Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  London, England: 15 December

  What the hell are you doing here, Penman? Dan had never felt so cold in his life. Nor so hemmed in. The sheer volume of people was overwhelming. To him, twenty was a crowd, another car at the same filling station petrol pump constituted a traffic jam. This was awful. He felt claustrophobic.

  London displayed its drab worst. Crowds of Christmas shoppers heaved, heads down, arms loaded with brightly wrapped parcels. Used to striding free, finding his own pace, the need to duck and dive from one side of the pavement to the other was driving him nuts. Resisting the urge to push and shove took all his willpower. How could anyone choose to live like this? Humanity en masse wasn’t the only thing. Buildings, old and new, closed in on all sides. If there had been any sunshine it was never going to reach the street. Not that it mattered today. Grey drizzle, bordering on sleet, fell from the sky with relentless persistence. Piped Christmas music, jolly little choirs singing of snow and holly and reindeer, filtered from shops as doors opened and closed releasing blasts of artificially heated air. Tinsel and fairy lights glittered in windows. They were no match for a Namibian star-studded sky. And as for religious reminders, if he saw yet another nativity scene he’d cock his leg and piss against the glass. Dan never had less of a Christmas spirit than he did at the moment.

  He was making his way along Haymarket, towards Her Majesty’s Theatre. Dan Penman looked as much out of place as he felt. Wearing blue jeans, boots, a beige turtle-necked jersey and brown leather jacket, his sun-bronzed face stood out like a beacon in the sea of lily-white shoppers.

  Coming to London was a whim. At least, that’s what he told himself. Okaukuejo Rest Camp, where he’d worked for the past nine months, was now closed for the summer. Dan had a month’s leave. He’d never been to England. Why not travel, see a bit of the world, broaden his mind, see how others lived? ‘Stop fooling yourself, Penman.’ The fact was, Dan had a plan.

  Six months earlier, a South African attorney had contacted him. Well into their eighties, Norman Snelling and his wife had been killed in a multiple pile-up as they travelled the N2 home from a visit to Cape Town. Norman, with no children, had left his old friend the farm. At first, Dan wanted no part of it. The farm was a responsibility, a burden, something he could live without. He was happy in Namibia, loved Etosha and had no need of possessions. He put the property into the hands of a real estate agent. Then a letter arrived from Gayle, its pages full of amusing snippets about her life. Reading between the lines, Dan sensed that she was desperately lonely. He often thought of her and now that she’d made contact, realised the ball was squarely in his court. It would be good to see her again. If Gayle could drop the prima donna bit, she was the kind of woman he could make his life with – what was left of it, anyway. But in Etosha? She would go mad with boredom. So Dan thought long and hard about the farm. He wrote a short note saying how nice it was to hear from her and telling her something of his work. She immediately replied. The ball was rolling. Dan got ready to kick it, and by way of preparation, took the farm off the market.

  As well as her address he had a telephone number. But instead of making further contact, Dan decided to surprise her. She was doing a stage play in the West End. Lady of the House, a rollicking comedy starring Emma Grant and Jonathan Peel. Gayle Gaynor featured as Lady Sumner. He’d go to London and see it. Then, if he was still of the same mind, take things from there.

  Dan had never seen a play in his life. As the houselights dimmed and the curtain rose, he might have admitted to a mild curiosity. Stronger was a growing excitement that he was about to see Gayle again.

  Gayle’s venture into stage work was part of a determination to distance herself from the glittering world of film. When she first arrived back in London, her high profile, the ordeal and a natural affinity with fame made her the flavour of the month. With the additional publicity came film scripts. Directors, trying to cash in on the public’s insatiable interest in the popular celebrity, wined and dined her and Gayle became the centre of everyone’s attention. For a while, she lapped it up.

  But it wasn’t long before Gayle realised how unhappy she actually was. Professed adoration started to have a hollow ring. The ‘Darling, how perfectly dreadful’ set couldn’t have cared less about how she really felt. They simply wanted to be seen with her. Gayle grew to hate the film industry and all that went with it.

  In private, she allowed herself to grieve for Matt. Instead of a flamboyant memorial service where the who’s who of tinsel town came to be observed, Gayle and Matt’s mother organised a small farewell inviting only a few close friends and relatives.

  Dan’s words had stayed with her. ‘Lose the bitch, Gayle. It won’t work with me.’ Had he seen through the facade? Matt most certainly had.

  The gap left by her gentle and devoted lover had been taken up by sadness. She hadn’t been in love with the young actor but oh, how she missed him.

  Film scripts were returned unread, one word scrawled over the title page. ‘No.’ Not quite sure why, or what kind of a response to expect, Gayle wrote to Dan. His reply said little but its simple sincerity touched her. The soul-searching she’d already been doing over her career extended to her life. She needed change. As a result, she accepted the role of Lady Sumner. Trained for film, the challenge of live theatre soon consumed Gayle. She discovered within herself a natural aptitude for the stage and three weeks into rehearsals, realised she was enjoying herself. The cast were down-to-earth professionals with none of the insecurity and self-importance of film stars. Gayle started losing the bitch. Still alone because she lacked the energy or even the inclination to find another young lover, she sometimes wished that Matt and Dan could be there to see her.

  Dan. He’d been one of the few to whom her fame meant nothing. Probably the only man to turn his back and walk away. But, when she needed him, he was right there. He’d be astonished to know she still had the shirt sleeve that he used to bandage her knee.

  Now she waited in the dressing room, ready for the next performance. The body-hugging costume was definitely too tight – no doubt due to a few extra pounds she’d put on. Gayle smiled graciously when the wardrobe girl said it must have shrunk in the wash.

  ‘Five minutes, Miss Gaynor.’

  After a last check of her make-up, Gayle went and stood in the wings.

  Dan rose to his feet as the audience gave a standing ovation. Gayle’s performance had been stunning, dominating the stage. They loved her. Dan knew most of her films. This was something different. Gayle had come alive. She took five curtain calls on her own.

  ‘How do I get backstage?’ he asked the doorman.

  ‘You don’t unless you’re expected.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Miss Gaynor.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The man looked bored. That one had been tried many times.

  ‘Dan Penman. I met her last year in Namibia.’

  Interest flared. ‘Were you one of the hostages?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ He indicated a door. ‘She left instructions that if any of you showed up you were to be admitted immediately. Through there and up the passage. You can’t miss it. Her dressing room is last on the left.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He heard Gayle even before reaching her room. ‘I don’t care. I can hardly breathe in this fucking costume. Have it altered by tomorrow.’

  Dan grinned. If she agreed, he’d have his work cut out. But could he get her to bury the bitch once and for all? He rapped on the door.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Gayle was not being difficult, simply coming down from the inevitable high of a successful performance.

  He opened the door. ‘Still throwing your weight around, I see.’

  She had yet to remove her stage make-up. Exaggerated eyes grew even larger, a hand flew to her heart, and luridly painted lips parted. ‘Dan!’

  ‘Not a bad performance.’ He stepped into the room.

  ‘Not bad!’ she nearly screeched, risi
ng and throwing her arms around him. ‘You cheeky bastard.’

  Dan held back, looking down at her disbelieving face. ‘You might want to get rid of that glop.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m buggered if I’ll kiss it off.’

  Gayle threw back her head and laughed.

  With a sigh, Dan kissed her anyway.

  For someone who’d never seen a stage play, Dan became something of an addict. Over the next three and a half weeks he saw thirty-two. They were all the same performance. By the end of that time he knew Gayle’s lines as well as she did. The day before he was due to leave for Africa, Dan revealed his plan.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Most probably.’

  ‘You expect me to give up everything and go live on a farm?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know a damned thing about cows.’

  ‘You can learn.’

  ‘Pretty bloody sure of yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’ In truth, Dan’s heart sat squarely in his mouth.

  ‘And what about my career?’

  ‘What about it? There’s a whole world out there.’

  They sat in her lounge. It was two in the morning and they’d just returned from the theatre.

  ‘Where would we live?’ Gayle was wavering.

  ‘In a house, where else? Unless of course you’d prefer a mud hut.’

  She ignored that. ‘What would I do all day?’

  Dan leaned forward. ‘South Africa has a thriving theatre industry. I can’t see you as the little house mouse.’

  ‘And I can’t picture you hanging around backstage.’

  He sat back, smiling. ‘I’m fifty-seven, never married. You’re forty-nine, never married. We’re both pretty set in our ways but I believe we can work something out that suits us. We don’t have to be joined at the hip. What do you say?’

  ‘What’s on offer?’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Marry you! Christ! A farmer’s wife! You’re actually asking me to be a farmer’s –’

  ‘Gayle?’

  ‘I must be mad.’

  ‘Gayle?’

  ‘Leave all this behind. The play’s got months to run. How on earth –’

  ‘Gayle?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up and come here.’

  She did.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Logans Island Lodge, which features prominently in this novel, is strictly a figment of the author’s imagination. While Logans Island does exist, it remains free of human interference and is as untouched today as it has always been. Ekuma hide and man-made waterhole on the edge of Natukana Pan (mentioned in Chapter 6) are also fictitious. The entire Ekuma area is off-limits to tourists and remains (rightfully so) the sole domain of its prolific wildlife. Both the lodge and waterhole have been invented so this story may be told. All other facts and figures are, as far as the author has been able to establish, correct.

  At the time of writing, UNITA rebels have conducted, and continue to carry out, a number of armed incursions into the Caprivi Strip in Namibia. Tourists have been targeted and harmed. This work is not based on those tragic facts. Etosha National Park remains safe, spectacularly beautiful, and well away from the trouble spots.

  Beverley Harper

  The Forgotten Sea

  Not a pretty sight. Certainly not one the authorities on Mauritius, that gem of a tourist destination in a trio of idyllic islands once known as the Mascarenes, would like to become public knowledge. Their carefully nurtured image was of sparkling blue sea, emerald green palm fringes haphazardly angled along pure white beaches . . . This was ugly, messy.

  When Australian journalist Holly Jones flies to Mauritius to cover playboy adventurer Connor Maguire’s search for buried ancestral treasure, it promises to be a relaxing two weeks in an exotic island paradise. What she hasn’t planned on is an infuriating, reluctant subject with a hidden agenda. Or one who stirs the fires in a heart grown cold. But can she trust him . . .

  After the body of a young woman is washed up on a beach, Holly finds herself caught in a deadly murder investigation and the island’s darkest secrets.

  A compelling, passionate tale from Beverley Harper, author of the bestselling People of Heaven, Echo of an Angry God, Edge of the Rain and Storms Over Africa.

  ‘We have our own Wilbur Smith in the making here in Australia’

  SUN-HERALD

  Beverley Harper

  People of Heaven

  The poacher didn’t shoot her. Bullets cost money and a shot might alert the rangers . . . On the third night, after enduring more agony than any man or beast should ever have to face, the rhinoceros took one last shuddering breath, heaved her flanks painfully, and sought refuge in the silky blackness of death.

  In 1945 two returning soldiers meet on a train bound for Zululand. They have nothing in common; Joe King is a British–South African landowner, Wilson Mpande a Zulu tribesman. Yet destiny will link them for generations.

  Michael King and Dyson Mpande, the sons of enemies, share a precious friendship that defies race and colour. But as the realities of apartheid transform an angry South Africa, the fate of the Zulu nation is as precarious as that of the endangered black rhinoceros, hunted for its horn. Each must fight for what he loves most.

  And a great evil between their families will test their friendships beyond imaginable limits.

  Passionate, suspenseful, evocative, Beverley Harper’s fourth novel is a worthy successor to her previous bestsellers, Echo of an Angry God, Edge of the Rain and Storms Over Africa.

  ‘Harper is Australia’s answer to Wilbur Smith’

  AUSTRALIAN GOOD TASTE

  Beverley Harper

  Echo of an Angry God

  Likoma Island in Lake Malawi is renowned throughout Africa for its exotic and treacherous beauty – and its secret history of human sacrifice, hidden treasure and unspeakable horror. A history that cannot be hidden forever.

  Lana Devereaux travels to Malawi seeking the truth behind her father’s disappearance near Likoma Island fifteen years ago. But Lana soon finds herself caught in a web of deceit, passion and black magic that stretches back over two hundred years and has ramifications that reach well beyond the shores of Lake Malawi.

  Beverley Harper is fast becoming one of Australia’s most popular storytellers. Echo of an Angry God is her most thrilling adventure yet and follows the enormous success of her previous novels, Storms Over Africa and Edge of the Rain.

  ‘a fast paced yet affecting thriller with . . . compelling authenticity’

  WHO WEEKLY

  ‘a terrific adventure’

  GOLD COAST BULLETIN