Major Bruton’s Safari
Artificial Intelligence and Original Versions AI Version – first and original second – see below and here is the link.
The A I Draft – Chapter One – Reste Corner
I woke up in the room I shared with Major Bruton, the first rays of sunshine struggling through the slats of the wooden shutters. My bed was far too small, and my back ached. I glanced enviously at the Major’s large double bed, which lay between me and the window. It was empty.
Perhaps I could stretch out there for a bit. Surely, he wouldn’t mind if I slipped under the sheets just for an hour, would he? I had spent the night curled up like a cat, my legs unable to stretch without dangling over the edge.
Bruton had arrived two days before me and claimed the bigger bed. He had also booked the room, and the one next door had only two small beds. The only other option was an old sofa in the sitting room—uncomfortable even to sit on. But I was too exhausted to care.
Despite my cramped position and aching back, I was warm and cosy under my blanket.
The mattress was too soft, but after years of sleeping slumped in chairs, I knew I had no real reason to complain. An eight-hour flight from London to Entebbe, followed by a late night of whisky, had drained me. I rolled over and faced the cupboard, where my few possessions hung from wire hangers or remained in my flight bag.
Bruton was older, larger, and Cambridge-educated—wiser, too. I would be relying on him a lot over the next month if I made it through. Intelligence deserves a certain privilege, I reasoned.
Yet, tempting as his empty bed was, I couldn’t bring myself to crawl into it. The boss was awake and up, so I should be, too. But I was too tired to care.
I could have dozed all day if not for the hunger gnawing at my stomach. My last meal had been lunch—yesterday. With a groan, I threw back the sheet. The room was warm, the sun brightening the space through the slats. No more excuses.
The windows were pinned open, but the air was still. I wondered what time it was as I dragged myself out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s jeans and a dark blue linen shirt. Enough to cover my modesty around my roommates. My used underwear had already been stuffed into a duty-free bag, awaiting a boil-wash at home.
It was breakfast time in my stomach but night-time in my head.
Jet lag left me wandering like a dreamer.
I knew there was a towel in the bathroom, and a shower was my top priority—before food, before even coffee. I had learned long ago that hot coffee and a sleepy disposition didn’t mix, and neither did half-asleep eating unless I wanted to bite my tongue.
Nicotine withdrawal was also creeping in, but I preferred to wait for my first cigarette of the day. I found clean jeans, socks, underwear, and a polo shirt for after my shower.
When I opened the door, the sound of running water greeted me. Pip had beaten me to it. There was nothing for it but to head to the sitting area and have that cigarette.
My pack of Prince Filters was right where I had left it. There were enough cigarettes inside to reassure me. Running out was always a problem. The malt bottle and empty glasses from the night before still sat on the table, alongside an ashtray overflowing with Marlboro, Prince, and cigar butts.
The window had been left open to air the room, allowing a warm, clean breeze to drift in. The faint scent of stale cigars hung in the air, but it was preferable to stale cigarettes.
I tossed my clean clothes onto the empty chair next to the sofa and sprawled into the armchair by the window, cigarette and lighter in hand.
Just as the flame touched paper, Duncan walked in, similarly dressed. No socks, no shoes—also waiting for his turn in the bathroom.
“Morning, Duncan,” I said cheerily.
Mornings suited me. I had met Duncan only a few times, but I knew him well enough not to say, “good morning.” He would only ask what was good about it.
“Is it really?” distractedly drawled Duncan, “Feels like the middle of the night. Either I’m in Norway, or I had too much malt last night.”
Duncan’s affectation made it clear he wanted you to believe his mind was elsewhere—like a nobleman casually discussing domestic affairs with his servant while secretly preoccupied with his evening’s plans.
Handsome, in a carelessly unkempt way, Duncan was tall, thin, and perpetually dishevelled. His hair was always uncombed, giving the distinct impression that grooming—or eating—was beneath him.
Yet, despite his apparent disregard for personal upkeep, he was waiting for the shower, a small nod to his cleanliness. He only ate enough to survive, preferring to keep life minimal.
“I still feel a bit groggy myself,” I admitted, half sheepishly. “But it’s more jet lag than the whisky.”
I paused, knowing full well that the whisky had played a far bigger role in my state than I cared to admit. It was the only thing that had allowed me to pass out in the child’s bed I’d ended up in the night before.
“I believe you,” Duncan drawled, his tone dripping with irony. He was a master of sarcasm, not to insult, but to amuse. His words never meant what they seemed to—everything was delivered with the intent of doing the opposite. Had he taken a different path in life, he’d have made an excellent secondary school teacher, but instead, antiques had called to him after years of acting.
The original version –
I collapsed into bed at 3 a.m., banana liqueur humming in my veins. The crisp linen promised solace, but the room whispered of unseen threats—lizards skittering in shadows, spiders knitting nightmares in corners. The mosquito net was my lone ally against the island’s six-legged insurgents.
Fleming’s Doctor No haunted me—that fatal millipede in Bond’s sheets. I tucked the netting tight, a flimsy barricade against nature’s trespassers. Strange how Kampala’s urban dangers felt distant here, though the jungle pressed closer than ever.
The generator’s growl tore me from sleep. Grey storm-light bled through the shutters. I showered hastily, hyperaware of every bathroom crevice—lizard check, spider scan—before surrendering to the hot water’s embrace.
The veranda buzzed with excitement. Through the pillars, Lake Victoria stretched like hammered pewter beneath a bruised sky. The isthmus melted into mist, while the storm-kissed jungle glowed emerald, leaves quivering with pent-up rain.
The lawn looked as immaculately manicured as ever.
“Look at those black clouds,” Aubrey exclaimed.
Rolling in from the west were massive, ominous cumulonimbus clouds. Within moments, fat droplets of rain began to splatter the ground.
“Innocent, the cook, says it rains every day to water the plants,” Matilda announced matter-of-factly.
As she spoke, two bolts of lightning streaked down, striking the surface of the lake in rapid succession.
“Oh, my Lord,” Pip gasped. “The bathing things are still on the line!”
As if on cue, the heavy wooden doors of the lodge slammed shut, caught by a sudden gust of wind. The keys clattered to the floor. I stooped to pick them up, slid them back into the lock, but left the doors closed against the rising storm.
“Washday blues,” Duncan quipped, watching Pip break into a sprint toward the washing line beside the outbuilding.
The sky was bleeding into the lake now, the horizon blurred into a seamless mass of mist and water. I was admiring the scene until I suddenly remembered—my swimsuit was on that line, too. Without a second thought, I darted after Pip, yanking trunks and swimsuits off their pegs.
“I’ll grab your bathers, Duncan—unless you’d like to come fetch them yourself?” I called.
“That’s very kind of you,” he replied, watching from the dry safety of the veranda as Pip and I got utterly drenched.
“Pleasure,” I shot back, shoving the last of the clothes under my arm and dashing after Pip into the shelter of the canopy.
My crisp white shirt and fresh black Levi 501s were already soaked through. We hung the dripping swimwear over the wooden rail at the front of the veranda, and I shivered as the damp fabric clung to my skin. Duncan, ever composed, handed Pip and I towels to dry our hair.
They are blobs, aren’t they?” I smiled, wiping the rain from my face with the sleeve of my shirt.
“The sky is still meshing with the lake, and the rain is still falling in blobs,” Duncan reported in a deliberately bored tone. He pointed at Aubrey and Ollie. “Blob and Mesh—that’s what I’ll call these two. The Adventures of Blob and Mesh.”
Sam and Matilda had taken seats nearby, but the younger boys remained standing, fidgeting with restless energy.
“There’s steam coming from the barbecue,” Pip noted.
The embers from last night’s cooking still glowed faintly. We had feasted on barbecued fish and chicken, watching the cook as he worked by the veranda.
“Good thing it didn’t rain then, or we’d have been stuck with just vegetables for supper,” Duncan mused without even bothering to glance at the smouldering coals.
Just then, a flash of sheet lightning split the sky—an electric pulse that momentarily illuminated the heavy, grey-black clouds. The brightness faded as quickly as it came, leaving the landscape in a deeper gloom.
The greens had darkened; the rain-drenched leaves no longer glistened. Even the four white pillars on the stoop, usually pristine and grand in their American colonial style, seemed dulled, their fresh paint muted by the dim light. The furniture, too, appeared older, its colours deepened by the storm.
And yet, it was a beautiful sight.
“Everything is really meshed now,” Duncan announced.
“Or merged. Or blurred,” I offered.
“Every time we talk, we miss the lightning forks,” Matilda complained, glancing toward the sky, impatient for another burst of energy.
The flower beds had turned to mud, their once-solid earth dissolving in the downpour. On either side of the steps, two terracotta pots overflowed, their drenched soil spilling onto the veranda. Water gushed from the gutters above, cascading down in twisting streams. The wind had shifted, sending the rain bouncing off the wooden floor, spattering against the white plastic tabletop. The swimming costumes, already damp, were now completely soaked—but no one cared anymore.
“The line between the lake and sky has gone beyond meshing,” Pip murmured. “It’s disappeared.”
“No, the sky has mushed,” Duncan countered.
At that moment, a roll of thunder tore through the air. A deep, resonant clap that seemed to suck the breath from our lungs. The sound wasn’t just heard—it was felt, vibrating through my chest like the shockwave of an explosion or the pulse of high-wattage speakers at full blast.
For a moment, we were all silent, instinctively counting the seconds between thunder and the next bolt of lightning.
Fifteen seconds passed.
No lightning.
Just the storm, carrying on, reshaping the world around us.
off, Duncan and the children stood watching the landscape shift before their eyes. The thin finger of the isthmus was slowly dissolving into the mist.
“I’ve got to move because of the rain blobs,” Duncan announced grandly, flinging himself into a chair with theatrical flair. Ennui was his specialty—he did it with style.
“The island’s disappearing!” Matilda cried.
“Before you say it—yes, it’s almost gone,” Duncan pre-empted.
“It saw you, Duncan. You’re so ugly, it ran away,” she fired back, sweet as poisoned honey, her eyes glinting with newly acquired Duncan-esque mischief.
The rain intensified, hammering the veranda’s roof like a snare drum. Beyond our shelter, the world dissolved into grey—only the bay remained visible, the isthmus reduced to a ghostly knuckle. The downpour’s roar made conversation a shouting match.
We dragged the table further undercover, wiping it down for Innocent as he arrived with a fresh cloth and breakfast announcements. The children set places with the efficiency of seasoned waiters while we adults towelled off chairs, grateful for dry seats.
Innocent delivered stacks of plates, followed by the cavalry: crisp bacon, golden eggs, and coffee dark as the storm clouds. After last night’s excesses, the greasy spread was salvation.
“At least the mosquitoes took the night off,” Pip sighed, displaying his battle-scarred arms.
“And the snoring,” Duncan added, rolling his eyes like a Shakespearean tragedian.
“And the moaning!” Pip shot back, good-naturedly.
Duncan leaned in; eyes wide. “Though I did worry about poisonous spiders…” The children froze mid-bite.
“Like in James Bond!” Aubrey gasped.
“Actually,” I adjusted, “Fleming used a black millipede in the book. Far more—”
“Dr. No was a book?” Aubrey interrupted.
“Indeed. And the millipede was as venomous as you,” I assured him.
“Huck Finn kisses mosquitoes,” Matilda announced, juice glass poised like a royal sceptre.
Duncan’s eyebrow arched toward his hairline. “Does he now?”
“I told you that in confidence,” I muttered into my coffee.
“Uncle Doodle told us,” Matilda clarified, demolishing a triangle of fried bread with the focus of a food critic.
And there we were—Duncan and I, rebranded as “Doodle” and “Huck Finn” by juvenile decree—could’ve been Mississippi river rats plotting fence-painting scams or dodging the legendary Injun Joe. The storm raged, the coffee steamed, and for a moment, childhood’s timeless magic hung thick as the tropical air.
“How long does the storm last?” Aubrey asked, carving another slice of bacon and dipping it into his fried egg before slowly lifting it to his mouth.
“Three days,” Duncan declared, sounding utterly unimpressed as he helped himself to another coffee.
He looked as though he was just waiting for the moment, he could light up another Marlboro Light, fling himself into a comfortable chair, and resume his carefully cultivated ennui. The necessity of eating merely interrupted the performance.
“It’s almost done,” Innocent assured us with a warm smile, placing a plate of fresh toast on the table alongside a new jug of juice. The children brightened at his words.
“How long does a storm last?” Ollie echoed, eyeing Duncan sceptically. Even at his age, he knew better than to take his uncle’s pronouncements at face value.
He wasn’t eating much, despite Pip having cut up his food for him. Instead, he absently toyed with a piece of toast, his appetite seemingly lost in the grey morning.
“How long is a piece of string?” Pip quipped, thoroughly enjoying the leisurely pace of breakfast and the rare, uninterrupted time with family. He reached for the toast, buttering a slice with deliberate indulgence.
“It’s finished when the owner says so,” Duncan said cryptically.
“Does it rain in Como?” Matilda asked, suddenly shifting the subject. She had been promised the next summer holiday in the Italian lakes, and she was determined to ensure her days wouldn’t be ruined by bad weather.
“Does it rain on the road to Dumbville?” Duncan countered.
“Where’s that?” Matilda asked, feigning curiosity. She knew exactly where this was going but wasn’t about to let him have the last word—something he expected and usually got.
“You’re riding pillion to Dumbville,” Duncan smirked, finishing his coffee before refilling his cup, his smile daring her to come up with a response.
“What’s a pillion?” she asked, all innocence, though her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Riding shotgun,” I suggested helpfully.
The drinking from the night before had given me a hearty appetite. I wanted my two eggs and three strips of bacon as much as the next person. As Innocent arrived with the food, conversation momentarily paused while we adults served the children, ensuring equal portions of eggs, bacon, fried bread, and sausages, along with ample toast, marmalade, and full glasses of juice.
Only after the children had finished did Duncan, Pip, and I finally fill our own plates, indulging in the comforting spread of fried food.
The previous evening’s drinking had sharpened our appetites, but after such a large lunch, a lighter meal would have sufficed. Still, when Innocent arrived with our breakfast, none of us protested.
We sat around the table, taking in the wonderful spread—crisp bacon, grilled to perfection; fried eggs with sun-yellow yolks, firm yet perfectly runny; beautifully browned sausages; and golden fried bread.
“What’s riding shotgun?” Matilda asked, starting on her fried bread before tackling her bacon and eggs, which Duncan had served her. She spoke in between mouthfuls, ever the polite girl. Aubrey, however, wasn’t always so careful about finishing his bite before speaking.
“I have a poem for you, Matilda,” I announced. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, please, Granny Finn,” she smiled up at me before returning her full attention to her plate.
From Huck Finn to Granny Finn in mere minutes—some things moved quickly in Africa.
I cleared my throat and began to sing:
“Oh, queen of the African plain,
Don’t be such an awful pain,
Pass me the bread and butter,
And stop acting like a nutter.”
“Exactly. Eat your breakfast,” Duncan said, unexpectedly backing me up. Perhaps my lyrical talents had impressed him. He delicately cut into his food, making a show of savouring each bite.
“Did you know the storm is really Uncle Doodle’s farts?” Matilda giggled, unfazed by my performance. She had made far better progress on her plate than Duncan, who seemed to be taking his time.
“Same as in the Land Rover,” Aubrey added helpfully.
Duncan, looking momentarily embarrassed, chose to ignore them. The rest of us decided it was best not to be drawn into a debate with the children.
“I know how to annoy,” Aubrey announced, his breakfast finished, and his energy renewed. He was eager to play, regardless of—or perhaps because of—the fact that the rest of us were still eating and he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the table yet.
“Really?” Duncan arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. His half-finished breakfast sat before him, waiting for his appetite to catch up.
“I know how to annoy you, I know how to annoy you, I know how to annoy you, I know how to annoy you…” Aubrey repeated the phrase in an increasingly high-pitched voice, over and over, like a child’s version of psychological warfare.
The noise was enough to make our ears bleed, but we refused to react. Anthony, Duncan, Pip, and I carried on with our breakfast, determined to hear nothing but the soothing sounds of tropical birdsong.
Pip rose with theatrical fury, breakfast demolished. He circled the table like a shark scenting blood, coming to rest behind Duncan.
“Stop!” he boomed. “Private communiqué for Duncan—silence, please.” He bent low, delivering his stage whisper: “I know how to annoy you.” With a magician’s flourish, he retreated to the veranda edge to light his cigar.
“I know how to annoy you!” Aubrey parroted, seizing the refrain.
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “I know how to rearrange your face.”
“What’s Childline’s number?!” Aubrey yelped.
Duncan pivoted to Matilda. “Mouth full enough?”
“Quite,” she demurred, dabbing her lips.
“Good… Babe.”
“He keeps calling me that,” Matilda groaned.
“Prefer Porgy?” Duncan offered.
“Babe… pig,” Ollie lobbed his grenade.
“Says the mental man,” Duncan fired back.
“You’re mental!” Ollie’s voice cracked mid-retort.
Duncan stood abruptly, pinching Ollie’s arm. “Clutch check. Yep—still defective.”
“Pig.”
“You’re a special breed of moron,” Duncan conceded. “But special’s something.”
“You’re the moron,” Aubrey countered, spearing sausage with a toothpick.
“Exhibit A,” Duncan declared. “Eating breakfast like a raccoon at a kebab stand.”
Aubrey flicked a sausage coin onto Matilda’s plate. “Table tennis rules—one rotation.”
“Enough,” Pip’s cigar traced a warning arc through the air.
Duncan marvelled.
The storm was clearing slowly to the right of the porch, cumulus clouds rolling away from the stoop toward Kampala. The children cleared their plates—and ours—while Pip herded them off to brush their teeth. We lingered to smoke before tackling the dishes.
Andrew emerged once the coast was clear. “How was breakfast?”
“The cooking’s been fab,” Duncan said, exhaling, grateful for the nicotine.
“Delicious,” Pip agreed.
I added, “Especially last night’s fish.”
Pip nodded. “Innocent says they fish at night here—the insects draw them to the surface.”
Duncan grinned. “Pip, the Bill Bryson of the Ugandan Expedition.”
“You coming to the waterfall?”
“Judging by the weather,” Duncan said, “the waterfall’s come to us.” We laughed despite ourselves.
When the rain stopped, we piled into the tractor and Land Rover, rumbling to a clearing just before the path narrowed through savanna grass. Jungle pressed in on both sides, though it had been hacked back ten meters along the track. Twenty minutes in, Aubrey groaned, “I’m thirsty.”
“Are you? I’m hungry. How do you do?” I quipped.
Duncan pointed ahead. “Drink from the waterfall when we get there.”
And it was worth it—spectacular, even if the descent was steep and overgrown. We swam in the pool below, the water sharp and bright, then trudged back for coffee and stories. Too soon, Kampala called us back.
That afternoon, the boat sliced through the gunmetal lake, heedless of other vessels. Fishing canoes—some three times the size of ours—drifted like shadows. Duncan and I perched on the roof, watching the sky press down, a grey-white curtain over the water.
ed: “Why ‘boys’? They’re clearly Samantha, Olivia, Audrey—”
“Shut it!” Aubrey barked in an atrocious Cockney accent.
“Stand clear—emotional leakage imminent,” Duncan deadpanned.
I studied Duncan’s furrowed brow. “You seem troubled.”
“Naturally. I’m marooned at the Island of Misfit Faces.”
“Yours is the worst!” Aubrey howled.
Duncan’s hands descended on the boy’s shoulders. “Let my magic fingers heal you…”
“Dad! He’s strangling me!”
“Looked like a massage from here,” Pip chuckled, smoke curling from his lips.
Duncan released Aubrey with a final whisper: “FB.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Fabio Bozzo. Your new identity.”
The storm was clearing slowly to the right of the porch, cumulus clouds rolling away from the stoop toward Kampala. The children cleared their plates—and ours—while Pip herded them off to brush their teeth. We lingered to smoke before tackling the dishes.
Andrew emerged once the coast was clear. “How was breakfast?”
“The cooking’s been fab,” Duncan said, exhaling, grateful for the nicotine.
“Delicious,” Pip agreed.
I added, “Especially last night’s fish.”
Pip nodded. “Innocent says they fish at night here—the insects draw them to the surface.”
Duncan grinned. “Pip, the Bill Bryson of the Ugandan Expedition.”
“You coming to the waterfall?”
“Judging by the weather,” Duncan said, “the waterfall’s come to us.” We laughed despite ourselves.
When the rain stopped, we piled into the tractor and Land Rover, rumbling to a clearing just before the path narrowed through savanna grass. Jungle pressed in on both sides, though it had been hacked back ten meters along the track. Twenty minutes in, Aubrey groaned, “I’m thirsty.”
“Are you? I’m hungry. How do you do?” I quipped.
Duncan pointed ahead. “Drink from the waterfall when we get there.”
