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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Rage
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‘We will have to call you “Owly Wet Sheets”,' he suggested, and as usual Michael came to his brother's defence.
‘Owls are wise,' he pointed out reasonably. ‘That's why Garry came top in his class this term. Where did you come in yours, Sean?' and Sean glared at him wordlessly. Michael always had a mild but stinging retort.
‘All right, gentlemen.' Shasa returned to his newspaper. ‘No bloodshed at the breakfast table, please.'
Isabella had been out of the limelight for long enough. Her father had given far too much of his attention to her brothers, and she hadn't yet received her dues. Her father had arrived home late the previous evening, long after she was in bed, and the traditional ceremony of home-coming had not been fully enacted. Certainly he had kissed and pampered her and told her how beautiful she was, but one vital aspect had been neglected, and though she knew it was bad manners to ask, she had contained herself long enough.
‘Didn't you even bwing me a pwesent?' she piped, and Shasa lowered his newspaper again.
‘A pwesent? Now what on earth is a pwesent?'
‘Don't be a silly-billy, Daddy – you know what it is.'
‘Bella, you know you mustn't beg for presents,' Tara chided.
‘If I don't tell him, Daddy might just forget,' Isabella
pointed out reasonably, and made her special angel face at Shasa.
‘My goodness gracious me.' Shasa snapped his fingers. ‘I did almost forget!' And Isabella hopped her lace-clad bottom up and down on her high stool with excitement.
‘You did! You did bring me one!'
‘Finish your porridge first,' Tara insisted, and Isabella's spoon clanked industriously on china as she devoured the last of it and scraped the plate clean.
They all trooped though from the breakfast room to Shasa's study.
‘I'm the likklest one. I get my pwesent first.' Isabella made up the rules of life as she went along.
‘All right, likklest one. Step to the front of the line, please.'
Her face a masterpiece of concentration, Isabella stripped away the wrappings from her gift.
‘A doll!' she squeaked and showered kisses upon its bland china face. ‘Her name is Oleander, and I love her already.' Isabella was the owner of what was probably one of the world's definitive collections of dolls, but all additions were rapturously received.
When Sean and Garry were handed their long packages, they went still with awe. They knew what they were – they had both of them pleaded long and eloquently for this moment and now that it had arrived, they were reluctant to touch their gifts in case they disappeared in a puff of smoke. Michael hid his disappointment bravely; he had hoped for a book, so secretly he empathized with his mother when she cried with exasperation, ‘Oh, Shasa, you haven't given them guns?'
All three rifles were identical. They were Winchester repeaters in .22 calibre, light enough for the boys to handle.
‘This is the best present anybody ever gave me.' Sean lifted his weapon out of the cardboard box and stroked the walnut stock lovingly.
‘Me too.' Garrick still couldn't bring himself to touch his. He knelt over the open package in the middle of the study floor, staring raptly at the weapon it contained.
‘It's super, Dad,' said Michael, holding his rifle awkwardly and his smile was unconvincing.
‘Don't use that word, Mickey,' Tara snapped. ‘It's so American and vulgar.' But she was angry with Shasa, not Michael.
‘Look.' Garry touched his rifle for the first time. ‘My name — it's got my own name on it.' He stroked the engraving on the barrel with his fingertip, then looked up at his father with myopic adoration.
‘I wish you'd brought them anything but guns,' Tara burst out. ‘I asked you not to, Shasa. I hate them.'
‘Well, my dear, they must have rifles if they are coming on a hunting safari with me.'
‘A safari!' Sean shouted gleefully. ‘When?'
‘It's time you learned about the bush and the animals.' Shasa put his arm around Sean's shoulders. ‘You can't live in Africa without knowing the difference between a scaly anteater and a chacma baboon.'
Garry snatched up his new rifle and went to stand as close to his father's side as he could, so that Shasa could also put his other arm around his shoulders – if he wanted to. However, Shasa was talking to Sean.
‘We'll go up to the south-west in the June hols, take a couple of trucks from the H'ani Mine and drive through the desert until we reach the Okavango Swamps.'
‘Shasa, I don't know how you can teach your own children to kill those beautiful animals. I really don't understand it,' Tara said bitterly.
‘Hunting is a man's thing,' Shasa agreed. ‘You don't have to understand – you don't even have to watch.'
‘Can I come, Dad?' Garry asked diffidently, and Shasa glanced at him.
‘You'll have to polish up your new specs, so you can see
what you're shooting at.' Then he relented. ‘Of course you are coming, Garry,' and then he looked across at Michael, standing beside his mother. ‘What about you, Mickey? Are you interested?'
Michael glanced apologetically at his mother before he replied softly. ‘Gee, thanks Dad. It should be fun.'
‘Your enthusiasm is touching,' Shasa grunted and then, ‘Very well, gentlemen, all the rifles locked in the gun room, please. Nobody touches them again without my permission and my supervision. We'll have our first shooting practice this evening when I get back home.'
Shasa made a point of getting back to Weltevreden with two hours of daylight in hand, and he took the boys down to the range he had built over which to sight in his own hunting rifles. It was beyond the vineyards and far enough from the stables not to disturb the horses or any of the other livestock.
Sean, with the co-ordination of a born athlete, was a natural shot. The light rifle seemed immediately an extension of his body, and within minutes he had mastered the art of controlling his breathing and letting the shot squeeze away without effort. Michael was nearly as good, but his interest wasn't really in it and he lost concentration quickly.
Garry tried so hard that he was trembling, and his face was screwed up with effort. The hom-rimmed spectacles which Tara had fetched from the optician that morning kept sliding down his nose and misting over as he aimed, and it took ten shots for him finally to get one on the target.
‘You don't have to pull the trigger so hard, Garry.' Shasa told him with resignation. ‘It won't make the bullet go any further or any faster, I assure you.'
It was almost dark when the four of them got back to the house, and Shasa led them down to the gun room and showed them how to clean their weapons before locking them away.
‘Sean and Mickey are ready to have a crack at the
pigeons,' Shasa announced, as they trooped upstairs to change for dinner. ‘Garry, you will need a little more practice, a pigeon is more likely to die of old age than one of your bullets.'
Sean shouted with laughter. ‘Kill them with old age, Garry.'
Michael did not join in. He was imagining one of the lovely blue and pink rock pigeons that nested on the ledge outside his bedroom window, dying in a drift of loose feathers, splattering ruby drops as it fluttered to earth. It made him feel physically sick, but he knew his father expected it of him.
That evening as usual the children came one at a time to say goodnight to Shasa as he was tying his black bow tie. Isabella was first.
‘I'm not going to sleep a wink until you come home tonight, Daddy,' she warned him. ‘I'm just going to lie all by myself in the dark.'
Sean came next. ‘You are the best dad in the world,' he said as they shook hands. Kissing was for sissies.
‘Will you let me have that in writing?' Shasa asked solemnly.
It was Michael who was always the most difficult to answer. ‘Dad, do animals and birds hurt a lot when you shoot them?'
‘Not if you learn to shoot straight,' Shasa assured him. ‘But, Mickey, you have too much imagination. You can't go through life worrying about animals and other people all the time.'
‘Why not, Dad?' Michael asked softly, and Shasa glanced at his wristwatch to cover his exasperation.
‘We have to be at Kelvin Grove by eight. Do you mind if we go into that some other time, Mickey?'
Garrick came last. He stood shyly in the doorway of Shasa's dressing-room, but his voice shook with determination as he announced, ‘I'm going to learn to be a crack
shot, like Sean. You'll be proud of me one day, Dad. I promise you.'
Garrick left his parents' wing and crossed to the nursery. Nanny stopped him at Isabella's door.
‘She's asleep already, Master Garry.'
In Michael's room they discussed the promised safari, but Mickey's attention kept wandering back to the book in his hands, and after a few minutes Garry left him to it.
He looked into Sean's room cautiously, ready to take flight if his elder brother showed any signs of becoming playful. One of Sean's favourite expressions of fraternal affection was known as a chestnut and consisted of a painful knuckling of Garry's prominent ribcage. However, this evening Sean was hanging backwards over his bed, heels propped on the wall and the back of his head almost touching the floor, a Superman comic book held at arm's length above his face.
‘Goodnight, Sean,' Garry said.
‘Shazam!' said Sean without lowering the comic book.
Garrick retreated thankfully to his own room and locked the door. Then he went to stand before the mirror and regard the reflection of his new hom-rimmed spectacles.
‘I hate them,' he whispered bitterly, and when he removed them they left red indentations on the bridge of his nose. He went down on his knees, removed the skirting board under the built-in wardrobe and reached into the secret recess beyond. Nobody, not even Sean, had discovered this hiding place.
Carefully he withdrew the precious package. It had cost him eight weeks of his accumulated pocket money, but was worth every penny. It had arrived in a plain wrapper with a personal letter from Mr Charles Atlas himself. ‘Dear Garrick,' the letter had begun, and Garry had been overcome with the great man's condescension.
He laid out the course on his bed and stripped to his pyjama pants as he revised the lessons.
‘Dynamic tension,' he whispered aloud, and he took up .his stance before the mirror. As he began the sequence of exercises he kept time with the soft chant of, ‘More and more in every way, I'm getting better every day.'
When he finished he was sweating heavily but he made an arm and studied it minutely.
‘They
are
bigger,' he tried to put aside his doubts as he poked the little walnut of muscle that popped out of his straining biceps, ‘they really are!'
He stowed the course back in its hidey-hole and replaced the skirting board. Then he took his raincoat from the wardrobe and spread it on the bare boards.
Garrick had read with admiration how Frederick Selous, the famous African hunter, had toughened himself as a boy by sleeping uncovered on the floor in winter. He switched out the light and settled down on the raincoat. It was going to be a long uncomfortable night, he knew from experience, already the floor boards were like iron, but the raincoat would prevent Sean detecting any nocturnal spillage when he made his morning inspection, and Garrick was certain that his asthma had improved since he had stopped sleeping on a soft mattress with a warm eiderdown over him.
‘I'm getting better every day,' he whispered, closing his eyes tightly and willing himself to ignore the cold and the hardness of the floor. ‘And then one day Dad will be proud of me – just like he is of Sean.'
‘I
thought your speech this evening was very good, even for you,' Tara told him, and Shasa glanced at her with surprise. She had not paid him a compliment for a long time now.
‘Thank you, my dear.'
‘I sometimes forget what a gifted person you are,' she went on. ‘It's just that you make it seem so easy and
natural.' He was so moved that he might have reached across to caress her, but she was leaning away from him and the Hooper coachwork of the Rolls was too wide for him to reach her.
‘I must say, you look absolutely stunning this evening,' he compromised with a matching compliment, but as he had expected, she dismissed it with a grimace.
‘Are you really going to take the boys on safari?'
‘My dear, we have to let them make up their own minds about life. Sean will love it, but I'm not too sure about Mickey,' Shasa replied, and she noticed that he hadn't mentioned Garrick.
‘Well, if you are determined, then I'm going to take advantage of the boys' absence. I have been invited to join the archaeological dig at the Sundi Caves.'
‘But you are a novice,' he was surprised. ‘That's an important site. Why would they invite you?'
‘Because I offered to contribute two thousand pounds to the cost of the dig, that's why.'
‘I see, this is straight blackmail.' He chuckled sardonically as he saw the reason for her flattery. ‘All right, it's a deal. I'll give you a cheque tomorrow. How long will you be away?'
‘I'm not sure.' But she thought, ‘As long as I can be close to Moses Gama.'
The site at Sundi Caves was only an hour's drive from the house at Rivonia. She reached under the fur coat and touched her stomach. It would begin to show soon – she had to find excuses to keep away from the eyes of the family. Her father and Shasa would not notice, she was sure of that, but Centaine de Thiry Courtney-Malcomess had eyes like a hawk.
‘I presume that my mother has agreed to care for Isabella while you are away,' Shasa was saying, and while she nodded, her heart was singing.
‘Moses, I'm coming back to you – both of us are coming back, to you, my darling.'

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