The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Very well. Do you wish to come here?”

  “No. There are too many politicians there.” He laughed, but she caught his meaning. Whatever he needed to share was sensitive enough to be of interest to some who may not want his results shared.

  “Do you want me to come to the hospital?”

  “No, I thought we could meet at your house.”

  The thought of any stranger in her home sent a chill down her spine. It was not something she tolerated easily. And not if she had any other choice. “Why not yours?”

  “I have a wife and daughter. I do not want them to know anything of this.”

  Her curiosity was roused, but not enough to override her anxiety. Yes, she could be reckless in the political arena. Yes, she was headstrong. But she had also been burned. Her home was her sanctuary, and not one she wanted invaded. Not if she had a choice in the matter. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t work for me.”

  “Minister, I promise you, this will be worth your time. People’s lives are at stake here.”

  No choice it is then. “Very well, Doctor. Do you know where I live?”

  “No.”

  She gave him the address. “When should I expect you?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “See you then.” She hung up and smiled as Claudia placed the replacement report on her desk.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “The phone call. I don’t remember us having any dealings with any doctors at the moment, and given your unusual state this morning…I was concerned.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.” She took a deep breath. “He wants to talk to me. At my house. Tonight.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know him. Why?”

  “Just worried about you.” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “No, Claudia, what’s on your mind?”

  “You’re not acting like yourself lately. You haven’t been since you went to that funeral. You seem distracted. I know I’m your secretary, but I’d like to think we’re friends too. And as your friend, I’m worried about you.”

  The sentiment caught her by surprise. Pleasantly so. She smiled and rested her head on her hand. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. That’s all. I was hoping for an early night tonight so I hope the doctor’s visit is quick. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about with him.”

  Claudia sighed. “I hope you are right.”

  “So do I. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you mind joining me for this meeting tonight? I’d feel more comfortable with someone else there.”

  Claudia smiled. “No problem.” She closed the door behind her.

  Claudia’s question rang in her head. Do I trust him? She shook her head. She had no idea. Well, that’s about to change.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Imogen couldn’t stand the silence any longer. Nothing but the wind creaking through old windowpanes and the branch of the old oak tree clattering against the glass every time it blew. It was driving her mad. She grabbed her iPod and set it to shuffle. She shook her head and cranked the volume up to max as the electric tones of Muse set her soul alight with their “Supermassive Black Hole.” Drumming her hands on the kitchen worktop, she let her body sway to the music before breaking into a rousing air guitar performance.

  “Now that’s more like it.” She opened the cupboard under the sink looking for black bags. There was nothing in the house but memories—bad memories—and she wanted rid of them all. If she had to be here till this was resolved there was no way she was going to be reminded every second of the life that had gone on so smoothly without her.

  She set a cap backward on her head, stuffed bags in the back pocket of her cut off denim shorts, and headed for her father’s room, dancing every step of the way. She sorted clothes into different bags—shirts in one, trousers in another, and another for clothes that would see the inside of a bin rather than one of the charity drives in the townships. She emptied drawers straight into bags. Her father’s underwear and socks weren’t something she wanted to touch.

  She pulled open the second wardrobe and stopped as she took in what she saw. Her mother’s clothes hung on the rail, protective plastic bags covering each garment. Her hand trembled as she reached out and stroked the fur coat she remembered from her childhood. The one her mother had worn when they’d gone out to a fancy dinner or one of the mayor’s balls her father was always invited to. She remembered asking her mother why it was so soft and warm as she’d snuggled with her before she went out one evening. Her mother had told her it was God’s way of keeping the animals warm and comfortable. She hadn’t realized then what her mother meant. She lifted the plastic cover and ran her hand over it. It was even softer than she remembered, but the idea of the fur made her feel nauseous. She pulled it out of the wardrobe and dumped it into a bag. She reached for another item and stopped again.

  Thirty-two years. These clothes had sat in the wardrobe for thirty-two years. She could smell the dust and the musty odour of mothballs, and she knew that they’d never been taken out of there in all that time. How could people think, for even a moment, that he’d cheated on her mother? It wasn’t possible. Surely?

  It didn’t feel right to leave them hanging there any longer, but it didn’t feel right to throw them out, or give them away either. She wondered at the fact that she had no qualms whatsoever about throwing away anything and everything that had been her father’s, but anything he’d kept of her mother’s felt like a museum piece. Like it had to be put in a glass case and preserved. Cherished. As her father had seemed to.

  It took her an hour to empty the rail, painstakingly folding each item and boxing them into a trunk to go into the attic. She didn’t want to leave them lying around, and until she could figure out what to do with them all, it would have to do. Amongst the shoeboxes at the bottom she found a photo album with thick card pages covered with sticky plastic to keep the pictures in place. The first picture was an image of her mother and father on their wedding day. They looked so young, so in love, and so happy. She remembered the days when her father had smiled at her mother and then hoisted Imogen onto his shoulders and set off down the rows of vines, holding her mother’s hand and talking to them both about the grapes, his plans for the business, and what she’d done at school.

  The next image showed her mother, heavily pregnant and grinning into the camera. One hand rested on her swollen abdomen, the other shaded her eyes from the sun. She looked radiant. Tears dropped onto the plastic cover before Imogen even realized she was crying. She wiped hurriedly at the moisture. The last thing she wanted was to damage the pictures of her mum. She didn’t ever remember seeing these before, and she intended to spend many hours looking at them after this.

  She turned page after page, smiling through her tears at pictures of her mother holding her as a newborn, holding her up in the bath, chubby little arms suspended mid-splash. Until she got to one that shouldn’t have been there. The picture of her dressed in leather pants, aged twelve, when she’d played Sandy in the school’s production of Grease. She remembered being glad at the time that she’d been given a girl’s part, rather than having to play one of the T-Birds. But what was that picture doing in her father’s album? He wasn’t there.

  The next was her dressed for her school leavers’ ball. Then her university graduation ball. There was a picture of her in her lawyer’s robes and wig. She recognized it from one of her first cases. It didn’t make sense. Why did he have all this when he couldn’t even pick up the phone and talk to her? Why did he keep these moments of her life captured, preserved, but not want to know her? It wasn’t like he was displaying her achievements to show off to his friends. They were just there. Mementos of his child’s life. Like any other father would have. But he wasn’t any other father. He was her father, and he was the one who had stolen that relationship from them both.r />
  She tossed the album on the bed and slammed the door closed behind her. She couldn’t stand to see her life immortalized for him. It felt hollow. As though she’d been cheated further of the father she’d always wanted, but could never have.

  She started running as soon as she stepped off the stoop. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t care. She just couldn’t stand to be there anymore.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Derek approached the six-foot-high gate, the sharp spikes on top a certain deterrent for anyone looking to break into the grounds. The intercom flashed a red light as a distorted voice asked who he was and what he wanted.

  “Dr. Derek Marais. The minister is expecting me.”

  “Look in to the camera please, Doctor.”

  Derek did as he was asked and accelerated as soon as the gate swung open. The house was large as he made his way down the drive. Three stories of glass and stone that looked like it had been carved out of the rocks of the Lion’s Head and looked out over Bantry Bay. In the daylight he was sure the view was stunning. As it was, he could see the last of the sunset seeping into the ocean as his tires crunched over the gravel driveway. Thick shrubs and trees hid most of the building from his view when he stopped outside the large oak door, with a huge stone arch, and a security camera positioned over it. He was impressed and more than a little disconcerted at the level of security, but given what had happened to her, he could certainly understand it.

  A thickly muscled black man in his early thirties showed him through the open plan ground floor. The kitchen area to the left and a hanging fire in the centre of the room caught his eye. Both looked spectacular, showstopping pieces. But neither looked like they’d ever been used. The view out the window was as stunning as he’d expected, and he wondered idly how much the place cost.

  “Dr. Marais.”

  “Minister Nkosi. Thank you for agreeing to meet me like this, and please accept my apologies. I realize this is not the way you would normally do things.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t. Very few people come into my home.”

  “It is a beautiful house.”

  “Thank you. This is my secretary, Claudia. She’ll be making notes for us.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Derek shook hands with the young woman and wondered why the minister insisted on her being there. Then the thought occurred to him that she probably felt more comfortable meeting a stranger in her home in the presence of someone she knew. The thought made him smile.

  “Shall we sit while we talk?”

  She led him to a recessed seating area with a leather sofa that swallowed him as he sat where she indicated.

  “So, Doctor, what is it that you couldn’t tell me over the phone, in my office, or in your office?”

  “Minister, I’ve been aware of your career since we worked on the campaign and you first ran for office. I remember you being exceptionally passionate about the programme and doing what was right for the people, regardless of how much pressure was put on you from your own party, from your superiors, and by those bastards who came after you. I feel you are the best, no, the only person I can bring my concerns to.” Derek pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handed them to her.

  She glanced at them. “Why don’t you fill me in?”

  “Of course,” Derek said. “Over the past year or so I’ve noticed a worrying trend with the HIV programme. When I look at the statistics, I can see that people on treatment programmes in certain areas are not responding as well as in other areas of the country. At first, I put it down to natural trends in the population. People not being treated as quickly as others, poorer economic areas so higher incidences of secondary infections making the population sicker and so on.”

  “But this wasn’t the case?” Amahle frowned and handed the documents over to Claudia.

  “No, it wasn’t. At first, Limpopo seemed to be the only affected area. A very poor area, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  She nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “But this is not isolated to one area.”

  “You are dancing around your thoughts, Doctor. Why don’t you tell me what you suspect is going on?”

  “The drugs being supplied to some of the hospitals in the country are fakes, Minister.”

  “You suspect that’s the cause?”

  “I don’t suspect it is. I know it is. I’ve tested it myself. How much do you know about the cocktail?”

  “Enough for you to skip to the important parts.”

  He chuckled. “Very well.” He pulled two bottles of pills out of his pocket and popped the lids of each. “This is a combined pill, made up of two RTIs, a booster, and an integrase inhibitor.” He offered the caplet to Amahle and dropped it into her hand. “It’s called Combivirine.”

  Amahle frowned at the little white pill as it sat innocuously in her hand while he slipped one from the other bottle next to it. The solid white pill was smooth and sported the chemical letters that should be on all medications.

  “This is being sold by a well-known South African pharmaceutical company at a significant cost saving.” He pointed to the real pill. “But this is what’s actually being delivered.”

  “They look identical.”

  “Yes. But I can assure you, this one is not what the hospitals are paying for, nor what they believe they are prescribing for their patients.”

  “If this is a fake, then what is it?”

  “Aspirin.”

  “You have the chemical analysis to back this up?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “So why not take this to the police? Why bring this to me?”

  “I believe that this operation is nationwide, Ms. Nkosi. I believe that these people are warehousing and distributing nothing more than aspirin to people who are suffering from HIV, and I believe you to be a politician whom I can trust. In this government, there are not many we can say that about. You know as well as I do that the police are as bad, if not worse than your colleagues over in parliament.” He could see from the way her jaw worked and her eyes flashed that she hated his reasoning, but she couldn’t dispute it either. Maybe that’s what she really hates. The fact that it’s true, rather than the fact that I think it.

  “What do you want me to do, Dr. Marais?”

  “I need someone to give me official authority to investigate this, and I need funding.”

  “How much funding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have access to an open checkbook, Doctor.”

  “I realize that. But you do have access to funds to get this started on the grounds of investigating health concerns in poor communities. Once I can generate the official reports needed, then we can get things properly investigated and get this out of circulation.” He pointed to the bottle of fake tablets on the small coffee table.

  “Very well, Doctor.” She smiled and nodded. “You’re right, of course. This has to be investigated, and it needs to be handled correctly or we’ll end up with a huge mess on our hands. We can’t afford to ignore the consequences of a health scare that will affect thousands or millions of some of the poorest people in our country.” She nodded toward Claudia. “What do you need from me? Be specific, Doctor. We can’t afford to get this wrong.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Please, Amahle, I know you’re very busy, but it would mean a lot to me if you could meet me there.”

  “Where?”

  “Stellenbosch Clinic.”

  “It’ll take me an hour to get there.”

  “I know. But I’m your little brother, and you’re supposed to look after me.”

  She laughed. “Since when do you need me to look after you?”

  Sipho almost told her the truth. That he always needed her to look after him, and if she had, he might not be in the mess he was now. Instead he said, “I just don’t like the idea of all this.”

  “You don’t have to do it.”

  “I do. We’ll ge
t no further without it, and it’s the only real way to know if there is any truth to Mama’s story or not.”

  “What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Part of me thinks it would answer a lot of questions, and part of me wonders if Mama was drunk when she said it.”

  “Are you worried about this?”

  “Not worried, no. Anxious perhaps.”

  “I understand. I’ll leave now and meet you there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sipho hung up and jumped in the shower. If he left in twenty minutes, he’d be there at the same time as Amahle. He was looking forward to seeing her again. They spent so little time together these days. She was always so busy, and he was always trying to keep their mother under control.

  Twenty minutes later, he opened the door, caught sight of the figure standing by his truck, and quickly tried to close it again without being seen.

  “Eh, Sipho, man, come on out here. I see you.”

  Fuck. Sipho pulled the door open. “Just getting my keys, Tsotsi. I’ve got an appointment I have to get to.” He pulled open the door of the buckie, but Tsotsi shoved it closed before he could get in.

  “I need to borrow a phone.” He held his hand out to Sipho.

  “Well, you can use the one in my house, I guess. Just close the door when you finish.”

  “Nah, man. I want a phone. A mobile one. I need to call people.”

  “You have one, Tsotsi. I call you on it all the time, man.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  Tsotsi’s fist caught him in the eye, and Sipho found himself slammed against the truck while Tsotsi fished through his pockets and divested him of his phone and wallet.

  “Get off me.” Sipho pushed back and managed to swing his arm enough to connect with Tsotsi’s jaw. The next thing he knew he was on the ground with a boot in his stomach and red-flecked spittle landing on his head.

  “For that you don’t get your phone back.” He started to walk away. “Be ready tonight. We have a job to do.”