19.1

“Chello! Chello!”

Marlon brushed the woman aside as he heaved his inflated frame through the humid wall towards the Hummer. He was feeling sorry for himself.

Marlon, old son…

You drank so much vodka on that plane…

You feel like you’ve been bashed in the back of the head with a brick.

“Please, help me,” she said, her hand to her mouth.

“Chello!” he repeated.

“Not for me… for my baby… please… help my child.”

The woman thrust the baby forward, stopping Marlon in his tracks.

In an unconscious glance he saw a ravenous team of flies biting into the open sore on the distraught child’s mucus covered face. On cue the baby began screaming.

A true professional…

Born to cry!

“Get that fucking thing away from me!” he protested, raising his fist.

The woman skulked off, stealing increasingly disgusted looks back at him as she gained confidence through distance.

Marlon slid into the Hummer, sweating profusely.

“That flight was a fucking nightmare!” he said, slamming the door.

“Global warming,” Singh said wearily. “Part of the end play.”

Marlon had a second look at Singh – end play?

Is he sick or something?

“What are you talking about Singh, you gloomy bastard?”

Marlon didn’t wait for the answer – he couldn’t care less about the answer.

“Have you got it for me?” he said impulsively.

“What?” Singh asked, surprised, as if he had no idea what Marlon was referring to.

“Give it to me!”

Marlon put his hand out and demanded it. He hated not having a gun. After all, he was American! Having a gun was his right! Marlon never moved anywhere without a gun. At any moment, night or day – out driving, at the supermarket, even at home in bed – he might need it to shoot someone.

Some evil bastard!

Some lunatic!

Some… deluded trouble-maker.