The Hunter Read Online Free PDF

me. We all did what we could to survive. The woman went to the ridgeback and grabbed it by the collar, silencing it, then pushed a remote and the spike-topped gate rolled open. I drove up the driveway and we got out of the car while the maid closed the gate. My heart changed gear; this was almost as addictive as the pills.
    ‘Hello, how are you, my name is Patience,’ said the maid, who was sharp-eyed and stick insect-thin. ‘The madam says I am to show you around.’
    ‘ Kanjane ,sister,’ Lungile said to the woman, then continued on in Shona. Lungile was Ndebele, but had learned the politically dominant tribe’s language far better than I had at school.
    The maid’s face softened a little and she smiled as she replied in the same language. Like me, Lungile had immediately recognised the woman’s accented but precise English. It helped ease the situation a little, for all of us.
    Patience led us into the house and the ridgeback, sensing all was OK, nuzzled me as I walked. I held out my hand and let him sniff me, then patted his head. ‘Hello, beautiful.’ He panted with pleasure as I stroked him.
    The home was even nicer than the pictures on the sale board had indicated. Patience led us through a grand reception area with a marble floor out to a central courtyard dominated by a swimming pool. All of the bedrooms faced onto the pool. The furniture was typical Joburg – big and over the top. I would have gone for something more minimalist. It was interesting, visiting so many other people’s homes, learning about their tastes and their secrets.
    I walked around the lounge and let Patience show us the home cinema room. Mostly the home looked like it had been decorated and furnished by a professional designer; there was little in the way of family photographs or the clutter that had always been a part of my family home, growing up in Bulawayo. Behind a bar, though, I saw something that made me stop. It was a plaque bearing the Maltese Cross badge of the Rhodesia Regiment, which was manned by national service soldiers during the Bush War. My father had served in the regiment. Lungile’s father had been a guerrilla leader; such were the ironies of life in our country. I mused silently about how very different my life would have been if Lungile’s father had killed mine.
    ‘Is the madam from Zimbabwe?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Patience.
    ‘And the boss?’
    ‘Ah, he is dead, of the lung cancer. Just last month.’
    Lungile and I exchanged glances, then she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
    Patience’s eyes widened. I patted my stomach and pointed to Lungile’s. ‘It’s the pregnancy.’
    ‘Ah, shame,’ said Patience.
    ‘Toilet,’ gargled Lungile.
    The maid nodded and led her briskly down the corridor.
    ‘I’ll just look around a bit,’ I said, but Lungile was running now, and Patience was trying to overtake her and give her directions to the bathroom in Shona.
    I found the master bedroom and went to work. The one bedside table’s drawers were empty so I went to the other. In the top drawer was an expensive man’s watch, which I dropped into my shoulder bag, along with a last-year’s model BlackBerry, which had probably been replaced by a newer model when Mrs Forsyth’s contract had come up for renewal. Either that or, like the watch, it was her late husband’s.
    I went to the walk-in closet and started going through the drawers there. In the second was her jewellery box. I tipped the contents into the bag. On the opposite side were the late Mr Forsyth’s clothes. She hadn’t got around to donating them, or perhaps she couldn’t bear to part with them. I wondered if he had served with my father – it was a big unit, but it was possible – and not for the first time in recent memory I hated myself.
    Perhaps the Forsyths had left Zimbabwe at independence, in 1980, or even earlier, for they had obviously done very well for themselves