The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  He nodded. “What was the other event?”

  Amahle smiled. “I was in school in Stellenbosch and we got a visit from Nelson Mandela.” She paused to let the words sink in. “It was before he was elected to the presidency, and he was visiting as many schools as he could. You’re probably too young to remember those days, Mr. Steele, but Mr. Mandela was trying to inspire the nation toward reconciliation and peace. He gave a speech about the South Africa he saw. The one he was trying to create, a South Africa where we were all free and equal, no matter the colour of our skin, our gender, our religion, or our sexual orientation. I listened to his words, and my drive gained its focus. I had to help with the creation of our democratic nation.”

  “There has been much written about the attack upon you and your partner before you ran for office the first time.”

  Amahle felt a chill run up her spine, but nodded slowly, wondering where the next question would lead them.

  “Did you ever consider giving up politics in the wake of that?”

  Her palms were instantly slick with sweat and her shoulders ached. Just as they had that night when they had been pulled behind her back and tied there. Grace’s beautiful face was even paler than normal, her blue eyes wide with pain and shock; tears ran into her blond hair as she lay on her back, bloodied, beaten, and abused. The man had twisted his fingers into Grace’s blood and wiped them over the walls of their home, hitting her again if he needed more than her body was producing. Over and over until his message was clear. “Back off, kaffir bitch.”

  “No.”

  “Not even for a second?”

  “Never.” She shook her head to clear the fog that threatened to settle in the wake of the memory. “To do so was to let them win. To give up would have made everything Grace and I survived that night worthless. I had to continue. I had to show them and whoever it was that sent them, that no matter what they threw at me—at what was right—we would continue to fight for what we believed in.”

  “And what was that?”

  “It was the right of all South Africans to receive treatment for HIV and AIDS. The ANC leadership at that time believed that lifestyle choices and nutrition were the key to fighting the battle with HIV.”

  “Why?”

  She knew he knew the answer to his own question, and that he was only asking to get her response on tape. It didn’t matter. She’d made her opinion public many times over the years and saw no reason not to give him what he wanted here. “Money. It costs the government now more than a billion rand every year.”

  “You fought for that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was the right thing to do.”

  “You don’t know anyone with HIV, do you?”

  “I know lots of people with it, but I’m very lucky. None of my family has contracted the virus.”

  “Then you are lucky indeed. As I mentioned earlier, it has been well documented by the media about your sexual orientation and your, shall we call it, slightly hostile relationship with the South African Police Services.”

  She chuckled. “You could put it that way.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “I’d say that I have a healthy respect for anyone who does their job to the best of their ability, and a substantial derision for those who disregard those who need them and work only to further their own agendas or line their own pockets.”

  “How do you feel about politicians?”

  “The same.”

  “How do you think you managed to get elected following the assault and the media coverage of it in a country where eighty percent of the population regularly express homophobic attitudes in unbiased polls?”

  “Are there such a thing as unbiased polls?”

  “Touché, Minister. But the question is still valid.”

  “I agree.” She threaded her fingers together and rested her chin on the bridge she formed. “I’m fairly certain that my first election was based upon my campaign for the HIV treatment programme. I feel with that I gained people’s trust and respect, regardless of my sexuality.”

  “Do you think you gained the sympathy vote?”

  “As a result of the attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Mind if I disagree with you on that?”

  She laughed. “Would it matter if I did?”

  “Probably not.”

  “If it was the sympathy vote that got me elected, Julius, then how did I retain my election for the second term?”

  “That’s easy.”

  She waited.

  “You’re the last honest politician. Didn’t you know?”

  She laughed again. “Sometimes I worry that you’re not wrong. How about a tour while we continue talking?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Amahle continued to answer his questions as she led Julius down each corridor, pointing out notable rooms as they passed. Already well into her second elected term as a member of the National Assembly, Amahle still found her heart swelled with pride as the aroma of democracy filled her lungs. She worked hard to ignore the acrid odour of corruption that tainted politics in South Africa, but it was always there. Always ready to wrap its fingers around your throat and squeeze. It was ready, even if you weren’t.

  Chapter Two

  Imogen reached for the small green hold and wrapped two fingers around it to steady herself as she used her left leg to propel her up the wall. She slapped at the bell and grinned down at her opponent, still a good six feet off the top of the speed climbing wall they’d just raced up.

  “You’re getting slower, Ian.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, panting as he gripped the last hold. “I think your man down there’s pulling you up.” He pointed to the floor where their climbing partners waited on the end of the belay ropes.

  “Dan, he thinks you’re cheating.”

  “Come down here and say that,” the tall man on the ground grumbled. “I can’t keep up with the rope. She goes that bloody fast.”

  “You’re all comedians.” She leaned back on her rope, ready to abseil down the thirty-foot wall as her phone rang. She fished it out of the zip pocket on her thigh. “Frost.”

  “Imogen, I’ve just had a call.”

  “Nice to talk to you too, Marcus. How are you this fine evening?”

  “Clarke’s been rushed into hospital. Heart attack.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “Don’t know yet. Trouble is, he’s due in court tomorrow on the Crown versus Russel case. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “Rape case. Tony Russel confessed, buckets full of forensics. Pleading not guilty on grounds of diminished responsibility. Counsel is trying to get his confession thrown out.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “No responsible adult with him at the time of the confession.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  She landed back on the ground and quickly disengaged herself from the rope. “Was he under caution?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what aren’t you telling me?”

  “He has an IQ of eighty and a mental age of thirteen.”

  “Shit.”

  “Been living in a group home since he turned eighteen. Parents are deceased. They were all in an accident that resulted in his brain injury and their deaths. Been on his own since then.”

  “Who’s the victim?”

  “One of the care workers.”

  “Bloody hell, Marcus.”

  “I know. It’s a bit of a messy one.” He sighed. “At least they’ll give you a continuance on account of old Clarkey’s dodgy ticker.”

  “Courier the files over to my place. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  “You’re going to try and run with it?”

  “If I can. The victim deserves that much at least.”

 
“She also deserves proper representation, not a half arsed job put together in an hour.”

  “Have I ever done that, Marcus?”

  “I don’t see how you can do anything else at this point.”

  “Arthur Clarke might be cracking on for retirement, but he’s a solid barrister. If his strategy is clear and I can execute it, then I’ll proceed. If not, I’ll request the continuance and work it from the beginning.”

  “Fine. It’s your night to waste.”

  “Let me know if you hear anything on Arthur.” She hung up and turned back to her friends as they changed their shoes.

  “Pub?” Dan asked.

  “Sorry, no. Arthur Clarke’s in hospital and I’ve just picked up his case for tomorrow.”

  “Damn, I thought that old bastard was never going to leave chambers.” Ian shook his head.

  “He’s not dead, Ian,” Simon said.

  “We don’t actually know that.”

  “Well, aren’t you all a cheery group.” Imogen quickly changed her shoes and grabbed her coat. “I’ll see you all in chambers tomorrow. Simon, I may need a second chair.”

  “My pleasure, Imogen. Want me to come with you now? Two heads and all that.”

  She smiled. It was no secret that Simon had a huge crush on her, but it didn’t detract from the fact that he was a promising young barrister with a great work ethic. It didn’t hurt that he was prepared to go above and beyond the call to impress her either. “Thanks, but if I can’t get a handle on this tonight, I’ll be filing for a continuance. I’ll let you know tomorrow. Early.”

  “I’ll be in the office by six. Just email me any instructions.”

  She said her good-byes and flipped the collar of her coat up as high as it would go as she ran out of the climbing centre and into the rain, fishing her car keys from her pocket as she went.

  “It’s June, for fuck’s sake. Surely even England’s supposed to get a dry season.” The dark green BMW Z4 purred to life as she gunned the engine and set off across Cambridge. Streetlights twinkled off the rain slicked spires and façades as the windscreen wipers worked hard to keep the window clear. She passed through the industrial estate on the outskirts of the city. The corrugated sheet metal always made her think of the shantytowns she’d been teased about as a child. The townships she’d never even seen as a child but was told to get back to by almost every girl in her boarding school at one time or another. She turned right and sped through the narrowing streets, over several cobbled lanes, and alongside the river for a couple of miles. The rain had driven people inside, but there were a few hardy souls on the riverbank. People who were walking dogs, lovers holding hands, kissing and smiling despite their wet hair and clinging clothes.

  As she drove she stopped seeing them all and began running through case law in her head, trying to remember any cases that were similar for her to refer to. She pulled up outside her town house at the same time as the courier arrived and quickly divested him of his burden.

  The house was dark. She’d forgotten to turn the outside light on before she left for work that morning, and she flipped light switches as she went, the small halogen spotlights illuminating her way through the darkness. Well, supposedly. She grabbed a glass and a bottle of wine from the kitchen and sat at the table. She poured a generous amount of the ruby red liquid into her glass and allowed the aroma to fill the air. It surrounded her like a warm cocoon, and to this day, she marvelled at how that smell took her back to Africa. To her family’s vineyard. To feeling the sun on her face, the earth beneath her feet, and her mother’s hand in hers, teaching her the proper way to appreciate the wine. I was four. I’m amazed I didn’t have a drinking problem by the time I was six!

  She took a mouthful and unfastened the ribbon holding the file together. It’d been more than thirty years since she’d stepped foot on African soil, and she had no intention of ever doing so again, despite knowing her father fully expected her to take over the vineyard when he could no longer run it. Never going to happen.

  She swallowed the wine and pulled her notepad toward her as she shut the memories away. There was work to do, and she wasn’t about to lose a case by being underprepared.

  Chapter Three

  “Hello?”

  Derek Marais looked up from his computer and waved the blonde in the steel gray power suit toward him. “Mrs. De Fries, welcome to Tygerberg Hospital. Thank you for coming to see me.”

  “A pleasure, Dr. Marais. You look hard at work there.” She smiled and sat across the desk from him.

  “If there’s a thing I’m never short of, it’s more work. It never seems to stop.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” She smiled sadly. “But we’re doing all we can to help, no?”

  “Indeed. My associate over at the Polokwane Mankweng Hospital in Limpopo said you have some very favourable rates on some medications.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Dr. Stephen Malan. Why?”

  She waved her hand to dismiss his question. “Just curious who recommended my services.”

  “Your services have come very highly recommended from several sources, Mrs. De Fries. The prices offered by PharmaChem Limited are considerably cheaper than what we are currently paying.”

  “Not to mention that there would be no import tax, and substantially lower delivery costs.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What medications are you looking at us supplying for you, Doctor?”

  “Combivirine.”

  “Ah. Of course, our new wonder drug.”

  “I’ve heard some good things about it.”

  “We’re especially proud of it. It was my mother’s brain child, you know?”

  “I didn’t. She must be very pleased with how well it’s doing for your company.”

  “I’m afraid we wouldn’t know. She died a couple of years ago.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. De Fries. My condolences to you all.”

  “Thank you.”

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could fill me in a little more on the details of Combivirine?”

  “Of course, Doctor. It is a multiclass anti-retroviral with a booster included. There are two reverse transcriptase inhibitors, Zidovudine and Tenofivir, and an integrase inhibitor, Dolutegravir, combined with Cobicistat.” She handed him a brochure filled with glossy pictures of little white pills and statistical data in small writing at the back.

  He flicked through the pages. “Hell of a combination.”

  “Yes. It allows the usual HIV cocktail to be reduced to one pill in many patients, and as you know, importing the combination pills from America is too expensive to use on the budgets the government has set. The figures on this drug will save you almost a third of your current budget.”

  “How can you be sure of that figure?”

  “Quite easily. I know how much it currently costs to supply every patient with the standard cocktail. Mine is thirty percent cheaper than that.”

  He scanned through the brochure, supposedly perusing the figures in the tiny boxes at the back. “I run a very large hospital here, Mrs. De Fries. The largest in Cape Town. If I can reduce the costs per patient with HIV, I can treat more people. Funds are finite, and I have board members to account to at the end of the year. You can help me show a significant saving, support to a home-grown developing industry, and an increase in successful patient treatment.”

  “Doctor, I wish everyone was as easy to convince. You’re making my job as a saleswoman very, very easy.”

  “For me it is merely a question of common sense and helping those who are sick.”

  “As I said, Doctor, I wish everyone was as easy to convince.”

  Derek smiled. “I take it you have samples with you?”

  “Of course.” She opened her briefcase and placed it on the desk facing him. “I brought samples of all our leading sellers, including the Combivirine.” She pointed to the various containers.

  “Good. How long from ordering a s
izable quantity to delivery?”

  “How sizable a quantity are we talking about?”

  “Start with a million units.”

  She whistled. “That number would take around two weeks for manufacture, unless we have a stockpile available. I’d have to confirm that with our warehouse on order.”

  He nodded. “Of course.” He picked up the blister pack and popped one of the little white pills into his hand. “They look very different from the capsules I’ve seen of combined drugs during my research.”

  She shrugged. “This form is cheaper and easier to manufacture than capsules. One of the reasons we’re saving you money. That’s all. The chemical ingredients are the same; the way they work is the same. Everything about them is the same, except for the way they look. Have the samples tested. Your people will be able to tell you the same thing.”

  He held up his hands to placate the suddenly defensive woman. “I meant nothing by it. Merely a statement. In this industry, we’re well used to the appearance of medications changing as different, cheaper manufacturing techniques are developed.”

  She nodded curtly. “I’m sure you’re very busy, Doctor, what with running the biggest hospital in Cape Town.” She gathered her bag, leaving the case on his desk. “I’ll see myself out.”

  “I’ll be in touch about that order, Mrs. De Fries.” He saw her shoulders visibly relax, and she smiled as she reached the door.

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  He held the small pill between his finger and thumb, trying to decipher all it could tell him, as though he could look through the solid matter and into the molecules inside. He knew this sample wouldn’t be what he was looking for. He knew that it would return positive results on every test he could possibly throw at it. But he had to make a start and find out more. The nationwide results for people on Combivirine developing full-blown AIDS was too high to be a naturally occurring phenomenon.

  “And you, my little friend, are the start of me finding out what’s going on.”

  Chapter Four