TERRY

Some people tell you that all war and deprivation are pretty much alike when you come down to it. You've seen one horror then you've seen them all. It's always the same. Land becomes a wasteland, homes become garish ruins, their jagged destruction cutting into the simple safety of a former mundane domestic scene, people become victims, haunted and lost. Everything takes on an unreal quality. It is no longer real life.  Those of us who are allowed access to these nightmares shut off our normal response mechanisms and turn away. This is not life as we know it. It won't ever happen to ours. A dead body was never quick and breathing, a starving child was never a naughty kid who drove his mother crazy, a raped woman was never a sweet and willing girl in her young man's arms.

Don't believe a word of it. The life we live, in the safe and spoiled cities of back home, is the surreal homogenous repetition. Every tragedy outside of that cocoon is different in its awful unremitting sadness. The only sameness is this fact. That such tragedies will happen again. And again. And again.

I was in the air-conditioned, leather-seated comfort of a shiny black Mercedes whisked along through the shambles of yet another border conflict in yet another hopeless corner of the world. Outriders cleared a path for the VIPs with their UN credentials and diplomatic plates, the flag on our vehicle flying arrogantly against the dull, sandy backdrop. The road was an amorphous mass of humanity for miles and miles around, growing thicker and more desperate as we reached the border posts. People of all ages, every social class, some on foot, some in cars, made their desperate way to freedom, wheeling their possessions in pushchairs and wheelbarrows; mothers with children, old people supporting each other, young men and women with bitter and threatening expressions aware now that they were nothing, when once they had thought they were the princes and princesses of their future.

It shamed me to see how these people were shunted off the pot-holed road merely so that my party could travel unaffected by a nuisance. A nuisance? This was their land. They were being displaced by an invader. I was just another foreigner who would spend a few weeks here, flash my passport and fly out in first class luxury while they starved and suffered, unheard and un-remarked by most of the rest of the world.

It doesn't get any easier to hack this job as the years go by. At the same time it is harder than ever to imagine giving it up. We passed the refugee camps, strung like washing on a line across hundreds of miles of border. Thousand upon thousand of identical tents, a few feet of space for every family, a shared existence in squalor and deprivation. Haunted faces looked out at my vehicle and I was grateful for the camouflage of the black-tinted windows, unwilling to make eye contact with them. I may share no guilt in their plight but I feel a common guilt- that of a world that fails the majority of its inhabitants every day so that the minority of us can dwell in unimagined splendour and ease.

The car suddenly came to a halt. My driver wound down the window and shouted in his language at the obstruction ahead. He was profane and aggressive. The reason for our hold up was a fleet of food aid trucks bringing desperately needed medical supplies, blankets and food to the refugee cities. I blanched at the lack of respect from those who should have known better.

But it was not my place to comment. Instead, I stared out of my window and kept my thoughts to myself. A group of children- real little ones, all less than five or six years' old, were running about in a circle just over the ditch that separated the road from the fields. What I noticed most was that they were laughing. Heads thrown back, faces bright, chuckling little kids playing and dancing in the midst of this nightmare scene. It made me smile and hope yet for the plight of humanity.

Through the open window of the driver's door, I heard that they were singing, as well as dancing round in a circle. It was a strange sound; their little high voices intoning in a language clearly unfamiliar to them, words that they had obviously learnt by rote and probably could not understand.

Ring-a ring- a roses
A pocket full of posies.
Atish-oo
Atish-oo
We all fall
DOWN!

And they all fell back in the dirt, laughing even more. Up they jumped and started again. Just then I realised that they were not alone. An aid worker was sitting cross-legged beside them, clapping and singing along. She jumped up, broke into the circle and began to skip around with them. I smiled more broadly than ever at the sight of her, an unexpected gift in this bleak, miserable place.

The woman was tall and slender- more than slender, probably too thin, really. Her hair was short and dark, tousled and curly. She was wearing a black singlet and a pair of khaki shorts, too big for her, held by a man's leather belt and rolled up on her long shapely brown legs. I wondered what made a lovely woman like this decide to give away the comfort that she could surely have back home for this awful hellhole- and I marveled again at how charitable some people are with their lives whilst the majority of us never give the unfortunate a second thought beyond an annual tax-deductible payment to some relief agency to assuage our consciences.

Lost in that reverie, I failed to recognize at first what soon stared me straight in the face. The woman stopped, picked up a little girl who was crying and looked my way. Her pale blue eyes seemed to contact with mine, although she could not have seen me through the darkened window. I knew that face. I knew that pretty mouth. I knew that willowy body. I stared in disbelief. It was Uma.

At that very instant the car shot forward and made up on lost ground. I shouted. "Stop!" but it took the driver some time to obey my command. I opened the door, was hit full in the face by the searing heat and humidity, and ran back, trying to dodge the oncoming surge of people in my path.

I reached roughly the place where we had been stopped but there was no group of children, no beautiful charity worker. I asked a few bystanders where the children had gone; they either did not understand or did not care. Scanning the area, there was no evidence of them and I knew that it was hopeless to imagine that I could simply pick them out of this mass of humanity. Scratching my head, I wandered back to the car, to the bemused bodyguards and riders and indicated that they should drive on. But I had seen her. There was no doubt in my mind about that.

Later that day, hours after I had returned back to my UN-guarded hotel in the relative security of the nearest fortified city across the border, I lay back in the bath and sipped on a Scotch. It had been a fucking awful day. I had sat around a table with barely literate halfwits who were holding hostage five aid workers who had mistakenly taken the wrong track home one night. The guerrillas holding them, part of the rag bag army that was responsible for crimes against humanity on a scale even I was shocked by, believed, in their ignorance, that any American was worth money.  For American read white person. The hostages were Dutch.

They had no idea that these charity workers sign indemnities that free their governments from incurring financial costs should they be kidnapped. There will be no ransom. The idea of such disclaimers is to dissuade any group from contemplating kidnap if there is nothing to gain - but it rarely works like that; the terror groups never know and if they find out, simply kill the victims, blaming them for another time when the West has tricked them out of money. My job here is to keep them talking while we look for alternate solutions: swapping them for prisoners, food supplies, use them as a tool in truce talks or until we get a chance to find out where they are being held and send someone in for them. Or maybe just keep them suffering a while longer before the inevitable bullet in the brain.

I am a pretty patient man but my temper has limits and this day I had been sorely pushed and taunted, all the while being unfailing polite and professional in response. I had put up with profane rantings, political posturing, wild accusations, having my manhood slurred and with the usual attempts to make me angry enough to blow the excuse for my presence there and end the sham of talks. I had held my tongue.

I lay back, closed my eyes and sank down in the warm water to wash the stench of corruption and hypocrisy from my soul. And then I remembered Uma. Standing in a crowd of people, surrounded by little children, a toddler tucked under her arm. I was grateful for the distraction.

Uma North. How long was it now? Two years...no, more than that...Jesus, it only seemed like yesterday. The very last time I had seen her was in that hotel room when we realised what we had done and the world had descended into madness. She had disappeared shortly afterwards apparently, after Ann had made contact and tried to reach her, after Max had taken the little girl and left her. A few of them had tried to talk some sense into her head or to approach Maximus to be reasonable, but it had been impossible. He wouldn't even discuss the matter; she wouldn't cross him.

The next thing we knew, she had gone. She didn't want to be found and I had not made any inquiries. What good would that have done? As much as I blamed myself for the terrible price she paid for our adultery, I understood one thing very clearly. If Ann and I had a chance or if Max was ever to forgive his wife- it would only be rendered possible if I never so much as went within a mile of the beautiful Mrs. North ever again. It wasn't easy for me to stop from running to her aid. It's my job- to save those who are lost. I could have got the little girl back. I could have given her vital moral support in those terrible early days. But I would surely have lost Ann for good- and he would have moved heaven and earth to make her pay if the child had been taken from him. To what end would my futile White Knight act have been?

Bloody hard call, though. Don't think I've ever really forgiven myself. Often thought of her over the years. Hard not to. Hear that song. See a woman with a mane of dark curls. A Christmas angel. But the memory is tainted. No matter how I recall the pleasure, it is framed with the cruel knowledge of the cost of fooling ourselves that anything ever comes for free. That moment of realization when I knew that Ann had seen. The agony Uma must have suffered to have her child ripped from her. The other lives that were forever broken so we could have our dream. Not exactly the stuff of erotic thoughts in a lonely hotel room. Enough to defuse even the most persistent hard on.

I flicked the lever and let the water drain away while I stepped out and dried myself. Wrapping a towel round my waist, I went over to my laptop and booted it up whilst staring out of the window onto the city at night. Out there it was dangerous and tense, lights in the night sky showing the flare of missiles launched from mere miles away, and the blackout of the streets a reminder of the imminent threat we were all in. Somewhere, in an exposed and vulnerable position, Uma was sleeping in a tent or a hut, no security to speak of and a sitting target. I wondered exactly what brings anyone to such a place, no matter how sympathetic to a cause they might be. It was almost suicidal behaviour.

"OK...Uma North...let's find out what you've been up to..." It was not as easy as you might think. There were 24 official agencies operating charitable relief projects in the camps- UNESCO, Oxfam, Medicins San Frontieres, the Red Cross, Children in Need, VSO, The Red Cross, CAFOD, Red Crescent, NAMA, Peace Corps, British Council, The World Bank...the list went on and on. If I discounted non- UK based agencies and those of religious organisations, there were still a lot of relief workers and miles of camps. She might not be using her married name and I did not know her maiden name- although it wouldn't take me long to find that out.

I put out a trace on her with a few of my contacts and it was morning before I got my answer, after a night when I had not slept more than a few hours. Lying back on the bed, smoking steadily until the small hours, I thought on the events of almost three years ago and how my hands had been tied from helping her. I had abandoned her- taken what I wanted and ran. Ann and I had suffered too, but we were together now and getting there- even if I had lost the woman that I had once loved. But at least I hadn't been left alone.  Whatever we had paid, Maximus, Uma and their little girl had paid a greater price.

I thought about Maximus. He had cut himself off completely- walked out of Cort's funeral, so they said, and never contacted anyone again. A few of the Brothers had tried but he wouldn't answer calls or mails. I kept an eye through the channels on his career and he continued to make a mark. I imagine he buried himself in his work. What else does a man do to heal his pain? I have often wondered about the child. Who looked after her? Had he married again? Was she left with nannies or in a nursery? What the fuck had he told her had happened to her mother? Imagine that - suddenly finding your mother, the centre of your existence, has gone. I was a man when my mother died but it didn't make it easier to take. The child and her plight made my stomach churn.

All for nothing. We had been no threat to Maximus - but he would not have understood that. Even if he did, a man like him would not forgive a woman who betrayed him - spell or not. She knew that - and so did I. We thought we could get away with it. Whatever possessed us even to want to? And yet...she was one of the most compelling women that I have ever met. Even now, I could not regret the decision we had made, whatever tragedy was created in its wake. Sometimes we are helpless in the face of fate. On a rare occasion we are helpless in the face of love. How can we ever hope to fight against that impulse?

It was morning as I shaved and drank down a pint of black coffee when the information I sought came in. Tebla camp. Uma North - volunteer with the Children's Educational Trust. Volunteer - with her qualifications? Why was she not there in an executive capacity? I ran through her CV so far. She had been in Iraq, Afghanistan and now here in Africa- some of the most hostile war zones in the world. It was hard to fathom exactly what she was up to. This was a woman who could have probably worked for any major Museum, Art Gallery or Exhibition centre in the world. Why opt for work like this?

I had a diary full of commitments that day- government ministers, local media, a university professor, some foreign embassies...there was no escaping the tedious meetings I had to attend before I would be able to seek out my other target.

Late afternoon, I shook my last hand and eased myself into a Range Rover to speed across the desert to Tebla.

I had a photograph that I had printed out and I wandered about, figuring that the children might be the best place to start. I saw a young boy, about nine or ten, watching me up as I strolled about, so I made eye contact. "You know this lady?"

The kid sauntered up with the swagger of an older boy already copied and mastered. "Pardon, M'sieur?"

I should have realized. I showed him the picture. He smiled. "Ah... la belle femme anglaise! Oui, je la connais bien,' he replied, with an insouciance that brought a smile to my face.

"Oui. La belle femme. Où est-elle ? 

The boy shrugged. Time to negotiate. One US dollar would buy you a day's work in these parts. I gave him ten bucks; I was his friend for life.

"Viens avec moi." He led me through the warren of alleyways between the tents, past hundreds of families, many sitting at the entrance to their canvas homes, trying to catch a breath of fresh air in the still-burning heat of the late afternoon. At last the path opened out to a flat field and there were a number of A-frames in a circle with a desultory guard dozing on a chair. The boy took me to one of these and then pointed. "Elle habite là."

It was the only door with decorations. A riot of cartoon madness greeted the guest - Mickey Mouse, The Little Mermaid, Donald Duck...it had to be hers. I could imagine the little children looking for her and being guided by this universal message. I knocked. No answer.

"Elle n'est pas là" the boy announced with a smirk.

"Où est-elle?" I asked. He hunched his shoulders.

"Attends!" he shouted as he ran off with a laugh...

I looked around, perched on a wooden stool and waited. There was no one about and eventually curiosity got the better of me. I knocked on her door. No answer, so I tried the handle- it was open, surprisingly, so I stepped in.

It was astonishingly bare for a woman's room, especially as everything she must have possessed was there. I remembered her elegant home in London and found it hard to imagine her staying here. Bare floorboards, metal-framed bed. Hardly any decorations other than a worn Teddy bear tucked under the neatly made sheets and a pin board on the wall. The usual signs of female occupation were missing- piles of cosmetics, perfumes, creams and beauty treatments; clothes scattered and hanging about; books and magazines, shoes and handbags...OK, there was little call for most of that here at a border camp but still girls are girls, I have always found.

But this room was more like a monastic cell.

I looked at the Teddy bear and smiled sadly. Uma did not strike me as a soft toy kind of woman and I realized that this was probably a baby toy of her daughter's. I felt a knot in my stomach at the thought of that. My eye drifted to the pictures on the wallboard. A few of her daughter, but nothing recent, one of Maximus holding the child as a small baby, looking down in a sort of quiet wonder at her- it was a revealing shot of a private man. The final snap was of Max and Uma in happier times, somewhere hot, blue sky and a seascape behind - Italy? Greece? He was holding her from the back and they were both smiling with the same sort of dreamy expression in their eyes. A man and woman so in love that we see them like they never normally reveal themselves to the world. I could have wept at the bitter pointlessness of it all. She must look at these every day and remember. What must that do to a person?

I felt ashamed at my intrusive examination of this woman's life so I hurried to the door to leave but as I opened it outwards I found her standing there before me, her face white with shock.

UMA

It's funny how life passes and you accept things in time. It's nearly three years now and even though not a day goes by when either of them is far from my mind for very long, I am almost content. I have seen so much pain and misery since I joined this charity that I simply cannot find the energy required to feel sorry for myself. There is nothing quite as telling as the plight of others worse off than yourself to make you put your own little sorrows into perspective.

After a while you come to believe that life is just meant to be a trial. When there is so much unremitting horror about you, you wonder why you ever thought that you could frame some sort of paradise here on earth for yourself. It is enough to be safe and fed and not to be brutalized; that is what most people in the world call happiness. To expect more seems to me to be the height of hubris and the gods will surely make you pay.

So there I was on a typical afternoon as the burning day began to sink into a hot but less uncomfortable night. I wandered back towards my cabin, waving to the little ones who knew and me and their patient docile mothers, thinking of a cool shower and maybe grabbing a beer with some of the other workers later and a game of pool, planning an English lesson with some of the older children for tomorrow, when Pascal came bounding up.

..."Madame...vite, vite, il est là. Dépêche-toi !" (Quick, quick- he is there! hurry!)

"Qui est là?"  I laughed. (Who is there?) Pascal was the 'fixer'. He was about eleven but he was shrewd and clever and had so many scams going to make money, you just had to admire him. He was a thief and a conman but you couldn't help but love him; he had watched his entire family butchered when he was a child of six and only survived because his mother had used her body to shelter him- he had lain for two days amidst the rotting corpses before peace-keeping troops had discovered him. He had a right to make his way in a world that had taken so much from him.

"Un grand type, un américain. C'est ton copain?" (The big man, An American guy. Your boyfriend?)

I started. Copain? That meant boyfriend. My boyfriend? And then my heart lurched. Was it possible? Had he come looking for me? After all this time?

I took to my heels and followed Pascal as he led me one of his quick ways back to my cabin. And the door was slightly ajar.

"Dedans! Le voilà!" (Inside! There he is!)

And I ran straight into Terry Thorne.

"YOU? What the hell are you doing here?"

TERRY

She was angry as hell, white-faced with shock, drawing breaths in great gulps to steady herself. She thought I was him. Jesus Christ, that must have hurt. I held up my hands. "I am sorry to startle you. I saw you yesterday. From the road. I was with the UN mission. I just...I just couldn't believe it was you. Why are you here?"

I didn't handle that very well but at least she calmed down. "You weren't trying to find me? This isn't some sort of interfering do-gooding that the Family have sent you on, is it?"

I shook my head and repressed the urge to smile. She hadn't lost that brittle tongue of hers. "No...this is not some set up. I just saw you and wondered. If you want me to, I'll go. I didn't mean to upset you."

At that she seemed to breathe easier. "Well, you can hang around a while. I don't exactly get many visitors, you know? You want a drink? I think I've got some warm Coke somewhere..." she laughed. "...There's a bar for the staff. Come on, let's get a coldie..."

I followed her across the compound, unable not to notice the sway of her tiny tight buttocks in the blue jeans she was wearing today. Her hair was messy and she had a red and white scarf tied round it. Her slender frame was clad in a white T-shirt that was washed out and had a faded logo from some pop concert years ago. This from the woman who once was always impeccably dressed, with never even a hair ever out of place. She still looked like a million bucks to me, though. Pure class. Some women have it. Some don't. Doesn't come from clothes or money or any damn thing you pay for. It's inbuilt- and she had it in bucket loads.

We settled down on stools around plastic tables drinking imported beer out of cans. She asked me for a cigarette. Her hand shook as I lit it. "We only got food and beer this week. No fags. Everyone's got the shakes this week," she laughed bitterly as she inhaled deeply. I pushed the packet and the lighter across to her and told her to keep them. She pocketed them both.

"What are you doing here, Uma?" Direct approach- you can't bullshit her.

"Working. I'm a volunteer with the little children." Direct answer and an even more direct stare.

"Entry qualifications must have risen. You need a PhD for that these days, hey?"

Uma gave me a look. "Look, I don't owe you any explanations about how I choose to spend my life."

"I know. But this is a dangerous place. A very dangerous place. You shouldn't be here."

"Really? So glad you told me. I thought it a bit of a soft option," she replied sardonically.

I blew out smoke. "Five Dutch aid workers were kidnapped 3 weeks ago. There will be more such incidents. Uma, this place is out of control...get out while you can..."

"I know about the aid workers. It was shitty luck. You here to bring them out, Mr. K and R man?"

"If I can - but their chances are not good. Uma, what are you proving? No one needs to work in a place like this. You want to help, so help- but not by taking crazy chances with your life..."

"Could say the same about you. What are you doing here? You some kind of adrenalin junky?"

I shrugged. "I have the skills. This is what I do. Backed up by the UN, networks of contacts, a shit load of money and an impressive array of weaponry that I know how, and am prepared, to use. Now...what you packing?"

She emptied her pockets. "Bubblegum, hair ribbons and some Mickey Mouse plasters..." she grinned ruefully. "This is what I do, Terry. I have the skills. Kids. They need me, if it's too dangerous for me, why isn't it too dangerous for them?"

I sighed. "It is. Too dangerous for anyone. But it isn't your fight..."

"Not yours either. Terry, I know if I get taken then that is probably it. I have lived with that reality for a couple of years now. But I could get run down crossing Camden High Street back home just as arbitrarily..."

"They take you, love, death will be the last thing they do to you...literally." Cruel? Yeah. But she needed a wake up call.

"Well, a girl's got to get her kicks somehow," she retorted with a mocking laugh. "Give me a break, Terry. I've heard it all before. If you're going to lecture me, then you can piss off now." She tilted her head on one side and pouted like a truculent teenager. I had a passing urge to take her face in my hands and kiss her stubborn little mouth. Blinking, I shrugged away the erotic impulse.

"How's life back in the Freak Show? Your Band of Brothers? Any left standing or did they all kill each other in an orgy of spell-induced shagging and fighting?" I had to smile at her turn of phrase.

"They're still around. Keeping their heads down. We rarely meet - not since the funeral..."

"I was sorry about that. It was a tragedy. But then- so were a lot of things, hey?" I nodded and she seemed disinclined to pursue the topic.

"You and Ann?"

"We're working it out. It's cool." I did not wish to lay my happiness to thickly upon her in her current situation.

"Good. I'm glad. Send her my regards. No, forget that. Never mention my name again. Don't imagine she'll be too happy if she knows you are here and so am I."

"Don't suppose she would be." There was no point trying to explain. If she knew that our affair had provoked the loss of the Ann she knew, what would it do but increase her sense of guilt? She needed to think only one relationships had suffered. So I diverted attention and tested the waters. " How's Max?" I fired that one at her and watched. She blinked once and looked away, snagging a cigarette and struggling with the lighter. I took it from her trembling hands and held her fingers steady as I lit it. "You don't have to answer that. Or rather- I think you already have..."

She breathed in deeply and nodded; I did not ask her again.

A few people came into the bar, called over, she introduced us and for a while mindless small talk took over. I kept up my observation of her, her hands fidgeting, eyes darting about, the incessant chewing of her lip, her nails bitten down, a look of resignation in her eyes where once there had been fire and spirit. Closer inspection of this woman showed me that she was a shell of what she once had been and it wasn't very hard to work out why.

The others drifted away; there wasn't much else to say. Once last try. "You should take a break at least. Go back to England. Chill out. When you due leave?"

"Christmas. Year contract."

"You don't get any time off?"

"Yeah, but I can't fly back until the end of the term." I wondered about that. Needed to check it up.

"Uma, have you seen Lily since it happened?"

She shook her head.

"In touch?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing? At all?"

She shook her head.

"You know that is wrong. He should have..."

She stood up "Enough! No more. I will not speak of it. Don't try and make me. That chapter of my life is closed. You have no right to try and open it. I have lost my husband and that was hard enough to bear- but my child? Have you any idea what it is like to lose your own flesh and blood?"

I stood up and faced her. "Actually, yes, I have. I lost my son." Her eyes closed and she sank back into her seat and buried her head in her hands.

"I am so sorry. I had forgotten..." 

"It doesn't matter. Let me take you back to your room. You're upset. I didn't mean to hurt you."

She stood up and made her way through the tables out onto the early evening. The sun was setting and I could smell the food cooking on a thousand open fires- not that it was much more than cassava root salted with a few strands of dried meat. It gave me an idea. "You eaten?"

"Not yet. Can't say it's the highlight of the day, even for us," she remarked in an offhand manner. No wonder she was so thin.

"Fancy a decent meal? Fatten you up a bit. You look like a famine victim yourself."

She laughed a little crazily. "Gee, thanks Terry. You sure know how to chat a girl up!"

I was beginning to use my head here. There was no way I was moving Uma with some paternalistic advice. "Well then...have you got anything decent to wear? I'm not taking you to the Hilton dressed like that. They'd throw you out."

"No one throws me out of any place, mate. I have the knack," she added cheekily. "Okay, you can buy me a meal and a bottle of decent red seeing as you are on expenses anyway. But, don't get any ideas, pal. The spell wore off a long time ago. Comprends?"

I nodded and gave her a warning look. Naughty girl. She laughed again and told me to wait there and have another beer while she took a shower.

Sitting there in that bar whilst she got ready, I thought of what I needed to do. I had to get her to leave this place. At least she would be safe. If I could I would try to get her some information or contact with her child. It was the least I could do. I cared about this woman. Once I believed I could have fallen in love with her. Maybe I even did - just a little. And then there was Ann. My Ann came from a different reality, where this woman was her dearest friend. How would she feel if she could see her now: the physical decline and the awful deadening of her spirit. It would break Ann's heart. I wanted to do this for her as much as myself. But most of all for Uma. To see her smile once more and the light of her lively soul burning from her eyes.

Half an hour later, she was back. The woman who strolled into the canteen brought memories back of her earlier self: elegant, poised, sure; gone was the scruffy hippie of a short while ago. Uma was wearing a short pale blue sundress with tiny straps; it was made of some soft, crease-resistance fabric- the sort of garment that your average female backpacker always carries so that she can dress up at a drop of a hat, hit a local club and look like a classy bird with just that, her tan and a pair of cheap locally made sandals. Her short tousled hair was shiny clean and gave her perfect features a youthful, gamin look. She wore no makeup but her lips glistened invitingly; probably a chapstick, I smiled to myself. Estee Lauder doesn't know everything about cosmetics.

Heads turned and a few of her colleagues whistled. "Christ, Ums, who dressed you up?" One guy shouted over and she gave them a twirl; I saw the expression on their faces and knew that there were a few men here carrying more than a torch for the winsome Mrs. North. I stood up and held out my hand, ushering her before me out of the door.

We walked to the gates where I had left the car under the watchful eye of a guard who had been more than satisfied with the tip I had slipped him. Helping her up, I climbed in and pulled out onto the pitted road back towards the city, a drive of maybe forty-five minutes. I locked the car doors, slipped my hand down to check on the handgun concealed in the door pocket, even though I knew full well it was there, and scanned the dark roadside as I drove at speed, little traffic about by this time with the chance of missile attacks every night a pretty sure bet.

Uma settled back on the plush leather seat, slipped off her sandals and rested her long legs on the dashboard. She wasn't flirting; it seemed almost accidental. She was wallowing in comfort: soft seat, air-conditioned vehicle, listening with her eyes closed to a track on the CD system. A taste of luxury that she couldn't help but enjoy. We didn't talk much; she sang quietly along with the music, humming where she didn't know the words:

You were the sweetest thing that I ever knew
But I don't care for sugar, honey, if I can't have you
Since you've abandoned me
My whole life has crashed
Won't you pick the pieces up
'Cause it feels just like I'm walking on broken glass

Walking on, walking on, broken glass,
The sun's still shining in the big blue sky
But it don't mean nothing to me
Oh, let the rain come down
Let the wind blow through me
I'm living in an empty room
With all the windows smashed
And I've got so little left to lose
That it feels just like I'm walking on broken glass

Walking on, walking on, broken glass

And If you're trying to cut me down
You know that I might bleed
'Cause if you're trying to cut me down
I know that you'll succeed
And if you want to hurt me
There's nothing left to fear
'Cause if you want to hurt me
You're doing really well, my dear

Now everyone of us was made to suffer
Everyone of us was made to weep
But we've been hurting one another
And now the pain has cut too deep...
So take me from the wreckage
Save me from the blast
Lift me up and take me back
Don't let me keep on walking...
Walking on broken glass

Walking on, walking on, broken glass

The track faded away and she smiled to herself, looked over at me. "An old favourite. Never knew how true it was when I used to sing it out loud..." Her shoulders hunched and she rested back and sighed, swaying to the dance beat of the next piece. I drove on and left her to her reflective mood; she would talk if she wanted to. I would do what I could.

The city streets were pitch black, heavily patrolled in the central government controlled strong hold; I was stopped several times for clearance and to show credentials as I steered our way to the relative safety of the hotel district. I say relative, for in many ways we were sitting targets for the rebels; only their limited missile power and the ground-to-air interception technology supplied to this corrupt government by the West protected us from direct hit.

The Hilton here was not one of the finest hotels I have ever stayed in but in comparison to the life of everyone else in this country it was like Paradise. The warm glow of subdued lighting, cool chill of central air conditioning, marble floors, flower arrangements (who the fuck does them while a nation is dying?) uniformed staff, restaurants, bars, gym, swimming pool- it is almost obscene to contemplate the insanity of such a place in such a place. Uma blinked a few times as if she had forgotten that the world was like this; I could see her grimace a little, as though she was ashamed of herself for wanting it, if only for a few hours.

I led her to the restaurant and we took a table in the corner. The menu was simple by five star hotel standards, but it was like an Aladdin's cave to her; she couldn't make up her mind what she wanted. Finally she settled for a steak with some creamy red wine sauce after a portion of Gravad Lax. We drank a pretty decent red and she loosened up; her face was slightly flushed and her eyes began to regain that lively sparkle where they had seemed dead and dull before. But I was not fooled- it wasn't my presence that had effected this change in her- it was a full belly and a little more wine than usual.

"Dessert?" I asked. She snorted.

"You have to ask? I want that chocolate cake. I'll be sick afterwards, I'm sure. But it will have been worth it. God, I have eaten a month's calories tonight!"

I smiled. "You need fattening up. Whereas I could do with less hotel food and a bit more starvation." I patted my gut and she giggled.

"You fishing for compliments? You look fine to me but then I always like a bit of meat on my men..." she blushed and rolled her eyes. "...Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that...I'm not...Terry, I'm not going to sleep with you, you know? I just don't want you to think that's why I came tonight... Jesus, this is so embarrassing..."

I sat back and lit up a cigarette, letting her squirm a bit. "I didn't ask you for that reason, Uma. There is no hidden agenda here. I'm not risking my marriage for anything again even if I am thousands of miles from home. Knowing my luck..." I shrugged and held up my hands and she groaned.

"Yep...knowing mine as well...I'm glad we sorted that out. I'll be frank. You're an attractive man, Terry, and I am lonely. It would be so easy to try and find that place we were in that day but the truth is- we never would. My days of fooling myself are over. I don't want any other man but him and as I can't have him then I won't have anyone. It's a bit like food really..."

"Food?" I asked, unsure what she was driving at.

Uma grinned. "Sorry...lateral brain...Sex." I sat back at her stark introduction of the subject. "Sex is a bit like food. You know your stomach is about the size of your clenched fist. That's all the food you need. But we generally eat a lot more and as we do our stomach swells and thus we need more and more and more...you see?" I nodded. She watched me and chewed on her lip. "I have not had sex for so long that I don't actually miss it anymore. I don't even think about it much. But it's different for men. I mean you've got to get rid of it, haven't you? Bad for your pipes otherwise!" She laughed to herself and I shook my head and grinned.

"That's one way of putting it, love."

She gave me a cheeky tilt of her head, her eyes widening. "It's love I miss. Touch. Someone to talk to. Someone to watch over me. Someone who needs me. In the end, it's all the sappy stuff that keeps you awake at night." Her mood altered as she played with her dessert and drifted into pensive silence. "You know she'll be at school now? Imagine that! A little schoolgirl. Sometimes I wonder if I would even recognize her if I walked past her. She must have changed- you know how fast they grow?"

I rested my hand over hers. "You would know her. You know you would." She looked directly at me, her eyes shining with tears.

"If I could only see her. Even from a distance. Just to see. You know?" She bit her lip and breathed out slowly, fighting tears.

"You could. Even if you don't wish to cross him. Just say the word and I will get you pictures, information...you can see her from afar...it's better than nothing, hey? And...Uma, he may have relented. Who can say? He might be willing to let you have some access now the dust has settled..."

She shook her head. "I left him a contact number. He has never used it."

"He's a proud man; maybe his own worse enemy. Isn't she worth one more try? How can that hurt you more than you are already hurt?"

The waiter arrived and removed the remains of the dessert- she had hardly eaten it. We asked for coffee. All the while she sat with her hands folded on her lap, thinking. When he had served the coffee and moved off, she answered me.

"Perhaps. I will think about going back at Christmas. I will let you know if I need help. I do appreciate the offer. I wouldn't have you think I don't feel grateful. No one else in the world cares about me but you. You don't really know how much that means to me."

"What do you mean? What about your family and friends?"

"They broke with me. If a guy walks out on his child that's one thing- but a woman who leaves her baby, is treated like a monster. They all blame me..."

"Uma...he took her from you!"

"It doesn't look like that. They make their own minds up." 

I knew she was right. Her lack of effort to gain access would be seen as something else. I wonder if Maximus had ever really understood it from her point of view? To him he was claiming his right as the father to the child of his line. In his day, the woman would not be blamed for letting go- it was required of her. Did he know how he had demonized Uma in a modern world? I felt angry and bitter, guilty and helpless.

"I destroyed your life and walked away. I never thought I was that kind of man."

Uma's head shot up and she reached her hand across for mine. "You did no such thing! I destroyed my own life. We are responsible for ourselves and those we love, not for others. I made my mind up in the full knowledge of the risk I took and so did you. You resolved your life- I didn't. That is not your fault, nor should you ever seek to take the blame. You are a good man and, I am a good woman. I know that now. But even good people make mistakes and then, like everyone else, they have to pay for them. The debt is not always the same."

"I will always bear this as my shame, Uma. Whatever you say."

She smiled at me and stroked my face. "And that is exactly why you are a good man and why I came to love you. I wouldn't have risked all this for anything less, now would I?"

She asked me to take her back to the camp; I signed the bill and we left. At the entrance we were stopped by UN MPs. "Sorry, Sir, there's a raid going down. You have to stay here for the night- no one to leave."

Uma groaned. "The fickle finger of fate strikes again, Mr. Thorne. I'll bunk down here on a sofa." She strode away towards the seating area. I gave chase.

"I'll get you a room. I promise..." She looked unconvinced but eventually gave in and let me make arrangement. Shortly afterwards, I took her up and left her at the door. "I'll give you a bell in the morning when I'm up and about. Meet you for breakfast and then I'll get you back. No worries, hey?"

She leaned against me and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. "I'll never forget you, Terry Thorne. You do know that, don't you?" At that moment I wanted nothing more than to take this little bird with a broken wing and hold her to me all the long night through. It wasn't sex, although I could have loved her. It was something far deeper and more dangerous than that. I forced a smile and stood there as she let herself into her room and then closed the door on me and the rest of the world.

I expected a night without sleep but actually that did not happen. I took a shower- and a bit of much needed relief- and must have been tucked up and sleeping like a baby shortly after. Next thing I knew, I had slept through the missile attack and it was morning, a murky thin sunlight struggling through an atmosphere polluted with fires burning all over. Calling her room, she answered promptly and said she would be about fifteen minutes; I shaved quickly and dressed before going down to breakfast and waiting for her to appear.

She wasn't long, looking pale but refreshed and she tucked in again to a healthy breakfast. By eight we were on the road and when I dropped her off at the gates of the camp, she simply leaned over and kissed me.  "Have a wonderful life, Terry. Stay safe." Then she jumped down, flashed her pass and was gone inside. I sat and watched her disappear into the droves of people, dashing and running like a little fairy through the throng.

That wasn't quite the end. I went into her financial records - I know, shameless of me, but it's fairly standard hacking in my trade. It was as I thought. She was penniless and wouldn't have been able to afford a flight back home until the end of her contract when the charity would supply her with a ticket. But it wasn't Maximus who had cast her to the four winds financially. On the first of each month a substantial sum was transferred from his account to hers - and immediately diverted to a trust fund in the name of Lilia Meridia North. She would not take anything from him or at least she would use it to enable her to do the only thing she ever could for her child. Some how it did not surprise me in the least.

That afternoon, I called a contact and arranged for an open Business class ticket to London in her name. It could not be returned but she could refund it if she chose to do so - either she went home or she had eighteen hundred quid to play with. I instructed them to inform me if or when she should activate the ticket. I received the call two weeks later. Uma North had exchanged the ticket for an economy seat and received the balance in a refund. She had flown the previous night. I smiled. She was clever but I had still had the jump on her. I now knew that she was safe home and had a thousand pounds to tide her over until she found her feet. There was never any doubt that she would have acted any differently when presented with an easy scam. I remembered how she had pocketed the cigarettes and jumped at the meal; when you live on the edge, you learn to scavenge with the best. I know. I had been there often enough.

One last thing remained for me to do and then I would have to assign Uma to the archive category of my brain. I picked up my cell, took a deep breath and called his number:

"North."

"Maximus? Terry Thorne." A pause.

"What do you want?"

"I need to see you. Family business. Something that we cannot ignore."

"I am not part of the Family anymore..."

"Max...I wouldn't call you if this wasn't urgent. Red alert. You can't ignore this. You want danger to your own family?" It was a cruel trick to play on him but if it worked; he could thank me for it later.

"Where?" Fair play to him, he made his mind up in an instant.

"Bar off Regent Street called Chambre. Friday night. Seven."

"I shall be there." He hung up.

I walked into the bathroom and ran cold water over my face- it had been a long day and was going to be an even longer night. Then I took up my phone again and called the number I had traced for Uma.

"Uma?"

"Terry? How did you get my number here?"

"Long story, love. I'm back in London and I have some information for you. It's important I see you. Can we meet?"

A pause. "Er...is this about Lily?"

"Yeah...I got some things for you..."

"Alright then...when?"

"Friday. Bar called Chambre off Regent Street. Seven. You can find it? It's near Carnaby Street..."

"Got it. I'll be there. Terry...thanks...for everything...you know? I decided to take a chance..."

"Good girl. I've got to go. See you then." I hung up and grabbed my bag before hurrying out. I was already late for the rendezvous. We had a sighting and were going in. It was a pretty shitty scenario and this was going to be a hard call. Dino had already said pull back. Well, you know me. Five innocent charity workers- no chance at all, was there?

Jogging to the jeep parked outside the hotel, I nodded to Jean Luc and Diego before jumping in the back seat as we sped away. I made my last call as we hit the highway to the private airfield where the chopper was waiting.

"Hi, babes...how you doing? Me? I'm just chilling...wanted to tell you that I love you..."