Jackal's Dance (47 page)

Fletch, Josie and Chester joined forces. Fletch carried the bottles that were to be doctored. He wondered how Troy would manage it. Certainly not while they walked. Probably once they'd stopped for the day. It was going to be tricky.

Billy remained alone. He knew of Troy's plan and, of them all, had been the only one against it. His fear, that they'd be caught and punished, didn't get to first base with the others. It wasn't until Chester pointed out that Billy stood as much chance of being raped as the women that he agreed. Until then, that thought hadn't crossed Billy's mind. While deeply affected by the previous night, Billy had been able to distance himself from it. In typical fashion, he'd been thinking only of himself.

None of them was inclined to talk much. All thought stretched to the night ahead.

Megan woke at first light and, for a moment, wondered where she was. Pain reminded her. Gingerly, she sat up. Her wounded arm was stiff and sore but she felt rested. Struggling to her feet, she hobbled to the bathroom and inspected the damage. The groove on her head had the livid appearance of a burn, though a thin crust had formed. Pressing gently all around it, it was no more painful than yesterday. That meant no infection. She applied more ointment but left it uncovered. More bruising and swelling had come out during the night. As a result, her left eye was completely shut and the whole side of her face, down as far as the jaw, discoloured. ‘Better out than in,' she told herself.

Satisfied that nature and the antibiotic were taking care of things, she turned her attention to the arm. It was still weeping. Flesh, dried blood and the white wriggly thing had fused together, made more dramatic by a green, yellow and purple bruise from shoulder to elbow. It was impossible to tell whether anything was infected or not. The first-aid course she'd volunteered to take before the trip, anything she'd picked up from her doctor father plus common sense, none of it qualified her to make an informed judgment on how badly she'd been injured. All she could do was take every possible precaution. Grimacing with pain, she packed it liberally with fresh ointment and rebandaged it. After two more antibiotic tablets and two
pain-killers, Megan decided she'd done all she could. The arm probably needed stitching, even surgery, but there was nothing she could do about that now. As she moved the limb, the stiffness eased.

Then there was the rest of her face. It had been badly sunburned as she'd made her way across the pan yesterday. The skin was bright red, tight and sore. She had been too preoccupied to notice it yesterday. It would peel in a day or so. Her lips were swollen. Small sun blisters had already formed. In all, Megan had to concede that she was not a pretty picture. She tried, one-handed, to braid her hair but gave up. It would just have to hang loose. Although her mouth felt stale she rejected the idea of cleaning her teeth. It would hurt too much. The craft shop sold sweets. Perhaps they'd have some mints. Glucose too, for strength. Good idea.

Carrying everything she needed might be a problem. The rifle could be slung over her good shoulder. The walking stick was essential. She'd need water and food, bullets and medical supplies. There was a military-style sleeveless jacket in her tent with four large pockets. Hellishly hot but probably more comfortable than trying to use a backpack.

Raiding the kitchen Megan found enough fruit, biscuits and water to last for two days. To set herself up for whatever lay ahead, she downed two large bowls of cornflakes with plenty of sugar for energy. After a last look round for anything that might be needed, Megan walked down to the camp site. In addition to Caitlin's spring water
from the pantry, she wanted her own water bottle, one which clipped to the belt of her jeans. And a hat to prevent further sunburn.

Jacket pockets stuffed, rifle slung and walking stick at the ready, Megan stepped out onto the pan. ‘This is it.' Leaving the island with its creature comforts, not to mention food, water and protection from dangerous animals and the elements, Megan felt alone and vulnerable. But she knew it had to be done. Aware that her footprints might last two-hundred years, Megan hoped that, given the circumstances, she'd be forgiven. She could have returned to the lodge and used the road but that added an extra kilometre or more. One kilometre didn't sound much when she was contemplating seventy, but any shortcut was welcome. Once she reached the embankment that connected Logans Island to the mainland the going would become a little easier. Her feet scrunched through the thin brittle layer on the surface, reminding her of yesterday morning, of the many feet going out and of the one pair coming back. In every direction there was nothing but space. The silence, barring the sound of her footsteps, her breath, the beating of her heart, emphasised how alone she was by playing an incessant and vibrating high-pitched song in her ears. A lone jackal trotted busily off to her right, stopping every so often to look back at her. Far above, a jumbo jet left a woolly vapour trail as it sped north. Seeing it, thinking of the people on board, Megan felt more lonely than ever.

The rifle weighed heavily on her shoulder. Africa's harsh sun beat mercilessly down. Megan sipped sparingly at the water, preferring to lighten the load in her jacket than drink from the bottle that bumped annoyingly on her hip. Today, if she didn't encounter anyone, was going to be more taxing than anything she'd ever known.
And tonight?
Megan wouldn't think about that.

Okaukuejo was the closest rest camp but it lay a good seventy kilometres from Logans Island. It would be several hours before she could hope to find any tourist traffic. Even then, it was not a foregone conclusion. This part of the park was not popular. Halfway to Okaukuejo was Okondeka, noted for lion sightings. Even though other people were bound to be there, Megan doubted she'd get that far in one day.

She'd dearly have loved to dump the rifle. Each time she put weight on her bad leg the barrel tilted forward, hitting her on the back of the head. She didn't dare leave it behind. What if she came face to face with a lion? It might not happen and even if it did, she was not necessarily going to be in danger. On foot with the others Megan had seen lion quite close and knew that the animal usually went about its own business leaving curious humans to go about theirs. On a one-to-one basis though, the lion might not be so charitable. Elephants were another matter. Her only close encounter had been with the rogue cow. Her studies hadn't included elephant. Common sense told her the rogue's aggressive behaviour had probably not been
typical. So what? A wild animal that size made the hardship of carrying a weapon worth it, even if the rifle looked like a pea shooter by comparison. In the face of a charge, she'd have no option but to use it. Somehow, the prospect was more daunting than walking seventy kilometres.

V
eterinary officer Buster Louw slept in. Normally awake at first light, it was a little after seven when a full bladder and creeping dehydration combined to send a message he could not ignore. A robust man in his mid-thirties, Buster greeted this new day with very little enthusiasm. Opening one eye, light streaming through the window stabbed straight into his head, a piercing pain the only reward. Buster quickly shut it out again but not before registering the fact that he was in his own room, naked but for a garishly coloured plastic apron. He'd managed to make it to bed but not under the covers. An exploratory feel with one hand told him he was alone. The pounding hangover warned that the next twelve hours or so would be miserable. ‘Jesus!' Buster pulled the pillow over his head. He felt terrible. But even with a body shrieking in protest, his brain was trying to function.

There was something he was supposed to do today.
What?
The urge to quietly die was overpowering. He groaned, remembering what it was.
Work.
The last thing in the world he needed.
Buster removed the pillow, rolled to a sitting position and held his face in both hands. Something behind his eyes didn't appreciate movement and thumped in protest. ‘Oh, man!' Mouth dry, stomach churning, his legs felt weak and aching. Stale alcohol fumes near gagged him each time he breathed in.

A quiet man as a rule, when Buster let his hair down he didn't mess around. Unfortunately, there was never any warning as to which way a night would go. Sometimes he could consume vast quantities of alcohol and go to bed stone cold sober. On other occasions it seemed that three drinks and he was away. The latter occurred at inappropriate times more often than he'd have liked. The night before last's birthday party for one of the staff had provided a perfect excuse to let rip. Everyone else did. Celebrations were in full swing by the time he arrived and the evening was shaping up to be a blast. Buster, who had driven down from his camp near Logans Island, simply hadn't been in the mood, nursing a couple of whiskies and slipping away early.

He'd been out of sorts because the job up north should have been finished – would have been too if he'd received the help promised by Billy Abbott. Bloody useless man probably forgot to mention it to the rangers. They were a good bunch, always willing to lend a hand. It was the inconvenience that annoyed Buster. That, and a reprimand from his boss for taking time out for a party. He'd been grudgingly granted one day off and told, in no
uncertain terms, that after that he had to get back up there and not return until the job was finished. He'd been tempted to leave the following morning but decided to treat himself to a break.

The ‘hair of the dog' bash at Sandra's should have been a quiet affair. Most of the guests were still suffering from the previous night's party. Not Buster. He'd obviously had a wonderful time. God knows what hour he went to bed. Events after about ten-thirty were shrouded in a haze of selective memory loss. He vaguely recalled dancing on a table. Buster shuddered. He'd been wearing nothing but the apron then too. Great! Nothing like showing off your hairy arse to a bunch of sober people. No wonder he woke up alone.

Forcing himself to his feet, Buster stumbled into the bathroom. Bladder relieved, he leaned over the basin and splashed cold water over his face and head. Looking in the mirror, the classic symptoms of over-indulgence stared back at him. Red-rimmed eyes, sallow skin, shaking hands, and absolute proof as if he really needed it, whenever he had a hangover his hair stuck straight out as if trying to distance itself from inevitable pain.

Going back to his room, Buster fumbled with the makings of something non-alcoholic. His system was begging for liquid. Nothing was easy this morning. Coffee and sugar grains leapt off the spoon. Water took forever to boil. Milk slopped onto the counter and made a brown sludge as it dissolved coffee granules. Boiling water from an over-full electric kettle completed the mess and
also managed to burn his fingers. ‘Oh Christ no!' He'd just remembered making a fairly crude suggestion to Sandra. He must have been very drunk. She was a nice enough girl but the park's newest research officer wasn't his type. Buster cringed. Someone had asked him what he thought of her. His answer had not been kind.

‘Let me put it this way. If she and I were marooned on a desert island together, I'd kill her and eat her.' Charming! He couldn't remember who he'd made the comment to, but with his luck it would have to be Hagen Klein who quite fancied Sandra.

Groaning slightly, Buster made it back to bed without spilling too much coffee. The plastic apron had hard seams that rubbed in places he wished it wouldn't. Buster lacked the energy to take it off. Dare he have a cigarette? He didn't feel it would help so lit one anyway. The taste was terrible but he finished it, then wished he hadn't. He felt sick. Staring morosely at the floor, Buster wondered vaguely where his clothes were. A sharp rap at the door forced him back to the present. ‘Ja.'

It opened and Hagen Klein stuck his head inside. ‘Saw your vehicle. I thought you were leaving early for Logans Island?' The young German looked disgustingly fit.

‘Ja, man.' And smug. Buster hated him for that. He coughed. It hurt his head something fierce.

Hagen came into the room, looking with amusement at Buster's attire.
‘Dronk verdriet?'
he asked in Afrikaans, with no sympathy.

Buster ignored the question. Alcoholic remorse was a private matter.

‘Not so chirpy this morning?' Hagen planted himself in front of Buster's slouched form.

‘Fuck off.'

Hagen took no offence. The two men were friends.

‘Are you okay?'

‘No. But I'll get there, eventually.' Buster squinted up at Hagen. ‘Did I enjoy myself last night?'

The German laughed. ‘I'll say you did. You had a terrific night. Top form. By the way, the camp manager is looking for you. A couple of guests complained about a naked man in the swimming pool.'

Buster grunted. That'd be right. He usually went for a dip when he was pissed. Summer or winter, it didn't seem to make any difference. That's why his hair was always a mess the next day.

‘Want me to come up with you?' Hagen offered.

Shaking his head was a bad idea. ‘No point. Thanks anyway.'

Hagen knew what he meant. Buster was recording zebra herds and trying to estimate numbers. Overgrazing was a growing problem, so some animals were to be darted and sold off. The important question was how many. For someone else to come in at this point would be a waste of time, since they'd more than likely duplicate work already done. ‘Sandra's also looking for you.'

Buster pulled a face. ‘Is she still talking to me? Wouldn't blame her if she wasn't.'

‘Must be. She asked me to tell you to bring her apron back.'

Bleary bloodshot eyes raised to meet the German's. ‘Look, I think I was a bit out of line last night. Sorry.'

‘No problem. It's not as if we're an item or anything. I'm interested but she's definitely not.'

‘Yeah, well, I said a few things I shouldn't.'