Jackal's Dance (61 page)

Free at last of the incessant questions, the remaining ex-hostages' thoughts turned to those in hospital.

Felicity, who had helped Kalila in the last stages of their escape, offered to break the news of Chester's disappearance to her. She found the Zulu girl surprisingly unemotional until a psychiatrist explained that Kalila was suffering from profound depression. ‘It's not that she doesn't care, her mind simply won't let her. Until she's over it, and we have no way of knowing how long that might take, Kalila will appear to others as if all she thinks about is herself. Medication may help but your friend has to stop internalising. She has to find a way of communicating without the help of drugs before she turns the corner. This man you mention, is he important to her?'

‘I don't know. Apparently they'd only just met. After . . . after the first night with the soldiers she wouldn't have anything more to do with him.'

The doctor nodded. ‘I'll make a note of it in my report. Whoever treats Kalila once she's home should be aware of it. When she comes out of depression and starts remembering . . . Well, depending on how she feels about him, the memory might help, or it could bring on delayed shock.'

Megan was overjoyed when Josie, Angela and
Troy came to the hospital. They, in turn, could not thank her enough. Tears fell freely when she told them how the professor had saved her life. No-one asked Megan to elaborate. After going through hell themselves they understood that if their friend wanted to tell her story it would only be when she was ready. Likewise, Megan accepted an explanation that Kalila had been hurt and Fletch killed. She was shocked but didn't want to know details.

‘When are you guys going home?' she asked.

‘Tomorrow,' Troy said. ‘The bus has been fixed and is being brought down by a couple of soldiers. All our gear is in it. I gather your parents are on their way. We'll drop your stuff off before we leave.'

Megan was tired so they didn't stay long.

Josie went to see Walter. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘I'm fine,' he grouched. ‘But they won't let me out.'

He was hooked up to a machine that monitored his heart and blood pressure.

‘At least you're close to Jutta,' Josie soothed.

Walter shook his head. ‘No-one is close to Jutta. She has retreated even further. The English word is catatonic. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't respond at all. My daughter has gone somewhere and I don't know how to reach her.' Desperation and sorrow blurred his words. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he distractedly grabbed at Josie's comforting hands. ‘My wife and our beautiful little girl are both lost to me. Those animals took them away.' His next words were spoken with such bitterness that they nearly broke Josie's heart. ‘All I have left are memories.'

‘I'm so sorry,' she whispered.

He looked at her suddenly as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Please give me your address.'

Josie wrote it down and handed it to him. Walter carefully folded the piece of paper, opened a bedside drawer and placed it in his wallet. ‘You will hear from me.'

Dan and Philip visited James but the American had recently returned from surgery and was too drugged to be totally coherent. However, he seemed comforted to learn that Medi Rescue International had completed arrangements to repatriate Mal Black's body.

Philip declined when Dan suggested he come with him to see Gayle. ‘I'm meeting Felicity in ten minutes. You're on your own. Best of luck.'

‘She scares me.'

‘Forget she's an actress. Treat her like you did in the bush.'

‘This is different.'

‘She's been as affected by what happened as everyone else. And don't forget, now that it's over, she'll be thinking about Matt. Tell her how sorry you are. She could probably do with the company.'

Philip's words made sense but Dan was still nervous when he tapped on the door.

‘Come in.'

The actress was sitting up in bed, knee bandaged. In her eyes he saw anger. Dan pretended not to notice, pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. ‘I bought flowers but left them in the taxi.'

‘Why would I want flowers?'

‘They were nice. Cost a fortune. I had no idea a few roses could be so expensive.'

Gayle ignored the comment. ‘Get me out of this place.' Her arms were folded like a petulant child. ‘The food is dreadful.'

Dan gave her a long, appraising look. Her hair had been done that morning but she wore no make-up. ‘You scrub up quite well for an old broad.'

Astonishment, humour and finally resentment flashed through the ice blue of anger. ‘I beg your pardon.'

He sat back, crossing his legs. ‘Lose the bitch, Gayle. It won't work with me.'

Straight outrage stared back. ‘How dare you!'

‘I dare because I care. Is that so hard to take?'

‘You can't speak to me like that.' Tears filled her eyes.

Dan folded his arms and waited.

Gayle dabbed at her eyes.

He was unsure whether she was acting or not.

Eventually she said one word. ‘Matt.'

Was it grief or had the drama queen returned? Only one way to find out.
‘You didn't love him, you said so yourself. I understand your sorrow, Gayle, but don't use Matt as an excuse for bad behaviour. He wouldn't want that.'

Her voice came back. ‘How the hell would you know? Get out of my room.'

‘No. You need someone with you. We don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I'm staying.'

Gayle was wrestling with herself. Her grief for
Matt was very real. Delayed shock had set in but she couldn't help feeling sorry for herself either. A fax from the director of her next movie had arrived that morning and his solicitous words, plus assurances that Britain was in an uproar that their favourite actress had been subjected to such a dreadful experience, had her teetering between the real Gayle and the public figure. Just for once, it had nothing to do with ego. Hiding behind the screen idol exterior, Gayle didn't have to face up to harsh reality. She could act her way through the minefield of emotion that waited to remind her of the terrors of the past few days.

With Dan here, that was impossible. He saw straight through her – maybe even clearer than Matt had. While it was comforting to know he was there, Gayle wasn't ready to let go of the security of who and what she was. Her fame cushioned her, and since it was what she had known for most of her life, it was easier and more natural than reality.

‘Please go,' she said quietly. ‘I have my reasons. It's better that you do.'

Dan sighed, rose, leaned over and kissed her full on the lips. When he drew back she was staring at him in open-mouthed disbelief. ‘That's for the Gayle Gaynor I came to know in the bush. I do not like the other one. Which are you?'

Their eyes locked while she struggled within herself. Looking away, Gayle took a deep breath. ‘I don't know,' she admitted in a small voice.

Dan nodded slowly. ‘When you work that one out, I won't be difficult to find.' He turned and left.

Sean held Thea through the tears. She'd just
been told that the chances of her conceiving again were fifty-fifty at best. ‘It's not fair,' she sobbed.

‘No, it isn't,' he agreed.

‘Thank you.' She sniffed and drew back.

‘For what?'

‘For not saying it's better than nothing.'

‘I thought of it,' Sean admitted.

A small smile crossed her face. ‘You know I said you've got my attention?'

‘I remember.' He played with her fingers. ‘You said something else too as I recall.' They had not spoken of the dreadful moments when both believed Sean would be executed.

‘Don't,' Thea whispered. ‘I can't bear to think about it.'

‘Did you mean what you said?'

‘Every word.' She was crying again. ‘When I thought . . . I knew how much you meant to me. But now it's different. What if I can't have children? I won't hold you to anything, not now.'

Raising Thea's hand, Sean kissed it. ‘That's fine with me.' He looked at her, his eyes full of understanding for what she must be going through. ‘Because I intend to make sure you do.'

‘Sean –'

‘Shut up.' He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

Just before the students left Windhoek for the long drive back to Johannesburg, Caitlin and Troy took a walk together.

‘Will you do something for Fletch?' she asked.

‘Anything.'

‘On the track, after he'd been shot, he was rambling a bit. He said . . .' Caitlin bit her lip, then recovered sufficiently to continue. ‘He said, to tell his parents he was sorry and that he loved them very much. Will you pass that on to them please?'

Troy's throat constricted. ‘Sure,' he managed. ‘Anything else?'

‘He was very brave,' Caitlin whispered. ‘They'll want to know that. And he wasn't afraid. I held his hand and . . .' She could not go on.

‘I'll tell them.'

‘Thank you.'

Caitlin didn't add that Fletch had, at one stage, thought that his mother was beside him. He'd given a crooked, pain-filled smile and said, ‘I've met her, Mum. The girl you always hoped I would. You'll love her.'

‘He was very popular,' Troy was saying. ‘You could have done a lot worse.'

Caitlin turned her face to the sky. ‘Well, we'll never know the answer to that, will we?'

‘Are you going to be okay?'

‘I have no idea,' she said honestly, tears flowing.

‘I feel as though my future is out of my hands. It's like there's something unseen pulling strings I can't control. For the first time in my life I realise that whatever or whoever it is that's responsible for our destiny calls all the shots. We have no say in it.'

‘I guess that's true of everything,' Troy said soberly. ‘Life is a lottery.'

Windhoek, Namibia: 8 December

Light filtered softly through the open slatted blinds of a sterile white room. The shadow of a mature flamboyant threw an oriental pattern against the wall as its branches moved in the light breeze. Megan Ward watched, mesmerised. Beyond her window, the city of Windhoek bustled through another day. Somewhere out there her parents were shopping for distractions. In the ten days since they arrived in Namibia they'd heaped magazines, books, chocolates, fruit and clothing on their daughter hoping beyond hope to restore their little girl's equilibrium. She seemed to be coping admirably, reassuring everyone that all was okay, working with the trauma counsellor, talking to visitors, official or otherwise. Her parents saw it differently.

Megan lacked the energy to read, seldom touched the sweets or food. Pretty nightdresses and bed shawls were accepted with no real pleasure and a perfunctory thank you.

The truth of the matter was that Megan was desperate to leave hospital and return to normal
life, convinced it was the only way to recover. She needed to immerse herself in lectures, study, be with friends, push the memories aside, laugh and be carefree in the company of those whose only problem was a bad hair day. A therapist, with the unlikely name of Christabelle Wolfe, spent hours explaining that to deal with unpleasant memories one had to face them. Well, she'd done that. This morning, much against everyone's advice, she'd finally agreed to give a press conference. Her mother and father thought it was because she felt obliged to. That wasn't true. She did it to get them off her back. How was she supposed to get better when every day people forced her to remember? Calmed by Valium, Megan gave a composed and eloquent performance sitting in a wheelchair in one of the hospital's patient lounges. The press lapped it up. Questions like ‘What was the last thing you thought about before being shot?' and ‘Are you going to marry Buster Louw?' had been hurled at her. With her worried parents hovering in the background, Megan had answered as honestly as she knew how.

And now they were gone. No more would she agree to be interviewed. Megan's face and story became the lead article in every major newspaper of the world. Satellite television pictures relayed her saga around the globe. Fifteen minutes of fame. Megan wanted out. Let someone else have it.

How come death and disaster gave rise to celebrity status? Nobody seemed to understand that what happened was not something to celebrate.
Television and radio producers, with little but ratings on their minds, could shove their smarmy invitations to chat shows, television quiz programs and talkback radio. Magazines and newspapers offering huge sums of money for exclusive rights to her story didn't give a damn about those whose lives would never be the same. Their only thought was to boost circulation figures.

A publisher had even flown in from America, waving a cheque for half a million American dollars as a royalty advance for a book which, he promised, could be ghost-written. Megan said no. It was all about money. She would not sell out those who died – they deserved more respect. Her subconscious mind put up a big sign – private, keep out. She wanted the dead to lie undisturbed behind it. Until she could think of the others without fear rising and threatening to choke her, without disgust at their grotesquely broken bodies, without revulsion at the memory of the feeding vultures, Megan knew she could not consider herself well. And that process wouldn't begin until she returned to everyday life.

She sensed the door open and turned. Buster poked his head around it. ‘Hi.'

‘Hi.' Megan hadn't seen him since Okaukuejo.

The huge bunch of flowers looked out of place in his hands. ‘Thought you might like these. Doesn't look as if you need them, though.'

It was true. Flowers had been pouring in from all over the world for the polio victim who had survived a massacre and saved her friends. There
was no space left in the private room for any more. They lined the passageway outside. Megan had asked the nurses to distribute them throughout the building. They had. Even so, the hospital couldn't cope with their sheer volume. She held out a hand. ‘They're beautiful. Thank you.'