Jackal's Dance (7 page)

The shower was lukewarm but that didn't bother him. Dan had spent his entire adult life in the bush. Running water was a luxury, hot or cold. He stood under the tepid trickle, allowing it to flatten his hair. The soap didn't lather too well but the shampoo bottle was empty. He paid attention to armpits, crotch and feet. In his mid-fifties, Dan was in good shape, not an ounce of fat on a hard,
muscled body. His stubble-shadowed face weather-beaten, evidence of the years spent under a blazing African sun. Faded grey-blue eyes usually twinkled from some inner amusement and, when he smiled accentuating the creases in his face, they lit up with mischief.

Wandering naked back into the bedroom, Dan sought out a clean park uniform and frowned slightly when he felt the material. He sniffed it. The laundry girl had put it back damp and it smelled faintly of mildew. He put it on anyway, having no option. Two other uniforms were exactly the same.

Dan's living quarters consisted of an oblong-shaped room with an ensuite at one end and a narrow porch outside. He had a standard issue queen-sized bed, curtain-covered hanging space, a chest of drawers, shabby armchair, desk and chair and one small round mat on the cement floor. The rangers' rooms were all furnished with discards from the older rest camps as and when the guest accommodation was refurbished. More than adequate for a man who carried very little baggage. Dan never saw the point of acquiring possessions. He preferred listening to the bush rather than the tapes and CDs favoured by others. There were always a few books scattered around, all read, so there was no real reason to keep any of them. No photographs, no past, no signs of a hobby. If Dan chose to leave his life would fit in one small suitcase. It was the way he preferred it.

No-one, least of all Dan himself, could have foreseen the man he was to become. He'd grown
up in Cape Town, the middle child in a loving and happy family environment, with an older sister and younger brother. Outgoing, well-adjusted and friendly, Dan was popular with other kids and well liked by adults. At sixteen he developed a crush on the girl next door and she returned his affections. Four months into the relationship their petting had turned serious. Dan and Julie lost their virginity to each other. Three short months after that, she was dead. Her bruised and abused body was found in a shallow grave on a beach near the holiday resort of Hermanus, about one hundred and thirty kilometres almost due east of Cape Town. Dan had been the police's number one suspect. He'd been locked up and interrogated for seven gruelling hours.

Although it had been proved conclusively that Dan couldn't possibly be guilty, shit sticks and the stigma stayed with him. He was nearly seventeen, grieving for Julie, trying to hold up his head while all those around looked at him with accusing eyes, unable to cope with the coroner's findings that the love of his young life had been repeatedly gang-raped, sodomised and had been two months pregnant with his child.

They were never found. Out there, to this day, two or more men walked free having robbed Dan of his love and his child. He recovered in time from the deep grief but he never got over his rage. Nor did he allow any close personal friendships to develop.

The Penmans watched, helpless, as their happy, gregarious and socially well-adjusted child started
to self-destruct. Dan turned inwards, loudly resenting any attempt from family or friends to reach him. He finished school, a solitary, bitter boy who saw life through the eyes of a cynic. The day after leaving school, Dan packed a single suitcase and, without leaving even a note, left Cape Town.

He had never returned.

Fortune bestowed on Dan a small smile that day, although he didn't know it at the time. From Cape Town he hitched a lift to East London, a thousand kilometres along the coast. The driver, an Englishman in his mid-forties, saw an intense sadness in the quiet boy and managed, by avoiding prodding and personal questions, to learn that the lad had no idea where he was going, or even why. Norman Snelling and his wife had never been blessed with children, which was a pity since both of them would have loved their own. Norman, particularly, had a natural affinity with the young. Troubled teenage offspring of friends often took their problems to him, sensing that here was one adult who actually listened and did not lecture.

As soon as Dan accepted the lift, Norman's infallible instincts told him the boy was in trouble. He wondered, though did not ask, what could have gone so wrong in the life of one this young. Sensing that Dan was running away from something more than just discipline or an unhappy home, he knew that the young man would reject anything perceived as sympathy. The groundwork was laid with skilful care.

‘I love this country.'

Dan looked at him.

‘I mean, look at it. It's paradise.' They were inland from Port Alfred, about two hours out of East London, driving through open rolling country. Norman indicated a dirt road off to the right. ‘Got a farm over there. Just on a thousand morgan. Plan to retire there one day.' He frowned. ‘If there's anything left of it by then.'

Dan remained silent.

‘I've had three managers on the place. The first was okay but he dropped dead of a heart attack. The second robbed me blind and the one I've got now is a lazy, good-for-nothing drunk.' Norman sighed. ‘I've got the transport business operating out of East London. It'll be ten years at least before I can retire. I'd give anything to find someone reliable so I don't have to spend half my life running backwards and forwards checking up on things.' He glanced sideways at Dan. The boy was staring out towards the distant hills. ‘I'm not asking for much. Just a reliable person who'll take the day-today decisions and do what I ask. Think I can find someone? Can I, hell! I've advertised in
Farmer's Weekly
but it's expensive and all I get are deadbeats and drunks.' He thumped the steering wheel dramatically. ‘I may have to sell the place, though God knows, I don't want to. It's called Emoyeni. Know what that means?'

Dan shook his head.

‘It's Zulu. Means “Place of the Wind”.'

Norman sensed more than saw the movement as Dan shifted in his seat. Then the boy's quiet
words, ‘If you don't think I'm too young, sir, I'd be more than happy to give it a go.'

Dan managed Norman Snelling's farm for eleven years. He'd been there for six months when a missing person advertisement appeared in the
Cape Times.
Norman saw it. He recognised the photograph. Instinct told him that he should get to the bottom of whatever troubled his young farm manager. Norman made discreet inquiries and soon learned of the unsolved murder. He had press cuttings posted to East London, taking them, along with the advertisement, out to the farm and laying them down in front of Dan.

‘If you ever want to talk about it, son, you know where to come.'

Dan stared at the newsprint.

‘I don't know you well, son, but I know this much. You didn't do it. I'll say no more than that.'

A sob rose in Dan's throat.

‘Don't bottle it up, lad. Let it out.' Norman watched silently as Dan battled to control his emotions. A couple of sniffs, that was it. Norman patted his shoulder. ‘At least write to your parents. They'll be worried sick.'

The bowed head nodded.

‘Good lad.'

Norman never mentioned the matter again sensing, if he did, Dan would leave. Nor did he ask if Dan had written home. Unbeknown to Dan, Norman had contacted his parents to let them know their son was safe. Dan had obviously done the same. Over the years snippets came out of
conversation which suggested he was in touch with someone – ‘My sister is getting married', or ‘I have a brother at Stellenbosch University'.

After eleven years, when Norman and his wife could eventually move to Emoyeni, Dan was offered a profit-sharing partnership. By then he had become too well set in his solitary ways. His words were simple. ‘Thanks but no thanks. Time to be moving on, Norm. Think I'll head up to South West for a bit.'

At thirty he found work as a veterinarian's assistant, based at Fort Namutoni in Etosha. Over the years he had a variety of jobs but always remained a loner. When Logans Island Lodge was proposed, Dan was one of the park's most experienced game rangers. He knew so much about the bush he could have written a textbook. Etosha had been home for twenty-six years, Logans Island for three, and, as far as Dan was concerned, he had found the place where he would be happy to die. He'd never married. Relationships meant risk. Even his fellow rangers knew only as much about him as he chose to tell them.

Dan's wife was the bush, its animals his children. The resident staff were neighbours and tourists, a cross that had to be borne. If he'd thought about it, Dan would have concluded that he needed nothing else.

As he walked towards the dining room and breakfast, the only question on Dan Penman's mind was whether or not Doris Delaney had left yet.

Being late November, the rains had started. Good falls meant pools forming in what were normally dry areas, the animal population quick to desert its seasonal reliance on permanent water. While this brought relief for them, game sightings became less of a foregone conclusion than during the dry winter months. The weather had turned humid with daily temperatures pushing thirty-five plus. Tourist traffic dropped off dramatically during the summer and only two of the four rest camps remained open. Logans Island Lodge also closed and was already in shut-down mode. Guests arriving today would be the last until March. When they departed, the lodge would become a hive of annual maintenance and new construction activity.

Bookings tended to fall away from the end of October. Only five of the lodge's twelve bungalows were occupied. Four would be vacated after breakfast with incoming guests expected for six. Logans Island utilised four full-time game rangers but only one, Caitlin McGregor, had been required for today's game drive. Dan found the other two, Sean Hudson and Chester Erasmus, deep in conversation over breakfast. He joined them. They'd been discussing the group from Wits University who were camped in the park studying black-backed jackal.

‘Professor Kruger has been coming here for years,' Sean was saying. ‘There's never been a complaint about him. Always uses the same camp site and leaves the place just as he found it. Why force him to move here? The whole purpose of his work
is to observe animals in the wild. What's the point of putting him behind a security fence each night?'

‘I agree but the veterinary blokes have a point. There's a stroppy cow elephant out there. Until she can be located there's no telling what she might do. The professor has no way of defending himself or his students if they come across the old girl. They're on foot a lot of the time. It's understandable that the powers-that-be are nervous. Think of the fuss if someone gets hurt. It's for their own safety.'

‘The man's got a radio.'

Chester shook his head. ‘What's he going to do with that? Throw it at the bloody elephant? Anyway, that's not the issue. You and I both know how quickly something . . . anything . . . can go wrong.'

‘Bloody knee-jerk reaction,' Sean said angrily. ‘How about some credit for the old bloke's experience?'

‘What do you think, Dan?' Chester's perpetually bloodshot eyes turned to Dan.

‘I agree with Sean. Leave the man be.'

‘But what about the danger?' Chester persisted.

‘Danger! What about it? They've been told about the elephant. It's up to the professor. If his students are to be any use at all after they've graduated now is not the time to wrap them in cottonwool. They can't run home to mummy every time an animal gets cranky. All wild animals are unpredictable. For Christ's sake, Chester, people should be allowed to take some risks.'

Chester took no offence at Dan's blunt words.
He grinned and stood. ‘Better tell that to Billy. He's decided to bring them in.'

‘I'd like to be a fly on the fly sheet when he gives it a try. The professor will eat him alive.' Sean poured himself another coffee. ‘Are you doing this afternoon's drive?'

‘Nope. Billy's cocked up the roster again. It's Dan and Caitlin.'

‘She'll be pleased. What's the matter with admin? Caitlin's done six in a row.'

Chester shrugged. ‘She's lucky. Billy wants a stocktake of the curio shop. A job for de black man. Dat's me, baas.'

‘That's supposed to be Billy's job,' Dan objected. ‘Can't it wait until we shut?'

‘Not according to our lord and master.' Chester mimicked the camp manager, Billy Abbott. ‘I've an end-of-year report to write. That information is needed on my desk by tomorrow.'

Sean laughed. Chester's African accent coupled with his imitation of Billy's pedantic way of speaking was hilarious. ‘I've got my orders: help the vet. If I finish early I'll come and give you a hand.'

‘Thanks, man. See you later.' Chester rose and left the table.

A waiter brought Dan's food – two fried eggs, bacon, sausages, tomato, baked beans and plenty of toast. It was the same every morning. He buttered two slices, piled everything else onto them and tucked in.

Sean sipped his coffee and the two men sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The
younger man broke it. ‘Could have sworn we had a lion in camp this morning. Did you hear it?'

Dan shook his head, mouth full.

‘Really? You must be deaf! It was so close to your quarters it might have been in there with you.'

Dan chewed with enjoyment and stared upwards towards the ceiling.

‘Might have been hippo, of course.'

Dan swallowed. ‘We don't have hippo.'

‘Or someone trying to sing.' Sean was grinning. ‘Didn't seem to know the words, though. Just making a noise.' Sean gave a passably good imitation of Doris Delaney's lusty appreciation of Dan's ministrations.

‘Thank you Meg Ryan,' Dan said dryly, when the performance stopped.