Jackal's Dance (62 page)

He lay the arrangement on the end of her bed and pulled up a chair. ‘You're looking a lot better than when I last saw you.'

The bruising was fading, the swelling nearly gone from her face. She'd always have a scar but the wound had healed very well. Her arm too. It hardly ever bothered her, just a twinge now and then. Megan touched her hair self-consciously and pulled the shawl into a bunch at her throat in an attempt to hide the swell of her breasts.

Buster looked ill at ease. ‘I've got a few days off.'

‘That's nice.'

Silence fell between them. He broke it with a nervous laugh. ‘I never know what to say to people in hospital.'

Megan rolled her eyes. ‘You and my parents. If I hear “How's my girl?” one more time, I'll scream.'

‘Don't do that.' Buster grinned. ‘They might lock you away.'

She laughed. Thank God for people like him. No – one else dared mention her emotional state. They pussyfooted around it as if in fear of setting off a negative reaction.

‘When are you getting out of here?'

‘Tomorrow, I think. That's the plan anyway. My dad's a doctor, a retired one, so I guess they think
I'll be in good hands.' Her eyes danced with mischief. ‘If only they knew. He's in a worse state than I am.'

‘He's a dad. That's his job.'

Megan's roller – coaster mood suddenly hit a downward slope. ‘My parents want me home for a while, to have counselling.'

‘Makes sense.'

‘Does it?' Tears welled and she allowed them to run down her face. She'd been crying a great deal over the past five days. Release of tension, Christabelle Wolfe said, advising Megan to let it out.

Buster looked with sympathy at her sudden display of emotion. ‘You know it does. Get all the help and rest you can.'

Megan sniffed. ‘I want to get on with my studies. To control my own life again. I'm sick of being treated with kid gloves.'

Buster shook his head. ‘You're not ready for that. Look at you now. You're a mess.'

‘Of course I am,' she nearly shouted. ‘If people treat you that way, what do you expect?'

He wasn't in the least bit fazed by her outburst. ‘Get angry, Megan. Cry. Throw things. Be nasty to people. Feel sorry for yourself. If anyone's earned the right, you have.'

Megan eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you taking the piss out of me?'

‘Someone's got to.' Buster shrugged and spread his arms wide. ‘Here I am, ready and willing. Go on. Throw a couple of punches if it makes you feel better.'

She giggled. ‘You're a fool.'

‘That too.' He smiled widely.

Megan drew in a shuddering breath. ‘You're right. I'm all over the place at the moment. Mum and Dad are worried.'

‘Where are they now?'

‘Shopping. Buying me more things, no doubt.'

‘How do you feel in yourself, Megan?'

Fresh tears. Whenever someone showed the slightest concern or sympathy, they seemed to come from a never-ending well. ‘Shattered.'

Buster nodded. ‘I get holidays in March. Mind if I come down to Durban to check up on you?'

‘I won't be there. I'll be back at varsity by then.'

‘You wish.'

Determination hardened the set of her jaw. ‘Watch this space.'

Buster waved her a thumbs up of approval.

Megan studied his open face. She liked this man. That thought made her amused. Of course she liked him, he probably saved her life. He was a dear man and she hoped they'd become friends in time. Not yet, though. Until she was over her ordeal, Buster's face would always be a reminder.

Her silent scrutiny brought Buster to the incorrect conclusion that Megan was tired. He rose, leaned down and kissed her cheek. ‘You should rest. I'll be back in the morning.'

‘Make it early. If I'm not out of here by midday I'll throw a wobbly.'

‘Another one?' He lifted an eyebrow.

‘As many as it takes. I might be a bit emotional but one thing is as clear as a bell. I need to get out of here.'

‘Cooking's that bad, is it?'

Megan grinned. He really did make her feel better.

‘When do you fly home?'

‘We're booked out tomorrow afternoon. My father works on the principle that if you take positive action, everything else falls into place.'

‘I like that. Sounds like my kind of man.'

The door opened and Christabelle Wolfe came in. ‘Sorry, I didn't know you had company.'

‘That's okay, I was just leaving.' Buster kissed two fingers and lightly touched them to Megan's forehead. ‘Stay cool. Save the wobbly till I get here. See you around ten tomorrow. I'll take you all to the airport if you like.'

‘Thanks.'

Buster waved a hand and left.

Megan smiled at Christabelle's words. ‘That young man seems quite attached to you. He's the one who found you, isn't he?'

‘Buster's just being nice.' Megan ignored the question. Dr Wolfe's attempts to make her speak about what she'd been through were so transparent that she usually refused to be drawn. The woman had been told the entire story once. Despite advice about confronting her fears, as far as Megan was concerned, that was enough.

The doctor didn't push it. ‘How are we feeling today?'

‘We? I'm fine but don't expect me to know how you are.'

‘Bedside chatter,' Christabelle said mildly, not at all put out. ‘Does it bother you?'

‘It doesn't make sense.' Megan knew she was being churlish but couldn't seem to help herself. She stared balefully at Dr Wolfe, a challenge in her eyes.

The doctor grinned. ‘Feeling a bit otherwise today, are we?'

Megan felt her irritation grow. Why did this bloody woman have to treat her like some kind of retard? ‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘For God's sake,' she burst out, ‘I'm not a bloody child, stop treating me like one.'

Christabelle Wolfe was delighted with Megan's rudeness. The more spirit she showed, the better. ‘Then stop acting like one. Anyone would think you've got something to bitch about. So what if you were the only survivor. That's what all this is about, isn't it? You feel guilty. You survived while everyone else died. Turn it around, Megan. All those people were killed but not you. You're the survivor here, the winner if you like. Feeling sorry for yourself is bullshit and the sooner you wake up to that, the better.'

Megan blinked in surprise. Christabelle had never spoken harshly to her before. She was about to fire back a sharp response when the penny dropped. She gave a chuckle instead, ducked her head and put out a hand.

Dr Wolfe took it.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be. It's good to express feelings.'

Megan looked up. ‘Do you listen this hard to everyone?'

‘Only my patients,' Christabelle said with a smile. ‘What was I trying to tell you?'

‘That it's not my fault.'

‘Quite correct. And for the next few months, nothing will be.'

‘I hear what you're saying. It's not necessary, you know. I don't feel responsible for all those people, nor do I feel guilty that it was only me who survived. That's what you're getting at, isn't it?'

The doctor nodded. ‘Yet you still ask yourself why it happened.'

‘Fair enough. But that's got nothing to do with taking any blame.'

‘I'm glad you know that.' Christabelle's eyes twinkled. ‘Now, without biting my head off, how are
you
this morning?'

But Megan's mood had swung and she grew serious. ‘I'm going crazy in here. Nobody gives me a straight answer. When exactly can I leave?'

‘I've spoken to your doctor. You can check out after his rounds in the morning. It's my day off so I won't see you again. I'll say goodbye now. Take care of yourself and don't be afraid to ask for help. Above all, get your life back to normal as quickly as possible.' She patted Megan's shoulder. ‘You have a calm head. Given time you'll be fine.'

Alone again, Megan's eyes drifted back to the
dancing pattern on her wall. Troy, Angela and Josie had called to see her before taking the university bus back to Johannesburg. They'd be home by now. She envied them.

Buster, good as his word, took Megan and her parents to the airport. He and Megan exchanged addresses. They never wrote and never saw each other again.

Windhoek, Namibia: 23 December

Thea Abbott ran lightly down the dozen or so steps in Windhoek's newest shopping plaza and strode towards a coffee shop cum beer garden. She was late. Browsing in a bookshop for Sean's present had delayed her. This year the festive season had kind of snuck up without warning. Not that she had much to do. Caitlin, Dan, Sean and herself planned a quiet Christmas – just the four of them. A barbecue lunch, a few drinks, maybe a video or two. As Caitlin put it, ‘A totally slobby day.' Sounded good.

Thea had become understandably close to the Scottish ranger. For now, they shared a two-bedroomed flat but both girls were hoping to find work back in the bush. Caitlin wanted to stay in Namibia, Thea was considering Botswana. Neither was in a hurry, preferring to wait until New Year.

Next door, Sean and Dan also shared accommodation. Dan would be returning to Etosha. He had been offered work with the research team at Okaukuejo and was due to start at the beginning of March. Sean had already been to Maun in
Botswana's Okavango Delta for several interviews. He was now waiting to hear if he'd been successful. Like the girls, both were content to kick back and do nothing until after New Year. It was a time of enforced relaxation and the four of them were comfortable in each other's company. They talked of going fishing at Swakopmund but never quite got around to it. The German Club was close by and offered excellent food. Their draught beer was the best in Windhoek. Matinee movies became a favourite distraction. Sometimes they just sat, sharing a pot of freshly ground filter coffee, watching the world go by.

They laughed a lot, talked easily and, since they were prepared to discuss what had so recently happened, began to heal. Thea occasionally fell silent when she saw a mother and baby. When that happened, the others were immediately on hand to cheer her up. Caitlin suffered three consecutive nights of bad dreams. She clung to Thea, drenched with perspiration and shaking, while the terror subsided. On the fourth day Caitlin went out and bought three bottles of wine. ‘I'm not having that bloody nightmare again.' The two of them drank the lot. With the wisdom that comes from a bottle, they solved every problem the world had ever known. They sang ‘Flower of Scotland' until they were hoarse, finally falling into the arms of Morpheus around two in the morning. The dream drowned in a sea of wine, never to return.

They also had several frank discussions about fate.

‘If I hadn't met and married Billy, I'd never have known Sean.' Thea was in a reflective mood one afternoon. ‘Do you believe our destiny is prewritten?'

‘God! How would I know?'

‘Well I do. I think everything happens for a reason.'

‘It's a damned shame we're not let into the secret. Our lives might make more sense if we knew why things happen.'

‘Maybe it's best we don't know.'

‘Fletch?' Caitlin almost asked the question of herself.

‘You're very sad about him, aren't you?'

Caitlin pressed her lips together and thought about it. ‘Let me ask you something,' she said finally. ‘If you and Billy had been happy, where would that leave Sean?'

Thea blinked and shook her head. ‘Buggered if I know.'

‘You'd have regarded him as a friend, that's what. Souls find each other. When they connect it depends on all sorts of outside influences. Your feelings for Sean have grown because they were free to do so. Simple as that.' Caitlin shrugged. ‘I fancied Fletch. The next step would have been to see if our souls liked each other. We didn't get that far. Now I'll never know.'

‘You must have some idea.'

‘Yes. I think it might have worked. I feel I've lost something I almost had. I feel grief for what might have been, for the little spark that was there and I
think I know that if I'd had just one night with him my sadness would be greater than it is.' She put her head on one side and looked at Thea with something like anger. ‘So what I'm saying is I'm going through some kind of process that's ninety per cent imagination or wishful thinking and I'm wondering if I'm being superficial or fanciful or if this ache of emptiness is real. It's the not knowing that's eating me up.' Caitlin knuckled her eyes and sniffed.

‘It's real,' Thea reassured her. ‘Look at you. Don't try to analyse it. We're all grieving. Not just for Fletch but for everyone. It's only natural that you are focusing on Fletch. Let it happen, Caitlin.'

‘You know what?' Caitlin rose, went to Thea and gave her a hug. ‘I really love you.'

Dan, the least talkative, hit the beers one night and told them of his past. It seemed like such a natural thing to do that he was surprised to realise Thea was in tears. ‘Hey, sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry.'

She hung her arms around his neck. ‘You lost the girl you loved and your baby. Oh, Dan. I'm so sorry.'

Caitlin moved in behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, her head resting against his back.

Dan, completely engulfed by the two women, looked imploringly at Sean. ‘Get them off me.'

Sean shook his head. ‘They kind of suit you. Try wearing them more often.'

Dan had a silly smile on his face. He hadn't felt so much a part of a family since his school days.

Outwardly, Sean seemed to have readjusted quite well. No-one knew that he'd put the five chapters he'd written for his book away and started writing something else. He wrote at odd moments, always when he was alone, sometimes in the small hours of morning when Dan was asleep. It didn't matter whether his words became a short story or a novel. It was a tale, told in the genre of fantasy, of the dark side. In it he poured out his soul, dredging up every bad thing he could think. In places, it disgusted him. Sometimes it reduced him to tears. It could make him angry, depressed or frightened. Thirty thousand words into it, he suddenly stopped. The story wasn't finished but Sean was. After reading it once, he ripped up the pages and burnt them. He was ready to move on.