Jackal's Dance (23 page)

Sean, Chester and Troy returned to the lodge just before lunch, Sean driving Philip's Land Cruiser.

Philip ruefully surveyed his hired vehicle. The bonnet and roof looked like crumpled paper. The driver's door was staved in. The windscreen had shattered. It was drivable, just, but whether it would manage the trip back to Windhoek was in some doubt.

Dan whistled when he saw it. ‘Bit of luck that other vehicle was there.'

‘If it hadn't been I wouldn't have got out.'

‘Why? What made you do it? That's a slapped wrist if you're caught. You know it's
verboten
.'

Philip looked suitably embarrassed. ‘I didn't think. I was only offering assistance to find the lodge.'

Dan grinned. ‘Bullshit! The route is quite clearly marked. What's this lady like?'

‘Who said anything about a lady?'

‘Your face did. Come on, give. What's she like?'

‘Seems nice enough,' Philip replied noncommittally. ‘Felicity Honeywell.'

Dan repeated what Sean had told him earlier. ‘She's a poet, did you know that?'

‘She is!'

‘One of South Africa's best, apparently.'

Ellie
and
jelly
flashed absurdly through Philip's mind. It had slipped off Felicity's tongue with such ease. ‘What sort of poetry?'

‘Stuff that rhymes. Is there any other kind? Not sure exactly, I don't read it.'

Philip grinned. ‘Nor me. It's way over my head. Sue used to call me a literary dust bowl. Intense wordsmiths scare the pants off me.'

Dan gave his customary grunt of amusement which passed for a laugh and nodded towards the bar. ‘Is that her?'

Philip looked. Felicity, looking delightfully cool in white shorts and shirt, was sipping something through a straw. She saw him, waved and called out, ‘I see your car's been brought in. That elephant took herself seriously. It's quite a mess.'

Dan and Philip climbed the steps to join her. Philip introduced Felicity. ‘She was one angry lady.'

‘Was?' Felicity's brows furrowed.

Philip watched the smooth skin wrinkle, then clear. ‘They had to shoot her.'

Felicity's face registered pity. ‘I suppose it was necessary.'

Pragmatic. She hadn't liked it but, as with many who live in Africa, accepted that reality and sentiment never did business together in the often harsh world of animal management.

‘She would have died soon anyway,' Philip said.
‘Bullet wound in the leg. They don't know how she got it but that ranger we spoke to on the road, Sean, said septicaemia had already set in. Apparently she's been a bit of a nuisance for some months but the injury to her leg tipped her over the top. I'm sure it's better this way.'

‘Nothing and no-one is better off dead,' Felicity stated flatly. Then relented. ‘But I know what you mean.'

Caitlin McGregor joined them. ‘Hi, Dan. Hi everyone. I'm Caitlin. You must be Felicity Honeywell.' Caitlin and Felicity shook hands. She turned to Philip. ‘Let me guess. You'd have to be either James Fulton, Mal Black or Philip Meyer.'

Philip shook her hand. ‘Right third time. Not a bad memory.'

‘Goes with the job.' Caitlin grinned. ‘Makes the guests feel warm and fuzzy. Do you mind if I use your first names?'

‘Prefer it,' Felicity said.

Two others joined them. Guests and rangers were converging from all directions as lunchtime drew near. ‘Johan and Henneke Riekert,' Caitlin guessed out loud. ‘Am I right?'

‘Ja, that's it,' Johan replied, looking pleased. ‘We got here about two hours ago. It's lekker, eh?'

Sean and Chester arrived. Then James and Mal, deep in conversation. The Schmidt family were next, Walter complaining loudly about the heat. They were followed by Matt Grandville. ‘Gayle not joining us?' Caitlin asked.

‘She's having a little nap,' Matt said. ‘We had a very early start today.'

Johan tutted his disapproval.

Thea came up the steps. ‘Is Billy here?'

‘Haven't seen him,' Chester told her.

‘I'll just go and find out if he'll be joining us.'

Sean watched her leave again. She seemed somehow distant, making him wonder if she'd told Billy her news.

‘What about the university group? Will they be wanting lunch?' Caitlin wondered.

‘No. I've just come from there. They're pretty well self-sufficient.' Sean had been to the camp site to inform Professor Kruger that he and his students could return to their base in the bush any time they liked.

Confrontation with a more than usually out of sorts Billy had followed.

‘You had no right to tell him that.'

‘Why? The elephant's dead.'

‘Head office wants to stop the professor camping wherever he likes. What's wrong with his students using the camp site?'

‘At a guess, I'd say money,' Sean replied dryly.

‘For what we give the campers this place is dirt-cheap.'

‘And the bush is free,' Sean countered. ‘I know from experience that varsity students are perpetually broke. Besides, Eben Kruger can get one hundred per cent of their attention in the bush. There are too many diversions here.'

Billy gave a thin smile. ‘Well, he'll have to learn
how to deal with that. This year will be his last under canvas in the park. From now on he'll have to toe the line and stay at one of the camps.' Billy sounded smug. ‘He's lucky it's been allowed this long.'

Sean had left Billy's office in a sour frame of mind. The world was becoming too regulated, characters like the professor were a rarity. If the bloody bureaucrats had their way, this earth would be populated by obedient do and don't stick figures, cloned and classified on some global database. Sean liked the crusty old professor. His bark was ten times worse than his bite, he loved his life's work with a passion and had forgotten more than most people ever knew about the animals of Africa.

Although his charges might disagree, Eben had a soft side. When Sean informed him that it was safe to return to their original camping area, the professor had been ready to pack up and get going. The students howled him down. They pleaded with him for one night in relative comfort. The professor grudgingly agreed but Sean had seen an indulgent twinkle in the older man's eyes.

Lunch with a newly arrived batch of tourists was inevitably a session where the rangers answered myriad questions. Chester, Caitlin, Sean and Dan were well used to the process and patiently replied as though they hadn't said the same thing a hundred times before. Thea didn't return but Sean noticed her carrying a tray of food to the office for Billy.

Young Jutta Schmidt transferred her fawning interest from Sean to Matt. Although the game ranger remained wildly romantic to a girl who had spent all her life in Stuttgart, a British actor was even more so. At an awkward age, when her ripening body was still governed by girlish thoughts, any obvious attempts to flirt were clumsy and drew amused tolerance from the others. Her father appeared oblivious to his daughter's romantic hit on Matt, continuing to grumble about the food and service. Erica, with no sensitivity or understanding of Jutta's fledgling maturity, sharply told the girl to behave or she wouldn't be going on the afternoon game drive. Sean did a head count of who wanted to go. ‘Ten,' he said. ‘We'll need two vehicles.'

After lunch, guests were free to do whatever they liked until four o'clock, when everyone was to assemble outside the dining room with cameras, binoculars and a jersey or jacket for after sunset.

Caitlin and Sean walked together to the workshop.

‘Not a bad bunch,' Sean commented.

‘The Schmidts are a pain in the arse,' Caitlin said. ‘I took them out this morning.'

‘Any of the students coming this afternoon?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

‘They might appreciate it. What do you reckon?'

‘Want me to go down and ask?'

‘Thanks, Caitlin. Would you? I'll get the vehicles ready.'

James and Mal lingered in the bar area for another half-hour after the others had left. Beyond the landscaped gardens and waterhole the endless white pan stretched away to infinity. The view was spectacular. ‘Think of all those poor souls on Fifth Avenue,' Mal mused, rubbing a hand over his bristly crew cut. ‘I could stay here forever.'

‘You always say that. Wherever we go, you want to stay forever.'

‘Well, this time it's true. Don't tell me you intend living in New York for the rest of your life?'

‘So, do you think they believed us?' James asked, changing the subject abruptly.

‘I don't care whether they did or not.'

‘But do you think they did?'

‘They seemed to.'

Their story was that Mal was an advertising executive, James in public relations and the two of them were in Africa on behalf of a client who specialised in outfitting safari adventurers. Responses to questions about their work came easily. They were seeking concepts to develop the right corporate image. It was close enough to the truth – they'd worked on similar projects in the past. No-one needed to know that neither had a client who even remotely came close to kitting out safaris.

‘One of these days we're actually going to meet one of these supposed clients of ours,' Mal joked. ‘Then we're screwed.'

James pulled a face. ‘Don't even
think
it.'

‘Might be the best thing that could happen. Nowhere to hide. You'd have to come out then.'

‘Mal . . .' James glanced around nervously.

‘Okay, okay.' Mal threw up his hands. ‘What do you want to do now?'

‘Sit by the pool. Read. Have a swim. Relax.'

Mal couldn't resist one last dig. ‘Sure you don't want to wander around looking for concepts?'

But James would not be drawn. ‘I'll do that on the game drive.'

Philip, Dan and Felicity strolled over to the low electrified fence that separated the lodge's grounds from the waterhole. The fence did not surround the island, only the lodge and bungalows. It was there to protect guests from flesh-eating predators and to keep large and destructive animals away from the gardens and swimming pool.

At this time of day they did not expect to see any animals but, as Dan said, ‘You never can tell.' He explained, for Felicity's benefit, that about twelve kilometres north-east of Logans Island a spur of land jutted out into the pan. Grazing animals who found themselves on it, rather than go the long way around to reach the western edge, often crossed the pan. It was the reason a waterhole had been constructed in front of the island. ‘They get to know there's permanent water here,' he said. ‘It's beneficial to them and our guests are given a chance to view the animals up close. It's not as popular as the other man-made holes but, in any given day, you're bound to see a few.'

A lone male kudu with only one spiral horn was at the water's edge drinking. They watched it
for a while before Dan had to leave for the camp site. The kudu, seemingly unbothered by an audience, ambled away towards the mainland.

‘Dan tells me you're a poet.'

Felicity grinned. ‘Couldn't you tell?'

‘Ellie and jelly?' Philip laughed. ‘Not really.'

‘I am a poet.' Felicity turned serious. ‘But one who is considering a career move.'

‘Oh! To what?'

‘Fiction.'

‘Tough business.'

Felicity nodded. ‘But it's got to pay more than a witty ditty or two.'

‘I always thought that poets looked down their literary noses at popular fiction.'

‘True.' Felicity squinted in the pan's afternoon glare. ‘But even highfalutin literary types have to eat.'

He said nothing but his eyes were interested.

Felicity shrugged. ‘Changed circumstances,' she said lightly.

Philip nodded his understanding. ‘What genre?'

She took a deep breath and blew out air. ‘Good question. It's why I came up here, to try and figure out precisely that.'

‘What do you like to read?'

‘A good psychological mystery. One that keeps you guessing right to the end.'

‘Then that's what you should write.'

Felicity cocked her head, a question in her eyes.

‘I'm an author,' Philip admitted. ‘Most of us end up writing the kind of thing we enjoy reading.'

‘Makes sense, I suppose.' Felicity sounded reflective. ‘Why didn't I think of that?'

‘You must have respect for your genre,' Philip went on. ‘If you don't a reader will pick it.'

‘What's yours? Genre, I mean.'

‘Adventure romance. Up until now, with an historical bent. This time I'm trying something different. An African-based story set in the present.'

Felicity nodded. ‘Thanks for the advice. It's certainly given me something to think about.' She raised one hand to shield her eyes. ‘Are you here for research?'

Philip nodded. ‘Research and nostalgia. I was here two years ago with my wife. Sue died of cancer a few months later.' He looked sad for a moment, then smiled at Felicity. ‘Changed circumstances, I think you called it.'

‘I'm sorry. Mine isn't dead, though it's not for the want of my wishing he were. That puts a different perspective on it.'

‘I thought you said nothing and no-one is better off dead.'

‘The ravings of a terminally rose-tinted mind that more often than not ignores practical reality.'

Philip's eyebrows rose. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The Turd is another matter,' Felicity explained.

‘The Turd?'

‘Martin Anthony James Honeywell, forty-eight, market research analyst, all-round ladies' man and soon to be ex-husband. What I said earlier doesn't apply to him. He's the one outstandingly notable exception.' Her words were bitter but the tone in
which they were delivered held a degree of humorous self-deprecation.