The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  The judge rolls his pen through his fingers. ‘I am minded to agree with you, Miss Tanner. But perhaps you could establish it a little faster?’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ she says, with a slight bow. ‘I just need to ask a couple more questions, Dr Sommers, before we move on.’ She clears her throat. ‘When you say Dr Bekker seduced you, did he actually force himself on you?’

  ‘No!’ We didn’t rehearse that. ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘What did happen, then?’

  My eyes swerve up to the dock before I can stop them. It’s as if I’ve been winded.

  Piet sits hunched in the wooden box, flanked by three prison officers. They’ve made him wear a mask, despite the purifier. Is that normal? The smart black suit cannot disguise it: he must weigh half what he did. His hair reminds me of the judge’s wig: a yellowing grey. His eyes are the only bit of him I recognise.

  ‘Dr Sommers, could you answer the question, please?’ Miss Tanner draws me back. She told me, repeatedly, not to look.

  I press my palms into the sharp wooden corners and try to breathe. ‘We had sex.’ There’s a rustle from the jury’s bench.

  ‘Consensual sex?’

  I swallow. ‘Yes.’ I feel Parfrey’s laser stare. That bastard better hold true to his promise.

  ‘Dr Sommers, did you and the defendant meet again, after this occasion?’

  Take a breath…

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How frequently?’

  ‘Maybe four, five times a month.’

  ‘And how long did this affair go on for?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘During that time, would you say that you were close? Your relationship, I mean?’

  Another memory ambushes me. ‘We became close.’

  ‘What kinds of things did you talk about?’

  ‘The job. Wildlife. Politics.’

  ‘Politics?’ She scrolls down her screen. ‘Could you tell us a little more about the defendant’s views at the time?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘He felt the government should stop dragging things out. He wanted the violence to end.’

  ‘So he was against apartheid?’

  ‘Yes.’ I hesitate. ‘He believed in equality.’

  ‘Equality?’

  ‘Yes. For all people. No matter what their colour or background.’

  She turns to the jury. ‘“Equality for all people”.’ She holds up both hands, as if those four words seal the case. ‘Were those the exact words he used?’

  I swallow. ‘Yes.’

  She pauses, ostensibly checking her notes while the jury continues to stir. And I think of what Piet said about bush fires. How they had to sacrifice some animals to save the others.

  She tugs her gown. ‘What about Dr Bekker’s views on the West? Did he discuss those too?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Can you recall what he said?’

  An unbearable tiredness sweeps through me. I try to remember my script. ‘He thought Western countries should be doing more to address diseases like TB. Diseases with high mortality rates that afflicted mainly developing nations.’

  ‘But, hadn’t his firm already received a number of quite substantial research grants from Western institutions?’

  ‘Those were mainly focussed on HIV. Antibiotics weren’t considered a priority. Especially not for TB.’

  ‘I see. And how did Dr Bekker feel about that?’

  ‘Well, obviously he was frustrated. The way he saw it, Western pharmaceutical companies were only interested in making drugs that gave their shareholders a decent return, and meeting sales quotas in countries that could afford them. Investment decisions were based on profit, not need.’

  ‘You say he was frustrated. Would you go as far as saying he was angry?’

  ‘Sometimes. Millions of people were dying.’

  ‘Angry enough to do something about it?’

  The defence counsel jumps up. ‘Objection!’

  ‘Sustained.’ The judge leans forward. ‘Miss Tanner, tread carefully.’

  ‘Yes, your Honour.’ She bows her head. ‘My apologies.’ She turns back to me. ‘Let’s move on. Dr Sommers, after your relationship ended, did you continue working at Pharmaplanta?’

  ‘Only for a short while. I did a bit of travelling, then I returned to the UK, to write up my PhD.’

  ‘And did you and Dr Bekker stay in touch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were aware of his work, though?’

  ‘Yes. We worked in the same industry.’

  She nods. ‘In your opinion, Dr Sommers, is Dr Bekker an expert in TB?’

  ‘Well, he’s not qualified in pathology, but he’s worked in the healthcare and pharmaceutical sectors, and witnessed its mutations over several decades first hand.’

  ‘So, would you say that he’s knowledgeable about the disease?’

  ‘Yes. Extremely. Particularly from a pharmacological perspective.’

  ‘I see. And when did you next have direct contact with Dr Bekker?’

  ‘After my research was taken over by Pharmaplanta.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Approximately six years ago.’

  ‘And was your relationship at that point purely on professional terms?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But you saw each other through work?’

  ‘He had a whole new team working for him by then. We only saw each other at occasional meetings.’

  ‘Were you ever alone together?’

  I steel myself. ‘Only once.’

  ‘Can you remember the occasion?’

  As if I’d forget.

  ‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘He came to my flat. In February last year.’

  ‘Dr Sommers, can you recall the exact date of that meeting?’

  ‘I believe it was the twenty-second of February.’

  ‘The twenty-second of February?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  She rubs her chin. ‘Can you tell the court what happened, please?’

  A buzzing starts in my ears. ‘Dr Bekker came after work, that evening.’ I glance at the dock. For a second, our eyes meet. The back of my neck tingles. It’s like staring into a void. ‘He wanted to give me a heads-up about the results of the latest drug trial. For Brotanol.’

  Fingers scurry over keys.

  Miss Tanner turns to the benches. ‘Ladies and gentleman of the jury, it’s my duty to remind you that it is not the role of this court to make any judgements concerning the Brotanol trials. The ethics and legality of those are the subject of an entirely separate investigation.’

  That woman has no shame. By pretending to ensure the jury remains impartial she flags the allegations and prejudices them even more.

  ‘And how did Dr Bekker seem, when he arrived?’

  ‘He was fairly agitated.’

  ‘Why do you think he was agitated?’

  ‘Well, at first I assumed it was about the trial.’

  She cocks her head. ‘You said “at first”?’

  There’s a cough from the gallery. I daren’t look up, in case it’s Parfrey.

  ‘After he told me what had happened, I was very upset. I told him I didn’t want to have anything more to do with it.’ I keep my eyes on the wall, just above the jury’s heads. ‘But then he started talking about the TB strain. Saying that I didn’t understand how bad it was. That it was only going to get worse.’

  ‘Did he explain what he meant by that?’

  A dull pain throbs at the base of my skull. ‘He said there was more to the Crisis than people thought. He said something about … about how we were at war.’

  ‘“At war”?’ She stares at me, brow furrowed.

  I wet my lips. ‘Yes. And that, in war, people had to do things. Things they would never normally do.’

  She gives the court a minute to digest this. ‘And who were we supposed to be at war with? Did he
say?’

  I try to swallow but all the lies have wedged in my throat. I think of that picture of Kate on her wedding day and spit out another: ‘He mentioned an alliance.’

  ‘An alliance?’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice is suddenly very quiet, as if it would prefer to shrink away entirely.

  ‘Speak up, please, Dr Sommers. What sort of alliance?’

  ‘He said it was an alliance “between man and microbe”.’

  The courtroom swells. My skin is sticky with the heat of everyone’s gaze.

  ‘Did he mention a name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he tell you what this alliance was supposed to have done?’

  ‘He said…’ I cringe as an image of Graham Parfrey surfaces, relentlessly editing my words. ‘He said that they’d deliberately spread the TB strain. Through targeted attacks in big city venues.’

  There are murmurs in the jury. Someone knocks over a glass; I flinch.

  ‘“Targeted attacks”? Did he provide any further details?’

  ‘He said…’ Everything inside me teeters. ‘He said: “It’s simple when you think about it. Bacteria are programmed to replicate and survive. They’re adept at seeking out new hosts. To accelerate the spread, all someone has to do is ensure that conditions are optimal.”’

  I hear a sound, like a hiss of tyres. I look up. Piet sinks forward until his forehead knocks against the panel. The judge leans over and whispers something to the clerk.

  The QC presses on. ‘Just to be clear, Dr Sommers, the defendant told you this when he visited your flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On February the twenty-second last year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he give you any idea where he had procured this information?’

  I make myself look at Parfrey. He gazes back at me, without expression. And I think of that quote: Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.

  ‘No.’

  She brandishes a wedge of papers, cheeks flushed, chin high: ready for the kill. ‘I would like to refer the jury to the testimony we heard last week from the intelligence officer on behalf of the security services. You should all have a copy in your jury bundle.’ I notice the page at the front is highlighted with green stripes. ‘Can I ask you all to turn to page five, paragraph three.’ She pauses while the jury members shuffle through their stacks.

  Her voice rises. ‘The first intelligence reports about the city attacks weren’t released until the twenty-fourth of April last year.’ She slaps the file down. ‘That information was classified. So, given that the defendant was not himself a member of the intelligence service, how could he possibly know all those details?’

  Bile stings my throat. ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Nor do I, Dr Sommers.’ She eyes Piet. ‘Not unless the defendant had prior knowledge of those attacks. From a different source altogether.’ She slides her tongue over her teeth as I garner myself for the plunge. ‘Did Dr Bekker mention anything else? For example, did he indicate whether this … “alliance” might strike again?’

  My chest tightens. I think of Lady Justice, frowning above me on the way in: sword thrust into the clouds, scales held ready.

  ‘He said…’ My words disintegrate. I force them out. ‘He said, all it would take is another couple of mutations. And then no amount of isolation chambers or infectious disease units would be able to contain it.’

  A woman in the gallery shouts something, and the defence leaps up.

  It’s unfathomable, the things we are capable of.

  Piet lifts his cuffed wrists, palms pressed together, as if in prayer, and slams them against the glass.

  CHAPTER 46

  LILY

  A dark-yellow stain oozes through the bandage like an oil slick. The flesh bulges out either side, a deep crimson, as if it has burned in the sun. The throbbing is persistent, unlike any pain I have felt before: I haven’t slept, I can’t eat, I can’t think. The infection has spread, marching down my veins in angry red lines. I glance again at my watch as my head pounds; the numbers snake in and out of view. Natalie must be on shift by now, surely? Why is it taking her so long?

  Nightmare scenarios flit through my mind: Natalie at the dispensary, Natalie at the scanner. Bulky security officers fishing through her bag and leading her away.

  If any of the other carers come, I’m done for. She has to be here. I can’t abandon Kate, again.

  I tentatively touch the bandage and wince. It’s no good; I have to look. I pull off the tape and unwind the gauze, sucking air through my teeth. My hand trembles with every loop. The final layers have stuck to my skin, and I howl as I pull them off.

  A fetid odour spills into the room. My brain wheels, unable to reconcile this putrid imposter with the arm that existed before. My shoulder has been consumed by a fiery orange ring. A pimple of mustard pus glowers at its centre like a crocodile’s eye. I have an overwhelming urge to hack it off.

  I fumble for the bandage and try to twist it back round. I tug too hard and the bile rushes to my throat. Two days ago, this was just a small red lump.

  I lever myself up with my right arm and fall forward, onto my frame. My head reels as I clutch the bar with my other hand triggering another excruciating wave. I stagger to the basin, run the tap as hot as it will go and furiously soap my hands. I imagine Dr Barrows’ black boots striding over from the San. Her wan lips reciting their verdict, implacable as a machine.

  I lurch back into the bedroom. Everything’s off kilter: the furniture’s sliding to the left. My whole body aches; sweat oozes from every pore. Just as I make it to the chair there’s a metallic snap. I hold my breath. The door opens.

  It’s her.

  ‘Good morning, Lily.’

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

  ‘How are you? You look a little flushed.’

  I realise I’m panting. ‘The pain.’ I swallow. ‘It’s much worse.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Natalie’s forehead creases in a frown. ‘Those tablets I gave you not helping?’ I blink at her as another swell knocks the breath out of me. She pulls on some gloves. ‘Right, then. We’d better take a look.’

  She slips the dressing gown from my shoulder. Her mouth puckers. ‘Have you been messing with that bandage?’

  ‘I … I just had a quick look.’ I try not to tense as she starts to unravel it. ‘Have you got them?’ My question blurts out. I cannot contain it any longer.

  I wait for her to say something, to reassure me. She unwinds the gauze, round and round. As she peels back the last layer, even she draws back. She pinches the putrid cloth between her thumb and index finger and drops it into the waste.

  Her eyes meet mine. ‘The infection has progressed.’ She nods at the boil of pus as if I have done well, as if I have excelled in my field. She rips off her gloves and reaches for the sanitising gel. She rubs it into her smooth, pink skin, one finger at a time.

  Any minute now, she’s going to tell me. She’s going to whisk out those tablets and everything will be fine.

  ‘By the look of it, I’d say that’s Staphylococcus aureus.’

  The sibilants echo around my head, summoning a distant memory of an old nursery song. A staph infection. That’s not good. Not good at all.

  She gives me a brittle smile. ‘No wonder it’s painful.’

  I have to ask her something. Something important.

  ‘Did you get them?’ My words sound slurred, as if I’ve been drinking.

  ‘What, you mean these?’ She produces a steel tube from her pocket. It rattles as if there are bullets inside. ‘Oh yes, I got them.’

  I slump forward. The roaring in my ears gets louder.

  ‘But they won’t help you.’

  Something’s off-beam here, her voice is too light, too … happy. ‘But … I thought that … Why not?’

  ‘Because they’re not antibiotics. They’re painkillers.’

  Painkillers?

  ‘Oh, Mary, you still don’t get it, do you
?’

  My name cuts through the haze, jagged and sharp. I feel a surge of adrenaline, as if I’ve just tripped and every nerve and sinew are rallying to stop me crashing to the floor.

  ‘Why do you think the infection advanced this quickly?’ Natalie looms closer, her breath cool against my cheek. ‘Because it entered the bloodstream directly.’

  And I hear it: that twang, the one I spotted by the fountain. Wherever she said she was from, she was lying.

  She strolls to my dressing table and lifts out the tin. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ She finds my box in the wardrobe and slots in the key. ‘You recognise this, though.’

  She rifles through the papers and thrusts the cutting in my face. I flinch.

  Kill not Cure…

  ‘He tried to stop this. He did everything he possibly could to expose them.’ Her voice is raw. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you tell those lies?’

  I stare at her like a cornered child. ‘Please, you don’t understand, they—’

  ‘It destroyed him!’ She screws the clipping up and tosses it on the floor. ‘Everything he’d worked for, his reputation, all ruined.’

  ‘I…’ My words splinter. I try again. ‘I had no choice, they made me—’

  ‘He died, because of you!’ Spit bubbles between her teeth. ‘My father.’

  It hits me with the force of a punch: My father.

  ‘You’re a liar and a slut. Every time I’ve had to touch your gnarled, deformed body I’ve thought: it’s God’s punishment. God’s punishment on you.’ Her chest heaves. ‘My mother was a good woman. A loyal wife. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve any of it.’ A tear bleeds down her cheek. She cuffs it away. ‘You even had the nerve to come to our home. I didn’t know who you were, but she did.’

  The girl at the window. Pigtails and puffed sleeves. I reach for her name. It floats towards me, just out of reach.

  ‘It was me that found her, you know. She couldn’t bear it. She lost everything, not just him.’ Her lips tremble and she turns away.

  Cara. Piet’s daughter, Cara.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I never wanted any of it to happen.’ I swallow. ‘I loved him too.’

  Her face twists as if something unspeakable just crept out of my mouth. Her voice thuds into the room. ‘He wasn’t yours to love.’