Softly Calls the Serengeti by Frank Coates Page A

they’d eaten and found Melissa’s hat still hanging on a chair at their table. He picked it up and, in a sickening instant, the night erupted into an explosion of unimaginable violence. He was thrown to the floor, momentarily stunned by the blast. When he dared to open his eyes, the flash remained incandescent on his retina.
    There was a fleeting and eerie silence, soon shattered by a tumult of screams, shouts and alarm sirens.
    Melissa!
    Shouts of ‘Fire!’ filled the air and everything became chaos.
    People were everywhere, blocking his frantic dash to the street. Crowds jammed Jalan Legian in a mass of humanity, fleeing the devastation or rushing to help the fallen. It took Riley precious minutes to reach what was left of the goldsmith’s shop.
    When they pulled him from the debris and his frenzied search, his hands were a mess of shredded flesh and gore.
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    Riley stared at his hands. That memory was from another life. He knew Melissa would not want him to carry his grief around with him forever; this trip to Kenya was a final goodbye, in a way. They had talked about doing it together one day, but now he was carrying out her dream alone—and meeting this orphan boy, Jafari, was part of it. Now it seemed Melissa’s money had been going into some kind of scam. He was surprised—the Circularians may have odd beliefs but they were a genuine organisation. He needed to find out more.
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    Following his visit to the abandoned orphanage, Riley couldn’t shake his feelings of loss. Eventually he became sick of his self-pity and decided he needed to rejoin the human race.
    The Australian High Commission garden patio was decorated with reindeer, tinsel and assorted frippery. Guests milled around the several uniformed waiters. Riley took a whisky and a skewered piece of meat wrapped in something green and dipped it into a yellow sauce. His fellow attendees—seemingly every one of the Australian expatriate residents in Nairobi—had followed the suggested ‘cocktail wear’ dress code. A few of the men were in black tie, and all the women were immaculately dressed, either in slinky long dresses or short, clinging creations ranging from basic black to the full spectrum of tropical colours.
    Riley was the only person in the room without a tie. He was lucky he even had a jacket—he’d only packed one on an impulse. He felt conspicuous and uncomfortable, and patted his jacket to find his cigarettes before remembering he’d quit back in Tsavo. He sighed in frustration.
    â€˜Forgotten your cigarettes, huh?’
    The voice was soft and Riley took a moment to realise the comment was directed at him. Turning, he found a dark-haired woman in a long red dress smiling at him. In her high heels she was only a couple of inches below meeting him eye to eye.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said. ‘Actually, no. I’ve given them up.’
    â€˜Big mistake. You should never give up something you enjoy.’
    â€˜You could be right,’ Riley said, as he intercepted a passing waiter and handed him his empty glass. ‘Whisky soda, please.’ He looked at the woman, who was still appraising him with her smiling eyes. ‘You?’ he asked, indicating her drink.
    She shook her head. Her long brown hair rippled under the light. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
    â€˜Don’t you just hate Christmas decorations in November?’ Riley said.
    â€˜With a passion.’
    He extended his hand. ‘Mark Riley.’
    She took it and held it for a moment before replying, ‘Kazlana Ramanova.’ Her hand was cool, her grip firm.
    Riley couldn’t place her accent, and her features gavenothing away. There was a hint of colour to her skin, although it could have been just a deep tan. The light touches in her hair might have been fake or bleached by the sun.
    â€˜Why are you here?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’m a writer, doing some research.’ Riley