The Most Dangerous Game, page 3
Amber Byrne finished her gin and tonic. No sooner had she glanced around, a waiter walked over with a silver tray, took her glass, and asked if she cared for another. She politely refused. She had copy to write later, and no doubt dinner would be served with wine. She asked for an iced water, the dry air and elevation giving her a thirst. “I imagine if Carl Grainger has an issue with me, then he must have an issue with you. We are on entirely different sides, but we both set our sights on his canned hunting ventures.”
“Indeed,” St. John-Smyth said wistfully. He drained his glass and made his excuses, taking himself back to the bar where the Australian convicted murderer and the Ohio bow hunter were talking over tall, frosted glasses of South African beer.
Amber looked over at a lone figure sipping a glass of beer by the fire. He seemed distant, thoughtful. His face was lined, and his close-cropped dark hair was greying somewhat at the sides. She put him at somewhere in his late thirties, early forties. His leather jacket was well-worn, and his jeans had faded more by use than for fashion and were thinning at the knees. He wore desert boots that had seen some serious use. She figured she should find out what he was doing here, what ‘skill’ the man deployed for his hunting. She sipped some iced water as more of a distraction than to quench a thirst as she walked up on him and pointed at the chair opposite him.
“Mind if I sit?” The man shrugged but said nothing. She observed that his left ring finger held a faint white mark, and when she studied him further, she saw that a plain gold band hung from his neck on a leather cord. Recently divorced, she thought, not his decision, can’t let go. “And why do you find yourself here?” she asked.
“You asked if I minded if you sit, you never said anything about talking…”
“You’re Scottish…” she replied unable to hide her surprise. “I thought you’d be another American. They love the big game hunting.”
“I don’t hunt,” he replied quietly. “And I’m not up for a cosy fireside chat…”
“Well, what are you doing here if you don’t hunt?” she asked somewhat incredulously.
“Bugger me, luv, you’re still talking…” He drained his beer and got up to leave, but before he left, he said, “Take care here, luv. You’re not in good company…”
Chapter Seven
William St. John-Smyth had dressed for dinner in a blue-black Savile Row tuxedo and a crisp, white shirt handmade for him in Hong Kong. The silk bow tie was woven from spider’s silk in Madagascar before being handmade in Scotland from the same tailor who made his ancestors’ tartan, even though the man no longer considered his immediate family line to be Scottish. By contrast, Bruce Corrigan wore jeans and a sports jacket with an open striped shirt. The Ohio bowman sported a Gas Monkey T-shirt and ripped jeans, and rather predictably, a peaked cap which spoke trucker rather than baseball. Amber Byrne wore a figure-hugging black dress, tastefully cut at the neckline and just above the knee. It was a tried and tested asset to her wardrobe, and she had worn it for all manner of occasions. Never one to overdo jewellery, she wore a thin gold necklace with matching bracelet and a slim Cartier watch given to her by her mother when she had turned twenty-one. Every man in the room looked at her as she entered and helped herself to a glass of champagne which Dupont was pouring at a table beneath an array of stuffed animal head hunting trophies mounted the full length of the far wall. Subconsciously, she pulled down the hem of her dress, conscious of the men’s attention, and chose a chair beside the fire.
“That was my fifth leopard!” Dwight Carlotta cheered as he came barging through the door. “God-damn! I love Africa!” He lolloped across the wooden floor with its scattered animal hide rugs and took two glasses of champagne from Pierre Dupont, draining one swiftly and placing it clumsily back on the silver tray amongst the clean glasses. Dupont moved the glass as Dwight headed for the fire. “Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here? Come to bag a big one?” He paused. “Let me guess, bow hunter? Lots of women are turning to the bow these days. Can’t cope with the recoil of a four-one-six or a four-five-eight.”
“I have never fired a gun, and I never will…” she side-glanced him. “Killing animals for sport is abhorrent.”
“Well, what the hell are you doing here?” Dwight frowned, and turned to Dale Kowalski, the Ohio bow hunter and YouTuber, and both men laughed raucously and without apology. “Looks like the God-damned Democrats are here Kowalski! They’re going after our guns; it’ll be bows and arrows next, you’d better watch out! And when we cannot defend ourselves or our rights any longer, totalitarian rule will follow! See if I’m wrong!”
“My brother from another mother!” Kowalski raised his glass of beer in agreement.
“You’re both deluded,” Amber shook her head. “Anyway, I’m British. My views have no bearing on your own views or your constitutional rights! Nothing I think or voice will affect your precious gun ownership or so-called civil liberties.”
“Amen to that! Britain has nothing to offer this world, I don’t know why we even bother with the so-called special relationship. You need us; not the other way round…” He paused. “We whipped your asses once, and we could again any time we want.”
Amber laughed at the notion that the man was claiming a three-hundred-year-old victory for himself, but she had met Americans like Carlotta before, and what they knew was barely worth knowing, and what they didn’t know was infinite. She watched the Americans wander back to the bar and almost felt relief when St. John-Smyth ambled over, Scotch in hand. “Making friends, I see?”
She shook her head. “I don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, I get why average rednecks like those guys travel the world hunting, and Africa is the land of plenty for that. Men like that have more money than sense, and certainly less sense than most. But you are clearly educated, monied and cultured. Why on earth would you want to kill such beautiful creatures, much less endure the company of men like that?”
St. John-Smyth smiled. “May I?” he asked, pointing at the chair opposite her. She nodded and he sat down, crossed his legs somewhat effeminately and sipped his whisky. “One was brought up fishing, riding, and shooting. I caught trout and salmon from a stream on my family’s estate. I was given a little four-ten shotgun, a single shot folding poacher’s model and encouraged to shoot magpies and rooks to protect the pheasant chicks on the estate’s shoot. By the age of eleven, I hunted with the foxhounds on my little Welsh Mountain pony, fly-fished record-breaking salmon and occupied a peg on pheasant drives.” He smiled reminiscently. “I had killed my first red stag at thirteen.” He paused. “You look horrified, my dear.”
“It’s not a world I understand.”
“Do you eat meat?”
“A bit. Not every day, or even every week.”
“It all dies,” he told her as if she hadn’t been aware. “Every animal in the meat industry dies, whether you eat it or not. The animals have a short and frankly awful life, and even the grass-fed, free-range nonsense is more about marketing strategy than about the animal having a good run before getting the chop. But when you hunt, you go after an animal that has lived. I mean truly lived. Compared to hunting, eating factory farmed meat is deplorable. In fact, unless I’m eating at a restaurant, then I never eat anything that wasn’t wild. Rabbits, venison, pheasants, and duck… I shoot it all and prepare it myself.”
“Nobody eats foxes,” she replied. “That’s all about sport. Farmers should maintain better fences if they don’t want their chickens killed.” She paused, sipping her drink. “And killing magpies and rooks because they threaten revenue from expensive pheasant drives is not justifiable. Morally, at least. Animals need to eat, regardless of the landed gentry’s profit margins.”
St. John-Smyth sipped some whisky. “Fair enough. But hunting is justifiable.”
“African game hunting isn’t.”
“It feeds many locals, keeps them employed when there are few job opportunities. Some animals have to be culled and many animals will benefit by this practice.”
“That man just killed a leopard for kicks!” she exclaimed, nodding towards Dwight Carlotta at the bar.
“I know, I know,” the Englishman conceded. “But there’s a bigger picture than what the animal welfare lot continuously peddle.”
“The falling rhino numbers speak for themselves. Chinese demand for ivory and horn has created a wildlife crisis.”
“And they need to be stopped.”
Amber Byrne shook her head. “It all needs to stop.” She paused. “So, what is it that you enjoy about it? Why do you enjoy killing something so beautiful?”
“The challenge.”
She scoffed. “I imagine clay pigeon shooting is more skilful. How can an elephant compare to a tiny flying disk?” She laughed. “Surely long-distance rifle shooting at a tiny bullseye requires a more competent marksman?”
“It’s not like that. It’s the romance, the challenge, the danger. It’s Victorian journals, Ernest Hemingway, the colonial British Empire. The first time I shot a lion, I missed. It charged at us, and I killed it just ten feet from us. It covered a hundred yards in three seconds, it was leaping at us. Claws out, teeth bared. When it finally skidded to a halt on the dusty ground, I never felt so alive! I was hooked, there and then. I don’t expect you to change your opinion on it, but at least endeavour to understand and respect that people hold different views.”
“I do on a daily basis,” she replied testily. “But it’s difficult to understand, especially after going on a safari and seeing the animals in their own environment. Not one person on my tour in Kruger would have wanted to kill any of the remarkable animals we observed.” She glanced up as the lone man she had spoken to earlier walked in, hovered for a moment near the bar, then decided to avoid the two Americans and the Australian and chose a small sofa against the wall. He held a coffee mug and sipped occasionally, and he had not dressed for dinner. In fact, he hadn’t changed at all.
“Friend of yours?” St. John-Smyth asked.
“No. But we spoke briefly earlier.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be on friend terms with a fellow hunter,” he chided.
“Oh, he’s not a hunter,” she replied, turning back to St. John-Smyth, who had continued to stare at the new arrival.
“Really? You could have fooled me,” he said resolutely. “If ever you could tell a killer by his eyes, then it’s that fellow over there…”
“Do you think so?” she asked, somewhat intrigued by the quiet stranger.
“Without a doubt.”
“Who is he?”
“Who is anybody here?” St. John-Smyth shrugged nonchalantly. “I mean, the two Americans are obvious. Both men are professional hunters. But why the Australian? He’s a multi-millionaire. A hundred thousand is nothing to him. The only reason he can be here is because of his chequered past. Everyone knows that he killed his wife and her toy-boy lover. His wife was a majority stakeholder in his business and upon her death her shares reverted to him, so talk about two birds with one stone…”
“It has to be the fact that he got away with murder,” Amber agreed. “What else could it be?”
“What else indeed…” St. John-Smyth concurred. “And then there’s me. Grainger is no fan of my stance on canned hunts. To be honest, I just found myself wanting to take the man’s money. That, and good old-fashioned curiosity.” He paused. “But what about you?”
“Me?”
“He certainly can’t be a fan of yours, Ms Byrne,” he chuckled. “Talk about keeping your enemies close…”
Chapter Eight
At eight o’clock Pierre Dupont rang the dinner gong. It was a theatrical touch that caught everybody’s attention. While Kowalski and Carlotta cheered, Bruce Corrigan seemed perplexed. St. John-Smyth looked as if it was a daily occurrence in his home, but Amber noticed how the Scotsman had reacted and was intrigued. His hand had slipped inside his scuffed leather jacket, and he had checked the exits, before casually retracting his hand and eyeing everyone else in the room. For a second their eyes had met, and she had felt her heartbeat raise slightly. He was certainly a handsome man, but there was a raw, wild quality about him. Animalistic, predatory. St. John-Smyth was probably onto something about the unknown guest, but at the same time she did not feel threatened, merely intrigued.
The two Americans pushed in front of Amber like there were only two more places for an all-you-can-eat buffet. Bruce Corrigan eyed her cleavage and stood back to attain a better view of her rear. She declined, but when St. John-Smyth gestured her ahead of him, she accepted and followed the other three men into the dining room. She did not have to wait and see to know that the Scottish man would have followed last.
The dining room was lined in oak panelling with chequered parquet flooring. Again, as in the lounge and bar, animal heads lined the walls and were interspersed with black and white photographs of colonial Africa. Many of the pictures showed railways being built and bridges being constructed. The photographs depicted an era of conquest and pioneers in a wild and hostile environment. Much is made of America’s Wild West and before that the early settlers of the Americas, but Africa had found a home for the brave and adventurous long before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. When the first white settlers came to Africa’s shores they were met by unimaginable and dangerous animals, and hostile tribes and clans who would defend their homes at any cost. It is long been said that Africa’s soil is red because of the blood spilt over millennia.
Amber turned her attention to the exquisitely laid table. There was no tablecloth, as it would have masked the wood’s wonderful lustre. She imagined it was walnut, given the burrs and whirls under the glossy polish. Each place setting had been laid table d’hôte, with the soup spoons on the right, then fish knife and fork and finally a large knife and fork inside with dessert spoon and fork at twelve o’clock. There was a side plate to the left with a butter knife and to the right; wine, champagne, and water glasses. A thick linen napkin had been folded into a swan and rested in the middle of each place setting.
“Good luck with the colonials…” St. John-Smyth whispered to her as he took the chair to her right. “It’ll be a struggle with so many implements to choose from. No cheeseburgers or Vegemite sandwiches tonight…” She found herself smiling, despite having nothing in common with the man. He was, somewhat annoyingly to her, quite a likeable character. She watched as Pierre Dupont steered Dwight Carlotta away from the chair at the head of the table and to one of the three chairs on either side. “Not unlike the old public-school joke,” he smiled.
“Which is?” Amber frowned.
“A Wykehamist, a Harrovian and an Etonian are at a party when a woman enters the room. The Wykehamist offers her a chair, the Harrovian fetches one, and the Etonian sits in it…” He paused. “Only, I’m not sure of the redneck equivalent. I’m a Wykehamist, myself.”
“You went to school in Wykeham?”
“Oh, Lord no! Winchester College, founded by William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester and founder of Winchester College.” He paused. “We Wykehamists may not thrive in politics like the Etonians and Harrovians, but you can count on us to know which cutlery to use and offer our seat to an old lady on a bus…” he laughed.
“If I were you, I’d probably keep that joke to myself. I’m not sure anyone else in this room would understand it.” She paused. “Even with the explanation.”
“Indeed.” He looked up and said, “Ah, here we go, we finally get to meet our illustrious host…”
Carl Grainger entered the room confidently, dressed for dinner just as William St. John-Smyth had, in a tuxedo worn in a manner of comfortable familiarity. He nodded at the Englishman approvingly when he noticed the man’s dress, then took to the head of the table. He was a tall man, at least six-four, and slender, although his shoulders were broad and there was a disparity between his waist and chest, indicating that he was in good physical shape.
“Good evening,” he said eloquently. “Thank you, for graciously accepting my invitation. He surveyed the room, his stare faltering on the Scotsman before regaining composure. Amber found his expression curious, but before she could read more into it, Grainger took in the rest of his guests and snapped his fingers to summon Pierre Dupont. The two men whispered conspiratorially for a moment, then Dupont left as three young, black waitresses bustled in and placed bowls of soup in front of the guests. A fourth deposited bread rolls using a pair of silver tongs. They were dressed in old fashioned black dresses with white pinafores. Amber frowned, the traditional uniforms looking a little too colonial for her liking, making the women look like they were extras in a television period drama.
“A simple broth made from a stock using the bones of impala and a smattering of springbok biltong and dried mushrooms,” Dupont announced. “For Ms Byrne, who I understand is a vegetarian, chef has used a dried vegetable stock with a confit of tomatoes and candied basil…”
“Our chef is from Paris and held two Michelin stars in his last restaurant. I have high hopes for my new venture…” Grainger added, picking up his spoon.
“Which is?” Amber Byrne heard herself saying.
Grainger stared at her for an awkward moment and said, “All in good time, my dear…”
The man’s reply was both condescending and cold, but she imagined that only St. John-Smyth would have picked up on it. She turned back to her soup, which was clear and aromatic. To her annoyance it tasted superb. “How’s the soup?” she asked St. John-Smyth. Bone broth was the latest health fad, and she had written several articles on the trend for Health & Fitness Magazine, despite never sampling it.
“Gamey and rich, and the spiced biltong adds a wonderful bite to what is effectively a consommé.” St. John-Smyth paused to take another measured mouthful. “The dried mushrooms adds a slightly pungent, earthy taste, not unlike truffle. I must say, I am thoroughly impressed.”
