The Hunters. Kat Gordon

met by moonlight, Carberry,’ he said.

      ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Carberry said. ‘Talking about Johnny Bull.’

      ‘You’re British too,’ Freddie said. ‘Or Irish, at least. Have you forgotten, Baron Carberry?’

      Carberry took out a cigarette. Sylvie was at the end of the line, and he leaned towards her, taking her wrist in his fingers. ‘May I?’

      She shrugged, but I felt the revulsion coming off her. I took a long drink of my champagne.

      Carberry lit his cigarette on hers, then stood back. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said, blowing smoke out in a cloud. ‘But I got my American naturalisation papers six years ago.’

      ‘I hear they were revoked,’ Lord Delamere said. ‘For bootlegging.’

      ‘Finally,’ Sylvie said, crushing out her own cigarette in the grass. ‘Something interesting about you.’

      Carberry nudged the yellow ball with his foot, sending it back towards the start. ‘I can’t wait to see your faces when your little Empire comes crashing down.’

      Lord Delamere turned purple. ‘Look, Carberry –’

      Carberry snapped his fingers at a waiter on the veranda and called over, ‘Bring me a whisky, boy. And don’t bother trying to cheat me on the chit – I can read.’

      Nicolas stepped onto the court and picked up the yellow ball, returning it to its old spot. ‘Lucky for us I have a photographic memory. Excuse us while we continue play, Carberry.’

      ‘Which team are you on?’ Carberry asked Sylvie. ‘I’ll join you. One of the only good British exports, this game.’

      She looked away.

      ‘It’s my turn,’ Nicolas said. ‘Take it if you want.’

      Carberry took the mallet Nicolas was offering, held his cigarette in his teeth, and hit my blue ball cleanly through the first hoop and all the way through the second.

      ‘Good shot,’ Delamere said reluctantly.

      We stayed on our boundary line, watching as Carberry played the blue ball through the third and fourth hoops and hit Delamere’s red ball. On either side of me, Delamere winced and Freddie murmured, ‘bad luck’. I went to take another mouthful of champagne and noticed my glass was empty.

      Carberry lined up the next shot more deliberately than any of his others, taking several practice swings to test the angle before smacking his mallet so hard against the blue ball that the red bounced completely out of court. The blue ball rolled forwards to rest in front of the fifth hoop. Carberry looked up at us, smirking.

      ‘Sorry, old boy. It’s just so easy to teach you all a lesson.’ He puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Strutting around as if you owned the place.’

      ‘We built the place,’ Lord Delamere said.

      Sylvie took his arm. ‘Don’t listen to him, darling.’

      Carberry snorted. ‘You and your bunch of amateurs. Most of them went back home with their tails between their legs, if I remember rightly.’ He came towards us and stopped just in front of Sylvie. ‘They’ve told you about J.D. Hopcraft, of course.’

      ‘Should they have?’ She crossed one slender leg in front of the other and I noticed the men’s eyes following her movements, especially Carberry’s.

      ‘He applied for land on the west side of the lake,’ Freddie said. ‘But unfortunate things kept happening to his surveyors.’

      Carberry put his hand on Sylvie’s other arm, smiling unpleasantly. He was close enough to smell the sickly sweetness of booze mixed with tobacco on his breath. ‘His first surveyor, or the second, went swimming in the Malewa River,’ he said. ‘A python took him while he was in the water – held him with its teeth and wrapped its body around him, and killed him.’ He inhaled, flaring his nostrils. ‘Some people think that constriction breaks your bones, but it doesn’t. I’ve heard two theories: the snake holds you just tightly enough to prevent you from taking air into your lungs, and you slowly run out of oxygen and suffocate. Or the pressure from the constriction raises the pressure inside your body until your heart explodes.’

      He pinched Sylvie’s arm then withdrew his hand. An angry red mark appeared on her skin, but she didn’t react; no one else along the line spoke.

      ‘Either way,’ Carberry said. ‘The man was gone, and his report went with him, and Hopcraft had to find another surveyor.’ He smiled again, showing his pointy eye-teeth.

      I turned my head to face the garden. The lawn was blue in the moonlight, and rippling gently. The automatic sprinklers had come on, and the soft hiss of the water soothed my ears. I breathed in the scent of eucalyptus, frangipani, fuchsias, lilies, far stronger now in the cool dark than during the day.

      ‘Why did he go swimming with his report?’ I asked Carberry.

      ‘What?’

      I raised my voice. ‘Why would he take the report in the river?’

      Carberry narrowed his eyes and started to say something, but Lord Delamere drowned him out with a roar of laughter.

      ‘By God, he’s got you there, Carberry,’ he said, and clapped me on the back.

      ‘No one believes the story anyway,’ Carberry said, waving his hand dismissively.

      ‘You seemed to believe it,’ Nicolas said.

      ‘Just trying to scare the ladies.’

      ‘More champagne for the boy genius,’ Delamere said.

      Carberry’s hands were gripping the mallet so hard they’d turned a greenish-white. ‘Don’t spoil the brat.’

      ‘You’re just jealous,’ Freddie said. He and Nicolas and the two nameless ladies raised their glasses to me. Carberry threw the mallet down and stalked off, looking disgusted.

      ‘Our saviour,’ Sylvie said to me. She came round Delamere and kissed my cheek, sending a shiver up my spine.

      We left the croquet court and sat back down at our table. They toasted me, my head spinning, then we toasted the Muthaiga Club, then Kenya, then the King. The champagne seemed never-ending. The nightly ball started and the ladies, laughing, disappeared to change into their ballgowns. We moved to the bar. More men joined us, more names I didn’t catch, and a friendly debate started. Freddie was asked to weigh in, held up his hands and made a joke. I noticed the men all laughed loudest at his jokes. Nicolas draped his arm around my shoulder, and one of the new men gave me a cigar. Delamere was in good spirits, and demonstrated it by shooting at the bottles of spirits on the shelves with his revolver. The bar staff didn’t protest; they handed him a fine on a club chit and went back to serving other drinkers.

      ‘Let’s have a rickshaw race,’ Delamere’s son said, or at least that was what I thought he said. Everything was becoming strangely muffled, and the ground had started to move underneath me again. The ballroom doors were open, and through them I could see a blur of colours and movement – pink faces, blue gowns, yellow gowns, black tails, waiters in white carrying silver trays of honey-coloured whisky and golden champagne.

      ‘Boy Genius doesn’t look like he’ll make it,’ Delamere said.

      ‘Jack’s gone to get a rugby ball,’ someone said. ‘We’ll have a game in the ballroom.’

      ‘Not before I dance with my wife,’ Nicolas said, hiccupping. ‘I promised her we’d dance.’

      ‘Well I’m down a wife,’ Freddie said. ‘So I think maybe I should take our young friend home.’

      My head, which had been getting heavier by the minute, finally became too much for my neck and I dropped it onto the bar in front of me.

      Water was brought, and hands tipped my head back and held the glass