Instinct

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Boone was sick of waiting. He took one last drag of his hand-rolled cigarette, inhaling the pungent smoke deep into his ravaged lungs, before exhaling with a death-watch beetle rasp, then flicked the minute butt over the side of the boat into the muddy river. It extinguished with a tiny ‘ phtt ’. A fish, believing it to be a fly on the surface, rose quickly and took it, but spat it out in disgust.

Boone hunched the collar of his battered flying jacket up around his ears and thumbed open the tobacco tin that contained another dozen or so pre-prepared filterless roll-ups. He selected one, closed the tin and tapped each end of the cigarette flat on the lid, and lit it with a disposable lighter. This was the fourth in the present chain.

As he blew out the smoke he tilted his head upwards and looked at the African sky which was becoming increasingly leaden. Thick black clouds moved ominously in from the west, laden with moisture, and the wind had started to build. Boone scowled as the first big spat of rain slapped on to his forehead.

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