Guardian

The hot sun beat down on my naked back, browned from years of living on the high Kenyan veldt. Below me and as far out as the eye could see, dust devils stirred the dry plain. Their erratic wanderings only emphasised the oppressive heat that mirrored the air and sucked the moisture from what was then a lean, adolescent body. Around me, the parched, rock-strewn world seemed to hold its breath, glaring back in sullen silence at the brassy sky. Even the irritating buzz of fat, indolent blowflies no longer intruded as I tensed in single-minded concentration, all thought and emotion focused down into my squinting eyes and finger curled around the trigger. A moment of almost sexual intensity, of life and death being played out, as it had so often over the end of this particular rifle during my admittedly brief life of fewer than twenty years.

Mutuku, the universally respected and dignified old Kamba tracker, had taught me his art well and it remained a source of quiet pride that when this apprentice was stalking prey, they almost never knew I was there. The first most of them sensed of danger was the very last thing they knew, because I seldom missed. Slowly and quietly that day I had settled the oiled and carefully tended Lee Enfield .303 into my left shoulder, extended the rear sight to its full height and drawn a bead on the slow-moving stag still grazing nervously on the short dry grass of the Eldoret plain, about a hundred yards ahead and some fifty feet below. Beside me, my close friend Matt Cryer shifted uncomfortably on the hot granite as he waited for the hunt to be played out. Both our families would eat well in the coming days. You could count on it.

It would take only an imperceptible tightening of my forefinger on the carefully balanced hair trigger, That, and the act of bringing my breathing to a standstill, to make what I knew was going to be a difficult, falling shot. But I was good. And confident. So, breathing slowly and steadying the foresight, I zeroed in a little above and ahead of the point I wanted the bullet to strike. For me in such moments time always stood still, but I can clearly remember the unexpected shiver of remorse that day. Perhaps it was pity. At any rate, emotion stopped me for a full second, just long enough for my restless thoughts to fly back down the trail we had negotiated as we shadowed the wary animals.

Riding quietly, heads up and looking for the nervous creatures, which blended so easily into the background of thorny scrub, we had first spotted a small group of eland well ahead of our track, drifting between the scattered fever trees. Following at a distance, we had watched the elegant does, herded by a magnificent stag in the prime of life, as the group moved with unhurried grace, some feeding, some with heads up, always alert as they wandered towards one of the many rocky outcrops that disfigured the rolling grasslands. Eventually, just as we had hoped, a jagged tor introduced itself between us and them. Un-spooked, the herd had moved out of sight and, just as importantly, out of earshot. We had dismounted and left the horses tethered in a secluded donga
⁽¹⁾, its steep dry sides carved clean by the flash floods that occasionally plagued the land during the rainy seasons. Moving cautiously forward, we had begun the short scramble towards an ascent known universally as âCat Hill', an abrupt, sixty-foot pile of jumbled rock and grass, beloved by hyraxes and snakes alike. Cat Hill had been named for the local lion pride, which, since anyone could remember, had staked out the summit as a favoured platform for lazily surveying the passing banquet, often completely unnoticed by their intended prey. Lying within the protective screen of rocks, sheltered for much of the day from the worst of the oppressive sun, the pride could often be seen dropping down the steep sides to set out on a hunt shortly before dusk.

Now, however, lions were scarce and not just around Eldoret, the only town of note within a hundred miles. Their numbers had been decimated by the prolonged drought and a scarcity of suitable prey. Even in the nearby hills bordering the Great Rift Valley, the mass migration of animals towards more certain water sources had slowed to a trickle. So scarce had game become that lions hadn't been seen in the area for over a year. But, wary as ever, we automatically checked for signs as we approached the hill. Seeing nothing, we had made swift but careful progress up the rocky outcrop, screened from the eland.

Matt and I worked well together. Years of riding, shooting, comparing girlfriends, lampooning authority and generally creating mayhem meant we had grown as close as it was possible for any two hot-headed young men to get. He was the taller, already a shade over six feet and, given his father's towering and rangy physique, set to grow a few inches yet. Being by far the better-looking (“
yes, I admit it
”), he was also viewed with lustful eyes by the local virgins, but at nineteen and constrained under the social mores of post-war Kenyan society, anything more than a quick kiss and a clumsy grope behind a convenient bush had so far proved âmission impossible'. Except, I must confess, I was beginning to wonder. For once in his life Matt had been less than forthcoming and whereas the two of us had previously sniggered over any and every juvenile venture with girls, all seemed to have changed over the last few weeks. Ever since the stunningly beautiful Rosalind had stepped suddenly into our lives. Just five short weeks earlier â I had found myself counting the days â she had swung down onto the station platform and from that moment on, as far as any and every boy in town was concerned, she quite simply dominated Eldoret's skyline.

Once a day, as regular as clockwork, the old passenger train that had brought her could be heard from miles out on the plain. Its distinctive, lonely whistle heralding a distant presence on the long, laborious route from the East African coast, all the way to the northern end of the line at Kitale, nestled at the foot of Mount Elgon, a settlement hardly bigger than our home town of Eldoret. And every evening a motley band of weary travellers disgorged themselves almost reluctantly from the old world charm of the Victorian carriages onto Eldoret's one and only platform. Yet it was purely by chance we had been there that early December evening, just in time to catch the arrival of Ted and Vera Lescal, complete with their young son and the object of our immediate interest: Rosalind. Willowy, flaxen-haired and in the full bloom of young womanhood, she had lit up our immediate horizons in the way only a pretty girl can. Even as we stood staring with open admiration and rapt attention, I realised I was jealous; jealous of Matt's easy charm and more obvious attractions. Not that the girl had given either of us more than a passing glance, but the hormones that had been affecting us both lately needed little excuse to start jumping. All I knew was even then I couldn't look at Rosalind without my heart racing and my body responding with embarrassing tautness under, dare I mention, a pair of fashionably brief khaki shorts. And her simple presence had been the problem. Although I can't say I had been particularly aware of it until then, I had found myself in real male competition for the first time in my life because, from that moment on, Rosalind had, all unknowingly, stepped firmly between us.

Chapter 2

Suddenly alive to a lack of concentration, I shook my head slightly, intent on clearing my thoughts. I noticed Matt was looking at me oddly too, leaning slightly away, surprised at the delay as hesitation allowed the eland to drift ever further. It was hot enough to cook on the surrounding rocks and the sweat was already making my hands slippery, so once again I settled and, narrowing my eyes against the glare, sighted down the rifle and began to track the target in earnest.

The low, lingering snarl was almost conversational in its delivery. Barely rising above the call of birds wheeling high above, the sound hit us both with all the explosive force of an ice-cold bucket of water taken full in the face. I remember I froze, blood seeming to congeal in every limb. Then with my mind exploding in panic, I felt the bitter taste of bile ripping through my unnaturally dry mouth, felt the fear paralysing me. I couldn't help it. I simply couldn't move. It wasn't common sense that held every muscle still. Just pure, unadulterated terror. I knew the lion could not be more than a few feet behind and off to my right â that much I had worked out even as both mind and reason flipped, then went into overdrive. And then there was the sun. Despite the hour, it had suddenly grown preternaturally cold as I waited, every muscle in spasm, wanting to scream but unable to make my mouth work. Beside me, the silken sound of pure malice had reached Matt in the same instance, but twisted to the side and half up on one elbow, Matt was already facing the rock from beneath which the malevolent sound had emanated and it only needed his eyes to refocus on the pool of shadow at its bottom right-hand side for the full horror of our exposure to make itself clear.

He would have seen two narrowed yellow eyes, pools of merciless concentration staring straight back at him above a wrinkled, heavily scarred old muzzle. I hadn't needed the view. I just knew the fearsome upper canines would have been exposed, tied with dripping strands of saliva to the lower jaw now wide open in anticipation of business. But it was the stillness and evident preparation in the cat's announcement that was so terrifying. Matt would have known, even as he looked, that there would be no stopping the predator. He would have been in no doubt that it had already made its decision. The evidence would have been traced in every exposed sinew, every taut muscle of the emaciated body and above all in the flexing paws gathered almost delicately underneath the deep barrel chest. And with that realisation had come my friend's involuntary jerk backwards, away from me, a last desperate attempt to put distance between himself and the oncoming danger. And that was his undoing. The big cat's paws would have shifted slightly, re-gauging the distance, raising the height of the pounce. The tail no doubt flicking once as it always did before a charge. And then, almost silently, the animal had exploded forward, flowing effortlessly across the short strip of ground that separated us, straight over my prone body, its head thrown forward, ears flat, jaws wide and lips drawn tightly back, driving for the exposed throat.

Matt's flapping hands and arms tried desperately to protect his face and neck. To stop the unstoppable. But the lunge struck true and a hopeless scream tore through his lips, only to be choked off to a gurgle before it could gather any strength. Three hundred and seventy-five pounds of emaciated and starving lion pounded down onto its victim, dust exploding around them as the two, locked together in an obscene embrace, crashed backwards, Matt no match for the unbridled ferocity he faced. Skidding to a halt, the lion had scrabbled for purchase against my still inert torso, rolling me abruptly, almost casually away from the thrashing climax of the kill. And even as I rolled, I knew I should do something. Anything. Use my gun. Shoot. Club. Just anything.

Matt's agonised eyes, bulging in torment, glared wildly around the lion's slavering jaws, pleading for me, his so-called friend, to save him, darting desperately from my face to the gun dragging uselessly in my left hand as I scrabbled frantically backwards, anything to get away from those already blood-stained jaws. As though in a slow-motion dream, I squinted through dust-bleared eyes at the macabre scene, both players now deathly still. I don't think I even felt it, but eventually my back had thudded into the rock from where the charge had come. Every instinct was screaming at me to get out, to get away, to get off the hill and make for the horses, but even as my mind skittered through the possibilities of flight, I knew I should be fighting back, helping Matt, mastering the blind panic by then boiling through every fibre of my being. I knew Matt still wasn't dead and yet I couldn't get myself under control, couldn't gather my courage, couldn't stop the urge to flee. Even the shame rising like hot waves wasn't strong enough to stop that flight. Desperately, I forced myself to my knees, my helpless, paralysed limbs rebelling at every demand and my outstretched hand fumbling behind me for a way round the solid granite block standing between me and freedom.

A sudden burst of frantic kicking from Matt brought a deep, pitiless growl rumbling up through those locked jaws. It was enough. Galvanised into despairing action, I burst around the rock, running as though all the hounds of Hell were after me, the sight of Matt's despairing eyes burning into my back, my mind, my psyche. And though Hell might freeze over, I will never be able to erase those moments. Unable and unwilling to stop, I half fell, half slid down the jutting rocks we had so recently climbed, my now discarded rifle clattering down beside me, the skin stripping from my shins, hands and elbows as every part of me banged and bounced against the unyielding granite throughout that uncontrolled descent. All too soon, the ground rushed up to meet me, catching me unprepared and the last thing I remember was the sound and fury of pain as my leg broke between two protruding boulders and my head struck the dry earth with enough force to render me instantly and comprehensively unconscious.

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