Chapter 4

At iSigodi Resort private dining room.

In the dimly lit private dining room, the air around us lay heavily with tension, contrasting sharply with the elegant décor that had set the stage for an enjoyable evening. Shadows played on Melanie’s fatigued face, illuminated by the flickering candlelight from the long table where we had enjoyed supper and reminisced about the day’s photographs.

The unease in her expression was palpable. The uncertainty lingered, fuelled by the question whether my unexpected compliment had triggered her desire to retreat or if it was simply a manifestation of the day’s arduous journey to Kosi Bay.

As the shocking details of Mister Deacon’s tragic death reverberated through us, I couldn’t help reflecting on her earlier inquiry about a curse hanging over iSigodi. In a land steeped in superstition, local’s beliefs in demons and ill-meaning spirits ran deep, and even the most professional and educated individuals might find their mindset affected.

Melanie’s once-piercing gaze, a symbol of her usual composed demeanour, betrayed a mix of shock and distress. The news had cast a sombre shadow over us, turning the delightful dinner into a stage for shared disbelief. Two deaths in less than twenty-four hours added a layer of complexity to a suddenly tumultuous evening.

Her request to retreat to her apartment hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken questions. Was it a response to the day’s events, including the harrowing in-flight emergency and the fuel fluctuation problem, or had my words inadvertently added to the weight of the evening?

I began to understand that my compliment to Melanie had added to her confusion about my intentions, considering her past experiences with love. The full profile I had of her, included two short romantic relationships and a marriage that lasted only six months.

Taking it slow was imperative if there was any chance of evolving our relationship beyond friendship.

The revelation of Mister Deacon’s death acted as a catalyst, intensifying the emotional storm that had silently brewed beneath the surface.

As the owner of the resort, Melanie visibly grappled with the weight of responsibility for the safety and well-being of each guest. In this unfolding tableau of shared sorrow and concern, my role transformed into that of a comforting anchor, delicately navigating the intricate dance between personal and professional tribulations.

Sam returned with a foil space blanket and two mugs of steaming coffee, momentarily breaking the intensity of the atmosphere and offering a brief respite amid the emotional storm.

“Thank you, Sam,” and I took the blanket from him and unwrapped it. He placed our coffee on the table next to Melanie.

“Here, Mel, let me get you warm,” and I started to wrap the space blanket around her shoulders and body. Then I handed her the mug of coffee.

She took it silently. “What is going wrong around here, Ty?” Her question was barely audible.

“First drink that coffee, then we can get to the what, where, and how...” I replied.

She just looked at me with those big misty brown eyes of hers.

I was breaking up inside. The Ice Princess of yesterday was indeed just a scared girl in a big, big world, hiding away from God knows what.

“I told him to be careful of the crocs and hippos, but he insisted on going out on the lake in his kayak.”

“It’s not your fault, Mel. You did warn him.”

“But still. It happened at my resort and I take some responsibility.”

“First let the authorities do their bit, and then we can make plans. Let’s get all the facts and then jump to conclusions.”

“But it’s still my responsibility...” She replied.

I got up, walked over to the restaurant part of the building and took a brochure about iSigodi Resort. I went back to her in the private dining room.

“Here,” I told her. “Read it. Especially the last part on the back page.”

Melanie took the brochure and turned to the back page, then looked up at me.

“I know this by heart. I compiled it.”

“Yes, you compiled it but did not read it that comprehensively,” I replied. “Now, read the last lines in the brochure.”

Mel held the brochure and read the final lines on the page. I urged her to read it out loud.

“This disclaimer is intended to inform all visitors, guests, and users of iSigodi Holiday Resort PTY (Ltd) of certain critical considerations. By accessing and utilizing the facilities and services provided by iSigodi Holiday Resort PTY (Ltd), you acknowledge and agree to the following terms:

Isigodi Environment

Isigodi is set in a wilderness area where large wild animals roam freely near the resort and often on resort property. There is a risk of encountering natural threats such as wind, sun and water, but also risk of encountering such animals in their habitat.

Assumption of Risks:

iSigodi Holiday Resort PTY (Ltd) takes all reasonable precautions to ensure the safety and well-being of its guests. However, guests are advised to be aware of and assume any inherent risks associated with recreational activities, water sports, and other facilities provided by the resort. Please exercise caution and adhere to all safety guidelines.

Liability Limitations:

iSigodi Holiday Resort PTY (Ltd), their agents and associates, shall not be held liable for any loss, injury, damage, or inconvenience sustained by guests, including but not limited to personal belongings, accidents, illnesses, or acts of nature. Guests are encouraged to secure their valuables and acquire appropriate insurance coverage before their stay.”

“Stop there,” I instructed.

“Why?”

“What you just read is there in black and white and all your guests sign it. Proof that you were not responsible for Mister Deacon’s death.” I softly but firmly said. I felt like touching her hand, but did not, as she might find it offensive.

“It’s the standard disclaimer included in all documentation between all guests and the resort.”

“Yes. And that means that it is not your fault if someone disregards your warnings and cautions and gets injured or dies in the process of their own negligence.”

“But...”

“No ‘buts’! I am sorry that Mister Deacon died, but I don’t want you to feel guilty about it.”

“Ty...”

“Yes, Mel?”

“Thank you, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Drink your coffee.” I soothed. “That is all we can do now. We don’t know what the circumstances of his death were, so let’s wait until we know what happened.”

She was silent for a while and then looked up at me.

“Another late night?”

“Yeah...”

“Go sleep, Ty. I’ll wait for the police.”

“No. As long as Sam has coffee, I’ll wait with you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now drink your coffee.”

She took a sip of her strong hot coffee, then looked at the wall on the other side of the dining room with a 1000-mile stare, looking but seeing nothing. Then she turned to me with a lopsided smile on her lips and dull eyes.

“What happens if we run out of coffee?”

“I’ve still got some fake coffee in my suite.”

“Are you trying to coax me to go to your suite?”

“No! Not at a time like this. Just being practical. I can go and fetch the coffee...”

“Thank you,” she got a ghost of a smile on her lips and added. “ ... my Trojan Horse...”

The night was draped in darkness as we sipped our coffee, the warmth offering small comfort against the chilling atmosphere that surrounded us. After some contemplation, she expressed a desire to visit the location where Mister Deacon’s body was found, and I agreed to accompany her.

She excused herself, saying she had to change into more practical attire, then disappeared down the path toward her apartment. She emerged a half hour later dressed in denim jeans and a long-sleeved top, ready to face the sombre task ahead. The clock indicated it was around 22:00, and the resort was wrapped in an eerie stillness.

The distant hum of approaching police vehicles disrupted the quiet of the resort. The resort’s security team met them, and together we embarked on the solemn journey to the site where Mister Deacon’s life had met its untimely end.

We navigated through the darkness, guided only by flashlights and the moon’s feeble glow. We trod cautiously through the night, the cool breeze whispering through the leaves, and the nocturnal sounds of the wilderness underscoring the gravity of our mission.

In the inky darkness we followed the police and security team, our senses heightened by the unknown dangers lurking in the shadows. The rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath our feet was the only audible sound, a stark contrast to the unsettling silence that enveloped us.

As we ventured further, the distant calls of nocturnal creatures echoed through the night, a reminder of the wild landscape surrounding us. To safeguard against potential dangers, five additional security personnel with bush knowledge accompanied us, their watchful eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of wildlife.

The moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds, intermittently casting a spectral glow on the path ahead. The scene was surreal, the solemn procession moving through the African night, led by the stark beams of flashlights cutting through the darkness.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we reached the spot, a desolate clearing about a kilometre away from the resort. The air felt heavy with the weight of the tragedy that unfolded here. The police began their investigation, and Melanie, though visibly affected, remained composed, her determination to uncover the truth evident in every pose she struck and action she took.

The night held its secrets, and under its shroud, we stood united in the pursuit of answers, surrounded by the symphony of the African night and the weight of an unsolved mystery.

The moonlight barely illuminated the surroundings as we stood by the rocky shore of the lake where Mister Deacon’s kayak should have been. However, there was no sign of it. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the lake waters against the rocks, creating a melancholic rhythm in the night.

The absence of the kayak heightened the mystery, suggesting that something had transpired on the tranquil waters of the lake. The day had been calm and sunny, eliminating the possibility of a freak wave capsizing the kayak. It was a serene day, seemingly incongruent with the notion of turbulent waters claiming Mister Deacon.

While unspoken, the assumption lingered that an opportunistic crocodile might have been involved. The absence of the kayak, coupled with the proximity to the water, raised the possibility. However, doubts gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I refrained from voicing them at that stage.

Crocodiles typically attack their prey in the water or launch themselves from the water towards the prey on land. The circumstances of Mister Deacon’s death did not align with these typical crocodile hunting behaviours. A crocodile dragging someone from inside a kayak on the water seemed improbable.

The eerie stillness of the night cast a surreal atmosphere. The moon intermittently peeked through the clouds, offering brief glimpses of the rocky shore. The lake, usually a source of serenity, now harboured the unsettling mystery of Mister Deacon’s fate.

As the police initiated their investigation, security personnel with flashlights in hand scanned the surroundings for any clues that might shed light on the inexplicable event. Melanie maintained a composed exterior, though the distress in her eyes betrayed inner turmoil.

The night held its secrets tightly and left us standing by the enigmatic waters, grappling with the uncertainty of Mister Deacon’s fate. The assumed scenario of a crocodile attack lingered, but the calm day and the absence of evidence challenged the conventional explanations. In the depths of that night, the lake remained a silent witness to a puzzle that refused to unravel.

Despite the denim and long-sleeved top, Melanie stood shivering in the clearing. Her adrenaline and the stress of today’s events added to the cooling night air’s effects and seemed to pierce through even the most resilient layers of clothing. I sensed her discomfort, and risking a potential rebuff, gently draped my arm across her shoulders.

To my surprise, instead of the expected shrug-off, she leaned into my side, she placed her left hand lightly on my chest. The cold air seemed to dissipate as her shivering lessened, replaced by a shared warmth beneath the moonlit sky. Together, we stood in silent solidarity, observing as the police and security personnel meticulously went about gathering clues in the haunting scene.

As we watched them work, Melanie’s subtle weight against my side communicated a silent connection, a shared anchor amid the unsettling unknown. Even as the night held its secrets, our shared presence offered a small refuge against the chilling atmosphere that enveloped us. The clearing became a tableau of shared concern, where unspoken words and the quiet gestures of solidarity spoke louder than any investigation could.

“How can a crocodile just take him off his kayak?” Melanie murmured. Of course, she was a vet and knew the behaviour of crocodiles.

“I had the same thought. What happened to Mister Deacon happened out on the lake,” I whispered.

“I am with you on that,” Mel whispered back.

“Let’s wait for the police to conclude their on-site investigation, and then we can go back to the resort,” I replied.

“I need to go do something...”

“What?”

“Too much coffee and drinks tonight...”

“Oh...”

“I know this area well. I’ll just walk up the shore a bit and duck behind a tree,” She giggled and broke away from me.

“And risk a crocodile taking you as well?”

“Crocs don’t feed at night.”

“And if you walk into a hippo?”

“I’ll know how to avoid them.”

“I’m coming along.”

“Oh well, if you have to! But you won’t see anything, pervert!”

“First a doofus and now a pervert. Make up your mind!”

“Oh, come on then! If I don’t go now, I’ll contaminate the scene...”

Together we walked into the bush with the dark night folding over us, and she extracted a powerful flashlight from her pocket and switched it on.

“Just so we can see where we’re going. But I’ll soon switch it off.”

“I promise I’ll even keep my eyes closed, and you’ll anyway be behind the tree...”

“There’s puff-adders, night-adders, and the occasional boomslang around,” Mel smirked, referring to the local tree snakes.

“In the dark, I wouldn’t see them until it’s too late.”

“Then stay in the safety of the clearing.”

“No.”

Giggle.

“Anyway, with the adder family of snakes, I’ll take my chances. They have cytotoxic venom and if one spikes me we could walk to the nearest medical clinic and still be okay. It’s the boomslang with its fast-acting hemotoxin venom,” I mumbled my little bush knowledge.

“It stops the blood from clotting, and you die of internal and external bleeding,” she admonished and looked over her shoulder at me. “But lucky for you, I have the antivenom in my practice.”

“Lucky for me? What if the snake bites you instead of me?”

“I’ll be lucky too ... Okay, here we are. Now close your eyes and turn the other way.”

“But you’ll be behind that big tree...”

“I’m just making sure...”

“Oh, Mel! Just get a move on!”