Wild Spirit Read Online Free

hours ago, we had known no-one.
    â€˜Please, come to our house!’ André insisted. ‘Come tonight – for dinner.’
    â€˜We’d love to,’ I said, ‘but please forgive us – we must rush now.’ We agreed to meet him outside the bank at seven-thirty that evening, shook hands and strode towards the bank. It was six minutes to midday. We half ran through the gate and up the concrete path towards the door, but before we reached it, another voice called out, ‘So you’re from Brisbane?’
    We whirled around. Why was everyone in town with a Brisbane connection converging on this spot now? The speaker was a tall man, tanned, around forty, wearing an open-necked business shirt, tropical slacks and horn-rimmed spectacles. He could have passed for Cary Grant; his clipped speech even carried the hint of an American accent. He stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘I’m Doug Hunt. We lived in Brisbane for three years. Is there something I can do to help?’ By now we were beyond surprise. Anything could happen.
    Win’s face creased into a wry smile. ‘We’re desperate to get into this bank to see whether some money has arrived for us. We were robbed last night and we’ve got no cash.’
    â€˜No problem,’ Doug said, ‘I know the manager personally. Follow me.’
    By the time we discovered this was the wrong bank, it had closed for the three-hour lunchbreak and we still had no money. We waited on tenterhooks as Doug exercised his persuasive powers on the French bank manager to get him to cash our one remaining traveller’s cheque. Eventually, I grasped a small pile of Central African francs, thanked the bank manager in French, and we walked with Doug back out into the street.
    â€˜We’re very grateful,’ I said. ‘It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.’
    â€˜No trouble. You might have difficulty finding the Banque Nationale de Paris though: it’s hidden away at the other end of town. How about I take you there now, then you’ll be right for when it reopens?’
    The bank was on the first floor of a nondescript building. He was right, we’d never have spotted it.
    We’d worked out that Doug was a Kiwi – the vowels gave it away. The chances of meeting a fellow Antipodean in this francophone slice of Equatorial Africa must have been millions to one.
    â€˜What brings you to Gabon, Doug?’ I had him pegged as a professional of some kind.
    â€˜I’m a geologist. I’m running a mineral project up in the mountains.’
    I glanced at Win. I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same: a geologist in the mountains of Equatorial Africa? How romantic was that! Doug seemed reluctant to leave: ‘Look, when you’ve collected your money, why don’t you call around to my office for coffee late this afternoon, and we’ll talk about Brisbane. We loved our life there. I’d be interested to know what it’s like now. Here’s my card – the office address is on it.’
    â€˜We’d love to.’ Win smiled and shook his hand. ‘And thanks again for your help.’
    â€˜Okay. See you then.’
    The card showed Doug was the director of a company called SOMIFER. We stood on the footpath, our heads spinning. In only three hours, we had a network of contacts in the city – people of goodwill, people we could call on for help, people who spoke English. We even had money forfood and a dinner date. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. The whole thing was bizarre. I half-danced back to the van with relief, light-headed from hunger and lack of sleep.
    We drove down to the esplanade and parked on a grass verge under the coconut palms. Thick cloud hung low over the bay, a murky grey with no breaks. We stretched out on the bed in the van and closed our eyes, hoping for sleep while we waited for the town to wake from its three-hour