Jackal's Dance (67 page)

Chester had stayed in touch with the Weidermans but he hadn't seen them for over a year. He'd
long ago stopped blaming Helmut for the confusion he felt over his identity, but the old easiness between them was gone. Now he needed Helmut's help.

The German, now retired, was genuinely pleased to see Chester. He apologised for the absence of his wife and son. ‘They have gone home to Germany to see the family. Willem is married, as you know, and now has two children. I would have gone too but . . .' Helmut tapped his chest, ‘the old ticker forbids air travel. The joys of growing old, eh? Willem will be very disappointed. Come inside, Chester, we will have tea and it will be like old times.'

Chester followed Helmut into the house. Little had changed since he'd lived there. He made appropriate noises over a batch of recent photographs, noting aloud how well Willem looked, how pretty his wife was and what charming children he had. Helmut fussed over the tea-making and produced some fruit cake.

‘Do you remember how you hated fruit cake when you came to live here?' he reminisced.

Chester still hated it but dutifully ate two slices. They spoke of the past for a long time until Chester asked, ‘Did you hear about the UNITA raid on Etosha?'

‘My word, yes. What a terrible thing. The papers didn't give many details. I suppose we'll hear more once the investigation is over.'

‘I was one of the hostages.'

Helmut's eyes widened. ‘But that is awful,' he cried. ‘You could have been killed.'

Chester held up his hand to ward off yet another slice of cake. ‘I was spared because of my knowledge of Portuguese. They used me as their interpreter.'

‘Thank God for that,' Helmut said with feeling.

‘The army will find out about my involvement with UNITA. I'll be wanted for questioning. It could go quite badly for me.'

‘Oh come. That was years ago. You were young and foolish.'

‘Recent incursions into Namibia makes UNITA our enemy,' Chester said quietly. ‘That makes a difference.'

‘They can't hold you. There's no proof you served under Jonas Savimbi. Deny it, what can they do?'

‘You know very well what they can do, Helmut. This Etosha thing has made them paranoid. Anyway, there's no point in denying it. Too many people already know.'

Helmut wasted no more time. Chester's expression and quiet words told him that he was in trouble. ‘What can I do, my boy?'

With Helmut's help, Chester made it across the border into Botswana. He'd been here ever since. He found work in Gaborone as a labourer and then answered an advertisement for a position in the classified section of the
Botswana Guardian.
To his surprise, he was offered the job. But six months into it, Chester realised he was never going to progress. His qualifications were not recognised. Short of starting again – a course which ran for
three years at the local university – he would remain in the classified department.

Two weeks ago a classified advertisement came in from a game lodge near Khumaga in the centre of the country. No details were given, just a box number in Serowe and the fact that they were looking for a trainee game ranger and inviting applications. Chester didn't place the advertisement. Instead, he resigned from the newspaper and made his way to Khumaga, planning to present himself as someone looking for work – any work. It was a gamble but he was desperate.

Khumaga Village didn't do a lot for him. Spread out, dusty, goats and donkeys everywhere, he wondered how a luxury lodge could compete with the glamorous places in the Okavango Delta further north. Asking directions, he was dismayed to learn that the place he sought was a good fifteen kilometres into the bush. There was nothing he could do, however, but walk. He'd come this far, he might as well see it through.

Two hours later, a wooden sign at the side of the sandy track informed Chester he had reached Boteti River Lodge. Natural bush gave way to a more structured vegetation, still native but selectively planted. The lodge was shaped like a huge circus tent. Chester stopped for a moment, bending to brush sand from his shoes. He heard a woman's voice.

‘Have you got a moment, Sean?'

And the reply, ‘Sure, babe.'

Chester looked up sharply. Thea stood on some
steps, shading her eyes and smiling as Sean made his way across the lawn towards her. Chester moved quickly to screen himself. He watched Sean reach Thea and put an arm around her waist. She kissed his cheek. Then the two of them went inside the lodge.

Of all the luck!
Chester turned away. They'd probably give him the job but he knew there was no way he could live in close proximity to the constant reminder of the terrible guilt that wouldn't go away. It was another six months before Chester learned that he had been cleared of any involvement or blame for the terrible events in Etosha National Park.

London, England: 15 December

What the hell are you doing here, Penman?
Dan had never felt so cold in his life. Nor so hemmed in. The sheer volume of people was overwhelming. To him, twenty was a crowd, another car at the same filling station petrol pump constituted a traffic jam. This was awful. He felt claustrophobic.

London displayed its drab worst. Crowds of Christmas shoppers heaved, heads down, arms loaded with brightly wrapped parcels. Used to striding free, finding his own pace, the need to duck and dive from one side of the pavement to the other was driving him nuts. Resisting the urge to push and shove took all his willpower. How could anyone choose to live like this? Humanity en masse wasn't the only thing. Buildings, old and new, closed in on all sides. If there had been any
sunshine it was never going to reach the street. Not that it mattered today. Grey drizzle, bordering on sleet, fell from the sky with relentless persistence. Piped Christmas music, jolly little choirs singing of snow and holly and reindeer, filtered from shops as doors opened and closed releasing blasts of artificially heated air. Tinsel and fairy lights glittered in windows. They were no match for a Namibian star-studded sky. And as for religious reminders, if he saw yet another nativity scene he'd cock his leg and piss against the glass. Dan never had less of a Christmas spirit than he did at the moment.

He was making his way along Haymarket, towards Her Majesty's Theatre. Dan Penman looked as much out of place as he felt. Wearing blue jeans, boots, a beige turtle-necked jersey and brown leather jacket, his sun-bronzed face stood out like a beacon in the sea of lily-white shoppers.

Coming to London was a whim. At least, that's what he told himself. Okaukuejo Rest Camp, where he'd worked for the past nine months, was now closed for the summer. Dan had a month's leave. He'd never been to England. Why not travel, see a bit of the world, broaden his mind, see how others lived? ‘Stop fooling yourself, Penman.' The fact was, Dan had a plan.

Six months earlier, a South African attorney had contacted him. Well into their eighties, Norman Snelling and his wife had been killed in a multiple pile-up as they travelled the N2 home from a visit to Cape Town. Norman, with no children, had left his old friend the farm. At first, Dan wanted no
part of it. The farm was a responsibility, a burden, something he could live without. He was happy in Namibia, loved Etosha and had no need of possessions. He put the property into the hands of a real estate agent. Then a letter arrived from Gayle, its pages full of amusing snippets about her life. Reading between the lines, Dan sensed that she was desperately lonely. He often thought of her and now that she'd made contact, realised the ball was squarely in his court. It would be good to see her again. If Gayle could drop the prima donna bit, she was the kind of woman he could make his life with – what was left of it, anyway. But in Etosha? She would go mad with boredom. So Dan thought long and hard about the farm. He wrote a short note saying how nice it was to hear from her and telling her something of his work. She immediately replied. The ball was rolling. Dan got ready to kick it, and by way of preparation, took the farm off the market.

As well as her address he had a telephone number. But instead of making further contact, Dan decided to surprise her. She was doing a stage play in the West End.
Lady of the House
, a rollicking comedy starring Emma Grant and Jonathan Peel. Gayle Gaynor featured as Lady Sumner. He'd go to London and see it. Then, if he was still of the same mind, take things from there.

Dan had never seen a play in his life. As the houselights dimmed and the curtain rose, he might have admitted to a mild curiosity. Stronger was a growing excitement that he was about to see Gayle again.

Gayle's venture into stage work was part of a determination to distance herself from the glittering world of film. When she first arrived back in London, her high profile, the ordeal and a natural affinity with fame made her the flavour of the month. With the additional publicity came film scripts. Directors, trying to cash in on the public's insatiable interest in the popular celebrity, wined and dined her and Gayle became the centre of everyone's attention. For a while, she lapped it up.

But it wasn't long before Gayle realised how unhappy she actually was. Professed adoration started to have a hollow ring. The ‘Darling, how perfectly dreadful' set couldn't have cared less about how she really felt. They simply wanted to be seen with her. Gayle grew to hate the film industry and all that went with it.

In private, she allowed herself to grieve for Matt. Instead of a flamboyant memorial service where the who's who of tinsel town came to be observed, Gayle and Matt's mother organised a small farewell inviting only a few close friends and relatives.

Dan's words had stayed with her. ‘Lose the bitch, Gayle. It won't work with me.' Had he seen through the facade? Matt most certainly had.

The gap left by her gentle and devoted lover had been taken up by sadness. She hadn't been in love with the young actor but oh, how she missed him.

Film scripts were returned unread, one word scrawled over the title page. ‘No.' Not quite sure why, or what kind of a response to expect, Gayle wrote to
Dan. His reply said little but its simple sincerity touched her. The soul-searching she'd already been doing over her career extended to her life. She needed change. As a result, she accepted the role of Lady Sumner. Trained for film, the challenge of live theatre soon consumed Gayle. She discovered within herself a natural aptitude for the stage and three weeks into rehearsals, realised she was enjoying herself. The cast were down-to-earth professionals with none of the insecurity and self-importance of film stars. Gayle started losing the bitch. Still alone because she lacked the energy or even the inclination to find another young lover, she sometimes wished that Matt and Dan could be there to see her.

Dan. He'd been one of the few to whom her fame meant nothing. Probably the only man to turn his back and walk away. But, when she needed him, he was right there. He'd be astonished to know she still had the shirt sleeve that he used to bandage her knee.

Now she waited in the dressing room, ready for the next performance. The body-hugging costume was definitely too tight – no doubt due to a few extra pounds she'd put on. Gayle smiled graciously when the wardrobe girl said it must have shrunk in the wash.

‘Five minutes, Miss Gaynor.'

After a last check of her make-up, Gayle went and stood in the wings.

Dan rose to his feet as the audience gave a standing ovation. Gayle's performance had been
stunning, dominating the stage. They loved her. Dan knew most of her films. This was something different. Gayle had come alive. She took five curtain calls on her own.

‘How do I get backstage?' he asked the doorman.

‘You don't unless you're expected.'

‘I'm a friend of Miss Gaynor.'

‘Yeah?' The man looked bored. That one had been tried many times.

‘Dan Penman. I met her last year in Namibia.'

Interest flared. ‘Were you one of the hostages?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you say so?' He indicated a door. ‘She left instructions that if any of you showed up you were to be admitted immediately. Through there and up the passage. You can't miss it. Her dressing room is last on the left.'

‘Thanks.'

He heard Gayle even before reaching her room. ‘I don't care. I can hardly breathe in this fucking costume. Have it altered by tomorrow.'

Dan grinned. If she agreed, he'd have his work cut out. But could he get her to bury the bitch once and for all? He rapped on the door.

‘Who the hell is that?' Gayle was not being difficult, simply coming down from the inevitable high of a successful performance.

He opened the door. ‘Still throwing your weight around, I see.'

She had yet to remove her stage make-up. Exaggerated eyes grew even larger, a hand flew to her heart, and luridly painted lips parted. ‘Dan!'

‘Not a bad performance.' He stepped into the room.

‘Not bad!' she nearly screeched, rising and throwing her arms around him. ‘You cheeky bastard.'

Dan held back, looking down at her disbelieving face. ‘You might want to get rid of that glop.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I'm buggered if I'll kiss it off.'

Gayle threw back her head and laughed.

With a sigh, Dan kissed her anyway.

For someone who'd never seen a stage play, Dan became something of an addict. Over the next three and a half weeks he saw thirty-two. They were all the same performance. By the end of that time he knew Gayle's lines as well as she did. The day before he was due to leave for Africa, Dan revealed his plan.

‘Are you crazy?'

‘Most probably.'

‘You expect me to give up everything and go live on a farm?'

‘Why not?'

‘I don't know a damned thing about cows.'

‘You can learn.'

‘Pretty bloody sure of yourself, aren't you?'