Jackal's Dance (21 page)

‘Gayle, I'm sorry. I didn't mean–'

‘Don't worry about it.' Her voice was tight. ‘Why should I expect gratitude?'

‘I am grateful. I've told you that. But you keep on and on about it.'

‘I do not.'

‘You do. Every time we disagree you tell me who's paying.'

‘I wouldn't,' she burst out, ‘if you didn't seem to need it.'

Matt looked bored.

‘That's right. Get that hard done by look on your face. I don't know why I put up with you.' She drained her glass. ‘Another one.' Before he
could rise she had snapped her fingers at the barman. ‘Double G and T. Don't forget two slices of lemon.'

Matt stood up.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Taking back the glasses.'

‘Let him. It's what he's paid to do.'

Matt had ignored her and gone to the bar. When he'd returned with her drink she was sitting with folded arms and an aloof expression on her face. It didn't bother him. By the end of gin three she'd be sweetness personified.

She was. Her mood switched and she acted like a young girl in love. Matt went along with it. Gayle was just being Gayle. Although Matt could never understand why, considering her self-centred and difficult personality, he loved her so much, he did. There was something incredibly susceptible about her that made him want to protect her. He'd forgive her anything.

Halfway through her fifth double, Gayle reached the unpredictable stage and turned her attention to a middle-aged couple who had ordered coffee on the outside deck. ‘Gross,' Gayle slurred loudly as the woman's hand reached for a biscuit. ‘That's right, darling, have another fattening sponge finger.'

Matt had been here many times. He had a choice. Annoy Gayle himself or run the risk of a scene with total strangers. He opted for the former. ‘Sshhh! Keep your voice down.'

As expected, she bridled. ‘Don't tell me to
shush. They're overweight, both of them. It's gross. How dare you tell me to shush.'

‘Okay,' Matt said conversationally, throwing caution to the wind. ‘Shut the fuck up.'

Unpredictable as ever, Gayle threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘Know what I love about you, big boy?' she giggled eventually. ‘You say the damnedest things.'

Matt shook his head, smiling slightly. He'd diverted her attention, at least for a while. Any moment from now she'd feel sexy and he could take her away from public scrutiny. They'd make love, she'd sleep off the gin and be stone cold sober before the next round.

Sure enough, he felt her foot rub against his leg. ‘How's my tiger?'

‘Raring to go,' Matt lied. It didn't matter. Gayle's attention was a guarantee that he would be soon enough. She could be unbelievably uninhibited.

The barman was staring with disbelief at Gayle's antics under the table. Her foot had found Matt's crotch. Time to take her away. Matt stood. ‘If you keep that up I won't be able to walk out of here. Come on, let's go.' He moved around the table to help her. She'd be unsteady on her feet or, to put it Gayle's way, wearing wobbly boots. ‘Up you get, darling.'

Gayle blinked up at him. ‘I am your darling, aren't I?'

Oh God! The maudlin stage.
‘And always will be.'

‘Do you mean that?' Tears had formed in her eyes. ‘It's not just who I am?'

Matt leaned down and kissed her cheek. ‘I love you. I need you. You're so beautiful I can't believe it's me you want.' He kissed her again, deftly deflecting her wandering hands. ‘You're my pussy cat and I adore you.' She was suitably placated. If he wasn't careful, she'd fall asleep at the table. ‘Come
on
, Gayle.'

She rose with difficulty and he steadied her. She was blinking away tears. Matt slipped an arm around her and, as he often did, found himself wondering about the complexities and vulnerability housed within such a perfect frame. As they approached the open balcony doors, Gayle was giggling and nuzzling his ear. Three paces later, she swung around and pointed a finger at the overweight pair. ‘You are both too fat. It's perfectly disgusting.' Then she swayed and sagged against Matt.

With ease borne of practice, he sighed, slung her over his shoulder and walked back to their bungalow. She was out cold by the time they reached it.

Johan stared with disbelief at the bouncing blonde head as Gayle was carted unceremoniously away. ‘How rude.'

‘She's right,' Henneke said, complacently. ‘We are too fat.'

He sucked in his stomach, not expecting his wife to agree. ‘My weight is my business. It's got nothing to do with some stranger. Anyway, she was drunk.' Johan glanced at his watch and a small
frown of disapproval appeared. In his opinion, it was okay for men to get drunk together but a woman should either abstain completely or limit herself to one sweet sherry.

Henneke didn't respond. She had recognised Gayle Gaynor and been thrilled to see the famous actress. In Henneke's secret world of make-believe, actresses were the most glamorous of all and regularly featured in her fantasies. She never expected to actually meet one, especially one as well known as Gayle Gaynor. Now here, in the flesh, was the chance of a lifetime to see exactly how her heroines lived and behaved.

‘And that boy,' Johan went on remorselessly. ‘He must be half her age. If anyone's disgusting, it's her.'

Henneke had lain with lots of boys, inside her head that is. Matt Grandville was the handsomest she'd ever seen. His features and physique were filed away for future reference.

‘Surely they can't be together,' Johan spluttered in outrage. ‘The woman has no shame. A good beating with a sjambok is what she needs.'

Looking impassively at Johan's pudgy red face, ridiculously fringed by hair so thin that he qualified as bald, at his piggy little eyes and toothbrush moustache, the self-righteous expression, Henneke reflected that if anyone should be punished with a whip made from the thick skin of a rhinoceros it ought to be her. What other punishment would be fitting for a woman so spineless as to have endured thirty-six years of marriage to a man she didn't even like? Gayle Gaynor wouldn't. Gayle Gaynor
would have told the ugly bastard to fuck off years ago. With that satisfying thought out of the way – Henneke's language of make-believe knew no boundaries – she reached for another biscuit.

The first thing Josie did when they climbed from the bus at their allotted camp site was head for the toilets. It was sod's law that on this occasion her usually heavy period was worse than normal. Probably the heat. At least now she could take a shower before going to bed. Josie looked longingly at the cubicles. They were spotlessly clean and comfortably large. No time. The professor would want to know what took her so long. Everyone would look at her, wondering why she needed to shower at this time of day. Josie made do with thoroughly washing her hands. Emerging from the ablution block, she took in her surroundings.

The camp site was situated about five hundred metres from the lodge. Set in a natural basin on the north-western side of Logans Island, it covered an area approximately the size of a football field. The communal showers, toilets, kitchen and laundry were in the centre. Stands of trees provided shade and privacy. Small stone braai areas were dotted around the grounds, but for those who found the romance and rusticity of an open wood fire too primitive to cook on, a large gas barbecue had been provided. Next to that a true desert island bar had been built around a mature mopane tree. Compared to their previous camp, it was pure luxury.

The 2 880 square kilometre pan, in prehistoric
times a vast lake which had dried up leaving shimmering alkaline white clay, stretched away towards distant savanna. The mainland perched on the periphery like a mirage. Josie could see the embankment they had crossed to get here. Discreet signs posted along the island's edge beseeched tourists not to walk on the pan.
It takes several hundred years for the elements to obliterate footprints
, she read. Typically, the surface close to the island was crisscrossed with human spoor.

The lodge could be reached by following a sandy, stone-lined path. A warning to campers was stuck on a public noticeboard which also carried historical information about the park:
This is a game reserve. Do not leave designated footpaths. Animals roam here at night. Caution should be exercised at all times. Management takes no responsibility for theft or injury.

Josie selected a place to pitch her tent that was reasonably close to the ablution block. She'd need to visit the toilet at least twice during the night. Bumping into a curious lion was not something she'd like to do. The building with its inevitable mixture of smells – soap powder, detergent, cooking and disinfectant – all alien to animals of the bush, would make a chance encounter less likely. Not that it was of real concern. Aside from the gardens there was very little for grazing animals to eat. Few would bother with a three-kilometre trek from the mainland. No grazers, no predators. That was the general rule. Still, better not to take chances.

She saw that Angela was setting up her tent just
as close to the amenities. Josie covertly watched the stunningly beautiful blonde. Those legs! But Angela wasn't gay. Josie had learned how to tell. A pity. She was by far the most attractive girl Josie had ever seen. Angela, however, was as unavailable to Josie as Josie was to Troy and Fletch.

As soon as everyone had organised their tents, Eben called a meeting. ‘We cannot go back to the river until we know it's safe. But there's no reason why we can't keep on working. I want everyone to write up their notes. You've got two hours. Then we'll have a group discussion.'

‘There's a swimming pool at the lodge,' Angela mentioned hopefully.

‘So there is.' Eben's voice was dry. ‘And it's off-limits to campers.'

‘We could ask . . .'

‘Forget it.' His tone was so final they all knew it would be a waste of time trying to take the matter further.

‘Troy isn't here.' The note of defiance in Angela's voice surprised everyone. ‘How come he gets a break?'

Eben's impatience surfaced. ‘A break?' he asked sarcastically. ‘Is that what you call it? Forgive me. I was under the impression that he was getting valuable, though somewhat dangerous, experience. My mistake.' Eben turned irritably away.

Fletch shook his head in warning as Angela opened her mouth to respond. She snapped it shut and turned to her tent.

‘What's the matter with her?' Megan quietly asked Fletch. ‘She seems quite upset. It's not like her.'

‘I don't know. Maybe you can talk to her.'

‘Maybe.' Megan sounded doubtful. ‘But not right now. She won't talk to anyone at the moment.'

Fletch left it. Megan had uncanny insight when it came to human emotion. If she sensed that Angela wouldn't talk then, chances were, Angela wouldn't talk.

Eben was sitting in a camp chair checking over his own notes. He had few if any qualms about Troy's dedication, knowing that the boy's incredibly good, almost photographic memory meant that the student had no immediate need to commit his observations to paper. Besides, the experience he was getting now would probably be of far more use than a week's routine study. It had surprised Eben that the rangers and vet had agreed to take Troy. Of all the students with him on this particular trip, he was glad it was Troy who had asked. Despite his sometimes annoying humour – undergraduate frivolity was invariably annoying to Eben – and his stupid practical jokes, the professor knew that Troy took the bush, and all that went with it, extremely seriously. Young Trevaskis could be relied on to acquit himself well, no matter how dangerous the situation. Troy had a very cool head when the occasion called for it.

No, it wasn't Troy who worried Eben. His concern over Angela's suitability for her chosen career
had escalated during the field trip. In the bush, the girl was like a fish out of water. He had already decided to discuss the issue with her once they were back on campus in South Africa. Fletch, Megan, Josie and Kalila would all complete the course, as would Troy. Eben had a pretty good idea of the marks they would achieve. But Angela? She was bright enough, her essays and assignments always adequate. There was the possibility of work on the administration side if she persisted with her plan for a career in nature conservation. But she'd never make a game ranger. She wasn't practical enough. Nobody wanted to hear how cute a jackal pup was. Future employers would want facts – life expectancy, diet, mating habits, spoor identification, group behaviour – that sort of thing. Damn the girl! With her looks she should be treading a different catwalk, like her mother had done, and not wasting Eben's time.

Dan Penman had been down at the camp site when Felicity arrived with Philip Meyer. After she checked in, Felicity went off to her bungalow to unpack. Philip, whose luggage was at the mercy of a rogue elephant, had nothing to do until his vehicle was brought back. If it was still drivable. He asked Billy where he might find Dan. The lodge manager had no idea, but Thea, waiting to show him to his bungalow, told him where to find the ranger. Philip took a quick look at his accommodation and set off along the five hundred metre track towards the camp site.

He was thinking about Felicity. Difficult not to. She was open and friendly, just the kind of woman Philip responded to. A little bit scatty – that two-line ditty about ellie and jelly had been pretty appalling – and for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything to rhyme with Philip either. She'd been calm and collected enough in the face of danger, acted incisively and hadn't made a big deal of it once they were safe. From the little he'd observed, her sense of humour held a spontaneous quality that was quite refreshing. He found her physically attractive too and wondered if the white blonde of that impossibly short hair was natural. The style would look ridiculous on most women but it suited Felicity. She had the fine-boned face necessary to carry it off.