POVERTY TRAP. Continuation. After a long journey that seemed to take them right through the city Tambu stopped at a grand-looking hotel, the City Continental. Thornton noticed the once-splendid facade and foyer were now starting to come apart. The room tariff took his breath away: converted it was two-hundred-and-fifty pounds B and B for a single. He'd been told by Josh two days ago that the safest way to stay was to book into the finest hotel: this was it. After a little confusion he got to his room, which was pleasant but a little tacky where Formica had chipped. He was tired, knowing that retirement at normal times, local time, was the best to settle. He took out his 'standard police style' notebook and jotted down events, particularly conversations. After undressing and before getting into bed, he ran a ring of insect repellent around his neck and each wrist and ankle. A well-known moisturiser was applied to his face: best 'mossie' repellant around, he'd been told. Next morning, Tambu collected him from the hotel for his pre-arranged meeting with a government official. Fifty yards from the hotel there was a sound like firecrackers: the passenger side front window shattered into Thornton's lap. 'Wha-?' 'They know you here - what for,' said Tambu, 'we go.' 'Go ... where, in this?' 'Now - go!' Tambu ducked out of the minivan and crashed open the sliding door half-dragging Thornton behind a road sign. A little man ducked behind the sign with them. 'You English?' the man said. What? Mmm,' Thornton said, curtly. 'You take things back to England, sell, me give you some.' 'Are you ... we're in the middle of a war!' The man snorted. 'This not war ... just little argument. Want you for ransom ... nothing. Look.' The man took out some intricate wooden carvings from his pockets, pushing them at Thornton. 'You take, no problem, government stamp on bottom, best.' Bullets zinged around them. The man ignored them; Thornton cowered. 'Good timing, friend,' Thornton smiled, one-sided, during a lull. The man looked back at him quizzically. Thornton thought he heard a dull thud of metal-on-metal, then numbness and darkness. His first moment of consciousness was heralded by the welcome tones of a dull news-bulletin, then realisation: stretched out on Angola's only jumbo. He later remembered some out-of-focus mumblings, otherwise nothing. An American, apparently a doctor sat on the opposite seat, looking periodically across, concerned, then with a broad smile as Thornton woke up. 'Whaaa ... happ'nd -?' 'You were slugged by a stray slug, buddy,' the doctor said, rolling his tongue around the pun, 'you'll be home soon.' Thornton was told on arrival that he'd been hit in the head by a sniper bullet fragment: luck was with him, just superficial damage. Selina welcomed him and walked alongside as he was wheeled to an ambulance. Thornton enjoyed her amazement as he refused to enter the ambulance until she'd emptied her purse into the cup of the dirtiest beggar at the building's exit. He and the beggar just smiled. The End Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

David Daniels can be contacted at proteus@group95.freeserve.co.uk