An Audience with the Sidewalk Saviour by K. Alexander

1. How low can you go
("Limbo Rock" - Chubby Checker)

She comes to from the pounding in her head - and on her front door. Synchronicity.

She collapsed here, next to her stove, when she came tearing in. Must have fallen asleep, but it can't have been for long. Groggily she reaches out to pull herself up by the cabinet top, and then recoils in horror at the streaked brown layer coating her hands. The pounding on the door becomes more insistent.

"India!"

The thunder is still rumbling. She's disoriented, not sure how much later it is. Rising stiffly she winces at the pain in her knees (did she fall on the way back? She can't really remember) and stumbles across the terracotta tiles to open the door.

Warren stands on the other side, his wild hair somewhat flattened by the water weighing it down. His slanted eyes are vigilant and unblinking. He takes in the grimy coating of blood.

"What the fuck." Statement, not question.

She fights the impulse to shove her hands behind her back like a child. "Warren..."

He cuts her off mid-sentence, knows her well enough to know she's stalling. "What the fuck was that, India? What did you do?"

"Please, Warren. Come in. It's raining." India wants to reach out, and then, mindful of the condition of her hands, decides not to. "Please."

He takes half a step forward before he stops, bewildered. "Did you know you could do that, India?"

"I..." She shrugs. "Come in, please, Warren. Come out of the rain. I'll talk to you inside."

He's still considering it when the flash goes off, right over his shoulder. For a moment India is blinded, thinks that it's lightning, but then the reporter is speaking behind Warren.

"Miss Waits? Miss Waits - what happened at the Dome tonight?"

Another flash goes off just as Warren turns. It's one of those photos that's either going to be brilliant or unusable; her dark eyes large in the background, Warren's strong face in profile. Reaching back Warren pushes the man away, ignoring the shouted complaint as he steps out of the doorway and pushes again.

India steps forward, hesitant to be in the reporter's sight, but needing to reach out to Warren. "Please come in. Please."

Looking over his shoulder at her with his yellow lion's eyes he shakes his head. "Sorry, India. I'm a little freaked out... I need some... " He rubs his bristly chin with one large hand and shrugs his broad shoulders meaninglessly. "I've gotta go."

She wants to watch him go, but the reporter is lifting his camera again, and so she has to shut the door on her best friend, who is walking away from her into the rain.

---

The second time India wakes up is much like the first; the pounding of her head synchronizing with the somewhat more civilized knock on the door. She's back on the kitchen floor, and when she gets to her feet fairly unsteadily her body protests the abuse. Without thinking she runs her fingers through her unruly dark hair, and then grimaces at the smell of old blood wafting up at her.

The thunder is gone. She peers through the peephole of her door warily before sliding off the chain and turning the key. With a small smile Yvonne Constantine steps over the threshold and casts an analytical eye over her.

"You look terrible, India."

"Yeah." Licking her dry lips she turns to the sink and opens the tap, letting the tepid water run over her dirty hands. Behind her Yvonne hops onto the counter with grace belying her rotund stature and perches there, watching silently until India finishes drying her hands and turns around, her dark eyes shifting away nervously.

"So tell me what happened."

India shrugs her narrow shoulders half-heartedly. "Reiki."

"Crap." The other woman shakes her head. "Don't insult me."

"I'm not. Okay, maybe not Reiki, but Quantum healing ... "

"India." Yvonne's voice is sharp, and beneath her arched orange eyebrows her eyes are serious. "Don't bullshit me. Those things don't pull bullets out of people and knit the flesh. Those things don't fix arteries. What's going on?"

"I..." Leaning back against the cabinet on the other side of the small kitchen, India closes her eyes briefly. "I don't know. I just touched her and ... "

Yvonne knows just as well as Warren when India is stalling, and just like him she interrupts. "Just tell me something. Did you know you could do that?"

"No."

"India, you're a very poor liar." Yvonne watches her for a moment before she pushes herself off the counter with a sigh. "Look, I understand that this is a very ... unusual situation. I'll give you some time to regroup. I just don't understand why you want to lie to me about it. We can talk later."

"There's nothing to talk about, Yve. It was just something that happened. I didn't know. I don't..." Running out of steam India shoves her now clean fingers through her hair again in frustration. "I don't know. It won't happen again."

Frowning, Yvonne stops in the middle of the floor and peers at India. "You saved a girl's life last night, and you're treating it like an nuisance. And you're lying about it. I've never known you to lie, India." Walking to the door she reaches out for the doorknob, and then speaks with her back towards the other woman. "Call me when you're ready."

The door closes behind Yvonne.

India addresses it softly.

"I didn't mean to."

---

The story is featured on every channel. Damning the day that cellphones were first manufactured with cameras, India watches in stricken silence as the grainy footage is shown over and over. The colour is terrible and the quality poor, but there's no mistaking the way that the girl's cheeks regain their colour, or the way she finally sits up, unsteady but whole. There's no mistaking the mess of blood on the Nike sweatshirt, or the jagged round hole in the material.

They've found one of India's clients somewhere, and Amelia Jeffries can't stop talking. She's smiling brightly, her manner eager and accommodating as she looks into the camera.

"Yes, it's definitely India Waits. She's a natural health practitioner at the Kundalini Wellness and Balance Centre in Morningside. I'm sure, because I go to her every month to have my chakras realigned." Amelia listens to an off-camera prompt before nodding her head enthusiastically. "Oh, she's very good. Very good. Of course, I had no idea that she could do something like... that. It's amazing. Just amazing. Wow."

Then, the girl, lying on a stretcher as a medic checks her blood pressure. Her name is Trisha Connor, and she probably looks younger and more vulnerable than she is, lying there with her blue eyes stretched wide and her mouth trembling. She seems to be shining, as if she has been dusted with glitter, but it's probably just the neon flickering behind her.

"It was crazy. Crazy. I don't know where that guy came from. I thought it was the thunder, you know, before I even knew he'd... " her mouth trembles, "... shot me. I can't remember much of it, just that other lady whispering to me, and then she came. It hurt, at first, 'cause she was pressing down so hard, and I thought I was gonna die. I really did."

She looks over to the side for a moment, and the editor's cut a shot of her mother in here, watching her with brimming eyes.

"Yeah. Anyway, so then suddenly it's like my chest gets really hot - like there's hot water on it, kind of - and everything just starts to tingle." Trisha thinks for a moment. "Yeah. A sort of tingle. I can't really explain. And... you know when you're just going to sleep and you get that falling feeling? It was like that as well, except the other way around, like I was ... floating back up." She shakes her blond head. "I really can't explain. It was just totally freaky. I coulda died."

That's when her mother swoops in, sobbing, and gathers her daughter in her arms, mindless of the grime and blood.

It makes for great television, and every time India sees it her heart skips another beat.

Just twenty-four seconds. That's how long the footage goes on for.

Twenty-four seconds to save the life of Trisha Connor, and twenty-four seconds to ruin the life of India Waits.

---

The press is relentless. They camp outside the Kundalini Wellness and Balance Centre, aiming their long lenses at the windows of the small apartment above the yoga classroom. They keep the clients from coming in, and when Tai shoos them they simply shift into the small park across the road. Every time someone comes in or goes out, a camera is shoved in their face.

"Do you know India Waits?"

"Did you go for a treatment with India?"

"Tell us more about India."

Even the police can't disperse them. The park is a public area. Unless they cause a fuss, they're there to stay.

Clients become agitated. There are those who are just hoping to catch a glimpse of India, but the ones who have genuine appointments are supposedly there for peace, calm and good health.

Tai takes to escorting the clients into the center, and after being harassed for the fifteenth time in one day he loses his patience and gives them a perfect rude sound-byte. It's not the kind of promotion the center needs, and it is played over and over on every channel.

"That", the people who don't like people like Tai, tell their children, "is what they're like."

---

Two days later Yvonne Constantine is at India Waits's door again. The younger woman has not left her apartment, has not called to talk, and doesn't seem about to.

When India opens the door her eyes are red. She rubs them surreptitiously as she invites Yvonne in, but her voice is as soft and steady as always. Hopping onto the counter, which is her usual spot, Yvonne wastes no time.

"So what's going on, India?"

"What do you mean?" India's making coffee, even though Yvonne did not ask for any, simply so that she can keep her back turned.

"What did you do to that girl? Trisha?"

"Nothing. I don't know." Though India doesn't turn around, her shoulders sag. "Yve, I just did my reiki. That's what came out."

"Since when have you been able to do it like that?"

"I didn't. It was just that time." There is a pause filled with thick silence. "Okay. Since I was a kid. About eight."

"And you never told anyone?"

"No." India puts the steaming coffee cup next to Yvonne, apparently mindless of the heat, before she turns back to her own. "It never came up."

Yvonne blows on the surface of the hot liquid before she takes a quick sip. "It never came up? You work in a wellness center, India."

"I never needed to... " India looks away. "I wasn't planning on ... that."

"It doesn't seem to be the sort of thing you should plan for." Yvonne studies the familiar small frame, the narrow shoulders and disobedient dark hair. "Tell me something, India. Do you think it's a gift? This thing of yours?"

The acidic laugh that bubbles up in India's throat is probably not something she can stop. "Sure. The kind of gift you re-wrap and give to someone else. Like soap. Or socks. The shitty kind."

Yvonne's composure has always served her well, especially in cases like these. She sips at her coffee without comment, and then cocks her head. "You saved a life. Why would you not want to have done that?"

Pursing her lips, India looks out of her kitchen window. "That is what I get for it, Yve. Bloodhounds and sharks cornering me. I've already seen a news reporter do the 'phenomenon or fraud' angle. Warren looked at me as if I'd ... given birth to a ... a goat with two heads." She chortles bitterly. "Yeah, it's been a real party. Barrel of laughs, Yve. Wish I'd done it sooner."

Putting down the cup carefully, Yvonne jumps off the counter. Her normally expressive round face is carefully blank. "India. Are you telling me that you'd rather have your privacy than to have saved a life?"

For a brief moment India closes her eyes. "No. I'm... I don't... You know me, Yve."

"I've always thought so." Yvonne leans back against the counter. "Apart from that, India, we have a problem. The reporters are multiplying, and the clients can't get in without being harassed. We can't go on like this."

India still doesn't look at her. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I need you to go somewhere else for a while."

The cup slips out of India's fingers and drops onto the linoleum dully. A streak of coffee smears itself over the floor. Yvonne steps forward.

"Let me get the... "

"I'll do it," India says dully. Turning around, she gets the cloth and drops to her knees, begins to dab mechanically at the mess. "You want me to leave."

"Not forever. I just need you to be away from here for a little while, so that the mess can sort itself out."

"The mess. Meaning me." India is now wiping the liquid around on the floor aimlessly. "You're throwing me out of my home. Where am I supposed to go?"

"It's only temporary, honey." Yvonne wants to reach out to the bowed shoulders, but knows that she'll be shrugged off. "You could stay with Warren for a little while."

India throws the cloth down fiercely and stares at it. "Warren hates me."

"Stop talking nonsense. Warren does not hate you. He was just shocked. Amazed. As we all are. This is a new thing, India. Once the two of you talk it out, he'll be fine."

Getting to her feet India turns her back on Yvonne and wrings the cloth out in the small sink furiously. "You're throwing me out of my home. I'm getting punished. That's what I'm getting for all of this."

"This is not punishment, India. It's not just about you. We're all involved now."

"But I'm the only one who's getting treated like a leper." Throwing the cloth into the dish rack India spins around and stares at Yvonne. "I saved that girl, and the way you're all going on I might just as well have been holding the gun."

Yvonne frowns. "Are you going to be the proud hero or the reluctant nonentity, India? You can't play both sides. You as much as tell me that you didn't want to do what you did, but when it suits you, you want to claim the glory for it. Make up your mind."

"I can't talk to you about this any more." A bitter twist settles around India's mouth. "It would probably be best if I were alone right now. Fine. I'll call Warren. I'll do that."

"India." Yvonne steps closer. "It is a wonderful thing you did. I can't help but wonder, though, in how many situations you could have done more."

"I always did what I could!"

"Under the circumstances, perhaps." Yvonne nods, once. "Things are as they should be, I am sure. We just all need some time to readjust. Everything will be fine, given a little time for thought." She is almost at the door when she hears the small accusatory voice.

"I never should have touched her."

Turning around, she fixes stunned eyes on the young woman slumped back against the sink. "Where is this self-centeredness coming from, India? And you keep lying to me. Why? Where is the girl I know?"

India turns away. "I'll call Warren."

There is a minute of silence as Yvonne considers several words before she dismisses them in favour of something simpler. "I'll ask Tai to take you when you're ready."

---

Warren is as quiet as she is on the phone. Two normally effusive friends, reduced to ponderous politeness and hesitant communication. It is excruciating. He agrees to have her over, telling her he'll leave a spare key for her with his neighbour Mrs Olsen in case he isn't around when she arrives, and she knows as he says it that no matter when she arrives, he won't be around.

Tai drives the battered green Mini through the seldom-used back gates, cutting through the school grounds behind the hall before he emerges without a fuss in a side street.

India is slouched in the passenger seat, the hood of her white sweatshirt wide around her small face like the cowl of a monk. They make the twenty-minute trip in silence. India likes Tai, and he has always been fond of her, but she is despondent and he is exhausted.

Warren's apartment is on the third floor of a shabby seen-better-days building. The stairwell smells musty and there are water stains on the hallway roof. He likes the place because it still has large high-ceilinged rooms and wooden floors, and even though some of the windows are broken and in a few places something has eaten through the dark wood, she has always agreed with him. His door has the number 32 on it, in old stained brass, and one of the little screws on the 2 has fallen out at some stage so it hangs lopsided and squeaks when the door opens or closes.

Mrs Olsen in 33 never fully opens her door. With Warren's extra key grasped between two fingers, as if it is about to contaminate her, she extends her hand through the crack and holds it out to India. From beneath her pencil-thin eyebrows and bright-green eyelids her eyes are sharp.

"I never liked you."

Sighing, India takes the key. "Thank you, Mrs Olsen."

"Whatever you did to hurt that boy, it wasn't nice. Hurting such a good boy. I've never liked you."

Considering that Mrs Olsen has on previous occasions told that 'good boy' in exactly such a manner that she never liked him, India should be able to shrug it off, but it hurts.

Warren's apartment is what a poor single male musician's apartment would be. Because he is moderately clean, dishes are stacked in the sink instead of on the floor, and his grungy clothes lie in bundles all over the futon and three threadbare wingbacks he'd found on the street and refurbished once. The only things of value are the massive sound system and the amplifier, which line one narrow white wall, arranged on planks that are carefully balanced on bricks. It looks surprisingly fashionable.

His guitar case is gone, and that speaks volumes.

With another sigh India drops the keys on the kitchen counter and leans against it. Her brown eyes fill with tears, and angrily she wipes them away, shaking her head at herself. When her cell phone unexpectedly rings she starts before lifting it to her ear.

"Warren?"

"Miss Waits," an unfamiliar voice begins, "I would love to interview you for a special with the... "

India drops the call. Her eyes fill with tears, and this time she leaves them unchecked to trail down her cheeks.

---

She has had to switch off her phone. It is now ringing constantly, and all of the numbers register as unknown. If Warren calls, she's not going to know. In frustration she paces the wooden floor, from the scratched front door to the glass sliding door leading to the patio, and then back again. With every pace her gaze finds something that brings back a memory of Warren, and it hurts. She has been here, in this room, so many times, but she has never been here without him. It doesn't feel right.

Later, she curls up on his uncomfortable couch, pulling down the blanket he always keeps draped over the back of it. She is not cold, but when she pulls the blanket up to her chin she can smell the musky smoky scent that always clings to Warren, and it reminds her of home. Drifting off numbly she wishes, just for a moment, that when she wakes up things will be back to normal.

That Trisha Connor will rather be dead.

---

India wakes up in that confusing space between consciousness and dream. It takes her a while to realise that the clicking sound she hears is not in her own head, and when she sits up, groggy, it is to the sight of Warren on the other side of the kitchen counter, opening a beer. Her first instinct is to jump up and run towards him, wrap her arms around his broad familiar shoulders as she's done so many times, but somehow it doesn't feel right. Instead, blinking a little hazily, she rubs her eyes and untangles her feet from the blanket. The movement may draw his eye, but instead of looking at her he lifts the green bottle to his mouth, throwing back his lion's mane for a deep draught.

Pushing the blanket to one side India gets up, stretching her stiff neck a little, and then she joins him on her side of the counter, peering at him through the hatch.

"Hey."

He smiles slightly, then. "Hey." Leaning down he gets another bottle from the fridge, cracking it open and pushing it forward with his callused broad fingers. Reaching out she takes the cold bottle and lifts it to her mouth. She hates beer, doesn't drink, but Warren either doesn't care or doesn't remember, and at this very moment she doesn't, either.

He watches as she drinks, slips a cigarette from the box and lights it with his large hand cupped around his mouth, shielding the match from her view.

"So what's new with you?" The smoke drifts from his nostrils as he speaks.

"Same old." Taking another sip she shrugs mockingly.

"I bet." It looks as if he's grasping for the right words. "Wanna talk about what happened?"

"Not really."

"India..."

"Warren, I don't want to talk about it. Okay?"

There's a moment when she thinks he's going to let it go. He's not fond of serious talks. But he surprises her. "No, not okay. I need to talk about it."

"Then talk."

"Shit." He shakes his head. "What's up? What's the problem?"

India fights the urge to start peeling the label from the bottle. "There isn't a problem, Warren. What's the problem with you?"

"Fuck, India. Why are you being so defensive? I just want to know what happened, you know? Not such a weird question considering that you went out there and did that shit with that dead girl..."

"She's not dead."

"Thanks to you, yeah."

"She could've been fine."

"With a bullet in her chest? I'm no fucking medical student, girl, but even I know that what happened was anything but normal."

The word hits her so hard that she almost reels back.

"Shit, man, I didn't mean it like that." He wipes his hand over his wild mane of hair. "Look, India, if I suddenly just took off and ... I dunno... flew, you'd be curious too, right? You'd wanna know what was happening. Right?"

"I certainly wouldn't walk out on you afterwards and leave you all alone."

It's his turn to reel. Biting his bottom lip he watches her with his slanted yellow eyes. "Don't make it just about you."

"It IS just about me!" India slams the bottle down on the counter. "It's about me, Warren! I don't see people throwing you out of your house! I don't see people following you around! How is it about anybody else? Want to tell me that?"

"I would assume that it's about the girl who didn't die, too. Just a little."

"She lives to tell the tale over and over. And over. Everyone's real happy for her, but they look at me like I'm a freak."

"That's crap. If you'd just speak to people... "

"You don't get it, Warren. You don't get it."

"How the fuck am I supposed to get anything if you won't tell me?" Crushing the half-smoked cigarette furiously in the filthy ashtray near his elbow, Warren scowls. "All I want to know is what happened, and you're going on like I'm asking you to push drugs." He shrugs. "Fine. I don't know what the hell just happened. Is it so fucking wrong of me to ask my best friend how she laid her hands on some dying girl and brought her back to fucking life? Okay. For now, I'm done. I don't know what kind of issue you got going, but I'm not going to hang around so you can take this shit out on me."

"Fine. Run away. Some friend you are."

Bitterly she turns her narrow back on him.

When she turns back, a little while later, all that's left of Warren is the cigarette butt mashed into the ashtray.

Reaching out she knocks it off the counter in frustration, and then stares at her hands; the square nails, narrow fingers, angular palm.

Hands that have betrayed her.

---

She flicks on Warren's hi-fi and listens to a bit of the CD still in the tray - it's a little too loud and a little too angry and she can't figure out how to put on something else. Flicking off the switch, and fighting the urge to smash her hand against the smooth shiny silver, she paces for a while; a restless cat. She has never smoked, but when she finally reaches for the packet that he's forgotten on the amplifier and slips the white filter between her lips, the burning spreading itself in her chest is a welcome penance. She revels in it. When she chokes and tears spring to her eyes she wipes them away angrily, snarling at herself.

You deserve it, you brainless little idiot.

There is nothing in the apartment for her to eat, but Warren has left three packets of cigarettes in the torn carton underneath the sink. She wanders out onto the patio and slips her narrow little knees between the iron rails, leaning her forehead against the unfriendly coldness of the metal as she draws in the smoke. Besides taking sporadic, restless, nightmare-plagued naps, this is what she does for two days.

On the second day she finds a bottle of whiskey shoved into the back of a cupboard - it smells cheap and nasty, but India's given up on quality. She's never been much of a drinker, but she puts the bottle to her lips, the old crystallised granules scratching at the tender skin, and takes a long deep sip. It burns her throat, and the sharp cloying smell almost makes her vomit, but when she manages to fight it down she snorts at herself bitterly.

She's so empty that nothing's going to fill that void.

On the morning of day three her only sanctuary is shattered. She is on the patio, shielding her face against the morning sun with one hand, her legs drumming like a child's and her heels thumping against the concrete of the floor in unheard rhythm, when a small sound catches her ear. She is drunk and unsteady, and it could be nothing, but she cranes her head to the side just in case, and catches sight of the photographer below her. His almost comically oversized lens is pointed in her direction, and when he notices her looking down at him he snaps a few rapid shots before calling up at her.

"Miss Waits? India?"

Drawing her legs back she stand up, stumbling against the railing, and goes inside. For a moment she pauses in the middle of the floor, looking around her blindly as she wonders what to do next, and then she goes to the kitchen counter and picks up her phone. The voicemail box is full and has long since stopped offering the option to leave a message. Yvonne's number has registered as a most recent missed call, and with surprisingly steady fingers India dials her number.

"India." Yvonne always sound so calm. "How are you doing?"

"Fabulous."

"Have you been drinking?" It's only a question, nothing more.

"Yes. What do you want?"

There's a moment of silence as Yvonne obviously decides how she wants to deal with this truculent, surly child, and then she chooses to continue as smoothly as always. "The fuss is dying down here. I don't think it will be long before you can return to your apartment. Of course, the press will be bothering you for a while to come, but we'll deal with that when we get to it..."

"How will we deal with it?"

"We'll sharpen up the security, make sure that you're safe here. Of course you'll have to give an interview or two, India; I know you're against it, but maintaining this passive-aggressive stance really is hurting more than it's helping."

"Hurting who more, Yvonne?"

"Now India... "

"Never mind."

"India." The woman sighs, unexpectedly aggrieved. "Listen. We're going to have to do our best, all of us. If you let them have the information they want, they'll get bored of it and find the next story and leave you alone eventually."

"The next freak show... "

"You're not a freak, India! Stop saying that!"

There's a thick cloying quietness on the other side of the phone that makes even the collected Yvonne nervous. Then, India's voice, soft and breathy, comes back on. "Of course the extra publicity won't hurt the Centre, will it?"

"Stop it! Stop it this instance! You're being a bitch now, and you know it. It's not about the Centre!"

"Huh." Yvonne could swear that she hears India dragging on a cigarette. "Everyone keeps telling me what it's not about - and nobody seems to know what it IS about. I don't want to talk any more right now, Yvonne."

Click.

---

Message 2
"Miss Waits, my name is Derek Du Pont and I'm with the Times..."
Delete.

Message 5
"India, Jack Davis from the Sunday Chronicle here..."
Delete.

Message 9
"India, my mom's very sick and I was hoping..."
Delete.

Message 13
"Elaine Montgomery from 3News; I'd love to do an interview ..."
Delete.

Message 15
"Miss Waits, this is Jody Hudson from Paige Carter's office..."

India's finger hovers above the delete button. Taking a deep drag on the cigarette she frowns.

I would love to speak with you regarding a possible interview. Please contact the office at..."

Paige Carter, possibly the most influential woman in the world. She started out as the hostess of an underrated talk show on a small rarely watched channel, modelled her life on Oprah Winfrey's, and simply set about to conquer the world. Now her slightly asymmetrical face sells anti-wrinkle cream, her too-sparkling teeth sell fluoride toothpaste, her honeyed voice sells expensive insurance, and her short lean body sells clothing from all the most coveted fashion houses. Companies pay her to mention their products, reporters discuss everything from her errant children to her newest jewellery, and celebrities are honoured to spend an hour on her signature red couch telling her about things they'd never let slip to any other member of the media. Paige Carter can be trusted to boost your visibility, making it seem as if she is prying into your deepest secrets, but she can also be trusted never to go too far. Paige Carter understands the business, and she understands who her benefactors are.

That Paige Carter? Jotting down the proffered number in a corner of Warren's composition notepad above one of his hastily scribbled nonsensical lyrics (I'm yours, you're mine, like a mansion in decline...), India looks at it for a long time before she dials it slowly.

On the second ring someone picks up.

"Jody."

You have to be important to answer a phone like that.

"This is India Waits."

"Miss Waits." Instantly warmth floods the voice, perhaps not genuine but extremely proficient. "How nice to hear from you. It's a long-distance phone call for you, I'm aware. Shall I call you back?"

"No." India's voice is just a little too abrupt, and she shakes herself. "No, thank you. What did you want?"

"Goodness. Right to the point. I like that." Jody chuckles huskily, a cigar-and-brandy sort of sound. "I'm sure you must be very busy lately, so I'll make this as quick as I can. Paige Carter saw the footage of you ... healing? ... do I call it that? ... Patricia Connor at the Dome on Saturday, and she's very interested in speaking with you. We'd like you to fly in as soon as possible - we'd be covering the arrangements, of course - to tape a one-hour special with Paige Carter."

The silence that follows prompts her into further dialogue.

"Carter International naturally offers remuneration for our very special guests. The usual fee would be somewhere in the vicinity of ... "

At this point she mentions an obscenely large amount of money, an amount that
India would not have made in ten years at the Kundalini Wellness and Balance Centre. Used to very little and not really in a state of mind to process the magnitude of what is being offered to her, India does not have any idea of what to say.

Apparently weathering silence is not Jody Hudson's strong point, as she ploughs on nonchalantly. "We would in this case be prepared to offer you more than that, considering the high-profile nature of the situation. Miss Waits, is there a number I can fax through an offer to?"

"No. No fax." It now seems to India that she's doomed to sound like a socially challenged child for the rest of her life. "Sorry." She wonders how many times she can do this before Paige Carter realises that she will indeed be a very bad interview subject and lose interest.

"No matter. If you'll give me the physical address I'll have it couriered immediately."

"Look, Miss Hudson..."

Jody Hudson is not deterred. "Miss Waits, you are naturally entitled to make any decision in your own time. However, it wouldn't hurt for you to look over our offer while you think, would it? Let me get this document to you. There are absolutely no strings attached. All right?"

She must have learnt from Paige Carter. Or had Paige learnt from her? With a suppressed sigh India gives Warren's address to Jody, who promises to have the offer there in two days' time before she hangs up with a few more pleasant platitudes.

It arrives right on time. The intertwined 'P' and 'C' on the front cover are embossed in gold, inviting her to read further. Inside, the amount with all of the zeros behind it looks even more obscene in writing. Rubbing over the large extroverted loop at the top of the P where Paige Carter has given her million-dollar signature, India bites her lip.

She doesn't want to do this. That much she knows. And yet, she has very little money, nowhere to go, and nothing to her name.

She will return to Kundalini when Yve gives her the all clear, but things will never be the same again. There will always be people haunting her, hunting her, wanting to ask her things that she doesn't want to tell. She has hurt Warren whilst trying to protect herself, and even if she lets him in now, the balance between them has already shifted.

Getting up she reaches for the box of cigarettes, only to find it empty. Checking the carton produces the same result. She has finished Warren's stash. For a second bitter satisfaction and utter guilt war inside her, and for a second bitter satisfaction wins. He has hurt her, and now she has hurt him. Then guilt returns, a more comfortable fit, and she bites her lip and goes back to the contract.

She reads it carefully, a silly idea since her business sense is so underdeveloped that she manages to barter herself up at times. If she tells her story, and she tells it on "The Carter Hour", she may never have to tell it again. After Paige Carter, who wants the scraps?

It's all just jargon for selling your soul on camera anyway.
2. If you're healthy and you know it, clap your hands

"I've signed it. What do you want me to do with it?"

"Ah. Great!" Jody Hudson offers up a delighted laugh that's probably mixed in with some relief. "I'm sending the courier for it immediately. He'll be bringing you champagne for the celebration. You do drink champagne, don't you?"

She never has. "Yes. Can you...Um, never mind."

"I'm here to help, Miss Waits. What do you need?"

"I... there's no food, and I can't go outside. Can he bring me bread?"

India is embarrassed to ask, but Jody Hudson merely seems amused. "Of course. I'll ask him to bring you something good to eat as well. What is your favourite? Thai? Chinese? Sushi?"

"Just the bread." India's eyes fall on the empty crushed carton. "And some cigarettes. Please. And whiskey. I finished my friend's..." She knows that she's going too far, but she can't seem to stop herself.

Jody Hudson is not flustered in the least. Taking down the names of the brands she announces that the courier will be there within the hour and hangs up with her usual business-friendly platitudes.

---

An hour later she has her basket of goodies and the courier is gone with the signed contract. If Jody Hudson says something will happen, it certainly will.

The gift basket is massive and elaborate, and filled with all sorts of things she hasn't asked for. Two boxes of rich chocolates (she leaves them, sealed, on the counter - Warren loves chocolate and she has no taste for sweets); two bottles of expensive whiskey (popping the cap on one she smells it tentatively, wincing at the sharp odor before taking a sip; it goes down much smoother than the cheap stuff); a bottle of champagne (she puts it to one side - maybe, maybe not); a selection of richly filled sandwiches, individually sealed (she cracks open the BLT and wolfs it down hungrily, and then promptly rushes to the bathroom to vomit it up); two cartons of cigarettes (one gets stashed under Warren's counter) and a thank you letter from Carter International, including travel arrangements for the day after tomorrow.

Johannesburg to San Francisco, first class, 19h50.

Putting it carefully on the counter, India blinks away the pesky tears threatening to blind her, and picks up her phone. Speed dials 3.

"Hey hey! Warren's not here! Leave a message, and I'll get back to ya!"

"Warren... It's India. I just wanted to see how you were. I... I miss you. Okay, Bye."

She thinks about phoning Yve and talking to her about this Carter contract she's just sent off, but Yvonne's thoughtful silences will make her nervous. Instead she puts on the radio and smokes a cigarette she doesn't want.

---

A chauffeur service phones her to let her know that Alistair Jensen will be coming to pick her up at 16h30, and Jody Hudson must have arranged it, because Alistair Jensen is at the front door at 16h29. Taking her small suitcase with a pleasant "Is this all?" he leads her downstairs. She knows that the reporters have been around, but is still slightly bewildered when he has to shield her to the limo, blocking the flashes of lights going off around them.

The ride is smooth, and in the darkness of the tinted window she drifts off into a dreamless solid sleep for the first time in days, only waking up when Alistair calls her name softly.

She hasn't been to the airport in forever, and with the new construction going on she barely recognizes it. With wide eyes she stares at her surroundings, letting Alistair Jensen deal with the baggage. It isn't long before the reporters catch up, though, so any dallying is halted by Alistair's firm hand under her elbow, leading her towards the check-in quickly.

He deals with most of the paperwork and questions, checks in her small suitcase, and then takes her to the first-class lounge, going back to talk urgently and under his breath with the security guard at the door. The man glances back at her with a puzzled expression before lifting his radio to his lips and murmuring into it quickly, and then Alistair Jensen is gone with a wave, a smile and a "good luck".

It becomes clear to her that the security guard has called for re-enforcements. As the first wave of reporters appears, three more guards casually appear from different corners of the floor and assemble at the door to the lounge, blocking off even a chance sight of her effortlessly. There are a few people in the lounge with her, and they seem to sum up the situation correctly, glancing at her with growing perplexity. In her hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans she looks like a teenager; small, large-eyed and delicate, out of place amongst the obviously prosperous. Trying to ignore the growing commotion India reads without attention through a very boring on-flight magazine, not wanting to put it down and catch anyone's eye.

When the airplane finally boards it's with a muffled sigh of relief that she gathers her small overnight bag and shuffles along to her seat, keeping her head down.

It's after a few hours in the air that she realizes she truly hates flying. Her knuckles are blanched from her tight grip on the armrests, and she cannot concentrate on the music piping in through the headphones.

The air hostess is pleasant and sweet-smelling. "What can I bring you to drink, Miss Waits?"

She wants to say coffee, because it's what she would always have said. But this India is not the same as she was before, and she needs the distraction.

"Whiskey, please."

Noticing the tightly clenched hands, the air hostess (her name tag reads "Mona") nods and smiles reassuringly. "Is this your first international flight?"

"Yes."

When Mona returns she has a glass of whiskey and one small white sleeping pill that she takes care to hide. "It's not usually a good idea, mixing the two, but it'll knock you out for a few hours at least. It's your call."

With a half-smile to Mona and a thank you to whichever god has put her in India's plane, India washes the pill down with the whiskey.

\When she wakes up a few hours later she is disoriented and foggy. Taking a bleary look at the world outside, at the clouds below and the blue sky stretching to the sides, she gags at the feeling of whiskey and sediment in her mouth and then falls straight back into a bottomless black sleep.

---

Somehow word of India's arrival has gotten out. She has no time to admire the overwhelming building, the likes of which she's never seen, before a couple of burly men - who scare her more than they comfort her - rush her through a small gawking crowd. A limo is waiting for her at a side entrance, the 'PC' logo emblazoned on its side, and she is ushered inside courteously but firmly.

The limo driver likes to talk. He has a flat nasal accent that she can't identify and doesn't understand half of the time, and so she leaves him to chatter on while she watches the unfamiliar landscape speed by. Even the sky looks different, as if the master painter swapped palettes somewhere over the sea. Between the hissing of the tires on the road and the setting sun, she is lulled into a wide-awake lethargy, which is interrupted much later by the driver's cheery voice.

"Here we are, Miss Waits."

A short grinning man in a bright uniform with a jaunty pillbox hat opens her door, and she half-smiles at him shyly, unsure of his role, until her amazed gaze falls on the grandiose lobby behind him. The driver, apparently used to such things, has a short fast conversation with the unformed man before they lead her inside.

Her room - no, she suspects it must be a suite - is larger than her little apartment at Kundalini, and she has never seen anything like it. A high-ceilinged sitting room with plush oversized armchairs and a silk carpet leads into a bedroom where a flamboyant four-poster bed is the main focal point. One entire wall is windowed, and the skyline of San Francisco takes her breath.

It's only human nature to think that Warren would have loved this before she locks it away securely.

The uniformed man puts her little out-of-place bags to one side and hovers until the driver presses a note into his hands. When he has exited with a friendly smile the driver checks the entire suite, and then, apparently satisfied, presses a card into India's hand.

"Ma'am, if you need a ride, please give me a call. Have a great day."

On the beautiful mahogany coffee table there is yet another Paige Carter basket, flanked by a bouquet of orange roses and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it. A white envelope rests against the basket.

Dear Miss Waits,

Carter International welcomes you to San Francisco, and we hope that you will enjoy your stay with us. Jody Hudson will be in contact with you tomorrow morning to arrange your timetable and the interview details.

Please enjoy anything from room service or the restaurant.

With kind regards
Paige Carter

There are two cartons of cigarettes in the basket - her brand. Warren's brand. A fancy metal lighter with the 'PC' logo embossed on it in gold. A bottle of whiskey. Healthy glossy fruit, nuts, a gift card for the boutique downstairs. It's definitely the work of Jody Hudson.

Ignoring the food she takes a packet of cigarettes out of the carton, wanders out onto the balcony and lights up. She is wincing against the acrid taste when there's a knock at the door. The man in uniform is holding a tray with a newspaper neatly folded on it.

"Miss Hudson has asked that I deliver this, ma'am."

India is confused until the half-folded photograph on the front page catches her eye. Thanking the man she takes the newspaper inside, folding a leg under her as she scans the headline.

"Alleged miracle girl arrives in San Francisco ~ Phenomenon or fraud?"

The photo has been taken from a distance. India's eyes are still puffy from sleep, her jeans showing up threadbare in the grey grain of the print, and her face child-like in the confines of the sweatshirt hood. Typically the photographer has chosen the frame where her eyes are half-open and her mouth only half-closed. She looks like a juvenile delinquent.

India sleeps restlessly in the too-big bed, and when she wakes up she is sweaty, and her legs tangled in the silk sheets. Kicking them off she stumbles into the bathroom and rests her forehead against the coolness of the mirror. There are tear-tracks on her cheeks. With a scowl she gets into the shower and scrubs herself until her skin is red. Then, for a long time, she simply stands under the stream of water and resolves to pull herself together.

She wants to see the sights, wants to take in all of the new places, but she is not sure when Jody Hudson will call. That is what she is here for, so she stays on the balcony, watching the world below as it passes by. Just after nine, Jody phones to tell her that she will be there in an hour, and just before ten, the reception desk calls up to inform her that Jody Hudson is on her way up.

Jody Hudson sounds exactly the way she looks. Her tall lean figure and skin says that she is in her late twenties, and her eyes say that she is in her forties. A curious combination of lassitude and barely contained energy, she surges into India's room, briefly clasping her hand.

"India Waits? What a pleasure. Jody Hudson. Welcome to our city. Glad to have you." The corners of her mouth flit up into what is almost a smile, and just as quickly it disappears. "This is my team. Meet Fiona in make-up," an elegant older woman with her greying hair swept into a chignon, "Bea in wardrobe," a tall chic woman with black hair and spectacular pale blue eyes who looks like she's stepped out of Vogue for the day," and Nancy Drew, our director."

The short woman nods at India. "Seriously."

"What?"

Another almost-smile flits over Jody's face at the confusion in India's voice. "Never mind. Nancy will be running through a list of questions with you, and Bea and Fee will be assessing you. I will be making sure you have everything you need. Okay?"

Almost breathless in empathy, India nods.

"Good. Great." Jody smiles. "I'd forgotten how succinct you are. Nancy has her work cut out for her. Fiona?"

The tall woman's gaze sweeps over India. "No problems here. I'm playing up the big eyes - fairytale meets anime. They'll look great on screen. The audience will eat it up."

Bea struts around India, making her feel even shorter as she takes in the small frame critically with her dramatic eyes. "Have you been to the boutique yet?" At India's confused look she shakes her head impatiently. "The voucher?"

"Oh. No."

"Right. I'm off." With a twirl of her fingers at Nancy and Fiona, Bea leaves the room regally. Leading the way to the gorgeous white couch in the corner (that India has avoided up until this moment, for fear of dirtying it) Jody flips open her phone with an apologetic quirk of her head.

"Sorry. A million calls to make."

She dials, and then, as an afterthought, turns back to India. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."

Jody Hudson even lies well.

---

India stands in the wings, the fluttering in her stomach worsening with every burst of applause from the audience. Paige Carter's voice is a strong level hum above the noise. India is wondering where Jody is when one of the men with headphones takes her upper arm gently.

"Ready? Five... four... three... " and then he nudges her forward.

She feels as if she wants to turn around and run. Or, if the men won't let her through, maybe she can just run through the audience, keep running until the nightmare disappears. But she's agreed, and she has nowhere left to run to, and so she lifts her head and walks out onto the stage as confidently as she can. The audience breaks into enthusiastic applause, which surprises her until she notices the young guy with the board, 'applause' printed on it in big black letters, speaking into his headset as he displays the board to the clapping people.

In the middle of a raised semi-circular small stage stands two armchairs, both covered in the russet colour that has become a trademark of the Paige Carter brand. In front of one of those chairs stands Paige Carter, her hands clasped together benevolently as she watches the approach of her controversial guest with a slightly predatory gleam in her eyes.

Avid fans of 'The Carter Hour' watch every one of her shows carefully and spend hours discussing the details on forums on the Internet. They will know, for instance, that it is not incidental that while Paige Carter is today wearing a power suit which fits her tight square frame perfectly, India Waits has been clad in a flowing pale blue skirt and a sleeveless white tunic shirt. Combined with the beaded slip-on sandals and the bracelets that rattle around her slender wrists, the effect created has India looking like a modern hippie. She looks as if she might just be weird and unpredictable. Fans will hypothesize that the contrast between the two women is meant to establish Paige Carter's solid credibility and rationality, while anything India says can be construed to be liberal, the level of it only depending on Paige Carter's handling of her. Society likes liberal celebrities, but liberal kooks don't always go down that well.

This is, in fact, the effect that has been strived for. It would have been greatly successful, too, if it hadn't been for one small fact: Paige Carter had had no time to meet with India beforehand. If she had, the wardrobe department would have noticed without difficulty that India is just that much shorter than the already diminutive Ms Carter, and considerably frailer of figure. All of which combined ruins the carefully planned effect, and leaves Paige Carter resembling a stocky threatening bear cub against the vulnerable wide-eyed slightness of her guest.

When India steps onto the platform for the first time and Paige Carter realises what the wardrobe department has achieved for the very first time, her famous smile twists for just a second before she rearranges it as only a consummate professional can. Reaching out both hands she traps India's fingers within her own and leans forward to share a warm smile. Though that smile crinkles the skin around her blue eyes, they are guarded. The audience reacts with just the right amount of enthusiasm, and after the sign-man had cautioned them to silence Paige indicates the chair to the left to India and sinks back into her own with a small smile, meant to convey cautious warmth to her fans.

"Ladies and gentlemen, India Waits." She holds out a hand in India's direction and the applause swells up again before dying down harmoniously. "India, I want to welcome you to San Francisco, to our wonderful city, and I want to thank you for being willing to come out here and talk to us about this miraculous event that has gripped the imagination of the entire world."

"Thank you." Nancy and Jody have both begged India not to indulge in her one-word answers, but she is so nervous that she thinks it better to keep things concise. No doubt Paige Carter has been briefed, for her smile doesn't even dim. Turning her gaze from India she pans over her audience intensely.

"For those of you who haven't yet heard this story - honestly, were you holidaying on the moon? - " the audience titters, "this is the footage that rocked the world." Behind her on the large screen, those grainy shots taken with the cell phone, Trisha Connor's eyes round and scared, her own big and haunted. After watching the first few seconds over her shoulder, India straightens in her chair and stares blankly ahead of her while the tape rolls, picking at the hem of her shirt in a nervous motion that will become a habit. In the audience a red-haired woman yelps at the blood, and then inhales sharply. When the tape stops Paige turns her head to India with a warm smile.

"India, you seemed uncomfortable watching the footage. Were you? Is it awkward for you?"

"No." India looks down at her hands clasped tightly on her lap. "Yes. A little."

"Why is that?"

"It's not every day you see yourself on that big a screen, Miss Carter." Coupled with the big eyes and a nervous blink, her response earns a chortle from the audience.

Humouring her guest Paige Carter nods and smiles supportively. "Please, India, call me Paige."

"Paige."

"So India, can you tell us what happened there?"

India shifts uncomfortably. "I was... we were waiting in line to buy concert tickets. The man with the gun, when he hit a girl - that girl, Trisha Connor - my friend asked me to help - I do reiki - so I ..." she pauses for a soft breath, "... I could feel she was going to die, so I just... " Helplessly India lifts her hands before she lowers them again uneasily, "... I just stopped the bleeding."

"But you did much more than stop the bleeding." Paige Carter sits forward in her chair. "According to the doctors you knitted muscle and flesh closed. You fixed arteries. Is that right, India?"

"If they say so. I suppose so."

"Knitted muscle and flesh." This is repeated to the audience with just the right amount of gravity before she turns back to India. "How did you do that, India? How did you stop the bleeding?"

"It's not... " India's gaze flutters off as she thinks. "It's not something I can explain. It's just something I can do. It's like reiki, only... more."

"Right." Paige Carter glances at her guest for a quiet moment before she turned to the audience. "Reiki, for those of you who don't know, is a form of natural energy healing." She shakes her head and smiles conspiratorially at one audience member who is frowning slightly. "Don't worry, I had to read up on it too!" Then her gaze turns back to India. "So this isn't reiki, is it, India?"

"No. It's not. Well, technically, in its purest form, it could be ... Reiki has endless potential, but ... no."

"Okay." A glance to the cameras betrays the host's scepticism. "Have you always had this ability?"

"Yes. As far back as I can remember."

"Have you ever used it before?"

"No."

"Has there never been a situation that warranted it?" This question is more focused, and later on fans will be able to pinpoint this as the moment when Paige Carter quietly broadcasts her intention to begin honing in on her obviously vulnerable guest.

"No. I don't think so. No."

"You don't think so? Wouldn't you have remembered a life and death situation, so to speak?"

"No. I don't think so. I mean yes, I would have remembered, but no."

"All right." Paige Carter's glance to the audience conveys disbelief. "What can you do with this ... power?"

"What?"

"Which situations can you use it in? Can you heal disease? Fix broken bones?"

"I don't know. It doesn't come with a manual."

India's quiet exasperation gives the audience a much-needed break from the intensity and they break into relieved laughter. Even Paige Carter smiles.

"I'm sorry, India. It's a tough subject. So many people wouldn't believe this if they hadn't seen it. And perhaps still don't."

India shrugs her narrow shoulders helplessly. "It happened."

Shifting into best friend and closest confidante mode Paige sits forward, her eyes on India's conspiratorially. "It certainly did, and while some people would question whether it wasn't just a camera trick, I seriously doubt that by the level of uneasiness you appear to be in about this."

"I wanted to help her. That was all I wanted to do. All of this... " India's hands shift again, "I don't know who'd want all of this."

"People do strange things for fame. But I know, and you now know, that it's nothing to be desired." The last words are spoken to the camera for emphasis before Paige Carter continued. "This power you have - is it completely under your control?"

Her host is so solicitous that India relaxes just a little. "I'm not going to short-circuit your cameras, if that's what you mean."

The audience titters. Paige smiles into the stands. "So you could, hypothetically, right here and now heal someone suffering from, say, something common like rheumatoid arthritis, and prove yourself to the naysayers?"

Sensing a trap, India can feel her breath catching in her throat. "Yes, but I..."

"... Because in our audience today is Mrs Ida Roberts! Jack, please bring Ida to the stage. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mrs Ida Roberts!" To thunderous applause the black-clad stagehand leads a frail bowed woman with frizzy grey hair down the aisle. Her grey eyes have a desperate glaze to them and search out India frantically. Paige Carter stands to welcome her new guest and India stands too, distressed, wanting to run, with no recourse. Once on stage the bent old lady shakes Paige Carter's hand, courteous but barely looking at her, attention fixed to a point somewhere behind her where a small woman stands watching her with dread-filled wide brown eyes. When Paige holds out a hand to India, Ida does not wait for an introduction but surges forward, reaching out for her rescuer's hand with fingers gnarled twisted like an old branch.

"Honey, can you help me?"

Her voice is reedy and breathless, her desperation palpable. Looking left and right India searches for some way out, greeted by the smiling - no, beaming - face of Paige Carter and the quiet speculation of the audience. Even as she stammers out a reply ("Uh, I...You shouldn't ... I can't...") Ida Roberts' face starts to contract, first in perplexity, and then in pure untainted joy.

At the outset sceptics will say that it was a trick, an optical illusion, how Ida Roberts became taller. That she had been bent over and is now straightening up and that the network was in on it from the beginning. There is even that glow on her lined face - that glow that you saw when you watched the Trisha Connor tape - which could be a trick of the studio lights, right? But when India pulls her hands away from Ida's and the camera reveals previously gnarled fingers now straight and healthy, pandemonium reigns. The audience's murmurs rise to a fever pitch; some shift in their seats, begin to move forward, their voices disappearing in the general clamour. Ida reaches for India's hand again, unperturbed when the small woman pulls away.

"Thank you. Thank you."

Then she turns to an awe-struck Paige Carter with tears in her eyes. "The pain. It's gone."

For the first time in her entire career Paige Carter does not have time to edit the words before they escape her mouth.

"Oh my fucking God."

In the madness India slips away, dodging the hands of the security guards as they storm past her to restrain the now disorderly audience. She runs down the backstage hallways, trying to find her dressing room, but all of the walls are white and all of the doors look the same. In desperation she storms into a small supplies closet and curls up in the corner, feeling as if she is going to be sick.

---

India is sitting in the chair that has become her favourite in the massive sitting room, nursing a large headache and a larger glass of whiskey, when the news comes on and illustrated to her just how her appearance has affected the country. Each station has a close-up of Ida Roberts, of that moment when her face breaks into a toothy smile, and no matter what channel India flipps to, there she is. India has no idea of how the episode had ended. She has no idea that Paige Carter had pulled herself together sufficiently to give a small rhetoric on the immense power held by certain people, and the reluctance, in this day and age, to use it for good. India has no idea that in her subtle way Paige Carter has turned India into a sacrificial victim for her ratings.

And what ratings they are! Networks are climbing over each other to offer Paige Carter whatever it is she desires, whatever it is she covets. The head of her current network has visited Paige personally, something he had only ever done when she eclipsed Oprah in the polls. He shakes her hand, towering over her small trim frame like a lofty bamboo, and promises her heaven and earth should she remain loyal and steadfast. This Paige Carter duly promises to do. After all, she has nothing to lose until she starts her own network and obliterates the competition. In all that time, Paige Carter only thinks of India Waits briefly, and then it is with a detached sympathy. She knows the look of someone who had sold their soul.

For two hours India's phone has not stopped ringing, and for all that time she has had her aching head stuffed under a pillow, desperate to drown out the noise, until she realised that should she phone downstairs and tell them to hold all calls, it would be done. Now, after having watched the last speech of The Paige Carter Hour, she pours herself a whiskey from the mini-bar and downs it with one gulp. She can steadily feel herself losing control, has been feeling it since she laid her hands on a young girl who should be dead by rights. She had thought that coming here and being on "The Carter Hour" would make no further impact after what she has done, but she was wrong. The whiskey and the cigarettes burn going down and make her sick, and she figures she deserves it.

Three mini-whiskeys later the phone rings. It is the obsequious manager, enquiring as to whether she wishes to see Jody Hudson. Wiping one small hand over her face in awkwardness and self-repulsion she asks him to send Jody up, and spends a quick minute splashing her face with icy cold water in the luxurious bathroom. Her mirror image is dishevelled; shaggy dark hair stubbornly sticking up in patches, her big dark eyes empty and cheerless. To herself she looks like a lost child from a fable.

If Jody Hudson has the same impression she does not voice it. She is immaculate, as usual; a pinstriped grey suit that speaks of matter-of fact expensiveness, her dark-blonde hair pinned up above her wise eyes. Moving forward in that way that suggests she is being propelled by energy beyond her control, the woman stops in the middle of the room and looks around quietly before she perches on the sofa. Even sitting she seems barely contained.

Sliding a hand into her silver clutch bag Jody pulls out a business card and holds it out between two slender fingers, her eyes crinkling slightly at India's hesitation to take it from her.

"You need it."

As India's dark eyes take in the words "Ashe and Frost: Paul Ashe" the tall blonde sighs.

"He's an agent. Best in the business. He'll take you where you need to go." She smiles, and it is melancholy rather than pleased. "If that's where you want to go, India."

India shrugs. "There's nowhere else. Is he a nice guy?"

"To call him a shark would be insulting to a shark. H's the least nice guy I have ever met, and I've met some corkers." Jody's eyes are gloomy. "Make sure to read any contract he has you sign. He will sell you in the blink of an eye... Just take care that he sells the part you want him to, honey."

Peering at the business card India frowns. "You honestly think I need this?"

Jody Hudson laughs that rough laugh of hers. "What are you going to do, India? Go back to your life as it was?"

"I don't have a life as it was anymore."

"Mm." Jody does facts, not pity. "Even if you did, it wouldn't matter. What did you think you were going to do - sell your story to The Carter Hour and that would be the last of it?" Catching the way in which the dark eyes lower to the floor, Jody shakes her head with a regretful smile. "I'm sorry to be the one to burst your bubble, honey, but once Paige Carter has had a piece of you everyone fights for the scraps. We paid you a lot of money, but it's not going to be enough."

India's small frame stiffens a little. "It's more than enough for me."

"Yeah yeah." Jody waves her hand impatiently. "Living the way you used to, India, which is not possible anymore. Wherever you go, there'll be someone following. The only way you'll get your privacy back now is to buy an island and disappear for a couple of years, and the only way you get to do that is with money. And the only way you get the money is to sell the commodity. And the commodity is you."

"I screwed up." India's voice is barely a whisper. Jody nods sympathetically.

Tiredly India leans back against a pillar, business card loosely held between two fingers. "If the contract comes, can I ... can I ask you to check it for me?"

"No." Standing, Jody Hudson stretches her neck. "I'm putting myself on the line coming here, India. I belong to Paige. She'll have my heart on a platter."

"What happened to selling the part you want to?"

"Where do you think I get the insight?" Walking past India, Jody pauses and extends a hand, almost laying it on the narrow shoulder before she hesitates. "India, this shouldn't have happened to you. The world is so much more frightened of new things than it is delighted by them. I knew that. I'm sorry."

India looks up at Jody. "If you had known this would have happened, would you still have done it?"

The ghost of a smile flits around Jody's mouth. "Don't give me so much credit. The small print did away with the option of personal morals. Have a good life, India."

At the door she paused. "Oh, and get a lawyer. You'll need one now."

3. One love, one blood, one life
("One love" - U2)

In Gu�ck�dou the sky is as wide as it is everywhere on the African continent. The earth is torn up and the people terrified. The silence is deafening. Liberian rebels have surged across the border of Guinee and are battering the town ruthlessly. Violence rolls in waves, surging over the boundaries to pummel the town before it retreats abruptly and mutely. It is not good against bad, or soldiers against terrorists; it is rebels against rebels, and the citizens - mothers, fathers and children - bear the brunt of a merciless and bloody battle.

In absurd contrast the Joie Hotel in Kissigoudou is cool and serene. Butlers stride around with stiff straight spines, their demeanour noble. They wear white double-breasted jackets and pristine white gloves, and in the heat they must be suffering terribly, but the pride probably overrides their discomfort. In the Ivory Coast they are men with good jobs. They can support their children, and their wives, and will wear white double-breasted jackets and pristine white gloves with selfless pride for that fact. The rooms are fairly sized and luxurious, lazy ceiling fans and bar fridges banishing the worst of the heat. Foreign journalists laze about the clear blue pool, bantering in rapid, sometimes unintelligible accents while waving around cigars bought cheaply.

Kissigoudou is just far enough from Gu�ck�dou for the horror to be out of sight.

---

Paul Ashe's room is on India's right, Hunter's on her left. When she walks through her door she can see the patio, ahead of that the blue swimming pool, beyond that the walls of the hotel, and beyond that dust and small thorn trees and nothing more. Food is cheap, cigarettes are cheaper, and yet Paul Ashe still cannot find it in him to tip the waiters well. He is a tornado, a natural force the likes of which Guinee has never seen, fussing and chattering and gesticulating. Sometimes when he calls over a butler to complain about something trivial - for it always is - India can see the handsome black men listen patiently before they gradually simply blank him out with sufficiently attentive expressions. More than once the distance in their eyes and the slow blinking of their lids brings a smile to her face. She knows exactly how they feel.

Outside Gu�ck�dou French and American missionaries have set up an emergency shelter in a dilapidated barn. They call it the Maison d'espoir. The innocents come there. The lucky ones walk, or hobble, or crawl in. The others come under sheets on stretchers. To be shot is a small mercy, for the men who don't carry guns carry pangas and knives. Men who have tried to protect their wives come to Maison d'espoir with arms slashed to the bone, boot marks on their bodies, bleeding head wounds. They are broken and ashamed. Women who have tried to protect their children come to the Maison d'espoir with arms slashed to the bone, boot marks on their bodies, bleeding heads and sometimes thighs. Children who have gotten in the way rarely come in alive. They can't protect themselves, and are small targets. The missionaries have gone in when they can, to evacuate villagers, but after the last large rebel surge they can only wait and pray.

Under normal circumstances the 65-mile trip from Kissigoudou to Gu�ck�dou would take about an hour, but the roads are poor and the drivers cautious about rebels. On the first morning India wonders with rising nausea whether she will be able to endure the drive every morning and evening. She does not know how long Paul Ashe intends for them to stay in Guinee, but the rattling and rocking of the sturdy Jeep makes her head swim. Even though they make an early start, at 6 o'clock the sun is already merciless. It heats up the khaki bodywork of the vehicle and reflects off the dry ground until they are all wiping sweat from their eyes. Initially Paul Ashe mutters and grumbles, but after the first hour passes he too is quiet and bleak.

Maison d'espoir is an ironic name. There is no hope here. From the outside the massive building is so ramshackle that it seemed impossible anyone could occupy it. Someone, probably one of the missionaries, has fashioned a large cross from two pieces of gnarled branches and has tied it above the skew barn door with rusty wire.

India is not sure whether it is her imagination, but stepping from the jeep she can smell decay in the air. It is a cloying sweet smell that hangs about her head and, along with the sudden cessation of movement, makes her vaguely queasy.

The cameramen and Paul Ashe have no such qualms. Leaping from the vehicle Paul immediately makes for the two men climbing from the second jeep and begins to speak excitedly, his hands sweeping to point out the cross and the wind pump that stand off to one side. Then he makes for India, his strides large.

"We're starting with a shot from outside, getting in the cross. This place is such a shit-hole. Viewers are gonna love it."

She truly, deeply, madly hates him.

First the makeup girl - Cammy something (India has the vague idea that she is sleeping with Paul Ashe) - plasters her with layers that feel hot as soon as they hit her skin. Then Paul instructs her to stand in front of the building for the opening shot, and it does not take a special prompt to generate the helpless and shaken expression on her face that the viewers will eventually get to see in the edited version. The missionaries have come out at some stage, and are watching the goings-on with impassive faces. India does not want to be there. She cringes to be the focus of their disdain, the reason for the cameras and the noise and, above all, the reason for Paul Ashe.

After the outside shots have all been set up a lean hollow-faced man approaches them and holds out a hand. "Luc Chardonne."

"Paul Ashe." The two men shake hands, Paul enthusiastically and Chardonne gingerly. "Glad to be here."

"We are glad to have you." Chardonne's pale eyes slip to India. "Please. Come inside." There are three women and a man behind him, and he introduces them briefly. "Gerard Villeneuve, Olga Kruger, Sister Celine. This is mister Paul Ashe."

Suddenly realising he has forgotten something, Paul Ashe steps aside and sweeps his hand towards India as he nods at the group. "Pleased to meet you. This, of course, is India."

It irritates her that he has just relegated her to a single name. Out here it feels brash, formulaic, and presumptuous to assume that these people will simply know who she is, will have had time to follow her career in between the gunfire and blood. She can say nothing, because she feels ridiculous, and so she nods silently and followed them inside.

And then wishes that she hadn't.

The smell of decay, dust and sweat is thick inside, and it is hot. Small camp beds stretch from wall to wall. In some lay what appeared at first glance only to be random selections of limbs. From others, large eyes meet hers with emotions in them that she has never wanted to see.

"We are not doing too badly for the moment," says Villeneuve in a surprisingly sonorous voice. "There's about thirty people in here now, and we have most of the life-threatening injuries under control. It's when the new surge of people comes that we run out of space - and hands, and medication, and luck."

Glancing to her side India watches with sadistic satisfaction as Paul Ashe pulls his shirt collar up over his nose, trying to block out the smell in vain.

"I'm going to check on the crew."

Standing in the middle of the isle she feels alone. The people watching her don't know what she is there for, or who she is. They don't care about the complimentary CDs she'd gotten, signed by celebrities, or the books, or the little gadgets. They look at her with listless eyes and then turn away again, presenting her with bowed backs. Even the missionaries look at her as if they don't want her there.

The silence is shattered by the sudden return of Paul Ashe and the two crew members. They come in chattering and Ashe points up into the grotty roof, "There, you see", and to a corner in the back, before he approaches India.

"They're going to set up quickly - we're going for the documentary style for this one. You ready to go?"

She nods, her head barely moving. "Can I have some water?"

"Sure. Still, sparkling, flavoured, what?"

Looking around at the devastation that surrounded her she feels a surge of shame. "Just water, Paul. Water."

The look he confers on her is calculating and annoyed at the same time. "Still, I guess. Here." Holding out the blue bottle he narrows his eyes. "Don't spill or anything. We don't have time for Cammy to redo the make-up. Okay?"

"Yeah." She takes a long tepid sip. "Can we get this done?"

It is through no desire to be noble, or excitement at starting. Her heart is in her throat and she wants nothing more than to turn around and run away. But she can't stand there any longer while the cameramen move intrusively between the ill and injured.

"First I have to drag you kicking and screaming, and then you can't get going quickly enough." Paul Ashe raises a perfect eyebrow. "You just fucking kill me. Guys?"

"Yeah." The big one is first to answer. "Ready to go."

"Yup." The lean one - India has heard Paul call him 'Mal' - nods.

Rubbing his hands, Paul Ashe grins. "Then let's get this puppy rolling!"

The missionaries stay out of their way, partially fascinated and partially repulsed. Because none of them are gorgeous and fashionable and alluring (even beneath the layers of dust and exhaustion) Paul Ashe and the cameramen do not mind. The shots linger on open wounds, terrible bruising, splintered bone - anything that will make the viewer cringe, yet keep their eyes glued to the screen in morbid curiosity. The best shots are those where India's hands lift from a previously battered area to reveal flesh heavily bruised, but now marked with freshly almost-healed scars.

Though he doesn't seem to possess the actual characteristic, Mal has a feeling for the human touch. He catches the first wide-eyed look from a scared child when India lays her hands on him; the first confused frown when her hands begin their work on the chest of an old woman; the first spark of astonished understanding when India pulls her hands away to reveal an ugly puckered scar. That unmistakable glow in every face. They shine with hesitant joy, with rising delight, with something indefinable that India has planted from within.

He also catches the flutter of India's delicate wrists when her hands tremble; the distressed look in her large dark eyes; the slight quivering of her lower lip; the way that her already pale skin blanches more and more throughout the day.

If it were any of his business he would have called a halt after the third hour, when her hands are shaking noticeably and the muscles in her narrow jaw jump as if she is trying to curb a case of nausea, or perhaps revulsion. But it is none of his business, and so they continue until, after the 18th session, she simply stops.

"Paul, I can't do any more today."

He waves her words away nonchalantly. "We'll just take a break. Mal, Warner, we're ...."

"No. I'm done for today."

It is unusual for her to put her foot down, so Paul Ashe ponders for a very quick moment whether he can push her any further before he cocks his head at his two cameramen. "Come on, guys. Pack up. Let's get going."

With a quick word to the silent missionaries he ushers all of his crew back to the Jeeps and the craggy rough road to Kissigoudou.

---

The next day at the Maison d'espoir is much the same, but one thing has changed. The missionaries have spoken about the experience, as have the ill and injured, and when the Jeeps arrive it is to a mass of people camped outside the barn. Though they seem passive and purely interested, India is ushered inside between the cameramen and Ashe, with a glowering Cammy behind them. The missionaries stand at the door, keeping the bystanders out while India moves among the low camp beds, but she can feel the stares burn into her wherever she went.

This time it takes two hours and thirty minutes, only 12 people, before she calls a stop.

Paul Ashe is not amused. "We're behind schedule as it is! I know you're not that big on actually helping people, but for fuck's sakes!"

"I'm tired." She says it so quietly that he has to lean forward to hear her. "If you'd let me rest one day it would have been better."

He fumes all the way back, but there is not much he can do.

---

At the Joie Hotel he storms off to make enraged phone calls, and India goes into her room where she drinks a glass of whiskey and smokes two cigarettes before she fallsl into a fitful sweaty sleep. When the loud knock at the door wakes her she jerks, disconcerted and disoriented. It takes two more knocks before she opens the door, and then it is to find a beaming Paul Ashe moving from foot to foot impatiently.

"Can I come in?"

It is a formality, because by the time her brain responds he is already perched on the wicker chair, leaning forward to dig for something in her small bar fridge. Taking out a can of soda he wipes the top fastidiously before he pops the lid and takes a long satisfied sip.

"Guess what?"

Closing the door India wanders to her bedside table and slips a cigarette from the pack between her lips. She doesn't have to answer.

"You know Jude Limas, right?" Shaking his head at himself he chuckles. "Of course you know Jude Limas. Who doesn't know Jude Limas? Of course, you've been under a rock, so fuck knows what you know... you know Jude Limas, right?"

Even someone as disinterested in the media as India knows Jude Limas. She is one of the top photojournalists in the world, revered by the intelligent and the vapid alike, honoured with a vast number of awards for her work. Her exotic face is featured on serious magazines and gossip rags, on the news and on the entertainment channels. Her rich voice is everywhere. Talk shows line up to have her as a guest. She is billed as Spain's best export, when she has lived in California for most of her life.

India Waits knows some of this, but none of it means much to her, however. Taking a deep drag on her cigarette she raises an eyebrow at Paul Ashe. "What about Jude Limas?"

"She's coming here day after tomorrow! She's coming to visit the shit-hole!"

He is obviously thrilled. His pointy-toed leather shoe tap-taps impatiently on the acid-stained concrete floor and his long finger clink his ostentatious ring against the side of the soda can rapidly.

"Why?"

"I'm telling you we get to meet fucking Jude Limas and all you can say is why?" He shakes his head, and then, to her surprise, barks out a great guffaw. "Some days I'd really like to kill you, India, but then, you're just so fucking... constant!"

India smokes her cigarette in silence and watches as he takes a few deep breaths to collect himself before he continues. "She's in Angola right now, covering some civil war or something. You know; dying people, hunger, AIDS, whatever. Same old. Great for raising the profile. Anyway, she heard about Maison d'espoir and you through one of her journo friends who's here already, so she's coming to check it out." He grins, happy with himself. "Some of the other journos asked for a scoop, but I turned them down. Thought we could get a better offer - and we just have. I'm a fucking genius, if I say so myself."

Throwing back her head India blows the smoke in a steady stream at the ceiling. Paul Ashe watches her silently with flat angry eyes, until he cannot contain himself any more. "Fuck it, India, sometimes I don't know if you're slow or just stupid. Even you have to appreciate the magnitude of this! Of all the people you get to be interviewed by in your shitty little life, she's going to be the biggest. You know what she gets you?" His finger stabs in the air. "Credibility. That's what. So you might try to generate just a little more of a personality before she gets here."

Getting to his feet he stalks to the door, shooting her a glance over his shoulder. "You know, this was your choice. You came to me. Fuck it, India, I've turned you into a media sensation overnight, and you give me fuck-all credit. Well, I'm fulfilling my part of the bargain, sweet cheeks, so how about you get off your miserable fucking high horse and try to work with me some time?"

India watches him blankly. "You're very good at what you do, Paul. I don't doubt that for a moment. I just don't think you're much of a human being."

"Yeah, well, sweetheart," he drawls with a flash of his perfect white smile, "you're not paying me enough for that. Want me to send over some info on her charity for you to take a look at?"

Leaning back against the textured wall India watches him with unconcealed hostility. "Why would you? You've never done it before."

"You know," and he draws it out, "you're putting up a good show for someone who doesn't actually give a fuck. Dinner in ten, if you care." Just outside the door he stops. "By the way, you're resting tomorrow. Can't have you looking like shit."

---

Two days later, taking advantage of the jittery air surrounding Paul Ashe and the cameramen, Luc Chardonne and his group sidle closer to India for the first time since she has come there. Chardonne shakes her hand with wary respect and then steps back to let the others do the same, watching her from under heavy dark eyebrows the whole time. When she has unresponsively greeted each person, he leans closer to her as if he is going to tell a secret.

"You must be joyful to carry such a gift from God."

"Joyful?" India's dark eyes are first confused, and then disbelieving. "That's not what I would call it."

"Oh?" says Sister Celine. "Ah. I suppose one carries the responsibility with difficulty at first."

"But still," says Gerard Villeneuve, and India wonders whether they always speak in shifts, "the glory of being able to save lives, that is a marvellous thing."

"I do what I have to." Unnerved by the group, India steps back. "There is no glory or marvellousness to it. Please excuse me."

---

Jude Limas is late, and Paul Ashe will not start without her. He wants India fresh for the camera.

"But the work must go on," Luc Chardonne protests.

"This is my work, pal." Paul Ashe shrugs Chardonne off in favour of discussing camera angles with Mal.

---

Predictably, the arrival of Jude Limas creates a furore, mostly because of Paul Ashe. Where he is usually flippant and supercilious, he instantly becomes ingratiating when he is notified of her imminent arrival. Ushering everyone outside for a makeshift welcoming committee, he offers a beaming white smile as the group of people exit the shiny black Freelander, and approaches the only woman in the group with an outstretched hand.

"Miss Limas. I am beyond honoured. Paul Ashe."

"Mr Ashe, I appreciate your invitation." Shaking his hand, Jude Limas offers a nod as her gaze slips past him to the bedraggled group standing ill at ease.

India Waits, sticky and hot, does not understand how Jude Limas can look the way she does after having travelled in this heat for an hour. The woman's glossy black hair is neatly braided back, with not a sign of sweat on her dusky skin. Her brown cargo pants are uncreased, her white button-down shirt is unblemished. India imagines that if she were to take her reflective Aviators off, there would be not a single indication of the extensive travelling this woman has done recently. The thought irks her, more so as she can feel a single bead of sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades, and knows that even with Cammy's expert make-up skills, the darkness under her eyes remains.

The missionaries need no summons - they swarm forward to shake Jude Limas's hand with barely concealed excitement. Remembering how they have avoided her until this morning, shooting her furtive looks and talking amongst themselves in low tones that never quite reached her ears, India has to swallow the sudden wave of resentment. She reminds herself that she doesn't care.

Paul Ashe beckons to her, but she studiously ignores him, and so he has to lead Jude Limas from the fawning group.

"Miss Limas, I'd like to present to you - India."

His grandiose phrasing and hand motion grates India's nerves. Grasping the friendly hand offered to her, she greets Jude Limas as politely as she can.

"Waits. India Waits."

"Miss Waits." It's a soft responsive burr. Reaching up, Jude Limas removes her glasses to reveal a pair of overwhelmingly emerald eyes. "I am so pleased to be here today."

Not quite knowing how to respond, India looks over Jude Limas's shoulder at Paul Ashe. Having expected his client's less than stellar conversational skills, Paul smoothly steps in without missing a beat.

"We're pleased to have you here." He beams at Jude Limas blandly. "I'm afraid you'll have to make some allowances for India, Miss Limas. She has not been well recently."

The journalist's smile doesn't falter as she takes in Paul Ashe and his client "Not at all, Mr Ashe. I'm sorry to hear that. I understand the strain that this sort of thing can put on one."

"So if you'll just follow me into the shelter," Ashe is back in control, "I'll take you through our setup, and you can talk through everything with your people. Okay?"

Jude Limas nods, and with a quick inscrutable glance at India she follows Paul Ashe.

---

It is to Jude Limas's credit that, after two hours, she is still gracious and expectant. Three times they have to start over, with Mal calling Paul to whisper to him urgently. The problem is India. The interview attempts have been stilted; all attempts by Jude to engage India in easy conversation have failed. Next to the cool fluid grace of Jude Limas she is stiff and uncomfortable. It doesn't translate well. After the third time Jude leans over and places the tips of her fingers lightly against India's forearm.

"Relax. Ignore the cameras."

It is meant kindly and India understands it that way, but she is unable to relax, unable to ignore the cameras, and unable to behave anything but affected next to this proficient person she feels so completely inferior with. Awkwardly she pulls her arm back from the cool touch.

"Can we get this done?"

Jude Limas does not respond to the slight, but her smile turns into something more mechanical, and India can see the difference immediately. She wants to apologize, but she isn't good at it. Instead, she sits quietly in her chair, answering all of Jude's questions, trying hard to be more eloquent but only sounding disinterested and overformal. She is also tired, which is obvious in the slump of her shoulders and the weariness of her interaction with everyone around her.

Once the interview is wrapped up, India rises from her chair, for once grateful to be amongst the people.

Paul Ashe stalks at the periphery of the scene. He has considered stepping in more than once, but Jude Limas's warning glances keep him in check.

India brushes a hand here, presses a limb there, and wherever she goes she leaves gleaming amazed people in her wake. There is an old woman lying prone in a low cot, her mouth fallen in around the few teeth left in her mouth, her eyes sunken. A rebel with a panga has slashed her leg open, and the flesh is putrid. The sick sweet smell of rot hangs around her, mixed with the stale scent of urine. Leaning in, India winces as she places her hand on the hot limb. A shudder of what is almost certainly revulsion travels down her spine.

Beckoning the camera closer to fix on the old woman's face, Jude leans in closer and places a soft hand on India's shoulder. The ferocity with which India spins around and pulls herself from Jude's grasp is startling.

"Don't touch me."

Shocked, Jude steps back. This time Paul Ashe does rush in. Taking India by the arm just above the elbow in a grip that is sure to bruise, he pulls her to one side.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

India tries to pull her arm from Paul's grasp, but his hand is like steel. "I don't want her to touch me when I'm working, Paul. I can't work when she's touching me."

His voice drops to a hiss. "You will do whatever the fuck you have to, you thankless little shit. I've had enough of you behaving like a churlish child. Get your fucking act together!"

"She can't touch me."

India's comment is lost as he marches her back to her spot. "Right, are we ready to shoot? Let's go," and with a warning glare at India, Paul nods at Mal and Jude's cameramen.

---

That night India does not take dinner in the dining room. Instead, she asks the butler to bring her toast, which she ends up leaving untouched on the little table on her patio. When she decides to go to the bar for a whiskey, she can hear the laughter through the trees. The journalists have taken over the boma, and are sprawled on the comfortable wicker chairs surrounding the fire pit, laughing and telling stories. Amongst them Jude Limas's voice is most prominent; not only she is the only woman, but they hang onto her lips with every tale. There is a reason why she has won four Emmys - she is a consummate storyteller. Her laughter is an animal all on its own; it bubbles up from her stomach and reverberates with rich dark tones, standing out above all of the other sounds. She laughs as if she means it.

Ignoring the merriment India slips into a chair at the end of the bar and orders a whiskey, which she nurses slowly as she thinks about the day with a measure of irritation.

Waits, you're pathetic. Pathetic.

She is still deep in thought when Jude slides onto the chair next to her a while later.

"Same for me," the woman orders from the barman, before she looks over at India neutrally. "Another?"

India is surprised to find she's finished her drink. "Sure."

When the glasses are neatly placed in front of them, Jude lifts hers with a muted "cheers" before she takes a sip and savours it. Finding herself suddenly compelled to study the other woman's face, India busies her attention with slipping a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. Feeling Jude watching her, she exhales a stream of smoke and shoots a glance from the corner of her eye.

"What?"

"I wouldn't have expected you to smoke. Or to drink, in fact."

India keeps her eyes on the coaster under her glass. "Why not?"

"It seems at odds with the healing."

Shrugging, India takes a sip of her whiskey. "We all have our crutches."

"Yours will kill you eventually."

Shooting a hostile look at Jude, India frowns. "No - people like you will kill me."

Unperturbed, Jude leans forward, propping her elbows on the counter. "Why do you say that?"

"You're always pushing. Always with the intrusiveness." Realising that her voice is louder than she had intended, India stops speaking abruptly.

"You chose this way of life, if I'm not mistaken. I hardly think that Paige Carter forced you to be on the show, or that Paul Ashe blackmailed you into being his client. I'm not forcing you to sit here."

"Killing someone's spirit doesn't always take force." Scowling, India takes a deep drag of her cigarette.

Jude's luminescent stare is direct and frank. "If you don't like it, then don't do it."

"It's not that simple."

"What can be simpler? Just... stop." One finger taps at the whiskey tumbler thoughtfully. "You don't even seem to like what you do."

"Should I? It's what I do. It's not me."

Quietly Jude Limas sips from her glass, and when India chances a quick look, the green eyes are resting on her meditatively.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a science project."

The journalist shakes her head. "This is as much fun as sitting on a cactus. I'd have imagined that being able to do something like you can will bring a certain peace, but I see I'm wrong."

"Peace?" Staring into her glass India grimaces. "No. Responsibility. People expect things from me. You don't understand."

Jude's top lip curls slightly. "Uh huh? I think I might know what that's like."

"Sure." India reaches for another cigarette. "You get to have meaningful conversation and pat people on the back and look beautiful whilst doing it. Not exactly bringing the dead back to life, is it?" As soon as she says it a flood of shame rushes through her.

A flush suffuses Jude Limas's face. "Excuse me?" When India refuses to meet her eyes she gets to her feet angrily, looming over the smaller woman.

"How dare you? How dare you tell me that what I do is inferior? Because I can't do what you can, and have to resort to genuine emotion and sincerity?" Her lips draw into a tight line. "I hardly think I want to be compared to you."

Slipping a banknote under the glass she turns her back on India. "I can't do it any more. It's been real. Goodnight."

India doesn't have a good night. She dreams of men with pangas and weeping women.

---

The next day seems like a carbon copy of the previous one to India. There are interviews, healing sessions, and cameramen shoving lenses in her face. Jude Limas is her adept self, and though India imagines that she can now feel a sense of reserve in the other woman, she realizes that she is probably wrong. Her words will not have mattered that much to someone like Jude Limas.

Maybe she wants them to, but she knows that she's behaved badly. She knows that they don't understand how she feels about what she's doing. What's being done to her. That they don't understand how restrained and anxious she becomes when they're all so focused on her, and that she's tired, and that she doesn't know how to deal with all of this.

But she also knows that she's behaved badly.

She is not good at apologies - and often queries whether anyone else is - so the best she can do is to behave as well as she can today. She answers questions as well as possible (though it's still not very good at all), stands where she's told and smiles when she thinks she should, and everybody looks at her like she's grown five heads. Nevertheless, she pushes herself as far as she can possibly go, and it's only when Jude notices the shaking of India's hands that she calls it a day and thanks everybody for their assistance.

On the way back to Kissigoudou, in the Jeep, Paul Ashe makes a comment about how good Jude Limas had looked in her linen suit that day. He says that he would like to take Limas from her agent, if he can. Then, after a moment, he amends. Well, he says, he wouldn't actually mind taking Limas any which way he can. Nobody laughs.

"Whatever. If I could get her on my books ... " noticing India's sharp look at him he shoot her a sardonic smile, "not that you're not enough, sweetheart, but you're just such a fucking pain to work with. No offense. Now with the two of you I'd be made. You do the magnificent in a mundane way, and she does the mundane in a magnificent way. See?"

Pleased with himself he offers a smile to Cammy, whose expression is slightly murderous. Frowning, he cracks open a bottle of water and peers through the window to the nothingness beyond.

"See, that's the problem with you fucking women. You can't stand one of your own being better than you. Just because she's gorgeous and talented and everything else, you hate the fucking sight of her and imagine that she hasn't deserved any of it."

"That's not it, Paul." India smiles at him sweetly. "It's you. We hate the sight of you because you're a fucking asshole."

From the back seat Cammy agrees icily.

"Asshole."

---

When India wanders into the bar that evening, Jude Limas is at a table with Paul Ashe, his glistening black head close to hers. Jude's gaze slips over his shoulder to meet India's, and she nods almost imperceptibly, nothing more than an acknowledgement of India's presence. Nodding back and feeling inexplicably disenchanted India slides onto her chair at the end of the bar for her customary whiskey.

She is deep in the throes of a memory about Warren and a day at the beach when the seat next to hers in suddenly pulled out. Jude Limas slips into her periphery, leaning forward to speak to the barman before she turns her head to look at India.

"Hi."

"Hi." It feels absurd to be so casual when just last night Jude walked away from her out of pure frustration.

Intercepting the fleeting uncertainty crossing her face, Jude interprets it wrongly and rises from the barstool. "If you don't want company I'll... "

"No," India interrupts Jude, "please." Shaking a cigarette out of the pack she adds as an afterthought "If you want to."

"Sure." Sitting down again the journalist lifts the tumbler to her mouth and takes an appreciative sip. She is watching India's hand as the other woman lifts the cigarette to her mouth, but India doesn't say anything about this time. It seems to be a habit, and one that Jude isn't aware of, at that.

Realising that India is watching her, most likely because she is watching India, Jude looks away sharply. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. Consequence of the trade."

"It's fine."

Jude's gaze travels back to take in the slight tremor of India's hand. "You're trembling."

Looking down at her hand India nods faintly. "I'm tired."

"Maybe you should be in bed, rather than drinking?"

"Ditto." India raises an eyebrow. "My bad habits seem to interest you. Are you planning an expos� or something?"

With a small chuckle Jude shakes her head, a motion that appears to have more to do with mild exasperation than denial. "Not my thing. I'm just curious. Again, a consequence of the trade. I'll try to curb it."

They sit in silence for a while, and then Jude leans forward on her arms, cocking her head at India. "Is it the healing that tires you out so much?" Noting the flash of annoyance she continues. "It's one of the things I asked in the interview, I know, but your answer didn't actually tell me anything. You get flustered very easily."

"You don't say," the small woman mutters sarcastically. Taking a deep breath she bites the inside of her lip to compose herself before she speaks again. "Yeah, it's the healing. The energy that I use has to come from somewhere. It comes from me."

"I thought... I don't know... that you channel it from the air or from other people. Something like that."

"No." Aware that she's becoming abrupt again, India takes a sip of her whiskey before she continues. "Other people may be able to do that, I suppose. I don't know. I can't. I just do what I do."

"What does it feels like?"

Her brows furrowing, India snaps "Tiring."

Being perpetually cautious is getting to Jude. She is tired too. Sitting back, she points at the glass. "So - again. Why don't you get some sleep instead?"

With a deep drag on her cigarette, India spins around to face Jude angrily. "Why don't you fucking leave it alone? Why are you even here? Why aren't you sleeping, Jude?"

Jude's sharp jaw clenches tightly and she looks up towards the roof, inhaling slowly before returning the angry gaze. Her brilliant eyes are suddenly flat.

"I interviewed a man outside Y�nd� Miumou yesterday afternoon. The rebels came for his wife while he was out looking for his brother. They raped her and cut her into pieces. He had to bury her in time to get dinner together for his five children." Clearing her throat Jude finishes her drink and motions for the barman to pour another. "I gave him the provisions we have in the truck, but they're already starving. With his wife gone, it's only a matter of time ..." Nodding her thanks at the barman, Jude pulls the filled glass closer with a slight smile. "Sleep isn't a peaceful place for me."

India watches the emotions surge under the surface of that beautiful face, and then looks down at her own drink. "I always have nightmares. Consequences of the trade?"

A chuckle ripples through Jude. "Yeah."

"Why do you do it?"

Gazing into the dark eyes watching her, Jude sighs. "You should have seen his face when I gave him the supplies. It was nothing. Fruit, coffee, some instant soup. It's something I hardly register as being there, and to him it was miraculous. The smallest things make a difference. I want people to see that." Her expression is ingenuous. "What you can do, India - it may not make a difference to you, but to someone like him?"

India interrupts tersely. "His wife is dead. I can't bring her back."

"Yeah, but how many people like him are out there? Millions. Millions, India. God, if I could do what you did I'd be out there..."

"I was out there." The other woman's voice is hard as ice.

"Hating every minute of it."

Standing up tersely India takes her glass, her glare intense. "But I was out there. Don't you dare tell me how I'm supposed to be doing this, Jude. You don't know anything about me. Anything at all."

---

With the excitement of Jude Limas concluded, Paul Ashe runs out of patience with the merciless African sun and the dust, and within two days they are on their way back home. Ironically there is a Jude Limas documentary showing on the flight, and India stares out of the window on one side while Paul Ashe is glued to the screen, occasionally licking his slightly open lips with his pink tongue in a way that she finds perverse.

She is unexpectedly glad to see her small neat apartment again. She has never felt at home there, but after this trip it is nice to be in a place of her own.

It also surprises her that Paul Ashe leaves her to her own devices for almost three full days before he phones with his next wonderful idea. Alone in the apartment she sleeps at odd hours, watches hours of ancient Hallmark movies, and in general finds that she has too much time to smoke and drink and think.

Lonely.

That is the word that comes to mind. When she isn't rushed off her feet and exhausted and sleepless, she has nowhere to turn. There are people who say they want to get to know her better, who have sent her books and notes and left telephone messages, but she understands full well that they want her for what she is and not who she is.

She phones Jody Hudson just once, just to hear the voice of someone whom she knows is kindly disposed towards her.

"Jody."

"Hi Jody. This is India. Waits." Embarrassingly she stutters and stumbles over the first two words. There is a bit of a clatter on the telephone line - almost as if someone has dropped something heavy and metallic, like scaffolding - and then Jody's strong sure voice.

"Hello India. So nice to hear from you." It is concise, but the sentiment is sincere. Another clang from the line and Jody swears sharply away from the cellphone. "Be careful with that! Don't just swing it around like some goddamned elephant!" With a short chuckle her voice returns fully to the telephone. "Sorry. These grips are useless."

Now that India has her on the phone she isn't sure what to say. "How are you?" The tried and tested favourites are sometimes best.

"Same old. Overworked, overpaid, overwrought and underrated. How are you?"

"I'm ... fine. I'm good."

"Uh huh." The blonde woman issues another stern warning to an unseen party before she speaks again. "Word is that Paul Ashe is riding you into the ground. Yes?"

It takes India a moment to realise that Jody is questioning her rather than the errant grips. "Um. Yeah. Sort of."

"No doubt about it, India. If your face is in the dirt and you're tasting worms, you're getting ridden." There is a few seconds of silence as Jody obviously moves the cellphone away from her mouth to do something, and then her smooth voice comes back.

"Listen, India - when people do something they don't really want to do, it's usually for one of two reasons. One, they think it's the right thing to do. Two, they think they have no other choice. You need to consider which ..." A noise mingles with her voice, and this time it is harsh and treacherous-sounding.

"Damn it! India, I have to go. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

But she is already speaking to a dead line.

Continued...