The Hunters. Kat Gordon

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      Beads of sweat gathered along my hairline. I didn’t like to think about that afternoon, or the boy – Mark Hennessey – who’d followed me around all year, tripping me up, taunting me. Once he’d made me drink water from the toilet bowl. After the fight, none of the boys would look me in the eye, even the few friends I had. It didn’t matter that he’d had me cornered, or that all boys fought. I’d gone too far. I’d been happy when the headmaster had suspended me.

      I wondered if I was going to be sick again. ‘Can I go to bed now?’ I asked.

      My mother drew back her hand and hit me across the face. At the last moment I turned so it caught the side of my head, and the jolt seemed to go right through to my brain. I looked at her in time to see her hand fly towards me again and this time I caught it and held it tight, digging my fingers into her wrist.

      ‘Don’t,’ I said.

      Her face was just below mine, her eyes wide open. Both of us were breathing heavily. I wondered if another guest, looking out of their bedroom, would think we were about to kiss.

      I let her go and she stayed exactly where she was, arms hanging loosely at her sides now. A few strands of hair had escaped her plait and formed a copper haze around her face. I wanted to apologise, or laugh it off, but the longer the silence went on, the more tongue-tied I became.

      ‘I’m going to bed,’ I said, eventually.

      ‘No, it’s not too late,’ she said. I thought she must be talking to herself because I didn’t understand her words, or her voice – gentle, and sad and flat. She hesitated, then reached past me and opened my bedroom door.

      I went through it and shut it behind me. My head was thumping and my body felt clumsy with shock. I thought Maud was asleep, but as I slipped under my bedsheets she rolled over.

      ‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said.

       Chapter Five

      Nairobi train station seemed familiar, ordinary even, the second time around. I’d been feeling the effects of my drinking for the last few days, staying in our bedroom with the blinds closed while Maud read quietly nearby. Now, the first thing I did when we entered our carriage was throw the window open.

      ‘Watch out for the mosquitoes,’ my mother said, but nothing more. She’d barely spoken to me since the night of the races, although once or twice I’d caught her looking at me with a new, almost uneasy expression. I didn’t know what she’d told my father, but it must have placated him, because he hadn’t mentioned my absence, and I wondered why she’d protected me, or if she was just holding it over me until I did something else.

      ‘Let’s hope the good weather holds,’ my father said, as we settled ourselves.

      I hoped so too – I knew from reading up about it that Lake Naivasha was called after the Maasai word for rough waters.

      I leaned my head against the back of my seat and dozed off. It was fifty-four miles from Nairobi to Naivasha, over three hours by train. Occasionally voices broke through – Maud asking questions, my father pointing out towns – but I woke properly only as we were sliding into our station. My father folded his newspaper and bounded up, beaming.

      ‘Here we are,’ he said.

      Ramsay, the man my father had hired to build our new home, was late, pulling up in a dusty Buick a long time after the train had left us behind on the station platform. He was a small, squat man with a Scottish burr, and a glass eye.

      ‘We expected you an hour ago,’ my father said, frowning at him.

      ‘You’re on Africa time now,’ Ramsay said. He picked up our suitcases and tossed them into the back seat as if they were made of air. ‘The bairns will have to walk. It’s only a few miles.’

      There was a moment of silence.

      ‘Well –’ my father said, doubtfully, but Ramsay was already laughing to himself.

      ‘Just a wee joke,’ he said. ‘They can sit on the luggage at the back.’

      We clambered on top of the suitcases, almost slipping off when the engine started with a jolt, and travelled like that for the few miles to our new home.

      Naivasha was much smaller than Nairobi. The main street was only a few shops long, and they were all shuttered. The surface of the road was even more pitted, and I held Maud’s hand tightly as the car bounced along. No one was out on the road, although occasionally we saw lights in windows, figures moving through rooms on their way to the dinner table, or to gather around the wireless, check the baby was sleeping.

      It was fully dark when we turned off the road and onto a forested drive. The trees were tall and shapeless, muffling the sounds around us. Maud drew closer to me, and I squeezed her, thinking suddenly of the leopards I’d talked about on the first train journey. I thought I heard a soft snap, as if twigs were breaking under a heavy foot, and a low growl, and I was about to ask Ramsay if we could go faster but then the trees were thinning and we suddenly saw the lake spread out before us, glittering in the moonlight. Down by the water was a house, with a large garden sloping downwards to end in a jetty. Ramsay pulled to a stop ten feet from the veranda and we climbed out.

      ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Kiboko House.’

      ‘What does that mean?’ Maud asked.

      ‘Hippo House.’

      ‘It’s rather dark,’ my mother said.

      ‘I’ll find the lanterns,’ Ramsay said.

      While the adults huddled on the porch trying to work the lanterns, I picked my way down to the end of the jetty. Fireflies skimmed the water, lighting up the papyrus that grew thickly beneath the wooden planks, and blue water-lilies on the surface. A rowing boat was tied to one of the posts and bumped against it in a small wave when a dark shape rose out of the water a few yards from me, then quickly submerged again. I backed slowly away.

      ‘Theo?’ My mother’s voice floated down to me. ‘Where are you?’

      I turned to face the house. They’d lit the lanterns now and hung them on the porch. Beyond, everything was in darkest shadow, but the house itself was bathed in a flickering orange glow. It was a yellow-stone bungalow with tiled roof, like the houses I’d seen in Nairobi on Market Day. Remembering them led me to thoughts of Sylvie, and I wondered how far we were from her and Freddie at that moment.

      I walked back up to join the others as they rattled the key in the lock. Behind us, there was a splashing sound, and a chorus of frogs and ducks set up a complaint. Ramsay was chattering away about the area, pointing into the darkness.

      ‘The cleft over there, that’s known as Hell’s Gate,’ he said. ‘Red cliffs. And you’ll see Mount Longonot as soon as there’s any light. It’s a dormant volcano, over nine thousand feet high.’

      ‘Charming,’ my mother murmured.

      Maud was leaning against one of the pillars on the porch with her eyes closed. Her face was white.

      ‘Tired, Spanish?’

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