“I will have the money; you must bring the drugs, Tsotsi.” Sipho Nkosi spoke as quietly as he could. The last thing he wanted was to be overheard.
“Nah, nah, man. You must come get them. It makes people ask too many questions when I come round by you, up in your fancy white palace.”
My fancy white prison, more like. “Fine.” It’s not like I have a choice. “When will you have them?”
“Friday, man. Come then.”
“That’s too late. She—I need them today, tomorrow at the latest.”
The man sucked his breath through his teeth. “That’s a rush job, Sipho man, that’s gonna cost more.”
Doesn’t it always? “How much more?”
“One month’s supply at a rush,” he said. “Plus my discretion. I think a thousand rand should cover it.”
“One thousand rand! Are you mad, man?”
“That’s the price.”
“I can’t afford that kind of money.”
Tsotsi laughed. “Sure you can, up there in the big house. You can get that kind of money easily.”
“I can’t afford—”
“The price just went up to fifteen hundred rand, Sipho man. If you’re not here today with it, by tomorrow it will be two thousand. Do you understand me?”
Sipho bit back the biting insult that sat on his tongue and ground his teeth. “I understand.” He ended the call, walked into the office, and opened the safe. He counted out the fifteen hundred rand, tucked it into his waistband, and left the room.
He climbed into the buckie and drove to Groendal, a township about forty miles from the vineyard as his anger simmered with every mile he covered. Tsotsi’s grinning face as he handed over the medicine made him want to smash his fist into the smug expression. Again and again. Only the knowledge that it would be his mother who suffered if he did prevented him from venting the rage that burned. He’d gone over it in his mind so many times, but he still couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten here. How he’d resorted to stealing from a man he loved like a father to treat the illness of the mother he despised, and who despised him. Who told him constantly what a disappointment he was to her. How he was a failure as a son for letting his sister best him time after time after time. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want the life Amahle had, or the job that had cost her so much, or anything else that she had. He was proud of everything she had achieved, but he loved working the land. He loved being a part of the vineyard, feeling the earth beneath his hands, and the wine upon his lips. He loved how Alain Frost had nurtured him from boyhood and allowed him to prove himself. Given him responsibility, pride, and respect.
And I repaid it all with lies. He hung his head in shame and slapped his hands against the steering wheel. God damn you, Mama. God damn you to hell.
When he returned to the vineyard there were buckies and tractors pulled up to the main house.
“Sipho, come quick,” George called.
“What is it?”
“Boss has doctor with him. Your mother said he very bad. Very sick.”
“Where is she?”
“She is with boss and the doctor.” George pointed into the house. “In there.”
Sipho ran into the house and up the stairs. His heart pounded in his chest and sweat ran down his back. “Mama?”
“In here, my boy.”
Sipho burst into Alain’s bedroom in time to see the doctor folding his stethoscope away and shaking his head. He put a hand over Alain’s face and closed his eyes.
“You should inform his family,” the doctor said.
“What? What happened?” Sipho knew Alain had been sick. He had been for a while, but he wasn’t dying.
“I won’t know for sure until I do an autopsy, but it looks like liver failure.” He pointed to Alain’s face. “See the yellow colour?”
Sipho and Mbali nodded.
“Jaundice.” He put his instruments into his bag.
“How does a man like him get jaundice?” Sipho asked.
The doctor laughed. “There are many ways one can get jaundice or liver problems. For a man like Mr. Frost, in the business of making wine, it’s not hard to imagine that the drink would be the issue. Where’s the telephone? I’ll arrange for transportation to the morgue.”
Mbali showed him out of the room and Sipho stared. Alain had been his mentor, his employer, the closest thing he’d had to a father for as long as Sipho could remember. He’d taught him everything he knew about winemaking and the vines. He’d nurtured him, helped him along far more than any of the other boys whose families had worked on the vineyard. Sipho had always been so proud of that. That Mr. Frost had liked him so much and seen such potential in him. And now he was gone. He looked down at the bag he held in his hand. The paper rustled as the small boxes inside filled with pills moved in his trembling hand.
“What is it, Sipho? Could you not get my pills?”
He handed her the bag and nodded at the bed. “We’re in big trouble now, Mama.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The money, for your medication, I’ve been taking it from the vineyard.”
“But why?”
“Because I don’t have enough to pay for it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you don’t have enough to pay for it either, and you need it or you’ll get sick.”
“I have HIV, Sipho. I will get sick eventually.”
“Not while you take medication.”
“How much money do you owe?”
“A lot.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Sipho. How much do you owe?”
“About a hundred and fifty thousand rand.”
“Oh my God. How did you think you were going to pay that back?”
He shook his head. “I never came up with an answer to that question.”
Mbali patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll think of something.”
He laughed sadly and shook his head. “Sure, Mama.”
What the hell am I going to do now?
Chapter Five
Amahle closed the door and dropped her bag on to the chair in the corner. It had been a long day. She snorted. They were all long days. She made herself a sandwich and grabbed a bottle of water before sitting down. She knew if she didn’t eat now, she’d get caught up in something and forget. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her bottom as she got comfortable on the cream leather sofa facing the windows and the Atlantic Ocean toward the spit of land that provided the entrance to Cape Town’s harbour. A soft ping alerted her to the article from Julius being posted, and she took a moment to read through it. He’d done a good job. His background research was exemplary, his handling of the more delicate parts of her history were respectful without being overly sentimental, and his portrayal of her work within the ministry was both fair and forthright. All in all, she was exceptionally pleased with his writing.
I’ll have to look out for more of his work. She closed the browser down and clicked the remote to set her iPod to shuffle, letting the gentle sound of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” fill the room. The minor chords fit her mood and the darkness she felt inside her.
She put the plate on the table, forgotten already as she retrieved a report that was troubling her. There was a growing trend showing itself that South Africa’s HIV treatment programme was failing. There were more than six million people living with HIV, and despite the government now funding a billion rand per year treatment programme, the rate of those developing AIDS while in treatment was significantly higher than the global norm. It’s like the drugs don’t work. She glanced over another report and highlighted several passages. We need to look into the management of the programmes. Perhaps people are not being instructed effectively on proper use of the medications. She sipped her drink as she made a note in the margin and glanced up as the wind rattled the windowpanes. The ringing telephone made her jump.
“Hello.”
“Amahle. Sipho.”
“Hello, brother. How are you?”
“Not good. You should come home.”
Amahle laughed. “I have too much work to come for a holiday.”
“How about a funeral?”
“Oh God. What happened?” She sank back as she listened to him and mentally went through her diary, checking what she would have to change to go back to the vineyard.
“Will she be there?”
“Who?”
“Immy.”
“Why do you still care?”
A question she’d asked herself many times over the years. Was it simply nostalgia? That memories of Imogen were all entangled in a time when life was as simple as what game they would play and what time dinner would be ready for them? Was it her inability to simply let go? “I don’t know. She was my best friend, Sipho. I never expected her to just vanish like that. You didn’t know her. I just thought she’d write or something. At least let me know she was okay.”
“She’d been gone months before I was born, but have you ever considered that maybe she wasn’t the girl you thought she was?”
“You’re right. You didn’t know her. So is she coming or not?”
Sipho sighed. “I don’t know. Mama is going to call her in a little while.”
“Okay. Let me know when the funeral will be as soon as you can so that I can arrange things here.”
“Sure.”
They said their good-byes and hung up. The track changed, and a Chopin nocturne filled the room. Thirty-two years had passed since she’d last seen Imogen Frost, and the child inside still missed her while the woman had so many questions that had never been answered. She wanted to know why Imogen had never responded to the letters she’d sent. She wanted to know why she had never once returned. Her father had been sick for the better part of three years, and she hadn’t visited him once.
She got a bottle of wine and a glass from the kitchen. A Frost Shiraz, a good vintage. She poured herself a glass and held it up, swirling the liquid in the glass, before inhaling the aroma and letting it waken her senses.
“Rest in peace, Alain. You cantankerous old bastard.” She took a hearty gulp and let it sit on her tongue a moment. She enjoyed the warmth of the alcohol and the fruity bite of the berries before swallowing and smacking her lips. She glanced at the label. “One of your best, Alain.” She chuckled to herself. “Let’s see if Miss Immy can do as well when she gets here, hey?”
Chapter Six
Imogen straightened her shoulders as Judge Booker began her sentencing speech. The case had been simple enough in the end. While Tony Russel wasn’t fit to be imprisoned with the general population, he clearly understood right and wrong. The confession had been allowed to stand but with the understanding that it must be seen as evidence of his diminished mental state as well as his guilt of the crime he had never denied committing.
“Mr. Russel, I hereby sentence you to a custodial sentence in a secure mental facility for a length of time yet to be determined. This will be evaluated and decided upon by doctors far more qualified than I am to determine your capabilities and your place within a larger society. Until such time as they see fit, you will remain in their custody.”
“Where am I going?” Tony turned to the guard who stood beside him in the dock.
“Mr. Russel, do you understand?” the judge asked, though Imogen was certain she wasn’t expecting an affirmative response. Imogen wasn’t.
“Where are you sending me?”
“Mr. Longman, will you please explain to your client what will happen next?”
“Of course, Your Honour.” Counsel for the defence quickly approached the glass and his increasingly agitated client.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your time. Take him down.” The guards on either side of him started to edge him out of the dock.
“I don’t want to go down!”
“Court dismissed.”
“Mr. Russel, we talked about the likely outcome of this,” the barrister for the defence said to his client.
Imogen packed her briefcase as they continued to struggle with the new convict. She took no pleasure in seeing him fight his corner. Her job was done. The battle fought and won. She left the courtroom, her dress robes flowing around her, wig upon her head, and a smile upon her face. Justice.
“So how did it go?” Simon asked, jogging to catch up with her down the stairs inside the round building of Cambridge’s Crown Court.
“The Crown won.”
“But of course, Ms. Frost. One would expect nothing else of you.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Murphy.”
“Celebratory drink later?” He smiled.
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy. I think Marcus has given me almost all of Arthur’s caseload. Plus my own. I’m swamped.”
“Another time maybe?”
“Maybe.” And maybe one day you’ll figure out that I’m not interested. “See you later.” She turned and left the building before he could respond. Her phone buzzed against her leg. “Hey, Maria,” she said to her secretary. “We scored a win on the Russel case. I’m heading back to chambers now.”
“Great work, Imogen. I’ve had a call from a lady called, I hope I’m saying this right, Embala Inkosi.”
Imogen laughed gently. “That’s pretty good, Maria. What did Mbali want?”
“She said she needed you to call her straight away.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say. Do you want the number?”
“It’s okay. I know the number.”
“Oh.” Maria chuckled. “It took me five minutes to get that out of her. Who is she? Is this one of the cases you’re taking over from Arthur?”
“No, it’s nothing to do with work.” She checked her watch. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay. Listen, why don’t you call it a day? I know you were up all night preparing for today’s trial. Go home. Relax.”
She was exhausted, but she hated giving in to it. She stifled a yawn and smiled to herself. Who’s gonna know? “Yeah, I’ll think about it. Look, I better go and make this call. See you soon.”
Why was she calling? What did she want? Imogen tapped her phone against her head, trying to figure out what was going on before getting any information. It was a habit she’d formed long ago when it came to her father and everything in South Africa. Since her father gave her no information, she had to try to guess what was going on. For Mbali to call rather than her father meant something, right? But what? Had her father had an accident? That would explain it. He couldn’t get to the phone to talk to her. Not that he did anyway. She hadn’t heard from him in almost four years. In fairness, she hadn’t tried to call him either. Wasn’t that the way they both preferred it? Then she couldn’t remind him of the wife he’d lost, and he couldn’t remind her of the entire life he’d ripped away from her.
“Fuck it.”
She scrolled through her contacts. When she came to one simply titled “Old Bastard,” she punched the screen and waited for someone to answer.
“Hello.” The thickly accented voice was made more difficult to understand by the tears that choked it and the noisy long distance line.
“Mbali?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Imogen Frost. You wanted me to call.”
“Oh, Miss Immy. You must come home.”
“Mbali, what’s going on?”
“It’s your father. He’s passed.”
“Passed what?” There was so much background noise it was difficult to make out what she was being told.
“Passed away, Miss Immy. You should come home. You have a funeral to arrange.”
“What? But he’s…I don’t understand.” Her knees weakened and threatened to give out on her. She put her hand against a wall then leaned back against it, still not sure it would hold her up.
“Mr. Frost been sick for long time. He was in a lot of pain. It was a good time for him to go. Now he no longer suffers.”
“I didn’t know he
was sick.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
Imogen shook her head then remembered she was on the phone. “No.” Her voice was high and squeaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “No, he didn’t. What was he sick with?”
“Doctor said it was illness of liver. I forget the name. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I don’t know, Miss Immy. You know your father. He was a stubborn man. He thought he knew what was best for everyone and no one could tell him any different. You know that better than anyone.”
“Very true, Mbali.” She ran her hand over her face and blew out. “When did he die?”
“A few hours ago now.”
“Can you make the arrangements for his funeral?”
“Well, of course. If you tell me what you want I can speak to the necessary people until you get here.”
Imogen closed her eyes and pictured her father the last time she’d seen him. She’d been seven years old and sitting on a plane staring out the window. He stood at the gate watching the plane as they’d taxied away from the terminal. He didn’t wave. He didn’t even wipe at the tears that had rolled down his cheeks. He’d just stood there and let her go. No, he’d made her go. He’d pushed her away when she’d needed him the most. He’d taken everything she’d known, loved, and needed away from her, and never even explained why.
As an adult, she’d acknowledged that he was trying to keep her safe when the country was going through violent, dangerous times. She’d allowed herself to see that he was grief stricken and hurting, and not making good decisions. Day by day, she’d seen her own face grow more like her mother’s than she could handle sometimes, and she was sure her father had been unable to abide the constant reminder of what he’d lost. It didn’t make it hurt any less, and it didn’t mean she could forgive him. Neither of them could undo the hurt he’d caused them both. Now they’d never have the chance.
“I won’t be coming back, Mbali.”
“But, Miss Immy, he’s your father. You must bury him.”
“He’s a stranger to me.”
“It’s a shock, I know. Perhaps you should think about it.”
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