Stephen Leather - The Hunting

Van der Sandt realised there was someone standing at his left shoulder. He turned. It was the woman who had been watching him from the table. She had pale blue eyes and chestnut hair that she had tied back into a ponytail. She was wearing what looked like designer hunting gear: a mesh waistcoat over a pale green blouse, and baggy pants with pockets on them, tucked into polished boots. Van der Sandt flashed her a smile. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’

She didn’t return his smile and folded her arms. ‘Excuse me, but I have to say something to you,’ she said. She was American. East coast certainly, probably from Boston.

‘I’m always happy to talk to a pretty lady,’ said Van der Sandt. He held out his hand. ‘Jon Van der Sandt.’

‘Yes, sure, whatever,’ said the woman frostily. ‘I’m told you killed an elephant today.’ There was a wedding ring and an engagement ring on her left hand. A big stone, probably four or five carats, and it probably cost more than his gun. He guessed that she had a wealthy husband – or ex-husband – because she didn’t seem like a career woman.

Van der Sandt took back his hand but continued to smile. ‘I did indeed,’ he said. ‘Seven tons with a very impressive set of tusks.’

The woman frowned. ‘How could you do that? We photographed him only yesterday. He was beautiful. How could you kill a majestic, sentient being, an animal that would never do you any harm?’

‘How? Well if you want the specifics, it was one shot to the front of the skull, just below the eyes, one above the eyes and a third shot directly into the brain through its left ear. It was as close to painless as you could wish for.’

The woman’s face went white and she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Her nails were painted blood red, matching her lipstick. ‘That’s horrible,’ she said.

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Van der Sandt. ‘I thought it was magnificent.’

‘You killed an innocent animal. An endangered species.’

‘Well, taking your second point first, elephants aren’t in the least bit endangered. There are somewhere between half a million and seven hundred thousand elephants in Africa, so many that they can’t be counted accurately. And when there’s a drought they fight among themselves for water and resources. In this country alone there are more than one hundred and fifty thousand elephants, compared with just eight thousand back in the sixties. Hunters like me kill about a thousand a year. And the money we pay – substantial sums I might add – go towards conservation schemes that help ensure that they will be around for a long, long time to come.’

‘But you kill them for what? For sport?’

‘I’m not denying I get a thrill from hunting big game,’ said Van der Sandt. The woman opened her mouth to interrupt but he held up his hand to silence her. ‘But on your first point, wherever did you get the idea that elephants are innocent? Watching The Jungle Book ? Elephants are vermin. Elephants are a huge threat to the African people. They kill and maim hundreds of them a year and destroy fields and crops. You have farmers who have their livelihoods wiped out by a herd of elephants rampaging across their cotton or maize fields. They don’t graze, they pillage. They destroy. And who helps the farmer if he has no food to give to his children? Do you think the government gives them rice or cash? No madam, they don’t. African governments generally don’t give a flying fuck about their people, pardon my language. Anyone who really knows elephants knows that they are a danger and need to be controlled. The media likes to blame poachers when elephants are illegally killed, but in many cases it’s local farmers protecting their livelihoods. And what’s a better end for the animal – being hacked to death by a group of machete-wielding farmers or shot in the head by an experienced hunter who knows what he’s doing?’

‘I’m sure the elephant just wants to stay alive,’ said the woman.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Van der Sandt. ‘How old are you?’

The woman’s jaw dropped. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m asking you how old you are. I’m guessing thirty-eight.’

‘I’m forty-two,’ said the woman. ‘Not that that’s any business of yours.’

‘You look good for forty-two, there’s no doubt about that,’ said Van der Sandt, and despite her annoyance the woman blushed at the compliment. ‘But what about in fifty years’ time, when you’re getting to the end of your life? How will you end your days? Maybe at home surrounded by family and a couple of Mexican nurses? Holding your hand and giving you their love as you pass away. Or if your family don’t want you, maybe you’ll pass away in a nursing home, in a soft bed with medication easing your pain.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said the woman.

‘How do you think elephants die in the wild?’ asked Van der Sandt. ‘I’ll tell you. Elephants get six sets of teeth throughout their lives. The way they eat wears the teeth down, and as they wear down they are replaced. But when the final set wears away, they’re not replaced. The animal I killed was on its last set and didn’t have more than a few months left I’d say. A year maybe. Once that final set is useless, the animal begins to starve to death. As they starve they get weaker and weaker and eventually they are weak enough for the lions or cheetahs to take down. And that’s how they die, ripped apart and eaten alive. So tell me, if you were an elephant, which would you prefer? A few months of starvation followed by being devoured by wild cats, or being put to sleep quickly and efficiently by a hunter like me who knows what he’s doing? A hunter who will never forget the elephant he has killed, who will respect and honour the animal’s death.’

He glanced up at the television screen. A reporter was standing on a beach and squinting at the camera. A headline across the bottom read: ‘MASS KILLING AT LUXURY BEACH RESORT’. Van der Sandt waved at the barman. ‘Can you put the sound up?’

‘I’m sorry, I was talking to you,’ said the woman.

‘No you weren’t, you were harassing me out of some misguided belief that I’m doing something wrong,’ said Van der Sandt, his eyes on the TV screen. ‘You’ve said your piece, now get back to your friends before I say something I regret.’

The woman opened her mouth to reply but then thought better of it and hurried over to her table. She sat down and her friends leant towards her, eager to hear what had happened.

The barman looked around for the TV remote and when he couldn’t find it he walked over to the set and pressed the button to boost the sound. The reporter was talking to camera, describing how terrorists had murdered tourists, riding up on jet skis before running amok on a beach and through a hotel. ‘The death toll is thought to have reached more than a hundred,’ said the woman.

Van der Sandt had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and almost gagged because his throat had gone dry. He reached for his glass and gulped down some whisky.

‘ISIS have already claimed responsibility on social media for the killings,’ said the reporter. The image of the beach was replaced by a picture of a tweet from an ISIS account, praising the actions of the terrorists and warning that there would be more attacks to follow.

The picture of the tweet disappeared and they were back with the reporter. She was walking down a path, shadowed by the camera, pointing out the route the terrorists had taken from the beach to the hotel. Her way was blocked by police tape but in the distance there were bodies hastily covered by sheets and uniformed police officers were moving around. The colour drained from Van der Sandt’s face as he recognised the resort. It was where his family was staying.