A Twist of Sand

John slipped out and returned with the chart. He had found time even to complete the duplicate. There were the neat crosses and position of the chain of islands, about 150 miles from where we really had been. It would be safe enough, for islands on this coast simply appear one day and disappear the next. No one could dispute it.

"Our position was about twenty degrees fifty minutes South" he began in a formal voice which took me back to Royal Navy courts-martial.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Venter: "I don't understand that sort of thing. I wouldn't know how even to write it down. Tell me something simple, just for the report."

"Won't there be an inquest?" I asked tentatively.

"Nothing more than just a formality," said Venter. "No, man, just tell me where it was and I'll write it down for the major. That's about all. Bit of a waste of time, I'd say, but there it is."

John looked relieved. I don't think he liked the job of explaining faked charts.

"I should say it was about 150 miles N.N.W. of Walvis Bay. He went overboard somewhere about six o'clock."

Venter slopped some brandy on to his notebook. He raised it to his mouth and gave it a neat lick, and then went on writing. Mac regarded him with distaste. He laboriously wrote down a few details of the affair. Well, there shouldn't be any questions about where we were to judge from the policeman's attitude.

"Captain Macdonald -- what is the voornaam -- first name ?"

"Geoffrey," I replied.

He wrote it down "Jeffrie". That wouldn't do any harm either.

"South African?" he said.

I dropped into Afrikaans with a bonhomie which sounded as false as a sham beard to me, but it didn't worry Venter.

"Man, have you ever heard a rooinek speak Afrikaans like I do? I was born in the Free State."

"Ag, here," he replied matily. "I'm a Transvaaler. Ventersdorp."

"Parys," I replied cheerily, thinking of the little resort which clings to the banks of the Vaal River with one foot in the veld of the Northern Free State, and the other in the Vaal River.

"This calls for a drink," he said without a blush.

I filled up his glass.

"Gesondheid! (good health)," he said. "Man. I'd like to stay and have a party with you boys, but I've got to get back to the station."

Mac breathed a visible sigh of relief.  He took his helmet. "Cheerio, heh!" he said.   "Totsiens, you chaps." I saw him over the rail. John was convulsed when I returned. "How to win friends and influence people!" he laughed. "Well, well, well.  He couldn't have cared less, could he?" "And not a bad thing either," I replied. "It's  a  nice  little  chart  you  have  there,"  said  Mac ironically.   "Hundreds of miles out to sea, and nothing to prove it to the contrary. What if they ask the other members of the crew?"

"They won't," I replied. "They could swear blind that they'd seen dry land, but John and I could prove beyond any doubt that they were talking nonsense."

"Aye," said Mac slowly, "You'd prove it to me, too. But just for interest's sake, seeing I saw it with my own eyes, where were we?"

"Off the Skeleton Coast," I said looking into his cold eyes, now a little shaded with the whisky he had drunk. "The Skeleton Coast, Mac."

"Aye," he said. "That was all I was wanting to know." We all felt the jar as the boat, inexpertly handled, bumped against the Etosha's side. In the silence, the unease which had been with me in the morning returned. Who was this now? Was there some further shadow looming ? I felt sure it was not the police. Some aftermath of Mac's words remained, the meaningful "aye." He might well brood over the Skeleton Coast. As I might.

Heavy feet clumped on the deck. The three of us stood silent, drinks in hand, waiting for the unknown visitor. The imponderable sense of tension running like a tideway under our lives, made us view the newcomer, whoever he was, as an intruder. We followed the progress of the feet down the companionway; they hesitated for a moment, and then chose the cabin door. Without waiting for the knock, I pulled it open swiftly.

Our pre-occupation with the coming of the unknown man to the Etosha at night, the sense of indefinable tension which his presence engendered throughout the later tumultuous events, were characteristic of all I ever knew about the tall, slightly bent figure which blinked in the light as I pulled open the door. - As a figure, he would have passed anywhere without comment, for his sand-coloured hair had receded slightly from the temples and his grey eyes were those of a thousand other respectable citizens. But it was the strong, cruel gash of the face below the bridge of the nose and his quiet, mirthless chuckle which ever afterwards never ceased to frighten me. I still wake at night sweating when I think of that chuckle as he emerged to kill me on the mountain.

"Captain Macdonald?" he asked with a slightly German accent.

"Yes," I said curtly. I have never approved of sudden incursions into my privacy. That privacy was to be respected, as the crew knew.