The Clouds Beneath the Sun (35 page)

He reached across the table and pushed the whiskey towards her. “Look,” he said softly, “I think we should take matters into our own hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“It will save time. You write up your findings on the jaw and teeth, and what you think they mean. Arnold Pryce can help you on diet. I’ll do the skull, since I’m more experienced in that department than you. Russell’s already done the knee joint. Kees can do his hand-ax analysis. We’ll get a set of papers all ready to send to
Nature
, technical stuff, but we’ll also collaborate on an interpretive paper. That will become the basis of any press release. That way, if and when my mother does come round, we can be ready to move immediately. What do you say?”

“Won’t she see it as us going behind her back?”

“No, it’s not as if we are planning to publish anything without telling her. This is just preparation. If she finds out, it may help her make up her mind—in our favor.”

“Our?”

He grinned.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still have that dreadful view, that the gorge is more important than Richard Sutton. I know that offends you. But in my judgment Marongo’s political ambitions are his weak point and the best chance we all have is to exploit that. Which makes you and me temporary allies.”

“Temporary?”

“For the duration of the fight, certainly.” He got to his feet and stood over her. “After that …”

He bent down and kissed the hair on her head.

•   •   •

Dear Natalie
,

I still haven’t heard from you. What am I to conclude from that?
That you are too busy to write? That you have already forgotten the
intimacies we shared? That you have so gone over to the other side that you now cannot be bothered to keep me in touch with what is rightfully mine?

Let me ask you this, Natalie: do you really want to make an enemy of me? Paleontology is a small world, a small world in which I am not without friends, without allies, in which I am not a bit player, even if I say so myself. Remember that the future of the discipline is here, in America, this is where the funds are and therefore this is where the action will be. Do you really not understand that? Is it too much for me to ask you to write?

Remember that Richard Sutton Senior used to fund the digs that his son was a participant in. So beware: he knows the score and he knows how to make things happen. If he decides to continue his interest, as a memorial to his son, you might be part of that, but not if you continue to act as you are acting—or, rather,
not
acting
.

Please write soon, or I shall conclude the worst
.

Fondly, for the moment
,

Russell

Natalie put the letter on her table. Radcliffe had brought some post and Eleanor had given it to her at dinner.

Oh dear. Russell, hunkered down in California, miles from the action, as he no doubt thought of it, was growing increasingly bitter. Her letter must have crossed with his—it clearly hadn’t reached him yet. And when it did, would it help?

She stared into the darkness, listening to the theater of the night. Had she mishandled Russell? Was that question fair to her? His “stampede” mode had got the better of him. Did he know any better? Could he behave any differently? She doubted it. That was the mode that had brought this whole mess into being in the first place.

But, another thought struck her: if Kees was right about Richard, and Richard
hadn’t
been killed because of the break-in at the burial ground, Russell had been wronged. What a mess.

She allowed her thoughts into areas she wasn’t sure she wanted them to go. Lately, Natalie’s thoughts, some of them, had developed an energy—and a direction—all their own. She knew why, even as she was reluctant to acknowledge it.

Months ago, years, Dominic had awakened her sexual side. She had been lucky. He was an experienced man, even an expert, if such a word applied in such a context. When the affair had ended, she had resumed the existence she had had before Dominic: celibacy. She hadn’t expected anything different.

But then, totally surprisingly, amid the danger and panic and smells and shadows of the wildebeest catastrophe, Jack Deacon had rescued her and, in the process, wrapped his hands around her breasts.

And … she could admit it now, at this distance, she had
enjoyed
the sensation. More accurately, she had enjoyed the
thrill
. More accurately still, she enjoyed the memory of the thrill, for if she were truly honest the memory was more potent than the original sensation, which had been alloyed with fear. Was that normal? Was
she
normal? Dare she admit any of this to herself? Dare she admit that, after however many months it had been since Dominic’s abrupt and humiliating departure, her body—if not yet her mind—was giving notice that what had once been awakened could never again be entirely dead, totally inert? That there was something inside her that brought to mind a word, a feeling that she was half ashamed of, half embarrassed by, that didn’t fit the sort of person she thought she was, that she wanted to be. That feeling, that word, was
craving
.

Natalie was embarrassed by these thoughts, yes, but she was now beginning to realize that they were too … too recurrent to dismiss. When Jack had put his hands on her breasts, he may or may not have had thoughts other than of her immediate safety in mind, but whatever his intention, or lack of it, something had been triggered—rekindled, reignited, rescued—in Natalie. It made her uneasy to feel this way, but that she felt as she did there was no denying.

Did that mean her body had got over Dominic before her mind had? Was that how these things worked?

An image of the black-maned lions of Ngorongoro came into her head, and their rapid copulating. So far as she knew, animals didn’t have the kind of problem she was preoccupied with, they were too busy surviving.

Her thoughts went back to Kees. He was busy surviving. How terrible to be locked away in a world that couldn’t be acknowledged. Not for the first time, she told herself that her isolation would end with the trial, but would he
ever
be liberated?

In the distance an elephant trumpeted. She loved that sound, it was so joyous, and she waited to see if any other elephants answered. But none did.

•   •   •

Natalie sat brushing her hair. Although she was normally obsessive about her hair brushing, this morning it had a different aim. It was what the ethologists would call “displacement activity” or “avoidance behavior.” She knew, from things she had overheard the previous day, that Radcliffe was leaving after breakfast and the blunt truth was, she didn’t want to see him again before he left. She knew it was weak of her, that the arguments wouldn’t leave with him but, even with Jack’s brainwave about the press conference, she felt badly outnumbered as it was, without Radcliffe adding to the arithmetic. With the others on the dig, she could lose herself in work—and they let her. Radcliffe, on the other hand, was a standing reproach, an implied threat, and a symbol of the consequences of her giving evidence. She brushed away.

A cup of coffee wouldn’t have gone amiss but there was no sign of Mgina.

Suddenly, she heard a plane. She went out and looked up. The sun was as fierce as ever and the plane was coming out of the sun, which beat down on her face, hurting her eyes. Who was it now? Radcliffe’s plane had overnighted with him, so their little airstrip was going to be choked.

The plane came closer, lost height, and then buzzed the camp. It was a white and blue twin-engined six-seater and it climbed away in preparation for the circuit it must make before approaching the strip. Was it someone to do with the trial? God, she hoped not. She returned to her hair brushing.

For half an hour, she fiddled with her clothes and her tent, rearranging this, refolding that, airing something else. She tried to convince herself it all needed doing, but she knew she was just killing time. It was still not seven o’clock when she heard one of the Land Rovers start up. She looked over to the trees, where the vehicles were kept in shade. One of the odd-job men was driving out of the camp with an empty vehicle. So this was not Radcliffe leaving but someone else being picked up from the airstrip.

Normally, at this time, she would have already breakfasted and be making her way down to the gorge. But this morning there was no sign of anyone going that way and she knew there wouldn’t be until Radcliffe had departed. She couldn’t imagine what had been said the evening before, when she had left and Jack had followed her. Had the others talked on into the night, trying to work out what to do? Were they still discussing it now, at breakfast?

There was no more she could do in her tent. Everything capable of being tidied had been. There was not a wrinkle on the covers of her bed, not a speck of dust anywhere, nothing was out of place. But there was still no sign of anyone gathering at the Land Rovers, ready for work or Radcliffe’s departure. She sat at the entrance to the tent, where the flaps were pulled back.

The argument between Christopher and Jack the previous evening had upset her, and it had embarrassed everyone else. They had been discussing a potentially straightforward theoretical issue—where else in Kenya, or Tanganyika, they could dig if the gorge was reclaimed by the Maasai and closed to excavation. Jack had favored a site in the north, near Lake Rudolf, on the grounds that a lakeshore was a likely place for human settlement. Christopher had favored a smaller gorge in a different tribal area, to the west.

The discussion had been fairly equable until Eleanor had remarked that she inclined to Jack’s view, and Christopher had exploded.

“You always take Jack’s side,” he had shouted. “You always did, even when we were children.”

“I did not!” hissed Eleanor, her face coloring. “And if I do now, it’s for a reason. Lake Rudolf is miles from the Maasai.”

“I thought Jack was supposed to
be
a Maasai,” Christopher said. “Fat lot of use he’s been so far.”

“Christopher!” cried Eleanor again.

“No,” Jack had intervened, but gently. “He’s right.”

Eleanor wouldn’t be quietened. “What ideas have
you
had, Christopher, what have
you
done to … to help?”

Jack put his hand on his mother’s arm. “Steady.”

“See!” cried Christopher, getting up and pointing at Jack’s hand on his mother. “What a lovely couple you make.” And he had stormed off into the night.

In the embarrassed silence that had followed, Natalie had found herself wondering if, unconsciously, and despite what she had said, Eleanor
did
favor Jack, if not above her daughters, then above Christopher. As an only child, Natalie had never experienced jealousy, not the familial kind anyway, and, much as she liked Jack, she felt for Christopher. If Jack was his mother’s favorite, and now she, Natalie, had developed a similar preference, on top of what had happened with the Gisella woman, Christopher must be suffering.

She felt for him, but there was nothing she could do.

She looked up. The Land Rover was back, clattering into the camp and pulling to a stop in the shade of the thin trees where the other vehicles were parked.

Natalie polished her sunglasses as she watched a white man and woman get down from the Land Rover and follow the black driver as he led them to the refectory tent. The man was tall, thin, wearing a sand-colored lightweight suit but with no tie. The woman, smaller, stocky, and broad around the hips, wore jeans and a white shirt. She also had on a pair of large sunglasses. Even from where Natalie was seated she could make out the woman’s lipstick.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Sutton Senior.

She sighed. No work today.

On the other hand, and looked at in a different light, reinforcements had arrived.

She heard a burst of conversation from the refectory tent. Introductions were being made. It was time she put in an appearance.

She went to the mirror that hung from a post in her tent. She made sure again that her hair was tidy, that her shirt was neatly tucked into her trousers, with the buttons properly buttoned, and that her nails were clean, and she treated her mouth to just a touch of lipstick. Then she set off.

The scene resembled a cocktail party. A dozen people were all standing in the small area outside the refectory tent, next to the dining table, shaking hands and making introductions. As Natalie approached, Eleanor stepped forward, and said, “My dear,
there
you are. We wondered what had happened to you. Come and meet Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, who’ve just flown in.” She waved Natalie forward with a vague gesture.

Radcliffe was in the background, bending and listening to something Mrs. Sutton was saying. Everyone was being very polite, painfully polite, Natalie decided. The fireworks would come later.

“This is Richard Sutton Senior … Natalie Nelson.”

Natalie held out her hand and Sutton seized it with both of his. “Russell told us all about you. I’m pleased to meet you. We are relying on you for justice.”

Nothing like being plunged in at the deep end.

Sutton had turned and was calling to his wife. “Nancy.
Nancy!
Come and say hello to Natalie Nelson, the woman who’s going to be a witness. The woman Russell North told us about.” He turned back to Natalie. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Nice guy, Russell North. I understand you and he were great buddies.”

Natalie nodded weakly. “Buddy” was not exactly how she would have described Russell.

Nancy Sutton eased her way forward and held out her hand for Natalie to shake. Only now did Richard Sutton relinquish control.