‘He’s shivering,’ Piet said. ‘Look, we have to keep him awake. He mustn’t go into shock. There’s an airstrip at the Murrays’. Maybe they can get lights and take him to Nairobi tonight.’

‘Lars? Lars, open your eyes. Say something to me, heh? This will not be good, but you’re a brave boy.’ Hannah realised how foolish the words sounded, directed at a man whose face was beaded with sweat, and whose every breath was an intake of pain and nausea. She washed the area around the entry hole of the bullet, and made a tight wad from one of the towels, pressing it as hard as she could into the wound to stem the bleeding. He gave a cry, and Hannah bent to press her lips against his forehead. Then she bound his shoulder and chest tightly, making soothing noises as a mother would with a sick child.

The first-aid box was still in Hannah’s bathroom and Sarah began a frantic search through its contents. ‘Morphine – I suppose we need that. And sedatives.’

Camilla sat on a stool in front of the washbasin, trying to stop the blood trickling from her forehead. She pressed a band of gauze over the long gash, but her hands were shaking and she could not position it. She bent down suddenly and vomited into the bowl beside her.

‘Lie down and don’t move.’ Sarah helped her into Hannah’s bed. ‘Here’s a clean dressing. Hold it over the cut and keep up the pressure, so the bleeding will stop. And stay very quiet for the time being. There’s nothing you can do out there. Piet and Hannah are looking after Lars. And Simon will be back soon with help. Just lie still.’

‘Is Lars going to be all right?’

‘I hope so. He’s still losing blood and he’s pretty much in shock. We can’t tell what the damage is, but I’d say we need to get him to a hospital fast.’ Sarah went to the sitting room with the medicine.

Camilla lay back on the bed, stroking the soft fur of Hannah’s kaross, to drive away the fear that had her in a stranglehold and would not let go. The cut was bad. She knew it would have to be stitched. It would leave a scar across her forehead. A scar that could ruin her face and maybe put paid to her modelling career. Plastic surgery. Did anyone do that in Nairobi, or would she have to fly straight back to London? But it wasn’t important for now. What mattered was that they were alive. She tried to calm herself and to rest, but the reek of violence and blood filled her nostrils. She could still see the men bursting into the sitting room, and the flash of the blade as it hurtled towards her eyes. A helpless terror had invaded her when the first shot rang out and she had believed that Piet was dead, and she could not prevent her legs from shaking as she lay on the bed. But Piet was not dead, and she said a prayer of thanks for each one of them. For a time she tried to lie still, until her head was no longer spinning and she believed that the bleeding had stopped. Then she sat up slowly. It would be better to be with the others in the sitting room. She did not want to be alone here. She never wanted to be alone again for the rest of her life.