Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Caitlin saw a soldier running towards them. Without hesitation she stepped between him and the tortured German pair. ‘No!’ she barked. ‘Get lost.’

  Uncertainty crossed the man’s face but he stopped and looked back at Ace who shrugged, as if to say, ‘Let them sort it out.’ The terrorist rolled his eyes and turned away, no longer interested.

  Ace called something to Chester who translated for Caitlin, ‘Walter must keep her quiet.’

  ‘She’s hysterical,’ Caitlin said sharply. ‘How the hell does he expect him to do that?’

  Chester shook his head. ‘He has to. Or they’ll kill her.’

  Caitlin took a shuddering breath. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Dear God in Heaven. What did any of us do to deserve this?’

  ‘That poor man,’ Felicity said to Philip, looking towards Walter and Jutta. ‘First his wife, now this. How do you deal with something like that?’

  Despite his interest in extremes of human emotion, the question was beyond Philip’s capability to answer. Sympathy for Walter’s despair flooded him. ‘I’ll see what can be done once we start moving again. Jutta won’t be able to get by on her own and Walter is in no state to be of much help.’

  ‘It might be best if you let Caitlin help. A strange man . . .’ She let it drop.

  ‘You’re right. I’m not thinking straight.’

  ‘Who is? Anyway there are others in need of assistance.’

  ‘Sean might appreciate some help. Thea’s been through a bit too.’

  Felicity managed to swallow the sudden fear that rose in her throat. ‘If we get out of this –’

  ‘We will,’ Philip cut in quickly. ‘Don’t doubt it.’

  She turned away. Would they? It was only a matter of time till they raped her too.

  Troy and Fletch moved separately among the captives explaining their plans. ‘We’ll have about an hour to get free and away. Keep your eyes open for anything we can use to cut rope.’

  A burst of laughter from the soldiers attracted their attention. Looking towards the fire, Troy and Dan saw they’d lined up last night’s bottles and were throwing rocks at them. ‘Small things amuse small minds,’ Dan muttered angrily, annoyed that anyone could be so stupid as to leave broken glass lying around in a game reserve. A bottle shattered. ‘That’s right, gentlemen, thank you very much,’ he gritted. Then a thought occurred to him. He flashed a quick grin at Troy. ‘I do believe we’ve found our knife.’

  The terrorists seemed in no hurry to leave. Last night’s debauchery had them relaxed and in a good mood. Ace was confident that the spirit of his prisoners would be close to breaking point. Another night like the last and he might not need to kill any of them. Today, they should make it to the park boundary. Tomorrow night, if he pushed the pace, they’d reach Angola. Everything was going to plan.

  Just before eight o’clock he gave the order to move. By then, three shards of glass had found their way into pockets and, with a pretext of repacking, the seals had been broken on eight assorted bottles of alcohol. All were easily accessible in Fletch’s backpack. Chester knew that the men preferred rum to scotch. They thought it was stronger. It was hoped the terrorists would give further clues as to tonight’s preferences. The Rompun had not, as yet, been introduced. Troy wanted to do that at the last possible moment in case it lost potency.

  Helping and being helped comforted most as they walked. Kalila and James drew together, not speaking, just needing each other’s company.

  Caitlin and Walter linked arms behind Jutta and literally forced her to walk. She was young and, despite the terrible abuse, her body responded automatically. Pain lingered where rough hands had bruised, and a deeper ache served as a reminder that she had been violated. The further they walked, the easier movement became. What wouldn’t go away was her traumatised state of mind. Jutta relived, over and over, every sordid detail of the previous night’s horror up to the merciful moment when she passed out.

  Angela kept close to Troy. He was her salvation. She was still terrified but, every now and then, Troy would ask how she was or put out a steadying hand to her. They were fleeting moments of safety.

  Philip and Sean supported Thea, walking close on either side of her. She felt tired, and would dearly have loved to sleep for a week, but kept up, only needing help now and again.

  Felicity gave Dan a hand with Gayle, who started to weep uncontrollably as they left Matt behind. With an arm loosely around her so his heavy pack didn’t bump, Dan could feel tremors and sobs shaking the actress’s slim body. Felicity, one arm linked through Gayle’s on the other side, found herself reflecting that whenever life drops you in it and you’re feeling hard done by, up pops someone else’s problem to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that your own hard luck story is a piddle in the middle of the ocean compared to theirs.

  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.

  ELEVEN

  Veterinary 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 tas
te 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.’