Jackal's Dance (5 page)

Josie came from an extremely wealthy Jewish family who owned a string of jewellery shops around South Africa. Her mother, always busy, had largely entrusted the upbringing of her only female offspring to a black nanny. Quiet and confidential mother–daughter conversations rarely took place. Josie found out about the workings of a woman's body from friends. And, because a lot of giggling and a few old wives' tales invariably accompanied these whispered discussions, Josie grew up believing a woman's menstruation time to be something distasteful that nice people didn't talk about. She always felt slightly dirty when her period arrived, as though visited by something undeserved and quite unsavoury.

From the age of fourteen, Josie had known there was a definite kink in her sexuality. She'd developed a crush on one of the female teachers and was considerably relieved to discover that half her class felt the same. But two years later, when others were gushing over movie stars, singers and boys from a neighbouring school, Josie was fantasising about the head girl.

At seventeen, with dogged determination to
find out once and for all which way she leaned, Josie lost her virginity to one of her older brother's friends who had always made it clear that he was attracted to her. It was a terrible experience. His assurance that it would be better the second time made sense. Nothing could hurt
that much
again. He was right. But it was still terrible. That left Josie with a problem. She didn't know any lesbians. The dilemma was solved by the same teacher most of her class had fancied three years earlier. The older, more experienced woman knew a potential partner when she saw one.

Josie had gone into the relationship with her eyes wide open and nothing more than a desperate desire to discover the truth about her own sexuality. She did not expect to fall in love. Once she realised she had, that question had at least been answered. The relationship didn't last but, by the time it ended, Josie was fairly comfortable with the knowledge that she was gay. Just to be sure, she went back to her brother's friend. Despite his confusion over her hot, cold, and then hot again behaviour, he put it down to the unpredictability of women and enthusiastically obliged. It was a disaster.

‘So,' she told herself. ‘You're gay. Get used to it.' It had not been difficult but, so far, the only other people who knew were those she'd been to bed with. Lately, Josie had started to think that if her hormones were all mixed up and she was meant to be a man, then why the hell did her body have to endure these monthly visitations?

Jewishness was more of a burden to Josie than
her sexual preferences. Both set her apart, but she couldn't hide her background. Unlike a lot of people who belonged to the Jewish faith, Josie found no comfort from the company of others who shared her religion. In any case, although she supposed there were plenty of gay Jewish women out there, looking for them in South Africa struck her as being a futile and restrictive pursuit. So she cast her net wider and, in the doing of that, discovered that with few exceptions, gay gentiles – who really should have understood how hard it was to be different – found her faith a stumbling block. It wasn't Josie so much as her stereotyped parents, Ozzie and Yonina, with their accents, expressions and preoccupation with money, which made others look at Josie as though she were a different species altogether.

One day she might meet someone, Jewish or otherwise, with whom she could connect and share her life. In the meantime, Josie was a loner, uncomfortable in the presence of straight women, wary around men and having a period she didn't believe appropriate.

Dressed in khaki shorts and black T-shirt, Josie solved the problem of used tampons by stuffing a wad of tissues in her pocket to wrap them in. They could be disposed of back at camp. Running fingers through her short black hair, she stuck an oversized Australian Akubra on her head and left her tent to join the others.

Angela Gibbs was in no rush, doing her usual early morning exercise slowly and with great
concentration. Perfectly proportioned to fit a frame all of one hundred and seventy centimetres high, her body had the well-toned entitlement of youth, although Angela firmly believed it was only because she worked at it. Likewise with skin and hair. Angela had tried every skin care product going. Strangely, her dedication to outward appearances had nothing to do with vanity. She simply had a deep-seated need to look as good as possible for as long as she could. With beauty and body routines in place, Angela was content to leave her ample attributes strictly as nature intended. Long blonde hair was never tinted or curled, but brushed vigorously, conditioned regularly and cut well. Moisturising creams, skin repair oils, toners, anti-wrinkle formulae and face masks were lavished on her face and neck, which were then left to fend for themselves without any further enhancement. Bodywise, Angela would look good in a hessian sack.

No-one could have guessed that she had a very low opinion of herself. Which on the surface was odd, since despite her presentation she was not even close to the clichéd image of a blonde bimbo. Angela was far from stupid yet seemed not to realise just how much she had to offer.

Inwardly, she was directionless, insecure and confused – not a happy combination for a twenty-one-year-old girl. Her looks came from a mother who had been a famed model of her day. Unfortunately, the older woman was incapable of discussing anything other than appearance, deportment and
finding a suitably rich husband. Angela got her brains from a father who worshipped beauty and success in that order. He was a stunningly successful stockbroker, had a beautiful wife and daughter and considered his husband and fatherly role fulfilled by providing luxuries. While this was enough for his wife it had not been for Angela, who never really knew him. For her he was more like a distant relative than her own father.

When Angela said she wanted to go to university and study resource management, her mother thought it a good idea. As she put it, ‘You'll meet tomorrow's leaders there, darling. But why a science degree? You should be looking at politics or business management.' Her father had grunted indulgently, written the cheque, bought her a car and paid a generous allowance every month.

Now in her second year, Angela was no closer to knowing what to do with her life. The courses were interesting enough, although she was not particularly committed to any of them. She studied and achieved results because it was expected of her. Signing up for the field trip was a case of might as well get it over with. She had to do one, if not this year then next. Angela had the vague notion of becoming a game ranger, not because of any particular love for the African bush and its wildlife, or through any desire to protect the flora and fauna of her country, but because it seemed like a different, fun and perhaps glamorous thing to do. She acknowledged, however, that once her degree was obtained, who knew what might happen? Life
might well take off in another direction altogether. Modelling, for example.

Her mother went on and on about marriage. Angela always shied off the subject. She'd probably want children one day, but it was the getting pregnant bit she didn't want. It seemed to her that, regardless of age, the male of the human species had but one objective in life. If only it could stop at friendship. But no. They always wanted to go further. And Angela knew where that led – to pain and fear while that horrible thing was happening to her. So much pain and fear. So much that it invaded dreams, leaving her shaking, sweating, crying out, as she forced herself awake, away from vivid recollections. Bad memories were supposed to fade. Angela's didn't. They grew inside her head like some monstrous worm feeding on her brain. The terrible rough thrusting and animal grunting. That rock-hard thing pounding into her body, tearing at soft flesh. Fetid breath, hot hands pawing, slack lips kissing, and all the while she was pleading, ‘No, please no.' Then, after what seemed an eternity, the disgusting finale of shuddering hot lust, withdrawal of the thing now soft, sticky and covered with her blood. The odour of something alien. The final insult. ‘Did you like it?' That horrible, despicable smile of satisfaction, as if he'd bestowed a precious gift. Days and days throwing up with fear and disgust. Months and years of soul-searching that, somehow, it had been her fault, that she'd encouraged him, that she was nothing more than a slut.

She'd been only fourteen. He'd been a forty-something neighbour. Angela had told no-one about the rape, not even her parents. But the scars left her terrified of men. She could see lust in their eyes whenever they looked at her. All men were the same. Her mother once told her it was normal. Angela couldn't understand how other women accepted what was, to her, a terrifying invasion of body and soul. She would look at married women and wonder how they could stand it. Did they do it often? Did it hurt them? Did they bleed?

After the rape, when talk at school turned to sex, Angela always found something else to do. At university, where nocturnal activities were more openly discussed, she pretended to participate. But after that one soul-destroying experience, Angela had not allowed a man anywhere near her. The rape had left scars so deep that, emotionally, Angela never progressed beyond the age of fourteen. She was in a kind of time warp, though in all other aspects her body and mind developed normally.

To hide her phobia, Angela went out of her way to be friendly, believing if men liked her they wouldn't dream of sullying her with their filthy lust. Unfortunately, in her nervousness and innocence, males thought she was flirting. She was in a catch-22 situation, but completely unaware of it. Sending out the wrong signals for the wrong reasons, Angela, now firmly convinced that all men were driven by the same thing, knew with certainty it was exactly that which she could never give.

Troy was a perfect example. She'd been nice to
him because he seemed to fancy her. Fancying her would lead to . . . So she was especially friendly, sitting with him on the bus, giggling at his jokes. She had to make him like her. If he did, then maybe he wouldn't want to . . . Being friendly hadn't worked. He'd sensed she was a slut – somehow men always knew – and made that disgusting comment, ‘I want to kiss you all over.' He had that look in his eyes, the one Angela knew meant his thing was stiff and ready to hurt.

Angela stared at her reflection in a small mirror, trying to see what it was that made men think she would want them to hurt her. As usual, she saw nothing. Putting the mirror back in her toilet bag, Angela collected up what she would need for the morning. Ready at last, she crawled from the tent, reluctant to face yet another uncomfortable day in the bush.

Kalila Mabuka took great pains with her attire. Let no-one say that, as the token African of the group as she firmly believed she was, there would be any question of letting the side down. Fawn-coloured bush shorts, a crisp white cotton blouse, white ankle socks and lightweight walking shoes. She was tall for a Zulu, her skin the colour of polished ebony, and finely featured. By anyone's standards Kalila was beautiful, and she knew it. It was a fact accepted as her due. If she found fault in herself at all, it was the size of her bottom. Kalila had an African's posterior, which men of her own race found highly attractive. However, she was well aware that white men preferred the tight little
backsides of European women and, proud as she was of the generous proportions of her own rear end, which rolled invitingly when she walked, there lurked within Kalila a vague disquiet that because of it, she would never be accepted as an equal.

One part of her wanted that acceptance. The other, as proud daughter of a Zulu chief, considered herself a cut above most. And that included English- or Afrikaans-speaking Europeans.

At twenty-six, Kalila was considerably older than just about all the other students in her year. The reason for that was simple enough. Her father had entered politics just as soon as South Africa achieved majority rule. As a member of Inkatha, his political party was in the minority and the family had been moved around a fair bit before he secured his current position in Pretoria with the African National Congress-dominated Ministry for the Interior. Kalila had always dreamed of going to university. She was bright, motivated and interested in biology. Her father, a traditional Zulu, believed it a waste of time. His daughter would marry, raise children and live in the new South Africa as an equal. But ever more preoccupied with his political responsibilities, and since Kalila showed no sign of giving up her ambition, he relented and she was accepted into a Bachelor of Science program at Wits University.

She had a regular boyfriend who was studying to qualify as a doctor. Also Zulu, and from a prominent family, their parents hoped that the two
would marry. Maybe they would, but not yet. Kalila's boyfriend encouraged her to pursue her studies. At the moment there was no room in either of their lives for a family.

Kalila had been offered a place, which she refused, at the University of Zululand. She believed it was important to do well in an institution which had, up until fairly recently, been for exclusive use of the country's ruling minority.

This field trip was the first time in her life that Kalila had been the only African in the company of whites for any length of time. The experience was eye-opening.

Professor Kruger was okay. Any criticism he made of her was made in equal amounts of the others. She'd looked carefully for signs that colour singled her out but found none. The team's leader appeared to notice nothing outside his specialised field of academic interests.

Fletch, aside from his pathetic excuse about why her tea was always delivered last, treated her as an equal. Well, she wasn't. Her father was a chief. His grew grapes. They were poles apart. If a Zulu commoner approached his chief, or any of the first family for that matter, with such easy familiarity, he'd quickly be put in his place.

Megan, too, insulted Kalila by assuming the same status. Okay, her father had been a doctor. That gave him an elevated status in Zulu eyes. But Megan was deformed, therefore inferior. That was the Zulu way. You'd think the girl would know. She was, after all, from Durban, the capital of KwaZulu
Natal. Typical white arrogance. Or was it ignorance? It didn't matter – Megan should have known.