A Place To Die

A PLACE TO DIEMike Lunnon-WoodSilvertail Books ♦ London ForewordNo fictional story is completely fiction. There are always facts interspersed throughout any novel. In September of 1978, and again in February of the following year, surface-to-air missiles fired by terrorists brought down civilian airliners in Rhodesia (the country which is now Zimbabwe). Both aircraft had taken off minutes earlier from Kariba, on Rhodesia’s northern border. The first occasion was certainly the more horrific of the two, because some survivors of the crash – only a handful of the luckiest on board – were later killed in unparalleled savagery by the same men who had shot down the aircraft. They were all civilians. Both times people walked clear of the site, and made their way to the nearest main road and subsequent safety.There were, in fact, only two Grand Crosses of Valour ever awarded in Rhodesia’s war years, and considering the everyday tales of extraordinary courage displayed by so many people, the honour of that award, equivalent to Britain’s Victoria Cross, was honour indeed. It must therefore rank as one of the world’s most difficult medals to earn, and it is with no disrespect to Captain C. Schulenberg GCV, SCR (Selous Scouts) or Major Grahame Wilson GCV, SCR, BCR (Rhodesian SAS) that I have taken an author’s license in creating a third recipient of that award.The characters and story told here are the product of my imagination and other than references to real people by characters in this story no resemblance to persons living or dead is intended, and any that may exist are coincidental.There were, however, civilian airliners shot down at this time in Africa’s history, there were survivors killed, there were civilians who fought back, and there were Selous Scouts. 11981The first shaft of sunlight left patchwork squares high up on the wall as the old man shuffled down the passage, his bare callused feet on the polished red concrete floor. Without knocking or announcing his presence in any way he let himself in, crossed to the curtains and swung them open, and, looking about, finally crossed to the bedside table and put down the coffee.The figure in the bed stirred briefly, and the old man said, ‘Boss, time to get up,’ and prodded the sleeper, grinning to himself as he enjoyed these brief moments of power.A head separated from the pillow, and said, ‘Piss off, Jackson.’‘Boss, the madam, she come 7 o’clock.’‘Jackson . . .’‘I know. Jackson piss off,’ he interrupted, and turned towards the door and moved off, muttering to himself.The man in the bed rolled over, sat up, and then swung his feet to the floor, and, immediately regretting the manoeuvre, sat with his head in his hands, hungover. He waited for a moment, and then blearily opened his eyes, stood up, crossed naked to the window, and looked down into the valley. Already it was warm, and in a few hours the game in the bush would start seeking shade from the sun.He turned, yawned, scratched himself, and pulled the sheet off the bed. He wrapped it around his body, made his way down the passage to the kitchen. He stopped in front of the fridge, opened it and pulled out a very cold beer, bashed off the cap on the door catch, and took a long swig.Jackson looked on disapprovingly, and eventually the man said, ‘Babalas,’ – hangover – and took another swig. The old man retained the mother hen look for a moment, and then grinned widely, his missing teeth testament to his own drunken nights and fights. He did, in fact, consider hangovers extremely amusing – as long as he wasn’t the victim.‘The madam will go?’ Jackson said.‘Which madam?’Jackson nodded towards the living room, and proceeded to say how when he had been young he never forgot to satisfy a maiden who was willing.‘Jackson, when you are young there were no maidens. You mounted she-baboons in the bush.’Jackson cackled, delighted with his master’s grasp of history, and acceptance of his venerable age, and watched him walk delicately through the lounge.Max Seager was 29 that year, but felt a great deal older. He was tall, just over six foot, and heavily muscled. His skin was burnt a lovely brown by the sun but he was carrying a few kilos more than he should have, and the bags under his eyes were the product of too many late nights. His thick brown hair was brushed straight back, but the stubble at his chin was fair. It was a lean face and when one looked into his eyes, one got the impression that, like so many policemen, he had seen too much. In spite of this he was quick to laugh, and his humour was at times sardonic and cynical.He stopped in the centre of the room and surveyed the scene before him. The figure lay sprawled beneath a brightly printed fabric on the couch, one long elegant leg extended to the floor. From the opposite end the tasselled mane of auburn hair moved as the girl stretched like a cat, and the fabric was drawn slowly over and down her face. She peered, blinked and finally muttered, ‘You must be Maxim. Was it a toga party, or do you always dress like that?’He bellowed to the servant, ‘Jackson, more coffee,’ before turning back to the couch. ‘Don’t call me Maxim. My name is Max and you looked like something Picasso fucked up in that.’ He was now grinning. It was a wide, honest expression and made him look like a little boy. Women loved it.‘Yes it’s charming isn’t it. Curtain, was it?’They sat and drank coffee, and talked with the camaraderie of those who have been drunk together, never quite knowing what was said to whom, and so assuming everything was said, and now lifelong friends as a result.She went home eventually, and he settled down to packing the things he was taking and decided what to leave and for whom.That evening he was leaving