. Johnson.

"I know you don´t have your device Andrew, because it´s in my bag here in case it should prove useful later on. But as for you, Mrs. Johnson, I´m afraid that I must insist on having your phone: or are you trying to convince me that you don´t have one?"

"I have to call my daughter. She´ll be worried," Mrs. Johnson protested tearfully.

"She´ll be more worried if you force me to shoot your husband in the face," Jonathan Bloom suggested.

Tearful rummaging in her bag and then Mrs. Johnson handing over her mobile.

"Thank you. You see, that was easy enough," Bloom told them.

He put the phones in a plastic bag that he tied on to a loop of his sack.

"Don´t ask me to explain all this. It´s too complicated," he said. "I shall be leaving you now. Don´t try to follow me or I will shoot you. Otherwise you can do as you wish. Stay with the vehicle and hope for rescue, or set off walking if you prefer. I think we may be in Namibia if that helps at all, or perhaps we´re still in Botswana. Anyway remember we are a long way off the regular tourist routes, just as you all wanted to be.

"And one more thing before I go..."

He reached across to where Michael´s body was still oozing blood, picked up the knife from the floor of the cab, pushed the blade as far as it would go into the guts of the dead man and then heaved upward with all his strength. There was a soft plopping noise as the insides of the gut spilled out, and an immediately the air around them reeked horribly. Jill was pushed back into her seat as George, sitting next to her, leaned over the side of the vehicle and began retching horribly.

Jonathan Bloom left the knife where it was. He had a better one in the pack.

"We haven´t seen much big game out here, Bloom said, but it´s around for sure, and there´s not a lot of daylight left. You all know how predators feel about the scent of fresh blood and food is scarce for them out here, so when you are thinking about whether you should stay or go, maybe that's something to consider."

He climbed down from the vehicle and walked to the side where Jill was sitting. She shrank back from him but he was looking past her to Emma, who was shaking uncontrollably and racked by great silent sobs that left her gasping.

"I´m going now, do you want to come?" He asked her.

"Go fuck yourself," Emma managed to force the words through her trembling lips.

"Suit yourself, probably it´s for the best."

Bloom shrugged and started to walk away from the cruiser. They all watched as from time to time he looked back and waved the gun above his head as a reminder to them. By the time anyone could speak he was a dot on the flat horizon.

"What are we going to do?" Emma wailed. Her teeth were chattering and she was still finding it difficult to breathe.

"We should do what we can for this poor man," said Mr. Johnson, pointing at Michael.

"He´s dead," said Andrew Parker, in an absent-minded voice.

George was climbing out of the vehicle, almost falling into his own vomit as he struggled over the spare wheel.

"Mr. Kriegman," he shouted.

***

They came to where Kriegman was lying, a long way up the track, out of sight of the Cruiser. It seemed impossible that they could have travelled so far in the short time between the first frenzied attack of the madman and the point where he'd wrecked their vehicle. Kriegman had managed to roll over a little onto his side so that his face was no longer in the dust. Some of his weight had fallen on his left leg and it was clear from the angle at which it now lay that the leg was broken. He didn't make any sound or raise his head as they approached, but he was conscious.

The wounded man was clutching his belly with both hands, as if to hold something in. His shirt was soaked with blood that was oozing into the sand. It seemed stupid to ask him how he felt, but Jill didn't know how else to put the question.

"I'm finished," was the reply. "He took me in the guts and something has split open. The bleeding won't stop now."

"We need to get you bandaged up. We've got plenty of spare clothes to use."

"Waste of time lady. I've seen wounds before. When I was a kid, they gave us guns and sent us out into the bush; fighting black communism, so they said. You learn there's some kinds of hurts you can ignore and others that finish you, fast or slow. This one is the kind that does the job but not quick enough."

He tried to move but the effort sent a spasm through his body and he settled back.

"Anyway, you see my leg is gone and there's something wrong in my back. Don't know if it's broken or what, but I can't move at all."

He paused, as if needing to gather strength between each sentence. No one knew what to say to him.

"It's my own fault. I should have kept a closer eye on that Bloom. I could see there was something of the hyena in him. Where did he go?"

"He took the water and the gun," Jill told him.

She was trying to work out how they would move Kriegman, or whether it was safe to try. They could hardly leave him lying on the trail like this.

"He poured out the rest of the water," she continued, "and the fuel. Then he walked off telling us if we followed he would shoot us. I think he has a map and a compass. The Land Cruiser is wrecked."

"Crazy bastard," Kriegman grunted. "I wonder what he was after. He won't find it as easy to walk out of here as he thinks."

Another spasm of pain made him pause.

"Don't worry," he said to Jill. "Michael will get you home. He can find water as well as a mongoose, and he´ll sniff out the best path. Where is the lazy kaffir anyway?"

There was no easy way to say it.

"He's dead," Jill told him. "Bloom cut his throat and then opened up his insides to attract the animals."

Some of the life that was left in Kriegman seemed to depart at that point.

"Stupid, silly bugger. Getting himself killed by a man like Bloom," was all he would say.

The others were just standing around leaving Jill to talk to the wounded man and doing nothing. Jill stood up and spoke loudly, so that the rest of them could hear

"We have to get you moved," she told Kriegman. "It's getting late. The boys will go back to the Cruiser and get a couple of tents and something to start a fire. And some T-shirts to get you bandaged up. We should stay here overnight: over in that spot where it's a little sheltered. In the morning we can sort out what we have left and decide what we should do. Emma and I will stay with you now and see if we can't make you more comfortable."

It wasn't exactly an order, but everyone was still dazed and Kriegman, who was supposed to be their leader, didn't make any response. The rest of the party shuffled off to follow Jill's instructions. Kriegman didn't look directly at anyone. His eyes seemed to be full of tears.

When he was left alone with the two women, there came a moment when he seemed to find it difficult to breathe. He choked out two heavy sobs that could have been pain or anguish. The effect of them transmitted a shock through his broken body that made him cry out.

Jill could not see how they were going to move him at all. His voice, when it came again, was much softer than before.

"I wanted Michael to have this business after me," he told Jill. "It was all I have to pass on to anybody. I was going to give it to him and he knew, I hope. There was no other reason for him to stay with an old fool like me. But I never told him and he never asked."

The words came slowly with pauses at odd moments.

"He could have left me years ago and done better for himself. Got a good job with one of the regular firms. You know. When they are like him, they are the best. Better than us by a long way."

"You should save your strength Mr. Kriegman," Emma whispered. "It's hurting you to talk."

"Doesn't matter," Kriegman replied, but for a time after that he said no more.

The others brought back a canteen of water from under the benches that had been overlooked by Bloom, as well as two of the tent bags and one of the folding mattresses that George said they should try to move Mr. Kriegman onto. That seemed an impossible task at first, but in the end they managed to slide the mattress under him. The guide was barely conscious by this stage, but it was obvious that he suffered from even a small movement. They abandoned the idea of dragging the mattress further up the slope to a better camping spot, but at least they were able to get him to level ground.

By the time the tents were put up light was beginning to fade. George and Emma tried to persuade Kriegman to drink some water, while Jill attempted to start a fire.

She had expected Andrew Parker to take control of the situation, but ever since the attack he had been distracted and barely sensible. Probably he was in shock, like the Johnsons. The old couple were making odd, disjointed movements; staring wild-eyed around them all the time and clinging to each other as if they expected Bloom to return at any moment.

Simon and Emma were in better shape but they both seemed incapable of doing anything more than following direct instructions. Jill wasn't sure about the condition of George. He seemed to focus on whatever small task needed doing next, as if he was avoiding thinking about their general situation. Probably that wasn't such a bad way to be just now.

Jill didn't want to examine her own mental state. She tried to concentrate on remembering how the camp fire had been set up on the nights when she'd watched Michael make camp. There were the two longer spars that you set on the ground parallel to each other, with a little space between, and then between and across you put the smaller pieces and kindling. She borrowed George's lighter and soon had a flame going. It was easier than she'd thought, but then she realized she'd piled on too much wood. They would have a blaze instead of a small flame they could feed just enough to keep it burning through the night.

George came across to her: he'd brought one of the kettles and a carton of milk from the trailer.

"I thought we might use this to heat some of the water," he said, "and there was this milk in the cold store that probably won't be any good by tomorrow."

He tugged at his jacket pockets and pulled out a tin mug from each.

"No one will mind sharing," he said.

"You should have brought some of the tea," Jill told him.

George reached into the breast pocket and produced a handful of tea bags. They both smiled for the first time in what seemed a long time.

"Nothing can be quite as bad if we have a cup of tea," Jill laughed bitterly.

In the night, they took turns to rest in the tents, but no one slept. One or other of them always stayed with Mr. Kriegman, on the far side of the campfire. Jill thought it couldn't be a good sign when he began to shift around on the bed, considering the pain each movement must cause. He said things from time to time but nothing that made any sense to them. He seemed to think he was in a different place and time, speaking to people who weren't there and getting answers from them.

Jill could only hope that he would recover enough to tell them what to do. She listened to the rambling words for hours, waiting for something lucid to come out. Should they stay with the vehicle or move on? How could they move anyway, with Kriegman in this condition and the Johnsons being so frail? But to split the party and send some of them off for help seemed like a worse idea than all staying put. She had tried to talk to Andrew Parker about it, but from him she got only muttered comments that were either contradictory or didn´t make any sense at all. His brain was still muddled. Perhaps in the morning he would be over his panic.

The night seemed to go on forever. For some reason Jill's mind kept returning to thoughts about Charles, even when there was so much to worry about in the present. It was crazy, given that she'd managed to avoid thinking about him all through the trip until now. She kept alternating between wishing that Charles was here with her and cancelling that wish because it was selfish to want anyone else to be in this situation, least of all Charles.

At least he would know what they should do, she imagined; he always did. Then she reminded herself that she had to stop thinking of Charles in that way. But the darkness wore on and she realized that already she was not sure that any of them were going to survive this situation. Her thoughts returned to Charles whether she wanted them to or not.

They´d met at a photography club. Jill had sworn off going out with anyone else from work and there weren´t many other ways she was going to get to know someone. In fact they were more or less thrown together. The others seemed to be interested in the same things; familiar objects shot from odd angles, sunsets, black and white portraits of old people and children, local beauty spots. Jill mostly took pictures of animals and birds, especially the ones she came across while travelling, which was what she did with all the free time she had. Charles was a climber, whose photos reflected the vertiginous perspectives of a compulsive thrill seeker.

He was old for climbing. He seemed to have outgrown the complacent self-centredness of the type - those spoiled kids who only came to life with some extreme experience shooting extra voltage into their system. And his photographs suggested he´d seen more than his own reflection in those dizzy ascents.

Jill was cautious. Charles didn´t push. Somehow coffee together away from the group seemed natural, but coffee turned to dinner and dinner meant dropping Jill off at her flat afterwards. His popping inside for a moment meant more than it had seemed to promise. It wasn´t until afterwards that Charles told her he was married.

He claimed he´d not said anything because he´d never expected that what had happened would happen, and Jill believed him. Charles told her he was unhappy at home - lonely. He´d thought the two of them could be friends. He and his wife were only staying together for the children.

Children. Looking back, Jill knew that she should have ended it right there, but it was a moment when emotions were running high and for a time they caught glimpses of a better future together; like two mountaineers roped together in the mist who can half see the sun from time to time as a gale whips clouds across the sky.

He could see what he needed to do, he'd said. Susan would understand that it was better for everybody. It would be hard, but living as they were was not living at all. Jill held her breath. She listened to Charles talking without knowing what was the right way to reply.

A year further on, she´d heard the same words too many times. Nothing had changed. Charles, who she admired so much for his decisiveness, who decided what they should do, who always had the answer; had lost the ability to go forward or back on this particular rock face. He was held frozen on the sheer wall without a handhold or foothold in any direction that he could see.

Jill knew that it was her own fault. She should never have allowed the situation to develop. Every now and then she still felt the pull of that half-seen vision of a life with Charles, maybe even the two of them with the children that she´d never seen except in family snaps. It was a dream that she couldn´t take seriously any more, but still it was hard to give up.

With Charles she´d slipped into a routine quickly, because the times when they could meet were limited and predictable. Their time together was poisoned by being in a regimented space, as if they were moving to a bus timetable. Sometimes the gaps between their meetings were the worst and sometimes it was the other way around. Either way, Jill came to dread the horrible uncontrolled swelling of expectation that would start in the time before they were due to meet. Her treacherous emotions deceiving her into thinking that maybe this time Charles would have something new to say, even if it was only goodbye.

The trip to Africa alone was going to be a break from that fatal routine. Well, in this respect at least it had been a great success. She supposed that she´d known, finally, that Charles was not going to make any decision and that it would be up to her to break, but the only decision she´d been able to make was to run away in order to buy time to think about her life.

How unimportant and trivial all of that seemed to her right now.

Some time before the light came, Mr. Kriegman suffered a sort of crisis. Minutes later when they checked for breathing there was none. He'd never recovered consciousness properly and maybe that was a blessing for him, if not for the rest of them.

The morning leaked slowly into the sky, bringing no sense of relief. The survivors were stiff, cold and frightened and this was the moment they had been dreading through the long night; when the question of what they should do next demanded an answer.

Day Ten

Green was sick of waiting for Bloom's party to return to Victoria Falls. They wouldn't be due back for another ten days and too much could be happening whilst he worked hard at pretending to relax. Now he was reviewing his options. When he returned to the tour office it did not seem as if anyone had been there since his last visit.

There wasn´t much order to the records stored on the Wilderness Tours computer. Directories had been set up, but they´d been used or not used, without any systematic approach. The accounts information was hopelessly out of date, which explained the paper invoices stacked all about the office. Eventually, Green found email confirmations of bookings for places where the tour party would be staying this time out. Once he´d checked these against the route drawn on the map he´d found, Green could be reasonably confident this route was the one the tour was meant to follow.

Perhaps the copy of the map left on the table was a rudimentary sort of safety precaution, so if anything went wrong out in the wild, someone might eventually discover where to look for the party. Since the office didn't seem much visited by anyone, it might be a long time before that happened. Green studied the map once more. He jotted down the contact details for the planned stops he´d found next to the location names on the map.

He'd returned to the computer and checked the names and what details he could find about the other members of Bloom´s party. There were seven, plus Bloom himself, but none of the others seemed like persons of interest. He had half an idea that maybe Bloom had gone out into the wild to meet up with an accomplice of sorts, but the rest of the tour party looked genuine.

When he left the Wilderness office, Green took only the map with him. As soon as he got back to town, he set about looking for a car hire firm. With luck he´d still be able to wait for Bloom to come back to him, but now he wanted to be prepared for different eventualities. So far as he could judge the terrain from his map, he thought he´d need a fairly rugged type of four wheel drive vehicle. He found trucks were available with camping equipment included.

Green opted for one of the smaller models. There was a stack of equipment that came with it. The refrigerator would be useful obviously; and the containers for water and extra fuel would be needed. There was a tent as well, which he thought must be added as a joke. Green was sure that if he did need to journey into the wild, he would be sleeping in the cab, with the windows wound up and the door locked. He wasn´t so crazy that he´d spend the hours of darkness with just canvas between himself and the creatures that roamed the African night.

He parked the vehicle in the hotel car park and when he stood back to examine it once more, he was reasonably satisfied with his choice. The truck was nice and solid. Hopefully he wouldn´t need to use it, but there was another issue ticked off.

Now to think. There'd been a big map of the whole region pinned to the wall of the tour company hut. You couldn't help but notice it. Something about that map had been playing on Green's mind. Considering where the tour party was supposed to go, he´d realized that it wouldn´t be too much of a diversion from their path to strike out across Namibia and maybe make your way to the resorts of the Skeleton Coast. If he got that far, Bloom would become just another anonymous stranger, difficult to track. There was no reason to suppose that this was his plan, but the thought that maybe he didn´t have Bloom´s lines of escape completely covered made the prospect of hanging around the hotel for the next few days even less appealing.

He checked the map and the contact details he´d jotted down one more time. The spaces between the bookings he'd found suggested that the group wouldn´t be using official campsites much of the time; but now Green realized that a few days ago, they should have been staying at a site where he had two telephone numbers listed.

The first number he called and got no reply. When he tried the second, a woman answered. He told her he was trying to make contact with one of the Wilderness Tours party. It wasn´t desperately urgent, but if it was at all possible he´d like to speak to someone. They´d have arrived the day before yesterday, if she could remember or just check.

"You mean Mr. Kriegman´s party," she told him. "I know Don well enough. He let me down this time, though. Made the reservation and never showed up. He shouldn´t do that, but it's just like him. He' not reliable. We could have been busy and I made room for him specially. Is this about something urgent?"

Green told her not to worry, thanked her for her help and hung up. Now he had a problem. He really didn´t know how it worked with these tour companies. Perhaps this Kriegman really was in the habit of making arrangements and then failing to show, but it didn´t seem likely. Out in the middle of nowhere, you´d want other people to know where you were supposed to be. Even so, there could be any number of innocent explanations for a missed booking.

Or so he could tell himself, but some part of Stephen Green that he had learned to take notice of told him that the situation was off. When it felt wrong, it was wrong. He already knew that as soon as he´d loaded up the truck he'd be setting off into the bush to find Jonathan Bloom wherever he might be.

***

Kriegman's face was white and stiff looking. All trace of life had gone out from it. No one had wanted to cover that face over in the night. It would have been too final, an acknowledgement that it was pointless watching for any more signs of life. But the guide wasn´t going to splutter back to consciousness and tell them what they needed to do. Jill checked again and again for breathing or a heartbeat, but there was nothing. The coldness of the body when she touched it came as a shock that told her all there was to know.

They hadn't been able to get Kriegman into a sleeping bag because of the pain any movement caused. Instead, they had covered him with coats and the warmest of the spare clothing that they had. It was all piled on top of a single blanket. Eventually it was Mr. Johnson who gently unfolded the top of the blanket and laid it over the dead face and the cold stiff hands. Somehow after that it was possible to accept that Kriegman was gone.

"We'll need to bury him in the morning," Johnson said. And Michael too, Jill thought, but didn't say.

The fire died out around four in the morning, but as it became fully light, they managed to get a meagre flame started from the embers; enough to let them warm the last of the milk. There wasn't much and it had already started to turn, but the milk was better than nothing

After that, they moved the guide's body back to the wreck of the Land Cruiser. It was hard work, half-carrying, half-dragging the dead weight. It would have been easier to fetch the spades from the trailer and bury him where he´d fallen, but that wasn´t even discussed. There was an understanding that the man's grave should have some kind of marker even if it was no more than a smashed up safari truck.

They tried again to get Kriegman´s body into a sleeping bag, since they couldn't hurt him now, but the corpse was too stiff. They would have needed to break some bones to shift it into a posture of repose. None of them wanted to think about that, even though it was awful to see the twisted shape of the body´s final agonies. Instead they moved him as he was, tied onto the thin camp mattress that they slowly dragged along as in bizarre imitation of a funeral procession.

When they had finally negotiated the few hundred metres from their camp to the truck, there was another shock waiting. Simon and George went straight to the trailer to break out the shovels. The burial needed to be done and they wanted to get it over with. The others stood back. None of them wanted to be the first to go to the front of the truck and look at Michael, but someone had to do it. Seeing that no-one else was moving, Jill took a deep breath and crossed to the driver's side door.

Nothing there... only some dried dark stains on the floor of the cab and more blotches, like old spilled wine but stickier, in the sand and scrub around the side of the truck where the ground had been disturbed.

Jill's first absurd reaction was relief that she didn't have to look at the results of Bloom's butchery again. Then she felt a rush of panic stricken certainty that Bloom must have come back in the night. How else could Michael have disappeared? Understanding that the body must have been claimed by the animals of the night was something that her rational brain struggled to get the rest of her to accept. She saw the same reaction in the faces of the others when she told them. After that they separated and spent twenty fruitless minutes looking for signs of the body in the scrub and dry grass around the truck, each of them more frightened than hopeful in case they should be the one to find something.

Eventually, Jill realized that the search was futile and they were just wandering around pointlessly because it was easier than moving on to what they needed to do next. She knew that they couldn't afford to keep wasting time like this. She sought out Andrew Parker, who was sitting on the ground beside the trailer. He'd retrieved his backpack and taken out the contents, spreading them out in front of him. He´d started to sort his belongings into two piles, but now he seemed to be looking at them without purpose, occasionally shifting items from one pile to the other or taking up something only to set it down again.

Jill watched for a while, trying to understand what state Parker was in. It wasn't actually shock; she thought. You could see the effects of that in the faces of the Johnsons, who seemed to have become even older and more frail overnight. The couple were incapable of responding to anything more than the most basic instructions. With Andrew, it seemed more like panic, as if he couldn't organize his thoughts to decide what to do next.

But he was the only one of them who did know; or at least he had more knowledge than the rest. They needed him to be the leader now. Jill suppressed a feeling of anger she told herself was irrational. She squatted down next to Parker.

"We have to decide what we are going to do," she said.

"Take an inventory. List our assets. What we need, what we don´t need."

Parker didn't look at her. He could have been talking to some other unseen person, or dreaming. His voice held no expression.

"That sounds reasonable. Then what?"

"Must be sure to use our skills," he spoke at the dust. "Most people who don't make it. They don't use the training they have, even if they know what to do. Morale. Simple things. Preparation."

"That's what I'm talking to you about," Jill urged him gently. "But what should we prepare to do? Do we stay or do we go? That's the most important question just now."

"Better to stay with the vehicle: people come looking," Parker said. "But if no-one comes, you die. If no-one knows we are gone or where we might be. Then you have to move. Could be better to stay here, or to go."

"The old people are going to struggle if we move on."

Parker finally looked at her and then cast his eyes over to where the Johnsons, shrunken and hunched, were huddled against the side of the truck as if they were suffering in cold weather, though the sun had already taken any chill out of the night air. Parker looked back at Jill.

"I don't think you should expect that everyone will come out of this, whether we stay or go," he said. "Probably they die either way."

***

It seemed like hours had passed. Jill looked around her. Most of her companions were still stumbling about in the bush like sleepwalkers who'd forgotten what they were searching for. The items that Bloom had rejected from the emergency pack and other goods he´d tossed out of the ransacked trailer lay scattered across the ground in front of her. Among them Jill saw a simple whistle. She picked it up and wiped sand from it then blew three short blasts, waving one arm above her head to signal that the others should join her.

"We need to move together with some idea of a plan," she said, when everyone had gathered. "Andrew is the expert and he has some ideas, but there´s a choice we all need to make. In the end we either stay here or start walking. For now let's assume that no-one knows where we are and no-one will come looking for us. For what it's worth, I think we should get ready to move out."

She paused to let that sink in. It needed a moment even though she supposed they had all been thinking about the same thing.

"We start by checking what we have left." She could have said, what Bloom left us, but she was reluctant to speak that name. "Water most important; anything else that we can drink; food; something to burn; clothing or bedding; medicines if we have any. And anything that might tell us where we are or help to make contact with someone."

"Everyone get your own pack out of the trailer and take out all your stuff like Andrew has done. Get rid of anything we won't absolutely need. Mr. Johnson; you see that tent bag over there? Do you think you and your wife could put the tent up and then we'll use it to store any of the personal stuff that we would leave behind? Emma and George, you're in charge of scavenging whatever you can find that might be useful in the truck. Check everywhere: it's important. Simon; can you and Andrew finish the grave for Mr. Kriegman? I'm sorry but someone has to do it."

Simon nodded. All of them started the tasks they had been allotted; moving slowly, dumbly at first, but perhaps relieved to have a purpose again. Jill moved between them, helping the Johnsons with the flexible poles that clumsily sprung apart as they tried to thread them into the tent frame, or suggesting possible items that George and Emma might have overlooked.

She was worried about Emma. The girl was crying, silently but steadily. Every so often she'd stop what she was doing and cover her face with her hands. George was the best person to be with her, but there wasn't much he could do apart from putting a hand on her shoulder now and then or holding her when she started to sob.

Simon looked for a spot where the sandy ground wouldn't fill in any hole as fast as he and Andrew Parker could dig it, but it wasn't easy and there was more digging needed than he would have imagined. He didn't complain; but when Jill stopped him for a moment, she saw blisters forming on hands that weren't used to manual work. Beside him, Andrew Parker kept shovelling, mechanical and steady, more comfortable when he didn't have to think. The grave wasn't nearly as deep as it should have been, knowing what they did about the animals, but the men were using up too much energy and they were all losing time.

"That will have to do," she told them.

Everyone gathered round as the two men moved Kriegman's body across to the hole, still lying on the camp mattress. Probably they should have made some kind of ceremony, but the clumsiness and physical difficulty of the work stripped away the solemnity of the occasion and made for just another hard chore to be got through.

Jill had imagined they would lower the body into the grave resting on the mattress, but that wasn't going to be possible. The hole wasn't deep enough and the body was too hard to manage. When they got too close to the side, sand started to cave in at the sides of the pit. In the end they tried to roll the body off the up-ended mattress and into the grave, but found that since Kriegman was not lying flat and his limbs were so stiff, either a leg or arm would be sticking up too much. Simon tried to twist the body around, but short of getting into the grave himself, it was next to impossible to improve things.

Jill called a halt. They'd done the best they could, and now it was time to think about the living. Someone ought to say a few words, but no-one had any. She thought for a moment and then walked back to the truck, returning with the camera she had left there the day before. She photographed the grave looking down at Kriegman; and then again from further off with the truck in the background. She knew that now she would have to keep the camera with her.

"So that someone will be able to find the place," she explained. In case we don't make it, she thought to herself.

Simon and Andrew began shoveling earth back over the dead man and the rest of them walked back to the truck.

The Johnsons had finally managed to erect a tent. Most of the belongings that were spread out on a plastic sheet in front it seemed completely useless and pathetic in their current situation, although a day earlier they'd all have considered life impossible without them. The extra clothes and most of the toiletries were easy. They needed to be able to keep warm in the night, but after a few hours walking in the day they would stink and changing one t-shirt for another wouldn't make much difference. There was no compass and the only map they found was a large scale road atlas with more empty spaces than roads. It would have been more useful if they´d been able to agree exactly where they were right now.

They had more left to drink than Jill had feared, although she knew that what they had would be used up soon enough: some bottled water; cartons of fruit juice; a half filled jerry can that Bloom had missed; a few warm beers and a half bottle of whisky. Jill wasn't sure about the alcohol as she thought that maybe it caused dehydration, but they would keep it for now.

There was plenty of food. It was just a question of deciding how much they could carry and what would be the easiest to prepare. The firewood would be their heaviest load. The trailer was well supplied with spars of timber and they must have fire. They could split the wood between each pack, but how many spars; and what might they expect to pick up along the way?

Andrew Parker had checked the engine of the truck and confirmed that it was useless. It would have been stupid only to rely on Bloom's diagnosis, but no one was surprised by the news.

Simon had sorted through the camping gear, assuming that they would need to take at least one of the tents. He showed Jill how he thought he could sling the carrying straps of the bag over his shoulders to improvise a backpack. Jill could see right away that it wasn't going to work: the tents were strong, sturdy and durable - perfect if you could carry them on a truck but impossibly heavy if you were hiking. Each of them would have to carry a heavy enough pack as it was.

She looked around and noticed the canopy of the Land Cruiser: it was made of tough nylon with reinforced eyelets all round where bungee cord was used to attach it to the frame.

"We could all fit under that," she pointed. "If we take some of the pegs and poles out of a tent bag we can secure it and make a space underneath."

"Do you want us to take it down now?" Simon asked her. "It means there'll be no shade left in the truck. That's okay if we really are leaving, I suppose."

"Even if we were to stay here, it's too hot to be in the truck in the daytime, with all that metal soaking up the sun. Maybe we could unbolt the frame and rip some of the seats out to make a shelter on the ground. I don't know."

Jill noticed that Andrew Parker had shuffled to the front of the vehicle and seemed to be trying to twist one of the wing mirrors of its mounting.

"What are you doing Andrew?" She asked.

"We need to be able to signal. In case there's someone in the distance; or an aeroplane. Reflected sunlight."

"Good thinking," Jill nodded.

She went to help him, but realized that the wing mirrors were solidly attached. It was easier for her to step inside the cab and tap the dash mirror out of its plastic ball joint. The glass cracked a little but didn't splinter. Jill thought that in a day or two none of them would mind if they couldn't see their own reflections clearly.

"See, that's good," she told the others, holding up the mirror. "We all have to use our brains and work together."

"Does that mean we are leaving the truck and starting to walk?" Emma asked.

"That's what we still have to decide," Jill replied.

"We should put it to the vote," George suggested

"My vote is that we should stay here and wait for help. We can hold out for days, I guess," Mr. Johnson had started to recover from his stupor.

"It's would be stupid to have a vote," Simon objected. "Andrew should decide. He knows more about the conditions out here than the rest of us and he's obviously read a lot about survival. We need a leader here: we all have to do the same thing and it doesn't help if we start off by disagreeing with each other."

Jill was inclined to think the same way, if only Andrew would say something, but George had a different view.

"Maybe we should vote even so," he said. "If it's so important but there's no way to know right from wrong then we just have to choose like flipping a coin. So it's best that everybody has a say. It's not fair to Andrew to ask him to make a choice like that for us."

"Andrew," Jill said sharply. "Tell us something."

Andrew Parker stood up and began to pace, without knowing he was doing it. He started to rub his spiky red hair and sunburned cheeks with a fist that seemed too small for his heavy arms. His face was a study of indecision.

"I don't know," he spoke aloud, but as if to himself only. "What should we do? They say stay where you are if you can, but. Wait, I just remembered something, a way of signalling."

Without saying anything more, he seemed to have reached some kind of decision. He walked quickly to the back of the stricken Land Cruiser and picked up one of the fuel cans that Bloom had emptied into the sand. Shaking it to check that there was still some diesel inside; he pulled a lighter from his pocket.

"Careful," Jill shouted. "There's gas poured out all over the ground around you."

Everyone else stayed back.

"It's all evaporated by now," Parker laughed.

He splashed a little of the diesel over the spare tyre bolted to the right rear side of the truck; and held a flame to it. The flame didn't take immediately. When it did there was a short whoosh and then it seemed to die; but something still was flickering and then they started to smell the burning of rubber and see dark smoke rising from the side of the truck.

"You see," Andrew Parker smiled. "The smoke will be visible for miles and anyone who sees knows what it means."

In no time there was a dense dark plume pouring upwards off the spare wheel as the tyre started to burn properly. You could imagine the heat even from where the others were standing. The smell was disgusting. But Andrew Parker didn't seem to mind. He stayed close to the truck, his face blackening in the smoke, taking a childish delight in the blaze, as if the smoke were the answer to all their problems.

Jill worried that he wasn't thinking straight. Surely it would have been better to take the wheel off the truck first. What if the heat set the rest of the vehicle on fire? What if the fuel tank had been punctured in the crash?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang. When she looked again, there was still some smoke but the tyre wasn't blazing any more. In fact there was no tyre that you could see: all that remained of it were strips of charred rubber hanging off steel wires still attached to the rim. Parker had forgotten to deflate the tyre before he tried to make a beacon of it and the air inside had first expanded in the heat and then blown the tyre apart.

There didn't seem to be anything damaged other than the tyre and Parker himself. He was lying on the ground groaning. Some blood was coming down the side of his face, although they couldn't see a serious wound. For the moment, he didn't seem to have enough awareness to be able to stand up. They rushed forward to help him.

Jill looked down at Parker's blackened face and saw an expression of complete bewilderment.

"Alright," she said. "Somebody else has to decide then, so this is what we do. If no-one comes to answer that signal in one hour, it means there was no-one to see it. Then we start to make our own way out. There's a lot to be got ready in that time so let's patch up Andrew and set to work."

***

The Fat Man looked at Smith with distaste that he hardly bothered to hide. We seldom love the instruments of our misdeeds, he told himself. He'd had to sit patiently through the tedious, self-serving and clearly fictitious account that Smith had to give of what had gone wrong on that last job with him and Green. It was evident that one Green was worth three of this Smith, although that was not the point of the interview. He really only needed to hear enough of Smith's version to be sure that there was still bad blood between them. Now it was time to cut the young fool short.

"Green has become old," he told Smith. "He was a good man once. There was a time when I almost trusted him."

And these days I trust no-one, he might have added.

"It´s his own fault that he didn´t retire when he had the chance then," Smith replied. This is a young man´s game.

"So you have already reminded me. Twice I believe."

The Fat Man broke off for a moment to check on some figures that had flashed up on his laptop. He was sprawled in his customary position. His office looked the same as always.

"I happen to agree with you," he told Smith. "And I do understand your feelings about Mr. Green, but right now I have a more pressing difficulty and I need to be sure that I can count on you. Mr. Green is in Africa at the moment, trying to locate a rather large sum of money for me. After he took on this job, I looked into my heart; and I find that I can no longer rely on Mr. Stephen Green to pursue my interest with regard to this money. I fear that he may get his hands on it and then tell me it was nowhere to be found. It was another of his breed who caused me this difficulty in the first place. The money itself is not the most important thing you understand. This is a question of trust."

Even Smith knew enough about the Fat Man and how he felt about his money to find this last comment amusing, but he kept his reaction hidden. Smith knew that he wasn't as smart as those fancy types like Green. He needed to maintain concentration on what the Fat Man was saying, because it wasn't only what he said, but what he meant by it that he expected you to understand. The Fat Man didn´t always come out with what he intended to tell you, but Smith had the distinct impression that he was being offered a big opportunity.

"No one laughs at me," the Fat Man continued in a more direct tone. "If I feel that someone is laughing at me, that makes me angry. Green is away chasing this money. He has a number that he will call to leave a message when he can say whether his mission has been successful. The message will sound quite innocent but the meaning will be clear to us. If it has not been successful and I judge that Green has not been entirely honest with me, I want you to be there and ready to move on my instruction. Do you think that you could do that?"

"It would be a pleasure."

The Fat Man shrugged.

"Perhaps Green has outlived his usefulness anyway. He´s grown old and soft. It would be better for a younger man to take his place. Don´t you agree?"

"I do."

"But to give him this message is not easy. It could even be dangerous. And I don´t want to spend time watching my own back. There are secrets of mine that perhaps no one else should know."

"I understand what you are saying."

"Good: then go home. The arrangements will be made for you and meanwhile think about how you would do it. When you get to the place, you wait for my signal. Who knows; maybe Green will ring to tell me that he has the money and then perhaps everything is different."

"I´ll wait."

Smith grinned. Even if he wasn't as clever as some, the world constantly reassured him that it was a simple place. These supposed intellectuals just had a long winded way of telling you what was obvious. So many words just to tell him that the Fat Man wanted Green dead but didn't like to come out and say it. He showed himself out.

The Fat Man sighed heavily. Arranging disagreeable tasks always made him feel tired. He should take a short nap. It had been his own mistake to send Green after Bloom. He had been so furious about that shylock, though he´d tried hard not to let it show. But telling Green he could keep the money had been stupid and unnecessary. Folly brought on by his rage. The Fat Man knew his own character well. He knew that suspicion had become so deeply ingrained in his view of the world that having put Green in a situation where he could not be trusted, he would be unable to trust Green ever again. The man was no longer useful to him.

He knew that the fault was his own after too many years in the business; and that distrust clouded his judgement. But once suspicion entered his mind, what was he to do? You may as well ask a jealous husband not to mistrust an innocent wife. There was only one way to be free of doubt - eliminate the cause. Perhaps it was him, not Green, who was getting old.

Then again, Green was intelligent and that was another problem. You never knew where you were with such people. In the past, the clever ones had been useful to him. Even now if you needed someone, like say a book keeper, you'd want a smart guy. But book keepers were little men who stayed too terrified to step out of line. Intelligence in a man like Green, on the other hand, could be was dangerous.

From now on, the Fat Man resolved, he´d had enough of men who could make their own decisions. Better to rely on half-wits like Smith who did what they were told because they enjoyed it and took very little effort to control. With such men it was really just a case of pointing them in the right direction.

But still, he must keep in mind, it was only business. Set Smith against Green. If a man like Smith is able to dispose of Green, then Green is in serious decline and it´s time he was let go. If Green gets the better of Smith even when he has no cause to expect an attack, then maybe Green still has his uses. Nothing to link Smith to the Fat Man lying here in his office, because everyone knows that Smith has had a grudge against Green ever since that last job went bad. So a win-win situation and good business however you look at it.

The Fat Man studied his hands. His fingers had begun to shake sometimes, just a little, and he´d started to bite his nails recently. Now, at his time of life. He´d need another manicure, probably tomorrow afternoon would be good. When he thought about the phone call he was expecting from Green, the fate of his money made him start to sweat; and that wasn´t good. You could always make your voice sound calm, but sweat was harder to disguise

***

They'd been walking for less than two hours. Already, Jill was thinking that maybe she had made a mistake. Their little group was not in such good shape; though no-one was complaining yet, at least. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were slowing them down badly. The old couple kept moving, but they were always falling behind the gentle pace that Simon was setting at the front, even though the two of them had almost no pack to carry.

It turned out that Simon was an enthusiastic hiker and trail runner in his spare time. He'd completed quite a few classic long distance walks, though he'd not mentioned it previously. That solved one of the problems that had been worrying Jill: how to pace themselves so that they made enough progress without exhausting everyone. She was very conscious that the water they had with them wouldn´t keep them alive for very long, and she would have been tempted to hurry them along more than Simon. He warned her that the group could only travel at the pace of the slowest and that anyway they could not afford to burn energy quickly in this heat.

Andrew Parker kept plodding along second or third in line, dried blood staining the improvised dressing that they´d used to cover his wound. He'd not seemed badly hurt by the blast, but he was still dazed. Jill didn't have any medical training, but she believed he must have suffered a concussion. He certainly shouldn't be setting off on a march like this in his present condition, but what could she do about that?

There'd been no response to the smoke signal, and by the time everything was prepared for their departure it felt like they had no alternative but to make a start. The only discussion was about which way they should head. Some of them wanted to retrace the route they had followed on their way to this place. At least they knew there was an established path, which meant there was a chance they would meet others who were following it before too long.

The problem with that approach was, as Jill had quietly said to Simon, that they had travelled many miles along that route without seeing any water or a trace of a settlement. They couldn't hope to make their own way to safety that way. They would be taking a gamble that someone might come across them en route, which was really no better than just staying with the truck.

From the next to useless map that they had, they could guess that there was life somewhere to the east of them; and it was to the east that Jonathan Bloom had gone.

"Bloom knew where he was heading," Jill said. "He had a plan. Tracks are easy to follow on this sandy ground. If Michael could make out different sorts of animals while he was driving the truck, then seven of us should be able to follow a trail of boot prints if we do it carefully."

"But if Bloom thought that we might follow him, he could have set off in the wrong direction, deliberately," Mr. Johnson pointed out.

The Johnsons seemed to be coming back to life again and it was encouraging that they seemed mentally if not physically resilient.

"He could have doubled back once he was out of sight," Mr. Johnson went on.

"That's possible, but I think he was too sure of himself to take the trouble."

Jill remembered, without wishing to, the smile on Bloom's face; the voice calmly threatening.

"I think to him, we were just idiots who were going to run around in circles until the lions came to finish us."

"In any case," Simon put in, "we should be able to spot any direction switch if we keep our eyes open. And east is easy to find: we just head towards the sun each morning and keep going."

How many mornings would they be able to do that, Jill wondered to herself?

"He could be waiting for us out there," Emma protested.

"There are seven of us."

"But he has a gun."

"If he'd wanted to shoot us," Jill said, "he could have done it yesterday. Perhaps he's crazy, but not in a random way. I don't think we are part of his plan now. In any case he didn't have so much water he could afford to hang around and wait for us. I don't think we need to worry about catching up with Bloom. He´ll be travelling much faster than we can."

The trail of boot prints led clearly enough from the Land Cruiser out to the near distance, where they could all picture a far-off figure turning round and waving at them with the gun held above his head. No-one wanted to take that path, but in the end everyone agreed it was their best chance.

But what had seemed clear when they were only talking about it wasn't so obvious once the Land Cruiser was no longer in sight, and they had started to feel how big and empty was the country before them. They had spent enough time in the vehicle for it to feel like a place of security even after all that had happened and even knowing that the Cruiser was now a useless wreck.

That was an irrational attachment; the sort of feeling they would now need to guard against, Jill reminded herself. So easy to make the wrong choice because it feels comforting. But then, they'd had to leave so much behind that might have been useful. By now they could have put up the rest of the tents for sleeping, maybe found some kind of shade from the killing heat that was drawing precious water out of their pores.

Water was the main concern of course. After they'd tried to share out what they had equally, it was clear to everyone that their supply was hopelessly inadequate. How long could you survive without water? None of them could remember for sure. How long would they need to keep going before reaching safety? That was even more uncertain. In his present condition, Andrew Parker was not going to offer any opinions, and maybe it was better they didn´t know.

George knew something about diet and metabolism. He claimed he spent his whole life trying to control his weight. According to George, it would be better for them not to eat more than was absolutely necessary, because digestion used up water as much as exercise did. They had more than enough energy stored in their bodies to keep going for days, provided that they didn't burn it too quickly and that they could manage to ignore the body´s demands that they eat.

"It's just when that feeling comes that you simply have to chew on something," George told them. "It's only your stomach complaining out of habit, but it takes a lot of willpower to make it stop."

Jill wasn't sure how far the rules of a weight loss diet applied in the African bush, but she remembered what Parker had told her about it being important to use all the knowledge that they had. In any case, food was heavy and they couldn't afford to carry much of it, which meant they should ration what they had.

"Be careful though," George warned. "You know that once we have that terrible hungry feeling inside, we'll start snapping the life out of each other. I'm impossible to be around when I'm fasting."

Andrew Parker had been standing near to the conversation, and started to mutter something that Jill had to ask him to repeat. He wasn't very coherent, but she could tell that what he was trying to explain was that they shouldn't try to ration their water intake. You have to keep drinking even if there isn't much left, he said or the body will stop working altogether.

It seemed to make sense: but what do we do, Jill wanted to ask, when there's no water left at all?

***

As the day became hotter, with the sun directly overhead, it seemed like a bad idea to keep walking, even if there was no good shade anywhere. Some of them tried to crawl under the bushes as they had seen the wild pigs do. Others sprawled with spare clothing covering their faces. Only Andrew Parker remained standing where he was, having simply stopped when a halt was called. Emma guided him gently to a place where he could lie out of the worst of the sun.

"How far do you think we've come?" Jill asked Simon.

"Six miles; seven maybe."

"In three hours?"

Simon shrugged.

"That's not so bad as it sounds. You can't measure it normally. If you're in the hills you reckon an extra mile for every two on the map, but here it's worse. It's so hot and the sand isn't easy to walk on where it's deep. If we'd stuck with the path we'd at least have made better time."

"Towards what?" Jill demanded.

"I know. I'm not arguing with you, but we have to take our time. And I'm frightened of losing the trail."

It had not been all sandy ground. There were some places where Bloom's track was clear enough and others where the hard earth or scrub held no imprint for many minutes of walking. In these places, Simon could only trust to the general direction they were travelling and hope that Bloom had not changed course.

Jill was thinking aloud.

"It's too hot. Maybe we should have decided to walk at night and rest in the day."

"The stars are a good reference for navigation," Simon agreed, "but it would be too dangerous. No-one seriously wants to risk being out in the night with the animals around. Anyway, in darkness we could walk straight past a village and never notice anything."

"We haven't seen any animals in this place so far."

"But we know they're here. We saw what happened to poor Michael. Anyway, do you think I could follow these footprints in the dark, even with a head torch?"

It was all true, but Jill was beginning to question every decision she had made, and there was another thought troubling her that she was reluctant to share even with Simon.

"Maybe it's no good to be following Bloom anyway," she said.

"What do you mean? It was your idea."

"But we know he's crazy. Crazy people believe they can do anything; and he doesn't know this country any better than we do. He might have looked at the map and thought he could walk to civilisation as easy as if it were a stroll down a leafy lane in Surrey or wherever it is he comes from. Did you notice he told us nothing about himself? The point is, he could die out here just as easily as we can."

Simon considered the point.

"You could be right. But it doesn't do us any good to worry about that," he replied.

"Nothing we can do," Jill agreed. "And not something to talk about with the others. But we have to change some other things. Tomorrow we set off as soon as it's light enough to see the way. And we rest as soon as the sun gets high, or we'll burn to a frazzle."

"By tomorrow," Simon warned her. "I think they'll rest whenever you're not right behind them to make them keep going on."

***

They made better progress in the late afternoon, when they felt less like moths pinned onto a giant collector's card by the intense sun, but the day wore on with no sign of other human life and no change in the unrelenting landscape. Sand and dust, bush and scrub, with barely a contour to distinguish one kilometre from the next. Jill knew that they had all secretly hoped that once they started walking they might soon come upon a settlement, or at least a road of some kind. By now she´d half convinced herself that Bloom had been trying to trick them. No one would deliberately strand himself as well as them in a landscape like this without some easy means of escape.

But it wasn't going to be like that. They were still following tracks that must have been his, because there were no others. Following Bloom was the one thing that was proving easier than expected. And still it seemed that they were no closer to safety at the end of that day than they had been at the beginning of it.

Jill reminded herself that it was dangerous to think that way, especially when it seemed that the others were looking to her to lead them. She had never wanted that either. Someone better qualified should be telling them what to do; Andrew Parker, if he recovered; or Simon, who was a teacher and used to giving instructions at least.

She'd never been a person to push herself forward, except that she´d be the one to object when someone in authority issued a stupid instruction. She was happy enough to stay in a job that didn´t demand too much of her and paid well enough to fund her passion to see and understand as much of the wide world as she could. She'd never even tried for promotion, and yet here she was ordering six other adult people about, even Mr. and Mrs. Johnson who were so much older than her. And it mattered. They were in a situation where decisions meant life or death and any one of their party might know better than she what they ought to do.

But someone had to make those decisions.

Now that the day was starting to cool, there was another concern - they would have to start thinking about a camping place soon. None of them had eaten more than a little dried fruit and some corn snacks, passed out hand to hand. They would need some kind of meal, but more than that, they would need shelter and a fire.

Jill remembered how quickly the sun disappeared at these latitudes: the African sunset that was the most beautiful in the world - the soft pink ball going down before your eyes with the colour thickening to a deep red that eventually spilled out across the sky, silhouetting the few thorn trees that stood up in the broad expanse before the horizon. She would have liked to just sit and watch it, but now the coming of evening was just another threat.

At least there wouldn't be any mosquitoes to worry about. Where they were now, there wasn´t enough water to sustain them.

Jill called a halt early that day, when they came to a place that seemed like it might be good to spend the night. The ground was baked a little hard; as if there must be water here in the rainy season. It would be less comfortable for sleeping, now that they were without the mattresses, but it would be easier to set up the makeshift shelter. More importantly, the elephants had been in this place. There was dry timber where they had ripped out or maimed the few trees that struggled to grow.

Even so, it proved near impossible to convert the heavy tarpaulin that Simon had carried all day into a useful shelter. They had taken down the canopy from the truck before they realized how heavy it would be. Even after they'd managed to cut it down to something like the size they would need, it weighed at least as much as one of the tents. And the tents were free standing, held rigid and in place by their own structure without relying on pegs. When it came to erecting the tarp, they understood that pegs were not much use in this soil. They needed to find stones and rocks big enough to hold the sheeting down. At least they would all fit under the one shelter and have the extra warmth of being crowded together.

While Simon supervised efforts to put up the makeshift tent, Jill and George were trying something else. The obvious fact that the water they had was not enough to keep them alive was something that none of them wanted to talk about, or even think of, any more, but it needed to be faced. George had remembered reading somewhere about making a still to attract moisture from the air. By chance they'd brought along some light plastic sheeting from the trailer. Jill had thought that it might make a groundsheet for the old couple, though already that seemed like an absurd degree of comfort to be worrying over. George thought that maybe they could use it to trap water.

The idea was that you dug a reasonably deep hole and covered it with the sheet, weighted down so that the plastic hung down in the hole but without touching the sides or bottom. If you left it long enough, moisture was supposed to condense from the air and gather in the hollow of the sheet.

They only had one spade with them, but taking turns with George at digging made Jill realize how much weakened they were already. The day was cooling down, but the mild exertion of using a spade had them both sweating and panting from the first moments. Jill wouldn't normally feel like this, she knew.

Luckily there were plenty of rocks around big enough to weight down the sheet. Andrew Parker, who was still dazed and largely useless, came over to watch them at work. He seemed to take an interest, nodding as if to give the project his blessing. They didn't have spare words for Andrew, but it seemed that watching survival theory being put into practice stirred some part of his brain. He mumbled something.

"I can't tell what he's saying," Jill admitted, "can you make it out?"

George took a step closer to Andrew and asked him to repeat.

"He's asking what message you left at the truck," George told her.

Jill dropped the spade and slumped down to a sitting position. That was one more obvious thing she had missed. They should have left a note on the windscreen explaining at least how many there were of them and in what direction they were setting off. For all they knew, someone may have already come across the abandoned truck. Once the footprints were obscured in the shifting dust, there would be no way to know which way they´d headed.

Andrew Parker remained standing, watching her with innocent interest. George had obviously had the same realization as Jill. He came to squat beside her.

"No good blaming ourselves," he said. "We can't go back now. Anyway if someone finds the truck, they'll follow us as easily as we can follow Bloom. Let's face it we won't have gone far at the rate we can travel."

"But it's so stupid; and I keep missing the basic things."

"Not only you."

"George; I have the feeling that the others are relying on me, though I don't know why they should."

"We are relying on you Jill. We have to rely on someone and you're the best of us to lead."

"Why me?"

"I don't know. It's just happened that way. Maybe it's something carried over from your job."

"How could that be? All I do is move numbers around all day."

George smiled.

"I count things for pay too. Dull isn't it? And Andrew assesses insurance claims and Simon teaches history. None of us does anything that's useful out here."

"At least you can smile about it George."

"You have to admit we are pathetic enough to be funny. But then I keep thinking about what Jonathan did to Michael and Mr. Kriegman. It was so horrible."

"You call him Jonathan. I can't even bring myself to say Bloom's name."

"I know what you mean; but hating is no good. He must be terribly disturbed in his mind to have done those things. He needs to be in a hospital."

"He needs to be lying stretched out on the sand, you mean, with the vultures pecking at his eyes. I'm not as forgiving as you, George."

George shifted uncomfortably: he'd been squatting too long in the same position. He eased his plump legs down and sat next to Jill. There was something else he wanted to say.

"Have you really thought about that though?" He asked. "It's possible that Bloom didn't get very far after all. Maybe he only wandered off into the bush with some crazy delusional idea of where he was, planning to hike across the Sahara or maybe to France. We could find a body a little further on, or maybe not if the hyenas get to him first. We're following a madman. Doesn't that strike you as a little mad?"

It was the same thought that Jill had, but to hear it from George surprised her.

"Why didn't you say that before, when we were arguing about what to do?" She asked him.

"We had to set off in some direction. You were right that staying with the truck was no good; and retracing our steps would take longer than we have. We need to hope that we´ll find something nearer, but where, we don't know. Following the man with the map and the plan seems like the best option even if we know that the man is insane."

Jill thought about that.

"You're quite brave, George," she told him. "You see our situation clearly, but you don't panic."

George shook his head.

"I'm not brave. I was throwing up in the back of the truck when the bad things were happening, too scared to do anything. And even now, I couldn't do what you're doing, so I hope that you'll keep doing it, for all our sakes."

Jill wasn't sure what it was that she was doing, or whether it was any use, but for now the still was finished. Next it was time to collect wood for the fire and then there'd be other jobs to do before having to consider what to plan for tomorrow.

Day Eleven

The night was less than comfortable. Their sleeping bags didn't feel as warm as they should, lying on the ground with no mat beneath and only a tarpaulin above for shelter. The earth was hard and they were packed so tightly together that it was not possible to move without disturbing someone else. You endured the swelling ache of a hip or shoulder that was supporting more than its share of weight for as long as it was bearable, and experienced a sting of irritation every time your neighbour shifted position.

The side of the tent nearest the fire was open, but the weak flame gave no heat in the cold night air, only a little area of half-light that made the darkness beyond seem more threatening than ever.

By the time a faint light started to creep into the sky, Jill could remember only brief moments of sleep through the long night. Her dreams had been no more reassuring than her waking thoughts.

It was some time after that before all of them were fully wake. Some people can sleep normally in almost any circumstance, Jill supposed. Even now some sleeping bags lay so still that it was hard to credit a living human being inside. Others twitched as the occupants fidgeted unwillingly back to consciousness.

Let them rest a little if they can, she thought. Jill and Simon were already up and about, as was old Mr. Johnson and strangely enough, Andrew Parker. Parker was still confused, but clearly he was an early riser by habit. Maybe he was starting to recover from concussion, if that was what he'd suffered.

There were animal tracks all around the camp. Some living things had been close enough to almost touch them, while staying just outside the light of the fire. Jill had heard hyena cries in the night, as well as the sound of something much heavier crashing through the bush not far away. She assumed that the crashing must have been elephants. She knew that they didn't normally rest in the darkness, even though they had poor night vision. They were always on the move, following some route only known to themselves. If your camp was in the way, it was just bad luck.

But it was a shock to see how close the night predators had come to them without being noticed. The only upside was that animal tracks meant that there was life in this place which seemed so dry and dead. Where there was life, there had to be water somewhere.

"Birds," Simon told her. "Birds and insects."

Jill remembered that these creatures were supposed to be signals of water, but when you started to watch out for them, there were more birds everywhere than you first thought. They didn´t have a bird watcher in the group unfortunately. All of them had been more interested in wild mammals until today. Jill knew that it was only certain types of birds that couldn't live far from water - waders and fish-eaters obviously, but that was no help because there were none of them to be seen out here. Apart from that, doves and pigeons, if there was a difference between the two, and bees of course. That was what you looked out for.

But they didn't see any bees or doves as they set out, reluctantly, into the early morning. The idea was to travel as far as they could before the sun was so high they'd be forced to rest. Along the track, the only signs of life were fresh elephant droppings and some broad flat impressions in the dust which told them that a lone animal, presumably a young male, had passed close to them in the night. Jill must have been sleeping more deeply than she imagined not to have heard it clearly.

They also picked out booted human footprints, clear enough to know they were still following the trail set by Jonathan Bloom, even if they couldn't be certain that it led anywhere.

This was not Jill's best time. Her conversation of the previous evening with George continued to worry her, and the still experiment had turned out badly. There had been some water in the bottom of the polythene sheet in the morning, but it was hardly a cupful and barely worth the effort of transferring to one of the canteens, losing precious drops in the process.

"Not enough to replace what we sweated out digging the hole," Jill commented.

George seemed more disappointed than her, as if he'd wasted their time. She told him that they had to keep using their imagination and being prepared to try. It would have been more stupid not to make the attempt. Privately, this failure reminded her once more how little water they had left, and now they were reduced to looking for birds and bugs.

Before they started the day's march, she'd reminded them of Andrew Parker's warning that they should not try to ration what water they had left. They had to keep drinking properly, because too little water was not much better than none, and heatstroke would be a killer for any of them. No one raised the obvious question of what they should do when the un-rationed water ran out.

High temperatures didn't normally bother Jill, or the others, she supposed. Anyone who didn't like feeling warm wouldn't keep willingly coming back to Africa. But now it felt as if they were trapped between the heat simmering up from the baking earth and the sun's radiation beating down upon them. Heat was doing its best to sweat the life out of them, until they'd be left dried up as fruit spread out in the sun, and that changed the way they experienced it. Dust was trying to put an end to them, too. They weren't breathing it in as much as they had done in the back of the truck (in spite of the bandanas and scarves they'd wrapped round their faces) but here it was more of a constant thing, like a taste in the air. It dragged at their feet, making each single step a little bit more of an effort than it should have been and holding them back in the frequent places where the dust deepened to thick sand.

There was no path that they could see. It appeared that Bloom was only following the compass reading, blind to the terrain. Perhaps he was as crazy as George feared; but anyway they didn't dare seek out more passable routes and risk losing his trail.

Today the Johnsons were holding them back even more than before. There was nothing Jill could say to them - they were doing the best they could in their uncomplaining way. Mr. Johnson didn't look too bad, but his wife could barely catch her breath now. Around her eyes, the skin was so dark that it looked black rather than grey. Her mouth hung open as she walked, stooped over and taking impossibly small steps that hardly seemed to carry her forward any distance.

When they finally lost Bloom's track, it seemed that the day had got as bad as it could be.

They'd been walking for some hours. It was easy to lose track of time. In the distance they saw an area with a few trees; and then the boot marks they were following deviated from a straight course towards that place. Perhaps Bloom had found water where the plants were able to grow: Jill hoped so.

As they came closer, they saw that the vegetation grew in a ring that surrounded a flat open space in which nothing green lived. The pale earth was hard and cracked, littered with fragments of volcanic rock, elephant dung and bones.

Still they didn't give up hope of finding water. This place was a pan, which meant that, when the rains came, all of it would be underwater, like a giant shallow pond. It was dried up now, but in places it would hold depressions where water would lie deeper and longer before the sun and the animals completely drained it. By now there might be nothing, or perhaps a little muddy water in the bottom of a dip that would keep them alive for a few days more. At least it was something to hope for.

But when they came to the edge of the pan, where the trees and scrub ended, the boot prints of Jonathan Bloom disappeared at the point where he'd first stepped onto the hard, dry ground.

Jill estimated that the area of the pan was something over half a kilometre square. They'd noticed that Bloom had moved off his steady course to come here, so she reasoned that he would have spent some time exploring; maybe finding water. Then he'd have headed off again from the far side, following the compass again, from somewhere maybe just to the right of that tree she was looking at now. She pointed the tree out to Simon and tried to fix it in her mind. Then she sent the Johnsons and Andrew Parker off towards it with instructions to rest and wait for them there once they arrived. The rest of them split up and spent the next half hour looking for water.

Two days earlier there'd have been discussion about what was the best course of action. Now the rest of them only stood waiting for Jill to tell them what to do before following her instruction. The change made it easier to get things done, Jill she wasn't sure that their increasing passivity was a good sign.

And they didn't find water. The closest they came was when Emma signaled Jill and the others to come where she was standing, at the lip of a deep depression that was ringed with dried salt at various levels, indicating how the water had evaporated off in stages. The bottom of the dip was filled with mud that was still wet.

"We can't drink that," said George. He sounded tired and disgusted.

"Maybe we can dig down to find the water that's left underneath," Emma suggested.

"What do you think, Simon?" Jill asked.

"There's plenty of water under the ground all through Africa," Simon conceded. "That's where the rains go. It's just a question of getting to it. But I think the water seeps further down before it stays. I never heard of anyone digging it out of a mud hole. I think it's more like you have to sink a well."

Jill considered for a moment. It seemed possible if they dug down with their one spade, they might discover water that was still drinkable. On the other hand they could use a lot of energy and come up with nothing but mud.

It was as if she had a limited number of chances left and had to decide where to place her remaining bets. There were fewer chips left after each wager. Finally, she decided that betting on this hole would be more like desperation than sense. They had just about covered the whole area of the pan and they´d found nothing. The time they had left was ticking on.

"Let's go back to the others," she told them.

When they did, they found no boot prints nor any trace of where Jonathan Bloom might have emerged from the pan. The area was so big that they couldn't circle all of it looking for the trail. They could be within yards of his tracks and still not see anything.

"Bloom didn't move so far off his course to check this place out," Jill told them. "And we know he wasn't worried about us following him, or he'd have done something to hide his trail before now. He's been heading more or less due east all the time we've been following him, so we'll keep to the same direction."

"And how will I know I'm taking us east when the sun is directly above our heads?" Simon asked her quietly as the others were preparing to start.

Jill looked about her.

"Do you remember the termite mounds?" She asked him.

In this country, termite mounds were in every place that the water table wasn´t so deep that even these tenacious creatures couldn´t dig to it. Building up from underground foundations, the insects constructed pillars of earth glued together by their own waste standing a metre high and more. You were seldom out of sight of at least one of them. One or two of the mounds in their current view were flaking and abandoned, where the colony had failed or been invaded by some animal that managed to break through to the inside and scoop out the valuable protein within. Most would still be full of industrious creatures that you never saw; tirelessly working on for the good of the mound.

Jill remembered that you could tell if a termite mound was dead or not by making a little hole in it. If you came back in an hour and the hole was filled in, it meant there were still live termites inside that you could gather and eventually eat, after some careful preparation. But just now, food was not their problem.

Simon knew what she was getting at.

"Yes, it´s what Michael told us, they all lean in the same direction," he said. "The prevailing winds bring the rain. The rain washes the mound down at that side. The termites repair the damage, but the mound is always built up more on one side and washed away on the other. And the winds come in from the west, or is it the east, so the steep side is always on the west, or the east."

"That's the part I don't remember either. The steep side should be facing the direction of the wind, and the sloping side is the other one. The wind bringing the rain always comes from the same direction, but I'm not sure whether it blows from the east or the west."

"We should have paid more attention, but I think the wind that brings rain must come from the west."

Jill grunted with frustration. She wanted to cry or sit on the ground and give up altogether. What was the point in trying if they couldn't even remember which way the prevailing winds blew. Then she had an idea.

"We are being completely stupid again," she said. "East and west are just our words for something that doesn't really matter. Look, we came from that patch of ground on the other side of the pan, where the dead tree is. We crossed to this place and we were on course then, I'm sure of it. I was looking over here trying to judge where the trail should pick up."

"I was doing the same."

"So, see that termite mound there. Look how it faces."

"I see it."

"When we start walking, all you have to do is make sure that all the mounds you see face the same way as that one. If they start to look different, we're going off course."

Simon shook his head. That should have been so obvious. They were losing the ability to think clearly, through tiredness and anxiety and whatever else the country was doing to them that was slowly killing each one.

They moved on. The group maintained a steady pace now: their steps had something mechanical about them. Every so often they would pause, without a word being said, to wait for the stragglers, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. They had all settled into this rhythm, although every time the lead group paused it seemed that the Johnsons were further back than they had been at the previous stop, and every time the old couple finally caught up, it took longer for Mrs. Johnson's asthmatic wheezing to calm to the point where Jill could persuade herself that it would be safe to ask the old lady to continue.

No-one spoke much, but it seemed like days since Andrew Parker had uttered a word. He kept pace with them easily enough, but his eyes were glazed and vacant as if he was not really there at all. His shirt, that had been drenched with sweat the moment they'd started the march, was now completely dry. His perspiration had stopped completely; though Jill thought that maybe none of them were really sweating any more.

When they rested in the middle of the day, Jill made a point of speaking with each of the party in turn, hoping to assess their condition. In a way it seemed pointless. They were all in a bad way and there wasn´t anything she could do for any of them whatever difficulties they had. However poorly they might be feeling, each of them would have to keep walking or die. Maybe they'd die anyway, but while they kept walking there was hope. They must keep hoping, even though they had barely seen a living thing since starting out that morning. Their situation was becoming more simple with every hour that passed, but not in a good way. Finally, each step became a choice between going on or giving up.

***

Afternoons were definitely worse than the mornings. In the morning, the air was cooler and you could somehow believe that this day was going to different to the one before. By afternoon, they barely looked around them; convinced that their surroundings would never change and that this day would be like the last; their only future would be to continue in this same way until they could go no further.

The area they were passing through now was just like the country they had seen on the first day of the march. The sun continued to burn them. The weight of the packs bit into their shoulders and made their backs even hotter than the rest of their bodies (a reminder to Jill that they were still trying to carry more than they needed, or at least more than they could bear). They would have to lose some of that burden at the next stop, because not one of them now had the strength that they'd set out with.

Simon was in the lead, as usual, Andrew Parker following behind him. Suddenly, Parker dropped to the ground. He didn't so much fall as subside; as if the frame of bone and tissue that had been holding him up had suddenly gone soft. When they gathered round him he was laying face down, mouth open in the dirt, his breathing shallow and rapid.

They slipped the pack off his shoulders and turned him onto his back. Parker didn't react either to help or resist them. The skin of his forehead was burning to the touch even through the head bandage that he still wore.

"Give him some water," Simon suggested.

Jill took Parker's canteen: it was a metal one in the old-fashioned army style. It felt heavy when she shook it and then unscrewed the cap.

"It's almost full," she told them. "Has anyone seen him drinking anything at all?"

It was unbelievable: Parker was the one who'd warned them all not to ration their water, but he'd barely touched his own. Had he been saving it; or was he just unaware of the time passing since he'd last taken a sip – too preoccupied to notice that he was dying of thirst?

Jill held the canteen to his lips as George supported Parker's head.

"Not too much," George warned her. "He won't be able to take it. A little at a time."

Jill washed a tiny amount into the slack, open mouth, but it was difficult to see if Parker was making any effort to swallow. He tried to cough and started to choke a little.

The Johnsons had caught up with them by now; and Mr. Johnson came to the side of the stricken man.

"We have to get him out of the sun," Johnson said. "He needs shade and rest and to get some water inside him. His temperature has to come down."

It was clear that they would travel no further that day. They started to set up camp where they were. It gave everyone something to do and less time to worry about whether this was the end that they were all coming to soon. The shelter was put up easily enough now they'd had practice, and they hurried to move Parker under the shade of it. Emma took his canteen and stationed herself by him. Every few minutes she tried to get a little water over his lips and into his parched throat. Parker didn't even try to say anything. It was doubtful he had any voice left.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were sitting on the ground. They looked completely exhausted, the wife in particular. Those two would be next, Jill supposed.

She noticed Simon standing very still at the edge of the camp, looking away. She went to him, quietly.

"What is it?"

"Look."

Jill saw that he was watching a bird that was sitting perched on a branch about twenty metres away from them: its feet and beak were of a matching bright red and its body was a light creamy olive colour, shading to green at the head. The wings were bright green.

"Beautiful, Jill agreed, but you see them all over Africa."

"It's a green pigeon."

"I know."

"It means water nearby."

Jill cursed herself for stupidity yet again. She had too many things to think about and she needed to keep them all in the front of her mind at the same time, but water was the most important. And where there were doves and pigeons there was water.

"Don't say anything to the others," she said to Simon. "Keep it in sight."

The two of them followed the bird at a careful distance. It travelled in a flurry of short winged hops from one dried up dead looking bush to another; but after not many minutes, when they were still quite close to the camp, it brought them to a tree that had leaves on it. Jill wondered whether they would have noticed the tree had they not been following the bird.

"That's a fig of some kind," Simon told her. "They produce fruit all year round."

It was true. They could see the little dark bunches of figs nestling between the leaves. There was buzzing too, from some kind of insect. She saw wasps. They must have a nest nearby.

When they found the spring, it wasn't much, but enough that they'd be able to fill their own canteens and bring the others back to do the same. There was genuine cool shade under the tree and they could just about reach up and grab a handful of figs without needing to climb.

"Are they safe to eat?" Jill asked.

Simon shrugged.

"The monkeys eat them, and there's moisture in them too. We shouldn't take too many I suppose."

"What about the water?"

"Do you mean, is it safe to drink?"

"I hardly care about that. The birds must drink it and they're not dead. It's safer to drink it than not to, I'm sure of that. No, I mean, how could it be here?"

"There's lots of water under the surface. You already know this is the only country where the main river never reaches the sea. All the water disappears underground. The water table must be close to the surface here and it just pops up in this one place. We've got lucky I suppose."

If Jill shut her eyes for a moment, she found that bird calls and the buzzing of wasps made it possible to imagine she was in a completely different place. We probably walked past other springs just like this, she thought. We never really stopped just to see what was around. There could have been other birds like these and we probably just scared them off; marching along with our heads down. There was a lesson in it somewhere.

"We should get back to the others," she told Simon. "We'll move the camp here if Andrew can travel. At least we'll have some proper shade."

Day Twelve

Stephen Green hated to waste time, but the job he did had taught him patience if nothing else. The network of roads that he had to negotiate now could not be hurried. Once he'd passed the end of what could be called a highway, the miles settled into a pattern. The trail demanded that he devote enough attention to driving to address the real danger that at any point he might snap some vital part of the vehicle, or beach it up to the axles in sand. On the other hand, the driving wasn`t so demanding, at least not all the time, as to keep his thoughts entirely focused on the task in hand. He made steady progress; and even for a man so indifferent to landscape and fauna as Green, the journey was not disagreeable.

The tour route marked out on his map followed a meandering course, taking in the places of interest and allowing plenty of time for sightseeing. Unless travelling through this country became even slower than it had been for the last two days, Green was confident that he would intercept the party before they got much further on.

Lately, whenever he had these unlooked for moments of reflection, he found that his thoughts kept returning to the subject of the work he did and why he was still doing it. Not what it was for, or whether it was right or wrong. Green didn´t have any doubts on that score and he wasn't getting soft or sentimental about his life at this late stage.

You could ask the same question, right or wrong, about almost any field of human endeavour and in most cases it wouldn´t be easy to answer honestly. It seemed to Green that most people did work that was essentially useless. Their jobs only involved writing things down for other, more important, people to ignore at their leisure. Even the small impressions they made were impersonal, tapped out on keyboards and stored in code. They didn't leave so much as a trace of handwriting behind.

On the other hand, in every place where humans tried to live together, they needed to find some way to make sure that people did what they promised they would do. Take that away and everything fell to pieces. Sometimes it was lawyers and courts that people relied to enforce promises when trust broke down. In Green´s opinion, courts didn't seem to do such a good job of making promises stick. So far as he was concerned, he was in the same business as the courts, just using different methods; and he liked to think that he got results.

It was necessary work and he was good at it, he knew that much. He liked to think that what made him effective was a sense of impartial justice. He didn't get personally involved and he took no pleasure in the infliction of pain, even though he'd turned out to have a talent for violence when it was called for. Occasionally he´d needed to associate with fellow practitioners who had to work themselves up into a rage against transgressors to justify what needed to be done, or to show how tough they were, or just because they got a buzz from being angry. He had a deep distaste for such men: their motivations were flawed and illogical. You might even say they were impure. They needed to put themselves and their feelings at the centre of events before they could act, and the egoism of that misjudgement led them into making decisions for the wrong reasons, which was when the trouble usually started.

Like when he'd been paired up against his will with that idiot Smith. He'd told Smith the same thing he always told the young men, that it's dangerous to get angry with the target. Don't blame the man; it's not his fault we have to kill or hurt him. But Smith needed an emotional crutch to make the work easier for him. He had to make out like the target deserved it, working himself up into a fury over a man he'd never even met before. After what had happened, Green knew he wouldn't be prepared to work with Smith again, whatever the job.

A way to understand it was you could take a man's life, when it became necessary to do so, but you shouldn't believe this gave you the right to judge him. Only god had that right.

Green's own intentions were pure and his approach was simple. If someone made a deal with his employer and was stupid enough to welch on it, the natural order of things was disturbed. In order that harmony should be restored, it was necessary, not only that the transgressor should be made to see the error of his ways, but also that society in general should be left in no doubt that transgression could never be a profitable or viable option. In this case, society in general meant any other schmuck who might get to hear about the guy who thought he was too smart to play by the rules and start to wonder if maybe he could do the same. Criminologists might argue between themselves, but Green had every confidence in the effectiveness of punishment as a deterrent.

This view of life meant Green experienced no doubts about whether his profession was useful or necessary. Rat catchers would be needed as long as there were still rats. The system wasn't in question, but Green's part in it was potentially up for change. For example, as he got older he was more reluctant to drop everything and leave home behind on a trip like this. He had other interests that he'd actively cultivated over the years, knowing from the start that he couldn't do this sort of thing forever. His passions were small and circumspect perhaps, compared to the kind of ambition that makes a man feel capable of such heroic enterprises as raising a family, or becoming president of his local golf club. But even these small personal interests, that could be indulged just because he was able to set them aside whenever the next call came in, had finally started to exert some gravitational sway. There were things he wanted to do that he'd been putting off for too long. And of course he wasn't getting any younger.

There's no doubt the work need to be done, was his line of thought, but that's not enough of itself if you're the one who has to do it. There needs to be something in it for you, beyond the temporary gratification of a job well done. He hadn't always felt that way. At the start, like any young man, he'd been satisfied and maybe relieved to find one thing that he seemed to have a natural talent for; but those early days were a long way behind him now.

On the other hand, he still had the talent and right now he needed to use it to find Jonathan Bloom, wherever he was, and then do whatever was necessary to recover the funds that Bloom had stolen. Besides that he must be able to reply honestly, when the Fat Man should ask, that he had left Jonathan Bloom in such a condition that he would be unable to steal from anyone ever again.

Right now, Green was in a place that was a long way from anywhere, but even here it was necessary to stay alert. You never knew when something was going to happen.

And then, up ahead, he saw a truck that had almost run off the road. It looked like some kind of wreck, like there'd been a fire. He slowed his own vehicle to a crawl as he came nearer the spot, all the time looking around for signs that there might still be someone around watching his approach.

Green didn't believe in coincidences any more than he believed that the guilty went unpunished, but in any case the scorched number plate on the back of the wreck confirmed to him that the most recent clients of Wilderness Tours had met an unscheduled halt in their trip at this point.

There were no people, but there was enough dried blood on and around the driver's seat to suggest that at least one of the party had met a violent end here. There was no note on the dashboard or anywhere else to indicate where the survivors might be, but Green quickly decided that there must have been survivors. The burn damage was from the spare tyre and it hadn't been caused by the crash that had disabled the Cruiser. There was only one reason to burn tyres out here – to make black smoke and send up a signal. And the signal hadn't been seen, because this was an accident site still, not the scene of a rescue. There was a jackknifed trailer still hitched to the back of the cruiser that had been ransacked for its contents. Discarded bits and pieces were scattered around in a manner that Green couldn't imagine animals could have caused. Someone had been making a selection of things that might be useful enough to be worth carrying before setting out from this place.

Walking the perimeter of the crash scene, he wasn't surprised to see what were still recognizable as footprints, heading off to the east. Green was no expert tracker but anyone could see there had been more than one person and that the tracks were not fresh. They weren't so clear as the imprints from paws and hooves of animals that had been drawn to inspect the abandoned vehicle.

Then a little way off from the vehicle, he came across what he assumed must be a grave. The space where the ground had been dug out and filled in and the mound of earth that had been displaced by a body didn't suggest any other explanation. In any case, there was no reason why anyone unfortunate enough to be marooned out here would waste energy burying anything other than a body. Also there was all that blood in the driver's cab to be considered.

The grave presented a puzzle. Until he saw it, Green had not seriously considered the possibility that the tour group might have met with a genuine accident and could now be trying to reach civilization. His first hypothesis had been that Bloom was out here to meet with some associates, for reasons best known to themselves, and that the associates would have set off from this place in some other form of transport. Somewhere not far off he'd expected to pick up the tracks of another vehicle. He'd also assumed that somewhere near he was likely to discover the remains of those of the party who hadn't been in on the arrangement - they would have been led away from the scene and then executed as potential witnesses.

So far as Green could see, the only flaw with his theory was that there hadn't been enough money involved in the original crime to make such drastic behaviour worthwhile: but then came the interesting reflection that there might be a lot more money involved than what he knew about. After all, employees as smart as Jonathan Bloom was supposed to be didn't double cross bosses like the Fat Man for a few hundred thousand. It was an interesting speculation, although it was too soon to guess where it might lead.

The single grave put a dent in the notion that all the innocent bystanders would have been killed. It was only big enough for one person, and if there had been a conspiracy of bad people, they would have needed to get rid of more than one body, so there should be a bigger hole, or no hole at all. And why would killers trouble to dig a grave near the scene of the crime when so many wild animals were around to dispose of any evidential meat that was lying around?

One grave, dug where it was sure to be found eventually, suggested some sort of tragedy that survivors had marked by doing the decent thing. Which wasn't to say that Bloom and whoever was with him were not the instigators of whatever had happened, because looking at the way that the Land Cruiser had come to rest, there was no obvious reason why the vehicle should suddenly have veered into the only tree of any size that was even close to the road. Besides, at the sort of speeds that would be possible here it was difficult to imagine that a crash would prove fatal to anyone. Perhaps the driver had been shot by someone waiting in ambush.

Thinking like this was causing Green to regret t he'd not made time to get hold of some kind of weapon. He felt exposed, standing looking at the scene, even though it was clear that all the players must have left long ago. In this territory it was just too easy to be caught off guard. At least he knew which way he had to go now. He could forget about the rest of the tour itinerary. The only tracks made by anyone who had left this place alive headed east, so he was headed that way too.

***

By the time Jill and Simon returned to the camp with good news about the water, it was obvious that Andrew Parker's condition had deteriorated more quickly than they could have expected. It seemed his brain had completely lost the ability to control body temperature. One minute he was too hot and the next he was shivering. He'd be sweating too, Jill supposed, if there'd been any moisture left inside to come out through his pores.

Emma continued her efforts to give Parker water, but it was next to impossible to get him to swallow. What he needed was to be put on a drip, but they had no idea how many miles they might be from even a basic medical facility

"He's not going to make it, is he?" George asked Jill a few hours later, when they were alone for a moment.

"We'll keep doing what we can for him," she replied. "That's as much as we can ask of ourselves."

When the sunset was past and the earth became colder and darker, Parker started to shake again. They did their best to keep him warm, piling the spare clothing on him, but then he would start to struggle as if he was too hot.

They suffered through a long night, and in the morning Andrew Parker was gone.

Everyone had felt so upset when Michael and Kriegman had died. Burying their guide had been so traumatic that now they felt guilty about their own lack of feeling. They were numb; and it wasn't anything to do with what they thought of Parker. Something inside them had changed and they understood that the conditions of their own lives were very different now.

No-one said much. Simon and George took turns with the spade to excavate a hole that was deep enough to be decent. They lowered the body in without ceremony and began shovelling the earth back almost without pause. Andrew's remaining water was shared out between the rest of them and Jill went through his pack to recover and redistribute what they could use. She took the chance to get rid of some of the surplus that they had all been carrying. The remaining contents and the pack itself were left on the grave, without much hope that they'd be left undisturbed for long. Jill photographed the grave and the location from different angles so that it might be possible for someone to find the place later.

Then it was time to move on. They had filled their water containers and they'd had some rest, but still they were getting weaker not stronger with every day that passed. This was not a place where they could stay. They were still involved in a race against time to reach safety before their reserves were exhausted.

Mr. Johnson asked to speak privately to Jill for a moment.

"You don't need to ask permission to talk to me sir," she protested.

"This is important and serious; and you probably won't like what I'm going to say."

Jill waited.

"Me and the missus can't go on any more," he told her.

"We stay together. No one left behind. That's not even an argument," Jill insisted.

"You're not thinking clearly when you say that," he told her. "Let me explain it to you."

Johnson said that his wife's heart murmur was getting worse. If they tried to keep pace with the others, her heart wouldn't take the strain and she'd die.

"We've been together almost ten years," he said.

"I thought it would have been longer."

"We were both involved with other people before: but these ten years have been the best for me; old as I am. I'm not leaving the woman behind."

Johnson explained that he didn't plan on sitting on the ground to wait for the end. The two of them would keep going, following the rest at their own pace. They couldn't travel quickly but they didn't use up so much of everything as the young folk either. He'd be obliged if they'd mark the way from time to time with a pile of stones or some such, particularly if they came to a place again where there was water.

He had it all worked out and there wasn't anything anyone could say to persuade him it was wrong. In the end they couldn't stay around arguing. The truth was that even before he'd spoken, Jill had been fighting to suppress the thought that the rest of them would never be able to walk out from here while the old people were holding them back. Mr. Johnson coming out and saying what she had been thinking made her feel as wretched and guilty as if she had been planning to abandon the couple to their fate.

"We can leave markers easily enough," Simon said to her later, "but do you think there's any point, really?"

"I think they've asked us to keep leaving a trail just to make it easier for us," Jill replied.

Day Thirteen

Julian had been hiking for four days, one day longer than he'd allowed. He'd become bored with walking and the delay made him irritable. Nevertheless, tedium was the only thing that clouded his satisfaction. Once again he'd proved to himself how much cleverer he was than the rest of the world and everything he had planned was working out beautifully.

But it was more difficult to travel alone on foot in this country than he had imagined. There had been moments when a lesser man might have doubted himself, panicked even. Apart from the heat and the unchanging landscape, and the need to keep track of your water, the animals were his main concern. He'd never liked animals much, he realized now, couldn't see the point of keeping a pet, for example. And the animals were always there, even when you couldn't see them. They weren't very much afraid of a lone hiker and they were bolder still once the sun went down. Julian had been careful to keep a fire burning through the night, but he didn't want to risk a blaze that might be visible for miles. The last thing he wanted to do was to be rescued in a location that would help the emergency services find the others, even though he was sure they'd already be dead by now. This crossing had been difficult enough for him and he had water and a map.

But he was being careful about that too - that was why he'd decided to swing round and approach Tsodilo from the north. There'd be more risk of meeting people as he came closer to the hills and if necessary he'd direct rescuers north, away from Kriegman's truck. Afterwards, no one would blame a lucky survivor for being confused about direction. It would just be one more twist in a tragic series of events. In any case that was a worst-case scenario and he had no intention of being rescued by anyone. He would make his own way out of this place and everyone would think that Jonathan Bloom had perished with the rest of them.

That thought cheered him, but still the extra miles of walking and the time it was taking were a fag. He drank some more water. It was warm and disgusting but that hardly bothered him. At least now he could see the hills clearly, rising from the plain, more like the hunched backs of three gigantic living creatures than mountains of stone. There were no foothills, just those ancient enduring cores of extinct volcanoes that time and weather had stripped bare. The hills were impossible to miss and he was sure to reach them in a few hours time. On the far side he would find a visitor centre and a campsite and maybe some people who would be surprised to see him if he didn't have a good explanation ready.

Julian didn't worry too much about that just now. He had always believed it was a mistake to think too far ahead. He knew he would come in from the high ground, without being seen. That way he could study the camp for a while before deciding his next move. The map suggested that the road leading away from the site was not so difficult to drive and he'd noticed that no one in this country worried too much about security. If he could steal a car without being seen, he reckoned that no one would think to blame a missing white man for the theft. Once he saw the lay of the land, he was confident he'd know what to do.

By late afternoon, Julian was looking down from the heights as the air cooled and evening approached. He was keeping out of sight, using binoculars to study the land. Earlier on there'd been a party of tourists out walking on the hill, led by a guide, but they hadn't approached anywhere near his place. Now they and the wagon they'd travelled in were gone. There'd been a couple of private vehicles too; camper conversions and all-wheel drive pickups that looked like they were on hire from somewhere. All of them had moved out in time to reach their next destinations before dusk.

Julian guessed that the visitor centre was closed and that there wasn't anyone around other than the chickens and stringy dogs that lived here, maybe some natives that he didn't count. Apart from one old beaten up truck and a couple of black Africans who seemed to be the owners of it. He'd been watching them for some time.

The men were working on a traditional-style building that Julian supposed had been put up to impress the tourists. He couldn't imagine anyone actually living in it. The hut was one of those simple circular structures about five meters across, with walls that he remembered being told were made of rushes and termite mud. The roof was a wooden frame on which the men were replacing the grass thatch, carefully layering the new grass and cutting it to make a thick cover over the frame. It was slow work and Julian watched their progress with mild interest as he allowed his mind to develop a thought.

The vehicle looked in poor condition. On the other hand it must be serviceable enough for the men to use it in their business. Probably it was one of those ruined old vehicles that only the owner can make function. But he could show himself to these people. They wouldn't question his story and there was no reason to suppose that anyone would ever ask them about a stranger who'd needed a lift one day and paid them well for their help.

Self-confidence persuaded Julian that he would be safe. When he judged that the men must be approaching the end of their work day and he was fully satisfied there was nobody else around, nor likely to be; he decided it was time to make his appearance. They would be simple people, he supposed, used to doing as they were told.

The two men were surprised to see him of course. Probably he was a ragged sight, but still he could carry himself and address tradesmen as a superior person of undoubted authority. One spoke slowly, to emphasise that hearers had better take the time to listen. One assumed that the details of one's own life were known to perfect strangers without need for explanation. The manner had served him well in his adventures in merchant banking and life in general and he saw no reason to doubt its effectiveness here.

The appearance of the workers was not much better than his own; they were dressed in stained jeans and t-shirts. One of them, the skinny one with very black skin, was much younger than the heavy one who was clearly the boss. Julian spoke only to the older man.

"My car broke down out there; he waved as vaguely as he could. It's a hire car. I don't know anything about motors, but I need to get to Maun this evening."

The older man looked at him cautiously and Julian thought that maybe his English was not very good.

"Walked a long way," the man suggested finally. "Roof is finished, come inside. We can talk about it. Take weight off your feet."

Julian followed him into the hut. Inside there was only beaten earth to sit on. Julian slipped his pack off and squatted down. The younger man stayed in the doorway, as if waiting in case he was needed for anything.

"I'll make it simple," Julian told the other. He was flushed with a rising impatience that he struggled to hide. "I'm in a hurry. I suppose you've got food. Have your boy here get me something to eat and drink. Then you drive me to Maun. Some poolas for you and no more questions."

His host looked doubtful. The two blacks exchanged glances that seemed to signify some sort of understanding; who could say what expressions meant with these people. Finally the old man nodded and the younger one stepped inside to take Julian's pack. The empty water containers and the dusty sleeping bag strapped to it made the burden unwieldy. Julian realized that he should have got rid of anything that might suggest that he was anything other than a casual stranded motorist. Well, he could do that later on: meeting these two didn't really count as contact with civilised society.

"Asics puts your bag in the bus and bring something to eat while you tell me the story," the older man told him, smiling. "His name is Asics, I'm Levi. Pleased to meet you."

He offered a large calloused hand and Julian shook it.

***

The dinner was revolting, so far as Julian was concerned, but then he didn't normally eat meals that didn't contain meat. He was hungrier than he'd realized and in the end the other two simply sat back and watched Julian consume the food. He'd not told the older man much and the younger had been busy outside with cooking and tidying away the last of the working tools. Time was passing and already outside there was more light from the cooking fire than from the sun.

"We are heading towards Maun," Levi conceded finally. "But it is too late to travel back to my village now. Tonight we stay here. We have our blankets on the truck and you have your sleeping bag."

He gestured to the pack that Asics had brought back into the hut when he delivered the food.

"That's no good. I have places to be."

"It's dangerous travelling in the night."

"I offered to pay you."

Again the pause and the exchanged glances between the two blacks.

"No need to pay. We are going in that direction and you have problem. But tomorrow."

"I see."

Julian reached over and tugged the backpack towards him. He opened the top and rummaged in the contents for a moment. The zippered leather bag came easily to hand. There was still enough light inside for Levi to see the little pistol that Julian's hand was holding when it came out of the bag.

"I think you should reconsider your position," Julian told him.

"It is still too dangerous to drive on these roads at night."

That was the first time that Asics, had spoken. His English was very precise and clear, much better than the older man's. But that wasn't important: clearly the pair of them needed some encouragement. Julian transferred his attention to Asics

"Can Levi drive the truck?" He asked, just to be sure.

Asics nodded.

"Unlucky for you then."

Julian pointed the Glock at Asics and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Julian tried again. Still nothing. Asics reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the clip from the pistol, which he showed to Julian.

"It needs this," he said. "Also you had a bullet in the chamber, which is very dangerous, so I took it out for you."

Julian looked at Levi.

"Asics is the boss here," Levi told him. "Me and the other men work for him."

Asics put the gun back in the backpack and closed the top of the pack. He put the clip back in his pocket.

"Sorry to go through your things man," he told Julian. "But you didn't look right to me. You keep your little gun. It's no use here. In my house in the village I have a real gun; a rifle in case the lions come. But you are no lion. The road for Maun is that way. You should go now but don't leave it too late to camp; and don't come back here to bother us."

Later on, after he'd been walking for a while, Julian checked that Asics hadn't found the spare clip that he'd transferred to his toiletries bag some time before. It was still there. Julian was burning with so much rage that he wanted to march back up the track as soon as the brief twilight was over to make an end of both of the blacks with the pistol. They were just village clowns and they could ruin everything. But something about the two men made him hold back and he didn't even know what it was.

Julian wasn't confident about the gun. He didn't know anything about weapons and he'd never fired this one. But one thing he was sure of as he looked for a safe place to rest for the night. He would remember the self-satisfied look on the face of the black kid who sent him on his way and one way or another he would have revenge.

He didn't sleep at all that night. He was still too angry at the turn of events to set up any kind of camp. In the dark, by the light of his head torch, he made a small fire at the side of the track and there he sat, in his sleeping bag with his back to a tree, brooding and sipping at the fresh water with which Asics had refilled his canteen.

He had water and he'd managed to get to the road. It wasn't a road like he'd expected from the map, more like a defined track that was passable to vehicles with care, but he was sure to meet someone on it before he travelled much further.

That first contact had been a disaster. He'd made a fool of himself and now the two blacks would remember his face. That wouldn't matter so much because to the world he was Jonathan Bloom, the crazy man who would disappear forever without trace shortly after seeing them. Only now it was more important than ever that his former travelling companions should not emerge from the bush alive. Now no-one would believe that there'd simply been an accident. If there was a proper investigation, and if there were any survivors who could be shown old photographs of Bloom - well, that couldn't happen.

He couldn't seriously picture any of that rabble stumbling through to this point. The walk had been testing enough for him. But for the first time, because now he'd been frustrated once, he began to feel faint stirrings of doubt. What if by some miracle one of them did make it to Tsodilo?

As usual, Julian didn't feel sorry for himself for long. His way forward was clear when he thought about it and today hadn't damaged the plan so much as he'd first imagined. His cheeks still burned when he thought about the two roofers, and he knew that at some stage he'd catch up with them and show them what it meant to mess with him. He'd go back to the camp later, but if they weren't there just then, it didn't really matter. Then he'd go on to check that there were no survivors from the wreck of the safari truck. For this project, he'd need transport. If he was driving a car, he supposed that a white man could show up in any place with few questions asked, whereas walking he was an object of curiosity. But in order to get hold of a car out here, he'd have to take it from somebody else.

For some reason that detail didn't disturb Julian at all. In fact, as he sat looking out across the fire into the starlit African night, imagining what must almost certainly have happened already to the tour party, a thin smile finally stole across his face.

***

Following the tracks of the crash survivors, Green had come to two conclusions: the first was that whoever was out there was not at home in this country. According to his map, there were quicker ways to reach civilization than the path they were following. In fact it wasn't a path at all. Either they were lost or they had some good reason to head out further into the wilderness than they needed to. The only reason he could think of was if they were chasing after something or someone. As a for example, if there had been a falling out over the money and then one party took off with it, the others might follow in pursuit.

The second conclusion was that at least one group of survivors was not interested in the money. They'd taken the time to bury whoever had died and they'd tried to signal for help. Unless he'd missed some signs, all of the survivors were following the same route, which seemed like a dangerous thing to do for the innocent bystanders, given that there'd already been one killing. Clearly, the last group was either lost or following the others as the best way they could think of to get out of this country. Maybe they didn't have a map of their own.

So now Green's hypothesis was that Bloom had come out here to meet some people that he already knew, for reasons that were still unclear: one or more likely two other people. There was an argument, that much was clear; and given that money was involved it wasn't too hard to imagine a cause. One man dies, another takes the money and the third sets off in pursuit. The innocent survivors see their only option as to follow the killers hoping that the trail would lead them to safety. But if they didn't have a map they probably were short of everything else they would need to stand a chance of surviving. That was a shame.

But who were Bloom's two friends? Strangers that the party met on the way? That didn't seem likely. Green thought over the details of the party that he'd read through on Don Kriegman's computer. Then it came to him, there was a guide and a driver with the party. Either of them would know sensible ways to get out of this country, so it followed that neither of them was with the survivors.

It made sense. Bloom comes to Africa and meets up with a couple of shady tour operators who have agreed to help him disappear, but then the money gets in the way of the deal. The blood in the Land Cruiser was a fight over the money. Somebody had it with them now and somebody else wanted it back.

Now he was in more of a hurry, but in the country that he had to travel now, it wasn't possible to drive much quicker than walking pace. There were no paths whatsoever. This was a crazy place to walk into deliberately. When he found the second grave close to a place where people had been camping, what he saw seemed to confirm his theories. It was obvious to Green that the party following on behind wasn't going to make it.

Day Fourteen

Seen from a distance across the bone-dry plain, the cloud of dust kicked up behind the truck was more noticeable than the vehicle itself. It seemed to move very slowly across the largely flat landscape, never holding a straight course for long as the driver picked his winding way around clumps of thick vegetation and trees.

A little nearer and you could hear the whine and roar of the truck. The sound had a complaining note, as if the driver were unskilled, or the engine became unbalanced when the revs per minute increased. Every so often there would be a clash of gears as the driver adjusted to address another obstacle and the gears failed to mesh.

Closer still and the details of the vehicle became visible through the cloud of dust. It was an old model Japanese four wheel drive with a double cab, dark olive coloured and bearing a few scrapes and dents. The front doors bore large decals in the form of a government badge, making it clear that the vehicle was engaged in official business.

Lucas softly cursed this government issue truck that was so badly in need of maintenance; not too strongly because that would be tempting fate when he was dependent on it continuing to function. And it was clear that the gearbox wasn't going to last much longer. It kept slipping in third, making an ugly crashing that wasn't reassuring when you were miles from anywhere and out on patrol on your own. The truck said everything about this job. You were expected to perform miracles and you never had the right tools or resources to do it.

Next, Lucas cursed his supposed partner for letting him down yet again, but this time he cursed in a friendly sort of way, because he could never manage to get seriously angry at McKenzie. He knew even now that he wouldn't report him for missing this patrol. McKenzie had a drink problem, like many of the rangers did. It was the stress of the job, the danger as well. Not to mention low pay and the fact that no-one but them seemed to care whether they did the job properly or not. When he was sober, McKenzie was a good man; reliable and never scared. When he wasn't sober, Lucas preferred to be without him, at peace with his own thoughts interrupted only by the occasional crackling voice from the two-way radio.

Going out alone if you were looking for poachers would be a different matter, but today, he wasn't looking for ivory hunters, or at least he didn't expect to find any. This was just a routine patrol. Of course there would be poachers around somewhere. They were like the animals, always there even when you didn't see them. The worst of it was, most of them were ordinary people like him, who were doing what they did because they needed the money, like he did. That was another reason why so many of the rangers drank. They were protecting the elephants and other game but they were doing it by hunting down their own people.

The gear slipped once more and the driver cursed again, but this time more harshly, telling the empty air what he thought of people who said that all the rangers were drunks, without knowing anything about taking orders that might lead to your needing to shoot a man from your own village who was hunting ivory because he was poor, wondering if maybe the same man who was giving those orders might also be paying your neighbour to go out and kill elephants.

Lucas liked and respected elephants. It was clear that they needed to be protected, but he would rather have done that by hunting down the men who offered villagers a year's wages to become poachers for a week. Even so, he knew that when he did come across a poacher, he'd shoot first and ask questions later. That was the job and they all accepted it as a fact of life.

Upright beside him, mounted on the side of the cab, Lucas had an automatic rifle. Even with these powerful weapons, the job was getting tougher all the time. The poachers had automatic weapons too, more of them and better than what was issued to the rangers. Often they had so many rounds with them that they didn't need to worry about how much they fired off in the direction of the rangers. Where did all that equipment and ammunition come from? Lucas wanted to know.

It was one thing trying to outwit some tricky villagers. He remembered the boys they'd stopped a few months ago who'd managed to bring down a buffalo and were trying to punt through the marshes in a mokoro with the carcass covered in reed grass as if the boat was full of roofing material. Those boys had gone to jail, but probably they had just seen an opportunity to make some extra money. It was a different thing when you were out in the middle of the night, up against an organized gang who might be soldiers from the way they were armed and knew how to fight (maybe they really were soldiers in someone's army: if the stories were true). At times like that he didn't feel like a policeman any more: it was like being caught up in a war, on the side that wasn't winning.

Lucas swung off the main highway and took the new road that the Chinese had just finished building. That was how it was with the Chinese. They arrived, they built, and a month later they all disappeared. It wasn't a bad road either, but Lucas was not sure what he felt about the Chinese. According to what the news and his government told him, they were friends. Chinese all had money and they knew how to make things happen. Chinese businessmen were treated as VIPs wherever they went. Nevertheless, Lucas knew that more Chinese meant more dead elephants with their tusks ripped out. Everyone knew where the ivory went, but not enough people cared.

Most of the people he knew in town were just happy that now they had the Chinese supermarket where it seemed that they could buy everything they needed, and many things they didn't, more cheaply than they could ever have thought possible. Some people grumbled that none of the money that went over the counter ever came back into the town - it was a one way trade. The only ones who complained really loudly were the shopkeepers and stallholders who'd been put out of business by the supermarket.

Life seemed to get more complicated every day, but there was plenty of time to think about poachers and Chinese and a thousand other things that might be right or wrong on a patrol like this; where nothing much was going to happen. In the end, you never got to the bottom of any problem. It was so hard to know what to think about anything, even the job itself. If you spent too much time brooding on it, you would end up in the same condition as McKenzie.

Lucas drove steadily, covering the miles and from time to time checking in on the radio. He stopped for a while at one of the lodge buildings that marked each of the entry points to the game reserves. He shared some tea with a woman he knew there. Some tour operators that he knew came through hauling their cargoes of dusty sightseers. He waved at the drivers. When he'd finished his tea, he started out once more and the uneventful day wore on. From time to time he pulled off the main track, to check out tyre marks that moved off the authorized path, or else to pass one of the slow moving safari buses.

He drove to the more remote places, further out where the roads were deserted. Lucas didn't mind the emptiness. He wondered if there was a chance he might meet up with that crazy man, Kriegman, the South African. They'd been asked to keep an eye out for him since his party hadn't shown up at one of the camp sites where he'd made a prior booking. No one worried too much on account of that. It was Kriegman's way. Most likely he'd show up in a few days having being in a completely different part of the country just because the mood had taken him that way. Everyone shook their heads and left Kriegman alone, apart from that black fellow Michael, who looked after him. And he would end up as mad as the old man if he stuck around with him much longer.

Lucas knew he didn't have to worry about Kriegman wanting to shoot game. He was more likely to take a shot at anyone he thought might be a poacher, which might cause other problems, but that would be a matter for a different kind of authority. Kriegman was none of his business and better off that way

Lucas stopped for a toilet break and to smoke a cigarette. He didn't like to smoke in the cab even though the windows were always down. Nothing to see but a few giraffe cropping the upper branches of some tree. Plenty of animal tracks but nothing unusual. He figured that he could be back home not long after dark. Then he'd go round and see McKenzie to tell him what he thought of him.

One hour later, behind the wheel once more, Lucas spotted a small figure far ahead in the road, walking in his direction. It was a white man. He looked as if he had been walking for days. He didn't wave or signal or anything as Lucas approached; just stood still waiting for the truck.

Julian had expected he'd meet up with someone on the track sooner or later, but he was surprised when the park ranger's vehicle appeared and then slowed down and stopped right before him. For some reason he hadn't counted on a meeting with officialdom. He'd unconsciously assumed that the country was as wild and unpoliced as it appeared.

The driver was alone and seemed surprised to see another person out in this wild place.

"Are you okay there?" Lucas asked.

***

The strange white man claimed that his car had broken down the day before, though he looked like he'd been away from people for longer than that. Lucas couldn't understand why he hadn't made for the campsite at the foot of the big hills. There were signposts to it on the track he'd been following and surely he would realize there'd be other people there: but the stranger had been walking away from that place. He explained to Lucas that he'd been there already and found it deserted, which seemed unusual.

Lucas had come across stranded motorists before. Most of them were eager to get back to their car as soon as they could. At least they showed concern about the vehicle. But not this one. Of course, Lucas offered to take him to see if they couldn't get the engine started. The stranger replied he didn't know anything about trucks or cars and had no idea what the problem might be with his. He said that he only wanted to be dropped somewhere where he could get clean and rest for a while. He'd make his own arrangements about the car after that, thank you very much.

He seemed healthy enough. Lucas didn't worry that he might be delirious, but then what was a man who had no mechanical knowledge doing out here alone in the first place? And why had he been here at all? It was true though, the tourists, maybe white people in general for all that Lucas knew, were always doing things that seemed to make no sense. Lucas didn't want to seem impolite, and in fact he had to admit that he'd seen stranger things than this wandering pilgrim in his time on the job. For the moment, he didn't ask any more questions. He only swung the patrol car around and headed back towards town, as the stranger had asked.

There was something odd about the stranger that Lucas couldn't ignore. Even more than the story he had told that made no sense, there was the story he hadn't told and the way he avoided questions instead of answering them. Lucas kept stealing glances at his passenger when the road didn't demand his full attention, looking for clues. He tried again to engage the stranger in conversation, telling him that he should see a doctor while he was in town, just to be on the safe side. The sun could do funny things to people. The stranger nodded.

"And it's not safe out there alone," Lucas told him. "The animals will eat you."

The man seemed to find this funny for some reason, although he replied sensibly enough.

"I was very stupid and I've learned my lesson. I'm only glad that I ran into you."

But still he didn't offer any proper explanation of why he was there at all. Well, they would have a long drive and Lucas was a patient man.

"By the way," Lucas asked after a while, "I don't suppose you have seen anyone else who might have had problems?"

"I haven't seen anyone for days. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing much. We were asked to look out for a group of tourists that never turned up at the campsite they'd booked. No one has heard from them in a while. It would be nice to know they are alright. There'd be about eight of them and two guides. You'd remember the guide if you saw him: a huge South African guy with a belly like this."

Lucas's hand described an exaggerated arc in front of his own stomach.

"I didn't see anything, but isn't that rather alarming for your people? I mean his party could be lost out here like I was. Haven't you got everyone out looking for them?"

Lucas grinned.

"You don't know the guy in charge. I haven't talked to him much myself to be honest. We prefer to leave him alone even though he's been coming to these parts for years. He's not so friendly. Don Kriegman, he's called. The man is a bit crazy about lots of things; and he hates being checked up on, or anyone trying to tell him what to do or where to go. Anyone else, we'd be worried, but with him it's a normal situation. I suppose that he just decided to head off in a different direction because his nose took him that way. It wouldn't occur to him that he ought to let someone else know about the change of plan."

"Sounds like an interesting character," the stranger said. "I'd like to meet him."

"Well, I'm making him sound like a lunatic I know, but he's not a bad person underneath, in his own way."

A thought struck Lucas: something he was always forgetting to do.

"Talking about letting people know what you're up to," he said, lifting the radio handset off its cradle, "I should report in. Maybe there's someone you'd like me to have contacted?"

"No need for that," the stranger told him. He seemed suddenly agitated. "I don't want to cause a fuss. In any case, I thought those things were useless over any kind of distance?"

"You mean the walkies that the guides use," Lucas replied. "This one isn't brilliant but it's more powerful than that. Usually we get through eventually. Are you sure you don't want me to pass on a message? It's no trouble."

He was still smiling as Julian took hold of the flexible cord that was attached to the handset in Lucas's hand and yanked it out of the dash connection. What happened next was so quick and unexpected that Lucas didn't have time to form any clear impression of events.

***

While Julian Bowen was doing his best to avoid being rescued, Stephen Green was driving through a different part of the country trying to catch up with Jonathan Bloom and the survivors of the truck wreck that he'd found back along the trail.

When Green saw the old couple staggering through the bush ahead of him, he didn't have any doubts how they had got there. They were stumbling on in a confused way, hand in hand, still alive, barely. They hadn't even noticed the approach of his vehicle. Green killed the engine when he was still a few hundred yards away, having decided he'd watch them for a while. Probably they wouldn't be able to tell him much that he didn't already know, but their behavior might provide some information.

Sure enough, he saw them come up to a pile of stones and stop. The fat old woman bent with her hands on her knees, panting. Even at this distance you could see her shoulders heaving with each breath. The skinny man went down on his knees and held the cairn of stones with both hands, as if there was some information held inside it that could be passed on by touch. Then he raised himself painfully and they made as if to set off, but halted once more. The old man returned to the pile of stones and looked around as if he wasn't sure after all which way they should travel. Finally, the pair of them resumed their shambling gait in the same direction as he'd originally set. Their progress was like two drunkards trying to remember the way home at the end of Saturday night.

Green was in a bad mood. No change of clothes and sleeping on the seat of a hired truck would do that to most people he supposed. These were the stragglers, as he'd guessed, the next ones to fall by the wayside. The rest of them might be only half an hour ahead, or a day away from here.

Watching the old people made him feel more bad tempered, even angry. He wished that these two had done the decent thing and been already dead when he came across them. Maybe if he'd had a gun with him, he would have been tempted to put them out of their misery. As it was, he knew that what he should do now was to circle around in front of them and get back on the trail. They'd never even know that he had been near and it wouldn't be long before nature took its course.

The money was further up the road and not with these two walking corpses - that much was obvious.

***

Julian Bowen's mood was no better than Green's. In fact he was so angry that it was difficult for him to think clearly.

Just when it seemed that his plan was close to fruition, everything was suddenly going wrong for him. He would have been speechless with rage if there'd been anyone to talk to. He'd done all the hard work and now right at the end of things, these bloody natives were causing him problems.

There was blood in the truck from the hole he'd put in the head of the interfering park ranger, or policeman; whatever he was. The bullet must have passed through the open window: at any rate it had clearly gone right through the policeman's skull and out at the other side. Julian couldn't see a shell or bullet hole inside the cab. That was an impressive amount of force, even at such close range. The pistol must more powerful than it looked. At least now he knew that it worked and how to use it.

But he had all sorts of new problems. The olive-green vehicle had official markings that would stand out anywhere and he couldn't afford to be seen driving it. Probably his base wouldn't be alarmed at not hearing from the driver for a while, unless he had a wife somewhere to kick up a fuss. They might think his radio was broken or else he was busy with private business. But even if no-one was looking for the truck they'd know there should be a ranger driving when they saw it. He couldn't change clothes with the dead man to pose as an official because the uniform was soaked in blood, and anyway he didn't suppose there were too many white faced rangers. All the guides and the rangers seemed to know each other, if what that idiot had been telling him was true. The truck and its driver would be familiar to almost anyone he might meet on this road.

And when the truck was found, there'd be a search for a killer. Policeman didn't usually shoot themselves in the head, or when they did, there was an empty whisky bottle and a note left behind. Julian had considered using the gun as a threat, forcing the man to climb into the boot where he could be tied up for later disposal, somewhere the animals would get rid of the evidence. But there was no boot in this vehicle and anyway that way of doing things seemed dangerously complicated unless you were a professional at this kind of business.

Julian regarded himself more as a gifted amateur, but even with his sketchy knowledge of modern forensic investigation methods, he was quite certain that a skull that had been punctured by a bullet wound would be quite easy to distinguish from the other kind.

All of this was postponing his disappearance still further; though he was far from feeling defeated. In the end, the plan would still be a success provided he could get clear of this area as soon as he'd made sure that all the people he'd left behind in the bush were now dead. But his sense of mastery was gone. Before he'd felt so confident and untouchable. This country had seemed like a place where everything was possible. He'd easily be able to execute his scheme and slip away without being noticed. Now he was starting to feel like a fugitive trapped in hostile territory. He didn't belong here and he was conspicuous. For a few minutes he fought against the sensation that he had begun to lose control of the situation. His breathing was becoming too rapid and he felt dizzy.

The biggest and most immediate problem was the vehicle. Unless he could make it magically disappear, the authorities would soon discover that a crime had been committed and an investigation would begin. If he was still in the area when that happened then it would become almost impossible for him to slip back into civilization unnoticed. Therefore it was essential that before things unravelled completely, he should be off the scene, in some place where he could remain anonymous, a place where he could rely on the extra false papers he'd brought with him until it was safe to leave the country with a new identity.

His anger wouldn't go away, and now it was seeking a cause. Before coming to Africa, Julian had never paused to consider whether he might be a bigot. People who got worked up about the colour of someone's skin or how they talked were just wasting their own time in a comical way. Julian had always felt so comfortably superior to other people of all races that it didn't occur to him to be prejudiced about one or other of them. But now he cursed all blacks and he cursed Africa and he cursed anyone else who had ever stood between him and all of the good things he needed and wanted; and deserved.

Julian knew well that if his plans and desires and all the rest of his comfortable world fell away, there would be nothing left of him apart from cold rage. But anger was pure, of this he was sure. It had been with him always, like the hidden truth of his nature, and it was something to believe in if everything else failed. Part of him longed to release the anger and be consumed by it, but for the moment he was not quite ready to surrender himself to the destroyer within. He needed a change of plan.

With no driver to guide it, the patrol truck had coasted to a halt in the heavy sand of the trail. The double imprint of passing vehicles had left an impression so deep that the car had steered itself as if it had been on rails. Julian wouldn't need to dig it out before it was useable; but from now on, he'd have to stay away from the roads, where there might be people. The next few hours would provide a crash course in off-road driving skills.

That was alright though. No-one would challenge a ranger's vehicle being away from the main route provided they didn't have a clear view of who was driving it. And Julian had always been a fast learner.

Before long, his habitual self-confidence started to reassert itself, as he considered his next moves. Blind rage subsided until it was no longer in control of him. he'd compacted the anger into a tiny compressed ball of fury that held just as much energy but could be contained for the moment. In a way he was even more dangerous while he remained in that state.

He opened the driver's side door and dragged the body out of the vehicle and over the rough ground for a few yards to a place in the trees where it wouldn't be immediately obvious to anyone passing by. The track left by the body didn't stand out much so far as he could see. It wasn't worth wasting time in trying to hide the corpse properly. He found a cloth in the cab and used it to wipe the thickest of the blood off the inside of the door. Fortunately the seat didn't feel wet. He would not have to sit on anything unpleasant. He walked back to the body and stuffed the used cloth into the open top of the ranger's shirt. He resisted an urge to kick out at the body. The man was past hurting unfortunately and it would be a childish gesture. And now Julian was ready to leave.

There was an automatic rifle in the cab that would be noisy but effective if he could get it to work. It seemed quite complicated and he imagined it would be easy to shoot your own feet or spray bullets across the sky if you didn't know what you were doing. He'd need to practice first if he was going to rely on it. That would be a concern for the future perhaps. Right now he needed to concentrate on driving if he was going to reach Tsodilo without destroying this wretched vehicle.

***

Of the ten people who'd set off together from Victoria Falls, four were left. They felt alone and helpless; worse, they felt like criminals who had abandoned the Johnson's to their fate.

The survivors didn't seem to progress much quicker than they had with the old couple holding them back: they were too tired, too much aching in every joint, too despondent.

Gradually, the landscape they were hiking through began to change, although they hardly noticed as they plodded on, heads down, with barely a word exchanged.

The vegetation was becoming richer. There were bushes and trees growing in clumps where before there'd only been the lonely half-dead ghosts of trees, or acres of those dried-up, natural orchards of thin saplings, that grew spaced apart, not because they'd been planted but due to harsh realities of survival and what the poor ground could support.

Where the trees could grow closer together, there were areas of grassland where the thick yellow straw grew taller than waist high and so dense that you couldn't see into it. They started to see kudu and impala; at first here and there a solitary animal, later on family groups. The animals were all but indifferent to them, as if they were gradually fading into the landscape. Soon there'd be no trace left of the four humans that used to have distinct names and lives of their own.

Jill tried to stay alert to the animals. She was watching for a water buck, or some other creature that would mean there were reeds and fresh water nearby, although she knew that this was a forlorn hope.

The kudu and impala stayed near to the dense grasses from necessity. Antelope had to eat, but there were other animals around that needed to eat antelope and the grass provided perfect cover for them. It seemed strange that they had been seeking out those creatures just a few days earlier. Now Jill reminded Simon to keep them as far away from these areas so far as their route allowed.

She didn't see any trace of a spring; but where there was life there must be water. Their spirits should have been lifted by that thought. Instead what thoughts they had were with the old couple who they'd left behind with just a few bits and pieces, because as Mr. Johnson had pointed out, they couldn't carry much. Every time they paused to leave a marker of piled stones or scratch a mark into a tree, Jill felt sick to her stomach.

Eventually there was no more to think even about that. Jill fought to remind herself that this was depression; and it needed to be resisted as much as the other dangers they faced. When you were depressed, you became indifferent, and when you were indifferent you would miss things that were important - even the most obvious ones. She'd make herself take notice of her surroundings for a while and then later she'd come to and realize that she had slipped into the same mechanical gait as the rest of them, head bowed and mouth open.

She awoke with a start. Simon had halted suddenly. He raised his arm as a signal for them to stop. Before they could ask why, Simon put one finger to his lips and pointed his other hand, without extending the arm. It was a gesture that they'd all used a thousand times when they were in the back of the Land Cruiser, seeking out good animal photographs while being careful not to disturb the subjects.

The lions were resting in the shade under some bushes about thirty meters away from where they were standing, directly on the course that the group had been following. They would have marched right up to the predators if nobody had looked up. Jill could see four full grown females stretched out on the ground and some cubs moving about fitfully between them.

The animals seemed completely at peace. Jill had been closer to lions, but from the safety of a truck. Supposedly, they couldn't distinguish between a vehicle and its occupants and so they didn't see passengers as food. Still, she had not felt safe. Even from the back of a truck you could not ignore the casual potency of these creatures, which seemed so relaxed but could change in any moment. Comparison with an absolute ruler holding power of life and death at his caprice were exactly right.

Now they were just four humans, on foot, with no means of escape. They were looking at creatures that might kill them just because they could.

Logically, Jill knew that the lions would have eaten already that day and they might only be really dangerous if they should feel challenged or annoyed, for example by someone blundering in too close to their resting place. Unfortunately, she was not sure how much distance would count as being too close. One thing she could be sure of - if they could see the lions, then the lions already knew they were there, even if the presence of humans seemed not to concern them for the moment.

"What do we do?" Jill whispered.

They all stood as still as they were able. No one offered a reply. Emma was shaking so much it seemed that her teeth would start to chatter in a moment. Simon put his arm round her and held her to him. It was strange to see him do that so naturally, where before he'd seemed to shrink back from touching or being touched by anyone.

Jill considered their options. They could retreat the way they had come and hope the lions would not take this as a sign weakness. They could go onward, adjusting their course to take the widest possible arc around these bushes, or they could remain quietly where they were and wait for the lions to move on. There was a risk that any movement might arouse the curiosity and protectiveness of the mothers. On the other hand if they stayed put, the lions might doze for hours. The worst thing Jill could imagine would be to be trapped here at dusk when the lionesses rose to stretch and pad out into the grasslands to begin the night's hunting.

"Head for the tree over there," she told the others. "Walk slowly. Not a sound."

Words of caution were unnecessary. They could not actually walk on tiptoe over the rough ground, but they did their best. When they reached the tree Jill had indicated, they waited for a moment. Jill watched the shapes under the bushes intently, expecting to see a yawning tawny head raised to look at the strange smelling clumsy animal that might be good to eat. But still the lions seemed to have no interest in them. She allowed herself to breathe normally for a moment. Then she nodded to indicate a second tree and they made their way towards that one in silence.

In this way they worked around the place where the lions were resting. It might have taken them fifteen minutes, but perception stretched those minutes out to hours. Even much later, when conscious thought told them that the predators were left far behind, they walked on with the sense that something must be following them. They would never know until it was too late. And they had to contend with the knowledge that where there was one lion there would be others. At any moment they could stumble on another member of the pride; maybe even a lone male.

It was better if they didn't relax, Jill thought. Not paying attention could have killed them. The signs were clear enough. There was hyena dung all around; white with the calcium of crushed bones, which was why other creatures ate it to supplement their diet. Where there were hyenas, there were always going to be other predators. They just couldn't afford not to notice everything around them. It wasn't only the animals. They might have stumbled past water or indications of a nearby settlement.

But at least their depression was lifted. It was strange that you could sink into an apathy so deep that it risked killing you and then discover in a heartbeat you were not really indifferent to what happened to you after all. Now they were living in the moment once more, not worrying about things that had already happened and couldn't be changed. Holding on to that feeling might just give them a chance of survival, even when it seemed that they were close to the end of things.

***

That night they built up a big fire and set aside plenty of dry wood to keep it going through the night. They agreed to take turns so someone would be keeping watch throughout the hours of darkness. George took the first shift, but Jill found it impossible to rest, let alone sleep.

She managed to lie still enough until she was sure that Simon and Emma had drifted off, but after that she crawled out of her bag and slipped her jacket and shoes on. She'd been fully dressed otherwise. Then she crept next to the fire to sit with George.

George shifted a little to make room for her nearer the fire, but apart from that they were content to sit for a long time watching the flames without speaking or acknowledging each other's presence. Eventually a whispered conversation of sorts began, with much space between the words. Neither of them wanted to talk about the events of the day or what they might do next day or anything else practical. Nighttime was their only respite from the stress of being constantly aware of their peril.

After a while, George started to tell her something about his work, nothing about what he did there, but only where it was and what the people were like. He said that he was a financial controller for the company, making the disclosure sound like an admission of guilt.

"I knew it," Jill whispered. "And I'm just a section head. You outrank me. You should be the one in charge."

George laughed softly.

"It hardly makes a difference in this place. Believe me, you'd hardly call me a controller, whatever my job title says."

He claimed that in his ordinary life, at work and home, he was afflicted by a compulsion for neatness. He couldn't leave his desk if the pens were not arranged in an ordered way. And of course, he was the same about numbers. It might be a good thing in terms of his work, but it was an exhausting and pointless condition. Sometimes he wondered if it might be connected with his being as he was.

"I don't think you can blame excessive tidiness on being gay," Jill said. "Half our accounts department have exactly the same hangups and they´re mostly straight so far as I know. It's just a personality type. Nothing to do with whether you like men or women."

"Maybe. In any case, my coming to this place was a break from that affliction. In Africa, there is order of a kind, but you can't impose it. You just have to be open to your surroundings and go with the flow, so your business suit stays at home. Part of the reason I like coming here is it gives me a holiday from myself. It's good for me."

Jill couldn't help but laugh.

"Are you sure about that right now – this is good for you?"

George joined in the laughter.

"Well. The stars are beautiful. The fire is warm. The conversation is good. Alright no, I'd rather be back at my desk just now with a long report to put together and an impossible deadline to meet. But at least I'm losing some weight. That much is good."

They had all visibly lost weight. They hadn't eaten properly for days and they'd stopped feeling hungry long ago. It was one thing to say that the body could survive a long time without food, but fasting had its effects. They had adjusted to a survival mode. It was like living in a wooden house where you had to keep the fire burning to stay alive. You smash up the furniture and rip up the floors to keep the blaze alight. Save the important stuff for last, but eventually there'll be nothing else left. Fat was the first to go. After that the body started to burn up muscle and anything else it could live without. Meanwhile the level of energy they had available was going down all the time. Their thoughts and actions became sluggish without any blood sugars to fuel the mind or body. Only the slow breakdown of fats and proteins kept them going, as their bodies gradually consumed themselves.

But these were exactly the sorts of thoughts that Jill wanted to avoid just now.

"Is it a problem for you at work, the gay thing?" She asked, to change the subject.

"Not more of a problem than if I was what you´d call normal. Everyone knows about it, but it's not a big deal for anyone so far as I can tell. I'm a fairly emotional person for someone who is one step away from autism, but that's not always a bad thing. I don't come over all gushing and dramatic if that's what you mean. I'm not in a relationship just now, but when there's someone I'm hardly ever tearful and sensitive about it. We don't all behave like camp design consultants and floral arrangers you know."

"I didn't mean it like that at all. Sorry."

"I was joking. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You know what I mean. Boys or girls? Anyone special?"

"No-one special just now," Jill answered. "There was, I thought, but it was just something I needed to get free of. I´m afraid I've been too long in one of those relationships where I have to plan to take my holidays alone. Waiting for something that will never happen."

"Married man?"

"You guessed. I´m not proud of myself."

"It´s not something I´ve experienced. I mean, I´ve had lovers who've been seeing other men. God, I´ve done it myself, I´m ashamed to say. You know how it happens. Both of you know something isn´t right even if you never really think about it and then someone new comes along and in a few weeks either everything falls apart or you patch things up but it's never really the same again. It's that time between when everyone´s lying to each other that I can't stand. It makes me completely miserable. I couldn´t cope with it going on and on."

"It does go on and on," Jill admitted.

"It has to. He´s married and he says he doesn´t love her but for some reason he has to stay with her. Children I suppose, usually. But he´s lying to at least one of you and how can you be happy living a lie? I suppose you're waiting to move to the next stage all the time."

"That's about right, although now it´s been like this for so long that I´m not sure what I´d do if he decided to come to me permanently. Anyway, I´ve always needed to be in charge of my own life. I think that's why a certain kind of man always imagines I must fancy women. I don't seem to need a man as much as they think I should. And I don't run about in a panic when there's a crisis either. I suppose that's partly how I fell into this married man trap. Attracted to a man who doesn't want me hanging on his arm all the time and it turns out that's because he's got someone else at home."

"I'm sorry. But you're an attractive lady Jill. You don't need to stay caught in the trap. I noticed how men look at you. Simon was looking at you hard in that certain way before he and Emma got together."

"I didn't come to Africa looking for a man," Jill told him, "more to get away from one. And just now I've got more important things to worry about, like keeping us alive."

She paused.

"What you said before, about Emma and Simon?"

"Haven't you noticed them together?"

"You're joking. When could that happen? We're busy all day and there's nowhere private for them."

"There's always somewhere a little private if two people are looking for it."

"I can't believe it."

"You sure you're not jealous?"

"I mean, I can't believe Emma would be looking to take up with someone else so soon after she slept with that monster, Bloom. It would make me feel unclean. Simon's nice enough, but he's a bit of a damp dishcloth. I can't think how he ever brought himself to say two words to her. But, don't they realize how serious this situation is. George, we could die out here. Aren't there more important things than sex?"

"Shh," George said, putting an arm on her shoulder. "Apparently not. I don't think they've gone so far with it yet. But it's good to have something that makes life worth fighting for, don't you think? Keep your eyes open anyway, you'll see the signs."

Jill returned to the makeshift tent some time later. She thought she ought to make a further attempt to sleep. It seemed that the sleeping bags of the other two were closer together than when she'd left them. The night wasn't cold and the sleepers were lying with their shoulders out of the bags. Simon was in shadow under the edge of the tent, while Emma's face was partly visible in the flickering light of the fire. She was wearing a knitted wool hat. Both of them were still fast asleep, but Emma's face bore a curious expression, more tranquil than vacant. Jill saw that she was holding on to Simon's outstretched hand in the darkness that lay between them.

Day Fifteen

As always they were up and moving the next morning before it was properly light. By now each of them awoke and started the daily routine without need for any prompting or even conversation. Their camp was a strangely silent place, and breaking it only required a cup of water and some boiled sweets to be shared around before packs were hoisted onto weary shoulders. The packs weren't all that heavy now that so much had been used up or discarded on the way, but somehow it felt that the burden that each of them carried was becoming heavier by the day.

On this day there was something new that they glimpsed from time to time in the cold morning air. Far ahead, in the direction of their march they kept seeing a faint smudge of a shape on the skyline; it looked like a range of hills. Jill was sure that it was the place she'd visited on an earlier trip, where she'd seen all those ancient cave paintings. In her memory, there was a little museum there and a campsite. There'd be people for sure. She didn't say anything to the others at first, in case what they were looking at was only clouds. Jill couldn't remember when they had last seen a cloud.

They were passing through country that was as parched as the land where they'd first been stranded. They hadn't found water again and there didn't seem to be any likelihood of it between their current location and the hills, if they really were hills. It made no difference. There weren't any choices left now. They only had to keep going for as long as their strength should last in the hope that they would come to some safe place before the end.

By the midday halt, it was clear that they were looking at mountains in the distance. Jill explained what she thought they must be. It turned out that George had also visited the site a few years earlier and he agreed that they must be looking at Tsodilo Hills. They all felt cheered that at least now they had a destination in view. Even though it looked so far away, having an end in sight was better than walking blindly.

Under normal circumstances they might have looked at the distance they still had to cover as a tiresome drag that would take a while but would in no sense be beyond them. In their current state, weak and moving slower with every step, none of them was confident of being able to reach the destination at all.

For the next few hours, walking seemed more exhausting than usual. They had grown used to the feeling that the slightest exertion made their pulses race and their breathing heavy, but this was something new. They were too far gone to realize that they had unconsciously increased their pace as a result of being able to see their objective. Before long they were all shattered and feeling as if the mountain was becoming further away instead of nearer. Although it would mean losing some precious time before the sun became too hot for walking, Jill realized she would have to call a halt.

While the others rested, Emma spent some time building a small cairn from the many stones that were lying around; marking their path. Jill dragged herself up and went over to help.

"You keep working at these," she said. "Do you think there's any point?"

"I have to believe they are still following us," Emma replied. "It's too horrible otherwise."

"Alright, I'm helping. Don't upset yourself."

They finished off the cairn together, although Jill was convinced it was a waste of energy.

"George told me about you and Simon," she began.

"What about it? That's nobody's business but ours."

"Of course. Don't misunderstand me. I was surprised that's all. And I do worry about you a little. I know you've been badly hurt."

Emma sat down next to the pile of stones and started to make pointless adjustments to it.

"I was stupid with that man," she said. "It was my own fault. I'm always stupid with men, even though I'm clever enough about other things. But Simon's not like other men."

"No one could have known how Bloom would turn out. There's no point blaming yourself over that. I don't know Simon, but he's not like that. It's just that, well maybe it's not the best circumstance right now to find out whether Simon's the right man for you."

Emma's laugh was bitter.

"What´s a good circumstance? I´m not a young girl now. The men I meet are either selfish kids who were too lazy ever to leave home, divorced and twisted up about their lives, or else still married. That would be the worst of all, wouldn´t it? Getting stuck on someone who's already in a relationship. I haven't sunk that low yet, fortunately."

"Yes. That's lucky."

"I really don't mind that Simon's not handsome you know. You needn't worry about that. I didn't know anything about men for the longest time, but at least I've learned now not to judge them by appearance. Most girls find out about men when they're young, don't you think? How different they are from women. What they really mean when they say things. Why they never tell you what they're thinking. I never went through the learning process. I was too busy to mess around with boys when I was young. I knew I was pretty and I wanted to make sure I got the best degree and a good job before I found the right man and started a family. Afterwards it was too late: you get beyond a certain age and there are nasty words for girls who try to flirt. That's why I'm so clumsy at it. So the family thing hasn't happened."

"Not yet, you mean."

Emma didn't change her posture or expression, she only gave a little shudder. Whatever had caused it seemed to leave her limp. Her hands dropped into her lap and a single tear started down her face from the corner of one eye, staining the salt-crusted skin.

"We're going to die out here, like the others," she said.

"Don't be silly. We're almost safe. We can see where we're going now. We'll probably be spotted by someone long before we reach the hills. Tsodilo has plenty of visitors and it's not far away."

"It's too far for us now," Emma said calmly. "We haven't got enough left. Not enough water, not enough strength, not enough anything."

Jill took Emma by the shoulders and squeezed. For a moment she felt like a mother.

"We'll manage with what we've got. Look, you just cried a tear. You can't be all that short of water. We'll find more if we have to, like we did before. Emma, I promise you we are going to make it."

Emma wiped her cheek on a dusty cuff and tried to smile.

"I wish I still believed we live in a world where kind promises can make things real," she replied.

***

As usual, the afternoon was worse than the morning. The dust seemed thicker, their packs felt heavier and it was hard to breathe easily. They experienced strange tinglings in their fingers and toes. Muscles seemed to be on the point of cramping all the time. When cramp did strike George, he fell to the ground clutching at his calf and crying out in agony. It took twenty minutes of pushing and stretching the affected foot to get him moving again. Probably they needed more salt, but there wasn't any. And if they'd had salt the thirst would have been even harder to bear.

The hills still didn't look much closer in spite of Jill's assurances. Having your destination in sight but still so far away was dangerous, she realized. Jill had no idea whether pushing them all to keep going would only kill them quicker, but she was certain if they tried to set a pace based on what was bearable for their bodies, then their progress would cease altogether.

From time to time she stopped and used the cracked dashboard mirror that she still carried to reflect sunlight in the direction of the hills. She willed herself to believe there would be people up there who might notice the signal. There'd be tourists up there for sure, more intent on listening to the guide's description of the mountain and its Stone Age paintings than looking out across the flat plain. Well, they'd been tourists themselves until a few days ago.

She moved to the head of the group to ask Simon whether he thought they were trying to close the distance too quickly. He held up his canteen and shook it.

"I've looked at what's left in there three times now without daring to drink any," he said. "I keep remembering what happened to poor Andrew, but when this is gone there's no more and soon after that it won't matter much what speed we try to move at."

His voice was hoarse and rasping, not sounding like anyone she had known.

They had to rest, she decided, even though it wasn't late. They had done as much as they could for that day. No one had any energy left and they were in a state where they might make an idiotic mistake as they stumbled along in a daze. Just one more mistake now would be fatal.

"Let's look out for a good camp site," she suggested, as if one place could be better than any other just now.

The plan was that they should rest and sleep, but after they had used some more of their precious energy reserves to set up camp, sleep did not come easily.

Jill found herself trying to focus on their situation and whether there was anything different they might try. It was a useless effort. Her thoughts went round in circles and ended in random memories of the past that had no relevance here. In fact, there were only a few things about the present that were worth serious consideration, and almost no choices left to make, however often she turned them over in her mind. She started musing on other things, like the people she was with and what a shame it was that they were probably going to die.

Why had she said those things about Simon to Emma? It wasn't that she was jealous. Simon was a nice person, though he was hardly a catch. He was skinny and odd-looking and he could barely string a sentence together if it was about anything other than practical matters. In fact that was the problem - Emma would be way out of his league if not for the fact the two of them were stuck out here together and likely destined never to see other human beings again. Three months from now, if they survived, Emma might be embarrassed to be seen with him in public and both of them would end up hurt: all because the girl was on the rebound from finding out she'd been making love to a monster and was scared of being alone in the face of whatever was coming to them.

Well that was alright then. If the only problem with Emma's relationship was that it might not last after they were saved, then that was another issue Jill didn't have to worry about. All she had to guard against now was anything that would make any of them less likely to keep on going to the absolute end of their endurance.

In spite of what Jill had told Emma, she could admit to herself that salvation was looking like a more remote probability as the strength ebbed from them. There was no way to compensate for a lack of water with willpower, but at least they must keep trying to the end.

Somehow, it became easier to loosen her hold on the day after she had that thought. Their fire that night was not looked after as it should have been. The air was warmer than before and they'd all but given up worrying about the animals. No one even suggested they keep a watch. Looking out from under the canopy, away beyond the fire, there was a glow of starlight shining and a few tiny stars visible in the far sky. Jill drifted into sleep thinking about those stars, strangely unconcerned about what might happen the next day.

Usually she was the first to awake, but the next morning George was shaking her in the half-light. Something must have caused him to disturb her.

"What is it?"

"Clouds."

It was true: there were clouds. Rather, there was one large cloud that seemed to be heading towards them as they watched, trailed by wispy strands that untangled themselves from the mass and trailed behind. It wasn't the sort of high, piled-up cloud that made a storm inevitable, but it was big and heavy enough to be carrying rain.

"Can you believe it?"

"In a week or two," Jill replied, "the rains will be here. Then there'll be all the water anyone could want."

It was one of the sick ironies of their situation that they all knew. They were on the point of dying of thirst in country where water would soon be plentiful. Another subject not to be talked of. Jill scrambled out of her sleeping bag and stood watching the cloud approach with the rest of them.

"Do you really think it could rain?" Simon asked her. He was standing just outside the tent, unmoving and with eyes fixed on the unfamiliar feature in the sky.

"It's possible. I don't know whether we are close enough to the hills for them to have any effect. The wind's moving, but it's not strong."

"There's a feeling of something in the air," George suggested.

"We should get the tent spread to catch whatever may fall."

They moved quickly then, feeling the first drops falling or imagining that they did.

Perhaps it was the first real rainfall of the year. In any case it was over in minutes. After it passed and the faces that had been upturned and open-mouthed looked back to the earth, they saw that they'd barely managed to collect enough to fill a single canteen. But still, it was something.

It would be easy to treat this as a deception, Jill thought, as if we're the victims of a malicious joke. Or else we can choose to read it as a hopeful sign.

"You see," she said to Emma, smiling, "I told you everything was going to be okay. Someone somewhere is looking out for us."

Emma managed a weak grin in reply.

"There's hardly enough to make any difference," Simon observed.

"But we could have a proper storm tomorrow," Jill insisted, "now that the weather's finally changing."

George was staring out across the landscape, noticing how different even a few drops of rain made everything seem. The lone cloud had passed over a huge dry expanse, only dampening the narrow corridor in its path.

His eyes were drawn to some slight depressions in the wet sand that the wetness threw into relief. George called the others over.

"Footsteps," he said. "Looks like someone on his own, not so long ago. What do you make of it?"

"I think we all know who that was," Jill replied.

***

Green left the crazy old people with some villagers at a place where he'd thought he'd seen signs of life further back on the trail. He didn't have to backtrack too far but he was losing precious time all the way.

As he'd expected the couple had turned out to be useless so far as getting information was concerned. Neither of them was able to utter more than a hoarse croak. Green wasn't sure what they were saying would have made any sense even if he'd been able to understand it. They moved their mouths alright, but no words and not much sound came out.

Neither of them had even had the good sense left to sit down when he'd parked the truck in front of them. They just stopped where they were, eyeing him dumbly, like animals that didn't understand motorized transport. Green would not have been surprised if they had turned to resume their futile tottering. He would have left them to it in that case.

But instead, once he'd coaxed a little water between the cracked lips of each of them (not too much, he was sure that would kill them) they permitted themselves to be ushered to the rear door of the cab, into which they then collapsed in a trancelike state. Green managed to make them a little more comfortable and hook the seat belts around them enough to stop them from sliding around. He wasn't sure they'd survive a long journey, even so.

The settlement he came across was tiny and all but empty. There were some women working outside the huts while young children played. They'd heard the car engine approaching and the children danced and waved with excitement as he pulled up. The women carried on working, keeping one eye on the new arrival.

When he dragged the old couple out of the back everyone rushed over to help. They started asking questions straight away, which was a complication that Green had foreseen. Fortunately there wasn't anyone around who spoke English. He was able to mime that these were not the only people who needed his help and so he must leave them to the care of the village. The people seemed to know what needed to be done for the couple

The odds on the Johnson's surviving the night seemed fifty-fifty at best. In any case it would be days before they could be moved and longer than that before they could tell what they knew to anyone.

Green wasn't worried that a mysterious stranger in the middle of nowhere in a hired truck would be dragged into the story. He'd be long gone before it was out. The problem was that the money was further away than ever and now he had to find his way back to the exact spot where he'd allowed some useless urge to override his better judgement in order to pick up the trail again.

He started back driving more quickly than he should. By the time he'd stopped feeling angry with himself, he noticed that the truck was bouncing around dangerously. Green forced himself to slow down. It wouldn't help to wreck his transportation. In his mind he was going over how any one of his colleagues would have dealt with the situation he'd just faced. The obvious conclusion was that he'd made a simple thing complicated. Right now, he didn't feel good about himself. Maybe it was getting time to check out that retirement plan after all.

***

The rain had given the four survivors life and hope, but it gave Jill time to reflect that probably they weren´t going to survive long unless they could find something to eat. Weakness was consuming them. Perhaps it had been wrong not to bring more supplies from the truck, although she'd never have believed they could be out here and still breathing after so many days.

They needed to talk it over while they rested.

"And there´s food all around us," she complained.

"What do you mean," Emma asked her.

"The animals."

Emma shuddered.

"We´ve got one knife, with a four inch blade, between us," Simon reminded her. "I don´t think we´re really equipped for hunting."

"There must be some way," Jill insisted. "Maybe we could set snares."

Simon had an idea.

"Perhaps there is something we could try."

He told them he´d read about the oldest form of hunting that existed in the years after humans came down from the trees and before they even learned to make tools. The people would start to chase one of the grazing animals. They´d take it in turns to make sure that the animal didn´t get a chance to rest and they´d be careful to prevent it returning to the safety of a herd. All the animals were faster than men and at first they´d spring away easily, but they were built for short fast efforts and they didn´t have any endurance. After a few sprints the animal would be exhausted and then it was literally easy meat for the humans jogging behind.

-

"It´s how the wild dogs hunt. That´s why they can bring down pretty much anything," Simon explained. "Probably it´s how humans and dogs started to work together."

No-one was impressed by the plan. George pointed out that he wouldn´t be much help and Simon was the only runner among them.

"If only we had some dogs to help."

"The dogs would be more likely to eat us right now, the shape we´re in" said Emma.

The trouble was that no one had a better idea.

It was easy enough to try. The impala were more numerous in the country they were passing through now and there were always a few solitary grazers. George was detailed to begin the chase by startling the animal. Emma and Jill would try to catch up before it had time to settle and Simon would jog after them to follow up with the knife.

George managed to get upwind of the creature and set it off easily enough, but it started so fast and easy that Jill immediately doubted they´d be able to keep it in sight, let alone catch up.

As she and Emma stumbled after the creature, the major flaw in their plan became clear. They didn´t have enough strength left to run after anything. After a few steps she could feel her heart pounding. It felt as if all the oxygen had gone from the air and her vision blurred. Ahead she could see that the animal had paused and only that kept her moving forward.

Emma tumbled to the ground in front of her, but Jill somehow kept going. She knew she would be too late. The animal had too much time to recover. Their efforts were farcical.

Simon came past her, moving much quicker than Jill although he seemed to be floating in comparison. He kept an easy stride but she could hear him panting heavily from the same unaccustomed weakness.

The impala had turned back and now it was watching them, relaxed but alert enough to spring away again. Off it went and Simon continued his futile pursuit of the animal. Jill stopped and bent over with her hands supporting her knees. It was all she could do not to fall over. She lost sight of Simon for a moment.

Then she heard him call.

"Come. Quickly."

Jill forced herself upright and trotted as best she could in the direction of the yell. She found Simon lying on the ground in a patch of open space. The impala was long gone. She noticed there were holes all around - burrows probably. Her first thought was that Simon must have tripped on one of them and damaged his ankle; but he was holding onto something small that was under him and making a series of short shrieking calls as it tried to break free. Jill saw it was some kind of ground squirrel.

"They were sunning themselves as I ran by," Simon panted. "I practically fell on this one. The others went down the holes. Get the knife."

"You already have it," Jill reminded him.

"I know, but I can´t do it."

Jill took the knife from the pouch on Simon´s belt. When she felt the blade, it didn´t seem very sharp. Simon was still holding on to the body of the squirrel. Jill seized its ears, prompting even more desperate cries.

"It´s weed on me," Simon complained.

"Keep hold and pull it back," Jill told him. "We need to stretch out the neck."

The animal´s cries were getting to both of them. This needed to be done quickly.

Jill took a deep breath. Maintaining her grip on the squirrel´s head, she pushed the blade under its chin and drew back sharply, pressing the knife as hard into the creature´s throat as she could. She saw blood start to run, but the animal only intensified its struggles.

She´d wounded the poor thing and now she had to kill it quickly. She must kill it anyway; it was food. The knife was useless. She should pull and twist the neck, unless the neck was too strong or the creature too flexible. Jill started to feel sick and she noticed that Simon was looking away.

She stood up straight and took the squirrel from him, holding it by the back legs. Simon released it quickly enough. Hanging from her arm, the animal was bigger and longer than the ones she was used to seeing, but with that same bushy tail.

Before it could twist and bite her she swung the animal round and batted its head on a rock. Even after that it wasn´t dead, so she did it twice more. Then the squirrel stopped making any noise and its body went limp. The little head was matted with blood and the jaw was set at an odd angle with one eye gone.

Jill wanted to be as far away from this place as was possible. She squatted down, unwilling to sit on the fouled earth, but still holding on to the back legs in case the unfortunate animal should revive.

"We´ll need to skin it," Simon said quietly.

Emma insisted she wouldn´t eat any of the squirrel, claiming it would only make her sick. Jill resisted the strong urge to tell Emma to do as she was told and that if she wanted to act like a child she´d be treated as one. Better to wait until they smelled the meat cooking. They should do that in the daytime, Jill thought. None of them wanted to be too close to the smell of roasting flesh in the night air, not knowing what it might attract. They made camp and started a fire straight away.

Jill took the knife to skin and prepare the meat, without a word to the others. She knew the basic theory. You cut the skin away around the neck and feet, slit open down the middle carefully so as not to open the guts. The knife has to slide under the skin and saw outwards. Once the creature is opened, put your hands inside and slowly squeeze out the intestines and other parts that would make it unfit to eat.

The insides parted easily enough from the body when she tugged at them, bringing them out in her fist. They felt warm and disgusting and there was a greenish tinge to them. The smell was bad enough even though Jill hadn´t punctured anything. She wondered whether there was any way to tell if the creature was safe to eat. It was suspicious that Simon had been able to catch this one so easily and she wasn´t sure what could happen if they ate an animal that was sick. It was a rodent after all and rodents carried rabies. She wasn´t going to mention any of that to the others. There was nothing they could do about it and they had no choice but to eat.

Under the fur, the skin was black, which surprised her. It was a lot harder than she´d imagined, peeling the skin back from the flesh underneath. She used all her strength to pull the coat open, but when she´d finally managed that and severed the hands and feet with the blunt knife, what she had left looked more like meat, only not so much of it. She threw the pelt down in the place where she´d discarded the guts. Then she went back to rejoin the others.

George had the fire already prepared and he´d sharpened and stripped of the bark of a twig that was thick enough to serve as a skewer. Jill handed him the carcass and he began to work it onto the stick.

"I need to get my hands clean somehow," she told them

She left the rest of the preparations to the others. Whatever bad thing I may have done, she thought to herself, I must be close to paying for it now.

Day Sixteen

Julian put down his binoculars, for the third time, and let out a deep sigh. He could still barely believe what he was seeing.

The light rainfall of the previous day was only a memory now. At this elevation, the afternoon was hot but breezy. Visibility wasn't perfect because of the thick cloud that had spread over the sky at daybreak. Even so on a first sweep of the plain, he was sure he'd picked out tiny figures in the distance moving towards the hills.

At first he'd told himself that it could be anybody, but now there was no doubt. He was looking at his old friends, four of them at least. He'd kept the powerful glasses trained on them long enough to see that their pace was halting and broken. Progress was barely perceptible. Nevertheless if they only kept going like that, he believed they must reach the hills sometime that evening. They'd just passed the spot where he'd stopped to finally bury the last of the mobile phones and the stupid navigation device that he'd never been able to make work.

Now Julian had a problem. He felt a powerful urge to march down the hill right now and meet them out on the plain. He had his rifle, although he couldn't be confident of hitting much with it unless the target was close. If he went to them now, he would deal with the risk that they might be noticed by rescuers as they came nearer. Otherwise he'd have to deal with any rescuers as well. On the other hand, as things stood, they were struggling along in their half dead way right to Julian's vantage point.

Waiting for them to come to him felt like a more elegant solution. There was an economy of effort involved in dispatching these nuisances from his hideout on the hill that would be most satisfying to him. All that way across the savannah only to find that he'd simply be waiting for them when they arrived.

If he went out to get them, he'd have more walking to do. He couldn't risk using the patrol vehicle, he'd so carefully hidden for a job like that. Then there was the risk that they'd scatter in panic at his approach which would be messy. He'd have to hunt them down one by one. All in all, he decided, it was better to be patient, like the ambush predators he admired.

There were three big hills in this range. Julian had positioned himself on the slope of the one closest to the desert wilderness he'd lately come out of. Only one of the three hills was open to tourists. This one was restricted because it was of special scientific interest, or sacred to the locals, he forgot which. In any case he was not likely to be disturbed here.

Julian had been slightly anxious the whole time until he'd got the car parked up and reasonably well concealed. It was strangely difficult to hide anything properly in this country. Despite the openness of it, you could almost walk up to something as big as an elephant or giraffe without noticing they were there, but an ordinary thing like a car stood out like a landmark.

Anyway, he wasn't planning to use that vehicle again unless he had to. It was too conspicuous and before long people would be looking for it. He'd hidden the truck for insurance and to put the authorities off his scent for as long as possible.

The current plan was to deal with these troublesome individuals who had not had the good manners to die easily and then he would depart in some other transportation that he supposed he would find as need arose. In fact, despite the sorry condition of their lorry, he was very much hoping that the two African roofers he'd met earlier would still be finishing up jobs at the campsite when he was done here. Then he'd be able to settle scores and solve the transport issue at the same time.

Julian was very conscious that he shouldn't count on having much time, maybe only a matter of hours. It could be that the radios on the ranger's trucks were known to be unreliable, or perhaps the men weren't too bothered about staying in contact once they were out in the bush. In either case, the vehicle might not be missed for a time, but it was safer to assume that a search party would come looking sometime very soon. If he absolutely had to use the patrol truck to escape, then he'd make his way by night, keeping to the main track as much as he could.

Once he was clear of this immediate area, he'd be able to relax a little, maybe change vehicles or get a ride with someone. Then he'd find an internal flight or else pay a lorry driver to run him to the coast. Borders would present a complication, but those were the sorts of complications that kept life interesting.

For now, he leaned back against a rock, checked his watch, took a sip of water and adjusted his frame of mind to wait. By his side he had his backpack and inside that a light rain jacket, in case the rain came. That had seemed unlikely earlier on but the sky was darkening as the shadows lengthened.

At the other side of him was the rifle from the truck. He'd made sure it was set to fire single shots. The gun felt reassuringly heavy when he held it, better than a pistol. Even if he didn't know how to use the sight properly, he was confident that he wouldn't be far away from his prey when the moment came to strike.

***

The evening was drawing in, but Jill felt tonight she had to keep them going. One way or another, she was determined this should be their last day out in the wild. The others felt the same way. It was a case of one last push with everything they had left. If they stopped to make camp, they might never have the strength to start again, however close they were. The thought of failing when they were so close to their objective and had suffered so much gave them just a little bit more energy. To end like that would be worse than if they had meekly stayed by the Land Cruiser waiting for the end.

Everyone had shared some of the squirrel. So far no one was sick and they were all that little bit stronger for having something inside.

Cloud cover made the air a lot cooler. Even with the last of the water gone they should have been able to cover these last few miles easily enough. It was just that they had nothing at all left. There was no force left in any of them that wasn't concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other for the next few steps. They couldn't even spare a thought for what they might do if they came to the boundaries of the reserve and found their way obstructed, what they might do if there was a high fence.

That focus didn't change even as the rain began to fall, hardly noticeably at first but afterwards in a steady downpour. They could have stopped and made efforts to collect water properly instead of taking only the drops that fell onto their faces or were trapped in their cupped hands, but instead they continued to walk on, like creatures that were neither dead nor alive. They only noticed that as they became soaked through, the physical effort involved in each step became even greater.

By dusk, they had still not quite reached the hills, although they felt they could almost touch them. They were in that state where if they'd come across someone sitting at the side of the path they might easily walk right past without noticing. The hill was their fixed and only objective.

Until now, they had avoided walking in the dark, but they were past caring about wild animals or much else. There was little discussion. They paused only to snap the headbands of their torches on, hoping that there would be enough battery power left for the final part of the journey. Moonlight shone down on them, even though clouds obscured the source of the light. The sky was more grey than dark, as if illuminated by a supernatural power, but all their focus was on the looming blackness of the hill before them as they passed into its shadow.

They trudged on, one behind the other, in darkness and silence. Even the rain was quiet. Simon led them deeper into the shadow. The others only saw the silhouette of the one in front, distorted by the bulk of the backpack that each of them still carried. The packs would have been abandoned too, except that none of them had enough spare consciousness to suggest it.

***

Green hadn't found it so difficult to pick up the trail of the crash survivors and he'd made good time catching up. Before long it became obvious to him the small range of mountains he'd been looking at for a while was the place they were heading for. After that, he'd seen enough. He didn't need to talk to those people and he wasn't so enthusiastic to see what condition they might be in. That was none of his business. He knew they were following a trail left by others, and it was those others who interested him. He didn't know whether he'd find them still in this place, but he could be sure that the survivors would lead him no further.

These hills were not just the only feature in the landscape, but the only place of importance that appeared on Green's map for many miles around. The banner on the map called them a "World Heritage Site", which Green understood to mean there should be people there.

Gauging the distance to cover before he reached the hills, Green feared that he might already be too late to catch up with the first arrivals. He'd wasted too much time on distractions, but no good worrying about that any more. The task he set himself was to get there as soon as possible and discover whatever there was to be found. He plotted his course in a broad arc that was calculated to avoid contact with the remaining survivors and to use some country that looked a little less hostile to motor vehicles than the direct way.

It seemed there was a road of sorts that led to a tourist campsite at Tsodilo, but Green saw no reason to draw attention to himself by coming in at the main gate, not when he'd come so far overland already. Best to spy out the lie of the land first. You never knew, there could still be someone in the camp that he might recognize. If he was challenged for leaving the track illegally, he'd come across as a confused foreign traveller and no-one would be the wiser.

As the afternoon darkened to evening, Green's truck made a tortuous progress across the wild country, kicking up dust that Julian Bowen might have spotted from his hilltop vantage point if he hadn't been napping between directing all his attention on the small group of hikers who were inching ever closer to the base of the hills.

It was late evening by the time Green reached his destination and started to think about places he might park up away from prying eyes. There was a slight gully he was able to follow a little further into the hills. The slope was quite steep on either side of the gully; walls that would provide a degree of privacy. He spotted a copse of trees and pointed the truck in that direction. There wouldn't be much leaf cover, but better than nothing.

As he came closer he applied the brake suddenly. There was a vehicle already stationed in the hideaway he had selected, and even in the half light of evening it looked very much like the truck belonged to some kind of police authority.

Green stayed where he was for a long time. He'd expected that whoever was in the truck would have their own reasons for wanting to stay hidden. Perhaps they were rangers, on the lookout for poachers or idiots like himself who had strayed off the reservation. At any moment he expected to see a figure climb down from the truck and begin to walk across to him, with that slow confident swagger that law enforcement in any country used. He couldn't think of any reason why the confused tourist story should not stand up, so he was not too worried. On the other hand, he had no idea what the standard of law enforcement was in these parts or whether they were likely to be amenable to reason. If it came to that, he couldn't see why an official looking truck like this should be hidden away. One thing was sure - there was no reason for Green himself to get out of the car and make a target of himself.

He could see now that some effort had been made to camouflage the truck. There were a few broken off boughs spread over the bonnet and the windscreen was shaded by a tarpaulin weighted with stones to minimize reflection. What he didn't see were any people.

"Fuck it," he said aloud, finally.

Green let the driver's side door of his own vehicle off the catch and felt it swing open on the slight incline. He never took his eyes off the other truck, but nothing moved. He stepped down and covered the short space between the vehicles as quickly as was consistent with his story of being a lost tourist.

It was a ranger's vehicle all right. The badge on the door told him that much. But there was no sign of life.

Green still didn't believe in coincidences, though for the moment he couldn't think how to fit the fact of this truck into any of the possible narratives he'd so far constructed. Coming into the hills from this side, there wouldn't be too many places where you could hope to stash a vehicle away from inquisitive types, so it was no real surprise that he, coming from the same direction, had ended at the same spot.

Perhaps the men he was after had used this vehicle before transferring to another less conspicuous one and now they were long gone. But that didn't feel right. The engine wasn't warm when he felt the hood, and there was nothing to suggest the truck had been used recently, but somehow Green just knew it had not been in this place very long. For one thing it was too big and obvious to remain undiscovered even hidden as it was. That meant there was a strong chance that whoever was using it would be coming back and soon.

Green thought about his own truck, parked in the middle of the way. He needed to move quickly. First a quick search of the truck. Maybe the money or valuables were stashed there. He didn't find anything of the kind on a first pass, but he could make a more thorough search later. He did notice two things. The first was a kind of upright rack attached to the column just behind the driver's door. Green knew enough about weapons to be certain that this was a housing for a rifle of some kind, and the rack was empty. That was bad. The second thing was a dark spray on the driver's side door that it would have been easy to miss in the deepening gloom. Now that he'd touched the dry stickiness of it and tasted it on his finger he could even smell the blood.

Whatever had happened to the first victims, this one had been shot, at close range. Maybe only one left now, come back to tie up loose ends. Who could say?

He reversed his hired truck out of the ravine being careful not to rev the engine hard. His vehicle was painted white and there was no chance to hide it from someone returning to this spot. He intended to be away before the dawn, given that a murder investigation would be seeking out this place sometime soon. Since it was already too dark for casual visitors, he only took care to park where his truck would not be visible to anyone returning to the hidden spot from a position higher up the mountain.

He walked back to the abandoned ranger's wagon, picking his way through the bushes and low shrub higher up the slope and avoiding the exposed trail. When he got to the truck he stood quietly for a long time before breaking cover, but by now the night was his friend.

Green came down to slope towards the back of the truck and climbed into the rear, sliding down low on the bench seat so that he wouldn't be visible to anyone returning to the vehicle. Quickly, he settled down into the frame of mind, relaxed but watchful, that the years had taught him to employ in situations where you just had to be patient and wait for the action to come to you.

***

As darkness fell, it became more difficult for Julian, observing from the hilltop, to make out the shapes of the hikers out on the plain, even with his powerful binoculars. He knew that they were close now. Sometimes he thought that he'd lost them, or that they must have made camp for the night - in which case he'd have to search them out. But once they switched on the head torches, he could always be sure to see at least one of them as they weaved in and out of the bush that grew thicker close in to the mountain.

Everything would be fine. From where they were now there was only one way for them to come, and the path would bring them directly to him. It was time to move from his observation post and make his final preparations.

***

Simon took the front as usual, Jill the rear. As they came closer to the hills and the massive blackness rose before them in place of a skyline, it became harder to pick their way. They almost needed to feel where to plant the next footstep rather than looking for the route ahead. Even so, they'd been walking continuously now for so many days that their bodies, weakened as they were, found a kind of rhythm. They barely stumbled in the night. When it happened that one of them did break stride or tumble, there was no fuss. Whoever had tripped simply dragged themselves upright and resumed their place in the line.

Time no longer had any meaning for them, until there came a moment when Simon noticed a wavering line on the ground ahead that reflected the moonlight slightly more than the surrounding area. Sure enough, as they came to it, they saw that they had found a path. Not a path with a prepared surface, or a clear destination in sight, but only a fragile ribbon of earth that had been worn clear of vegetation and packed down hard by the passage of many feet. For the survivors, it was where what they knew as civilization started. This path would lead to another more definite path and then to a road and eventually to a city. It was a faint strand that they could follow back to the source. Just for a moment it felt like they were already home.

They paused for a moment. No one spoke. There was no need. It was enough to stand facing each other, knowing that the half-seen faces opposite were sharing the same complicated emotions. Emma hugged Simon. George hugged Jill. But they would still have to follow the trail at least as far as the camping ground before they could throw themselves down and sleep for a long time.

The trail bisected the direction they had been following, at an angle, but it was easy to know which fork they should take. Now they had the path to follow they revived a little in spite of everything. They barely noticed the rain. The path led them up a steady incline, then briefly down into a gulley between the hills, with steep sided cliffs and boulders rising suddenly above them. To right and left they saw lighter patches of ground where the land was more open and the grasses grew densely. Their own route followed a narrow gap between the rocks where they needed to feel their way in places.

Simon led them up a second, steeper climb through one of the narrow passes, until they emerged at a small plateau of grassland. He paused to check the direction they must follow. A loud crack startled all of them. As the echo died in the rocks, Simon stood very still. Even in the dark they could see that his shoulders had gone slack, as if his body had lost all force. He put a hand to his chest.

"Been shot," he said in a surprised voice.

The noise repeated and then something small and fast impacted the rocks close to them. Jill grabbed Simon and pulled him back towards her.

"Back down the path," she shouted at them.

She supported Simon as they all ran, blind in the dark. Somehow their bodies could still produce a small amount of adrenalin when the shock was severe. Simon was able to move with her, but she couldn't see in the dark how badly he might be hurt. The wetness on his shirt didn't feel like rain. It was hot and sticky.

There were no more bangs just now, but even so they couldn't stay on the path. Jill saw shapes of high rocks to the side of them, framed in the light of her head torch. There was one that looked as if it might lead into a cave, or at least into some cleft in the rock where they might find refuge.

"This way. Follow me."

As they clambered over the rocks, Jill could feel that Simon was getting weaker, needing more support from her. Perhaps it was only shock, but they needed to stop and look at him as soon as possible.

They followed a narrowing space between cliff walls to a point where they had to climb over some boulders, and then ahead of them was a darkness so black that it seemed as if the rock was swallowing up the night.

It was a cave; maybe a place where humans had lived and hidden from the night creatures that pursued them through millennia.

"Inside, as far as we can go," she commanded them.

They moved further into the cave, panting from exertion and fear, but moving more cautiously now that there didn't seem to be an immediate pursuit. The high walls above them came closer together and finally closed above their heads. Inside, it was dry. In the recesses, the rock floor was smooth. Jill knew it had been worn smooth by the people who'd been in this place over countless generations.

"Do you think there's a way in through the back?"

"Don't know. George, check out what's back there but don't go far. Emma, help me get Simon comfortable here till we have a look at him."

Simon's face was white in the torchlight and his eyes were vacant.

"Oh my god, he looks bad," Emma wailed.

"Quiet, he may not know where we are," Jill snapped. "Simon is in shock. That's why he's so pale."

"Who may not know where we are? You mean him?"

George rejoined them.

"It seems to end a bit further along," he said. "There's a place where it's open to the sky, but I don't think anyone could get down there without a rope. What do we do now?"

"Try to stop this bleeding. I'll do it. You and Emma stay over there, where the passage narrows. Anyone coming in there has to duck through and they can't see in from the other side. If anyone tries it, stop them."

She was feeling Simon's chest as she spoke. His breathing was ragged, but there was no wheezing or coughing like she assumed there'd be if his lung was punctured. The wound was on the heart side, but the fact that he was still alive suggested the bullet had missed that.

"Drop those packs," Jill whispered. Grab a piece of the timber each.

They still had a few lengths of the wood they carried so they could start a proper fire. Why no-one had thought to abandon them before now, they couldn't say. Jill checked the timber that each of the others had selected.

"If anybody or anything comes through that gap, swing at it with everything you've got. That means you as well, Emma."

She spoke harshly to the girl, who seemed to be on the point of cracking up.

For a moment, everything was quiet. The main sounds were Simon's breathing, shallow and fast; and the rain outside. Jill pulled a t-shirt out of her pack and started tearing it to improvise a bandage. She found that she needed her pocket knife to start the rip. In a short time she'd slipped off Simon's pack, adjusted his position as best she could and at least covered the wound with a dressing that was bound tightly around it even if the blood was already seeping through.

"He's not bleeding badly," she whispered to Emma, hoping it might be true.

Emma was staring into the darkness.

"He's out there, isn't he?"

"I think so."

George suggested maybe it wasn't what they thought. Perhaps they'd stumbled across some poachers, or maybe even some rangers who took them for poachers. In this place at this time of night, they'd likely shoot first and ask questions when there was no-one shooting back. He didn't sound convinced by his own words.

"Whoever that was, it was probably a mistake and they're far away by now."

"Unless it's Bloom," Jill replied.

"You know that's ridiculous Jill. He would have passed through here days ago. Why would he hang around waiting for us?"

"I don't know George. But why are you just as certain as me that it's Bloom?"

For a moment, there was nothing else to say.

"Stay here you two. Remember what I said. I'm going to have another look at Simon and then check out the cave to see if there's anything here we can use. Don't make any noise. It's best if you turn off those head torches. He can't see in so easily from out there, but that doesn't mean you have to wear a target on your heads."

"What can we do, if he comes?" Emma was calmer, but she sounded resigned rather than angry.

"If Bloom comes in here. He'll find out we are not the same people he attacked a few days ago," Jill said.

Then she left them in the darkness.

***

Julian was quite pleased with the way things had turned out so far. The thump of the weapon against his shoulder when he pulled the trigger had been most satisfying, especially when the man crying out a moment later told him that his shot had been good. There was a thrill to it that he couldn't have put in words, even more because he was firing from a hidden location and his victims couldn't see him. In a different age, he would have been a hunter, he thought. He knew he'd have been good at it.

He'd been close enough to them to see he took the lead one in the chest. It was that teacher, he was sure of it. So that was the end of him. The fat fairy, the dyke and Emma were the only ones left. It was a shame about Emma, but unavoidable.

As the party fled, he followed close enough to see where they went, without exactly pursuing. What was it they said about a wounded animal being the most dangerous?

In any case, there was no hurry. They'd run away from him, back down the trail, and away from where the other people were. Julian was confident that the noise of the rifle wouldn't have been heard by anyone down in the camp. It was too far away and the rain muffled sound. He could take all night over this if he needed to.

When he saw that they'd gone into the cave he was in two minds over his approach. To go in after them could become complicated, even though it was now just two girls and George to deal with and Julian had the gun. On the other hand, they had now effectively trapped themselves, which was a good thing.

The rain wasn't unpleasant after such a dry season. He had cover and a clear shot at anyone leaving the cave. To start with he'd wait quietly and see if those inside did anything stupid. It seemed more than likely that they would.

***

The sound of the gun firing had not reached any human ears, but it was disturbing to the animals who heard it and knew what the noise meant, like the lone elephant who had been foraging on the lower slopes of the big hill. He turned round and made his way back down to the plain, crashing through bushes and trees that cracked and splintered in his path as he walked half blindly in the night.

Some baboons stirred in their sleep, and a leopard that was already wide awake heard the noise and was puzzled. She had no idea what the sound might be, except to say that it would scare the animals she was intending to stalk and was therefore an annoyance. Within a few minutes her cat nature decreed that what could not be changed and was not repeated ceased to be of interest and could be forgotten, but her territory was close by the cave and the breeze was blowing towards her from that direction, carrying something that was more intriguing than an isolated gunshot. It was the scent of fresh blood from an animal that was quite large and badly wounded.

***

Jill's search of the cave hadn't turned up anything useful. George had been right to say that there was no way in or out back there. The opening didn't close up altogether anywhere that she could see, but it became smaller even than she could crawl into. Where the roof had collapsed, thousands of years ago, there was a sheer cliff that rose maybe twenty meters above her head. You'd never climb it without a rope even in daylight and even if you knew what you were doing and weren't half dead from hunger and thirst.

The good thing was there was no way down either, though the thought that someone might break his neck attempting the descent cheered her a little. Anyone who wanted to finish them off now would have to come at them through the narrow opening that George and Emma were guarding.

She went back to them.

"This passage is the only way in or out," she said.

"I hate being in here like this. No light. Just waiting," Emma said. "We can't stay here all night surely?"

"Why not? We're dry. It's warm enough. Simon is as comfortable as we can make him till we get proper medical help. The bleeding's no worse."

"He'll die if we don't go for help."

"We'll all die if we do."

"I have to go to him."

"Alright Emma, for a little while," Jill relented, "but quietly. Don't disturb Simon. And then I need you and George here. This is where he'll come at us."

Emma slipped away from the opening and clicked on the switch of her head torch. Jill switched hers off and stationed herself in Emma's place, gripping the pathetically inadequate piece of timber that Emma had been holding as a weapon.

"Not much use this, is it?" She whispered to George.

"The people who used to live here got by with less," he replied.

"We're the same as them now. Hiding in the dark from terrifying monsters we can't see."

"They had fire. Maybe we should start one."

"No, that doesn't help us now. But maybe something like fire, when he comes."

"You're still sure it's him. If it was poachers, they're miles away now and we're hiding from nothing while Simon is losing blood."

"It's Jonathan Bloom out there, hunting us down like wild beasts, and you know it. For some reason, he wants us all dead. We know he's armed, and that means he's going to come in here for us before it gets light."

"Why do you say that? He could have come after us here already if he'd wanted. Or if he wants us dead, he might just sit out there and wait. It won't take long, the state we're in."

Jill pushed the edge of the makeshift truncheon against George's belly, not too gently. The situation was bringing out some aggression she didn't know she had.

"I'm starting to think like him George. Try to do the same. He's out there now, watching and waiting, expecting us to do something stupid, like making a run for it while he's got a gun pointing at our only way out. We've done enough stupid things and I've been the one responsible for most of them. We're not going to make any more mistakes."

"I'm not arguing."

"He has to come in here before long, because in the daytime this is a place where people come and they'll find us."

"How do you know that?"

"This is one of those places where people lived all those years ago. You see how the floors are smooth. There are indents of some kind in the stones back there where the cave people were sharpening tools against the rock. Most of all, there's these."

She slipped the head torch off her head, switched it on and pointed it at the places on the walls where she'd noticed the cave paintings earlier; faint but instantly recognizable rust-coloured images of rhinos, giraffes and other animals, all strikingly accurate and applied by hands that had been dust for thousands of years.

"This place must be one of the main galleries."

"Anything in the pictures about a secret passage that leads out of here?"

***

The survivors of the safari were proving to be not quite as stupid as Julian had anticipated. It was natural selection in action, he supposed, since only four were left. After an hour of waiting, he was getting cold out in the rain and now he was bored of their game. He knew that going in after them, he'd need to be careful, but from what he'd seen the three that were left were close to death anyway.

The rifle wouldn't be the most useful thing in a confined space though. He didn't want to shoot himself by accident. He put the gun down in a sheltered spot at the base of a large rock. There the rain wouldn't get to it and he'd know where to collect it later. He still had the pistol, and the knife come to think of it. The knife was the surest way after all.

***

The leopard was watching as Julian sorted among his things. He hadn't seen or heard any trace of her. She knew that this was not the animal that was wounded and she'd seen enough of these two legged creatures to remember that they could be dangerous. But the smell of fresh blood was stronger in this place than anywhere, and the behavior of the human was curious. For the moment, she would stay hidden and continue to watch.

***

"It won't be long now," Jill said.

"How can you even know that?" George asked.

"I told you, I understanding him more now," Jill said. "And everything is just the same as if we were animals. We're being hunted after all."

"What do you want us to do?" Emma asked.

"Take this," Jill returned the length of wood to her. "When he comes, he might make a noise deliberately, trying to panic us. Both of you stay exactly where you are. No lights and no sound. Whatever you do, don't give your own position away. Make him come on to us without knowing anything."

"I'm too terrified to stand even thinking about it," Emma said. "I don't know that I can do this."

"You can do it," Jill told her firmly. "People always have. Humans have been defending places like this since they started to be human. Just stay careful. When he gets to this point, he'll know, like any animal would, that right here is the most dangerous place for him. If we're lucky he believes we're too terrified and weak to fight back, but anyway he'll be on his guard. When he ducks through this gap, he'll be looking out for you."

She tapped the lengths of wood that the two of them were holding, each in turn.

"You have to hit him with these when he actually steps into the chamber. Not too soon, so that you don't get him properly and he's warned, but before he has time to register where you are and shoot, or whatever else he's planning. There are two of you, so he'll be confused as to which one to go for first. Once you start hitting him, keep hitting as hard as you can and don't stop, even if he goes down and you think he's finished. Remember all he's done and what he's put us through. In fact, don't even look at him. Just keep your eyes closed until I shout now and then start swinging."

"What will you be doing?"

"I'm going to try to summon up an old friend to give us an advantage."

She left them there and went back to her pack. Simon seemed to be calm. He was breathing steadily, but he still wasn't conscious. There was nothing they could do for him right now. She put that problem out of her mind. Instead she felt in her pack for something she'd carried with her even after it would have made more sense to leave it behind. She checked the power supply indicator to make sure there was still charge; then she switched off her head torch and felt her way in the darkness back to her friends, with the camera nestled carefully in her right hand.

***

Nothing. No crying or moaning. No lit fire that would give him an easy target as people moved around it. No frenzied desperate bolt for safety. No pleas for mercy. No indication that there was even anyone left inside the cave.

Julian had made his way carefully to the cave entrance. He must be only a few meters away from where the others were cowering, but they were not making his job easy.

As he stepped into the outer chamber, he began to whistle a carefree relaxed tune that should have sent anyone who was already feeling stressed completely over the edge and into panic. Still nothing. Well, he wasn't here to start a conversation with them.

A sudden doubt attacked his self-confidence. Was it possible there was a back way out of the cave and that they were already long gone? No, it couldn't be: that was a stupid idea given the lie of these rocks. But now that he'd had the thought he was unsettled by it.

Out of the rain and into the dry air of the cave, the noise of his footfalls echoed in sudden stillness. He made no attempt to disguise the sound.

He hadn't switched on his own head torch, but Julian's night vision was excellent. He could make out that the first chamber, in which he stood, was hardly a cave at all. It was more like a space sheltered from the elements by the overhanging rock, with high walls that almost joined to a ceiling and something like a raised mezzanine level running unevenly around the sides.

Access to the inner cave was through a lower, darker, narrow opening that he could just make out in front of him. Likely they were hoping he wouldn't dare to enter it in the dark, but the dark had never held terrors for Julian. He knew that really he should go back for the rifle. Spray a few rounds of automatic fire into that opening then see what was left at his leisure. They'd be cut to pieces or else come scurrying out into his waiting arms.

But by now, he was looking forward to something more personal, and besides the rifle was a long way off. Julian wanted to be finished with this business and he was still troubled by the nagging thought they might have already escaped the trap somehow. Impatience clouded his thoughts.

He stood still for a moment and, then whistled part of a different tune. After that he began to move again, but this time more quietly, so quietly his approach would not have been audible even to someone listening for it.

***

Jill didn't hear Bloom's final approach, but she knew it was coming and every nerve was strained for it. He didn't put her off with his whistling or his pantomime stamping about. When it went quiet on the other side of the gap, she knew exactly what that meant.

Even Bloom couldn't disguise the spring with which he bounded through the opening from the outer cave. The instant Jill heard it she pointed the camera in his direction and depressed the shutter. The flash blazed in the darkness, leaving an image burned in her eye of Bloom staring directly at her. He looked completely deranged. His hair was plastered down by the rain and he was open-mouthed as if preparing to bite. He held a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other.

His leap had carried him almost past George and Emma, who stood on either side of the passageway with their improvised weapons raised and their eyes tight shut; frozen in that moment.

Jill clicked the shutter again.

"Now!" she screamed as the light flashed again.

For something like a second, Julian was completely blinded by the flash of the camera. Before he could recover, he felt the impact of something crashing heavily into his back. That blow sent the pistol spinning out of his grasp, and another one, lower down on the back of his legs, dropped him to his knees.

He moved his head sideways, somehow anticipating a swing that missed him and crashed against the wall of the passage. There was a sound of wood splintering. Another blow caught him cleanly on the shoulder as he swung the knife in a broad arc, trying to wound his attackers or at least force them to give him space. He managed to keep hold of the knife, but there was a feeling in the arm now that wasn't right.

Next, he felt a sickening force hit his jaw and mouth, as Jill swung the camera on its short strap, with all her strength, against his face. Blood exploded from his lip and nose and he knew straight away some teeth had gone. That was too much. He had to get away.

Jill's only thought at that moment was they needed to put this madman down and make sure he stayed down. If he left that cave on his own feet, they wouldn't be safe. The others had the same idea. They were half crazy themselves with it. Bloom should have had no chance against the three of them, but even with his nose broken and his shoulder dislocated, there was some force inside him, perhaps nothing more than pure unrestrained egoism, that held him up from falling.

Everything was confused in the darkness, but somehow Bloom raised himself from his knees and backed away from them, slashing wildly with the knife and making a deep laceration in George's thigh. They had to allow him space for a moment, and in that moment he turned and ran.

Jill made them hold their positions for a full minute in case Bloom came back. Then she allowed Emma to switch on her head torch in order to examine George's wound. Jill herself remained at the gap, holding onto the one unbroken length of wood that they had left.

"I think he dropped the gun," she hissed at Emma. "It's somewhere around down there. Find it."

The incident had lasted only seconds and now their refuge was quiet again, except for George panting heavily, as he tried to hold in the pain of the knife wound, and Emma scraping round on her hands and knees looking for the pistol. She eventually found it and brought it to Jill who exchanged it for the improvised club.

"I'm not even going to try to work out how you fire this," she told them. "But if he comes through there again I shall try to brain him with it. I'm just glad we have it and not him."

***

Julian was outside in the rain, trying to shut out the screaming agony of his wounds and remembering all the rugby field bragging from years gone by, about chaps who had reset their own dislocated shoulders and simply carried on. It was lies and exaggeration mostly, he supposed. He'd never thought he would actually have to do it himself.

He discovered what the maneuver required was pure concentrated will rather than any particular technique. You could easily feel where the joint ought to be. The difficulty was having the determination to put it there and not passing out as you shifted the bone. He discovered that it hurt - a lot.

He was missing three teeth that he knew of and his jaw was swelling. He was fairly sure that the jaw bone was broken. His mouth and nose were bleeding heavily and there was a gash in the side of his head that was also bleeding hard although he thought that it was nothing to worry about. The blows to his back and legs shouldn't cause more than bruising.

Julian was dazed, but he had enough command of his senses to be driven half out of them by fury. After he'd run out of the mouth of the cave and limped back to the point where he'd left the rifle, he'd almost fainted from pain. Instead he'd grabbed the backpack and tried to lift it. Instantly, he'd been close to passing out again. That was when he realized the shoulder that was more badly injured than he'd known.

Now that he'd pushed the shoulder back in, he rummaged through the sack to find what was left of the medical kit from the truck. He gulped down a handful of painkillers, dry. He'd have to bandage himself up too, before he could go back and deal with those people.

He wouldn't be surprised a second time. The rifle was where he'd left it. He stroked the stock with his good hand. No more messing about, he'd go in with the setting on automatic and let them have the full magazine before he even set foot inside that place again. Even if he didn't get direct hits, the ricochets in the confined space would probably do the job. With any luck they wouldn't be quite dead when he followed up that volley. There'd be something for the knife to do. It was what he should have done in the first place. He'd been stupid.

And it was so unfair. His face was smashed up. He was bleeding heavily and his plan was in ruins. How would he hope to get away looking and feeling like this? All he could think of now was that somebody must pay. Revenge his only consolation, after he'd thought everything through so carefully.

It was the injustice of it all, rather than the pain, that made him cover his broken face with his hands. He kneeled down on the ground and suddenly began to sob like he was crying for every bad thing that had ever happened in his life.

And that was how the leopard found him.

***

Hours later, as dawn was nearing outside, the three of them were huddled around Simon, who still hadn't spoken. In spite of what Jill had said about the pistol, she'd kept it with her. After an examination by torchlight, she believed that she'd understood the mechanism well enough to be able to use it at close range. She'd kept the barrel pointed at the empty passageway more or less from the first moment that Jonathan Bloom had retreated back down that way. She continued to hold it leveled on that gap as they talked, in voices that they still dare not raise above a whisper. It was the longest night of Jill's life.

"There must be something more we can do for Simon," Emma was saying. Jill was barely listening.

"We can't do anything until it's light," she replied. "It will be safe then."

"He might be dying."

"His breathing is steady, and he doesn't seem to be in any pain. We could all die. We're not safe yet."

"Don't you think he's gone?" George asked her. His own wound was feeling worse and he couldn't bend his leg fully.

"I think so, yes. But we're not taking any chances."

"That wasn't what I meant. I just wondered why you thought you knew that he was gone."

"Because he hasn't come back already. It's the animal again. When a creature like that is wounded, either it runs away or else it loses all fear and rushes into an attack immediately without thinking about what happens next."

"You know what else?" George said. "I can swear I heard a scream not long after he ran out of here. It was short but piercing. I know it's hard to tell with some of these animals. They have cries that can sound human. Even so I'm almost sure it was a person. I think maybe he was stumbling about and went over one of those cliffs or down a hole somewhere. He's lying cold with his neck broken. I'm sure of it."

"I'd like to think you're right."

"It's horrible though, isn't it, to think about another person in that way and to wish death on them?"

"I suppose so," Jill paused. "Anyway, I'm glad that one of us can still think of things in that way George. You're a good person. The best of us."

They were going to make it after all, she decided, although how they would manage to move Simon, she couldn´t imagine. Perhaps they´d be able to get him roused enough to walk, otherwise they´d have to leave him in the cave while they got help. They barely had enough strength to carry themselves further. Emma would stay with him, she supposed. Where the cave was open to the sky, the water was lying in pools and they were very close to the campsite. So long as Bloom was really gone the two of them would be better off waiting. Then George might not be able to walk.

Whatever else happened, at some point, one or more of them would have to walk out of the cave and Jill knew she´d go first. And even though her head told her that Bloom must be gone, her body would be tensed waiting for a bullet like the one that had caught Simon. She felt the tension now, just imagining that moment.

And if that didn´t happen, if he was gone, what would she do afterwards? There´d be people and questions and some time in a hospital she supposed. She was too weary even to think about it.

She needed to make a phone call too, before she'd be able to rest properly. At least she knew exactly what she wanted to tell Charles - she was alive and reasonably well and that he shouldn´t worry, but they weren´t going to be seeing each other anymore. She still remembered what George had said about her situation, and he'd been right in a way that only expressed what she´d been thinking herself for far too long.

Probably when she made that call, Charles´ wife would pick up the phone and then she'd be standing beside him and Jill wouldn´t be able to explain anything except to say that it was over. She knew there wouldn´t be any of those second thoughts now; no picking up the phone and looking at it for five minutes before putting it down again. Her body was barely able to support its own weight, but in some ways, she knew, she was stronger than she'd ever been.

Epilogue

Stephen Green waited in the back of the patrol truck all through the long night until it was light. By morning he felt stiff and his back ached. He stepped down from the truck and stretched painfully. The day never felt the same when you hadn't slept all night. There was no proper beginning to it. At least the rain that had been hammering on the truck roof all night had stopped as dawn started to come. And now, it was a fine, bright morning.

Green was certain if anyone had been going to return to the truck, they would have done so before now. It was too risky to leave something like this lying around for anyone to stumble on. He'd placed his bet and he'd lost. Probably the target was a hundred miles away by now. There were tiny airstrips all over this country where you'd be able to charter a flight to anywhere in range of a light aircraft, probably with no questions asked if you were generous enough.

In any case, he couldn't hang around. His own vehicle was in a conspicuous place and he did not want to be linked to this bad situation. He needed to get back to the hotel, get cleaned up, and try to pick up some clues from what the radio and newspapers might say. He'd visit the airstrips that he could find and see if anyone knew anything that they were prepared to tell.

Green drove back to Victoria Falls and checked in at the same hotel. Two days later, just as he´d come back from an early morning swim in the hotel pool, he picked up a newspaper that carried the Tsodilo story. He was just starting to feel human again and no longer quite so depressed about letting Bloom get away from him. The article put a frown back on his face.

Green couldn't quite buy the idea of Bloom being eaten by wild animals, as the paper suggested, but the account of the survivors was clear enough. The man had done it all on his own without any accomplices. It seemed he'd just gone completely crazy. And he'd been there on the hill the same night that Green had waited for him. Three people who'd spent days with him and then been terrorized by him confirmed it. Sure that they were not likely to be mistaken about his face.

According to the piece, written in a house style that was one half official court report and half tabloid sensationalist, the survivors had been attacked by Bloom but had fought him off and when they last saw him he'd been too badly injured to have gone far.

Green, who'd seen some badly damaged people continue to function quite effectively, rather doubted that last part. There was talk of a scream being heard in the night, but Green had heard screams and cries and crashing around on every one of the few nights he had spent in the bush.

What settled it was that Green himself had waited all night in the truck Bloom had saved for his getaway. No other vehicle had gone missing that night and there wasn't an explanation that had Bloom walking to the next town to get medical treatment. So either the story about the animals was right, or more likely he'd stumbled about on the mountain until he'd gone over a cliff or down a hole in the ground and there he'd banged his head or bled to death from his wounds. They'd find the body in a week or a year, Green supposed.

The trip wasn't a total waste. He could tell the Fat Man honestly that the Bloom problem had been dealt with. Green himself was out of pocket and he didn't have any idea where the money might be, but it was a win-some, lose-some business he was in. If Bloom had really gone as crazy as they said, then maybe he'd buried the cash or diamonds out in the bush, believing that he'd be able to find them again. Perhaps the money had been hidden or invested back in London where the Fat Man's people would surely discover it sooner or later.

Green folded the newspaper carefully and placed it inside the suitcase that he'd already begun to pack. The Fat Man had warned him against making contact too soon, but no one was going to be looking to pin these events on anyone other than Bloom himself.

When he thought about it, Green had done exactly as he was asked. He'd caught up with Jonathan Bloom and made sure that Bloom had disappeared for good. The Fat Man could read about it in the newspaper and Green could confirm it. Better - no one from his organization was in or near the frame. Hell, Green should be entitled to a bonus.

It was a pain about the money and that was why he had the bad feeling. Being honest with himself, he knew that if he hadn't wasted time with the old couple he might have been able to catch up with the lunatic sooner and find out where it was stashed. But that wasn't something to be shared. He mustn't be apologetic or show any trace of embarrassment back home or they'd begin to suspect him of keeping the loot, which would be dangerous for Green in spite of the Fat Man's generous words when they met in London (which he must on no account be reminded of).

The more Green thought about it, given Bloom had gone crazy, it seemed most probable that the money was still somewhere in England. For all he knew, the Fat Man had it already. He'd have had someone go through the flat very carefully, that was for sure, and he had accountants and specialists of that sort – people who were expert in tracking money that was being moved around. The important thing was to face the Fat Man again soon and show no fear. Don't back down. He'd demand his usual fee plus expenses and then they'd see what happened.

Green picked up his mobile and dialed the international code. He left the message with the wording exactly as agreed. What he said would sound completely innocuous to most people, but the man who was waiting for the message would know what it meant. He´d get rid of that phone later just to be sure.

Green decided he had time for a leisurely shave. His face looked healthy and relaxed in the mirror. He was getting old, true, but he'd still pass for a much younger man. His hands were completely steady with the razor. He was all right, he decided; the thing with the old people had just been a momentary weakness. In the end it hadn't cost anything because he'd caught up with Bloom and the job got done without any risk. Sometimes in this job you just did things without knowing why and then later the reason became clear. He'd be good for a few more years yet.

He dressed and went for breakfast. A phone was ringing in one of the rooms along the corridor. It went on ringing and ringing as he walked by room twelve, where the noise was coming from. Then it stopped and he could faintly hear a voice inside answering. That was strange. Why would you let a phone ring for so long if you were in a room and able to answer it? It reminded him of those prearranged signals they had used to pass on messages in the old days. But what the hell - when you thought about it there were many reasons why someone might not answer straight away. The guest might be in the shower or toilet.

Green reminded himself that you needed to guard against becoming paranoid in this business. He would have been less relaxed if he had looked at the hotel register where Smith had carelessly checked into room twelve under a familiar alias that Green would have recognized instantly.

After breakfast, he decided to visit the waterfalls one last time. They seemed different to him, or else something in himself had changed. Before, the view had only seemed pretty, but now the timeless power of the plunging water and the multiple rainbows arching through the constant vapour affected him strongly. He was filled with a strong feeling that he didn´t recognize at all. Just the scale of the Falls was so vast that it was hard for a person to take in.

He spent a long time wandering the trail that led along the side of the canyon, looking across to the Zambia side of the water. There were not so many people about that day. Several times he came to himself and realized he´d been standing looking at the cataract for minutes without being aware of anything.

At the end of the path, he came to the statue of Livingstone that he remembered from his first visit. Livingstone; the man who´d tracked the Zambesi back into the wilderness. It wasn´t a particularly good statue, but something about it, perhaps the little bit of history that he remembered, caught his attention.

He hadn´t paid any attention to the woman who was sitting on a bench not far from where he stood, also considering the statue. In fact she had her back turned to the falls.

"Do you know," she told him; "I´ve been sitting here over an hour. Maybe a dozen people have stopped and looked at that statue and I don´t believe more than two of them had any idea who David Livingstone was."

"Sic transit gloria mundi," Green replied.

It was an odd comment for him to make and it sounded pretentious coming out of his mouth, but she´d surprised him inside his own thoughts. He didn´t know what else to say. People didn´t normally start conversations with a man like him unless there was a good reason for them. He looked at the woman more carefully.

She wasn´t as old as he´d assumed at first glance. In fact she looked like she could have been quite attractive, in a mature sort of way, except that you could see that she´d been through some suffering. She was thin, in an unhealthy way. Her clothes seemed a few sizes too big. Perhaps she was recovering from a serious illness, the kind of experience that could make a person careless of social niceties and ready to start a conversation with a stranger.

Her face was deeply lined, especially around the eyes; but it was something in the eyes that held Green´s attention. He was a soldier of sorts and he´d seen eyes that were clear and fearless like that before. He wondered what this woman's eyes had seen to give her this strong but troubled face.

"Excuse me," he asked her, "are you okay? I don´t mean to be rude but you look like you´ve been through a hard time."

"It´s finished now," she smiled. "They told me I should spend some time in the hospital with the others, but that´s not what I need. I feel like I´ve discovered something in myself and I don´t want to risk losing it before I can take it back into my normal life."

Green nodded. The woman didn´t elaborate and he thought it would be rude to pursue the matter. When he considered what she´d said, maybe he even understood it in some obscure way.

"David Livingstone," she pointed at the statue as if to change the subject. "'Christianity, Commerce and Civilization'. The perfect Victorian hero, pretentious little shit. The real name of this place is called Mosi oa Tunya, the Smoke that Roars. He had to rename it after a queen who lived thousands of miles away and never saw the place. Then he spent four years walking from one side of the continent to the other before losing himself in it."

"It must have been quite a journey in those days."

"No one remembers much about his wife and children," the woman commented.

"I didn´t know he was married."

"Oh yes, they were both missionaries. He came out from Scotland. She´d lived her whole life in Botswana. They were out in the wilderness together. Their children grew up not hearing English. When he brought the family back to Capetown, none of them could manage to use a staircase. He took them out of their African home and packed them off on a boat without a penny, back to live with his parents; a couple of religious bigots who he'd run away to Africa to avoid; in Lanarkshire where the sun never shines. Doesn't seem very Christian does it? She spent years trying to hold the family together with no help and no kind of fulfilment and then she died of alcohol and malaria, still waiting for him."

"Not very nice, but they were different times."

"You could say that, and you could say he was a great explorer. Or you could say that he was just another silly man running away from responsibility. He planned his disappearance well and he never intended to come back. You don´t imagine that he really thought that he was converting the heathen to Christianity or ending the slave trade do you? He depended on the slavers to stay alive and he was wrong about the Nile as well."

"People do what they do," Green replied.

He studied the woman´s face again. She´d remained sitting on the bench, speaking calmly and clearly. If there was bitterness in the words she spoke, it didn´t come through in her voice or expression. She seemed like someone observing the cruelties and foolishness of the world from a great distance. He was intrigued, even though he knew that after this conversation they´d part and most likely he would never see her again.

"I didn´t know anything about that story," he said. "It´s interesting. I'd like to know what conclusion you draw from it."

The woman had an open, genuine smile.

"Only that it´s stupid for a strong woman to rely on a man for all her happiness," she told him.

***

Whatever did happen to Jonathan Bloom, no body was ever found. A search eventually turned up a few ripped scraps of clothing that could have belonged to anyone.

No one had any idea why Bloom should have gone off his head and done those horrible things. The English police soon found out that he'd had known criminal contacts at home, but that really explained nothing. They also hinted that he'd been in the habit of attending the sort of parties where a lot of expensive drugs were consumed and there was some speculation that the business pressure he was under and his lifestyle had combined to make him psychotic. In any case, it was obvious that for unexplained reasons he'd gone completely out of his mind and run off to Africa to be a serial killer until eventually one of the local predators had made a meal of him.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson would have reached civilization more quickly than Jill's party, but the villagers who found them had not thought it safe to move them at first. They'd come to the village in a state of collapse and it was not until the people had spent some days looking after them and gradually getting them to accept water and food properly that either of the old couple could explain there were others in their group who might still need help. The villagers insisted that the couple had been brought to them by a mysterious white man in a white car who had immediately driven on, but no one seemed to be able to explain or confirm the story.

There was only the word of a few women and children to go on. The Johnson's were not able to confirm or deny anything. Mr. Johnson admitted he'd imagined all manner of things at that time that couldn't possibly have happened. The men of the village warned the policeman that the women were prone to exaggerate. The policeman told his boss that it was the way of the local people to explain anything unusual that happened with a miraculous story. The police weren't interested in looking for an imaginary saviour of lost whites. They already had a lunatic killer to explain without causing more of a panic than was necessary.

A missing persons report was eventually filed in the United Kingdom for one Julian Bowen, but lots of people go missing every year. So many that no one really spends much time looking for them. As Bowen's rent and bills were paid by standing order, it was a long time before anybody even noticed he was gone.

His employer had assumed that he'd simply walked off the job months earlier and he'd been fired in his absence. His former boss, who was an old school chum, told the authorities he'd no idea where Julian might be, though in private he was willing to share his opinion that Julian had finally found the situation in England a little too hot for him and he was doubtless in South America or South East Asia now, making a new life for himself under an assumed name.

Julian Bowen was known to have many friends but it seemed he was not close to anyone. His parents were divorced and he hadn't spoken to either of them for years. There were no siblings. Eventually his flat was cleared and the mattress with the money sewn inside went to the council dump along with all the other effects, for landfill or incineration. If anyone found the cash before it went into the flames, they didn't let on. And so finally, Julian Bowen was a man who left no mark on the world. It continued as if he had never existed at all.

THE END
  1. Chapter 1

