The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  The blitz attack was over before he could get over the effects of the Taser. Sipho had dragged him into the bushes while his body still convulsed. Beating on him had felt like a betrayal of Amahle. Holding him, watching everything else that had happened. No. Being accomplice to everything else that happened. He retched again.

  “Don’t get any of that shit in my car, man.” Tsotsi sucked his lip through his teeth and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Fucking pussy.”

  The third man in the rear seat laughed and rubbed his pangas over the dirty denim on his thigh. The broad, heavy knife was covered in blood. “Pussy.”

  “You said we were just going to rough him up a bit. That’s all,” Sipho cried before vomiting again. “What if you killed him?”

  “We didn’t kill him,” Tsotsi said. “Did we, Professor?”

  “No, no, he’s not dead.”

  Sipho glanced over his shoulder at the man sitting in the back. Professor was obviously a derogatory nickname that the poor wretch was too stupid to even realize he’d earned. He grinned at Sipho.

  “Wanna see it again?”

  “No. Fuck no. I don’t know why you fucking kept it, you twisted bastard.”

  The Professor frowned. “My uncle lost his hand in the mines. He’s always saying he misses it.” He grinned broadly. “It’s his birthday tomorrow.” He held up the newly acquired appendage and scratched his head with it. Tsotsi laughed, and Sipho threw up again.

  “Not in my fucking car, man.” He pushed Sipho further out the door. “Fuck.”

  Sipho wiped his mouth with the face mask Tsotsi had insisted they all wear. He’d done what he could to staunch the flow of blood coming from Thambo’s wrist, but he’d continually tried to push him away. Not that Sipho could blame him. The Professor was wandering around holding his hand like it was his fucking girlfriend’s. He was just glad that he’d been told to leave him on his own doorstep and that someone was home. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage to call help for the man otherwise. But he knew he’d have had to try.

  “It’s done.”

  Sipho turned his head just enough to see Tsotsi talking on his phone.

  “Not fatal, no. But I think the message was received.”

  Sipho hung his head between his knees and tried to make the world stop spinning. Message? Who the hell were they supposed to be sending a message to? What was Thambo involved with? Who was he involved with that could warrant this kind of message? Sipho shook his head and tried to dislodge the idea that his sister was the intended recipient of Tsotsi’s message. That was just too much for him to contemplate.

  “Send me the address and we’ll take care of it, man.” Tsotsi laughed. “Have I ever let you down? Just send me the address and what you need. We’ll get it done. When do I get the next shipment? I have customers waiting on the product, man.” He waited, obviously listening to whoever was on the other end, before clicking his tongue and ringing off.

  “Well, pussy, looks like you’re along for the ride some more. Till this job’s done, no more medicine for you. No more for anyone.” He slapped Sipho on the back. “Get in the car. We’ve got plans to make, pussy.”

  Every time he hit what he thought was as low as he could go, Tsotsi opened up a new level of hell for him to sink into.

  Where will it end?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Imogen poured coffee into a mug and stared out across the ocean. The deep indigo of the Atlantic breaking against the golden sands and the powdery blue sky broken by soft clouds looked so perfect it was difficult for her to comprehend that everything was far from fine. But it wasn’t. She’d slept poorly, tossing and turning once they returned from the hospital. Thambo had been badly beaten, but his body would recover. His hand, however, had not been with his body when his brother had opened the door. The surgeons had nothing to reattach so the wound was closed as a stump to save his life. She stared at her own hand as she held her cup. How would she feel, waking up without her hand? She tried to calculate the innumerable ways her life would be affected. From something as simple as holding her coffee cup, to making coffee in the first place. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. It was too horrific for her to get her mind around. Instead she focused on something she could do something about.

  All night, she’d kept going over everything Amahle had told her. Every word had made her more determined to protect her. She couldn’t put her finger on why, so she decided not to even think about it. It was simply what she had to do. In the light of everything Amahle had told her, it was the right thing to do. Amahle was trying to help save lives. She should and must, as a decent human being, do all she could to help her for no other reason than it was the right thing to do. Was it really as simple as that? Could she really keep it all separate in her head? The paternity issues, the question of the missing money, her father’s relationship with Amahle’s mother. Could she just ignore it all in the face of Amahle’s need? Keep it professional. After all, it wasn’t just Amahle’s need. It was the plight of a lot of fucking people. What did she say, about three million of ’em?

  So that’s it. Ignore all the personal shit and focus on the parts that are important. Anyway, I don’t do personal. Hell, I don’t usually do breakfast. She stared at the coffee cup in her hand. Yet here I am, sipping coffee and trying to decide on the best way to keep her safe no matter how difficult I know she’s going to make it.

  The coffee had gone cold, but she drank the bitter brew trying to decide what to do next. She had few contacts here, but the ones she had, she trusted. She wasn’t sure she could say the same of the countless contacts she was certain Amahle could call upon. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled.

  “Good morning, how’s the shopping going?”

  She smiled. “Not bad, Roland. I have an appropriate frock.”

  He laughed a deep belly laugh that helped her focus on something beyond the darkness that was gaining a hold of her current situation. “I look forward to the unveiling. Now, I’m sure you didn’t call to chitchat about frocks and the like, and I don’t have the results of the investigation for you yet, so how can I help you today, Imogen?”

  “I need some advice, and I need your utmost discretion.”

  “Advice about what? And I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you insult me.”

  “Thank you. I need a private security firm.”

  “Why? Is someone threatening you? I told you not to go out alone after dark.”

  “Not me. I need it for a friend.”

  “A friend? I thought I was your only friend.”

  “Almost.” She heard the rattle of keys as he tapped away at his keyboard.

  “Okay, I’ve got you something. I think you’ll like it. Want me to email this to you?”

  “Please.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Actually, there is. I need two things.” She quickly outlined what she wanted from him and thanked him for his help before hanging up.

  She smiled. If he could find what she’d asked for, they’d have options. Perhaps not great ones, but choices nonetheless. She scrolled through her emails and sent one to the company Roland had recommended.

  She wandered back inside and began pulling open cupboards looking for food. She managed to find some croissants in the larder and put them in the oven to warm while she carried butter, jam, and honey back outside.

  “Ransacking the kitchen?” Amahle said.

  “Shit.” She put her hand to her chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. My heart can’t take it anymore.”

  Amahle laughed. “It never could. And I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “No, just approaching silently.”

  “Exactly.”

  Imogen led them back outside with the plate of warm croissants in one hand and a carton of orange juice in the other.

  “Making yourself at home, I see.”

  “Well, my host decided to spend the morning in bed.”

  “It’s only just eigh
t o’clock.”

  “And some of us have been awake for hours already.”

  “Well, some of us should learn to stay in bed.”

  “I haven’t changed that much.” She winked as she repeated Amahle’s words back at her.

  Amahle rolled her eyes and poured coffee into their cups. “I need to get going soon. I need to get in touch with the hospital.”

  “I called them already.” She glanced at her watch. “About thirty minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “No change.”

  Amahle’s face lost what little was left of its vibrancy, and the dark tone of her skin looked flat, almost lifeless, as the blood rushed away from her face. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, giving it an unnatural waxy pallor that Imogen had seen on Amahle’s face once before. She knelt at her side and turned her face toward her.

  “Look at me, Ami. This wasn’t your fault. Stay with me.” She patted her cheek gently and decided to tap into one of the traits that had often gotten them into trouble as kids. The competitive streak they both had. “Come on, don’t let it beat you.”

  The effect was instantaneous. Amahle’s eyes focused on her face with laser sharp intensity, and some of the gray undertone that had tinged her skin began to recede.

  “That’s more like it. Now, we need to talk about what we do next.”

  “We? There is no we.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Amahle. This isn’t the time.”

  “I’m not being stubborn.” She shook her head. “Okay, maybe I am, but this is for your protection.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Anyone in my life needs protection.”

  “I don’t believe that. Thambo’s attack wasn’t random.”

  “No. They targeted him because he knows about the investigation. So do you. I shouldn’t have told you about it last night. You need to forget—”

  “You’re wrong. He was targeted for several reasons, and all of them very, very smart. Firstly, because he knows what’s going on. Secondly, because you know him and his torture was bound to have an effect on you. Thirdly, because he’s an inconsequential player in the larger game, unlike you or Dr. Marais. His attack would not really draw the attention of anyone outside of those in the know. You and the doctor are much higher profile targets. But most importantly, he was attacked to eliminate your protection and make you vulnerable. Do I need to spell out what that could mean?”

  “You think this was a precursor to an attack on me?”

  “I’m not willing to take the chance that it isn’t.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay away from me.”

  “I really can take care of myself. And you.”

  Amahle shook her head. “We talked about this last night.”

  “I’m not Grace.”

  Amahle’s eyes instantly blazed with fury. “Get the fuck away from me.” She shucked her arms away from Imogen’s touch and pushed herself away from the table. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  “No one does.”

  “I couldn’t protect her.”

  “And I’m not asking you to protect me. I’m asking you to let me help you. There’s a difference, Ami.” She sat back on her heels. “I have an idea, if you’ll let me explain.”

  Amahle crossed arms over her chest, her mouth set in a tight line, her eyes bored holes through Imogen, and Imogen had never felt such a strong desire to kiss anyone as she did right then.

  “Well, what’s this plan of yours?”

  “I…” She shook her head trying to dislodge the image, but it was still there. She started to reach for Amahle, and her hands were half way to Amahle’s shoulders before she realized what she was doing. She tried to hide her true intentions by gripping the arms of Amahle’s chair and pulling herself up. She felt disoriented and unsteady on her feet as she reclaimed her own seat. “I’ve got a friend of mine looking into a couple of things for me.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I’ve also contacted a private security firm and set up an appointment. They should be here in about an hour.”

  “What? I don’t want other people protecting me.”

  “You need to be protected.”

  “I have protection.”

  “No, Ami, you had protection.” She could see Amahle fighting it. She could understand the desire to deny the danger she was in. Hell, she wouldn’t want to admit it in Amahle’s place. She wouldn’t want to accept strangers into her life and literally ask them to stand in harm’s way for her. She actually couldn’t think of much she’d hate more. And everything she saw of Amahle, everything she’d learned so far, told her that Amahle probably hated it far more than she could comprehend. Imogen hoped she never would, because she had a feeling that she’d have to have witnessed everything Amahle had to fully appreciate it. But she could also see something else flitter across Amahle’s face. Resignation.

  “Fine.”

  “If you don’t like these people, we’ll find something else, but I figured that people on the payroll will be more likely to be out of the government’s control than the police or security services at this point.”

  “Which company?”

  “Castle. British company set up by a former SAS guy by the name of Chris Castle.”

  “British company?”

  “Yes. Operating internationally, obviously, but I felt comfortable that they weren’t…I mean that they were from…”

  “That they wouldn’t have any ties to South Africa that could influence the protection they would offer?”

  Imogen nodded, hoping she hadn’t offended Amahle and undone some of the headway she felt they’d made.

  “They may still be working with locals.”

  “It was part of my brief that only non-nationals would be part of your protection team.”

  “They agreed to that?”

  “They did.”

  Amahle chuckled. “So much for equal opportunities.”

  Imogen laughed, relieved that Amahle didn’t seem upset by her insinuations. “I think they have more than enough work that this request hasn’t cost anyone a job.”

  “Hmm. Anything else?”

  “Well, erm, yes, actually.”

  She glanced at her watch. “We don’t have all day, Imogen.”

  “I’ve got my friend trying to locate two names for me.”

  “Who’s the friend and what names?”

  “Roland De Fries. He’s a forensic accountant with Jim Davitson’s company.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “That’s another story. Let’s stick with this one, shall we?”

  “Fine. What’s he looking for?”

  “I’ve asked him to find me the name of a police officer who has an untarnished record and reputation. Discreetly.”

  Amahle shook her head. “No. No police.”

  “You need to find somewhere that you can take this information, or all these people have to do is pick you off and carry on doing what they’re doing.”

  “The police are corrupt.”

  “Not all of them surely.”

  “We wouldn’t know. They had the anti-corruption unit shut down in 2001 and have had enough power and influence to keep it closed ever since. Despite growing demands from the public to reinstate it, and a colossal number of corruption complaints. The ones who aren’t probably won’t be able to do enough with the information before it gets buried from the top by those who are.”

  “Okay, you know more about it than I do. So that brings me to point number two. Getting the information out there so fast and on such a broad scale that they can’t pull it back in.”

  “How?”

  “I have Roland looking for a journalist for me.”

  “Go to the press?” Amahle drummed her fingers on her coffee cup, her irritation showing in the set of her jaw, and the way her shoulders inched closer to h
er ears.

  “Yes.”

  “You really are trying to get me killed, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You waltz back in here after thirty-odd years and you think you can save the day. You were always like that. Grow up.” She put her cup back on the table with enough force to slosh the contents over the side. “This is Africa, not some little courtroom drama you play at with your lawyer friends and then go back home to your nice comfortable life. You don’t know how things work here. You don’t know—”

  “Christ, I’m trying to save your life without compromising everything I believe you stand for. I’m trying to help you do the right thing here. Don’t I get a little credit for that?”

  “Sure. We can get it engraved on our headstones. Here lies Amahle Nkosi, died of Imogen trying to do the right thing.” She smiled sourly. “Catchy, don’t you think?”

  Imogen took a deep breath and managed to bite back the retort that settled on her tongue. She knew Amahle wasn’t going to make it easy. She wouldn’t have if their places had been reversed. “Then what’s your master plan, huh? How do you propose we sort out this fucking mess?”

  Amahle laughed. It was a sound that rang bitterly in Imogen’s ears. “I haven’t got a fucking clue. And all the while I’m trying to figure out this mess they’re at least twenty steps ahead of me. I don’t know who I can trust. My political friends may be the ones running this racket. My political foes have everything to gain by leaking the scandal in a way that would destroy the programme and what little trust the people still have in the government.”