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... call me Trakka...

... call me Trakka...

By PeterHunter

... call me Trakka…

Peter Hunter


… as the gunmetal grey Mini topped at the level crossing gates the alarm sounded - a monotonous chiming, as the single barrier commenced its jerky downwards journey - signalling the oncoming traffic to wait for the approaching train. The train driver Tom Stinger, instinctively hit his warning horn in habit rather than a conscious effort that it might achieve any thing. After all at forty-five miles per hour any hazard on the line was already too close…
… a collision was inevitable…
… but still the horror of the girl leaping from the Mini that had stopped next to the barrier brought a choking foul tasting constriction to his throat…

About two years earlier…
… in Kenya.
… it was the animal's left front tooth that had done most of the damage… severing the snake's neck vertebrae as if it had been a cheese straw… Twenty seconds of the small yellow snake writhing in its death agonies and then it was all over...
… the mongoose I had named Shredder had again done its job - if a mongoose could feel any satisfaction it would have done so…
Shortly before, as the deadly reptile had slowly wound its way downward, on one of the poles supporting the thatched roof it had sensed no danger. It had neared the floor of the primitive hut, preparing to investigate my silent form asleep on the simple bed - slithering in a purposeful unhurried manner towards my prone body. If I had been awake - if I had known it as a deadly, although small species, one that terrified the local population…
… I would surely be running scared for my life.

… about the time that they changed my name from Tracker to Trakka was after a similar steamy, hot tropical Kenyan night - that deprived of me sleep and kept my mind occupied with the sort of thoughts aimed at denying insomnia and enticing soothing relaxing sleep, by inviting sexual fantasies and writing stories of vendettas avenged and may mass-murder imagined…
… fantasies of course…
Earlier in the evening, during a trip into Nairobi, I had met a fascinating lady - a American girl named Bobby an apparently well-known photographer now in Kenya doing fashion shots with a team of four young female models and her assistant, a handsome guy called Jason. The girls were attractive, if not beautiful and Jason had the sort of impossibly good looks that made me suspect he might be gay - although things said by Bobby assured me he was not...
Booby was the oldest of the group, about thirty-five or six - at least mid thirties I guessed - but her maturity added to her attraction and I found myself particularly drawn to her. I spent most of the evening learning about Bobby, her history and some things about the work she did… and I felt we might have ended up sharing a bed - but some, probably old fashioned chauvinism prevented me from the final approach as it would have been all too obvious amongst her friends and colleagues…
… but I thought…
… there might be another chance… as she was keen to hire me in my professional capacity as a guide and tracker on a 'rest' day near the end of the photo shoot - a day reserved as an extra for contingencies, but likely to be free as things were so far going very well.
Apart from my growing excitement one of the reasons for my current sleeplessness was the noise… not loud, but relentless and irritating - the scraping and scuffling of small lizards running, whilst suspended upside down - under the reed thatched roof of my hut…
… there were the snakes too… the occasional small yellow ones again… reputedly deadly - but I chose to try and ignore them…
At times like this I was grateful for Shredder my adopted pet mongoose, who regularly killed the snakes that inhabited the thatched roofing… particularly that small yellow snake - the ones that the Kenyon people feared most…
It was the media… the papers, which did it - changing, refining my nickname. Trakka was… at least to their ears, a crisper, neater label than the real name of my profession, tracker - which was not so different after all… but like all lazy journalists they did what best suited them… and Trakka seemed just different enough…
… but my current urgency was my growing desperation to find sleep…
Tonight, for some reason my thoughts would not stray from my childhood…
… seemingly stupid, meaningless memories - on the verge of becoming dreams but without the escapism of comforting unconsciousness… just rambling disjointed half-truths and inconsequential recollections. In one case in point, a boyhood memory for example; I had just joined the local sea scouts - in my county in central England - fifty miles or so from the coast. Why they had been sea scouts I did not know…
… so out of my eleven year-old's curiosity I joined.
The first week the weather was appalling and we stayed in the wooden club hut - listening to a slow lecture on knots…
… boring…
… but the second week… to my absolute amazement was about rowing…
… the scouts had a boat, but no water nearby on which to float it. Using oars with spikes bolted onto the ends we sort of 'rowed' the craft across the bumpy meadow next to the clubhouse…
… the spikes on the oars digging into the turf to propel the boat…
I could see enough absurdity… in the situation never to go again…
The memory should have been enough to bore me to sleep...
Just… just as the welcome unconsciousness was about to arrive my plans were wrecked by John, my Masai friend from the little village two hundred yards to the east.
‘Max… Max come quickly… we need you...’
I did not have time to select clean shorts and shirt - so I made do with the soiled sweaty ones I had already worn the previous day and followed him into the dank dark night air of the tropics - to the sounds of monkeys, hyenas and other animals providing an out-of-tune sound track to the drama that was yet to unfold.
What I witnessed was gruesome… the body of a young girl - virtually unrecognisable, her head missing, presumably eaten along with most of her intestines… the rest of the body not much better - but enough of her left to identify her sex and for me to recognise a leopard kill.
In the following days I did my job - following a trail of paw prints, broken twigs and other signs until I was reasonably sure that the animal I located was the guilty one.
We invested in an old nanny goat from the nearest village and tethered the animal about twenty yards from an acacia tree that showed signs of regular use by a leopard - staking it out as a pathetic bleating live bait… Watching, whilst prone behind a nearby bush it was only two hours or so before the increased panic calls from the goat alerted me…
… without any real proof of the poor leopard's guilt I shot it anyhow…
in the brief tropical twilight we carried the dead body of the beautiful animal back to the village serenaded by the increasing volume of the wildlife stirring in the approaching darkness. For the first time…
… I felt no senses of triumph or satisfaction…
… no pleasure of any sort…
it worried me that the kill had given me no satisfaction, very little sense of achievement and certainly no joy…
… in fact it sickened me…
… the destruction of one of the word's most beautiful creatures - just for doing what was in its nature…
… killing…
but I kept to myself my new mental state - how killing yet another large member of the cat family had now appalled me to the extent that I vowed never to do it again - but I was determined not to tell… it might be bad for business… … big cats no…
… but I did not rule out in future killing people…
… to me… they had become less precious than the animals.
Somewhere, some time, in my almost immediate return to Britain - someone in the press thought me in someway news worthy and decided to write an article about me…
… modern African White Hunter…
… in typical newspaper reporter style - for their own reasons they slightly changed my name - they called me Trakka…

By the time the day arrived for guiding Bobby into the Serengeti National Park and the adjoining Masai Mara - between them panning nearly six thousand square miles near the border between Tanzania and Kenya - Trakka's mind had developed fantasies about the American photographer that had blossomed into a dizzy menu of erotic sensation. Although having no reason for such optimistic speculation - his male ego was aroused in more ways than one…
… but there was much to come…
… and much to discover…
It was a good day…
Because the shoot had gone well Bobby had sent the models and her assistant, Jason - back to London on an earlier British Airways flight - giving her time to stay and enjoy the scenic attraction. Having accidentally met me she booked two nights for us in the famous Treetops Outspan hotel - by now far extended from the humble abode of early fifties fame.
John had accompanied us as addition further guide, driver and helper.
From my Land Rover we encountered over thirty species of amazing animals and much more in terms of wild-life such as snakes, crocodiles and others to numerous to mention. All the usual suspects were present in abundance, zebras, wildebeest, gazelles, giraffes and baboons - along with smaller numbers of more interest such as elephant, black and white rhino and hippos.
Bobby was particularly intrigued by cheetahs and leopards and seemed very pleased with the photographs she took. During the day I found her love of animals very persuasive and with the 'Paulian' conversion I had experienced after my recent slaughter of the leopard I was rapidly realising I could no longer shoot healthy animals…
… tracker perhaps… but no longer a hunter…
… except maybe people…
… or for defence…
Although the day was devoted to Bobby's hobby photographing the wildlife… I carried my three-seven-five Rigby rifle to defend us in case of danger from animal.
As the day grew I was glad I did not have to use it…
… particularly in a place such as the Serengeti National Park, which was now the only place left where one could witness the vast migration of the remain plains animals taking place…
… a great expanse of grassland punctuated with extensive acacia, brown patched savannah. It is high plain rising up to over six thousand feet above sea level…
… a reminder of what Africa was like before the scourge of two many people…
… in a world where co-existence with many animals is no longer possible.

Inevitable after spending the day with Bobby…
… the proximity of her almost perfect figure - the crisp white blouse buttoned tightly over her well-filled bra, her shapely bum shown to its best advantage filling her not-over sized jodhpurs - none of these things helped cool the growing irritating pang of lust inside of me. Inevitably later - that night we had our first sex together…
… and it was good, very good - the best I had ever had and I started to learn, to realise that she did not possess the normal reticence of most of her contemporaries.
Early in our relationship she admitted to being 'sexually generous'…
… sexually generous a euphemism for what? Randy behaviour? Availability? Couple of drinks and I'm anyone's? … then replying to my flippant remark suggesting nymphomania she quite pointedly did not argue... did not disagree…
… and I - instead of jealousy or concern felt what..?
… a flickering of excitement….
Who was the most perverted - Bobby or I?
Then -when she remarked on the attractiveness of John my friend, now our Masai helper I observed; 'Not a terribly good idea… there's a lot of aids around in this part of the Worlds…'
'I realised that before I arrived…' she exclaimed,
'… and I have brought plenty of protection…'
why… I wondered afterwards, did that neither shock or even surprise me…
She continued; '… thought you might like to join in a threesome? You seemed pretty uninhibited earlier.'
… and why did I feel a another shiver of sexual excitement at this further hint of sexual adventurism…
… at least I was not judgemental…

'… Morning… may I call you Trakka…?'
'Of course Mr Bellingham - I am very glad to meet you…'
He was older than I had expected… slightly hunched in bearing - keen blue eyes and a don't mess with me sort of expression. I settled into the chair before his desk, careful not to relax too much or reduce my concentration.
'I am a little confused about your name - Tracker or Trakka?'
'that’s the media…' I answered' they modified it to Trakka… after that affair on Exmoor…
… the one with the leopard kill of the young girl… journalism I suppose.'
We spent the next half hour discussing first my military career and then the time I had spent in Kenya… running safaris and some big game hunting.
'And you do not kill anymore?'
It was obvious Bobby had mentioned my conversion when she had arranged the meeting through a mutual friend.
'not animals, no…
… not any more…'
I had stressed animals…
'… and other things?' he asked.
'I haven't change since the military…'
'So I can take that as a 'yes' then?'
…from my eyes - from my body language - he knew he was right…
'Do you think I will offer you this job?' as the interview had not really got going as far as my suitability for the job I assumed he had in mind - the question surprised me. 'I have read all the information I could find and as far as I am concerned you are the best at tracking and killing animals… you did well in the army - I appreciate your views on killing animals - but what else can you do?'
This, I thought was becoming like a traffic jam in gridlock before it had hardly started. 'Tracking, hunting, killing… that’s all I know…' I deliberately repeated to him I no longer wished to harm animals.
'People - what do you feel about them? Jesus, I thought the man was certainly direct - didn't mince words…
… he was getting more direct…
… and I thought we had already covered that one…
his eye contact was direct and strong and I was suddenly wondering that giving an answer he wasn't seeking - apart from costing me a job might in some way cost me even more.
'Depends… depends on the money…' I replied.
After discussing terms and a few other things - I was hired - and although not specified had no doubts what the job might, would entail…

End

© Peter Hunter

Extracted from Peter Hunter's thriller '… death of an Eroticist…' shortly available

on Kindle and other on-line devices… and interlinking with best seller 'Time Of

The Spider'.

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About The Author
PeterHunter
PeterHunter
About This Story
Audience:
18+
Posted:
1 May, 2012
Type:
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