Drugs to Forget

by Martin Granger

  Doctor Styne looked puzzled. ‘Me?’

  ‘No, not you Doctor Styne, Nathalie. The woman has a business card with Nathalie’s name on it. She’s in quite a state. I don’t think she really knows why she is here and I don’t quite know what to do with her. Perhaps you could just give her a few minutes and she might go away.’

  Nathalie looked at Doctor Styne.

  ‘Go ahead, I’m fine as long as I get back for half twelve.’

  The woman was sitting in Stefanie’s office turning the card around and around in her hands. She looked to be in her late forties, brown tangled hair and no makeup. Nathalie had never seen her before.

  ‘I understand you wanted to see me.’

  The woman looked up in surprise. ‘I’m not sure.’ She thrust the card into Nathalie’s hands. ‘Is this you?’

  Nathalie studied the card. It had seen better days but it was hers all right. Nathalie Thompson. Documentary Film Director. Bagatelle Films. The Soho Square address was where she was standing right now.

  ‘It’s my card. Where did you get it?’

  The woman looked at her with watery eyes. ‘I don’t know, I was hoping you would tell me that.’

  ‘I’m really sorry I can’t remember meeting. What’s your name?’

  ‘Esther, Esther…’

  ‘Esther what?’

  ‘Esther.’ The woman looked confused and anxiously took back the card as if it was some sort of comforter.

  ‘Esther, I’m afraid I should be in a meeting right now so how can I help you?’

  Esther stared at the card and then at Nathalie. ‘Is this you?’

  Nathalie glanced at Stefanie and sat in a chair beside the woman.

  ‘Okay, let’s start again, I’m Nathalie Thompson, where do you come from Esther?’

  The woman looked around the office and then at her own hands as if searching for the answer. ‘Nathalie Thompson.’

  ‘Yes that’s right, where do you live Esther?’

  Esther raised her head and looked straight into Nathalie’s eyes. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know.’

  Nathalie glanced at Stefanie again. ‘Esther, can I leave you with Stefanie for a moment whilst I fetch someone who I’d like you to meet?’

  Stefanie nodded back knowingly as Nathalie returned to the meeting room. She explained the situation to Doctor Styne. He seemed intrigued.

  ‘I’m no neurologist but I’ll have a chat with her if you like.’

  ‘Just don’t want to throw her out on the street as some kind of nutter in case she is really not well,’ explained Nathalie. ‘Follow me, she’s just in the next office.’

  Doctor Styne followed and was introduced to Esther.

  ‘Hello Esther, I understand you’ve come here to meet Nathalie.’

  Esther looked troubled. ‘Nathalie?’

  ‘Yes, Nathalie, the young lady standing beside me. You’ve come to meet Nathalie.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Esther, how old are you?’

  ‘I think I had a birthday recently.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  Esther gazed around the room again, squinting her eyes struggling for the answer. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Esther, where do you live?’

  She slowly shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’

  Doctor Styne pointed to the card in Esther’s hand. ‘That’s Nathalie’s card, who gave it to you?’

  The woman looked at the card closely. ‘Nathalie, yes I need to see Nathalie.’

  ‘Can I take your pulse Esther, I’m a doctor.’ Esther shrugged her shoulders and held out her wrist.

  Styne looked at Nathalie and Stefanie, ‘Well she knows what a pulse is; do you have a thermometer in the office?’

  Geoff Sykes was in his office juggling with the paperwork of eight television programmes. Stefanie told him about the woman and he unsympathetically wrote it off as a scam.

  ‘It’s obvious, the woman has found a card on the pavement and wants to nosey around in our office. See what the film industry looks like from the inside.’ He threw a wad of files at her. ‘If the woman had my scheduling problems then she’s welcome to it. Has that researcher come up with anything more on that Zimbabwean terrorist group yet?’

  Stefanie was used to Geoff’s rants. She was also used to managing more than one task at a time. She glanced at the row of international clocks on the wall.

  ‘We are expecting a call any time now. Lloyd’s got to be careful, he said he would telephone as soon as he could get a private moment. And, as for the woman, I believe she’s genuinely lost her memory. The doctor’s in my office with her now; I think he would like us to call for an ambulance.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘The virologist that Nathalie’s meeting.’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘Nathalie asked him to check her out, after all he is a clinician.’

  ‘We’re not running a bloody hospital. She is meant to be mugging up on Ebola viruses, not playing nurse to every vagrant that walks in.’ He glanced up at the knock and saw Nathalie’s head appear around the door. ‘Talk of the devil.’

  Nathalie laughed, ‘My ears were burning so I’ve come to set the record straight. That vagrant, as you so call her, is quite distressed. The doctor thinks she’s got TGA and should be seen by a neurologist. He knows a colleague at his hospital who he is referring her to. We’ve sent for an ambulance, so we should be getting back to work very soon, mugging up on Ebola viruses, I seem to remember.’

  ‘Enough of your cheek. Of course if the woman is distressed we should do everything we can.’ Geoff was about to turn back to his paperwork when he looked up again. ‘What’s TGA?’

  ‘Transient global amnesia. Not uncommon apparently. It’s really weird, she can do stuff pretty normally but she hasn’t got a clue who she is. Keeps on asking the same questions. Am I Nathalie Thompson? The doctor says it could be due to cerebral ischaemia.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Could be a lack of blood supply to her temporal lobe. A sort of mini stroke.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Could be, that’s why we stopped work and are sending her to hospital.’

  ‘Okay, okay fair enough. But why did she have your card?’

  ‘No idea, could have just picked it up somewhere and the address was all she had to cling on to. I’ve never met her before.’

  The phone rang. Geoff looked at the incoming number and shooed Nathalie and Stefanie from his office. ‘I’ve got to take this, make sure the woman’s okay and finish off with your doctor. Lloyd’s going to be phoning any moment and I want Nathalie to personally take the call.’

  It was approaching mid-morning and Bagatelle’s offices were becoming busier. A film crew had just come in from the Far East and were stacking dusty equipment boxes in the hallway. Helmeted motorbike couriers stood at reception waiting to take the rushes to the edit suites and a graphic designer struggled to manoeuvre their portfolio through the main doors. The paramedics didn’t seem out of place as they pushed their way through the melée into the lobby. Doctor Styne chaperoned the woman out of the lift and handed her over with a note that he gave to the driver of the ambulance.

  ‘Just keep her calm and introduce her to this guy. I telephoned and he knows she’s coming.’

  The driver nodded and, with his colleague, helped the woman into the waiting vehicle. The blue light flashed as they drove off without the siren into the London traffic. The doctor returned to the meeting room and spoke with Nathalie.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go soon. I’m afraid that little episode has interrupted our meeting.’ He handed her a pamphlet. ‘This is something I give to my patients, you may find it useful.’

  ‘Probably not the sort of thing I’m looking for,’ thought Nathalie, but she took it all the same.

  Doctor Styne began to pack his briefcase. ‘Have you tried to contact the pharma companies? I’m sure they could
give you info on how they’re trying to stop viral epidemics.’

  Nathalie could see that the doctor was subtly telling her that this was all she was going to get out of him. ‘As it happens I have but, as soon as I mention the word bioterrorism, they shut up like clams,’ she said. ‘Just like you,’ she would have liked to have added.

  Styne noticed the awkwardness and started to make his way to the door. He stopped as Nathalie tapped him on the arm. ‘I’m sorry Miss Thompson but…’

  ‘No, that’s fine. I’m really grateful for what you’ve taught me. I was just going to ask you to get in touch if you hear anything about that woman with memory loss. I’d really like to know.’

  Doctor Styne lowered his shoulders and shook her hand. ‘Of course, Miss Thompson; if I see my colleague I’ll ask him, and if there’s any non-confidential information I’ll give you a call. Best of luck with your programme. I’ll see my own way out.’

  She was about to say she would escort him to the door but the meeting-room phone rang so she merely waved and picked up the receiver. It was Stefanie.

  ‘Lloyd’s on the phone. Geoff said that he particularly wanted you to speak to him directly.’

  Nathalie had been waiting for this call for several days. She sat down and grabbed a writing pad from the meeting desk. ‘Put him on.’

  Lloyd worked for the Zimbabwe Times. A couple of months ago he had written an article on an unusual Ebola outbreak in Harare. Ebola had been hardly heard of in Zimbabwe and no one could trace the source. The government had put the virus down to a random infected passenger travelling from Sierra Leone. But Lloyd had chased the story up and could find no such carrier. During the same period, the German embassy had been blown up; three people had died. Rumours were rife concerning a terrorist cell called WEXA and their possible involvement in the bombing. Lloyd believed that the Western Exploitation of Africa group may have something to do with the Ebola outbreak. His newspaper article had coincided with Bagatelle Films’ intention to produce a programme on bioterrorism. Lloyd had agreed to moonlight from the paper and to feed the London production company with information.

  Lloyd’s husky voice came down the line. ‘I think I’ve found them.’

  Nathalie twirled the pencil in her hand. ‘You sure you can talk?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine. They think I’ve gone outside for a smoke.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘About two fifty kilometres south of here, place called Shurugwi.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Can’t say for sure. Went to a late bar in Harare. Known for dissidents. Put it about that I was a sympathiser. Wished I could do something. A guy tapped me up. Said if I wanted to help he knew a few people.’

  ‘Can you depend on him?’

  ‘Not completely, but my other sources seem to think it’s the real deal.’

  ‘What’s the next move?’

  ‘I think you need to come out here. Play the Western activist. A campaigner for the rights of Africans. As a team I think we could get in there.’

  Nathalie chewed on the pencil. ‘The Ebola? Can you tie them to it?’

  ‘That’s a dead end at the moment. Government heavies are watching me on that one. I think you’d have a better chance of getting into the hospitals. Another reason you should come out.’

  There was a long pause broken by a sharp noise as the pencil broke in two.

  ‘Okay, I’ve spent enough time on my rear doing biology lessons. I’ll ask if they can raise expenses for a short field trip. When’s the best time for you?’

  ‘I’m meant to be having my annual holiday next week. The paper still doesn’t know I’m doing this so that would be a good time.’

  ‘If I can get a visa in time you’re on.’

  ‘Don’t apply for the journalist accreditation, it’ll hold you up and blow your cover. If you’re caught reporting or even blogging you’ll be in the shit, so make a cover story as an African aid worker or something. Someone is coming, I better go. Stefanie has got my uncle’s e-mail, don’t use mine. Let me know if you can make it.’ The line went dead.

  Three

  The fly landed on the brown folder which was resting on her lap. She stared at it willing it to go away but it did not stir. Just like her in this queue. Nathalie had never been to Central Africa before and now she was realising why. The cream-walled admissions office was lined with tubular metal chairs filled with passengers in transit, all with glazed eyes. She had been sitting here for more than an hour and hardly anybody had moved. Two rows in front of her was a long windowed desk, like an old-fashioned post office. Behind this desk sat two khaki-uniformed men alongside two piles of khaki folders. The fortunate passengers who were at the head of the queue were having their papers stamped, again and again. The sound echoed through the still fetid air.

  Nathalie had been overjoyed when she heard that Geoff had a contact at an African aid organisation. He had filmed for them before and must have done them some favours for they were very generous with their cooperation. Within a week she had a back story, an NGO visa, and an invitation to visit two hospitals in Harare. The watchword was ‘immunisation’. A complete blackout on AIDS and Ebola. She could handle that, a general chitchat about the children’s immunisation programme and an on the side conversation with a caring nurse. That’s if she got that far. The NGO visa didn’t seem to be pulling any weight in this queue or, if it was, God help the others.

  ‘Miss Nathalie Thompson, Imunaid?’ An assistant was calling from the front desk.

  Nathalie jumped up. ‘Here,’ she called expectantly.

  ‘You are number fourteen. Please take a seat.’

  She sat down again. It was pointless protesting, this was Zimbabwe’s bureaucracy; probably a vestige of old colonial days. If she wanted to get in the country she would have to play along. She used the time by rehearsing the plan in her head. Visit the hospitals, chat up the immunisation nurses to get an outreach visit to the bush, check out any possible Ebola cases at the same time. Lloyd said he would set up a meeting in the countryside, south of Harare. It would be safer that way. It sounded simple but this was the easy part. Coming back with a film crew would be another matter altogether.

  It was late by the time she had been ‘duly processed’ and Nathalie was unaware of her first African blood orange sky as she closed her eyes in the taxi on the way back to her hotel. Stefanie had booked her in at the Holiday Inn. It was characterless but complied with the Trip Advisor commendation of clean and convivial. Nathalie had learned that boring franchise hotels with working WiFi were a lot better than chic boutique hotels when you were on a job, so she hadn’t complained when she had seen her accommodation on the recce sheet. Besides, the staff were great, no problem with the check-in, Bagatelle had prepaid – and, with the swift help of a porter, the luggage was in her room. Couldn’t have been more different than the experience at the airport arrivals hall. She flopped on the bed and scanned some of the hotel’s literature. Room service, WiFi and unmissable sights. Here she had to smile. Top recommendation, the nearby Epworth balancing rocks attraction. These rocks were world-famous. Granite rocking boulders, naturally perched on one another. If she had the time they would be worth a visit, but what made her smile was the reference to their image on the Zimbabwean banknote. The Zimbabwean banknote had been obsolete for years as a result of hyperinflation. It became so bad that some of the notes had to have trillion dollar denominations. Nathalie had been briefed on the problem and had been given a wad of US dollars, probably the best currency from one of the eight used in Zimbabwe. These were safely tucked into a money belt alongside her smart phone which she now pulled out to check her e-mail. There was one from the Central Hospital in Harare inviting her to a meeting the next morning and a more cryptic message from Lloyd attaching a bunch of numbers. It was too late to ring the hospital so she merely typed a confirmation hoping they would get it before she arrived. She worked out that the numbers Lloyd had given her were for a pay-as-you-go
phone. She stored them and tapped the speed dial. A telephone was answered but no voice came.

  ‘Hello, anyone there?’

  Still no response.

  ‘Hi, Lloyd is that you? It’s Nathalie.’

  The familiar rasping voice came from the other end. ‘Yes, it’s me. Just wanted to check that it was you that was calling. How was your trip?’

  ‘Trip was fine, admission into the country a bloody nightmare. Are you on for tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, it’s better than I thought. Mentioned your name and showed them the fake blogs we’d mocked up expounding on your militant views. Think they really fell for it. Got very excited, want to expand their network. I think that they’re a crazy dangerous group but amateurs for all that.’

  ‘Don’t know which is more dangerous, professional terrorists or amateur ones. You’re sure this will be safe?’

  ‘Can’t guarantee that but I’ve arranged to meet in a public place. A small bar in Ruwa.’

  ‘Ruwa?’

  ‘It’s a village on the Harare-Marondera Road about twenty kilometres south-east of your hotel. If you’re not changing your mind I’ll pick you up at a service station on the outskirts of the city; I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘I’ve not come all this way to back out now. We need real contacts if we are going to make this programme. The TV channels hate reconstructions and hearsay from journalists. I’ve got a meeting at the hospital in the morning. Would three o’clock in the afternoon be okay?’

  ‘Perfect, I told them we’d be there early evening. Should give us plenty of time to talk and plan our story.’

  ‘See you at three then.’

  Lloyd disconnected the phone without saying goodbye and moments later a ping indicated that he had messaged the rendezvous address. Nathalie checked the location on her maps. A short taxi ride from the hotel. If her meeting at the hospital tomorrow morning went well she would have time to come back and change. She didn’t want to turn up in a terrorist camp wearing her Imunaid gear. It was going to be a busy day.