Jackal's Dance (16 page)

‘Oh for God's sake, I was joking. You deal with it. But I want the front half.'

Through their respective representatives, Felicity and Martin went head-to-head over the small issues while bigger ones went through uncontested, although Felicity made damned sure that the lion's share went to her. She found within herself an unexpected capacity for retributory nitpicking. It drove The Turd nuts. She was actually having a bloody good time at his expense. Sweetly agreeing, ‘Of course he can have the Mercedes, it's his car after all,' Felicity dug her toes in over Martin's precious and much-prized collection of classical music. She had plans for those old 78s, collector's items or not. They would make excellent clay-pigeons for target practice. They had too, and
Felicity posted the pieces she could find to Martin's office.

Temporary insanity, triggered by a sense of humiliation, had made Felicity Honeywell the nearly ex-wife from hell. She knew it, but was having too much fun to stop. Seventeen years of turning a blind eye to The Turd's numerous indiscretions – now she wanted blood.

With the legal wrangling all but complete – Martin got the dog but only because Felicity knew his secretary bred Siamese cats and Fido detested felines with a fervour bordering on psychotic – Felicity decided it was time to grow up again. Her attention turned back to the immediate future and the question of a novel.

Scanning a Sunday newspaper she'd noticed an advertisement for Etosha National Park. ‘Why not treat yourself? Get into the bush and clear your head? Wipe the slate and start again?' Without thinking it through she booked a flight, hire car and accommodation. Five days. Within that time she expected to make a decision. In five short days she might veer off into another creative genre, though God knows which, or she might stop writing altogether. No. Not quite. Words burned in her head and she had to put them on paper. The thought of never writing again was too frightening to contemplate.

A faster vehicle pulled out and overtook her. She wasn't sure, but its driver looked like the man she'd nearly run over.

Philip Meyer glanced at the blonde as he swept past. It was the woman who had nearly backed into him at the airport. She drove casually, arm resting on the open window, left hand low on the steering wheel. Head back, not fussed by the wind in her short cropped hair. Philip liked windswept women almost as much as he approved of those who got their hair wet when they swam.

Sue had never put her head under water. She swam in a ridiculous sideways doggy-paddle, neck stretched out, head sticking up, like a seal searching for land. Philip smiled. Hair had been her only vanity. Everybody should be allowed at least one.

Philip pressed down on the accelerator and his vehicle pulled away.
Attractive
, he thought. The notion surprised him. He hadn't really noticed anyone in that way since Sue died.

This would be Philip's third trip to Etosha. The first without his wife. A nostalgic tracing of the past to see how it affected him. A test of how far he'd come over the past twenty months. An author's mind had to probe emotion, even if it was his own. Philip knew what he was doing. He was drawn to extremes, fascinated by the workings of hearts and minds. How ordinary people reacted to extraordinary circumstances had always intrigued him. And since he was prepared to explore other people's pain, he could not shirk examining his own, no matter how much it hurt.

Sue had loved Namibia. She should have been with him now, devouring the scenery, excitedly anticipating that at any moment something wild
would come into view. On her first visit she expressed disappointment that elephants and lion were nowhere to be seen.

‘This is cattle country,' Philip had explained, smiling at her enthusiasm. ‘The popular concept that Africa is crawling with wild animals is a bit over-the-top. Once was, but not any more. These days you won't see much outside the reserves.'

‘Oh.' She had been dismayed. ‘Like in zoos?'

Philip laughed. ‘If you like to call twenty thousand square kilometres a zoo, then yes.'

‘It's just that I thought . . .'

‘That you'd see lion walking down the main street of Windhoek?'

‘No.' She hit his arm playfully. ‘Of course not.'

‘Let me put it this way, darling. You stand as much chance of seeing elephants on someone's farm as you do of being hit on the head by a stray boomerang in Australia. Don't worry, though. You'll see plenty of game in Etosha.'

She did. And fell in love with Africa. ‘How could you bear to leave all this?'

Philip was South African. Like so many of his countrymen, he'd emigrated to Australia some twenty years earlier as a kind of personal protest against the government's policy of apartheid. He could see that if change ever did come it was still a long way off with a lot more suffering still ahead. He'd met Sue shortly after arriving in her country. They married and settled in Sydney. Philip's first book, published a few years later, was an instant success. He gave up his job as a journalist and
became a full-time author, contracted to one new book a year. Taking on Australian citizenship, Philip was perfectly happy in his adopted country.

Their first trip to Etosha had been Sue's idea. She wanted to see Africa. Philip was reluctant to visit South Africa, having heard reports that the level of violence had changed his country of birth beyond recognition. However, he did agree that his wife should experience Africa at least once. So they settled on Namibia.

‘I never said this continent wasn't special,' he'd said in response to her question. ‘But it has a lot of problems and I'm happy where I am.'

Sue found the lump on her left breast shortly after they returned home. A biopsy confirmed their worst fears. A radical mastectomy and six months of chemotherapy followed, but the cancer had already spread to her bone marrow. When it became obvious that Sue would not recover, she told Philip that if there was one thing she wanted, it was another look at Etosha. Two months after that second trip, Sue was dead.

Philip shifted his thoughts back to the present. He wondered if his friend Dan Penman was still at Logans Island. He hoped so. They'd found a sort of kindred spirit. Well, they certainly shared the same spirit. Two bottles of J&B, if Philip remembered correctly. A litre and a half of Scotland's finest and the drunken, weeping revelation burst from him that his wife was dying of cancer.

The alcohol released a need to tell someone. Of all the people it might have been, Dan seemed an
odd choice. A total stranger who didn't say much and gave the impression of being a loner. But Philip, as an observer of human nature, his mind liberated of everything but instinct, sensed he'd never meet a better person in whom to confide all those things he kept hidden inside. He dumped it all on Dan – the fear, anger, pain, sense of betrayal, wishing it were over, dying inside himself as Sue grew thinner and weaker, hating her for being vulnerable, despising himself for feeling that way. And above all, he spoke of the loneliness that had settled around his heart, a dull ache, even though he was not yet alone.

Dan heard him out in absolute silence. When Philip was finally empty of words, all he said was, ‘I had someone taken from me once, a long time ago. I know what you're going through.'

It was all Philip needed to hear. Someone understood.

Dan's understanding was a kind of sharing. Even though they lived in different worlds, Philip drew strength from the friendship. It helped him through those last few terrible weeks. He sent Dan a note telling him that Sue had finally given up the fight. He received no reply. He hadn't expected one.

Grief manifests itself in such unpredictable ways. Philip hadn't cried at the funeral, hadn't cried when he returned to the silent house. He'd waited a couple of weeks then gone through her clothes and personal possessions with almost clinical detachment. Mid-book when Sue died, he got
straight back into writing, into another world. It was a typical Philip Meyer – a rollicking tale of the West Australian goldfields, of intrigue, lust, hate and love. Without even being aware that it was happening, his characters developed a depth he'd never found the necessity for in the past. Philip was passing on his grief through the people he was creating. Eight months ago, on a final re-read of the manuscript before sending it to his agent, Philip's pent-up emotions surfaced. He suffered with his creations, their sorrows became his.

A sensitive and intelligent man, Philip could see what had happened. He debated whether to post the manuscript or destroy it. He posted it. His publisher was elated. ‘You've entered a whole new phase, Philip. This is movie material. Best yet. It goes further than any of the others. It's brilliant.'

Philip knew he would never reach so deep inside himself again, but he said nothing. The book was scheduled for release in another month. Prepublication hype had retailers eagerly awaiting the latest Philip Meyer. Literary critics who received advance reading copies were already seeking press, radio and television interviews to coincide with the launch date. They were raving about it.

Instead of taking his usual break while the manuscript went through the editing process, Philip had only allowed himself a week before starting work on the next novel. The raw emotion that emerged in his writing after Sue died scared him. Something different was needed. And so he decided to set the new book in Africa. The location would also give
him a legitimate excuse to travel there for research. He'd already created a swashbuckling, hairy-chested, seemingly indefatigable hero, a haughty, smell-like-lavender, never-go-to-the-toilet heroine, and a set of circumstances guaranteed to throw them into danger often enough to defy the laws of physics and still come up with an essential outcome of human chemistry. Working six to seven hours a day, six days a week, the story had romped along. And now, here he was, on his way to Etosha to finetune a few facts. So why was he thinking that a woman who had bloody nearly run him over was actually quite attractive?

He wondered if she too was heading for Etosha. The vast game reserve had five different camps at least seventy kilometres apart so, even if she were, the chances of bumping into her were fairly remote. Philip was going to his favourite, Logans Island, which, along with the usual pool, bar and restaurant, offered five-star accommodation with all modern conveniences.

How did he feel about finding a complete stranger attractive? The question was examined as honestly as he knew how. Grief, Philip concluded, doesn't make you blind. But it most certainly does impose restraint on your actions. And for why? Guilt? Like, your dearly loved departed one cares? Get real! No, what it comes down to is the expectations of others. What others? Sue's parents? My agent and publisher? A few friends? They're all a long way from here. So what's really holding you back?

It suddenly hit Philip that his reluctance to explore the possibility of a relationship with someone else might have something to do with fear. A reluctance to let go. As if sharing intimacy with another woman could cause Sue to slip from the proximity of his memories. He wasn't ready for that. Sue had been gone for nearly two years. At forty-two and extremely fit, Philip had perfectly normal sexual needs. When the urges became too strong to ignore, he simply relieved himself and went about his day. The idea of being with a woman for the same purpose would have meant cheating on Sue. Philip had always needed to like a partner before anything physical occurred between them. As a younger man, his friends had called him picky. But it wasn't that. As far as he was concerned, the sexual act was such an intimate thing that the thought of indulging in it with a woman he felt nothing for held no appeal. Philip was happy with who and what he was. He saw no need to be one of the boys and chase after anything in a skirt. Now, for the first time since he'd been alone, some unknown blonde had stirred his interest. Perhaps he was being just a shade wimpish?

Nature called. He pulled to the side and left the vehicle. Not bothering to move far, Philip turned his back to the road. Sue had been amused on her first visit to Africa that it was such a common sight. ‘Must be a handy thing to have on a picnic,' she said, giggling. ‘It's alright for you blokes. What are we supposed to do?'

‘Squat.'

‘Oh yes. Where?' She'd flung out a hand at the flat, treeless landscape.

‘Behind the car.'

In desperation, she'd done just that. Sod's law prevailed. Three cars, a truck and a bus had passed while Sue, helpless to do anything else, huddled against the car with knickers and shorts around her knees.

Philip heard the vehicle. He knew it would be driven by the blonde. It was. The white Rav 4 swept past just as he zipped his fly. Its horn sounded three times. Philip grinned. If he kept behind her he might be able to repay the compliment.

T
he tuskless female elephant shifted weight off her bad leg and trumpeted in shrill protest as a wave of pain rolled all the way up to her shoulder. It had been getting worse for the past four days and was now so intense that she'd lost all interest in food. She stood slightly apart from the rest of the herd, as was her habit. Thirty-seven years of bullying sustenance from others meant she was tolerated as a family member but not popular. Some quirky aberration of genetics had denied her the ability to produce ivory. She could function, although not as well as the others, but without tusks her choice of food was severely limited. Bark and roots, two important staples of a normal diet, needed assistance to prise off or dig up. If she wanted to eat them, the only way was to steal them.

Over the years these tactics had made the cow increasingly aggressive. She tolerated no other animal anywhere near her immediate family group. Never particularly fond of vehicles, in the past her displeasure had always been demonstrated from a distance. In recent months, however, she had adopted a more confrontational approach. Alien
fuel fumes, mixed with the scent of humans, for some reason infuriated the elephant to such an extent that at the first sound of an engine she would shuffle towards it, tossing her head and flapping both ears. If the demonstration was dismissed as a mere display, the vehicle's occupants soon learned that this elephant was not kidding. Several tourists had reported near misses. The frequency of these attacks had increased to such an extent that the Department of Nature Conservation, after much prevarication, reluctantly took a decision to declare the cow a rogue. She was to be destroyed before she killed someone. The word went out. Veterinarians, rangers, research teams and park officials were to report any sightings. Always mindful of their public image, the elephant could only be put down if she was well away from where tourists might witness such a distressing event.