The Chameleon's Tale

by Andrea Bramhall

  Sipho watched him walk away before dragging himself to his feet and back into his house to clean up. He was already late. What difference did it make if he took a few more minutes to make himself look presentable?

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Where’s your client, Mr. Mabena?”

  Amahle could hear Imogen’s voice from the other side of the door. “He’s not here yet?” Amahle asked as she walked into the waiting room and watched Imogen shift in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “He wanted me to meet him. He only called me an hour ago.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t take too long about it. I’m sure you’re very busy, Minister.”

  Amahle bristled. “I’m sure we all are, Ms. Frost.” She couldn’t put her finger on why, but it seemed every time Imogen opened her mouth she managed to annoy her. No small feat given that she had spent her life in the company of politicians whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to annoy her. “Why don’t you go in while we wait?”

  “The purpose of this open testing arrangement was so that everyone could see the samples being taken, bagged, labelled, and shipped off to the lab.” Imogen smiled. “Me going in first would seem to negate the whole idea. Don’t you think?”

  “I wasn’t aware of the arrangement.” Amahle ground her teeth and wondered what the hell was keeping Sipho. She took a seat across the waiting room and stared about the room. Unable to settle on anything, she stared out the window for a moment then at the posters on the wall advocating the use of condoms to reduce the spread of chlamydia and unwanted pregnancies. Anything to stop her looking at Imogen with those mocking brown eyes and pouty lips. At her soft, pale skin that she wanted to reach out and touch, to stroke like she had when they were children. But so different from when they were children. She glanced over and saw the cocky smile on her lips. Forget that. I want to slap that smug smile off her bloody face. The thought was infinitely satisfying, and she imagined the look on Imogen’s visage as she walked out the door, no doubt with her jaw still hanging open.

  A commotion at the door drew her attention.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Sipho almost fell through the door in his rush. His hand was bloody, his knuckles scraped raw, and a cut over his eye wept.

  “Sipho, what happened to you?” She pointed to his eye and reached for his hand.

  “What?” He touched a hand to his cut and winced. “Oh. I had a flat tyre on the way. I had to change it. I hit my knuckles on the ground trying to get the nuts off the wheel and caught myself with the tyre iron. I’m okay.”

  “You look a mess.”

  “Nice to see you too, Ami.” He smiled sadly at her.

  “Nurse, can we get someone to take a look at him, please?”

  “I’m fine. Really. Let’s just get this over with. Everyone’s been waiting for me long enough.”

  She smiled. He was the only one who still called her by her childhood nickname. “You need to get that cut looked at.”

  “I will. As soon as we finish, okay?”

  She heard feet shuffling behind her and knew they were about to be hurried along. “Fine. But I want you checked out before we go and sort out a new tyre for your car.”

  His eyes widened. “We don’t need to do that. I can sort it out myself. I know how busy you are.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. If that were really true he wouldn’t have asked her to accompany him for this test. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Are you ready or not, would-be brother of mine?” Imogen had her arms crossed over her chest and tapped her foot impatiently.

  Sipho squared his shoulders and met Imogen’s gaze. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “Wonderful.” She indicated the door. “After you.”

  Amahle managed to hold her tongue and followed Sipho through the door, Imogen and the entourage of lawyers at her back.

  “There’s still time to back out of this, you know,” Imogen said.

  “Why would he do that?” Amahle sneered.

  “Because this is a load of shit. We’ve had that conversation already.”

  “Ms. Frost,” Sipho said, “I don’t know the truth of those things any more than you do right now.”

  “I know—”

  “No. You suspect. You suspect my mother is lying, but the only other person involved is dead and cannot dispute her claim. We can confirm or refute her claim today, with this test. I assure you, I am as interested in the result as you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all of my life I wondered why your father took an interest in me. An interest you weren’t there to witness. I wondered why he chose me over all the other boys on the vineyard. I wondered what potential he had seen in me. Why he even looked in the first place. And I never had an answer.” He looked her in the eye. “I don’t know if this is truth or fiction. But I want an answer as much as you do.”

  “Of course you do.” She pointed at his chest. “You want to get your hands on the money.”

  He nodded. “I won’t lie. It would be nice not to have to worry about money. It would be nice to be able to take care of my mother properly, and perhaps help out in a campaign for the first female president of our country.” He smiled at Amahle. “But what I really need is to know who Alain was to me.”

  “And if he isn’t your father?”

  “Then he was a most generous benefactor to me and I will be forever grateful. And I wish you all the luck in the future.” He held out his hand toward her. “And if he is, I look forward to having another sister in my life.”

  Amahle watched as Imogen swallowed, Sipho’s hand extended between them.

  “Whatever the result of this, he was more of a father to you than he ever was to me.” She looked at the doctor. “Can we get this over with?”

  Amahle shook her head, saddened that her brother’s efforts had been rebuked so callously. He was trying to make the situation as easy as possible for them all, and she just couldn’t accept that he was as much in the dark as she was. She just wouldn’t allow for the possibility. Stubborn bloody arsehole.

  It took less than two minutes for the doctors to swab the inside of their mouths, seal, label, and have the samples signed by each party for authenticity. The lawyers were the first to leave as a nurse took Sipho down the corridor to check his wounds.

  “Are you always so adversarial?” Amahle asked.

  “It comes naturally to me,” Imogen replied.

  “It didn’t always.”

  “Yeah, it did.” She looked at Amahle and their eyes met. “Just not with you for some reason.”

  “Is that why you didn’t come to his funeral? Why you never came back home?”

  “Personal curiosity or feeding the rumour mill?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The reason you want to know.”

  “You know what? Forget it.”

  “No, no, Minister, I’m curious now. Why so interested? Trying to work out another angle to get your family what they so desperately want when this idiotic claim falls though?”

  “We neither need nor want your money, Ms. Frost. We’re doing just fine on our own.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You know, the Immy I remember—” Her ringing phone interrupted her. “Shit.” She fished it from her bag and held it to her ear, still scowling at Imogen and the arrogant look in her eyes. “Hello.”

  “Is this the Nkosi bitch?”

  Amahle pursed her lips and felt the creases on her forehead deepening. “Who is this?”

  “I’m asking the questions here. I said, is this the Nkosi bitch?”

  “I don’t respond to pathetic name calling.”

  His laughter rang in her ears. “Well, I do, bitch.”

  “Who is this?” She hated that she could hear the tremor in her own voice and that her hand shook. Angry phone calls she could deal with. Insults were water off a duck’s back. But the sinister voice on the line reminded her of the calls she and Grace h
ad received in the lead-up to the attack. Just a few words put her back to that night. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, willing herself to regain control.

  “None of your business.”

  “Then I’m hanging up.” The muscles in her shoulders tensed and a hand on her arm made her jump. Imogen held her hand out in apology, a look of concern on her face.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because then you won’t get the message. And that would be bad.”

  Amahle felt the flood of adrenaline course through her body as her heart rate picked up speed and her desire to run was almost overwhelming. “What’s the message?”

  “Back off, kaffir bitch. Or you’ll be seeing more of me than you want to.” He blew a kiss at her and hung up, laughing.

  Her knees gave out under her, and the only thing that stopped her hitting the floor was Imogen’s arms as she eased her into a chair. Her chest felt tight, and she couldn’t get her breath.

  “Put your head between your knees for me.” Imogen eased her forward, arms securely holding onto her shoulders. “Breathe now. Nice and steady.”

  Amahle tried to follow Imogen’s instruction, but her brain couldn’t make sense of them. Her breath was coming in rapid pants, and all she could see before her was Grace’s face. Grace’s blood smeared across the wall of their home. Message received. Loud and clear.

  “Ami, look at me.”

  Hands cupped her face and directed it, but her eyes wouldn’t focus.

  “Ami, focus. Here. Look at me.”

  She could feel her body being shaken, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She knew she wanted to pull back and tell whoever it was touching her to get the fuck off. Her body just wasn’t listening to her.

  “Oh fuck. I’m sorry about this, but…”

  A stinging slap landed on her cheek, and her world snapped into sharp relief. Imogen was kneeling before her, a look of contrition upon her face as she cupped Amahle’s aching face.

  “You called me Ami.”

  “I always called you Ami. I do believe I was the one who gave you the nickname.” She brushed her hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear. “You finally got your ears pierced then?”

  Amahle smiled. “About twenty-five years ago. Gogo did it for my birthday.”

  “Is she still…”

  Amahle shook her head. “No. She died twenty years ago. She talked about you a lot.”

  “Damn. I wished I’d known. I would have come back for her funeral.”

  “But not your father’s?”

  “I didn’t respect him.”

  “But you respected my grandmother?”

  “I loved your grandmother.” She smiled sadly. “I used to wish she was mine.”

  “And I used to wish your mother was mine.”

  Imogen laughed. “No offense, but I can’t say the same.”

  Amahle chuckled. “None taken.” She shook her head. “She really went off the rails when Gogo died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She waved her hand. “Long time ago.” She patted Imogen’s hand where it still rested on her cheek. “It was all a long time ago now.”

  “Yeah.” She moved her hand and let it fall into her lap. “Want to tell me about the phone call?”

  “Not really.”

  Imogen chuckled. “Let me rephrase that.” She cleared her throat. “Tell me about the phone call.”

  “Is that your barrister voice?”

  “Yes. What do you think?”

  “Very authoritative. One could even say bossy.”

  “Perfect. So give. Who was it?”

  “He didn’t give a name.”

  “But he knew yours?”

  “Well, he called me Nkosi bitch.”

  “Imaginative.”

  “Quite.”

  “What else?”

  “He said he had a message for me.”

  “And that was?”

  “To back off.”

  Imogen looked at her, clearly waiting for something more. But there was nothing more to give.

  “That’s it? That’s all he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what are you supposed to back off?”

  Amahle shrugged. She had a pretty good idea, but she had no clue how the information about her investigation into the fake pills had gotten into the wrong hands, and as helpful as Imogen was being, she really didn’t know her.

  “So why the panic attack?”

  She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She wanted to get out of the waiting room, out of Stellenbosch, and back home where she could lock the doors, put on the alarm, and pretend that there wasn’t a scary world outside the door.

  “Tell me.”

  “Still as tenacious.”

  “More so.”

  She smiled. “His words brought back bad memories.”

  “How? Of what?”

  “Let it go, Immy. I don’t want to do this now. I don’t want to open up old wounds.”

  “It looks to me like he already did that.”

  “Then let me close them again.”

  Imogen looked like she wanted to argue with her, but instead she sighed. “Did you come alone?”

  “No. Thambo is waiting in the car for me.”

  “Husband?”

  Amahle laughed. “Bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  Amahle nodded.

  “Well, what bloody good is he down at the car? Why isn’t he beside the body he’s supposed to guard?”

  “I prefer to be alone.”

  “Well, that’s just bloody stupid, Ami. How can he do his job if you won’t let him?” She stood and pulled Amahle up with her. “Come on then. You can introduce me to Thambo. I’ll be bodyguard in his stead till we get you to your car.”

  “Don’t be silly, Immy. I don’t need—”

  “If you even think about telling me you don’t need a bodyguard after what I’ve just witnessed in the past ten minutes, I might have to slap the other cheek because you’re obviously still in shock.” She settled her hands on her hips.

  “You look like your mum when you do that.”

  Imogen looked down at herself. “I know. No wonder the old man couldn’t stand the sight of me, hey?”

  “By the end, he couldn’t stand the sight of himself.”

  “Don’t try to make me feel sorry for the old bastard.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Right.”

  “Just telling you the truth. You seem to be someone who would appreciate that.”

  “I do.” She took Amahle’s arm and led her toward the lift. “It’s a rare beast indeed.”

  The doors closed as Sipho walked out of the treatment room. It was too late to stop the lift, but not for it to change Imogen’s whole demeanour. Her arms tensed under Amahle’s hand and the muscles in her jaw clenched visibly. The friendly Imogen of moments ago was, once again, gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Imogen pulled open the door and smiled at the grinning face of Roland De Fries holding a large platter of something smelling deliciously sweet.

  “My wife made koeksisters for us.”

  “Oh my. I can’t remember the last time I had one of those.”

  “Well, get the kettle on, Ms. Frost, and we’ll feast before we get started on these books. I need rooibos tea with my koeksisters.”

  Imogen held the door for him as he blustered in and made himself at home in the kitchen. Once the tea was brewed and the pot set on the table, he uncovered the platter. She could feel the saliva pool in her mouth as the scent of sugar, lemon, and ginger assailed her senses. The syrup soaked fluffy dough transported her back in time. She could practically feel her mother’s hand on her back as she taught her how to rub the fat into the flour to help make the dough. The acrid odour of the tea was the perfect counterpoint to the sweetness of the syrup. She’d never been able to find them in England. Dough
nuts had been as close as she’d managed to find, and the powdered sugar on top of those just wasn’t the same.

  “Nothing like them, yah?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Mind if I plug in?” He pointed to his laptop. “Damn thing has about a ten minute battery life.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He licked his fingers clean and wiped them dry on his trouser leg. She smiled, not envying his wife her laundry.

  “So, Mr. Davitson told you I have a few concerns about the way the books have been kept?”

  “He did. He also confirmed that the accounting firm my father used in the past was no longer servicing the account as it had been taken in-house.”

  “Correct.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means that essentially the vineyard established its own accounting department that would be run by a qualified accountant, preferably a team of them, who operate within the established laws, guidelines, and current good practices.”

  “Effectively, it becomes its own accounting firm within the main company?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that but, effectively, yes.”

  “Okay. And did that happen?”

  “No.”

  “What did happen?”

  “It appears there were a few people who ‘did the books.’” He curled his fingers in the air to put the term in inverted commas.

  “Who?”

  “Your father, Sipho, and for a while there was a third person. From my inquiries, though, she would appear to have been a tutor brought in to help teach Sipho how to run the accounts. She has an impeccable reputation, and I have a hard time believing her capable of this kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing are we actually talking about here, Mr. De Fries?”

  “Please, call me Roland.”

  “Very well, Roland.”

  He smiled and polished off his second pastry. “What we’re talking about is fraud and embezzlement.”

  “That sounds so much more exciting than plain old theft.”

  “It does, but it amounts to the same thing. Just a different technique to do so.” He clicked open a spreadsheet, slid the computer toward her, and pointed to a column. “See these figures along here?”