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Copyright Chris Muir 2014. All rights reserved.

. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Copyright Chris Muir 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PROLOGUE
AFRICA, 2005

ike most of the turning points in Jack Nortons African life, it started in a bar. Not a civilised bar in a civilised town with civilised people. Far from it. This particular establishment was more like something you might nd frequented by aliens at the other end of the universe. Perversely called Mothers, it was hidden away in Goma, in the North Kivu province of The Democratic Republic of the Congo, and was as far from the comfort of a mothers bosom as a human being could possibly get. Mothers survived in the shadow of never-ending wars and an active volcano, which regularly buried the town under toxic sulphur clouds and, from time to time, a river of molten lava. Running off Gomas black pitch main street ran a maze of alleyways and it was down one of those that Mothers prospered while the rest of Africa starved.

Copyright Chris Muir 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

CHRIS MUIR

Never has there been a stranger menagerie of mists, parasites and battle-scarred monsters gathered together in one place. They all wore guns, most many, and nearly everyone was accompanied by a mongrel hunting dog or two. But more than anything else, it was the personal habits of these social pariahs that made even tough men squirm. At the benign end of the scale Jack liked to chew plastic drinking straws and spit the remains at anyone passing by, while other more peaceful souls were content to sit quietly and pick their teeth clean with hunting knives. However, at the malignant end of the scale, there were men who could be truly terrifying. The most bizarre of them all was a man who claimed to be a Sudanese prince and wore a necklace made from a hundred dried human ears. Hed been born with a mutated gene that meant he felt no pain, so he also decorated himself with a gaggle of sharpened barbedwire rings, bracelets and amulets. His face and ears sported no fewer than sixty piercings of bone, ebony and silver. More often than not, he also wore two Sudanese Kaskara swords, but instead of leather scabbards, they were sheathed in hardened skin between his hip bones and bottom ribs. Through a door behind the bar, Mothers Barbecue House looked more like a massacre of endangered species than a restaurant. Hanging from rough-hewn wooden rails, or bleeding out onto the dirt oor from tree trunk chopping blocks, were haunches of yellow-backed duikers, almost extinct forest rhino, forequarters of rare Okapi, sometimes called the African Unicorn, and often, the

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

remains of a baby bush elephant. Amid it all, bloodsplattered butchers used machetes to cleave limbs from carcasses, and nimble-ngered boys with razor-sharp skinning knives prepared the portions for cooking over the huge barbecue pit that operated 24/7. Mothers, and its collection of oddities, was just one of many such places dotted around Africa where agents of warlords came to recruit men with hatred in their veins and nowhere else to go but another war. It, and places like it, attracted the dregs of humanity. One of them was a man called Miles McFarlane, who claimed to be an English journalist. He drank too much, told the truth too little, and always promised more than he could deliver. But for all his nuisance value, McFarlane was sometimes useful. If someone needed to get a message to a wanted man, nd out where their loved one was, or if they were already dead, he was a walking encyclopedia of Africas bad guys. After one too many cheap whiskies, McFarlane had persuaded Jack to use a borrowed helicopter to evacuate some injured children from the war-torn town of Sasha to a small hospital that Mdecins Sans Frontires operated in Kirotshe, eighty kilometres south-west of Mothers. McFarlanes addled mind assumed that if he could arrange this favour for Sophie Boissieux, the attractive, thirty-something French doctor who worked at the hospital, she might return the favour with her affections. McFarlane got Jack just drunk enough to believe that he might share in the imagined carnal spoils. Jack had no way of knowing that short trip would change his

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CHRIS MUIR

life and, one year later, the destiny of a whole country would rest on his shoulders. A lost soul from Lubbock, Texas, who the world long ago decided had no future.

Copyright Chris Muir 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Chapter 1

y the time Jack arrived at the hospital in Kirotshe the equatorial sun was roasting the stink of open drains, dead rats and human waste that mixed with motor-scooter exhaust fumes and smoke from a thousand cooking res. But even with that rancid olfactory stew simmering, it was the stench of imminent war that landed a body-blow on Jack that day. It was in the wind and hed smelt it too many times not to recognise that Kirotshes days as a war virgin were numbered. After he had delivered the sick children to the hospital he was informed that Dr Boissieux was up-country with the hospitals mobile clinic and wouldnt be back until later that morning. He didnt really care. He just gured that McFarlane had been lying, like he always did. He shrugged and headed back towards the helicopter where he paid the men that hed hired to guard it and was about to climb in when he stopped. On the edge of the clearing, a group of children were playing with a single yellow balloon. They wore shredded clothes, had no shoes and probably no idea where their next meal was coming from. Nevertheless,

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CHRIS MUIR

each time that balloon bounced and oated from one to the other, their eyes danced and their laughter lled the air. For some, the balloon bounced off stumps where their hands had once been, and others, from their scarred elbow joints. One small girl, about twelve or maybe thirteen, hobbled on a wooden peg. It had been fashioned from a tree branch into a shape that loosely resembled a leg and attached just below her hip and around her waist with straps made from plaited vines. At the bottom of her leg, half an empty Coca-Cola can had been nailed on to prevent it wearing away prematurely. Despite the girls shortage of functional limbs she chased that balloon with a hop, a step and a hobble like she didnt have a care in the world, and when it nally came to rest in her arms she hugged it and rested her dirty cheek on it tenderly. All the other children stopped and watched but before long they grew impatient. Throw it to me! yelled one, eventually. Jack watched, bemused, because in his twenty years of wandering around Africa he was more used to seeing children lugging rewood or water or hitched up to a makeshift plough than watching them laugh and play. An unaccustomed smile creased his face while, at a distance, a woman got out of a four-wheel drive and wondered who the handsome stranger watching the children might be. Come on. Throw it to me! called the child again, but the girl with the tree-stump leg just held the balloon against her emerging bosom and looked at her friends as if theyd asked her to give up her good leg.

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

Throw me the balloon, called a second boy, and then suddenly there was another voice behind Jack. I believe that you have you been looking for me, said a sweet French accent. The woman was tall, wore hiking boots and a faded khaki shirt tucked into matching trousers, and around her neck a black and white Moroccan scarf gave her a casual but elegant look. Her long blonde hair was held up at the back with what looked like two chopsticks and y-away wisps of hair criss-crossed her suntanned cheeks. A pair of aviator-style sunglasses sat atop her head. Dr Boissieux? But of course. I thought that you were away up-country. I have just returned. You must be Miles McFarlanes friend, oui? Oui, I mean, yes. He said to say howdy, replied Jack, in his broad Texas drawl. Howdy? Bon-jewer, explained Jack, destroying the only French word that he knew. Ah, oui. You tell him howdy from me too, and you also tell him one more time that no matter how many favours that he does for me, that the answer is still no. Excuse me, maam? He wants to get into my pants. No doubt he has told you this thing. Of course, he tells everyone. Soon all of Africa will think that I am some cheap whore. Merde. He didnt tell me. And who are you?

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CHRIS MUIR

Norton. Jack Norton. Jacques? Jack, he corrected. Thats what I said. Jack laughed awkwardly but didnt correct her, even though hed already run out of things to say. He just stood there moving his weight from foot to foot, folding and unfolding his arms the way that a nervous man might. With no further discussion forthcoming, he stepped away from Sophie and nudged the mud underfoot with his boot. It wasnt that he didnt want to talk to her, Jack just didnt get much practice talking to women in his line of work, let alone attractive women like Sophie Boissieux. The fact was, if the geography of distant wars didnt make him remote, then his brooding, almost melancholy nature most certainly did. To most people, he always looked as if hed lost something and couldnt nd it. Nevertheless, with a good dose of umming and ahhing he nally managed to conjure up the makings of a conversation. What, ah, what brings you to, ah, Africa? Guilt, said Sophie, without even thinking. What do you mean by guilt? I have so much and they . . . she frowned, gesturing towards the children, have so little. Its the way of the world, said Jack, perhaps a little too casually. He could tell by the instant scowl on the doctors face that his answer wasnt to her liking. Perhaps thats the problem, Monsieur Nor-ton?

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

I learnt a long time ago that one man, or one woman, will never solve the problems of Africa. There are just too many of them and they go way too deep. Perhaps thats the problem. Perhaps if the world opened their eyes, maybe theyd see a solution. I think that horse has bolted. Horse? What do you mean, horse? It means, I think that its probably a bit too late for that. Its too late when God says so, Monsieur Nor-ton, and not before. What do you hope to achieve here? Today it will be more than I did yesterday, and less than I will tomorrow. Its very noble, but not very realistic. The world hides behind a wall of apathy and I think that Africa has been, how do you say it . . . it has been swept under the rug. I think Africa may have been holding its own broom. Monsieur Nor-ton, Im afraid that your riddles are much too clever for me. Jack scowled. He wasnt annoyed with the doctor, though he could see that she thought he was. It was Africa, and what itd done to itself, that always disappointed him. How long have you been here? he asked. Six months. That gures. What do you mean, gures? she asked, clearly miffed. If youd been here any longer youd have given up by now. Youre about due.

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CHRIS MUIR

And how long have you been here? Damn near on twenty years. And you, Monsieur Nor-ton, have you been here long enough to give up? That depends on what youre talking about. Africa, the Congo, all of it. Off to the right of Jacks helicopter the children were still playing with the yellow balloon, although the girl with the tree-branch leg had retired to draw letters of the alphabet in the dirt. Every few minutes shed stop, assess her handiwork, frown, check a piece of paper in her hand, scrub out the letters and start over again. You talk of these problems, yet youre still here. You cant help bad luck, I guess. It is not bad luck when you have a choice. Do I? Of course you do. Everyone has a choice. Maybe you need to understand Africa better. No, Monsieur Nor-ton, maybe I need to understand you better. Let me know if you work me out. Id like to know myself. You y the helicopters for all those . . . those pieces of shit who start the wars. Youre a mercenary, oui? Well yes, I suppose I am. Then youre part of it. I guess. Then you have a choice. And whats that? Good or evil, Monsieur Nor-ton. Sometimes the choices are very simple.

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

I came to Africa to do good and now, well . . . Sophies right eyebrow found a new home in the middle of her forehead. So now you do evil instead? Is that your excuse? You wouldnt understand. I understand death very well, Monsieur Nor-ton. You dont have a choice when it sleeps on your doorstep. Where will you go after here? he asked, retreating to what he thought might be a more manageable conversation. Wherever my organisation sends me. Pourquoi? Why? Jack couldnt help but be pessimistic. Itll all be the same wherever you go. Africas own apathy and the way the world treated the Dark Continent had been a disappointment for him ever since hed arrived, and as the years rolled by it had only got worse. As far as Jack was concerned the world seemed happy to nance programs to stop poachers from wiping out white rhinos and mountain gorillas but when it came to getting rid of the poachers who were destroying herds of humans at an alarming rate, the world was deaf, dumb and blind. Jack had spent years wondering why generations of Africans had come to rely on global charity when what they really needed was a ground up, grassroots solution that would give the continent the chance to start all over again, to be self-sufcient and to stop suckling at the nipple of international aid. Far from saving Africa, he believed that aid had become Africas curse simply because generation after generation of Somalis, Sudanese, Ugandans, Ethiopians, Congolese, Nigerians, and so many others, had come to

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CHRIS MUIR

believe that food grows on trucks and is fought over in the dust at the back of them. That was all they ever knew and all they ever expected, so in the end, no matter how many shiploads or planeloads of food or medical supplies arrived, Jack knew that it would never be enough to climb Africas mountains of hunger and disease. Infrastructure investment and economic growth was required but that wasnt going to happen while tyrants ruled the roost. A new era of leaders, more noble men and women, was needed before anything could happen. The contradiction of Jack Norton was that he had made his living working on the dark side of hope for over twenty years. The problems may be the same all over Africa, monsieur, but as they say, the triumph of evil is when good men or women do nothing. So Ill do what I can and wherever I go Ill do the same things that Im doing here. And whats that? As much as possible, Monsieur Nor-ton. Tell me something . . . Only if you stop calling me Monsieur Norton, smiled Jack. Did you think that by bringing the sick children to me that you would how do you say it get lucky? Is that what you thought? Is that what your friend Miles McFarlane told you? No, of course not. Good, then maybe we can have something to eat and you can tell me why you love to hate Africa so much without worrying about if youll try and coax me into my tent.

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

Im nothing like that two-bit journalist. Oui, I have noticed. When he lies, he blushes. At least you have the good sense not to do that.

There was something about Jack that appealed to women. He wasnt what youd call handsome and on most days he looked like an unmade bed, nevertheless, there was a certain charm about a great hulk of a man being shy that made women take a step towards him rather than away. Sophie Boissieux was no exception. To a skilled observer her body language announced that there was an attraction. But the inquisitive tilt of her head said that she was confused by it, that the man in front of her was a contradiction. After all, Jack was a hard mans man, a mercenary who ew helicopter gunships for a living, but whod stopped to watch children play with a balloon. He was also the man whod brought the sick children to her and Sophie knew that a man with no heart and no soul would have been too busy chasing whores on his day off to do anything like that. Her interest was piqued, although she remained wary. I have some food left over from my trip. Its in my truck. Your friend, Miles, he borrowed this helicopter from someone. Im not sure that I can stay. I have to get it back. I have some whisky, replied Sophie, by way of persuasion. My father sends it to me. For some reason he thinks that everyone in Africa drinks whisky. Maybe hes watched The African Queen too many times?

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CHRIS MUIR

Ah yes. Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn. Perhaps he has, laughed Sophie. Come. You must be hungry. I guess. Jack was already sliding the door of his helicopter closed, locking it shut and reinstating the guards. As Jack followed Sophie towards her 4 4 she tried to engage him in conversation, but he was happy to let her do all the talking and silently slip-stream in the wake of her perfume. It was a fragrance he knew he wouldnt forget because Jack had never met anyone quite like the French doctor. Of course, he could have been seduced by the soft lilt of her accent, but that wasnt it. It was something much more, something that Jack didnt understand. From the moment hed seen her, Sophie had cast a mysterious spell over him, made him nervous and apprehensive, made him sweat and made his mouth go dry. Shed even made him choose his words more carefully than his blunt manner normally allowed. As Jack tried to reconcile just what made him feel that way he realised that Sophie reminded him of the good man that he once was, the man whod originally come to Africa to do good. It was a fading memory. As they settled in on the tailgate of Sophies battered four-wheel drive, she reached into a backpack and shed around, before pulling out a compact satellite phone. My papa lives in Marseille. He makes me carry this stupid thing wherever I go. He says itll save my life one day, but I only use it to call him when Im out of whisky.

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

Technology can come in very handy sometimes, smiled Jack. Ah, heres what Im after. She retrieved a half-nished bottle of Johnnie Walker. There are some glasses in the glove compartment. Can you get them for me? Jack and Sophie sipped their whisky while the sun slowly sank towards the horizon turning white clouds into hues of pink, purple and orange. Eventually, somewhere off towards Angola, the great ball of orange disappeared and with it the sunset light show. Within seconds Sophie and Jack were surrounded by night noises; crickets chirped, mosquitoes buzzed, a womans distant voice scolded naughty children and the shrieks of night animals came echoing out of the surrounding jungle. Sophie reached into the back of her 4 4, pulled out a hurricane lamp and lit it. When she did, the lamps light threw a delicate glow over the side of her face. Jack watched her trans xed and for a moment he forgot to breathe. She caught him staring and he looked away, embarrassed. Sometimes its so peaceful here at night, she said quietly. Night is the enemy of peace in most places that Ive been. Its when the worst things happen. Its as if people think that the dark will hide what they do. But the sun always comes up, doesnt it, Jacques? With all the bad stuff that goes on in this country, sometimes I wonder if it will. Jack thought for a moment, sipped his whisky again and then spoke.

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CHRIS MUIR

I was you once. I came to Africa thinking that I could do some good, but I soon found out that Africa eats idealists. You watch, one day youll wake up and your eyes will be open, truly open. Youll see the ruins of Africa, and what it has done to itself, before you see the amazing blue sky above it. Youll see misery before you see hope and youll realise that part of you is dead, or at least missing. Youll hate Africa for that, and youll hate yourself for being sucked in, but by then itll be too late because youll be like a snake in a pipe. A snake in a pipe? Yes, a snake cant go backwards. Thatll be you, youll have to try to go forwards youll have no choice but you wont be able to. Africa will beat you. It does that. While Jack spoke, the light of the hurricane lamp lit a peculiar kind of sadness in Sophies expression. She waited for him to nish speaking and when he had, only the sounds of the forest wafted over the silence that sat between them. When it became too uncomfortable, she gently touched Jacks forearm. Jacques, I have only known you for a few hours, so perhaps I have no right to speak, but perhaps it is you that you have given up on, not Africa. It was Jacks turn to fall silent. Deep down he knew that she was right; shed said out loud what he hadnt even dared to whisper to himself. He was about to reply with some kind of glib deection when he remembered what had stopped him as he was about to board his helicopter that afternoon. After a moment staring at the dregs in his whisky glass, he turned back to Sophie.

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

They all seemed so happy, considering what theyve been through. Do you mean the refugee children today? Yes. They do not know happy, Jacques. They only know a lighter shade of sad that they think might be called happy. The balloon, its such a simple thing. Where did they get it from all the way out here? he asked softly. Who gave it to them? Moi. You? Why? To make them less sad of course. She wouldnt give it back, replied Jack, remembering the young girl with the tree branch leg. Ah, thats a very sad story, Im afraid. Her name is Jolie and her family, all fteen of them, they were slaughtered by militia soldiers. Now she dreams of a simple home where she can sleep peacefully, where there isnt any war, where she can be part of a community; make a difference. She wants to be a doctor so she can help her people; so that more can survive like she did. It was a miracle, but somehow she did. Do you think that shell ever be a doctor? asked Jack. Is that kind of training possible out here? Shes very clever but she wont learn very much if she stays. The schools are . . . What happened to her leg? A militia leader. He was a one-legged man, lost it to a landmine, so now he only rapes one-legged girls. So shes always only had one leg?

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CHRIS MUIR

Sophie cast Jack a withering sideways look which, even in the dark, carried enough venom to slay a hundred men. No, Monsieur Nor-ton. That bastard, he cut off the opposite leg to his so that he could rape her more easily, so that he could get at her ten-year-old vagina more easily with that addled brain and balls that he carries beside his remaining leg. He did it so that he could slide on her blood, so that shed be no more than he was and so he could feel like a man. She spat out the last words into the mud. Jack swallowed hard and looked away. Sophie said nothing and waited for Jack to turn back to her, but he didnt. How could someone do that? he nally asked, still looking in the opposite direction. I could ask you the same question. Maybe youre up in the sky and you dont see what happens on the ground. Perhaps you bring the men that do these terrible things. How many legs have you and your helicopters been responsible for, Monsieur Nor-ton? How much blood do you drown in when you sleep? The doctors verbal bullet took a moment to gather velocity but when it did, it went straight through what was left of Jacks heart. He stood and walked away not knowing what to say because he knew that Sophie was right. Even though hed never actually done the killing or the looting or the raping, hed brought the men who had. Hed provided covering re when theyd met resistance, hed taken them away when they were done and hed laughed in the bar at Mothers while they boasted about their conquests, shown their body-part trophies,

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

recounted pleas for mercy and counted out their ill-gotten gains to buy a drink for the bar. Jack could only scratch his head nervously and sneak further out of the glow of Sophies lantern, hoping that he could hide his sins in the dark. Sophie sighed. You may be a snake in Africas pipe, Jacques, but I think that maybe youre a snake that also cares far more than he says. Maybe youre a snake who has made a few mistakes. Way too many. Ah, you see. If you were a truly bad man you wouldve said what mistakes? It was an appeasement that brought Jack back in a little closer and after a short hesitation he sat back down beside Sophie on the tailgate. Sophie took his hand, turned his palm upwards and studied it like it was a treasure map. As she spoke, she gently traced the outline of a heart on his palm. Your hand is very hard, but your heart, I think that it might be very soft. Perhaps it is too soft for a hard man like you to recognise? As the doctor stroked his hand, Jack felt the shiver of an electric shock rumble through him. His skin tingled, but Sophie seemed unaware of the effect that she was having on him. He wanted to pull his hand away, but instead let it linger, wondering what Sophie would say next. What will you do with your life after you leave here, Jacques? Do you care? It wasnt what he meant to say, but its what came out. That was probably because no one had ever really cared

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CHRIS MUIR

about Jack so he couldnt understand why this stranger would. Sophie moved a little closer and Jack could feel himself crumbling so he stood and moved away again. The real question is, do you care? asked Sophie. Im not so sure anymore. When was the last time that your heart danced, Jacques? Excuse me? When was the last time that there was joy in your heart? Its been a long time; maybe too long. The night was turning cold. Sophie shivered and Jack saw the faint ripple of discomfort so he removed his jacket and took a step back towards her. As he did, he tripped on an errant tree root and came to rest with a hand either side of Sophies legs and his nose buried in her cleavage. He froze for a moment and in that split second he inhaled the full scent of her. Jack looked up, his nose not six inches from hers, and straight into the jade green pools of her eyes. She smiled, embarrassed, but Jack didnt pull away. He lingered in the awkwardness because hed never wanted a woman so much in all his life. He wanted to take her in his arms. It took every ounce of his willpower not to try. Sophie saw his discomfort and laughed. Jacques, I thought that we had an agreement that this wouldnt end up in my tent. We did, we do, he stammered, nally standing to attention. You looked cold. I was just going to give you my jacket. I mustve tripped, he apologised.

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A SAVAGE GARDEN

Oh really? On what? A tree root. That one there, pointed Jack, trying to explain away his clumsiness. Do you have to be clumsy to be a helicopter pilot? But I . . . Its okay, Jacques. Im just teasing you. Jack grinned sheepishly and settled his jacket around Sophies shoulders. Merci. She smiled, gently touching his hand but letting her ngers linger just a little longer than they needed to. As the night wore on the whisky began to bite and they started to relax. Their conversation owed more freely and, strangely enough, seemed to have no boundaries. It was as if in their differences theyd each found a kindred spirit and could say whatever they wanted. When Jack felt the weight of his past sins, Sophie didnt judge him. Rather, she eased the pain from him and he reciprocated. It was a role that hed never played before but one which seemed to come naturally. Eventually Jack looked at his watch and was surprised that so much time had passed. He was even more surprised by what his new and unexpected condant had allowed him to be. Hed met a stranger that was him, but it was a version of him that hed known long ago, a version of the man whod come to Africa with such high hopes. Id better be going. Ive stayed longer than I should have already. Do you y after youve been drinking? I guess. Theres not really anyone to stop me, is there? What about militia troops?

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CHRIS MUIR

Im sure that theyre out there somewhere. Surely your navigation lights will attract them. Probably. Then stay until the morning. Jack didnt hear what Sophie had said. His mind was far away, remembering the man he once was; the man who thought that he could make a difference; who could ght the good ght for worthy causes, but fate intervened and it didnt take long for the sick underbelly of Africa to lure him in. Jacques? Yes. Im sorry. I was just thinking about something. What did you say? I said, would you like to stay in the tent next to mine tonight? Dr Schwartzer has gone to Kigali for supplies. Im sure that he wont mind if you use it.

The tent was hot and stuffy so Jack kicked away his sleeping bag and pulled off his T-shirt. As he lay there, his mind buzzed. How many legs have you been responsible for? He couldnt get that, and many of the other things that Sophie had said, out of his mind. In fact, like her words, Sophie had taken up residence in Jacks thoughts and refused to budge. He kept thinking about her eyes and how theyd ashed different shades of green in the lamplight. He inhaled the memory of her perfume and exhaled as the close encounter with the curve of her breasts came rushing back to him. He remembered the doctors gentle touch and how hed forgotten to breathe when shed

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Copyright Chris Muir 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A SAVAGE GARDEN

drawn a heart in the palm of his hand, but all of those memories made him restless. He punched Dr Schwartzers anorexic pillow and rolled over again and again, looking for a more comfortable position. There was none because the erotic carnival playing in his mind had sentenced him to interminable insomnia. No, stop, he nally groaned. Okay, if thats what you want, replied a voice in the darkness. Jack rolled over and when he looked up, the full moon illuminated Sophies silhouette. Neither said a word while Jack leaned over and turned up the wick on a lantern. Sophie raised an inquiring eyebrow and smiled. Out of the forest came the mournful cry of a grey parrot. It seemed to be mocking them, mimicking what they were both thinking. What now? What now? it seemed to be saying.

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