Jackal's Dance (6 page)

As for Troy and his stupid comments: ‘Hey, Kalila, is that a food store you've got behind you or is it something to hang onto?' She'd joined in the nervous laughter of those who heard the near racist, definitely sexist remark, but inside, Kalila seethed. She'd been present when Troy made an unfortunate reference to Josie about
Kugels
but, without doubt, his insult over the size of her bottom was far worse.

Josie had reacted with anger. Kalila with polite, although false, appreciation. Just one of the confusing differences between black and white. The Jewish girl, because she'd been singled out by Troy for her faith, was one Kalila thought she might befriend. But Josie remained distant. Kalila assumed it was because she didn't like Africans.

Angela seemed friendly enough with everyone, except Troy. There was something else though, which Kalila couldn't quite put a finger on. Playacting perhaps, as though the surface was no reflection of her true self. The Zulu wrote Angela off as two-faced.

So Kalila kept herself aloof and, as a result, was considered to be unfriendly. The others treated her with wary politeness. They knew her father was a politician and black politicians in the new South Africa were generally mistrusted. She was well aware of this attitude, due possibly to resentment, though the country's Truth and Reconciliation
Commission had proved that the previous powers were no different.

Leaving her tent, Kalila zipped it shut and walked towards the fire, ready for another day of simmering resentment.

Fletch stood talking to the professor. The deep red of his thick hair, the translucence of a clear pale skin and startling blue eyes, seemed to take on extra depth as the first rays of sun fell on them. He was, without a doubt, the most interesting-looking of the group, each feature a well-defined, absolute block of colour. His nose sat neat and unobtrusive over well-defined lips. Good-looking, but not flamboyantly so. Fletch had a presence that grew on people, surprising them when they inevitably acknowledged that he was actually quite handsome. The standard red hair and freckles didn't apply – there was not a freckle to be seen. He did have to watch his skin, though. It burned easily and never seemed to go brown. Reasonably tall at just over one hundred and eighty centimetres, well proportioned and extremely fit, if it hadn't been for Fletch's love of the bush he'd probably have turned to professional tennis. He had been good enough and still played a demon game, which kept him the university's number one player and unbeatable in inter-varsity matches.

Fletch was the son every mother dreamed of having. Even-tempered, easygoing, popular, good at school, captain of his house, up to the usual pranks when he was younger but nothing heart-stopping, polite, subtle though seriously funny
sense of humour, athletic. The boy would, his parents knew, marry an acceptable girl and father two healthy children, one of each sex. He would never divorce, do drugs, become an alcoholic, drive recklessly or break the law in any shape or form.

Oh the blindness of besotted parents!

True, Fletch was a nice enough guy. But he certainly wasn't perfect. There was more to Fletch than met the eye. At school, during his final year, he made smoke bombs courtesy of the science laboratory and set them off after lights out in the boarding house showers. The smoke alarms went bananas, the building was hastily evacuated and the fire brigade called. When the cause was discovered, an irate headmaster addressed one hundred or so pyjama-clad boys. ‘If the culprit is found he will be expelled,' thundered the furious man. Fletch, as house captain, was instructed to make inquiries. He did so, then solemnly reported back that he'd been unable to discover who was responsible.

During a formal dinner dance at the neighbouring girls' school, Fletch was found under a hedge in compromising circumstances with one of the girls. Her headmistress, despite the late hour, telephoned his headmaster to report the incident. Luckily the man had a soft spot for Fletch, never believing for one minute that the boy was capable of anything truly dire. In any event, he didn't particularly like the headmistress. She had not been pleased, therefore, when he sourly replied, ‘Half his luck.' There had been a pregnancy scare, discreetly taken care of by the girl's parents, and a warning to
Fletch: ‘For God's sake, boy, wear a condom.' The head's attitude was that boys will be boys and the unfortunate girl had obviously led the lad on. He didn't report the matter to Fletch's parents.

Friends called him a lead-foot because, especially when pissed, he drove like the clappers. Only an occasional pot smoker, Fletch drank to excess whenever he could afford to, partied at the drop of a hat and screwed whenever he got the chance. All in all, a typical university student. Butter did melt in his mouth, he said boo to geese whenever he saw them and the halo perceived by his adoring mum and dad was in dire need of replacement.

For all that, those in authority saw potential and Fletch, despite his best efforts, was regarded as a quiet achiever and a born leader.

The professor had almost finished his briefing. ‘You, Megan, Troy and Kalila make straight for the den. Josie, Angela and I will come in from the west. With luck, the family will be sleeping off breakfast and we can easily trap and immobilise them. Have you got the tranquilliser and ear tags?'

‘Troy has them.'

Eben looked at Troy for confirmation, who nodded.

‘Who has the net?'

‘Me.' Kalila patted her small backpack.

‘Gloves?'

‘I've got them,' Josie said. ‘Five pairs.'

‘Sandwiches?' Eben directed the question to Megan.

‘Packed.'

‘Who's got the tape recorder?'

‘Me.' Fletch held it up. ‘And spare batteries.'

They were eating oranges. The one thing Eben Kruger promised before they left Johannesburg was that they'd all lose weight. Two weeks into the field trip, this proved to be the case. Food was basic, wholesome and adequate – just. No alcohol, barring three bottles of cheap Cape Brandywyn for Eben's
dops.
Bread was baked under a metal bowl covered with hot coals, eaten fresh and warm with no butter. Aside from six pockets of oranges and two each of onions and potatoes, which they'd brought with them – other fresh fruit and vegetables as well as meat were not possible – the team, whether they enjoyed it or not, existed on canned varieties of a tinny flavour and sludgy appearance. Breakfast was tea or coffee, cereal, powdered milk, and oranges to follow. Lunch consisted of roughly made sandwiches using bread from the previous night's baking, spread with corned beef, jam or Marmite. Dinner, the one hot meal, was whatever revolting mix of tinned food the designated chef decided to throw together, along with rice or noodles and more fresh bread.

Their diet, combined with hard physical conditions and days spent sweating in whatever scant shade could be found, fulfilled Eben's promise. All of them had shed a few kilograms.

Angela looked over at Eben, orange juice dripping from her chin. ‘May I stay in camp today please? I'm not feeling too well. Wrong time of the month.'

Josie blushed and looked down at her feet. Angela's frank admission caused her to feel squeamish and she couldn't understand why the others simply kept eating.

‘Sorry.' Eben's voice carried little if any sympathy. ‘No-one, I repeat, no-one is exempt. You'll just have to deal with it.'

‘It's the wrong time for me too, Prof. We could both stay behind.' Troy winked at Fletch.

Some laughed. Josie and Angela didn't. Professor Kruger scowled. ‘It's no joking matter, my boy. Just thank God you're not a woman.' Eben's lack of humour was outstanding in its magnitude. Troy and Fletch had a long-standing bet that Troy could get him to laugh. Fletch thought his money safe. Last year the professor had barely raised an acknowledging, though slightly pained, smile when one of the group complimented him on his lecturing methods.

‘Are we all ready?' Eben was moving away. ‘Right, team. Let's go.'

H
e lay propped on one elbow, looking down at the sleeping woman beside him. In the cold half-light of morning, with make-up clogging pores and fine lines, hair squashed from sleep on one side but standing out on the other, imperfections not revealed in last night's flickering firelight became obvious. Not a bad looker, but her declared forty-three years was in some doubt. Fifty-plus more like. She was snoring slightly and blue-veined eyelids flickered as she slowly surfaced from deep sleep. Bit different from last night's wild cat. ‘Stupid,' he castigated himself. ‘Just plain stupid.' Indeed, it might have been but he knew he'd offend again.

Dan Penman was very well aware of the rules. Guests paying for luxury accommodation were supposed to be off limits. What rubbish! A woman alone who booked into Etosha's showpiece lodge on Logans Island had two possible objectives. To be shown the park's animals by a ranger, or to seek out the animal in her ranger. Or both, which was often the case.

All the other lodges in the vast game reserve
operated on a self-drive basis. About five years ago the government had identified a need for professionally run game drives and Logans Island Lodge had been built to cater for just that. Tourists could still drive themselves if they wished, providing they had a suitable vehicle. But more often than not, visitors, especially those from beyond Africa, preferred to see the game with a ranger. It was proving both popular and profitable.

Logans Island, like the four other accommodation areas in Etosha, also provided a secure and well-equipped camp site. Those who used this facility were free to avail themselves of some of the amenities offered by the lodge but, for some reason, the anti-fraternisation rule for rangers didn't extend to campers. Whoever drew up the regulations clearly felt that while it was okay to lech after tourists in tents, those paying top dollar to stay at the lodge would not take kindly to services of a sexual nature. In Dan's experience, it was usually the other way around. Campers were usually fresh-faced youngsters in healthy relationships of their own. Sexual success, as a general rule of thumb, came from the bored, wealthy or cynical. In any event, what was a man supposed to do when a client came on to him with alcohol-induced feline ferocity? Ask if she'd mind moving into a tent?

The woman groaned and stirred. Dan knew she'd wake with a hangover. This lady had put away enough scotch last night to pole-axe an elephant. His early morning phenomenon being what it was, he moved closer and placed a hand between
her naked thighs. If the full extent of her hangover cut through sleep, sex would probably be the last thing on her mind. She'd made it plain enough last night, though: ‘When I see something I want, I go for it.' Two could play that game. She wanted it then, he needed it now.

She was moving under his hand, legs spread, fingers reaching for him. Dan raised himself, positioned his engorged penis and slowly entered her. She gave a small gasp of pleasure, then lifted to him with growing enthusiasm. She was a moaner, this one, and in full-throated roar within seconds. He covered her mouth with his own, reducing the decibels to huffy squeaks and groans. They came together . . . well, at least Dan assumed she'd climaxed. Hard to tell with women.

As soon as he decently could, Dan rolled away and sat up, reaching for a cigarette. He felt her nails scratch down his back. ‘You're good, honey. God! My head.'

Facing away from her, Dan rolled his eyes. He'd forgotten she was American. In fact, he'd even forgotten her first name. Mrs Delaney. Arrived yesterday, leaving today. A whistlestop trip by a bored, rich American. Been there, seen that. She'd done the rounds. Two private game reserves in South Africa, one in Malawi, another in Botswana and now Etosha. No doubt she'd left a trail of dishevelled and weak-at-the-knees rangers in her wake. Dan had learned to pick them. There was a predatory gleam in their eyes somehow similar to
that of the carnivores he showed them. The big five – elephant, lion, leopard, rhinoceros and buffalo – acted like an aphrodisiac.

Actually, Dan appreciated women like Mrs Delaney. No complications. No strings. No promises to break. Women who approached fornication with the same uncluttered single-mindedness as most men. They were a rare find. He'd recognised the hallmark in Mrs Delaney almost immediately.

Dan made sure she'd seen enough to impress. A breeding herd of elephant just west of the pan itself, two magnificent black-maned lion over near Okaukuejo, a pride of females sleeping this side of the Halali waterhole, giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, springbok, gemsbok, a black rhinoceros. Finally, closer to camp, a cheetah mother with two cubs – a rare sighting. His client had gone ape-shit over them.

This one had the hard stare of wealth, position and authority. Dan knew, even before the game drive was over, where the night would end. After dinner, instead of going back to his room, he'd joined the others around the fire outside until, one by one, the tired tourists drifted away and it was down to him and Mrs Delaney. She was quite drunk by then and not about to mince words. ‘Where do you sleep, honey?'

Dan had risen, held out a hand and, when she took it, led her to his room.

He glanced back at her now. She had covered both eyes with an arm to shut out the light and Dan was not unsympathetic to how she must be
feeling. ‘Breakfast,' he suggested. ‘You'll feel better with some food inside.'

‘I doubt it,' she groaned.

He stifled irritation. She knew the rules. It was time to go. At last, Dan felt the bed move as she rose. Dressed now, Mrs Delaney stood in front of him. ‘If you're ever in the States.' She handed him a card, her eyes distant and impersonal. Without another word, she turned and left, the brief though intensely intimate experience a thing of the past.

Her credentials announced
Doris Delaney. Attorney.
The address was Maine. Dan ran a hand through thick, strong, iron-grey hair before tossing the card onto a chest of drawers next to the bed. If he ever got to the States it was unlikely he'd bother looking her up. He rose, wincing slightly at a niggling pain in his lower back. Last week he'd been helping the park veterinarian with a study that involved darting, weighing and checking wildebeest for signs of anthrax. The pulled muscle happened while manhandling a two hundred and fifty kilogram male onto the weighing machine. It had been healing nicely but obviously didn't appreciate a night's exercise.