Drugs to Forget

by Martin Granger

  Nathalie normally didn’t drink tea, but she wasn’t going to say so here. She nodded politely and took the steaming enamel mug in both hands. She could sense the nervousness amongst the group so decided to head straight in.

  ‘I understand that you would like some publicity in Europe for pro-African rights on the global stage,’ she said as calmly as she could.

  The three men stared at her blankly. Perhaps this was going a little bit above their heads.

  ‘You think that Africa is being treated unfairly by the West,’ she added. ‘I agree. Your resources have been completely exploited.’

  This seemed to hit a better note. The man in the middle spat on the ground. ‘Exploitation, that’s right. And it’s no better with so-called independence. Before, they stole our goods, now it’s embargoes and sanctions.’

  The smaller man to the right nodded in agreement. ‘That’s why we’re doing something about it.’

  The first speaker, possibly the leader, gave him a hard stare. ‘But that’s our business. Muzi here says that you have sympathisers in the West, contacts that can help us. Yes?’

  Nathalie was about to ask who Muzi was when she realised that it must be a name that Lloyd had given them. This was getting complicated. Lloyd was a Zimbabwean journalist pretending to be a sympathiser, and she was a television director pretending to be an aid worker pretending to be a rights’ activist. She had to be careful with her words; the machetes on these guys’ laps didn’t look too friendly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  Lloyd, or Muzi as he was now referred to, obviously had had a few encounters with these guys. He spoke to ease the tension. ‘Nathalie is obviously guarded with what she is prepared to say. What I do know is that she can offer you two things. First, she has access to the media in the West; not a random internet sort of thing but broadcast television with huge captive audiences. Second,’ he turned to Nathalie and put one finger to his lips. ‘Second, and I know that she can’t tell you more until we get to know you better, she has contacts. Contacts in the West who are very sympathetic to your cause and will go to extreme lengths to make it known.’ Lloyd accentuated the word extreme and, when he had finished, took a slow long draught of tea to let his sentence sink in.

  The small guy used this pause to jump in excitedly. ‘What extreme lengths? Will they…’ His utterance was cut short by the thwack of the flat blade of a machete across his chest.

  ‘My friend is jumping the gun. We too must be guarded, as you put it, until we get to know each other better. This television thing? It’s almost impossible for foreign journalists to bring cameras into the country. How do you propose we can get our message across Miss Nathalie?’

  ‘Will they what?’ Nathalie was thinking, but she put that thought out of her head and played along with the game.

  ‘Well, as Muzi…’ She still had a job working around that name. ‘As Muzi has probably told you I have been given access to study the immunisation programme here. My associates at home are interested in obtaining some inside information on our fellow sympathisers. This was one way of getting into the country. We initially just wanted to touch base, but we’ve had a stroke of luck.’

  Nathalie paused and held out her mug for a top-up of her drink. It had the dramatic effect that she intended. The guy in the middle reached for the kettle and poured the tea slowly.

  ‘And this stroke of luck is?’

  Nathalie took her time and sipped from the mug. She had them now, she could feel the suspicion melting away. ‘That the ministry here seems to think it will be a good idea if we televised it. A great boost for the country’s prestige, besides the great boost for their coffers.’

  ‘So how does that help us?’

  Nathalie put down the drink and spread her hands. ‘If we can get you in the can at the same time putting your message across, pointing out what you would do if nobody listens, then I have plenty of broadcasters who would transmit it.’

  The one who had been silent throughout leant over and whispered into his colleague’s ear. The guy, who now Nathalie was mentally referring to as ‘the middleman’, nodded slowly and took a cigarette packet from his jacket. He opened it slowly as if trying to make a decision. He offered a cigarette first to Nathalie and then to Lloyd who both declined. Without using his fingers he took a cigarette into his lips and then bent forward to the smouldering embers to light it. The smoke added to the acridity of the air.

  ‘You say, you would point out what we “would do”. What do you mean by that?’

  ‘My associates assume that you are not just a pacifist group who want to whinge on television.’ Nathalie made as if to rise. ‘If that’s who you are, then best of luck to you but we’re not interested.’

  The middleman put out his hand and waved it for her to keep seated. ‘And if I said we are more active than passive?’

  Nathalie resumed her cross-legged position. ‘Then I would say the more active you are the more interested we would be.’

  ‘And besides televising our views, you and your associates could assist us with some of these activities?’

  She shrugged. ‘Why else do you think we are sitting here?’

  The shaft of light coming through the doorway was turning to a darker shade of red. But by now their eyes had become accustomed to the murky interior. To one flank of the three men was an oil drum on its side and a pile of brushwood. On the other, an old twelve-volt battery. What this was for Nathalie could only guess at. To recharge their mobile phones perhaps? Besides the open fire and kettle the rest of the hut was bare. No kitchen equipment, no beds. They obviously weren’t going to stay the night. So who brought them here and who was going to collect them?

  Lloyd broke the silence. ‘I believe what Miss Nathalie is trying to get at is, how far do you propose to go? She’s not just interested in a protest group marching with banners and all that, she wants action.’

  Nathalie had the impression that the group were beginning to listen. It was now or never. ‘Ll…Muzi’s right,’ she said interrupting herself just in time. ‘You may have seen from our press that we’ve been campaigning peacefully for some time; lobbying ministers, sending petitions to CEOs of mining companies. Their response, zilch, nothing. Zimbabwe is an independent state for Zimbabweans. Is it hell. Africa is exploited for its minerals by huge international conglomerates and sold cheap drugs that the West don’t want. Look at the state of your country. Crap infrastructure, ghettos of poverty, racked with malnutrition and disease. It’s time to act. And none of you lot seem to have the guts to do anything about it.’

  Her rant had the desired effect. Middleman stood up and beat his own chest. ‘Do nothing. That’s how little you know. We have already caused damage to a Western embassy, and we have a cell plotting to do further damage on their own doorstep.’

  Nathalie’s eyes widened and she tilted her head to one side. ‘On their own doorstep? You have explosive experts in the West?’

  The small guy also got to his feet. ‘There are more weapons than bombs. We have experts who can do even wider damage.’

  Nathalie felt she had them on a run. ‘You mean chemicals?’

  ‘Or even worse; disease. We could give them a dose of an African disease. Poetic justice, don’t you think?’

  She could sense that the quiet guy was becoming agitated. His overeager colleagues were saying too much too soon. Staying seated he spoke for the first time. ‘My friends are eager to prove themselves. But I would like you to prove yourself. Yes we have a plan, but we need a little assistance from indigenous people within Europe.’

  ‘Indigenous,’ thought Nathalie. ‘Unusual word; educated guy, perhaps not as naive as Lloyd thinks.’ She leaned forward as if asking him to continue.

  ‘From our background checks, we think you can provide that assistance, but we will need more reassurance that you are genuine. So first let us see how our little television programme goes. And just to show you how active we are…’ He nodded to the two standing men.
‘Just a little demonstration to show what we do to people who double-cross us.’

  Nathalie almost fell back into the dying embers of the fire as Middleman roughly grabbed Lloyd and pulled him to his feet. The smaller man seized his wrists and stretched Lloyd’s arms over the rusty oil drum. Nathalie watched with horror as the ‘not so naïve’ silent guy slowly got up and used two hands to lift his machete over his shoulder.

  She would never forget Lloyd’s scream.

  Seven

  It had been nearly a week since Tom Finch had visited the School of Tropical Medicine. He was feeling rather satisfied with himself. Geoff had been pleased with the information he had obtained and had encouraged him to follow through with the investigation. Several days on the internet and, with a few visits to some pharmacology departments, he had come up with a very plausible story. Someone in Indonesia was researching and producing drug resistant bacteria that could replicate at speed in almost any condition. In the wrong hands this bacteria would cause havoc. A perfect weapon for a bioterrorist. On the other hand of course, it could be pure research to produce experimental bacteria for new drugs. There was only one way to find out: visit the laboratory. He had been weighing up the ways he could ask to do this when Geoff had suggested that he learn a little bit more about the industry, a trip to see some editing perhaps. Tom would have preferred to be on a plane to East Java but he could be patient and, after all, a month ago he would have given his eye teeth for such a visit. Stefanie met him at the top of Wardour Street.

  ‘Great, you’re on time. I’ve been asked to show you around a typical edit suite and a graphics studio.’

  He followed her brisk walk down the street as she continued. ‘We used to hire cutting rooms; you know, places where they physically cut film to make programmes. Now it’s all digital. Geoff hates it but I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  It was another warm day and the streets were teeming with people in shirtsleeves and flimsy frocks. Stefanie marched him past numerous eateries and windows displaying sex toys and lurid underwear. There was a buzz about the place. Casually dressed media types appeared to be talking into the air until one spotted the small smartphone wire hanging around their necks. Surabaya could wait, today Tom would enjoy the Soho life.

  The square mile around Soho in London, sometimes called the Golden Square Mile, is the home of the British film industry. Hundreds of media production offices, sound studios and editing facilities line its streets. Some in glamorous three-storey buildings, others in small cramped basements. Behind their walls lie miles of cables and thousands of screens. The productions here vary from corporate videos to stunning animated advertising and broadcast television programmes. Tom had some inkling of the technology but this was the first time he would be introduced to professionals in action.

  Stefanie stepped into a side street and pressed one of the bells alongside an unpretentious looking door. ‘Here we are, Reels; it’s just one of the suites that Bagatelle is hiring at the moment.’

  Tom looked up at the rather unimposing brick facade of the building. ‘Hiring?’

  ‘Yes, Geoff doesn’t own any editing equipment, says that technology moves too quickly. Also some weeks we are editing five films at once, and others none at all, so it’s impossible to know in advance what equipment…’ She was interrupted by a distorted voice coming from a small grilled speaker. Neither of them could make it out but a loud buzz indicated that someone had remotely unlocked the door. Stefanie pushed it open and they walked inside. A narrow stone staircase faced them.

  ‘Not very salubrious I know but Geoff hates spending money on flash reception rooms and cocktail cabinets.’ Stefanie threw up her eyes. ‘As long as the equipment is up to date and the editor knows what he’s doing.’

  Tom followed Stefanie up the stairs and into a corridor that led off the first mezzanine. She knocked on a rather grubby white painted door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Stefanie opened the door to reveal a small room crammed with technology. A mini NASA, as Tom would later describe it. A man with his back to them was staring at three television screens. Two contained moving pictures and the other a series of numbers and icons.

  ‘Take a seat, won’t be a moment, just want to render this bit.’

  Tom looked around the room, which didn’t take long. Behind the edit desk and to one side of the door was a small worn two-seater sofa and a cluttered side table. Tom and Stefanie perched on the sofa and waited. The editor was typing something at speed on a strange looking keyboard. It was like the one that Tom used with his PC but it had multi-coloured keys. As the editor typed, the images on the screens changed. On one appeared a sheet of flame, on the other a close-up of a fire hose. The images then froze and the man in the chair swivelled to face them.

  ‘Sorry about that. Done. Just got to wait for the machine to catch up now. Doesn’t matter what software you put into these things, still have to sit watching this annoying bar crawl across the screen.’

  ‘Bob, this is Tom. Tom this is Bob, one of our regular and most skilful editors.’

  ‘Tell that to Geoff next time he gets my invoice will you?’

  Stefanie ignored this remark and asked Bob if he would give Tom an overview.

  ‘Geoff says that if you’re learning to make films it’s best to start at the end,’ she concluded.

  Bob gestured for Tom to sit in the swivel chair alongside of him.

  ‘There won’t be an end if I spend too much time teaching all his new recruits.’ He turned back to face the screens. ‘But I’ll quickly talk you through it. Here we’re making a documentary film on arson for Channel 5. A week ago the director gave me the rushes and I loaded them into bins.’

  Tom peered at the row of numbers. ‘Bins?’

  ‘Yeah, a hangover from celluloid days. We used to have a big canvas bin to hang all the strips of film in. Now I load different categories of film into different digital bins. For instance, here I’ve put all the fire shots, here all the interviews, and here the scenes at the fire station.’

  ‘So you can find them quickly?’

  ‘Exactly, then I take the director’s storyline and try to make sense of it. Sometimes we have a voice-over first and sometimes it’s written afterwards, to fit the pictures.’

  ‘Doesn’t the director tell you what order to put the pictures in?’

  ‘Occasionally, but mostly it’s a team effort. One day you should come in with your director and watch us in action. Who are you working with?’

  ‘Someone called Nathalie. I’ve not met her yet, she’s meant to be flying back from Zimbabwe this morning.’

  ‘Well you’re in good hands there. Send her my regards.’

  ‘Will do. We are meant to be meeting this afternoon but she’s not contacted the office recently; busy or poor communications from Africa I suppose.’

  There was a cough behind them and Tom turned round to see Stefanie tapping the watch on her wrist. ‘Sorry to interrupt you two boys but if we don’t get a move on we won’t get to that meeting. I still have to show Tom an animation studio.’

  The studio was in the Haymarket so they made their way back towards Wardour Street to hail a black cab. Stefanie filled in the background.

  ‘Magic Touch is owned by Oskar, a guy Geoff used to use as a freelancer in the days he directed films.’ Tom gave her a glance. ‘Yes I know, hard to believe but he hasn’t always been sitting behind a desk grunting out orders. Anyway, Oskar has made it really big in the CGI business. You’ll see a big difference to the edit suite we’ve just visited. He has at least twenty of the world’s top animators working for him. You’ve probably seen their work on major feature films. Oskar does documentary work for Geoff for old times’ sake.’

  The cab pulled up outside an imposing architectural facade. Stefanie paid the cab driver and they walked into the glass-fronted lobby.

  ‘All our opening credits and anything that needs 3-D graphics are done here,’ explained Stefanie pushing the elevat
or call button. ‘I hear that you might need animation to explain how viruses and bacteria work, is that right?’

  If he was honest, Tom hadn’t really thought about that. Sounded like a dream come true. The ability to describe all the things he normally did as rough sketches on paper by spectacular 3-D animation. He tried to hide his excitement from Stefanie and just nodded nonchalantly.

  The lift doors opened and they made their way into the glass-surrounded reception area. A huge screen in one corner was showing a loop of the studio’s show reel and scattered around on shelves were dozens of small statues which Tom assumed to be film awards. A girl with pink hair bounced up to Stefanie.

  ‘Amazing to see you, it’s been ages.’

  They kissed on both cheeks. Stefanie gestured to Tom. ‘This is Tom. I’ve been let out to show him some of the facilities we use. He might be helping Nathalie with the animation for the bioterrorism doc we’re doing. Is Oskar around?’

  ‘Yes he’s about to go out for lunch but I’m sure he’ll give you a few minutes.’

  Oskar was all that Tom expected from an art director. Tall, blonde ponytail and a logo-plastered T-shirt. He spoke with a soft, slightly Polish accent.

  ‘Hi, let me show you around. Medical stuff eh? We used to do quite a lot of that. May have some basic models stored to keep your costs down.’

  Tom thought that this was slightly jumping the gun; he didn’t have an idea of what was needed yet, but he didn’t say anything. The studio was as amazing as the show reel. Rows of computers and screens attended by young hipster artists, most of whom were around Tom’s age. The room was surrounded by vast posters containing colourful images. In one corner a man was sitting surrounded by the scattered innards of a computer. In another, two young women were bouncing a coloured ball on to a mat of artificial grass.

  Oskar saw Tom staring at them. ‘Don’t ask. Working out some sort of advertising storyboard probably.’

  Tom was shown various projects on the screens but they didn’t make much sense to him. Artists were plotting a series of mathematical algorithms, others constructing wire-framed objects.