

### Death of a Financier

John Francis Kinsella

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 by John Francis Kinsella

All rights reserved

Cover design Vincennes Books

www.johnkinsella.net

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*****

Chapter 1

It was Friday morning, the last working day before Christmas, when Stephen Parkly presiding over a special board meeting of West Mercian Finance, at its headquarters on Bank Street in the City of London, put his signature to the document approving the firm's annual bonuses.

The announcement, scheduled for eleven, was impatiently awaited by the firm's executives and staff, most of whom would be leaving at lunch time for the Christmas vacation, during which the offices were to all intents and purposes closed until January 2.

It had been a good year, perhaps not quite as profitable as 2006, but nevertheless good in spite of a slower fourth quarter. Parkly's bonus was £250,000 – modest by some standards – West Mercian was not Morgan Stanley, but it was over a quarter of his £900,000 fixed annual compensation.

If things went well Parkly could, in the not too distant future, expect to appear on the Queen's Honours List with perhaps a knighthood for his contribution to Britain's glowing economy and more especially that of the City.

The only cloud on the horizon was a nagging question as to the extent of the firm's exposure to certain mortgage backed instruments, a question that would be faced in January, after his return from the year end break and the completion of the provisional year end accounts. The next day he was leaving for India with Emma, his new and young wife, he had promised her sunshine to make up for all those long hours he had been putting in following the recent turbulence in the financial markets.

In spite of the billions lost and the trillions wiped off stocks, City bonuses were almost unaffected, some were a modest few percent lower than the previous year, others were equal to or even better since all in all the year had been a good year for the City in general.

City bankers, executives and traders had become used to stuffing their pockets with what was in effect their shareholders' or customers' money, ignoring the plight of many of their fellow citizens beyond the hallowed shrines of finance. More than five million Britons were living on benefits: the old, the sick and the poor, after a decade of unbroken economic growth, whilst the Government ran a huge deficit borrowing more than forty billion pounds a year.

Emma Parkly was almost twenty years younger than her husband; she was what Americans would have called a trophy wife. Emma, the daughter of a prominent newspaper editor, a sometime fashion model and TV journalist, wrote for Tattler; the kind of articles that described Madonna's 'romantic rural retreat in the English countryside' or 'Marella Agnelli's enchanted villa and gardens in the Palmeraie of Marrakech'.

She had met Stephen at a party given by Karl Lagerfeld in Ramatuelle, near Saint-Tropez, to celebrate the launching of a new fashion line. She had been fascinated to meet a real City financier, from a world so different to that of the illusory fashion scene with its hollow personalities, a man who had arrived by private jet and helicopter, as for Parkly he was delighted to talk to a refreshing young woman about anything but finance.

That weekend, Parkly's now ex-wife had been in Manhattan for the vernissage of an up and coming Spanish modernist painter with whom she had become infatuated. Parkly, normally an imperturbable individual, seriously riled by her antics, had accepted the invitation from one of his new highly geared City friends to fly down to the Côte for the party in his jet.

Stephen Parkly's sudden rise to fame as CEO of West Mercian Finance came just four years previously, after the tragic death of the firm's founder John Cameron in a helicopter crash, projecting Parkly to unexpected power and wealth. Until fortune smiled on him he had been the long standing right hand of the founder, who had transformed the West Mercian Permanent Building Society from a small regional mutual into a modern broad based banking and finance group based in the City of London.

Parkly was a good manager, but with neither the charisma nor the business flair of the late lamented Cameron. An accountant by training he had been taught impartiality, veering to disbelief vis-à-vis others, which had led to a certain reserve and some even said dourness of character. However, the housing market was already launched on its vertiginous climb, from an average home price of £121,000 in April 2002 to £230,000 at the last estimation, and the firm prospered as never before.

After the tragic loss of the founder, the board of directors, without any other ready made leader amongst them, a consequence of Cameron's overwhelmingly dominant position, voted Parkly as the new CEO, there was no reason to risk a radical change. Parkly, credited with having been instrumental in guiding Cameron's decision towards demutualization, had the confidence of the shareholders and was perceived as a steady hand at the helm.

As West Mercian surfed the boom, investing its funds in the new instruments that were invented and introduced by leading American investment houses, it went from strength to strength, borrowing on the financial markets to finance mortgage loans for the average Briton, since West Mercian was no longer a building society and savers deposits were insufficient to cover the growth of its mortgage business.

Building societies had originated in the 18th century, when working men pooled their savings in mutual societies from which members could borrow to build homes, once every member had achieved the goal of building his own home the society was wound up. However, some of these were transformed into permanent building societies, accepting savings deposits from members and offering not only traditional mortgaged linked home loans, but also other loans.

With deregulation many building societies were demutualised and floated on the stock exchange. Since then, the only major difference between most building societies and high street banks was that building societies mainly offered mortgage services. However, current, savings and business accounts, credit cards and loans were available from both, and both offered various kinds of investment opportunities via their unit trusts or mutual funds.

*****

Chapter 2

A freezing damp mist hung in the air with the watery glare of the yellow street lamps throwing strange shadows off the Christmas trees and holly piled against the stalls. It was six thirty in the morning and just seven more shopping days to Christmas. Three more market days including today, Karen reminded herself unloading the last of the cardboard boxes bulging with jeans and tee-shirts from her white Ford Transit. The stall was beginning to look ship shape and it was almost time for a good strong hot cup of tea and a bacon sandwich in the café across the market place before the early birds started to arrive.

It was Wednesday morning in Romford Market, market days were Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Christmas fell on a Tuesday, but if things went well, she together with her sister-in-law Sharon and their kids would be far from the rigours of the British winter and mistletoe by then.

Mi mum and dad will look after the stall on Saturday morning and whilst we're away, she reminded herself. Everything depended on Harry, if he could get rid of Dave's goods at a decent price then it would be a great holiday. It was a pity it was a bit late for the Christmas trade, but still the goods should move quickly with the holidays and there would still be plenty of money floating around until the New Year, still time to give a late present.

Karen's brother-in-law, Harry, ran a garage under the Liverpool Street line railway viaduct, his business was second hand cars and repairs. From time to time he rebuilt a wreck, at least that was what it looked like. It was the only thing that kept the garage in business, but he had to be careful. He'd never had any real bother with the police, keeping in their good books. He ran what he liked to call a legitimate business, helped by servicing the cars of one or two of the local Bill for free and feeding them titbits of information on Romford dealers and the local druggies. Harry as a family man strongly disapproved of drugs.

However, Harry's business was not entirely above board. He had a sideline involving everything from stolen cars to receiving, he was an old fashioned crook, keeping well clear of modern crime, which was to say drugs, serious violence, illegal immigration and tax fraud, yes, he paid his taxes and kept the books of the family business.

Terry, his brother, looked after the car recycling end of the business, buying badly damaged top of the range vehicles from a friendly breakers yard, not total write-offs, but cars with serious accident damage and no obligation to return the logbook to the DVLA. The V5 logbook with engine block and chassis VIN numbers were transferred to a stolen car of the same model. Then the stolen car was meticulously cleaned; the new number plates corresponding to that of the wreck added, the radio and accessories replaced, in brief no expense was spared and no corners were cut.

Harry's policy was based on zero risk, he had learnt the lesson when he was a kid from his own dad, who seemed to have been in and out of the country like a yoyo, dodging the police, suspected of everything from receiving to attempted armed robbery.

Hubert, Harry's dad, held a Dominican passport that he had acquired for a couple of thousand pounds, a small price to pay to escape the clutches of the Metropolitan Police, back in the seventies when the small island had just been granted independence. He was a respected citizen of the Commonwealth of Dominica, which convieniently lay between the French islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe – not to be confused with the Dominican Republic, where he had lived for several years until he had been forgotten by the Mets.

Since those days Hubert had reformed, on a day to day basis he helped run the Romford market stall, but his real job was caring for the family's savings that were safely tucked away in an offshore account in Roseau, the Dominican capital. His knowledge of the Caribbean ensured that the disguised vehicles were legally exported as second hand cars to the different islands of the Eastern Caribbean States, where import taxes ran at forty percent, to be sold though a dealership run by Cecil Reed, Sharon's ex, who was a Dominican and a Kalinago.

Alistair Darling, the then Transport Secretary, had introduced a new telephone and online car tax service at the Driving and Vehicle Licensing Agency, a heaven sent gift for Harry, making re-licensing easier, impersonal and quicker than ever before. The process could be completed in a matter of minutes thanks to the introduction of a new computerised vehicle licensing service. Motorists could renew their car tax, wherever and whenever they wanted, without the need to produce copies of supporting documentation such as insurance and MOT certificates. Tax discs were dispatched by post and received within a few working days.

Sharon's friend, Dave, worked as a guard for a security firm and had been hired out to Safeway in Romford for the Christmas period. As a security guard he was one hundred percent above board and enjoyed a good reputation with his employers as a serious though rather introspective worker. He mostly worked as a temporary, that is to say whenever it suited him.

Dave also had side line in stolen goods and fencing, though never in connection with the companies where he worked as a security guard, or with their personnel. As a fence he worked alone, he trusted almost no one, except for close family. Dave was of average height, slightly built, quiet and if it were not for his sharp eyes and weaselly face, a casual observer could have been excused for thinking of him as almost sickly.

In the early hours of Wednesday, making his night rounds at Safeway, he had noticed a white Vivaro delivery van in the Dixon car park, separated by a wire fence from the Safeway loading bay. There was nothing unusual in that, but what caught his attention was the van's backdoors were slightly ajar. He stubbed out his cigarette and waited in the shadow of a doorway, then after some moments he saw a movement, a figure appeared, pulled wide open the van door and unloaded a carton. Dave flashed his torch in the direction of the van, there was a heavy thud as the carton fell to the ground and the figure made off at speed to the nearby goods entrance where he pulled open the gate and made off in a waiting pickup.

Dave made his way out of the Safeway compound towards the Dixons' goods entrance, which would have normally been locked. The only noise was that of the distant traffic, there was not another soul in sight, though Dixon's security guard should have been making his rounds. Amateurs he thought as he cautiously approached the Vivaro and inspected its back doors, the packing case lay on the ground where it had fallen.

He walked around to the driver's door, it was open, he flashed his torch inside, there was no key in the ignition. He returned to the back, replaced the packing case and quietly eased the doors close. Then slipping into the driver's seat expertly pulled out the steering wheel surround, checked it for the alarm, which he short circuited, then with the starter wires made contact and the motor sprung into life. He drove towards the gate, stopped, pulled it open, drove through, stopped again and carefully closed it.

Five minutes later he parked the van on the street a couple of blocks away amongst other parked vans and goods vehicles and made his way back to Safeway. It was six in the morning when he signed off leaving his place to the day shift, there was nothing unusual to report, that is at Safeway.

It was still another two hours before daybreak when Dave drove the Vivaro into a rundown lockup under one of the railway arches, a short walk from the garage. He then called Harry and together it took them less than half an hour to unload the van. It was then abandoned in an M25 service station car park and Dave returned to the lockup with Harry who had followed him in another van.

It was their Christmas bonus, digital cameras, PC flat screens, laptops, mobile phones and other devices, all the goodies for the Christmas rush, worth tens of thousands of pounds to a fence.

Before midday, when Dixons finally discovered and reported the disappearance of the van whilst their security guard tried to explain the unexplainable – his coffee had been doped by a couple of Christmas temps who had fled, the goods had been off loaded to a couple of East London fences who would have it all moved up country by the end of the same day, way off the beat of the Mets. It was a ten grand windfall for the two lads and would more than pay for their Christmas in the sun with the girls and their daughters.

Earlier that same morning as Karen drank her coffee and ate her bacon sandwich she gave a friendly nod to a well dressed man taking a quick breakfast at a nearby table in the steamy café. It was not unusual for City office workers and other commuters getting off to an early start to stop for a coffee or a bite after dropping their cars in the multi-storey car park before taking the city train at Romford Station. Karen was an attractive girl, she could have done with losing a few kilos, but she had an attractive face and nice teeth, only her accent let her down. Tom Barton nodded back and a mouthed a hello, she smiled back. Barton had a friendly face and in his business his openness had always been an advantage.

'Getting ready for the Christmas rush?' he asked.

'Yeah, at least mi dad is, the rest of us are off to the sun,' she told him in a matter of fact way and without any sign of posing.

Barton envied the stall owners, they seemed from his position to have a trouble free life, sure it was hard work, but they earned good money. He knew Karen lived not more than a mile from his place in a very comfortably detached house.

'Where are you off to then?'

'We've booked a flight to India.'

'India! That's not exactly sea and sand.'

'In the south, Kerala, some nice beaches, was there a few years ago, before Deana was born.'

'Oh, I hope you enjoy it,' he said looking at his watch. It was almost seven twenty and if he wanted to catch the fast train to Fenchurch Street he would have to step on it.

'Have a nice holiday then, I must rush, and a happy Christmas.'

'You too.'

Barton hurried down the High Street wondering why on earth someone would want to go to India for the Christmas holidays. He quickly put the idea out of his head, there were more urgent things to attend to, he had a busy couple of days ahead of him.

First on his list were the papers for an appointment with his solicitor, Michael Henderson, to settle some final details on the Canary Warf BTLs. Then there was the outstanding business in the office to be attended to, including the year end bonuses, and last but not least was a shopping expedition for his carefully planned disappearance.

*****

Chapter 3

Barton ran a finance and mortgage brokerage business in the City and the last five years had been the most profitable of his career. He had arranged mortgages and re-financing for countless families; for their dream homes, house extensions, holiday homes, cars and exotic holidays. He himself was mortgaged up to the hilt with an unnecessarily large status symbol home on the edge of Epping Forest.

He knew the time had come to get out when he realized he was beginning to believing his own spiel, a costly mistake. Only when the Northern Rock fiasco erupted the previous summer did the alarm bells start ringing. The subprime risk had been discussed by the contrarians for months, considered purveyors of doom by those with vested interests in the City, few were prepared to listen to them in the heady boom time when house prices rose daily. Then slowly but surely the market started to unwind in the States and Barton knew it was just a matter of time before the UK was affected. The game was up and it was time to call it a day.

Tom Barton's prosperity had been based on a golden rule; don't spend more than you earn, this rule had however already long been dumped overboard by a large segment of the British public, replaced by don't spend more than you can afford to pay back, and of late by don't spend more than the credit being shovelled day after day through your letterbox.

Barton had been a willing participant in the mortgage crisis, indirectly fuelling the house price bubble by encouraging all and sundry to make fraudulent declarations as to their revenues and invest in everything from BTLs to apartments on the Costa del Sol and even further afield for the wealthier. How could the punters lose? Home prices went up quicker than he could put a loan together, in the euphoria he not only leveraged his clients investments but also his own, acquiring even more property, pumping up the balloon faster than mortgage companies could invent more unbeatable deals for home owners.

It had reached a point where anyone who could hold a ballpoint pen and was not brain dead could sign up for a one hundred percent plus mortgage on almost any property after self certification. In the words of a friend, the director of a leading bank, it was one of the greatest credit bubbles ever seen.

The writing was on the wall, the music had stopped, whatever the cliché it was time to get out, and quick, but how? Prices had stalled and were even starting to fall, behind the hype it was difficult to move property. Barton's worse deal was in Dublin, where prices had fallen ten percent in six months.

To his great regret, he had become involved in the development of a fancy Dublin Bay BTL project. After three months of unsuccessfully trying to let the flats profitably the bank had leaned on him, forcing him into lowering the rents to generate some badly needed cash flow. It was costing him as he pumped money into the Dublin business to cover the shortfall and keep the bank happy, a situation that could not last long and he had to find a way out. To top it all the Irish stock market had lost 26% over the previous twelve months, a bad sign, a very bad sign. The Irish banks had thrown enough money away to make the Northern Rock look like Scrooge.

The same scenario was unfolding at the Guadalmina Golf and Country Club development in Spain, where he was promoting the sale of luxury holiday homes to British buyers for the first and second phases of the residential development.

Like in many other businesses alarm bells, rather than tills, were ringing. After a ten year spending boom, hundreds of thousands of over indebted families were plunged into insolvency as their creditors caught up with them. The moment was ripe to move on, to where and into what he was unsure. Dubai looked good on paper, but in view of the quantity of new property the Arabs were putting on the market it was neither the Yanks nor your average Brit who were going to be putting their money there. In any case Tom did not feel happy with Middle Easterners, things could turn nasty out there with Iran just short hop across the water.

Then there was China, but he knew nothing about the country or its language, his only experience of the Far East was limited to the very friendly manager of an overly expensive local Chinese restaurant in Epping, whom he suspected would shake hands with anyone who could produce a valid credit card. As for Australia the shit had already hit the fan and homeowners, lenders and real estate agents were running for cover.

Though Tom had taken risks and enjoyed good living, he knew that inevitably all good things came to an end, past experience had taught him that when he had fallen back to earth, but he had always dusted himself off, picked up the pieces and started over again.

Now, older and wiser, he had had the foresight to set-up what he liked to think of as a disaster fund. He had, on the advice of a good friend at the West Mercian, opened a bank account in Luxembourg, into which he put a little money aside when ever the occasion arose. Barton congratulated himself on his prudence, since unlike Gordon Brown, who in better times had convinced the British public that the boom was all to do with his careful management, he had put something aside for a rainy day, and that day was now at hand.

That Wednesday morning Barton was about to unload a batch of BTLs he owned at a Canary Warf development. He had bought them off plan three years previously and the prices had more than doubled, even taking into account the unfavourable discount he was forced to concede to his buyer given the changed market conditions. It was a good deal, the BTLs were all occupied by young City executives, who for the moment were still paying their greatly exaggerated rents

The buyers were Indian investors who owned a chain of supermarkets and were paying cash, which Barton suspected was derived from some undeclared business in the Midlands, wherever it came from it was not his problem, business is business he thought, caveat emptor and the rest of it. Barton would make a cool three and a half million pounds profit after the outstanding loan to West Mercian Finance was deducted.

Michael Henderson, a serious man who stuck to the essential with few unnecessary questions, confirmed the purchase monies had been received and transaction completed that morning with the buyers' solicitors. All that remained was the hand over of the keys, which Barton promptly produced wishing his buyers success and goodbye.

He then turned his attention to another task. Henderson had drawn up papers appointing Barton's very capable junior partner and longstanding assistant Michael Smeaton as managing director of the brokerage firm, a limited company, it was Barton's Christmas, if not parting, gift. The business was sound, only Barton's personal investments had been bad.

Late that morning, after a quick visit to his bank, he headed back to his office, more than satisfied with the day's business in the sure knowledge that his profits were safely now transferred to the Kansallis Bank in Luxembourg. He was ready to announce the anticipated news of Michael Smeaton's appointment as MD, as well as the year end bonuses.

Henderson had only one further task, which was the transfer of Barton's shares in the brokerage for the symbolic sum of £1, effective 1st January, to Smeaton, who was to be informed of the transaction immediately the holidays were over.

*****

Chapter 4

Once the serious business was over his next job was to fit himself out with a new wardrobe and prepare for his retreat by joining the Christmas crowds in the West End stores. His needs included a new set of quality suitcases as he planned to be away for an undetermined period of time. Then there were things he had not had much use for recently such as swimwear, Bermudas, trainers, polos and sunglasses. As for cameras and electronic gear he would be able to pick up all that he needed in Dubai.

The orgy of Christmas shopping was everywhere, he had expected crowds, but nothing like those he encountered on Regent Street and Bond Street. It only confirmed that year end consumer spending was hitting an all time high in spite of the bad news on the economic front. The rosy future that had become a permanent feature for most Britons was slowly beginning fade, in fact it looked much less promising and the looming economic crisis was slowly but surely beginning to weigh on the finances of the average Briton.

It was like fiddling as Rome burnt, a Bacchanalian feast of food and drink as plastic flashed across the counters of department store, supermarkets, travel agencies and restaurants to satisfy the need of a generation raised on rising expectations, rising house prices and rising incomes.

Low interest rates and the battle between credit card firms had sparked a deluge of unbeatably offers. The invention of introductory balance transfer rates with an interest free period for new customers had given birth to a new species called 'rate tarts' by the media, which spent its life jumping from one card to another. Debt was recycled and every time an application was made for a new card, a credit search was carried out and recorded, if the outstanding balance of a previous card had been transferred, then it showed up as having paid off the debit, which was interpreted as an indication of creditworthiness by lenders.

As credit companies fought it out, vying with each other to press new cards onto their already overloaded customers, hopping from card to card became a habit with card holders being drawn into the plastic frenzy developing an uncontrollable desire for limitless spending.

However, in spite of the events that were threatening the financial institutions and the economy of the country, a situation which had been announced by the spectacular nineteenth century run on the Northern Rock, the British public flooded into their brightly decorated temples, their wallets bulging with plastic and seemingly limitless credit, to celebrate their annual pagan feast and to offer sacrifice, sacrifice in the form of obscenely high interest rates to their goddess Juno Moneta.

*****

Chapter 5

The same morning in their small Smethwick semi, David and Barbara Parkins were preparing for their Christmas break, they deserved it. The Parkins managed a local hotel and restaurant, part of a countrywide chain, and twice a week Barbara also used one of the hotel's meeting rooms for her meditation classes and Ayurvedic massages, she also ran a mail order business selling diets and herbal supplements to a growing number of Ayurvedic adepts.

Over the years they had managed small hotels in different locations, living carefully and putting their money aside for an early retirement. They had worked hard and the BTLs they had invested in were nearing completion, in fact the first of the six apartments they had bought was completed and they had found a tenant. The rent was a little lower than they had anticipated, but perhaps it was just the time of the year. The other five BTLs were nearing completion and when they returned from vacation they would start advertising for tenants.

Their holiday destination was Kovalam in Kerala, situated on the Malabar Coast in south west India, where Barbara would attend classes given by her Ayurvedic guru, Doctor Dharma Jayanthi, for advanced training.

Barbara's first visit to India went back several years. Until that time her travels had been limited to the Costa del Sol or Tenerife. She had jumped at the opportunity of joining a couple of girl friends, who were into yoga, on a holiday in India. David had agreed to look after the business as he usually did – taking holidays together had always been a problem with a hotel to run.

Together with her two friends she had left a miserably cold Smethwick under three inches of melting snow, Barbara sniffing throughout the eleven hour flight to India as flu invaded her body.

The next morning full of aches and pains she discovered Dharma Jayanthi's small massage centre nearby the guesthouse, she was perhaps attracted by the smell of eucalyptus oil, but in any case was convinced by the tall bearded Indian who told her a massage would put her right in no time.

At first the massage seemed to increase her aches and pains, but then they started to ease as Dharma's skilful hands kneaded her body and as the aroma of exotic oils invaded her sinuses, clearing the thickness that had filled her head, and a wave of well being flowed over her.

Barbara had never before experienced such a sensation of pleasure and relaxation, and each morning she went to Dharma's to be massaged and listen to his soothing words – at that time when prices were affordable and well within her budget he had no difficulty in persuading her to join his daily yoga class.

Dharma was a born businessman from a merchant caste, though his family had little money. He realised that the thousands of foreigners who spent money to come to Kerala could be his path to wealth, if only he figured out how to use them. By speaking to women like Barbara every day he began to understand a world he knew little of, he had never in fact travelled outside of Kerala. But the task was a difficult one, the foreigners lived so far away, the telephone was out of the question, surface and even airmail mail took too long, it seemed insoluble, that was until the Internet came to Kovalam some five years later.

In no time enterprising Indians like Dharma flooded the web with Ayurvedic websites, mixing exotic holidays with mystical massages and hotel bookings with rejuvenation in Kerala and its budding beach resorts.

Kerala was still a relatively unknown tourist destination, but its government did not intend it to remain that way for long and Ayurveda with cheap medical tourism was their trump card.

As tourists were delivered to their hotels in Kovalam they were submerged by publicity panels of all shapes and sizes vaunting the quality of innumerable Ayurvedic centres.

Ideally, a complete Ayurvedic diet needed four weeks for its benefits to be longer lasting, but for most tourists their vacation lasted one or two weeks and perhaps at a stretch three, very few stayed longer though those who did were mainly retired and were most in need of a cure. Return business soon became a key part of Ayurvedic tourism and thus Dharma's need to cultivate the loyalty of clients.

Ten years after the modest start his Ayurvedic centre had grown into a luxurious establishment set on several acres of gardens bordering a private beach to the north of Kovalam. The centre consisted of a clinic with luxury airconditioned cottages attractively disposed amongst the palm shaded gardens. The season ran from September to February with the peak during the year end holiday period when Europeans in search of sunshine flooded in and the occupancy rate soared to one hundred percent. The prices also soared; cottages commenced at one hundred pounds a night and three hundred for the larger family units. The proposed Ayurvedic treatment commenced with massages using essential oils at twenty five pounds and at the top end of the range five hundred pounds for the five day programme excluding accommodation.

Dharma paid special attention to detail, ensuring that the centre was impeccably maintained, a difficult task in southern India, and to what he described as Swiss standards with fully sterile oils, herbal powders and trained masseurs. Certain Europeans overlooked the failings in India, but not the kind of client Dharma sought.

His recently created foundation controlled a budding European network that counted several associate agents, such as Barbara, and formed an essential part of his business development plan, promoting his centre and distributing his products.

What most attracted clients such as Nicole Kavanagh was the weight loss and rejuvenation programme. The special purification diet, entirely vegetarian and without alcohol, was a great success with the ladies. Very few returned home without having lost a few or more kilos, which together with the winter holiday break gave them a healthy tone, not forgetting a glowing tan, guarantying them the admiration and envy of their less fortunate girl friends back in the UK or Sweden.

Even better for Dharma, was their need to continue to feel good, ensuring a steady demand for his products and courses, and naturally a desire to renew the experience by returning to his centre in Kerala.

The growing success of Barbara's business fuelled her ambition to set up a system of franchises in the UK and in the long term establishing an Ayurvedic treatment centre in Birmingham.

However, not all advocates of Ayurveda saw it as a business, but rather as a science not to be commercially exploited, which did not prevent the Kerala state government from promoting Ayurvedic treatment as one of the principal tourist attractions of their state, which had few other resources, in an award winning advertising campaign.

Dharma's master stroke was convincing the Maharaja Palace to invest in a health care centre in the hotel grounds, giving him the operating and management franchise, in that way guests such as Nicole had no need to leave their luxurious hotel or their friends and families who were not necessarily amateurs of Ayurvedic massages, as was often the case for husbands.

The hotel's restaurants offered dishes and desserts designed to meet the strict vegetarian parameters of Ayurveda enhanced with Chinese, Indian and European flavours.

The hotel health care centre also boasted a stylish boutique, where a full range of Ayurvedic products from shampoos to medicines were available.

Dharma was a pretended purist, accusing many newcomers to the business of not providing genuine treatment and only interested in making money. He was of course protecting his own interests and disapproved of licenses indiscriminately handed out by the state government to almost anybody wanting to set up a centre.

Dharma had been awarded an honorary doctorate from the long established School of Ayurvedic Medicine in Thiruvananthapuram. However, this was more a tribute to his success as a businessman and his generous contributions than for his achievements in Ayurvedic scholarship, and of course because of his support for the school's position in its criticism of the lobby that represented the tourist industry, which was directly responsible for the indiscriminate growth of Ayurveda centres.

He strongly disapproved of practices that gave Ayurvedic care a bad name, such as the massage parlours that employed female masseurs, beach massages, poor quality oils as well as profiteers without any form of training who fooled ignorant tourists.

*****

Chapter 6

Barton left his Jaguar as planned at the Terminal 4 car park. Heathrow was the usual shambles with its flight delays and the constant threat of strikes. That evening he was lucky, things went smoothly at the Emirates check-in counter, the flight was announced on time when he presented his passport and electronic ticket for Dubai, he had no problem with his forty kilos of baggage; he was flying business.

It had seemed like a good idea to check out the Dubai real estate market and he had armed himself with a folder full of brochures. It was a seven hour flight to the Emirate and as he settled down in his wide business class seat to sip his Champagne he felt very pleased with himself.

The Irish could stuff themselves as far as their extravagantly expensive BTLs were concerned, he told himself, they were so effing slow, it would take them weeks, if not months, to discover the limited company set up to manage the investment had folded and its director disappeared. As for his Epping home it would be repossessed on payment default after he was posted as having absconded.

After the meal he started to thumb through Dubai guide book and the real estate brochures. Though he had heard of the construction boom in the Gulf he had never quite realised that it had been on such a scale, it seemed that there were skyscrapers everywhere and even offshore condominiums built on artificial islands. It was like the dream of a real estate scam come true. He knew there were a lot of rich people around, but this many seemed absurd or perhaps he was simply out of touch.

On arrival in Dubai, he took a taxi to the Grand Hyatt situated near the Creek where he booked into a suite at 3,300 Dirham, about £400 a night. The 10th floor suite overlooked a series of swimming pools and palm studded gardens, beyond there was also what appeared to be a lake and further to the west a stunning view of the city's extraordinary skyline.

The hotel was situated to the south of the Old Town and was surrounded by new buildings, offices, condos and shopping malls. The only negative point was the suite's layout, there was no separation between the sitting room and the bedroom area, given its price and the evident availability of construction workers he asked himself why they had not been able to afford an additional wall or partition.

He was undecided whether to have a nap or not, it was early, eight thirty in the morning. After thinking about it for a moment he concluded that his short sleep on the plane had been sufficient and decided to take a shower before checking the mass of brochures announcing the good things to be seen in Dubai. He then unpacked the overnight case, leaving the other two closed then took the benefit of the extravagantly appointed shower to shake off the flight hangover.

After some searching he found the coffee shop in the cavernous maze of the hotel, he ordered a coffee and croissant and started to flip through a tourist guide, after all he was a tourist and he needed to get his bearings before he decided on how to start the exploration of the Emirate. It was all a little confusing, museums, shopping malls, beaches, shopping malls, dunes and more shopping malls.

A recurrent ad announced a two hour circular bus tour of the city; there was a picture of the bus, a red double-decker with an open top deck, which stopped at the different points of interest. His mind made up he called for the bill, forgetting any idea of an air-conditioned limousine in favour of the airy open top double-decker bus. There were two routes, blue and red, he decide to start with the red route through the Old Town. A taxi dropped him off near the Creek at the Heritage Village in the Old Town, where the Big Bus City Tour started; he paid 175 dirham for the ticket boarded the bus and took a seat on the upper deck.

His first observation from the taxi had been the traffic, it seemed worse than London, a slow moving jam, taking about twenty minutes to do a couple miles; the second was the city seemed to be like a gigantic building site. Perhaps it would improve further on, he thought, where he had caught a glimpse of what the brochure described as the world's highest building. The bus was due to leave in five minutes and he settled back on his front seat to enjoy the warmth of the morning sun, there was no disputing that it was a considerable improvement on the dismally cold London weather.

He was awoken from his reveries by a loud female cockney voice; he looked around and saw two girls of about ten years old arriving at the top of the stairs followed by two women who appeared to be their mothers. One of them he seemed to vaguely recognise. There made their way forward and the two girls occupied the empty seats across the aisle from him. He smiled at them and the mothers.

'Hallo,' said the more attractive of the two mothers, 'aren't you from Epping?' The cockney accent was pronounced, the smile familiar.

'Oh hallo,' he replied surprised. 'Of course we've spoken together in the market in Romford.'

He felt a little uncomfortable being recognised, it was his first day out of the UK and here he was talking to somebody from Epping who knew him. On the other hand, he had done nothing, at least known to the public, he was simply taking a hard earned break, even if it was to be a long one, no one was looking for him. The girl did not even know who he was, even his name.

'On holiday?'

'Yes, getting in some sun. What about you?'

'India, were going to Kerala.'

'Ah yes, I remember you mentioned that.'

'We arrived yesterday, doing a bit of shopping, though there's not much we really need,' she said nodding to her new camera. 'Were not short of clothes either,' she laughed alluding to her stall in the market. 'It makes a break in the flight for the kids.' The two girls were chatting excitedly and pointing to the small ferry boats on the Creek, completely oblivious to the rest of the world around them.

'What about you?'

'Me, well I'm staying here for a few days, after that I don't know.'

The bus started and made its way through the Old Town traffic, passing by what was announced as the National Museum and other places of interest. Then it looped back and taking the Al Shindagha Tunnel to the other side of the Creek up to the Al Maktoum Bridge, where Barton wishing the East Enders goodbye abandoned the bus for a taxi back to the hotel before he was completely burnt up by the sun.

It had taken an hour, without the traffic it would have been all over in ten minutes. For the moment he was unimpressed by what he had seen.

After lunch he took the blue tour along Al Jumeirah Road that ran westwards along the Arabian Gulf overlooking the beach area, passing the palace and a series of luxury hotels: Hiltons, Sheratons, Meridiens and other look-a-likes standing almost side by side. The guide announced the offshore residential developments: behind was the Palm Deira, after Medina Jumeirah was The Crescent, then beyond the port and residential district The Palm Jebel Ali followed by the Dubai Water Front.

Barton was astonished by the skyscrapers, one after the other, and by the offshore residential developments. He was undecided as to whether it was a real estate man's dream or nightmare; he could not deny the achievements and the reality that stood before him, on the other hand the ambitions of the developers seemed staggering and the risks enormous. He could not help asking himself how they were going to sell it all and concluded that there were a lot more oil rich Arabs in Dubai than he had thought.

The tourist hotels situated along the beach area offered the usual combination of sea, sand and sun, as well as alcohol, which though forbidden in Saudi Arabia, just a couple of hours drive to the south, was one of the pleasures that attracted many Saudis to the Emirate

The information booklet he had read over lunch told him that Dubai was one of the seven emirates that constituted the United Arab Emirates; Dubai City was its capital. Dubai had the largest population of the seven and was the second largest in land area. Contrary to what Barton could have thought, revenues from oil and natural gas contributed less than six percent to Dubai's economy and its reserves were soon expected to run out, as a result the Emirate was dependent on revenues from its tax free zone, tourism and service businesses. In any case evidence of the country's prosperity was everywhere for the eyes to see, whether it would last or not was another question, especially if there was a sustained global economic downturn as Barton suspected was at hand.

The total population of the Dubai was about one point five million with three times more men than women, though less than a fifth were UAE nationals. The foreigners, more than 80% of the population, were immigrant workers, in the vast majority men: Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Filipinos. Barton soon discovered foreign nationals worked principally in construction and low level service jobs, often in poor living conditions, where it was not uncommon for six or more people to share the same room. He also observed a small minority of Westerners also lived in the Emirate, both men and women, whom he had seen passing by wearing business suites carrying briefcases, they worked in specialised jobs in the finance and technical sectors.

The bus then turned back taking Sheik Sayed Road past the spectacular Burj Al Arab tower the world's tallest building with 164 floors, 818 meters high, he could not help thinking it would be a spectacular target for Al Qaeda.

Barton's head was dizzy with towers, concrete and construction. It was all part of the Dubai government's decision to diversify their economy inito service and tourism; the result was real estate had shot up following the worldwide trend. All personal, corporate and sales taxes were abolished so as to transform the Emirate into the trading emporium of the world, where foreigners could invest, own property and companies, all of which would hopefully create a huge influx of businesses and skilled foreign workers.

He wondered if he was a witness to the long anticipated decline of the West and the take over of its businesses by rising powers, just as another emirate, Abu Dhabi, had become the largest shareholder in the mighty Citigroup's investment group, the Government of Singapore took part ownership in Merrill Lynch whilst the Chinese helped themselves to ten percent of Morgan Stanley, the list was long, though of course sovereign funds held but a tiny three percent of world businesses, nevertheless it could have been an augur of things to come.

That evening he offered himself a lobster and steak dinner at the Manhattan Grill to celebrate the first day of his new life. The only question mark was his next stop, the Emirate did not seem like the kind of place he would care to spend the next couple of years of his life. In spite of that he would check out one of the offshore property developments and perhaps make a visit to the Bur Juman shopping mall that had been recommended by the concierge.

Dubai would be nothing more than a stop over, it was as clear as spring water that the Emirate was surfing the ten year world economic boom, what would happen when the music stopped as it inevitably would? There was a lot of expensive real estate out there Barton thought as he watched the lights of Dubai sparkling through the panoramic windows of the restaurant.

The next morning he slept until almost nine. He was feeling good when he took a taxi to Bur Juman, the weather was fine, which seemed quite normal for Dubai and the traffic seemed to move a little smoother, perhaps it was just that time of the day. At the entrance to the mall was Paul's French Café, he took an outside terrace table and ordered a latte, an almond croissant and a French finger; a short piece of baguette with butter and two kinds of jam. He savoured his late breakfast warmed by the rays of the morning sun, at the neighbouring table sat a couple of Emiratees, he in a long immaculately pressed white robe, called according to Barton's guide book a dishdash, his head covered with a white gutra held in place by a gizham, a coiled black head band, she in the traditional woman's black abaya its edges embroidered with gold thread. They chatted easily, wholly relaxed, nothing severe or intimidating about them.

After his pleasing breakfast he made his way into the mall, a vast building in glass and steel with escalators to carry shoppers and strollers to its many levels, each one a maze of luxury boutiques selling everything from diamonds to fashion and luxury time pieces to fitness equipment.

What could he offer himself as a souvenir of Dubai, which was by the minute becoming nothing more than the briefest stop-over to more distant and promising places. Why not a watch, the choice was endless, each brand claiming its longevity, quality and originality, he finally opted for a Blancpain Lehman Chronograph, he paid with his Amex card, US$12,000. He was pleased with it, but at a loss for what to do with his eye-catching Gold Rolex GMT Master II. Wearing the Blancpain he was now part of the less conspicuous rich.

He then spotted a stand for the promotion of the Kempinski Palm Jumeirah Residences with an architect's model of their condominium project in a glass case. The salesman explained to Barton that the Palm Jumeirah was an artificial island built on land reclaimed by the Dubai government.

It was one of three islands called The Palm Islands designed to increase Dubai's shoreline by over five hundred square kilometres. It was the smallest of the three, in the form of a palm tree, consisting of a trunk, a crown with seventeen fronds surrounded by a crescent shaped island that formed an eleven kilometre long breakwater. The trunk was connected to the mainland by a three hundred metre long bridge and the crescent connected to the top of the palm by an undersea tunnel.

When completed the island would be covered by hotels, villas, shoreline apartment buildings, beaches, marinas, restaurants, cafés and a variety of retail outlets. Over thirty beachfront hotels were to be built before the completion of the huge development.

The smooth young salesman, a Turk, was promoting apartments, penthouses and townhouses being developed by the German Kempinski hotel group. The prices ranged from 500,000 Euro for a one bedroom apartment to 1,250,000 Euro for a four bedroom apartment. He was evasive when Barton asked to visit a show apartment, producing artist's impressions and announcing the scheduled project completion date was set for the end of 2010 beginning of 2011.

The illustrations in the brochure showed an exotically designed palace situated on the crescent section, described as having a 'stunning, elegant look with a sophisticated essence', it was divided into luxurious two, three and four bedroom apartments, penthouses, surrounded by palatial villas and finally a five star luxury hotel. On completion the Emerald Kempinski Palace would be surrounded by luxuriant gardens and a private beach not forgetting an underground car park and shopping facilities.

It reminded him of the Miami condominiums that were currently being auctioned off with no reserve price and there was no way he could imagine investing a million euros in what was a permanent construction site and what seemed so obviously an extension of the worldwide property bubble. So with little else to do he made his way back to the Grand Hyatt where he consulted Emirates time table wondering where his next stop-over would be.

As he looked down the list of destinations the thought occurred to him he should try somewhere a little less developed, which of course eliminated Singapore and Hong Kong with their skyscrapers and computerized societies. Moreover, it should not be too far, he was not yet in the mood for another long flight.

The route map showed Dubai as the hub of Emirates and looking at the lines that looped out from the city he saw many unappealing names including Baghdad, Kabul, Karachi and Dhaka, then there was India with Bombay, now known as Mumbai, Goa and a destination with an unpronounceable name - Thiruvananthapuram. It rang a bell, wasn't that the place where the East Enders were headed?

He picked up the phone and asked for the travel agency in the hotel lobby; there were just three flights a week to Thiruvananthapuram, a good sign. Seats were available on a flight the same evening, there was little point in hanging around in Dubai in the Hyatt's gilded cage and he asked the agent to make a booking.

'Do you have a visa Sir?'

'Visa?'

'Yes Sir, for India.'

'No.'

'We can ask for an urgent visa, it will cost 1,000 Dirham.'

'Sounds expensive for a visa.'

'Yes, I'm sorry Sir, but if you would like to wait a few days it will cost less.'

'Okay, what do you need?'

'Please come down to our office Sir with your passport and we will arrange everything.'

Sure enough they were organised, a couple of photos printed out from a digital camera, 1,000 Dirham and Barton was promised a visa for the end of the afternoon.

That evening as he checked out of his luxurious hotel, Karen and her family boarded a bus at the Al Ghubaiba bus station, their destination the airport, just five kilometres from the centre of the Old Town.

*

The same day David and Barbara Parkins boarded a Jet Airways charter flight at Birmingham International Airport, it was eleven hours non-stop to Trivandrum – now Thiruvananthapuram. Their package holiday had cost them £684 each; all included with bed and breakfast, for the two week Christmas and New Year holiday. It was the high season, but David had little choice with the dates, Christmas was quiet in the Smethwick hotel business, it suited the head office and his temporary replacement would not be confronted with too many difficulties.

David was worldly but careful with money, the ups and downs of life had transformed him into a cautious man. He dreamt of early retirement and for that reason he and Barbara had wisely avoided extravagant living, preferring their Smethwick semi to trading up and burdening themselves with the long years of a heavy mortgage. They described their home as very pleasant, the large old trees of their neighbour's garden overhung the end of their own, a screen of greenery during the summer months that hid the houses opposite giving an almost pastoral impression. We're not far from Stratford-on-Avon they liked to tell strangers.

The charter flight was full with little leg room, but it was worth putting up with a night of discomfort for the guaranteed sunshine they knew they could expect in Kerala. There were also looking forward to meeting Dharma Jayanthi again, whom they now considered as a friend, and discussing the business plans Barbara had in mind with him.

*****

Chapter 7

The flight to Trivandrum would take about four hours, just long enough to get a little sleep after diner and drinks. As Barton sipped a glass of whisky he flicked through The Daily Telegraph stopping at an article in the business section headed Crisis may make 1929 look like a stroll in the park. It talked of the banking and credit crisis that was entering its fifth month as economists warned that the world's central banks were fighting the wrong war, running the risk of a policy error of huge proportions.

For once I'm lucky, getting out at the right time, he congratulated himself. He then turned his thoughts to Kerala, he knew strictly speaking nothing of the south Indian state, in fact he had to admit he knew very very little of India. Their was a pang of anxiety as he wondered about the Maharaja Palace in Kovalam, the hotel where he had been booked by the travel agent at the Dubai Hyatt and had been reassured it belonged to a leading Austrian hotel chain. He pulled out Emirates in flight magazine and turned to the maps, then looking at India he was disappointed to discover no sign of a place called Kovalam, though he spotted Trivandrum, which lay near the south Indian coast, a straight line from Dubai over what he discovered was called the Arabian Sea, a giddy ten kilometres below.

The meal was not bad and as he finished a glass of Australian Cabernet he turned his attention, for the want of nothing better to do, to a copy of the Economist. An article announced world oil production had reached 84 million barrels a day. Making a quick mental calculation based on a price of $100 a barrel multiplied by 365 days a year, the total oil producers' revenue came to about 3,000 billion dollars a year, an astronomical sum, but of little meaning. Then trying to put it into perspective he remembered that the total gross domestic product of the UK was about the same figure, in other terms about $40,000 per year for every British man, woman and child.

According to the article one third of the oil was pumped in the Middle East. So what were they doing with that money, a lot of it went into world debt markets pushing down real interest rates, fuelling a global lending boom, led by debt laden Western governments and more specifically American consumers, though in his opinion the Brits lagged not far behind. This meant that in effect the oil producers were lending a lot of the money they were making back to their customers.

It also seemed with global bond yields so low the other oil producing countries of the Middle East were doing the same thing as Dubai with their money, investing more in their own economies and building for the future. If the emirate was anything to go by then the Middle East was a vast construction site. Dubai, which had practically run out of oil, was obviously attracting a lot of petro dollars and shrewdly transforming itself into an investment hub, a vast emporium and tourist destination, not unlike Singapore or Hong Kong, with a view to developing itself into a regional business centre, investing billions of dollars in offices, hotels and infrastructure.

Middle Eastern financial markets had developed at an astonishing rate and expanded into Europe and the USA targeting Western business acquisitions. Like all investors they had begun to worry about their investments and especially with a falling dollar, turning their attention to Europe, to which they were closer and had longer traditional links, fearing Europe less than the USA embroiled in its Iraq debacle and faced with looming trouble from its own debt laden economy.

Thinking how all very abstract it was and how little it affected his own immediate future, a modest man by Dubai standards, perhaps rich by Indian standards, he slowly dozed off and a passing hostess pulled up his blanket and gently eased back the broad comfortable business class seat.

*****

Chapter 8

Emirates flight EM555 landed in Kerala at Thiruvananthapuram International Airport at exactly three thirty that morning. The small airport was almost deserted and formalities were completed in a few minutes. Barton collected his bags and found himself outside of the customs area looking at a small colourful crowd of early risers anxiously awaiting the arrival of family and friends returning home after working as long as two uninterrupted years in the Gulf.

Looking around he spotted a bank and after a glance at the rates changed a couple of hundred pounds into Indian rupees and was soon seated in an Ambassador taxi, an Indian model originally based on the 1948 Morris Oxford.

It was a sedate twenty minute ride to the Maharaja Palace in nearby Kovalam. After checking-in the night manager led him to what he described as a Club Wing suite, announcing that it overlooked the Arabian Sea, not that Barton could see very much at four thirty in the morning, though he could hear the waves on the shore below. The suite was comfortable enough with a large balcony, though very different from the Dubai Hyatt.

Once the inspection was over and he was handed the room key Barton dropped onto the bed fully clothed and slept until he was awoken by the room boy knocking at his door, he looked at his watch and saw that it was eleven local time, remembering he had moved his watch forward one and a half hours from Dubai time.

After telling the boy to come back later he stepped out onto the balcony into the brilliant sunshine. The hotel was built on a palm covered headland, about twenty or so metres above the sea that crashed onto a mass of huge red coloured sandstone rocks worn smooth by the waves. To his left a broad bay swung around to another high point about two kilometres distance, on which stood a red and white lighthouse, the further part of the bay was lined with low building. To the right the coast stretch far into the distance, the long sandy beach lined by coconut palms, and not too far off was what he assumed to be a small mosque, it was pastel pink with picturesque onion shaped domes to its minarets.

On both beaches he saw knots of people punctuated by the colourful saris of Indian women. There was a slight breeze that moved the palm fronds, the air was warm and clean. He stretched and thought about eating, but first a shower and a quick exploration of the hotel.

The lobby area was long and spacious, the cool marble floor shone brightly reflecting the unobtrusive ceiling lights, it was of a clean uncluttered design with two parallel rows of tall pillars supporting a high peaked roof built of heavy wooden beams. He found the restaurant and selected a table overlooking the north beach. A waiter presented a menu and Barton asked whether or not it was too late for breakfast.

'The buffet is finished Sir, but you can order à la carte,' the waiter replied tilting his head.

Barton ordered toast and scrambled eggs with freshly pressed orange juice, then leant back to admire the surroundings. As it was a little too early for lunch only one other table was occupied – by a young couple too engrossed in each other to be concerned by Barton's arrival.

His guide book entitled South India, bought at Dubai Airpor, lay on the table beside him still unopened. Barton had absolutely no idea what to expect of the country; his knowledge of India to that precise moment in time was strictly limited to Indian restaurants and cricket, plus the little one or two of his Indian clients had told him in passing. As for the rest he vaguely remembered snippets of the stories his father had told him of his travels and the objects that had decorated his parents' home, a bronze Nepalese Buddha and a couple of tankas, one of which tastefully decorated the visitors' bathroom. As to history it was not his strongest subject, Ghandi was reduced to some kind of inspired fakir who had led India to independence and Indira must have been his daughter. As to Imran Khan he could not remember whether he had played for India or Pakistan.

*****

Chapter 9

John Francis and his wife Claire had travelled on the same flight from Dubai as Barton, though in economy, they also made a stopover in Dubai, for the day only. Arriving from Paris at seven in the morning, they had had time to explore the Old Town, followed by a quick shopping tour at Bur Juman mall before taking the evening Emirates flight to Trivandrum.

They were experienced travellers, it was not their first visit to India and they planned to stay at least two months renting a villa near the beach area in Kovalam. However, their Internet search had been infructuous, the prices seemed high and they were advised by friends a better deal could be struck on the spot where they could see the property first hand.

Trying to make a hotel reservation had been just as inconclusive and they had finally decided to take pot luck on arrival. At Trivandrum they had also taken an Ambassador taxi to Kovalam, where they awoke the touts and small hotel keepers used to night arrivals. After a somewhat bleary inspection of a couple of guesthouses they opted for a room at the Mini House at the south end of Kovalam Beach area just south of the lighthouse.

They followed the guesthouse owner as an almost naked porter agilely carried their two heavy suitcases balanced on his head, first down a steep flight of stairs then up another to the first floor and their room.

The room had a balcony and the sound of breaking waves told them the sea was just below. There was no air-conditioning, the temperature was however comfortable and they soon settled down to sleep to recover from their long journey from Paris via Dubai.

Late the next morning they awoke and the view from their balcony confirmed what they had suspected, to their delight the sea was directly below them, a tiny inaccessible rocky cove surrounded by tall coconut palms, in the near distance a narrow fishing skiff rounded a point rowed by four very dark skinned men. It was more than they could have expected, the sky was blue and the weather comfortably warm.

They set out to find breakfast, walking down a steep hill towards the beach, surprised to be greeted by shop keepers, tuk-tuk drivers and artisans. Rounding a couple of makeshift gift shops planted on the beach itself they got their first view of Kovalam. A colourful array of restaurants, shops and small hotels, aligned higgledy-piggledy, faced the small bay, overhung by a backdrop of tall coconut palms.

The off white sand of the beach was streaked with black, a stack of sand filled plastic hessian sacks formed a series of steps leading up to the narrow seafront promenade. As they took in the colourful scenery they were hailed by restaurant owners inviting them to take a drink and look at their menus, it was almost lunch time.

The shops overflowed with textiles, clothes, cheap jewellery and handicrafts. Tourists like themselves inspected the restaurants, checked the menus, or simply admired at the goods displayed outside the shops. Many were just as pale as themselves, no doubt new arrivals, it was the start of the Christmas rush, the high season and high prices.

The new arrivals contrasted with those already settled in, the latter easily recognisable by their tans, varying from an angry red to a deep bronze, depending to some degree on where they came from, the Brits tended to be the former. The men wore Indian shirts, the girls Indian batiks or plain wraparound skirts, both sporting local handicraft necklaces. A good many of the tourists seemed to be Scandinavian or Brits, but there were also a scattering of middleclass Indians.

The beach appeared to end at a small rocky promontory, but arriving at the end of the promenade they turned a corner and saw another beach, it was in fact a continuation of the same bay, it was longer, a couple of hotels, a few shops and restaurants, then another long stretch of palm lined sand that finished about a kilometre away at another promontory.

They turned back, finally deciding on a not very Indian establishment for their first meal in Kovalam, the German Bakery, situated on the first floor of a yellow and ochre building. They took a table with a view out to the sea and each ordered juice, coffee and a sandwich.

They decided to remain at the Mini House two or three days so as to get their bearings whilst looking more permanent accommodation where John could settle in to start writing and research. The Mini House was comfortable enough, quiet, apart from the noise of the waves, an extraordinary unoverlooked view and an almost invisible owner. In addition there was a short but finite distance between guesthouse and the noise and tattiness of the beach front area, regretfully in a poor state of maintenance, strewn with rubble and garbage in more than one or two places.

What they needed was a villa near the beach with telephone and Internet connections, Francis had a satellite link for his laptop, though it was costly for everyday net usage. He was a writer and a journalist, his current novel was centred around the unwinding of the housing bubble in the UK. His novels often treated the ills of modern society on subjects that ranged from finance to the ravages of industry on Indonesian rainforests, and from the long term transformations caused by immigration to religion and the origins of man.

In working on his new novel he had carried out extensive research and outlined the main protagonists, but how they were linked together were not yet clear. He was in search of ideas and hoped Kovalam would provide him the raw material.

The story of bubbles had always been a good theme to describe human cupidity and duplicity, stories of the avaricious were recurring themes developed in his previous novels. His laptop contained over seven hundred pages of drafts and notes that had to be paired down, rewritten and honed into a final version. The culmination of a good story always required a dramatic event with the fall of an unlikeable villain and a twist of fate to save his likeable counterpart, a happy ending. Yes – a happy ending whatever its form was the essential part of a good novel.

The financial crisis which had caused the bubble to burst was still unravelling and the daily news was filled with reports of the subprime crisis, the drama of lost homes, the Northern Rock soap opera and small investors' lost money. There was also the annual payout of huge City bonuses, in spite of the vast losses reported by leading investment banks, bonuses built on the backs of countless millions of wage earners and small savers.

The bonus system had only encouraged 'the anything goes' approach to making money, with marketing specialists and mathematicians inventing complex instruments, massively launching never before tested products onto the market to feed the voracious appetites of banks and financial institutions. The tragedy was in the long run it was the shareholders, borrowers, small investors and of course the tax payers who paid the highest price as the banks licked their wounds looking around to place bets on the next game using their customers money.

Up to that point in time no specific individual had emerged to play the role of villain. Past crises had produced Nick Leason of the Barings, Messier of Vivendi, Enron's Ken Lay and Jeff Skilling and of course others. Every day Francis scanned the news on the net to see whether a central villain had emerged, but for the moment he was disappointed, the villains were vaguely collective.

*****

Chapter 10

Barton remembered the Thatcher period and the recession of the early nineties, however many people had forgotten that and younger people, that is those under thirty five, had never experienced a recession. Records showed that consumer spending and GDP grew at similar rates, which was very normal since consumer spending accounted for more than 60% of GDP. In the crisis of the early 1990s, when Britain withdrew from the European Exchange Rate Mechanism, consumer spending fell more than the GDP and as a consequence it was the consumers themselves who felt the lash back.

During the boom that led up to the nineties crisis, debt levels soared and house prices rocketed, leaving consumers highly vulnerable to a sudden and vertiginous rise in borrower interest rates. When the crisis hit, house prices fell, both in real terms and in nominal terms for the first time in decades, the effect was not only severely felt by consumers, but also by the services sector and especially in the South East, all of which resulted in the most serious British recession in recent memory.

Barton had long worked in the City of London, his much varied career had covered banking, insurance and trading. His ideas had not been suited to corporate thinking and early on he realised he would have more freedom and be able to earn a better living as an independent financial advisor and broker.

Those working in the environment of financial services in the City of London could not avoid being relatively well informed on the workings and events in international finance sector with the ambient flood of information and background chatter, however, it had little specific interest for Barton. He preferred his own more down to earth world with his familiar circle of contacts and business associates.

He prided himself in understanding what a client from Epping or Upminster needed, which did not prevent him from building a small circle of foreign expatriate friends, many of whom seemed to be chasing what seemed to him illusory deals in the Middle East or some other exotic region of the world.

His experience warned him that the similarities with previous crises were great and worse the build up of debt and the housing bubble threatened a greater disaster than ever before. I should know he wryly thought to himself, and with reason considering he had contributed more than his share to the coming crisis, arranging mortgages for clients and guiding them through their fraudulent income declarations, people whose financial situation would collapse at the first life crisis: divorce, unemployment or illness.

Did he feel guilty? Not really, it was the duty of each and every punter to read the small print and the responsibility of their lenders to respect the traditional caution of their calling.

The problem was not only City bonuses and the drive for profits motivated by greed and blindness, it came from every level of British society, people believing the salesman's pitch, and the greatest salesman of the century had run Britain for ten years; Tony Blair, and his henchman Gordon Brown who believed he had invented a new economy. He was not the only one, on the other side of the Atlantic bankers and wheeler dealers were leading the way with what looked like another New Deal, promising every honest working man the means to buy his own home, a dream that was to lead to disaster.

The gilt edge was wearing thin, for years the global elite had flocked to cosmopolitan London, where more than one quarter of the world's highest-paid traders worked with more than five hundred investment funds operated from the City. London had become the most international city of the world. When the giant Citigroup announced a cut of 45,000 from its worldwide payroll it confirmed to Barton what he had suspected, the game was up, then when the market value of the same bank fell a staggering one hundred billion he knew it was time to get out.

A golden age fuelled by low interest rates, easy money and bonuses was coming to an end as rising prices, rising taxes, falling profits and diminishing expectations began to eat at the foundations of the world's greatest financial centre, and London, the billionaire's playground of the Western World, was becoming déjà vue, it was time to move on before the stampede to cash in started.

*****

Chapter 11

It was Boxing Day when the Parklys boarded their direct flight, first class, to Kochi, once known as Cochin, on the south coast of India. Emma had described it as exotic, different from the antisepticised luxury of Gstaad or St Barts, where the rich headed at that time of year. Her girlfriend, Simi, whose wealthy family owned an industrial conglomerate in India, exporting fine textiles to leading fashion houses and interior decorators, had persuaded her to visit her in Kerala for the holidays.

Simi had booked them a suite at the Bolgatty Palace, which could be described as old fashioned luxury, situated in the lush tropical greenery of Bolgatty Island, a short boat ride from Kochi. It was one of the oldest existing Dutch palaces outside Holland, transformed into a hotel, away from the crowds, noise and smells of Kochi.

After a couple of days rest and adjusting to the time difference, they left with Simi and her friends on a traditional rice boat, transformed into a floating palace, slowly cruising south on the Backwaters to celebrate the New Year on Lake Vembanad, before finally disembarking New Year's Day in Kumarakom.

Wishing Simi goodbye, they continued their journey south to Kovalam in an SUV put at their disposal for the journey, a hectic ride of two hours, the driver clearly wanting to get home as quickly as possible for the holiday. To end their short vacation they planned a few days relaxation in the sun at the Maharaja Palace, before returning home to face the rigours of British winter.

On arrival, Emma Parkly feeling peckish decided they would take a snack and wanting to see a little more of the hotel suggested the restaurant. Stephen complied, but only to please her, he did not really feel like mixing with the other hotel guests after their long night partying on the rice boat, in any case hotel restaurants, even the best, were not really his thing.

Emma's immediate plans were first to explore the hotel then relax spending the next few days on the beach or by the pool, she was feeling the effects of travelling and she too was still recovering from Simi's New Year's Eve party, she simply wanted to lay back and relax in the sun. Emma was pleased with the Maharaja Palace, by Indian standards it was the top, for her it had its charm and glancing around the dining room she could see that the other guests were without exaggerated airs and graces, a few even seemed a little intimidated by their luxurious surroundings, they were neither the jet setters nor City types, definetly not the kind of people that always seemed to be present in the places Stephen generally chose. They was a good scattering of young people, mostly middle class, she was pleased to feel part of the crowd, another holiday maker and no obligation to pretence.

When they returned to their suite to change into their beachwear Stephen complained of his stomach, he was feeling a little queasy, perhaps a touch of turista, locally known as the Delhi Belly, he begged off the pool, opting for the suite's garden, near the bathroom just in case, though insisting that Emma go and take advantage of the hotel pool and the sun.

Emma, after sympathising with her husband, set off to explore the hotel and found the pool, there was also a private beach with a couple of uniformed guards to ensure that the hotel beach area was not encroached on by the locals.

A pool attendant prepared a sunbed and a parasol for Emma, placing a second towel on the low table, then brought her a freshly pressed orange juice. She surveyed the surroundings, the pool was elevated and set at an angle relative to the shoreline, a number hotel guests were sunning themselves and two or three swimming in the pool. She sighed with pleasure, she realised she was not totally unpleased to be alone and sipping her orange juice she surveyed the surroundings in search for potentially like souls amongst the other guests.

*****

Chapter 12

Barton had settled in nicely at the Maharaja Palace, he was satisfied with the Dubai travel agent's choice, the service was good as was the food and he was enjoying the pool. He was a bachelor and was not used to being served on all around the clock.

In his Epping home, a woman had come in three times a week to clean, look after his laundry and put some order into the place, it was not a big deal; in reality much of the large house went unused. He mostly ate out or had take-outs delivered and whenever he felt like making the effort he picked up something more appetising from Sainsbury's, he had a liking for their food to go counter with its wide choice of freshly prepared dishes.

His different girlfriends sometimes cleaned up his oversized kitchen or his home cinema room after a meal. Whenever he entertained he brought in a local caterer who looked after everything. In fact Barton lived a rather frugal life, leaving for work early, returning home late, only at weekends did he find some relaxation, he used his home gym a couple of times a week preferring a local club to workout where he knew a few of the lads. He did not smoke and was not a real drinker though he appreciated good wine but in moderation.

Looking into the bathroom mirror he felt pleased with what he saw, his tan was developing nicely adding to the light sunbed tan he had acquired at his club in anticipation of his departure. He took care of his body and his appearance, it was part of his business to look good and feel good, though normally he avoided sunbeds, using a skin toner to enhance his looks, although before holidays he was not averse to a couple or so short sessions on the sunbed to take off that sickly look he detested when he arrived on the beach.

At the poolside he was becoming familiar with the comings and goings of the other hotel guests, there were a lot of couples, both young and old, a mixture of Brits and Scans, but there was also to his surprise a good many Russians. It had taken him a little time to identify them, he was not a not a linguist, but he was able to pick out a few words he had learnt from a Russian girl he had taken out for a while in London.

The other guests were evidently holiday makers taking a break in the sun over the year end holidays, mostly on individual package tours, he had seen the new comers in the lobby, couples and families, and sneaked a peek at their baggage labels.

Barton was on talking terms with the concierge who told him the hotel was full for the holidays and all through January, it was the high season, and suggested he visit Kovalam Beach less than a five minute taxi ride away. He was disappointed, not at all taken in by the tattiness and dirt he discovered, moreover, he was put off by the accents he overheard, he was surprised and a little taken aback to see so many what seemed like uncouth Londoners with middle age spreads, shaven heads, tattooed arms and shoulders, dragging their often loud mouthed mississes around with them. His conclusion was that for the moment the Maharaja Palace was a good spot to relax and wait whilst a better idea turned up.

There was no hurry he thought wandering through the vast hotel lobby, the only noise being the soothing sound of water bubbling from the fountains and gently cascading from one pool to another. The hotel had the effect of a decompression chamber, its ambience brought back his natural carefree attitude, something he had always valued, but had difficulty maintaining in the urgence and stress of the mortgage business.

The comfort of the hotel, the marble bathroom and king-size bed, it was everything he could have hoped for, it was almost a home from home. The poverty beyond the hotel grounds was not his problem and in any case he could have done nothing for the throngs of needy Indians. The disparity of wealth was everywhere and had to be accepted, it was part of India, perhaps in a century or two it would be better he thought – if they survived until then.

A buffet was laid out in the pool area, it was a good occasion to exchange a few words with the other guests as they examined contents of the copper cover trays presented on white table cloths decorated with freshly cut tropical flowers.

Barton selected a table in one of the airy, shaded, dinning areas overlooking the pool, he ordered a glass of chilled Chablis and turned his attention to a couple of Russian girls in their mid-twenties who circled the pool and were now approaching the buffet. Casually he followed them, they were laughing, nice looking and self-consciously aware of it, in bikini tops and obviously just acquired long wraparound Indian skirts. The relative paleness of their skins announced they were newly arrived.

'I'd recommend the chicken,' Barton said.

'Is it hot?'

'You mean spicy?'

'Spicy?'

'You know spices.'

'Ah, like curry?'

'Yes.'

The girls laughed and said something in Russian

'Ya ne govoryu po-russki,' said Barton.

'Oh, you speak Russian!'

'No – just a few words.'

'Where are you from?'

'London.'

'And you?'

'Saint Petersburg.'

'How long are you here for?'

'Ten days.'

'Very nice.'

Barton helped himself to some chicken and French fries and returned to his table waving them goodbye and flashing them one of his seductive and well practised smiles.

'Do skorogo. See you around,' he said.

'Do skorogo,' they chirruped together.

He felt please with his little encounter as he watched them, from behind his Ray Bans and without turning his head, take a table under a parasol to the left side of the pool, noting their animated tête-à-tête and the glances in his direction.

Barton was a good looking man in his early forties, he carried himself well and emanated success even in beach shorts, a tastefully thin gold chain and cross glinted on his tanned well formed chest and his new Blancpain reflected in the bright sun. Tanya and Oxana, the daughter and niece of a newly rich Russian entrepreneur, speculated on whether he was a rich English playboy or a successful businessman, in any case he had clearly succeeded drawn their attention.

*****

Chapter 13

Karen and her sister Sharon had found rooms at the Green Valley guesthouse, a few alleys back from the beach, five hundred rups a night but no service. They had still not decided how long they were going to stay in India, and were mildly preoccupied about Deana's and Elaine's schools, as they would certainly be overstaying the school holiday period.

Harry planned to stay as long as the girls, his younger brother could be relied on to look after the garage business, but Dave wanted to be back at the security firm not later the 15 January, they needed him for a well paid contract at a new office building in the City. There was a shortage of reliable personnel and he had been promised a three month temporary placement at above the going rate plus overtime. The job was just a short walk from Fenchurch Street Station, less than twenty minutes from Romford.

Initially they had planned to tour Kerala and the Tamil Nadu, but after their nightmarish journey they had decided to stay put in Kovalam for the sake of their ten year old daughters. They had flown from Dubai to Mumbai, it was the cheapest ticket – the girls had learnt to be careful with money, then taken a train to Goa, a journey of twenty four hours, costing just a few pounds for the six of them.

In Mumbai they had almost gotten themselves killed crossing the tracks to catch their train after having mistakenly climbed into the wrong train – headed for Delhi in the opposite direction. After a night in Goa, they had taken another train to Trivandrum; a further twenty four hours. By the time they finally reached Kovalam they looked like bedraggled refugees.

The girls had rented a couple sunbeds and a parasol on the beach in front of the German Bakery, a few steps from one of the piles of the rubble mixed with black sand and garbage that lined the seafront promenade on Lighthouse Beach, the southernmost of Kovalam's three beaches. The middle beach was called Hawah and beyond the promontory on which stood the Maharaja Palace was Samudra Beach.

It was there Barton spotted Karen on her sunbed, just beyond the fresh fruit salad sellers seated on the rubble amongst bottle tops and other detritus, preparing their dishes of chopped mango, pineapple, papaya and banana, all generously topped out with a sprinkling of grated coconut for waiting tourists, who elsewhere would have shrunk in horror at the unhygienic conditions and imaginable filth, but who in Kovalam eagerly gulped down the salad quite clearly oblivious to all the potential dangers.

Dodging the dust raised by the energetic brooms of the shopkeepers, who kept their doorways clean by sweeping everything from cigarette butts to plastic cups onto the beach, just a few paces from the sunbathers, Barton made his way down over the rough and ready steps, formed by half burst white and yellow plastic hessian sandbags, towards the girls. He still couldn't figure out whether the state of the beach was a vestige of the past or a vision of things to come.

'Hello there, you made it!'

Karen looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sun, it took a couple of seconds for her to recognise the good looking stranger standing before her.

'Oh yeah, sorry, I didn't recognise you. So you decide to come to Kovalam!'

The two young girls looked up at him squinting in the sunshine, waiting for Karen's approval of the newcomer as they made sandcastles in the suspicious black sand.

'Yes, I arrived a couple of days ago. I'm just having a look around.'

'Where are you staying?'

'Up there,' he said pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

She looked down the beach not sure where.

'The Maharaja Palace,' he admitted.

'Oh, very nice for some,' she said with a broad open smile without the least hint of disapproval in her voice.

'And you?'

'The Green Valley, just a walk down the alley there,' she said waving towards the shops.

'I see the girls are enjoying themselves.'

They looked up and smiled as expected of them.

'Where's your sister?'

'She's gone to see about a massage, you know Ayurvedic.'

'Oh,' he replied vaguely aware that the resort was specialised in some kind of Indian natural health treatment that sounded something like that.

'The boys have gone to rent a couple of scooters.'

Karen had a natural charm, she was a good looking girl in her early thirties Barton supposed, a few kilos less and she could have been a beauty. She chatted away telling him that she had been to India before with her sister, it turned out that she was an experienced and knowledgeable traveller, which in a way struck him as strange for a Romford market stall holder. There was no doubt she was intelligent and in other circumstances he could have been attracted to her.

They talked on for a few more minutes before he took his leave continuing his stroll. On Hawah Beach he stopped to watch the timeless spectacle of the local fishermen hauling in their huge nets, which they coiled amongst the heavy wooden fishing boats that lay upturned on the sand like beached whales, the wiry men chanting to keep rhythm, praying to the sea to provide for their families.

At the end of Hawah Beach he slowly made his way up the steep hill towards the Maharaja Palace, politely refusing the offers of souvenirs and services from the shopkeepers. On reaching the top of the narrow road he found himself at a crossroads and a bus stop where a dented bus marked 'Fast Bus' stood awaiting its departure time.

He followed a broader road, recognising it as leading down to another entrance of the Maharaja Palace, past a few run down shops and an equally dilapidated handicrafts centre. At the bottom of the hill he found himself near the hotel beach restaurant where he took one of the waiting golf style buggies up to the main entrance. Once in the lobby he dropped into one of the large cushioned wicker armchairs for a rest and to enjoy the refreshing cool air. He was undecided as to whether Kovalam was original or a rundown tourist trap.

*****

Chapter 14

It was not surprising, given the general ignorance of the public at large on Indian affairs, most British tourists were unaware that the Communist Party of India had recently celebrated the golden jubilee of the first Communist government of the State of Kerala. The reality was most tourists present in Kovalam had barely heard of Kerala before they booked their holiday.

Half a century after the first Communist government the state was again governed by the Communist dominated Left Democratic Front, a left wing alliance, which held a large parliamentary majority. The LDF, for short, was composed of an overwhelming majority of CPI(M) – Communist Party of India (Marxist) – representatives.

The Communist system was a far cry from the Kerala that had once had one of harshest and most rigid caste systems in India, controlled by an elite Hindu caste, the Namboodiris. Those of low castes were banned from public markets and its men and women were forced to go naked from the waist up. The Namboodiris held the power of life and death over those of low caste and could punish any one of them by death if they felt they had been polluted. Even Kerala's Christians had maintained a kind of caste system. At the lowest level were the Adivasi, the original indigenous people of Kerala.

That changed in the 1930s and 1940s, when Kerala's growing trade union and Communist movement became engaged in the caste struggle, progressively transforming the state into the least caste conscious of all Indian states.

Historically, Kerala was composed of three principalities: Travancore, Cochin and Malabar. With the arrival of the Europeans there was a long a period of constantly changing alliances until the British imposed their rule, maintaining the princely ruling lines in power in Travancore and Cochin, but with direct rule in Malabar. Less than ten years after independence Kerala surprised the world by electing a Communist Government in 1957.

Francis was not totally convinced of India's much lauded progress, he had observed the country on his frequent visits over a period of thirty years, there was no denying that the country had made progress, but was that progress real or was it merely superficial? The huge country was rife with burning poverty, disease, pollution and corruption, its burgeoning self-interested urban middle class parroted the talk of pollution and climatic change, but there was little they did or could do to stop forces beyond their control. Deforestation, desertification, pollution and an ever growing population promised a Mad Max like future dotted with islands of civilization, such as perhaps certain districts of Bangalore and Mumbai, which were serviced by a population of miserable serfs.

Kerala was one of the best governed states, the most educated, the most watered, in comparison to the misery of Orissa, Bihar, Assam and Madhya Pradesh, where tribe and caste dominated.

After fifteen years of economic liberalization, the Indian economy was in a boom period, however, its unprotected underbelly was its poor, uneducated, jobless and undernourished classes that economic growth seemed to have forgotten.

A third of all Indians were poor, living on the equivalent of just fifty pence a day, that is to say miserably poor, a third were illiterate, almost two thirds were without running water, half without electricity and most terrible of all two hundred million Indians suffered from varying degrees of undernourishment and starvation.

How would India be affected if the economic crisis promised by certain economists came to be? How would India be affected by the climatic change predicted and the threat of crop failure? A vast country with more than a billion people, twenty nine states and eighteen official languages, most of which even differed in their scripts.

Each year, one and a half million Indian children under the age of five died from water borne diseases. There was no safety net for those who met with one of life's accidents such as ill health or crop loss, their only hope was to sell family assets or borrow, but when there was nothing to sell and credit was unavailable they were consumed by poverty and despair. Little wonder certain were reduced to selling their kidneys, or even suicide.

*****

Chapter 15

The clinic was situated in a leafy residential area of Kochi, a ten minute walk from the Santa Cruz Basilica and a short taxi ride to the city's historic centre.

At first sight it could have seemed strange, but Ajay had never been to India, on the other hand there had never been any reason for him to visit the country.

Though his ancestors on his father's side had been Indian they had immigrated to Mauritius from Kerala in the early nineteenth century. Ajay's father spoke English, French and Creole, a curious mixture for a dark skinned Indian, however he was Mauritian, not Indian, and a Christian to boot.

The history of their French and Creole speaking homeland had commenced when part of a Dutch fleet, blown off course by a storm, landed on the then uninhabited island in 1598. In 1715 it was seized by the French, then in 1814 after the Napoleonic Wars it was ceded to Great Britain, finally gaining its independence in 1968.

Indian immigration to Mauritius had commenced after the abolition of slavery in 1835. The newly arrived immigrants provided labour for the island's flourishing sugarcane plantations, which prospered when it was a port of call for ships rounding the Cape en route for Asia. With the opening of the Suez Canal, Mauritius then entered a long period of decline until the advent of mass tourism put the island back on the map.

Ajay arrived in Kochi by a direct Emirates flight towards the end of the afternoon. His first impression of India was the sub-tropical wall of heat and humidity that hit him as he disembarked to the bus waiting to take the passengers to arrivals. After the formalities he collected his baggage and proceeded to the exit where he found a driver holding a piece of cardboard with his name written on it.

Night was falling and the twenty five kilometre drive to the city seemed long as the car weaved its way through the dense continuous stream of heavy traffic that seemed to obey no known laws. As they approached the city centre the milling crowds overflowed onto the streets and around the vehicles as the driver tried to edge forward.

Their destination was Fort Kochi, which was to all intents an island, separated from the larger part of the city, Ernakulam, by inland waters, and accessed by bridges and ferries. After a second bridge the traffic slackened, they were approaching Fort Kochi and were soon in a residential district, less brightly lit and with much fewer people on the streets.

It was just after eight when they pulled up before a large house, surrounded by gardens and a high wall, on Pattalam Road, in the Fort Kochi district. There the house manager took Ajay's bags and led him to a fully airconditioned, modern, self-contained first floor apartment, showing him a fully equipped kitchen, the fridge stocked with the essentials, a bathroom, a living room with a television, and a large bedroom. Then handing Ajay the keys he took his leave, informing him that meals were available on call and that he would be contacted by the clinic the next morning. In the meantime he was free and was advised to rest and have a good night's sleep.

It was a good thing the apartment was airconditioned as the outside temperature hung in the mid-thirties compared to the low-twenties in Dubai and just one or two degrees when he had left London.

There had been no direct flight and he had chosen to make a two night stopover in Dubai to avoid a too strenuous journey. He then continued from Dubai to Kochi, a four hour flight during which he had managed to get a couple of hours sleep.

Ajay, a bachelor, was travelling alone, though once his operation was scheduled his parents would join him to watch over his postoperatory care and convalescence.

The next morning he was awoken by a phone call and informed he would be picked up at ten and driven to the clinic for his preoperatory examination by the operating surgeon. Feeling much better after his night's sleep, Ajay ordered breakfast, then showered and dressed for his appointment at the clinic.

*****

Chapter 16

Francis, as a writer, had always avoided complex technical descriptions in his works, descriptions that could have either uninterested his readers or been beyond their general understanding, as in the case of banking and finance terminology. He intended to explain how the subprime mortgage debacle had emerged when rating firms used by US banks downgraded certain debt secured instruments, which were in turn secured by millions of individual homes scattered all over the USA, each of which was in itself an asset, though illiquid.

He described how these illiquid assets, homes, were held to all intents by anonymous individual owners, who were totally ignorant of how the mortgages on their homes had been repackaged and then sold on national and international financial markets in the form of debt instruments. The same homeowners had little or no direct responsibility towards the buyers of these debt instruments, homeowners who in any case were totally detached, in time and space, from the world's great financial centres, such as Wall Street, the City of London and Tokyo.

Any change in the individual home owner's personal situation, whether it was loss of employment, divorce, illness or debt, was unimportant and in any case out of phase in terms of time relative to the movements of financial market or the holders of the debt instruments. However, many of the said debt instruments contained a large number of subprime mortgages and when these subprime home owners were effected as higher interest rates on their loans came into effect, there was large scale default, transforming many of the debt instruments into almost worthless paper.

Francis was greatly amused when a Daily Telegraph correspondent asked: 'What were the protagonists smoking? It was like listening to a business plan scripted by Lewis Carroll. The big difference, of course, was that, unlike Alice, Darling has not yet found a rabbit - and was unlikely to do so.'

When the debt instruments were revealed as being almost worthless it was a disaster for West Mercian Finance, whose investment funds held a large number of these. There was no Richard Branson waiting in the wings to save them and no full page advertisements in the national dailies. Hope of a private sector bailout was zero after the beating the banks had taken in the first days of January.

The reality was the government could not afford a repeat of the Northern Rock crisis and hoped that after the quick demise of West Mercian things would calm down.

There was an air of schadenfreud as the man in the street saw the masters of the universe pale and trembling in their extravagantly expensive pinstriped suits, as the banks and dealers of Mammon's City announced massive cuts in their staff as losses were announced. At the same time exclusive real estate agents struggled to talk up the market in the hope that the top decile would be unaffected by the growing crisis.

It was 2 January when events caught West Mercian by surprise; the firms share price fell sharply as a rumour swept across the City that the mortgage bank was facing difficulties in raising funds on the markets. As the day passed questions were raised as to the quality of the US debt instruments held in its investment funds.

To make matters worse, it was commonly known that through its aggressive selling policy over the previous two years, West Mercian held a large percentage of risky subprime quality home loans on its books.

Who had been responsible for the leak that started the rumour mill was unclear, but top management suspected certain brokers with whom they had severed links in order to avoid accusations of reckless mortgage selling.

*****

Chapter 17

Nicole was not one to worry, she believed what she wanted to believe and nobody could convince her otherwise, especially her two grown up children.

The last decade or so had been kind to her, she had progressively added to her investments, buying houses in the Putney area and renting them to expatriate executives, who had been quite willing to pay her almost extortionate rents during the dotcom boom.

Then there had been a moment of doubt when the last bubble burst, but multinationals did not bail out at once. Then the US Treasury invented low interest rates, after that came 911 and Bush the son launched his invasion of Afghanistan shortly followed by the invasion of Iraq in search for weapons of mass destruction; it seemed to confirm the power of the USA and its economy boomed as a new age of prosperity opened built around easy credit and rising property prices.

The value of her own large home in Epsom had grown by the day, then in early 2007, to provide for her children, she sold one of her rental properties and invested in an apartment for her daughter, Sarah, in South Kensington.

Nicole selectively filtered the little financial and property news she saw on the TV, firmly believing those who promised a continued but perhaps slower growth in property prices. The only fly in the ointment was her 400,000 euro investment in Spain, a duplex overlooking the Guadalmina Golf and Country Club, one of ten golf courses built within a radius of five or six kilometres.

The duplex lay on a gently hill that sloped down to the shores of the Mediterranean, ten kilometres to the south of Marbella and a five minute drive to the nearest beach. She had signed up more than two years previously when the boom was at its height, but progress on the site had been slow, contractors changed, sales agents changed and building plans were changed without notification. After flying down to Marbella four times in six months it finally seemed like things were moving, her duplex would be ready for acceptation in March.

The truth of the matter was she was sick and tired of the whole story and sick and tired of Spain, her enthusiasm had been sapped by worry and doubt. During her last Marbella trip to furnish the duplex, the rose coloured glasses off, she had visited suppliers of stone fireplaces, plaster Venus de Milos, furniture and all the kinds of fixtures and fittings for expatriate home owners in Spain. Perhaps it had been the time of the year but there were fewer customers, the salesmen seemed unenthusiastic, the wind had gone out of their sails.

Her finances were not extended, but she was juggling too many balls at the same time; on the positive side Ryan's Battersea Park two bedroom apartment bought three years back for £250,000 had almost double in price, though Sarah's place in Notting Hill Gate had set her back £350,000 – a lower ground floor one bedroom flat.

As to her own house in Epsom, it for went more than £1.2 million and she moved into one of her two bedroom BTLs in the town centre, where she was coming to grips with living in a flat not much bigger in size than one of the reception rooms in the house she had just sold, and on top of that with a Labrador.

Her son Ryan, an up and coming young specialist at Saint George's Hospital, suggested a Christmas break in the Maldives, Nicole seized on the occasion and convinced her daughter Sarah, who was with the estate agent Knight Frank on Sloane Avenue where business would be slow over the holiday period, to join them.

As they boarded their flight, El Pais, a leading Spanish daily, announced that half of Spain's real estate agencies had folded in the past year due to the slowdown in the country's once booming building sector. Of the 80,000 agents that operated at the beginning of the year, only around 40,000 had survived and an estimated 100,000 staff had lost their jobs, according to the Spanish Council of Real Estate Agents.

At the height of the boom, real estate agents had seen buyers, such as Nicole, enticed by rock-bottom interest rates, lining up to buy homes off plan. Promoters had thrown together sales brochures as fast as they could, without even going to the trouble of building show homes or apartments, offering their potential buyers nothing more than a visit to the site and non-binding plans on the signature of the contract.

*****

Chapter 18

Mike Ryman, a recently retired engineer, had been sales manager of a small construction firm in Surbiton. Together with his wife Kate they lived in the same neighbourhood for more than twenty five years in a modest semi-detached home.

The Rymans had never sought to be upwardly mobile, prudence had always been their mark, investing all their efforts in setting up their daughters in life, now in their thirties and married with children. The couple had never gone in for exotic holidays, home extensions, electronic gadgets and new cars.

Mike had put his faith in the firm's pension plan; the problem was with the vagaries of engineering in the UK he had been forced to change jobs more times than he would have wished for during his career, British engineering had suffered and firms were forced out of business by foreign competition and the unwillingness of successive governments to back industry.

Towards the latter part of his career Mike had little choice but to become a one man business, representing a handful of different equipment manufacturing firms scattered up and down the country.

The bitter reward for his prudence was a pension plan that was not what it had been promised to be back in more prosperous days. At sixty five he had finally decided it was time to call it a day, he was tired of the continuous travelling demanded by his work, driving up and down the country, week in week out, winter and summer, as business became progressively more difficult and as better equipped foreign firms moved into the market.

Wisely he had saved, putting money aside to cover the shortfall in his pension, in a country where it was estimated that three quarters of private sector workers would face poverty in retirement. Mike had wisely invested a good part of his hard saved money in the West Mercian Building Society property fund, where he knew it was as safe as houses and where he was sure his investment would fructify.

Their holidays had been mostly in the UK with one or two trips to Spain and more recently the Dominican Republic. To celebrate his long awaited and well earned retirement, they decided on a holiday in India and after much thumbing through a pile of holiday brochures collected by Kate from local travel agents they booked a package holiday in Kovalam, a place they had never heard of until friends had recently shown them their holiday photos.

It seemed a good choice, firstly the weather was good; the Internet websites they checked confirmed a daily temperature of thirty degrees, zero rainfall and guaranteed clear skies, secondly it was less expensive, thirdly English was spoken and last but not least Kate thought she was familiar with the food...at least the curries.

It was to be the event of a lifetime booked through a reputed tour company that promised holiday makers value for their money painting a glowing picture of Kerala and Kovalam in their attractive glossy brochures.

*****

Chapter 19

For Barton it was crystal clear that the success of the British economy had not been due to investment led growth that promised long term benefits, but rather a consumption boom. The idea that ploughing ever more money into housing improved the productive capacity of the country made him smile, he knew, he had spent the previous seven years ladling out lenders money for just about everything except productive investment.

Newspapers crowed about Britain's wealth, trillions, calculated on the supposed the value of the country's homes, a chimera if ever there was one. It was common knowledge that manufacturing capacity fell daily as British firms were relocated overseas and to just about other corner of the planet where costs were lower, regardless of the long term effect on British employment.

What would happen when the bubble finally burst as it inevitably would? What would become of the myriads of high street estate agents, mortgage brokers, mortgage lenders, surveyors and home builders, the list was long. Barton was not a specialist in macro economy but it was patently clear that something had to give and for him it was the pound sterling.

As a mortgage broker it was not in his interest to broadcast the truth about what was going on in the property market, as to estate agents the evidence was already there, for months he had observed those in Epping staring blankly out of their windows on Saturday mornings or even standing in their doorways, cigarette in hand, looking desperately for a punter, as the number of sales went into free fall, and worse, when a punter did show up he was a seller.

It was not only houses that were in the doldrums, Barton knew that firms like West Mercian were also exposed to the vagaries of the commercial property market, where values had fallen twelve percent over the previous six months, as millions of square feet of office space came onto a market already suffering from oversupply.

He knew that good judgement was based on good old fashioned common sense, even if he himself sometimes forgot it, and when he had seen terraced houses selling at half a million pounds in Epping he knew something was wrong, whatever bankers, analysts, or Tony Blair and his successor told the public.

When Barton decided to throw in the towel the Footsie had fallen to 6456 points. He knew if the downward trend continued, as he expected it would, then it had a long way to fall. He remembered that in December 1999 the Footsie had stood above 6000 points before it fell, finally settling at around 3500 in January 2003. However, the stock market was a misleading indicator, it was unconnected to house price trends. At the housing markets last low in 1995 the average home price had stood at £70,000 and since that time it had followed an uninterrupted climb, recently passing the £200,000 mark.

Barton's conclusion was if stock market indexes had zigzagged up and down obeying market forces there was little to justify house prices remaining unaffected and a downward spiral was imminent.

It had taken him a long time to come to that conclusion, he had long been in disaccord with the so called contrarians, not for unrealistic reasons, but because the trend had followed a steady upward curve over more than a decade. However, when every second person he met appeared to have become a speculator, it was a sign the boom had run its course and the law of gravity would soon exercise its force, bringing all high flyers and hopefuls back to earth with more than a bump.

His greatest regret was he had allowed himself to be drawn into the frenzy, becoming involved with the Dublin BTLs, even worse he had got his timing wrong, misjudging the moment the price curve inversed its trajectory, its apogee passing unobserved. He put that down to the optimistic side of his inherited Irish character, and not a little to do with the selling job the Irish had done.

Almost immediately he realised he had made a potentially costly mistake and had sought a way out, it was not easy, any drastic move on his part would have had the whistle blowers running and he needed time to manoeuvre. However, things changed quicker than he planned and the sudden fall in Irish property left him with little choice but to implement his emergency plan.

*****

Chapter 20

After a good night's sleep Nicole was up early and set out to explore the hotel. She approved of it; the travel agent had done a good job. Once her tour of inspection was complete she set out for the Ayurvedic centre where on arrival the receptionist introduced her to a consultant, an Ayurvedic doctor.

The centre was luxuriously appointed, fully in keeping with the standing of the hotel, the doctor professional and attentive to her expectations. He described the different kinds of treatment offered for a period of twelve days with the aid of well designed glossy brochures, in which prices were clearly indicated so that there was no possibility of misunderstanding.

After listening carefully and with growing enthusiasm, Nicole announced she would like the rejuvenation and weight loss programme.

The doctor filled in a form, noting her personal details, at the same time explaining the proposed programme, like every other programme it was unique, made to measure on the basis of a three step medical diagnostic. He then proceeded with an examination of her skin, eyes, teeth and tongue, then her pulse was taken and her blood pressure measured. Finally there was a long questionnaire about her physical and mental condition.

The doctor then wrote out his prescription, which consisted of a special dietary menu, massages and other treatment to complete her twelve day rejuvenation and weight loss programme. Nicole then reported to the secretariat where she added daily steam baths and face packs, the bill was presented and a time schedule for her appointments prepared.

She paid with her platinum card, barely glancing at the total of almost one thousand pounds sterling, though a little concerned by what Ryan might say. She firmly decided it was not his business, mostly out of fear of his derision, she was proud of her son, but did not like him ordering her about, and in any case what she did with her body was her business

Her day started with a glass of warm water to which was added a dash of lemon and honey, followed by a series of easy yoga exercises. Then a morning massage session, after which herbal oils were applied to her ears and nose, followed by a drink of medicated ghee – a kind of clarified butter. Over the following days additional treatment was scheduled, which consisted of exotic oils and milk being poured onto her forehead and herbal oils rubbed into her body. Herbal purges were also to be taken to purify her liver, spleen and pancreas.

The diet did not last two days. Nicole could not resist the splendid buffet and besides that she was starving. Neither did she respect the recommendation to avoid sunbathing, having the firm intention of spending a good part of her time on a sunbed by the pool; it would be ridiculous to return home without a tan she thought as she hurried to join Sarah.

*

'Ryan, do you know that the UK spends three times more on cosmetic surgery than Italy, the second biggest spender in Europe?' asked Sarah

'Perhaps the Brits are the ugliest!' he said shouting with laughter.

'I don't know about that, but some definitely need a belly tuck,' Sarah said nodding in the direction of two large girthed women talking loudly with Home County's accents.

'That's about half of what Americans spend and four times more than Swedes.'

'Well the Swedes are better looking.'

'Especially the girls!'

'Anyway, apart from your little jokes, there's nothing wrong in wanting to improve personal your appearance.'

'Mine's okay.'

'You're just too vain, always looking in the mirror.'

'The Daily Mirror?'

'Probably, the girly page.'

'Come off it Sarah, I've got better taste than that.'

'Sex doesn't have a taste.'

'You wanna bet!'

'You're incorrigible.'

'Go back to your Botox story.'

'I can't see anything wrong in trying to look young, and whilst we're on it, you shouldn't discourage mum, just because you can only see her as your mum Ryan.'

'Look if she wants a face lift let her do it, but don't even let her think about doing anything here!'

'She'd never do anything here.'

'Good.'

*****

Chapter 21

Parkly was awake early, he was feeling a little uncomfortable, perhaps he shouldn't have eaten fish the previous evening, those beach front restaurants had appeared a bit suspect to him, but he had forced himself to please Emma, who seemed to like that kind of place.

He quietly slipped into the sitting room leaving Emma to sleep. Outside the dawn was breaking and from a couch he watched the light slowly seep into room. He mind wandered and he asked himself what he was doing in this strange far away place, it was not really his idea of a holiday, of course Emma was enjoying herself, there were her Indian friends, the beach and visits.

Parkly was comforted by the idea that in just a few days and they would be on their way home. Then he could give some attention to the other things that were weighing on his mind. The coming weeks would be difficult and there were problems at West Mercian that would require all his experience.

The one thing good thing was the time he had had to look at things more objectively, from a distance he thought dryly. There was little doubt that West Mercian had gotten itself in too deep, its investment funds had become exposed to the growing subprime crisis.

West Mercian along with other investment firms had been drawn into the vortex of collateralized debt obligations, an expression that he now hated. The CDOs held by the firm now appeared to consist of low rated and possibly frighteningly worthless subprime loans, that had been packaged, tranched and offloaded as prime paper to their investment funds, by what were in effect irresponsible Wall Street dealers, whose sole role now seemed to have been passing on the tainted product for a commission.

It was no consolation to know that West Mercian was not the only sucker; already several major international banks had been affected, not forgetting those countries whose banks were overflowing with surplus dollars such as China and the Gulf States, and who knows how many others and for how much Parkly thought grimly.

Parkly recalled the first sign of trouble had occurred in March or April when the Shanghai Stock Exchange's A-share index fell 8.8% in a single trading session, followed by Wall Street, with the Dow losing 416 points, the biggest drop since the attack on the World Trade Centre.

Momentarily things seemed to right themselves, Parkly like many other relieved investors had seen it as nothing but a passing panic in the greatly overheated Chinese stock market. However, real problems started to appear in July when two subprime based hedge funds in the US collapsed.

The contagion was quietly, slowly, boring its way into the body of the world finance system. The first sign of fever came with the astonishing run on the Northern Rock, then little by little, week by week, month by month, signs of the disease became distinctly visible and life threatening, with fearful investors finally crying out to the US government and the Fed for help.

It was like an epidemic, the more the numbers of banks and institutions were infected, the more the contagion spread, which by the New Year was gaining fearsome momentum as the US government and its financial authorities frantically thrashed around in search of a cure – a quick cure.

As with all disease, contagion had reached a crisis point. Banks and investment funds were forced into asset fire sales to cover shortfalls in reserves and meet margin calls, but the massive arrival of assets on the market only contributed to further depressing their value, starting an infernal cycle of downward pressure on values.

Once the market had started to suspect the quality of the CDOs they held, they started to discretely offload them onto unsuspecting fund managers, who were now being forced to admit to holding them and write them down.

As to Parkly he had quietly ordered an internal audit to determine the quality of West Mercian's investment holdings and to his dismay had discovered a bag of worms, not only were there many suspect CDOs on their books, but the value of their property funds also looked potentially fragile.

Before he had left he had issued instruction to his fund manager that these be quietly unloaded over the holiday period whilst the markets were quiet, but unfortunately he had not counted on the sudden fall on Wall Street and the run of bad news from the banks.

Already potential buyers had sensed the danger and become wary of the sudden flood of suspect paper that was inundating the market from all sides, leaving West Mercian with the choice of accepting serious losses or ending up with worthless paper.

There had already been signs of febrility in the market as gold rose to record levels, oil prices zigzagged up and down, the dollar plunged, stock indexes nervously jerked from one extreme to the other. It was evident there would be a rush into liquidity – and what was he doing? Sitting in the sun as the City burnt, to please his young wife in a small obscure Indian seaside town tucked away on the extreme southern point of the vast sub-continent without any real form of effective communication.

A pain shot through his stomach, he was not sure whether it was due to the depressing idea of what was waiting for him back in London or whether it was the fish diner, in any case he quickly made for the bathroom.

*****

Chapter 22

Nicole Kavanagh had always wanted to go to India, as a child her grandfather, who had been a tea plantation manager until independence in Thekkady – a hill station in the Western Ghats, had often told her stories of tiger hunts on elephants, showing his then already ancient albums filled with fading photos of that now almost mythical world. It was one of the reasons her finger had stopped on Kerala when the travel agent had spread out a world atlas.

Nicole was a good looking woman, though like most people she had her faults, they included a firm if not dominating character, which she was not aware of, and a tendency to eat between meals the principal cause of her weight problem, something she was however keenly aware of, constantly seeking new diets or any other means of trying to keep her weight down.

The travel agent, who had visited Kerala, spoke enthusiastically of Kovalam and the Backwaters, and when she pointed to the page in the brochure that described Ayurvedic massages and diets she had all of Nicole's attention. As the agent checked the availability of flights and hotels Nicole attentively read the descriptive: massages, face packs, yoga exercises and meditation, though the latter was not exactly her thing.

'There are three places on a flight the 23 December.'

'I'll take them...and a good hotel, five stars.'

The agent knew her well, she had sold Nicole cruises and plane tickets for her regular trips to Spain. Nicole Kavanagh wanted only the best.

Nicole was a widow. Her husband had died at Christmas time, when the children were young and for her it was not a season of joy but one of painful memories. For years they had celebrated the end of the year festivities far from their Surrey home, in the Caribbean or Florida, then venturing further afield to South Africa, Kenya and Thailand.

She now felt drawn by a family link, however tenuous, to India, and the Christmas holidays suited her plans. She had always wanted the children to know more of her family and its history, and more specifically of her grandparents, but India had always seemed so far away. Not only that but she suspected little remained of their home in Thekkady. Now when her travel agent spoke of southern India as a tourist destination it seemed like the moment had come to make her long postponed pilgrimage to Kerala.

An airconditioned Ambassador had been booked for the four day trip from Kovalam to what had once been a hill station for the British in India. She had chosen the Ambassador herself remembering her grandfather had owned one of the first in that country, exported from England. It was comfortable, sedate, with good all round vision from its easy but rather old fashion upright seats.

She sat in the back with Sarah whilst Ryan sat beside the driver, translating his commentaries on the different sights they passed on the road, the driver of course spoke English though at moments his accent was incomprehensible. They soon left the coastal plain and started to climb up towards Periyar, which lay more than one thousand metres above them in Western Ghats, the mountains which formed a natural barrier between the states of Kerala and the Tamil Nadu.

As Nicole had grown up, India, once the Jewel in the Crown, became unfashionable. For most people it had been quickly dismissed, a forgotten a relic of the past, and when it chose a path of non-alignment, founding the notion of a Third World in Bandung, opinions at first soured then became outright antagonistic when, after the border war with Mao's China, India commenced its long and ruinous flirtation with Soviet Socialism.

Once an enthusiastic reader of Rudyard Kipling, Nicole discovered V.S.Naipaul, a Trinidadian ethnic Indian, and became a fan of his stories and his search for modern India. In her holiday reading matter were the first two of his travelogues on India: An Area of Darkness, India and A Wounded Civilization, which gave what could have been described as a politically incorrect post-colonial description of the country to Indian eyes, filled with what were many difficult to accept truths for a great number of Indians.

It was the Hindu pilgrim season and the roads into Kerala were filled with overloaded vehicles of every description arriving from the neighbouring Tamil Nadu. Bajajs, minibuses, trucks, tractors and buses, all filled with joyous pilgrims, shouting and waving palm fronds, accompanied by the sound of Hindu music played over deafening loudspeakers, as their drivers recklessly attacked the dangerous bends, making overtaking a hazardous task on the steep mountain roads, which twisted and turned in an astonishing and ever changing scenery.

It was six in the afternoon, a thick mist covered the grounds of the hotel as the Ambassador pulled into the Taj Garden after the long tiring journey of almost seven hours needed to cover the two hundred or so kilometres that separated Kovalam from Thekkady, including a short stop for lunch.

Walking through the mist and fine rain they were shown to their rooms; Bamboo bungalows with thickly thatched roofs of elephant grass – without heating. It seemed cold and disappointing. After cleaning up they ate an enjoyable meal in the hotel restaurant, momentarily restoring Nicole's good humour.

'Never mind mum,' Ryan said laughing a little spitefully. For once he was not to blame for an exotic excursion. 'Perhaps the weather will be better tomorrow.'

'Let's see if there is a bar in this place where we can get a drink, it's too bloody cold to go back to the huts!' Nicole replied sharply.

A surprise awaited them as they made their way around the floodlight swimming pool and across the gardens where the tops of the huge trees were lost in the mist. Before them was a broad flight of steps leading up to a brightly lit bar. It was the original club room that had stood in the tea plantation, now almost a museum filled with souvenirs and relics of plantation owners' life in the thirties and forties.

It was as though the clock had stopped, the glass eyes of the stuffed game trophies staring out from the teak panelling, amongst photos of pukka sahibs in baggy shorts and long socks, standing proudly alongside dead tigers.

The walls were covered with a multitude of photographs dating from the first half of the twentieth century. Searching for her grandfather Nicole quickly found him, standing proudly, rifle in hand, before a dead elephant. There were many more photos of him and her grandmother, their happy faces smiling at her from the now forgotten past. Souvenirs of her grandparents flooded back and it took a good gin and tonic to pull her together and overcome her awakened emotions.

'Can you imagine my grandfather, your great grandfather, probably played billiards in this very same room!'

It was without any doubt an Englishman's ideal of a what a club room should be like with a well stocked bar and two full sized billiard tables, where he could drink Gin, mixed with tonic water, said to ward off malaria and sundry tropical diseases, smoke his pipe and discuss the price of tea or the next tiger hunt – very much a man's world.

Nicole's grandfather, James Hogan, had spent thirty years in India, the last ten as general manager of the estate owned by the venerable Glasgow based house of James Finlay & Company.

The hotel manager was not particularly overwhelmed to discover the presence of the granddaughter of James Hogan, but he did organise a meeting for her with the present day manager of the nearby tea plantation that Nicole's grandfather had once managed. It was partly owned by Tata Tea, a division of the mighty industrial Tata Group, which now owned Tetley Tea, a British institution that had started out as a family business and whose history went back to 1822, even before tea was introduced into India from China by the East India Company.

Back in those distant days of Imperial glory, the British had tried to recreate a home from home in the hill stations of India, away from the oppressive heat and humidity of the coast, where they built their places of worship, replicas of those C of E churches found in English villages, with schools and clubs, where they taught the values of the Empire to their children, introduced Christianity and played golf and cricket.

The visit to the plantations was a let down; it was cold, damp and muddy. Besides that it was just another agricultural business, picturesque and colourful, but nevertheless a business, the mysticism of the British ruling class had gone the same way as had the Empire, and with the continued expansion of the plantations the habitat of the tigers and elephants would suffer the same fate.

Tea had become just another business, though its traditions and techniques remained basically unchanged, still with its nimble-fingered tea-pluckers and its swarthy coolies, now called porters. It was a vast commercial enterprise and life around it had changed as demand expanded, its profits paid another kind of nawab who flew in company jets, and instead of the profits going back to Good Old Blighty they now filled the pockets of a new and possibly less enlightened Raj.

The whole region was now threatened with encroaching tea and spice plantations and in addition had become a centre for both the national and international tourist industry with its ever expanding plans for new hotel complexes.

The encroachment on the natural forest not only threatened the unique and diverse wildlife of the region; it also denuded the hills and was responsible for ecological destruction wreaked on the coast line only fifty or sixty kilometres to the west. The rains ran off the region's deforested mountain ranges during the monsoon swelling the numerous torrents that rushed directly down to the sea, making the wet season wetter and the dry season drier, thus aggravating the contamination of the insufficiently replenished ground water system that supplied the coastal towns with drinking water.

Sarah and Ryan could not help but disapprove of the indiscriminate killing of game by their great grandfather and his friends; though they felt a sneaking admiration for sahibs and their tiger hunts, the memsahibs drinking afternoon tea with their lady friends, living the good life, a way of life that had disappeared for ever when the men and woman who had ruled Britain's vast imperial possession quit India in 1947 with sixty thousand of their compatriots, administrators, plantation owners, teachers, clergymen, doctors and nurses, never to return.

The cold, damp, weather persisted and after a trip on a worn out pleasure boat across the lake to visit what was described as one of India's finest wild life sanctuaries, they decided enough was enough. The much vaunted wild life seemed scarce or hidden from view and after lunch at the Lake Palace, they did not protest when Sarah suggested they head back to the sunshine and warmth of the coast.

*****

Chapter 23

Whilst Emma sunbathed by the pool Parkly was confined to their suite with a violent attack of turista. At first he had refused Emma calling in a doctor, but when he started to develop a fever there was no choice and a local doctor was called in by the hotel. Dr. Swami was a not only a medical doctor but also a specialist in traditional Ayurvedic medicine, he was only too familiar with tourists and their stomach upsets and prescribed a good dose of antibiotics.

Swami recognised Parkly as a wealthy man and in order to curry his favour he returned to the hotel late the same afternoon to check his patient's temperature. The fever had subsided slightly, but Parkly was feeling the effects of nausea and Swami suggested a twenty four hour period of rest and observation at his small but luxurious clinic on the outskirts of Kovalam.

Parkly immediately bucked at the idea, from what he had seen of India he had serious doubts as to the kind of clinic Dr Swami ran. On the other hand Emma concerned for his health immediately agreed to check out the clinic and left with Swami.

The clinic was barely three kilometres from the hotel, it was small and modern, catering for the usual minor complaints holiday makers ran into, accidents, infections, sunburn, intestinal and general health problems, equipped with all the kind of facilities a Westerner could have hoped for far from home.

Within the hour Parkly was tucked into starched white sheets in one of the clinics well appointed rooms with a mild sedative to help him sleep.

It was 6.30pm in India and 1.30am in London, January 3, when Parkly felt the effects of the sedative and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Back at the Maharaja Palace his Blueberry, capturing a weak signal, vibrated as an urgent mail arrived from London. Paul Guthrie, his managing director, was trying to contact him to prepare a statement for the press after the shares of West Mercian Finance had fallen almost twenty five percent in morning trading on the London Stock Exchange.

*

As Emma made her way to the dining room, her feelings were mixed, she of course sympathised with her husband's condition, but at the same time was irritated if not a little annoyed that her holiday was being spoilt. Fortunately it was a buffet diner and the movement provided a distraction.

Barton arrived and was being shown to a table when he spotted Emma sitting alone, he had exchanged hellos with her at the pool earlier that day.

'All alone for diner?'

'Unfortunately yes, my husband is not well.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,' replied Barton thinking the opposite. 'Nothing serious I hope?'

'Tummy upset.'

'Would you mind if I joined you?'

'Not at all,' she said waving her hand to the empty chairs at her table.

'My name is Tom Barton,' he said holding out his hand.

'Emma Parkly.'

'Parkly, that rings a bell.'

She simply smiled; 'I ordered a bottle of Chablis, a bit too much for me, would you like a glass?'

'Marvellous, yes.'

'When did you arrive?'

'In Kovalam? Yesterday. But we saw the New Year in with friends from Kochi on the Backwaters. That's where Stephen must have picked up his bug.'

'Stephen Parkly of West Mercian?'

'Yes.'

He paused absorbing the information, then deciding to avoid any talk related to business he continued: 'In seems its something fairly common in India.'

'What about you, you seemed to have been here longer from your tan,' she said smiling.

'I've been here for a few days, stopped off in Dubai for a couple of days.'

'You're planning to stay longer?'

'I'm not fixed on any definite plan, I'm going to look at some property tomorrow, it depends.'

'Oh, not just a holiday!'

Not exactly,' he said evasively.

*

Stephen Parkly was one of Britain's new class of super rich, a fraction of a percent of the population earning over £350,000 per year. He was amongst the fortunate one in a thousand Britons whose income averaged £780,000 a year. A mind boggling sum compared to the average hard put wage earner whose annual income did not exceed £25,000 a year.

Thanks to his young wife, Parkly was slumming it in Kovalam in a hotel with the lower echelons of the Russian nouveau riche and better off middle income Brits. He had not complained, after all his thirty two year old wife needed to breathe, get away from the rarefied atmosphere of London society dinner parties she had grown to hate.

Emma's family had emerged from a relatively conventional middle class background, they were far from being part of the old rich, but rather belonged to a new entrepreneurial class, families that had risen to their enviable positions through work and good fortune.

Good fortune? Yes, in reality they were not harder workers or more talented than their contempories at the outset of their respective careers, but at each bifurcation on the road to success, they had made the right choice, or had simply been in the right place at the right time.

Parkly had grown up in Pimlico on a post-war housing estate, which had been partly privatised in the seventies and had since become prohibitively expensive for those for whom it had been originally built for, due to its prime location in the very heart of London.

He was sixteen when his grandparents retired and moved to Brighton and his father, employed in the Westminster City Council accounts department, took over their three bedroom council flat, bought under the then government's 'right to buy' policy, thus getting a foot on the housing ladder. The flat, constructed only fifteen years previously at that point in time, was a considerable change from their older Milbank Housing Estate flat built at the beginning of the century.

Parkly, obtained a BSc in Accounting and Business Management at the Central London Polytechnic and qualified as a Chartered Accountant. He commenced his career at Price Waterhouse then joined the West Mercian Permanent in 1987.

Compared to that of Parkly's, Emma's family was several rungs further up the class ladder. She had grown up near Haywards Heath, Sussex, where she attended a private school and was a member of the local pony and tennis clubs. She had studied journalism and after flirting with fashion modelling she joined Tattler magazine, a 'stylish and indispensable society guide' according to its own description.

*****

Chapter 24

Sid Judge was an East Ender and proud of it. During his multifaceted life he had discovered many ways to make money, but never had he found a way of doing so with as little risk as flipping.

His problem was he had always spent money as quick as it came in, graduating from strip clubs and sex shops to video rentals then double glazing, central heating and home extensions.

Things had gone well until he made a foray into a market where he underestimated the competition; mobile telephones. When his chain of phone shops went down the drain Sid was forced to make himself scarce and headed for Florida, a popular destination for Brits who did not want to be confronted with foreign languages, though a few words in Spanish were useful.

The first time he heard the word 'flip' used in a real estate context it was on a golf course in Miami, when he was playing eighteen holes with a fellow Londoner who had made good promoting condos. Not long after, with the American immigration authorities breathing down his neck, Sid headed back to London full of new ideas.

After almost three years in the USA, interrupted by forced trips to the Bahamas to comply with US visa requirements and immigration laws, Sid returned home to Romford where the property boom with easy mortgages was taking off. He was introduced to Tom Barton by a Romford mortgage broker, who advertised 'mortgages even if you have credit problems'. Sid was a special case, having just returned home from abroad with a little cash in hand, he was in need of some creative skills to complete his mortgage application form as he was self employed, not an existing home owner, and had no credit commitments, hire purchase loans or overdrafts.

Barton had the ready made solution, which came under a heading marked 'Self Certification: Employed Self Cert applicants do not need to provide proof of income'.

It had become a simple formality in such cases and Sid with a £15,000 deposit became the owner of a small flat in need of decoration in Hornchurch, Essex, with a mortgage of £105,000.

He moved in and a month later, after a quick paint job and a new knock down price kitchen, put it on sale for twenty grand more than he had paid for it. Within two weeks he found a buyer and pocketed his original deposit plus the twenty grand less expenses. Never had he made so much money so easily and so quickly, and even more surprisingly legally.

The truth of the matter was there were many other Tom Bartons and Sid Judges on the loose at the height of the great housing boom. These replicated their easy deals contributing to building the huge bubble of hot air that was to eventually explode, bringing down many of those who had worked to create it.

The Barton's were admired by all, as models of the successful entrepreneur, but when they failed they were trodden into the dirt by the tabloids and decried as thieves and swindlers by those whose greed had made them willing accomplices.

Barton's betting shop, with its legions of flippers, Sid Judge look-a-likes, greedy and overambitious BTL owners, estate agents, brokers, banks and lenders, including many ordinary home owners, now threatened the entire British economy.

The disarray, caused in part by Barton and millions of home owners, had gotten out of hand. Hard strapped first time owners, BTL owners, those who had traded up and those who had made unwise equity withdrawals would be faced with repossession and insolvency the instant their over stretched budgets reached tipping point.

*****

Chapter 25

Ryan took a seat in a beachfront bar called Beatles and watched the passers-by, holiday makers like himself. It seemed incongruous to him that here in India, ten thousand miles from home, so many middle age Brits sporting tattoos, shaven heads with their overweight wives, had congregated together. The men, if it wasn't for their dark glasses, sunburn and cheerful voices, could have been confused with the fugitives from Prison Break. It looks more like Southend on a sunny bank holiday he thought – not that he had ever been there – recognising the coarse Estuary accents sprinkled with one or two northern tones. All that was missing were the fish and chips, but of course the favourite national dish was the beachfront restaurant menus too.

It was curious to observe this microcosm of British society, a foreign observer, looking a little closer, could have been excused for daring to ask the question: where was the multiculturalism of modern British society? It certainly wasn't in Kovalam, or in Phukit, or in almost any other favoured British holiday resort for that matter.

Admittedly there was a handful of Caribbean Blacks, the partners of mixed marriages, it was something that could be easily understood as the West Indies shared a cultural affinity close to that of Britain, the populations of the Caribbean islands spoke English as their mother tongue, be it with some variations, they were Christians and had longer historical links with the British Isles than practically any other Commonwealth nation.

As to the UK Indians, once arrived on subcontinent they were home – in their own cultural sphere – a cultural environment they did not share with their root British neighbours in the UK. As to the others originating from the subcontinent, they of course went to their respective countries. The rest were absent, whether they were from South or East Asia or from the Middle East or Africa.

It was a paradox that the root British were more at home abroad than at home; at home they were forced to pay lip service to multi-culturism, deprecating their own history and culture, the Archbishop of Canterbury even preaching for the sharia, the media, with a few notable exceptions, bending over backwards to conform with a politically correct point of view.

They even seemed to enjoy and exude their Britishness abroad; it was their only way of saying we're British with the pride and conviction that had once been a sign of the civilization their not very distant forefathers had accidentally exported.

It was also a return to sources, where families sat together to enjoy meals in each others company, instead of sticking a ready made meal into the microwave and eating it in front of the television.

Every man and his brother had become tourists, there was no nook or cranny on the planet that could escape Homo turisticus, thought Ryan, remembering a colleague who was on a Christmas cruise in Antarctica.

A cripple made his way past, scuttering along on his rump, dragging his lifeless legs behind him, his handsome face smiling, his hand held out. A teenage boy selling drums passed and then another selling cigarettes - cigarettes he would never be able to afford himself. A few moments later an old beggar held out his hand, dressed more typically like a simple Indian with an off-white turban and his dhoti pulled up between his thin legs.

The Court of Miracles was full of sights and surprises: tall thin young men from Germany or Sweden, their blond hair hanging in knots or their heads shaven but for a curious small circle of hair on the crown, dressed oddly in Indian clothes, Russians in the latest flashy fashions strolled amongst East Enders sporting beer bellies. Pale newly arrived girls strolled past, fresh and attractive, one stopped, surprised by Beatles, she raised her arms and inexplicably made a pirouette like a ballet dancer and then continued. Women fruit sellers passed by with their baskets of mangos, pineapples and papayas, brandishing their insalubrious knives and tin plates, accosting the afternoon strollers.

It was certainly different from Kings Road, thought Ryan, as he sipped his newly discovered Masala coffee, enjoying the weird and wonderful procession.

After a while he became bored and turned his attention to his more immediate surroundings spotting a copy of The Hindustan Times lying on the table to his left, more diverting than the engrained grime and old coffee spillings on his own table. A headline announced the police had smashed a ring of human organ traffickers.

It was no secret, even for the casual visitor, all were not equal in India when it came to medical care, far from it, the local press and television regularly carried stories of poor labourers and villagers arriving Delhi in search of work, ending up in illegal clinics where a kidney was removed for wealthy Indians and foreigners. Clinics run by ruthless doctors, whose kidney transplant operations earned them five or six thousand pounds for each patient.

The poor in need of money to buy food and to support their large families became unwilling donors and victims of the illegal traffic in organs run by doctors. Doctors who had sworn by Apollo the physician, by Æsculapius, Hygeia, and Panacea, taking as witness all the gods and goddesses, to keep according to their ability and judgement, the oath, which included the words never do harm to anyone.

A man sat down next to him, he looked around, then Ryan realised it was his newspaper.

'Oh, I'm sorry! Is this yours?'

'Yes, never mind.'

Ryan handed back the newspaper.

'Thanks.'

'I was looking at the story about human kidneys.'

'Oh yes, anything goes here. They call it the great organ bazaar, one of the largest centres for kidney transplants in the world.'

'Do you live here?'

'No, I'm here for a few months.'

'On holiday?'

'No, I'm doing some research work.'

'Oh, science... or medicine perhaps?'

'No,' he laughed. 'I'm a writer...research for my latest novel. My name is John...John Francis.'

'Oh yes I've read one of your books. Nice to meet you,' said Ryan who then introduced himself.

'Ah, that explains your interest in the story.'

'Yes, I'm a doctor, but that's not the reason, it's the first newspaper I've seen since I've been here.'

'I see, your first time in India?'

'Yes.'

'How do you like it?'

'Well, it's okay,' he laughed shrugging at the same time, the adding more seriously: 'I wouldn't come here for a kidney transplant.'

'It's a business here. The other day CNN reported a kidney scandal in the Tamil Nadu. It's not the first time, after the tsunami one hundred fifty women were caught up in a similar scandal. Before that villagers were selling kidneys in Singapore, the donors got four hundred pounds and the middle men pocketed twenty thousand. It goes on all the time.'

'A sad business.'

'Yes. No one knows exactly how big the business really is. Non-governmental organisations estimate that there are at least two thousand kidney sales a year in India alone.'

'You're right, body parts has become a big business.'

'Yes, I suppose you have to get used to India. Myself I came to write a book, I usually find a new place whenever I'm working on a new book.'

'Why India?'

'It's part of the background for the book, besides that a change of scenery stimulates my imagination, you see people differently.'

'Are you staying in a hotel?'

'No, we've rented a house, my wife and myself, up the hill from the lighthouse. It's peaceful...pleasant...you know with the dhobi-wallah, char-wallah and all that.'

'What?'

'Never mind.'

'Cut off from the outside world though.'

'Not exactly, I have an Internet connection.'

'Is the connection good...I mean the telephone lines are reliable?'

'Not always, that's why I took the precaution of getting a satellite link and transmitter before I left home, very handy in places like this. It's necessary for my research work and to keep in contact with people back home, you know my publisher.'

'Ah,' exclaimed Ryan. 'Isn't cumbersome?'

'No, modern technology. It's no bigger than a lap top.'

'Very interesting.'

'Do you have something on?'

'Something on...?'

'I mean are you waiting for somebody.'

'No.'

'Then come along, I'll show it to you, but I warn you, you may end up in my story!'

Ryan laughed and they set off in the direction of the lighthouse end of the beach.

*****

Chapter 26

Back in the hotel Ryan, who had talked with Barton a couple of times at the breakfast buffet, spotted him in the lobby and invited him to join them for a drink by the Club pool, the presence of another man would have a restraining effect on his mother's single mindedness.

Nicole, however, looking for an ally, hopefully tried to enrol Barton on her side by asking him what he thought about Ayurvedic medicine and gurus, a subject she had been heatedly discussing with Ryan shortly before.

'I don't really know much about it,' he confessed. 'What I do know is that millions of people at home seem to be turning to faith healers, gurus and the like...probably some kind of failure in our society.'

'It's really closer to mysticism than to medicine,' said Ryan.

'You know Princess Diana used reflexology,' announced Sarah.

'A lot of good that did her!' he said roaring with laughter.

'Do you know that Cherie Blair uses an Ayurvedic guru!' added Nicole firmly.

'That's no reference either.'

'The trouble with you Ryan Kavanagh is you know bloody well everything,' shouted his mother, to Barton's great amusement.

'No mum, I've got nothing against healthy people indulging their fantasies, but the problem is kidding seriously ill people to believe a treatment might work is bad. You could say where's the harm? Well the trouble is it ends up by demoralising already sick patients even more!'

'As long as it's a tourist thing, I can't see the harm in it,' Barton said hoping to take the heat out of the discussion. 'Whatever you say about India, it's no different from home where there's been a huge increase in the popularity of homeopathic products and the like,'

'You're dead right, there's more quacks selling their cures now than general practitioners.'

'As a doctor, what do you think of these things, I mean scientifically?' asked Barton.

'Scientifically we have what is what we call double blind testing, if a cure works it becomes part of accepted medicine, if it doesn't it remains what it is – quack medicine for the gullible!'

The two women frowned, they did not like the way the men answered everything with science.

'I even have a friend who has been cured by telephone,' Ryan added laughing. 'It's called alternative medicine and its peddlers are uninterested in proving whether it works or not.'

'But certain alternative therapies such as acupuncture work.'

'Maybe, but there's no conclusive proof, no doubt some there's psychological or physiological factors involved that we don't yet understand,' he said in the hoping of appeasing the two women.

'What I'd like Ryan, if you have got some time for your mother, is to come with me to the Ayurvedic centre and meet Doctor...,' she fumbled in her bag and pulled out a card then handed it to him not knowing where to begin with pronouncing the good guru's name.

''Sree Dharma Jayanthi Guru,' announced Ryan reading the card. 'So what is he mum, a doctor or a fakir?'

'He's an Ayurvedic.'

'A medical doctor?'

'How do I know,' she said annoyed at her son's supercilious tone.

'Alright, so what kind of treatment is he going to give to you?' Ryan asked, knowing full well it was another slimming diet.

'A special course of massages and slimming therapy.'

'I see,' he said holding back a laugh, which if it got out would invoke his mother's fury, 'weight loss therapy?'

'Yes, look...' she said digging once again into her beach bag. 'Here!'

He took the slim glossy brochure she handed to him and quickly scanned it.

'I see, therapy under the guidance of a qualified Ayurvedic physician. Hmm...it says the aim is to fix metabolic issues connected with excess weight. Sounds interesting. Special massages with herbal oils and a strict vegetarian diet! Steam baths as well as medicine is included in the special treatment programme. Correction of hormonal imbalance and removal of excess fat in the body! Two hours a day focusing on stimulating the circulatory system with a view to avoiding fat deposits.'

Sarah, sitting just outside of her mother's vision, made urgent signs to Ryan to humour her.

'What do you think?' asked Nicole.

'Well the massages wouldn't do any harm,' he said holding the kind of straight face that infuriated his mother.

'Alright mum, let's meet him.'

*

She had told Dharma Jayanthi, as she told just about anybody else who cared to listen to her, of how successful her son had been. The guru being a businessman quite naturally humoured her, like he did with all his patients, as he called them, after all he was a doctor. However, his only real interest in foreign tourists was purely financial, otherwise he had little time for them, they were ignorant of Indian tradition and worse were their condescending manners.

The guru invited them to a table in the garden, where he started by expounding the virtues of Ayurvedic tradition. In his eyes he had two potential customers, Nicole and Sarah, and there was also Ryan. Sree Dharma Jayanthi Guru was an irrepressible optimist.

Ryan politely listened to the guru, for the sake of peace in the family, even though he detected a certain superciliousness in the guru's discourse, in spite of his broad, though oily smile that displayed a fine set of white teeth, there was a discernable lack of sincerity. Ryan was convinced it was the well practiced sales spiel the guru offered to so many other tourists, nevertheless, he had to admit the guru knew how to spin a web of charm, like all quacks, over his gullible patients, especially women patients.

With a smile that exuded mysticism and saintliness he announced to Ryan, whom he saw as a competitor: 'Believe me Doctor Ryan, I have few worldly ambitions, money and material things mean very little to me.'

*****

Chapter 27

West Mercian was forced to suspend withdrawals after rumours triggered panic selling by its small investors, prompting the fear of a Northern Rock style run and fear for the billions of pounds invested in its property fund, which many had seen as a safe refuge for their savings.

West Mercian's announcement that the small investors in its three billion pound property fund would not be able to access their money for up to a year had panicked holders of savings accounts.

It explained the fund, which had invested in London office space and shopping centres across Britain, no longer had sufficient cash reserves to meet demands from investors wanting to withdraw their money. Its standby cash fund, which under normal circumstances would have held a reserve 12% of its total assets to meet withdrawals, had fallen over recent weeks, though not alarmingly so. But as rumours spread, savers and investors rushed to get their money out and reserves suddenly dwindled to mere tenth of what was considered normal by banks.

Commercial property values, especially in the City of London office market, had plunged amid fears of a recession brought on by a sudden surge of global credit tightening.

West Mercian explained to the press it had decided to take measures to protect investors following a significant level of customer withdrawals from its UK property fund. It blamed the US subprime mortgage crisis and the fear of a rise in interest rates with the growing talk of recession.

The industry was faced with its worst crisis in commercial property since the Canary Wharf office development in London went into administration in the 1990s.

Small punters had invested heavily in commercial property, but the downturn in values over the previous couple of quarters had been brutal. Shares in British Land, one of the leading property companies, had fallen by nearly half, whilst many other funds showed almost equally massive falls. The result was a rush of furious small investors stampeding to get out whilst the going was good only to be told they could no longer access their savings.

The problem was by definition such funds had invested in office buildings, which could take months to sell, and therefore the cash needed to pay out small investors was simply not available. The only possible alternative would have been a fire sale of assets, which could have only result in even more substantial losses for investors.

West Mercian was accused of leaking information concerning the suspension of withdrawals to privileged customers and insider trading contrary to FSA rules concerning the equal treatment of customers.

As a spokesman reassured customers that West Mercian's underlying fundamentals remained healthy the key managers of the firm were accused by the press of having focused their attention on the payment of their huge Christmas bonuses only ten days before the crisis exploded, bonuses that would have been impossible had the collapsed occurred earlier. Once checks were safely credited to their bank accounts, the rotten core of the firm was revealed.

The board put the blame on middle managers whose decisions had been inconsiderately taken, exposing the firm to unacceptable risks putting the future of the entire firm in peril.

Meanwhile, as the crisis grew in London with investors pulling their money out, Indians rushed head first into financial markets, abandoning their long tradition of hoarding gold and selling it to buy shares on the Bombay Stock Exchange, which had risen five hundred percent in just five years. A rude awakening awaited many imprudent Indian investors who would soon discover that their economy was not disconnected from the world financial system or markets for their manufactured goods.

*****

Chapter 28

What do you think of this Ayurvedic thing?' asked Francis nodding towards an advertising panel that vaunted the services of one of the many clinics.

'I keep a fairly open mind, but personally I wouldn't trust them to cure anything more than a fairly ordinary depression.'

'What about medical tourism?'

'My advice to anybody suffering with a real health problem is get care at home. Unfortunately that's easier said than done. Part of the problem is that medically speaking science has made extraordinary progress and today our health system is very overloaded and will continue to be so.'

'Overloaded?'

'Yes, the more medicine discovers or learns the greater the scope of care we can offer to our patients, the greater the demand, apart from the fact that we are all living longer and are better educated. Take dental care for example, before the NHS was founded sixty years ago the vast majority of people accepted bad teeth, they had no choice, dental care was costly, so little was done apart from pulling a tooth or some fairly crude fillings. That's all changed now, today television advertising and show biz reminds us of how we should care for our teeth and sets the standards for beauty, which means practically everybody wants some kind of maintenance, repair work or beautification.

'I wouldn't disagree with that.'

'The only problem is our dear old national health system was not designed for that! Drawing the line between health care and beauty is difficult, what should be paid for by the system or by the patient is a problem, who pays?'

'I agree, everybody wants access to every kind of treatment available, but nobody wants to pay.'

'For me it's a political problem, that's why you see people coming to India to have their teeth fixed.'

'So you're against medical tourism?'

'No, not per se, there are no doubt many first class hospitals and clinics, but there are many questions, notably concerning complications and aftercare. Talking for myself, if I were to send somebody overseas for an operation, for example, I would ensure the follow-up, but the problem is the follow-up can cost more than the operation.'

'Maybe you can help me?' said Francis.

'Oh,' replied Ryan warily.

'Don't worry, it's nothing to do with my health,' Francis laughed. 'It's about my book. I don't normally speak about what I'm writing to anybody, except when I need advice.'

'Advice?'

'Yes, you see the background of my novel is related to problems that concern people at home today. You know modern society...the economic situation...medical tourism...the state we're in to coin a phrase.'

'I see,' said Ryan still unconvinced, who living in his comfortable world was not too aware there was an economic problem brewing.

'I don't know if you have observed all these British tourists here very closely?'

'I saw a few cases walking past Beatles.'

'Well those are a microcosm of our society and its problems.'

'So how can I help?'

'Well, I'm not a doctor or a medical specialist for that matter, what I'd like is your opinion about the dangers of medical tourism in India.'

'Well if I'm truthful I don't know very much about it or India for that matter.'

'That's not important. You see I've done a lot of research and I would like the opinion of somebody like yourself on some specific questions.'

'It's not a crusade or something like that?'

'No, I'm an observer of people and society, I've no axe to grind, of course I have to add a little spice to make a good story, but apart from that what I write is fiction...which could become reality much quicker than you think,' he said with a smile.

'Epidemics, quacks and charlatans?'

'Why not? Natural disasters are just waiting to happen. Look at the tsunami! As for charlatans there's plenty of them about. According to some estimates there's an incredible one million people posing as doctors of some kind or other in Indian today.'

'You're kidding!'

'No. In Delhi alone, about forty thousands quacks operate from homes and clinics. Some describe themselves as Ayurvedic doctors, in any case the vast majority of them have no qualifications whatsoever.'

'What about medical associations?'

'Well there are some Ayurvedic organisations, they traditionally classify physicians into three different categories: quacks they call chhadmachara, impostors called sidhsadhita and those qualified pranabhisara who are designated saviours of life.'

'Pity we don't do that – and the government?'

'They're powerless, not to speak of corruption and the lack of resources, even the police have their hands tied because of the lack of adequate legislation in the field. What makes matters more complicated is every Indian state has its own laws.'

'Okay,' Ryan said feeling a little more reassured, 'I'll help you.' After all Francis seemed a pleasant enough person and it would do no harm to talk with him about his book.

*****

Chapter 29

Sid's assessment of the Spanish market was dead on, it was in a nose dive, for many different reasons, including those of corruption, bad planning and complex regulations, which had recently been broadcast in the highly publicized demolition of a number of homes owned by Brits.

Many expats had knowingly bought property in the expectation that the land on which their dream homes had been built would be reclassified as urban land.

The previous decade had been a gold rush, but for many it was turning out to be fool's gold. In an orgy of construction never before seen on the peninsula more than eight hundred thousand homes had been built annually, more than in France, Germany and Italy put together.

The televised bulldozing of Brit's homes had resulted in a fall of two thirds in the sale of Spanish properties to potential buyers in the UK, and caused sleepless nights to the thousands of existing expat Spanish home owners, whose deeds for the land they believed they owned suddenly became suspect. They woke up each day in the fear of a demolition order, and just the sight of a yellow Komatsu bulldozer sent a shiver of fear through expat property owners.

The problem was so widespread that even the mayor of Marbella and many of its town councillors and officials had ended up in prison accused of corruption in a vast real estate scandal.

Spain had the highest concentration of Britons living outside of the UK in Europe, most of them on the coastal region between Alicante and Fuengirola, with a high number owning homes built without the required planning permission.

Barton had heard endless stories of those who had either been informed by the authorities that they were living in illegally built properties or had discovered it local English-language newspapers.

Many foreign buyers discovered their homes had been built on illegal land after completion and having moved in. Unlike Spaniards they had put their faith in the local lawyer, who was in reality part of a system, where traditionally construction work proceeded whilst the legal problems were worked out, mainly because of the inertia of the legal system, which may have been well-founded at the time of the Caudillo, but was no longer effective when a construction crane sprouted on every street corner or vacant site in and around every Spanish city, town and village.

The horror stories filled the press, but Barton had carefully chosen his projects, the problem was they were now dragged down by the inevitable consequences of fly by night promoters and politicians, and the extraordinary never before seen property construction boom, when many Brits were tempted by a place in the sun with low interest rates and one hundred percent loans.

Unlike those who failed to hire an independent solicitor, Nicole was one of the few who refused the one offered by the promoter, which however only seemed to complicate her problems.

She like many of her compatriots had been seduced by the dream of living in Spain. The idea that holidays under the Costas sun with Flamenco and Sangria could be transformed into a permanent feature of their lives with a home by a golf course, a swimming pool, palm trees and everlasting sunshine. It was part of a myth projected by Hollywood soaps such as Santa Barbara and Bay Watch, suddenly available to the average Brit with a minimum down payment and the rest on the never-never, guaranteed in the case of difficulty by the nice profit that could be made from rising property prices if ever they were forced to sell.

Little did they understand the complexities of real life in Spain, compounded by endless legal procedures and the country's slow moving bureaucracy, difficult for those who chose to live under the Mediterranean sun and who did not speak the language.

It was like in Kovalam, once they got used to the palm trees the reality was not so bright Francis had explained to Ryan. In the past those who lived overseas had been mainly middle-class with better education and more worldliness, but now everybody was getting in on the act.

'Travel has become democratic,' he told Ryan, 'even the unemployed seem to be able come and enjoy the sun in Kovalam and feel rich. The romantic days when writers, artists and intellectuals formed a community, like in the Tangiers described by William Burroughs, are as dead as the British Empire.'

'I know what you mean,' said Barton. 'You just have to spend five minutes watching the passers-by on the beach front.'

'Funny you say that, it's just what I thought the other day,' Ryan said.

'A peculiar mixture of working-class holiday makers, retired middle managers and professionals,' continued Francis. 'A mixed bag if ever there was one, so you can imagine the difficulties of overseas communities trying to get along with each other. I lived for a few years in the south of Spain and saw the changes. I'm not being a snob, but finally I decided to move to France.'

'I've read about that in the press... East End villains hiding out in Spain.'

'Quite so, you end up by realising you don't want to be part of that kind of expatriate community...not the kind of people you like to associate with.'

Following Spain's entry into the European Union the country had experienced an astonishing period of growth that that had transformed it into one of Europe's most dynamic economies. But all good things must come to an end, investors had moved on to Croatia and to Slovenia as the Spanish market reached saturation point and inflation started to creep up.

Over supply and debt were having their effect on house prices in Spain, like in the UK where economic prospects had started to fade and people were tightening their belts.

Heathrow had reminded Barton of how the ambitions of Spanish property and construction businesses were being put to the test, especially those of Ferrovial, the Spanish investor who was now operator of the airport. They had acquired British Airport Authority after forking out an astronomical ten billion pounds a couple of years previously and after much public debate. The wind had changed and they were now caught in the credit crisis and could barely manage to service their own debts.

Spain was also facing another crisis as its economy slowed. During the boom years immigrants had flooded in providing the cheap labour necessary to fuel it. As sales fell off and construction firms fell into difficult times they started to lay off workers, but those immigrant workers had no intention of returning home to North Africa or Latin America and threatened to weigh heavily on the country's slowing economy and its social services.

*****

Chapter 30

Parkly was a creature of habit almost every working day he took lunch with his business friends at either the Taberna Etrusca or the Coq d'Argent, restaurants that reminded him of the happy moments he spent each summer on his invariable holidays, either at friends in Tuscany or more recently Ramatuelle, where he had bought a superb villa.

Though money had bought him an enviable life style he was not into yachts, planes or fast cars; he disliked the jet set style, preferring quieter easy going leisure with close friends and a good game of tennis, which kept him in moderately good form. He liked art and antiques, two of the points he had in common with Emma.

Parkly liked to describe himself as a 'manager of managers', which he was, but more because he disliked making decisions, approving with a Solomon like wisdom the ideas of others, a technique he had developed over the years, which avoided amongst other things exercising his personal responsibility.

He was well suited to an industry peopled by grey men, so cautious they were wary of giving the time of day without consulting with their legal department. Parkly was the opposite of his predecessor, who had been a man who knew his own mind, used to running the show, constantly testing his managers. Parkly believed in letting the business run itself.

West Mercian had extended its business into fund management, commercial property funds, where it developed a solid reputation, its funds prospering as Britain under Tony Blair became the financial world's leading pole of attraction. Parkly's key staff were those who had risen with him over the years, he wanted no mavericks in his team, though he was against the rigid rules practised by larger fund managers, giving his team a greater degree of freedom in their investment choices.

West Mercian's remunerations were generous, he counted on his directors and disapproved of traitors, that is anyone who left for a rival. His predecessor had resisted the approaches of larger financial institutions and Parkly pursued the same vision, that of an independent firm, its faithful managers rewarded for their loyalty, their positions practically guaranteed to retirement. However, there still remained a streak of the deeply ingrained culture of the old West Mercian Building Society, which had been founded in 1889.

At fifty-four Parkly still had a long and what looked like sure career ahead of him, holding a large block of the firm's shares.

After West Mercian had gone public, Cameron and the board held the controlling shares, the rest were spread amongst many thousands of small investors. Following the founder's untimely death, Parkly had exercised his options when Cameron's shares were bought back by the firm.

*****

Chapter 31

We can sit in the garden,' said Francis pointing to a table, then disappearing into the house. A few moments later he returned holding a couple of cold beers with a paper file tucked under his arm.

'Look, here's an example that was in the paper the other day,' he said placing the beers on the table and opening the file filled with news paper cuttings. 'It says that a 58-year-old patient died from dengue fever at the Thiruvananthapuram Medical College Hospital a few days ago.'

Ryan took the cutting, it contained little much more information other than the fact that four other suspected cases had been admitted to the hospital.

'What is dengue fever?' asked Francis.

'Basically it's a haemorrhagic fever.'

'Which is...'

'Internal bleeding, like Ebola.'

'Ebola!'

'Yes, not as bad, but the same type of symptoms.'

'Here in Kerala?'

'It looks like it, remember we're in a tropical region, there's all kinds of bad things hiding out there,' he said waving his hand towards the Bougainvillea behind them.

'Your right there.'

'These kinds of diseases are carried by mosquitoes and caused by a lack of environmental hygiene, this is the perfect place such diseases to prosper.'

'Kerala boasts about its medical tourism facilities, but it's strange that diseases such as dengue, chikungunya, leptospirosis, malaria and other vector borne infections have reached epidemic proportions here.'

'The state probably doesn't have the resources.'

'I suppose you're right,' he said digging into the file for another cutting. 'Look at this, it says that there were 16,577 viral fever admissions, 36 confirmed as dengue, four rat fever and three cases of malaria. One leptospirosis death was reported - what's that?'

'A bacterial disease, it affects people and animals. Its symptoms include high fever, severe headache, chills, muscle aches, diarrhoea and vomiting. It's usually due to water contaminated with the urine of infected animals.'

'What kind of animals?'

'Oh, lots, you know, cattle, pigs, horses, dogs, rodents, and wild animals.'

'Great.'

Ryan shrugged, he had seen it all in Africa and from what he had seen of rural India the difference was not that great.

'It says they made house to house checks near to where someone had died of dengue.'

'That's the only way they can find out if people are ill, many are afraid to go to the dispensary, they can't afford it.'

He told Ryan of how Indians became caught in the poverty trap, a case that concerned one of the women hawkers on the Kovalam beach. Chanda was a widow of about thirty, who earned her living by selling fruit on the beach at Kovalam. Her husband, a poor fisherman had fallen ill and died, leaving her with huge debts for doctors' bills and medicines, forcing her to sell her jewellery and borrow from relatives.

With three children and desperate for money Chanda had listened to an acquaintance who ran a tea stall on the main road between Kovalam and the fishing village of Vizhinjam where she lived.

Chanda was told that selling a kidney could earn her 75,000 rupees, a fortune. She barely knew what a kidney was, but agreed to visit a clinic in Trivandrum, where a medical assistant explained it was a little like selling blood.

After blood and urine compatibility tests a receiver was found, a wealthy woman from Trivandrum, to whom Chanda was declared to be related. Everything was carried out legally through a committee attached to the Trivandrum general hospital that vetted all transplants with the go-between arranging for the necessary papers and declarations not forgetting the payment of the inevitable baksheesh.

Chanda declared she was willing to donate a kidney and signed a paper then a couple of days later was checked into the clinic for the operation.

The surgery was successful and a few of days later she returned home, however, no post-operation treatment was provided and when complications developed she was forced to return to the clinic – where the personnel refused to recognize her.

The tea stall owner disappeared and Chanda finally recovered, though little better off for the loss of a kidney.

'There's no reliable data on organ trafficking,' Francis told Ryan and went on to explain how it was on the increase. 'In the USA a kidney transplant could cost from one hundred to two hundred thousand dollars, it's no wonder people who don't have that kind of money come here.'

'Of course, the root cause of the problem is diabetes,' said Ryan.

'Yes, it's rocketing in the USA, more than twenty million are suffering from it.'

'Which can lead to kidney failure.'

'Right, and an ever increasing demand for dialysis. At present there are more than a hundred thousand dialysis patients in Europe alone, and can you imagine about forty thousand waiting for a kidney!'

*****

Chapter 32

The Rymans were pleased with the Jasmine Palace, their room was large, comfortable and cool. It was perhaps a little spartan, but at least it was airconditioned though Mike regretted the lack of a television. Kate on the other hand was pleased by the absence of a television and was delighted with the view from their first floor balcony overlooking the lush tropical garden and its array of brilliantly coloured flowering shrubs.

It was their fourth day and Kate, who was not much travelled, was enjoying the exoticism of India. The previous evening, on a small floodlit stage set up under the coconut palms at the end of the hotel garden, they had watched a performance of Kathakali, a traditional Kerala dance performance, based on the Mahabharata epic and local folklore, which was said to date back to the 17th century, after having during the late afternoon watched the dancers' long and painstaking preparation, painting their faces and donning their brightly coloured costumes.

The former fishing village had an exotic charm in spite of its hodgepodge collection of hotels, guesthouses, restaurants, souvenir shops, Internet cafés and everything a tourist could need. They had explored Kovalam beach and its maze of small back alleys, which separated the many abandoned rice paddies and coconut groves. Several of the alleys were lined with small shops, tailors, stone carvers, moneychangers and restaurants.

The Rymans were hardly aware that the town was almost entirely populated by foreign tourists like themselves, a holiday makers' playground, where the Indians played out their supporting roles as small shop owners, street vendors, lifeguards, waiters and hotel staff. The real Indians, as could be found in the fishing port that lay just two or three kilometres to the south, could have been light years away.

However, it was not exactly the pristine beauty the Indian tourist brochures boasted and described with gushing superlatives. At first the couple did not notice the filth of the abandoned rice paddies, filled with garbage of all kinds, the narrow water ways that had been transformed into open sewers and the rubble strewn beach with its ill repaired, uneven, narrow shopfront promenade.

The Rymans were early risers, up with the sun every day. That morning after a long walk and watching the fishermen at work, Mike persuaded Kate to try the Lonely Planet vegetarian restaurant for an early lunch. The restaurant lay amongst the rice paddies behind the main sea front area, it overlooked a small pond where a couple of swans gracefully glided to and fro over its smooth surface.

Mike decided on a Masala Dosai for them both accompanied by fresh orange juices. Kate's curiosity as to exactly what was a Masala Dosai was satisfied, but only after a wait that seemed like an eternity. They had read in the guide book that patience was a virtue in Indian restaurants, something a grey haired woman at a neighbouring table overlooking the pond did not appreciate, loudly protesting: 'I came here for lunch not for diner,' in what seemed like a French accent.

The dish consisted of a very large and thin rice flour crepe filled with potato, onion and curry flavourings, garnished with four small pots of different sauces composed of: dal – a kind of lentil, a coconut onion flavoured white paste, a spicy red sauce and an indefinable yellow-green sauce.

Luckily for them the Lonely Planet presented it on a metal tray with knives and forks, since outside of tourist restaurants Indians would have eaten it with their fingers and their right hand only.

It was an enjoyable meal and to digest it they returned to the hotel and spent the afternoon sunning themselves by the pleasant pool at the Rainbow restaurant that adjoined the Jasmine Palace.

It was about four thirty when Mike complained of a sudden nausea and they hurriedly returned to their room where he immediately rushed to the bathroom and threw up violently spraying the floor with a watery yellow green vomit.

*****

Chapter 33

The following day West Mercian's shares fell by another third in morning trade as fear grew that more savers, alarmed by the collapse of the firms shares and the poor performance of property funds, would be tempted to withdraw their cash.

From the very outset of the crises market analyst's recommendations for West Mercian shares switched to sell, as they saw the firm as ripe for takeover. In the first couple of working days of the New Year, West Mercian suffered a net outflow from it property funds of more than one billion pounds.

Hundreds of thousands of ordinary people, who had invested in property funds such as West Mercian, had lost already lost up to twenty percent of their money over the previous months as the market turned down. However, up until the New Year it had been business as usual with all those wishing to withdraw their cash being free to do so.

Such property funds were designated by the market as retail investment products, open to the general public, that is to say funds designed to accept investments from individuals, pooled and managed by a fund manager such as West Mercian. On the other hand wholesale investment products were structured for professional investors, the likes of company pension funds and corporate investors.

It was a disastrous start to the year as retail property funds struggled to meet investors' withdrawals, and many had frozen the savings of several hundred thousand small investors for six months or more.

Commercial property prices had slumped in December, bringing the total decline in the last quarter to ten percent, the sharpest decline since the previous recession more than a decade earlier.

Many of those small investors who had jumped on the bandwagon three or four years earlier now wanted out while the going was still good and they still had substantial gains on their initial investment, especially those approaching retirement or who had already retired.

The worse was yet to come for many small investors. Dozens of property funds that had been launched over the previous year or two were facing the same difficulties, trying to find cash to meet withdrawals as bad news from the commercial property sector ballooned.

Parkly, if he had been up and about, would have noted that the pound was in free fall as the money changers in Kovalam marked it down against the rupee and the euro.

In London and New York alarm bells were ringing with company profits warnings reaching their highest level since the dotcom collapse. Investors rushed to withdraw their money from collapsing commercial property funds and worse the latest bad news announced the possible downgrading of credit insurers with the risk of multiple defaults in debt markets.

The bad news from the USA was piling up as George Bush announced his plan to save the economy, which looked to many like trying to inflate a bus tire with a bicycle pump.

The City of London had spread the subprime virus into debt markets around the world, inventing and promoting products designed, according to them, to make the banking system surer with unfortunately exactly the opposite effect, following the well established path established over the centuries of financial folly.

The outlook was becoming grim as the three main drivers of economic growth: credit-fuelled consumer spending, house prices and the financial services industry, seemed to be coming to a grinding halt.

Any hope that the manufacturing sector would take over with the falling pound boosting exports was no more than a pipe dream. British industry had been laminated over the previous twenty years, names such as Bentley, Land Rover and Jaguar sold off, Corus Steel sold to an Indian group with the risk of its production being relocated in bad times. Shipbuilding was practically non-existent as the Royal Navy turned to its ancient enemy, France, for the design of Britain's new aircraft carrier. Airbus, which had been scorned by the jingoistic press, was now one of the two leading plane builders in the world with just its wings built in the UK. France monopolised high speed rail transport, not forgetting nuclear power, whilst textiles, electronics and a multitude of other goods were manufactured in China and India, and even call centres had been relocated to distant Bombay.

*****

Chapter 34

It's a great pity the Kovalam's Zero Waste programme, launched back in 2003, produced more reports and talk than anything else, that is aside from their usual fantasy and self-elevating babble,' Francis told him.

Ryan laughed, it was an undeniable fact many Indians were unrealistic and could not help themselves from taking their fantasies for reality. Their pride in their country was justified by its size and by its numbers, but beyond that the rush to get out spoke for itself.

'I've read a couple of their reports in the papers at the hotel, filled with out of date catch phrases, you know Shifting to a New Paradigm, the New Mantra, and a lot of technical gobbledygook.'

'Yes, the kind of report that disguises the fact that nothing is done. Those kinds of superlative descriptions are common, which if they weren't so self-disillusioning would be amusing.'

'I suppose there's not much they can do about it.'

'Sadly you're right. On the one hand the state wants to encourage hotels to install sewage treatment equipment and garbage sorting and on the other hand waste has always been and is still dumped or burned on the beaches or tipped into local streams.'

The tourists sunning themselves on the beaches did not see the dozens of waste dumps hidden out of sight just a stone throw away. The area behind Lighthouse Beach, the main tourist zone, was the most seriously affected by kitchen waste and rubbish from the seafront restaurants, which was simply piled in their backyards or dumped in the nearby rice paddies, leaking toxic juices down into the groundwater.

During the day garbage, stored under plastic covers or in sacks, putrefied until it was collected for dumping late in the evening, when ragged porters from the other India appeared, invading the paths and alleys of Kovalam as its bars and restaurants were closing, balancing the sacks on their heads, scurrying off to the hidden dumps.

These were the Untouchables; it was their task to clean away human and animal waste. They were subcastes, considered so polluted that they kept out of sight, working at night: they were the Unseeables.

Untouchables represented a quarter of all Hindus and were literally outcastes, that is to say without a caste, and were considered polluting for all Hindus of caste.

Nowadays, the term Untouchable has become insulting or politically incorrect and they are referred to as Harijans – the children of God, or Dalits – the downtrodden. The Untouchables had their own their own subcastes and traditional professions, considered polluting by caste Hindus: these included handling dead bodies, both human and animal, tanning leather and manufacturing leather goods,

The Indian caste system was composed of Brahmins, the highest rank, priests and teachers, followed by Ksatriya, warriors and rulers; Vaisyas, farmers, merchants and artisans; Sudras, labourers and finally the Untouchables, polluted labourers.

There were literally thousands of subcastes with their own institutions. An example could be seen in Gandhi's life, when as a youngman he had wanted to go to England to study law, he was obliged to ask permission to leave India from his subcaste, the Modh Bania, who refused. Bania meant merchant and gandhi greengrocer, from the Sanskrit word gandha meaning smell or fragrance. When he disobeyed, he was banished.

It was common practice to dump waste into the streams and paddy fields, whilst plastic bottles, which were been collected from the waste bins at the beach, could be seen scattered all around the fields and land adjoining the town.

Burning waste was a common practice, but since there was neither sorting nor separation, plastics and other potentially toxic materials were burnt together. Thus the stinking garbage in and around of Kovalam was not only unsightly, but posed a serious health risk.

Few hotels had waste treatment systems, those that did were in the form of septic tanks, as a consequence most of the town's waste water was emptied into its streams and drainage canals before being discharged into the sea. Certain restaurants and guesthouses on or nearby the beachfront discharged their waste water directly onto the beach during the night.

Any person who cared to look could see the broad layers of brown scum floating on the waves beyond the surf. Waste was even buried on the beach during the night, only to be uncovered during the monsoon with the waste being carried out to sea together with every form of microbe imaginable.

Kovalam was not alone; all other tourist regions of Kerala were equally polluted. Over five hundred houseboats on the Vembanad and Ashtamudi Lakes in Kochi, Alappuzha and Kollam continued to empty sewage into the backwaters leading a local newspaper to call it 'God's own wasteland' in mockery of the state's slogan 'God's own country'.

'We have sewage tanks in the boats that need to be emptied only once a year. We do that outside these days on the department's instruction. But a sewage treatment plant on land still remains a pipe dream,' announced a leading houseboat operator in Alappuzha.

The garbage and rubble strewn beaches and polluted backwaters were sights that welcomed visitors to Kerala. To the local people it was part of the landscape, but more surprisingly tourists seemed either oblivious to the eyesores or accepted them as part of the local colour.

'How else can the popularity of God's own country be explained,' asked Johnny, though admitting that things were not looking as good as in past years.

Most tourists were totally unaware of health hazards in India; amongst these were malaria, typhoid and enteric diseases, just to name a few. The fear of an outbreak of disease had only recently caused serious concern to authorities in Kochi, the states largest city. Uncollected garbage that had piled up in the streets was the cause of their concern, which was not without reason, given the recent epidemic of chikungunya that had claimed more than two hundred lives in the region with tens of thousands of people infected.

Not one city or village in the state possessed an effective waste-disposal system and the incapacity of the authorities was underlined by the fact that many hotels and resorts in places such as Kovalam openly violated the Coastal Regulation Zone rules and continued to get away with it.

*****

Chapter 35

With the fall in air fares, many Indian tourists were also attracted to Kovalam, which they found almost pristine – a vision confirmed to them by the presence of so many European tourists, including a good proportion of Scandinavians – in comparison to Bombay and other of the country's large cities, given their fatalistic attitude in regards to public hygiene.

Johnny however was worried like many small hotel owners in Kovalam; he had observed a fall in the number of tourists compared to the previous peak season. The trend confirmed that many tourists, after spending a day or two on the beaches, headed for other destinations.

The weather had not been so good and the rain together with the lack of space on the beaches was having a negative impact on the resort. Complaints of recurrent power cuts, lack of efficient garbage disposal and drinking water explained why the smaller hotels had seen a fall off in business, as their clientele, individual travellers, were not fixed, unlike those who came on packages tours and were booked into the larger hotels for one or more weeks, and had the choice of moving on.

Kovalam was an example of how the damage of unplanned tourism could affect local people and their environment. The fishing village that Kovalam had once been no longer existed, in its place hotels and restaurants had sprung up, mostly without planning permission, and many, in contravention with town planning regulations, no more than a few metres from the sea.

There were more than one hundred and fifty guest houses, shacks and restaurants in the central district of Kovalam Beach. The construction of buildings had drastically increased sea erosion whilst hotels and other establishments discharged their waste water directly into an open sewer that ran parallel to the beach before finally spewing the filth into the encroaching sea.

Tourism slowly spread from the Kovalam beach area to neighbouring villages, displacing the very same communities it had displaced initially, as large hotel groups arrived with their plans in a never ending race for business and profits.

The slogan of Kerala's tourist board described Kovalam in superlative tones, presenting it to the world as 'God's own country'. Guide books and travel magazines called it the Costa del Sol of southern India. However, it was a million light years away from the concrete jungle of Benidorm and far from the pollution, crowds, noise, poverty and dirt of the real India. Many visitors even took a liking to it after a period of adaptation, transforming it into their winter home and even buying property there, whether they were aware of the dangers and health risks or not was another story.

*****

Chapter 36

Ryan joined his mother by the pool where she was thumbing through a brochure.

'What's that mum, more advertising for beauty treatment.'

'No...' she said.

Her reaction was much too calm, which meant she would soon be asking him something. He did not have to wait long.

'Ryan...'

'Yes mum.'

'What do you think about this nip-tuck thing?'

'What nip-tuck thing?'

'You know,' she said, the tone rising, 'Getting rid of this fat!' pointing to her midriff.

'You know what I think about that kind of thing, if it's a real problem, I mean if a person has a serious complex, then it could be considered.'

'Well I have a bloody complex!'

'Don't get excited mum.'

'Look, here it says you can get a lot of things done here in India much cheaper than back home.'

'Health care does not come cheap mum. In any case you don't have a problem with money.'

'Have a look at it,' she said handing him the brochure.

It described in flowing terms a large modern hospital in Kochi, specialised in cosmetic surgery amongst other things. Their services remedying everything from loose upper arm skin, amusingly described as 'bingo wings' or 'bat wings', lifts to remove excess skin from the thigh and buttock area, liposuction and abdominoplasty or tummy-tuck; mini or full. The latter, the brochure explained, generally produced a smoother and flatter stomach, noting that the best results were achieved in women who had the correct weight for their height. Not the case for my mum, Ryan thought.

The smooth talk was designed to comfort naïve women – and more and more frequently men – in search of elusive youth and beauty, playing up to their whims, reassuring them that 'appearance plays a vital role in our self-confidence, so naturally the happier we are with our face and body, the greater our level of self-esteem and in turn, our ability to successfully achieve our goals and ambitions in life'.

True, but nevertheless crap, thought Ryan as he scanned the list of services that the brochure proudly announced: cosmetic surgery, dentistry, hair transplants, orthopaedic surgery, infertility treatment, CT and MRI scans, obesity surgery, eye surgery and transplantation.

When he recalled how Francis had spoken to him of India's public health expenditure, it seemed incongruous that such establishments could exist in a country where hundreds of millions lived beyond poverty.

The country's public health budget was one of the lowest in the world, less than one per cent in terms of GDP. Private health expenditure accounted for four fifths of the total health care costs, but public health only one fifth, ranking India on the same level as countries like Afghanistan and Cambodia.

Of the private health, only three percent was covered by insurance, which meant that when a family was hit by sickness, hospitalisation could cost more than half of a family's annual income to cover treatment and bribes.

Francis had told that a national insurance scheme was out of the question for India, as it would be an unbearably heavy financial burden on the state budget, and even if it were possible it would probably end up subsidising private hospitals.

'Interesting mum, but I suggest that if you really want something like this, then do it at home. There's enough dodgy plastic surgeons in the UK without looking for them in India.'

'You never encourage me Ryan Kavanagh!' she almost shouted.

'Think of the risks, there's anaesthetic, that's never anodyne! What if they take off too much fat? What about blood loss and surgical trauma? Recovery can be long and painful, you may even need to wear special bandages for weeks, you could even end up a cripple.'

'Sod you!'

He laughed.

'Forget I asked,' she replied extremely annoyed.

Ryan ignored her, better she be mad than sad he thought, laughing to himself at the brochure's spiel about aesthetic or cosmetic surgery, that promised to enhance or create a slimmer body, younger, smoother and more erotic.

*****

Chapter 37

Parkly was not the only one laid up, it was two days since Mike Ryman had also been confined to his room with diarrhoea at the Jasmine Palace. Kate had called in a doctor who had prescribed the usual strong antibiotic, the standard remedy for visitors to Kovalam Beach.

It would have been of interest for tourists to learn that typhoid was the fifth most common communicable disease in India, especially those with children, since children constituted almost three quarters of hospitalized typhoid victims in India. In adults and older people, typhoid was however less frequent, but much more severe.

The problem was that even sophisticated drugs were proving ineffective against new resistant strains of the typhoid bacteria, which was a major cause of death in developing countries such as India.

Typhoid, a severe contagious and life threatening disease, was caused by contaminated food, drink and water by a bacteria called Salmonella typhi, which could result in fever with severe complications. If untreated, one in ten of those infected ran the risk of death, if treated early this was reduced, though to a still very high one percent.

Typhoid fever could be transmitted in several different ways. Bacteria were spread by infected persons and carriers via their defecations and vomit. The bacteria were then transmitted to food and drink by flies and other insects, those who consumed the contaminated aliments were infected by the disease.

The risk in Kovalam also came from raw vegetables grown on sewage-irrigated fields where bacteria could survive in soil and water for several months.

Unhygienic conditions were the principal causes of infection, which manifested itself by various symptoms including fever, persistent headache, abdominal pain, diarrhoea, weakness and nausea, which progressively became worse until the infected person fell into a state of semiconciousness and eventually dying.

The problem was that typhoid often showed symptoms similar to the much more usual type of gastrointestinal complaint caused by Escherichia coli, thus the risk of undiagnosed typhoid leading to severe complications with intestinal bleeding and perforation.

Since the development of resistant strains of Salmonella typhi increased the problems of typhoid treatment as well as morbidity and mortality, prevention was the best remedy.

Tourists in Kovalam were reminded to respect the need for proper hygiene as well as drinking only purified water, avoiding raw vegetables and food left out in the open, such as the fish displayed outside beach restaurants and fruit sold on the beach, the former often stored under doubtful conditions given the daily power cuts.

Power cuts in Kovalam, due it was said to Kerala's serious power crisis, did not help food hygiene as freezers – if they existed – and refrigerators were without current at least twice a day, few hotels were equipped with standby generators.

Kerala's power crisis was worsening, first there was the price of oil and second the level of water in the state's hydroelectric reservoirs had fallen to a third of their normal recorded levels as the monsoons brought less rain than in the past. Some blamed climate change for the changing patterns of the south-west and the north-east monsoons that had ensured Kerala of more water than any other Indian state for countless centuries, others blamed the lack of planning or uncontrolled deforestation, the principal cause of rainwater runoff. Whatever the reason the power producers were forced to ration their precious current and it was too bad for tourists, who had no choice but to eat food stored in less than the best conditions.

Typhoid was an endemic disease in India and a recent outbreak in Kochi had resulted in more than three hundred cases. The incubation period could vary from three days to three months, but in general was one to three weeks.

It was essential that infected persons washed their hands carefully with soap and hot water after going to the toilet, which also applied to the people around them, including medical personnel and family, but in towns like Kovalam soap and running water were often rare commodities for the poor.

Dr Swami, suspecting typhoid, had taken samples of Parkly's stools to the Thiruvananthapuram General Hospital for analysis, unfortunately the results were not conclusive. He had therefore to return to the clinic using a special Cary-Blair medium – a semi-solid alkaline medium used to transport sensitive specimens containing enteric pathogens – to collect fresh samples, which given Parkly's condition were abundant.

The hospital's department of microbiology undertook the standard biochemical tests, but failed to detect the presence of Salmonella typhi. Additional tests were undertaken at which point the laboratory technician observed the presence of what he suspected were vibrios.

In the villages in and around Kovalam, ninety percent of families had no toilets and used nearby fields, riverbanks or the seashore. In Kovalam itself there was no sewer system or sewage treatment plant. For the vast majority of its inhabitants the only toilets were pit toilets, basically a hole in the ground. However the lower area of the town, being at almost sea level with a high water table and a high concentration of buildings, toilets, even those connected to a septic tank, contaminated the nearby wells with human faeces. As a result the risk of diseases such as dysentery, diarrhoea, and typhoid was very high.

*****

Chapter 38

I wouldn't let mum get any ideas of plastic surgery here Sarah,' warned Ryan.

'Don't worry, she's just talking,' she replied.

They sat by the pool drinking beer with Barton passing the time of the day and enjoying the sun.

'You should hear some of the nasty stories about of the dangers of cosmetic surgery overseas, and it's not only the quality of the surgery, there's a good number of unqualified doctors doing this kind of work all over the place, not just here in India. Several of my colleagues have seen patients returning from overseas with all kinds of problems, including bungled breast operations and facelifts. People seem to forget that complications can arise with any surgery, they also forget treatment abroad has no recourse once they get home,' Ryan insisted. 'The problem is all that all the things that go wrong are carefully covered up.'

'I know, it's difficult to find an Internet site that talks of complaints from unhappy patients. In fact it's impossible!' added Sarah

'What people should know before taking a decision is that being able to get back to your treating surgeon is really important,' Ryan continued. 'There's always a risk of infection or some other problem. People just don't realise you can't mix plastic surgery with holidays. Do you know how many medical tourists come to India each year?'

'Quite a lot I would imagine.'

'Over a quarter of a million and that doesn't include casual Ayurvedic cures.'

'I can imagine retired people don't want to wait ten years for the NHS, they want to enjoy their retirement,' Barton said.

'That's only natural,' piped in Sarah.

'In the UK the waiting list for hip replacements is long, so those who can afford a cut rate price will seriously think about coming to India or going to another country where they can get immediate treatment, well looked after, where they're met at the airport on arrival and taken to the hospital or a hotel.'

'What about organ transplants?'

'A thriving business, look at the scandal of villagers and poor labourers tricked into selling their kidneys for a few dollars.'

'You've got to give it to them, they're incredibly well organised. They offer a complete package with visa, medical care during the journey to India if necessary, board and lodging both for the patient and his attendant, maps and guides, plane ticketing, an ambulance at the airport, interpreters not forgetting financing.'

The long waiting lists for operations on the NHS, and the high cost of private treatment in the UK had progressively led a growing numbers of Britons to choosing overseas surgery.

'Sun, sand and instant surgery for the price of a good holiday,' said Ryan laughing. 'It's a great idea, but what happens when you're back home, five thousand miles from the hospital, and complications set in, you've got no recourse, and the NHS won't do much apart from stopping you dying. Then pain and apprehension soon transform the memories of sun and sand into regrets.'

Bangalore, the centre of Indian high technology, was proud of its new hospitals, some of which had links to leading American hospitals and the medical faculties of famous universities.

New techniques were learnt overseas and brought home to India by the country's expatriate doctors to be used in new hospitals equipped with ultra modern operating theatres. These hospitals boasted unheard of comforts for their patients compared to their UK counterparts, including individual rooms equipped cable television, PCs and broadband Internet connections not forgetting catering with English meals.

However, cost mattered and in many cases only three days after surgery many patients were back on their feet with intensive physiotherapy, ready to be transferred to a hotel and soon ready to face the ten or eleven hour flight home.

India's new hospital centres had become part of a rapidly growing profit focused industry with an international network designed to provide a regular supply of paying clients in need of treatment. Certain of the larger of the hospitals also provided on line interpretation and analysis of x-rays and scans, so whilst America slept, India worked analysing medical data and transmitting diagnostics over the Internet for use the next day at an incomparably lower cost.

'The truth of the matter is,' announced Ryan, 'even top class hospitals can't avoid problems, such as surgical errors and accidents for example, not to mind problems of nosocomial and postoperative infections like Staphylococcus aureus.'

'I've read reports that say nosocomial infections are rising and up to thirty percent of Indian patients are infected during hospitalisation compared to less than five percent in the UK.'

'By the way Ryan, what exactly is nosocomial infection?' asked Sarah.

'Well, there are several kinds of hospital infections, including bacterial, viral and fungal infections. They're mostly due to a lack of hospital hygiene and proper housekeeping, though some are caused by human transmission, during either surgical or other interventions, not forgetting airborne, water borne and food borne infections.'

'Sounds great!'

'There are guidelines for the prevention of hospital acquired infections, unfortunately they have not been adopted in India, let alone practised.'

'What about resistance to antibiotics?'

'That's a good question, many of the organisms present in the hospital environments are usually more virulent and more and more resistant to conventional antibiotics.'

'I imagine that's why they want people out of hospitals as soon as they're up and about.'

'Correct, but I hate to think of all the things lurking in the dirt on a Mumbai street for a very recently operated person.'

*****

Chapter 39

The pundits described what was happening in the subprime market as an 'unknown unknown'. But once that unknown became known, West Mercian was one of the first to suspend investors' withdrawals.

One small investor, a client of Barton's, had just retired when West Mercian suspended withdrawals from its property fund, blocking the money he had needed to complete the transaction on a retirement home he was buying in Worthing. Fearing for his savings and unable to contact Barton, he suspected the broker had absconded and lodged a complaint with the local police.

It was not long before a couple of officers from the Fraud Squad turned up at Tom Barton's offices in the City, and puzzled by the explanation he was on an extended vacation they turned their attention to his Epping home, which they of course found closed.

A link between Barton and West Mercian Finance was suspected since the mortgage firm had been one of the principal providers of home loans for his clients. In the furore surrounding the mortgage lender, Barton was a handy suspect with the press pointing to brokers and lax lending practices, overstating of house prices or the borrower's capacity to repay their loans.

Barton was just one of many mortgage brokers who had fallen into the habit of abetting such practices and one of the causes why West Mercian's portfolio of loans were less diversified than they or investors thought.

West Mercian was therefore exposed to the risk of borrowers' default and falling prices, which was not exactly the same problem as the US subprime crisis that was undermining markets and where US mortgage based bonds were carved up into collateralised debt obligations, known as CDOs and sold to financial investors. However, West Mercian's portfolio did include a number of contaminated CDOs, which together their failing commercial property fund and risky mortgages added up to a deadly concoction.

It soon came to light that Barton was in arrears on the one and a half million pound loan on his luxurious Epping home, which only increased police suspicions. In his office they had seen a framed photo of him standing before a chartered Gulf Stream business jet hired for a promotional visit with an unidentified group, the only clue to the jaunt was a handwritten inscription: 'Guadalmina Golf and Country Club group'.

Though no charges were formulated or fraud detected, Barton risked being accused of contravening the Financial Services Act by deceiving lenders, falsifying information and inciting borrowers to take out unrealistic loans.

Tom Barton's brokerage had been successful for many years and he was known for his stylish living, driving around Epping and occasionally in the City in his Jaguar or Porsche. It was over the course of the last five years he had drifted into business practices that were to be his undoing, though in his mind he had never abused his customers confidence, those who dealt with him knew exactly what they wanted and the risks they were taking, he did not deal with first time owners or what he perceived as losers.

He often sported a solid gold Rolex watch and wore stylish bespoke suits; they were part of his business. On occasions he had chartered a private jet to fly small groups of selected prospective customers to visit Dublin or Marbella properties. It was not extravagance, but a well honed technique, whereby he maintained total control of his prospects, from the moment they arrived at the City Airport to the moment they returned. At the destination they were driven around in luxury limousines and stayed at the best hotels, and in the evenings he hosted them for diner in the finest restaurants. To his mind there was no hard sell they simply fell like ripe fruit into his open hands.

Barton worked with his own small team as well as a string of smaller brokers to feed him with a steady supply of customers: special cases for large or difficult loans for small business people, potential buyers of second homes in Spain, then much more recently came Dublin.

He personified booming Britain's entrepreneurial mentality, he was a winner. Never in living memory had there been such sustained growth in UK property prices, making the average homeowner rich, or at least feel rich, cultivating an upward property trade-in way of thinking, where there were no losers, only winners like Barton.

It was common knowledge that he despised house price crash style contrarians, in all their forms, from the simply envious to the jealous losers and lame ducks with their dire forecasts. In 2003 they were already predicting disaster, but people like Barton had a natural talent for knowing when they were on a winning streak, forging euphorically ahead. In early 2007 he realized trouble was brewing, but by then he was already in deep and in need of time to disentangle himself, building a fast exit option.

Unrealistic home loan applications had become part of the industry with widespread self-certification of earnings, which in effect falsified income and employment information, ostensibly deceiving mortgage lenders, although lenders had a pretty good idea of the kind of practices they were condoning, turning a blind eye to what had become a charade and concentrating on their own business objectives: growth, profits and quite naturally bonuses.

*****

Chapter 40

Barton was sitting at the bar when Ryan walked in looking worried. He raised his hand in a hallo and made a sign to the empty seat next to him.

'It's never as bad as it seems!' he said as Ryan sat down. 'What'll you have?'

'A beer would be nice.'

Barton made a sign to the waiter and ordered two beers.

'Where's the family?'

'The Ayurvedic centre.'

There was a silence as they sipped their beer.

'You live in town, I mean in London?'

'Battersea...and you?'

'Epping.'

'Nice, what do you do?'

'The City, finance,' he said carefully.

'Interesting, you know I'm a doctor,' it was a statement, 'internal medicine.'

The conversation was awkward, Ryan's thoughts were elsewhere.

'Not looking too good in the City at the moment,' he ventured.

'No, it'll probably get a lot worse.'

That's encouraging thought Ryan.

'You know the subprime crisis, housing and all that.'

'Hmmm.'

'The problem is no one really knows whether a slowdown in the USA will affect everything else.'

'I don't know, perhaps the Americans will have to go without imported flat screen TVs or Starbucks coffee,' Ryan said with a grin.

'Perhaps, the problem is whether a slump in the USA will hurt us or not.'

'What will happen here or in China and Japan if there's a recession?'

'If you look at what happened in 2000, when the dotcom bubble burst, no one could have predicted the present boom.'

'That's true.'

'Perhaps something new will come up,' said Ryan hopefully.

'Well it better come quickly!' laughed Barton.

Barton was old enough to remember the three previous booms. The first was that of the early 1970s presided by Barber, the second was Lawson's boom of the late 1980s, and now Gordon Brown's – the architect of British economic growth over the previous ten years, now slowly grinding to a bleak end with Brown seeming more and more like a used car salesman in his defence of government plans to save Northern Rock, an intervention that would doubtlessly be a landmark in British financial history.

Past booms had shared the same common characteristics: runaway borrowing, surging house prices and a yawning balance of payments deficit. People, both individuals and companies, believed, as always during such heady times, that the good times would roll on forever, while investors disillusioned themselves into thinking returns on assets had limitless growth.

As to the politicians, from Lawson to Gordon Brown they believed they were infallible, like the Pope, the difference being was the Pope had a direct line to God, which was why the Catholic Church had survived so long, it was unfortunately not the case with British Chancellors, who always made the mistake of believing they were in the presence of a new economic model and what was even worse one of their own creation.

'Would you invest in the City at the moment?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well if you had some capital, you know if you sold a house for example and wanted to put the money in a safe place.'

'Like the Northern Rock?'

Ryan's face dropped so quickly that Barton, suspecting the hypothetical question was in reality a real one, hastily added: 'I'm only joking.'

*****

Chapter 41

The guru was a follower of the late lamented Malladihalli Swamiji, who had been a renowned yoga and Ayurvedic guru, who had boasted of treating more than three million people for various diseases with natural medicines and yoga, and without having to resort to surgery.

'My Ayurvedic clinic and educational institution is totally non-profit making,' he said dismissing the luxuriously appointed centre behind them with the wave of a heavily ringed hand.

The fact that his clinic was worth a fortune in India, or anywhere else for that matter, was explained it away by the need to provide for his loyal followers. The bearded guru planned to build a centre in the UK to back up his nascent network of outlets across Europe, promoting and selling his Ayurvedic care and products that included an extensive range special massage oils, dietary products, books, courses on yoga and meditation.

A woman appeared, it was Barbara Parkins. She made a sign to the guru who waved her over.

'Please join us Barbara' he said rising. 'This is Doctor Ryan, Mrs Kavanagh and her daughter Sarah.'

There was a gushing round of hellos and hand shaking.

'Barbara is establishing one of my centres in the UK.'

'Oh, that's interesting,' said Nicole. 'Where?'

'In Smethwick.'

'How nice,' replied Nicole, not to sure where Smethwick was.

The guru was counting on Barbara. Her import business was thriving, she ran courses in mediation and promoted the sale of Sree Dharma Jayanthi Guru's Ayurvedic products, a brand name she had registered and sponsored on her Internet site.

Dharma Jayanthi regularly provided her with a listing of clients he gathered not only from his own clinics but also from the smaller, less high profile, clinics in and around Kovalam and Varkala.

Each week charter flights filled with new converts and adepts to Ayurvedic science returned to their homes in the cold, damp, UK winter. Each one of them bearing a collection of souvenir oils, soaps, creams and lotions, and even candles made from essential oils extracted from exotic plants, smelling of lemon, Damask rose, jasmine, patchouli and neem, aromas which would trigger their senses for weeks and months to come – as only perfumes and aromas can, bringing back vivid memories of the warmth of southern India's climate and how their aches and pains had been relieved by a masseur's skilled hands and the power of mystic oils.

Internet sites told of teachings based on the thousand year old tradition of Ayurvedic medicine, persuading the guru's followers of its all embracing healing power.

The message was clear, accusing those who denied the teachings as being ignorant of ancient Ayurvedic studies and traditions. The importance of traditional medicinal plants was vaunted and their amazing powers, capable of healing cancer and a multitude of lesser diseases.

'You know Sir,' he said turning to Ryan, 'the State Government of Kerala has awarded us for outstanding achievements to society. Not only that, people from all over the world donate freely to our projects. You should take a moment to read my books on yoga and Ayurvedic medicine, they explain everything.'

Ryan nodded politely as the guru ploughed on oblivious to anything but his own voice.

'In our calling, we study anatomy and metabolism on the basis of our ancient scriptures, using medicinal herbs and natural plants in our centre for the preparation of the medicines necessary to heal those who come to our ashram.'

'How exactly does it function,' asked Ryan, curious to hear the guru's explanation.

'Let us take an example, as you know our sense of smell is a trigger for a whole range of reactions, activating our minds, our bodies and our emotions.'

His listeners looking at him intensely nodded their heads as one and he continued.

'For hundreds, even thousands of years, we have learnt that natural essential oils have therapeutic values, which work through this sensory mechanism. They act directly on our brain's limbic system through the olfactory nerve, which as you know can affect sleep, digestion, muscles and joints, respiratory functions, mental alertness, emotional balance, skin tone as well as regulating women's menstrual cycles and body weight.'

Clever, Ryan thought, noting the words designed to specifically appeal to women, who no doubt made up a large part of the guru's followers. He nodded to Jayanthi's pleasure at what he took as Ryan's approval, However, he was mistaken, Ryan's nod was merely a sign that confirmed in his mind the good guru was doing nothing more than meting out the usual mumbo-jumbo that quacks all through the ages had used to ensnare the naïve and prise open their purses.

'We should all remember that when we're born,' said the guru pleased with his own words, 'what life holds for each one of us has already been predetermined and happiness is understanding and accepting our individual karma. If we could all live our lives in harmony with nature, then we would be both physically and mentally healthy and there would be no need for any kind of medicine.'

Wishful and foolish thinking, thought Ryan.

'You should visit our ashram if you have time.'

'Ashram?'

'Yes. An Ayurvedic retreat, it is where we seek spiritual peace. You are most welcome to experience our way of life of meditation, yoga and the observation of a strict vegetarian diet. In our religion all life is sacred and those who spend a little time in meditation will leave feeling purified and spiritually uplifted.'

'Where is it?

'Not far from here.'

Ryan promised he would take time to visit him before he left.

*****

Chapter 42

Sarah by chance found herself on a sunbed by the pool next to Emma Parkly, who she observed was distractedly reading a copy of the Tattler, which after a few moments she dropped onto the low drinks table beside her.

'Would you mind if I had a look at your Tattler?' she asked hopefully.

'Not at all,' said Emma turning and remarking Sarah, who appeared to be a little younger than herself, and who after her accent was in her class.

'Thank you - you're English?'

'Yes.'

'By yourself?'

'No, but my husband is ill.'

'Nothing serious I hope,' Sarah replied politely.

'Well I'm not sure, it would be nice if there was an English doctor around, I'm beginning to get worried.'

Sarah listened, she wasn't about to invoke Ryan's wrath by proposing his services, something he detested outside of his professional life.

'What's wrong with him...if you don't mind me asking?'

'Stomach problems, but I think it's more serious than they think.'

Sarah tried to make small talk, but she saw that Emma very preoccupied.

'By the way I'm Emma Parkly.'

Sarah then recognised her, she had a good memory for names, it was useful in her job knowing who was who.

'Is your husband Stephen Parkly?' she said hesitatingly.

'Yes.'

'Perhaps I can help your husband.'

'Oh.'

'Let me speak to my brother.'

Without waiting for a reply Sarah was up and heading for the bar where Ryan was drinking a freshly pressed orange juice and picking unenthusiastically at a late breakfast.

'Who?' he said standing up on his bar stool to try to see the pool.

'Don't look!'

He shrugged.

'It's Stephen Parkly's wife, Emma.'

'Never heard of her.'

'You know, the blonde girl I pointed to yesterday.'

He searched in his mind for a moment then his face lit up: 'Oh yes, why didn't you say that before. Not bad looking.'

'Don't be stupid!'

'What does she want,' he grinned.

'It's her husband, the head of West Mercian finance.'

'What's wrong with him?'

'Stomach problems.'

'Oh sod off Sarah, I'm here on holiday, not to look after some bugger's turista!'

'Come on, come and say hello to her.'

'Well perhaps I'll do that,' he said sulkily, 'but don't count on me looking after her old man.'

He waved at the waiter for the bill, then pointing to pool abandoned his half eaten breakfast.

'This is Ryan, my brother, he's a specialist.'

'Specialist?'

'Yes, I'm a specialist at the St George's hospital,' he announced admiring Emma's lines in her white bikini.

'Thank God for that, I'm beginning to get seriously worried about Stephen with that Indian quack.'

'Tell me what the problem is.'

'Stephen is in Swami's clinic, but I think it's one of those Ayurvedic places, he has a stomach problem and I don't think it's getting better.'

'Who's Swami?'

'He's a doctor the hotel sent.'

'How long has Stephen been sick?'

'It started the day before yesterday, now he has a fever and has been vomiting, but Swami says it's normal.'

'I see. Where is he?'

'At the clinic, about five minutes from here in a taxi.'

'Let's go and see him,' Ryan firmly decided.

Half an hour later they stood at the reception of Dr Swami's clinic, where they were informed the doctor was absent.

'Can I see my husband?' asked Emma.

The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke quickly in Malayalam then hung up.

'He's sleeping at the moment,' she said stiffly.

'I'd still like to see him.'

She picked up the phone again and after a moment announced: 'One of Dr Swami's assistants will be here shortly,' her eyes darting from Ryan to Emma suspiciously.

'I'm a Doctor,' announced Ryan.

'Oh,' she hesitated, then picked up the phone once more.

A few moments later a man in a white coat appeared: 'I'm Doctor Kannan, I afraid Doctor Swami is not here for the moment, can I help you?'

Ryan replied before Emma could speak: 'Nice to meet you,' he said holding out his hand, putting on his friendly professional smile. 'My name is Ryan Kavanagh, I'm a specialist in internal medicine at St Georges hospital in London.'

'Pleased to meet you doctor,' Kannan replied defensively. 'What can I do for you?'

'We'd like to see Mr Parkly, he's a friend of mine.'

'I see.'

Ryan was puzzled by what he saw as obstruction in the small clinic, a private affair, obviously fairly prosperous.

'Could I speak to you alone for a moment Dr Kavanagh.'

'Sure.'

Ryan followed the assistant through a couple of swing doors into a hallway and then an office.

'Dr Swami has left for Thriuvanthapuram General Hospital this morning, he had some tests to do in connection with your friend Mr Parkly.'

'What kind of tests,' asked Ryan, not surprised at what seemed a normal procedure, but curious as to the kind of tests they were making for a patient with a fairly common turista type complaint.

He hesitated: 'Perhaps we should wait until Dr Swami comes back.'

'I see.' Ryan noted that the younger doctor was worried about talking to him without Swami's permission. He tried another tactic: 'Look we're both doctors, I assure you I will not interfere in the procedures of your clinic...'

He was cut short by the arrival of a man with a full head of thick peppery hair, a heavy black beard and with yellow and red Hindu temple markings on his brow.

*****

Chapter 43

India, with its population of 1.15 billion, which continued to grow at an unchanging rate of 15 million a year, as it had done so over the previous half century, with its many castes and religions, was naturally to the ordinary tourist a complex society of which they understood very little.

Most visitors knew of it as the home of Hinduism, the world's third largest religion, fewer knew that in addition to the Hindus there was also a large Muslim population of almost two hundred million believers, about twenty five million Christians, not forgetting the Sikhs, Jains and Zoroastrians, Buddhists, Bahais and even Jews.

However, to most tourists, Hinduism and Islam were the most visible and though they were somewhat familiar with workings of the latter, Hinduism was of great complexity to the Western mind.

It was said that there were three hundred and thirty million gods in the Hindu religion, but for most Hindus three Lords ruled over the world. Brahma the creator; Vishnu the preserver and Shiva the destroyer, each had his own respective consort: Sarasvati the goddess of learning; Lakshmi the goddess of wealth and prosperity, and Parvati known as Kali or Durga.

Those tourists who had visited almost any Hindu temple could not have failed to observe that there was a profusion of other gods and goddesses, amongst the most common were: Ganesh with the head of an elephant, Hanuman the monkey, Ganga Ma the goddess of the River Ganges and Samundra the lord of the sea.

Not all of the many gods were worshiped by all Hindus. Some Hindus worshipped Vishnu whilst others only worshipped Shiva. Certain worshipped the goddess called Shakti, meaning power. Hindus also worshipped gods according to their own individual affinities, for example sportsmen worshipped Hanuman who was doted with great physical strength, whereas businessmen worshipped Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth.

Hindus believed in reincarnation and that a person's fate was determined by his actions. These actions were called Karma. A soul whose Karma was good during his present life would be rewarded with a better life in the next reincarnation.

Good souls would be liberated from the cycle of birth and rebirth and be redeemed with Moksha or freedom. Hindus normally cremated their dead, so that the soul of the dead would go to heaven, except rare cases for Hindu saints, who were believed to have attained Moksha.

The main Hindu books were the Vedas. These were Rig Veda, Sama Veda, Yajur Veda and Atharva Veda. The concluding portions of the Vedas were called Upanishads, but there were many other holy books including the Puranas, Ramayana, and Mahabharata.

These books were epics that told the stories of the gods, their families, kingdoms and the wars they waged. The Mahabharata contained Krishna's dialogues on religious philosophy, this was called the Bhagvad Gita, considered as a separate holy book.

They had many holy places including rivers and especially the Ganges, which the Indians call Ganga. They also worshiped and respected certain animals and birds like the cobra, apes, peacocks and cows.

People were born into castes, from which they could not change. Each caste had its obligatory duties, its own professions and fixed social relations, which was to say only with members of the same caste, in for example matters of marriage and eating.

The Brahmans, whose religion was a forerunner of Hinduism, considered Buddha as an incarnation of Lord Vishnu and introduced part of his teachings and philosophy, such as non-violence, into the religion.

India's second largest religion, Islam, was introduced to the subcontinent by Arab traders in the 7th century, though it was not until the 10th century onwards, with the arrival of invaders from Persia, the full force of Islam was felt in India.

The most important difference between the Hindu and the Muslim vision of God was the Hindus belief in pantheism, which considered everything, animate and inanimate, to be divine and sacred. Most Hindus saw God or gods everywhere: in plants, animals, the sun, the moon and in human forms. Muslims on the other hand believed in just one God and that everything in creation was his.

Islam believed in the equality between men whilst Hinduism was based on caste, though many saw Hinduism as flexible and amenable to reform whereas Islam was rigid.

In all, four hundred million Muslims lived on the subcontinent formed by India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, or about one third of the world's Muslim population. The Muslims of India were divided into two distinct groups with a system of castes not unlike that of Hinduism. These were the Ashraf and Ajlaf. The Ashraf were subdivided into the Sayyeds, Sheikhs, Mugahls and Pathans, descended from the Arabs, Mughals and Afghans. The Ajlaf, descended from Indian converts, were considered to be of an inferior class when compared to the Ashraf.

The underlying tension between Hindus and Muslims erupted into violence from time to time, and on occasions with great bloodshed, especially when the flames were fanned by ambitious electioneering politicians appealing to the religious sentiments of the crowd.

In spite of these complexities, India was changing and its middle classes were increasingly at ease with modernisation and change compared to the poorer majority. Business and industry had seen the appearance of powerful multinationals in just a decade and a half of liberalisation, which was evidenced by the ambitions of middle classes.

In the past the ambition of the average Indian had been to go into government service or the public sector. The appeal of private business had changed that and many of those employed in the private sector work force were the children of public sector employees, civil servants and teachers.

The Mittal takeover of the European steel firm Arcelor was a source of national pride for many Indians, just as software programmers or business process outsourcing workers were seen as evidence of India's place in the modern world.

*****

Chapter 44

Ajay's visit to India was not for pleasure, it was for medical reasons – not for reasons of beauty or mobility – it was much more serious, he was in need of a kidney transplant.

His father, of Indian descent, had arrived in England in the late sixties from his native Mauritius, then a British colony, ostensibly to study accounting and management, but in London he met and married a Dublin girl. His wife, Deirdre, a young nurse, worked in a small rather rundown residential care centre for the elderly in north London and when the owner retired they took what at the time seemed a huge risk, they bought the care centre with the help of a large loan. Slowly they transformed and expanded it into a modern and moderately profitable business with over one hundred residents.

At thirty seven Ajay and his younger brother ran the centre. Their parents who were now approaching sixty would soon be retiring leaving the business in their sons' capable hands. The only cloud on the horizon was Ajay's health; he had developed diabetes. He was far from End-Stage Renal Disease, commonly called kidney failure, when the kidneys could no longer carry out their vital function of cleansing waste from the blood, waste in the form of uric acid and other toxic substances, but neither he nor his family wanted to wait for that to happen.

The long term solution was a kidney transplant. The problem however, was that even with his connections the waiting time in the UK was two years, and as his condition was not considered priority this could be much longer.

The NHS system was overburdened with the cost of health care growing faster than GDP. It was human; everyone wanted to live a healthy life and a longer life.

In addition there were moral implications concerning organ transplants and more specifically donors, whether living or dead, which prevented many sick persons from receiving life saving transplant surgery.

Ajay was left with the choice of dialysis or a kidney transplant overseas. In addition his difficulties were compounded by the problem of finding a matching donor. Ajay's Asian ancestry posed a problem, in spite of having an Irish mother, his combination of blood group and tissue type was rare in the UK, meaning donors were also rare. The only solution was India, where a suitable donor could be more easily found.

'You do not have to worry about the donor,' he was told when he discussed his case over the telephone with the clinic in Kochi. 'It's no problem to have a live donor arranged through a humanitarian organization.'

Ajay did not ask too many questions, it was his life and if a willing donor was found who would accept fair payment for a kidney he considered it a fair exchange. He could not ask his own family in Mauritius, where Indian traditions were still strong and cultural ethos and religious beliefs were completely different from those prevailing in the UK, their religious beliefs generally discouraging the donation the organs.

'When you arrive in Kochi,' the specialist had reassured him, 'we shall recheck your blood type to be sure of a suitable match with the donor. If I'm not mistaken your blood type is AB, so the donor can be either be A, AB, B, or O. We shall also have to make some additional tests relating to antigens and allergies.'

The difficulty with unrelated donors was the limited match between donor antigens and those of the recipient, given that the body's immune system would not recognise the transplanted organ and rejection would follow. However, following the introduction of cyclosporine, an immunosuppressive drug, the success of kidney transplants had greatly improved.

*****

Chapter 45

Barbara, who had no training in medicine, Ayurvedic or otherwise, offered seminars to her adepts in Smethwick on India's traditional health care and medicine. She described it as an ancient system of medicine and it was. The problem was she was convincing and when she told her friends that conventional medicine had its limits they believed her.

It was more than ten years since she had first visited India and Kovalam, where she had met Dharma Jayanthi as he was simply called then, when he had no pretensions to being a doctor, and when he dispensed herbal body toning massages to passing tourists from a room in the small house he then rented on one of the alleys that led down to the beach.

At that time Internet was unknown in Kovalam and the town had been somewhat smaller. As the resort grew, a good many small hotels and guesthouses were built behind the sea front façade on the former rice paddies, and with the regular daily flow of tourists to and from their lodgings to the beach, passing along his alley, business rapidly grew.

It was easy to convince people without any medical training whatsoever that the means possessed by modern Western medicine to cure disease were seriously limited, and then persuade them antibiotics were dangerous.

Barbara explained to her adepts that allopathic, or conventional medicine, was based on synthetic chemicals, which formed chemical deposits that remained in the body over a long period of time creating new health problems.

Her programmes were filled with a considerable amount of pseudo science, which pretended the understanding of the full nature of a health problem could not be derived from fragmentary knowledge, and that limited vision was the root problem, a statement that was essentially true, but she added that Western medicine was guilty of precisely that: if the root cause of a cancer was not known how could doctors cure that cancer – an idea that contained a certain undeniable logic.

She persuaded them that Ayurvedic medicine went to the root of the cause and treated it with medicinal plants containing easily absorbed natural chemicals that progressively treated the source of disease. The vast knowledge accumulated by the ancient Ayurvedacharis had enabled them to diagnose diseases and with the right medicinal plant find a cure for them.

Barbara explained to the ignorant that Western medicine employed only one medicine for a broad range of diseases: antibiotics, which many believed were all the same, whereas Ayurvedic medicine for the treatment of malaria alone offered more than twenty five different cures – surprising given the number of Indians suffering from chronic malaria. She warned her adepts against detractors, those whose ignorance of Ayurvedic medicine prevented them from understanding it, telling them that knowledge created faith and lack of knowledge created confusion.

Her adepts were convinced by her business like discourse, whereby the accredited representative of the famous guru explained how at his centre in Kovalam continuous efforts were invested in research, education, guidance and training with the help of donations via their website. The guru, like many of his compatriots, peppered his literature and publicity with the trite slogans of small town American marketeers, in the line Remember, if we are not part of the solution, it means we are the problem, however, to the unworldly housewives who attended Barbara's seminars, these words seemed professional and even inspiring.

Barbara convinced her many listeners that Ayurvedic treatment was the ultimate source of medical care, for both body and mind, and in time they would be rewarded for their trust and confidence when scientific research proved it, and the world would realise that they had been right all along.

*****

Chapter 46

Many so-called Ayurvedic practitioners have set up shop in the popular tourist resorts of Kerala, and just about any self respecting hotel or guesthouse offers some kind of Ayurvedic massages and treatment,' Francis told Ryan.

'I've seen the advertising hoardings and signs all over the place, you can't miss them. Miracle cures and rejuvenation for only twenty five pounds!'

'A lot of the so called doctor can't even speak correct English, not to mind the kind of English spoken by some tourists, meaning they can't even diagnose the real health problems of their patients.'

'I know what you mean,' he said recalling Tanya's English.

'Kerala even markets Ayurveda abroad as one of its key tourist attraction and with almost half a million foreigners expected in the state over the coming year, it's a huge business.'

'Part of our health services crisis I suppose.'

'I don't know about that, but there are around seven thousand private clinics, whatever they mean by clinic, and five hundred government clinics and hospitals in the state. You can imagine what most of them are like! The government hands out accreditation to almost anybody.'

'What about our friend Dharma?'

'He's clever, even though he's not a trained Ayurvedic doctor – that requires at least five and a half years study at a recognised Indian training institution. His only real training is that of a masseur with a few courses in traditional medicinal plants and oils.'

'So his clinic is not recognised.'

'It is, today his staff includes qualified Ayurvedic personnel, doctors, nurses and masseurs. He is the owner, though officially he is not the director. His role is that of a guru – a spiritual guide!'

'And the government?'

'They talk of introducing new regulatory legislation, but nothing is done. Their policy is to develop traditional medicine as part of the tourist industry, and also medical tourism for more conventional health care, you know anything from hip surgery to dental and eye care.'

*****

Chapter 47

Good morning, I'm Dr Swami,' he said with a broad smile. 'How can I help you?'

The assistant stepped aside and with a quick backward movement bowed out, the relief on his face was evident.

'About my friend Stephen Parkly.'

'Ah, Mr Parkly...yes, how can I explain? Please sit down.'

Ryan took a seat.

'I have just returned from the pathology department at Thriuvanthapuram General Hospital. I thought it best to make some tests as your friend was not responding to treatment.'

'What kind of tests.'

Swami hesitated, then very softly replied, 'Widal tests.'

There was a long pause.

Ryan as a specialist in internal medicine knew that the Widal test was a fairly crude assay method designed to detect Salmonella typhi antibodies in patients. It was not particularly reliable, since results from different laboratories could vary considerably.

'I see.'

There was another long silence as Ryan absorbed the significance of what he had just heard.

'So you understand the reason for our caution.'

'Yes, typhoid.'

'I am waiting for them to telephone me the results of ELISA and fluorescent antibody tests, that's why I hurried back to take the precautions necessary in the clinic.'

'Of course.'

ELISA was an enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay, that is to say a blood test that looked for antigens specific to the typhoid bacteria. Antigens were substances, such as viruses, bacterium, toxins or foreign proteins, which triggered a response from the body's immune system. The fluorescent test checked for the presence of antibodies to Salmonella typhi.

'This information is naturally confidential between us, a case of typhoid at the Maharaja Palace would be bad for Kovalam at the height of the tourist season.'

Ryan recalled that Typhoid fever was a food borne infection caused by Salmonella typhi. The infecting organisms invaded the bloodstream of the host via areas in the intestine called Peyer's patches, causing an acute systemic disease, characterized by high and spiking body temperatures. Clinically, it was sometimes difficult to differentiate typhoid fever from other fevers such as malaria and typhus. He also knew that additional laboratory tests were necessary to diagnosis the disease.

'So what are your intentions?'

'First let us see the patient.'

Dr Swami stood up and led the way. Parkly was in a private room, all the rooms in the clinic were private. He was sleeping and his breathing heavy, his face red and swollen. Ryan was not sure whether it was the fever or sunburn.

'What's his temperature?'

Swami handed him the chart.

'I see. 39.6°C. What other kind of symptoms has he shown?' he asked politely.

'He complained of usual headache in this kind of case, abdominal pains and of course diarrhoea,' hesitated Swami.

'A typical tourist gastrointestinal complaint.'

'Yes, Escherichia coli and the likes, so we gave him the usual antibiotic treatment with ciprofloxacin.'

'Good.'

'The problem is of course complications, the risk of intestinal bleeding or perforation with sepsis, I don't want to go into the others.'

Ryan was a little puzzled at the speed of the infection as typhoid normally developed relatively slowly with symptoms often appearing one to three weeks after contact with the disease.

'When do you expect the result of the tests?'

'This afternoon.'

'I see, so there's not much we can do until then.'

'Quite so. Do you have a mobile phone?'

'Yes.'

'Good, so here's my number, you can call me about three. By the way, as I just mentioned this information is confidential, if you would be kind enough to reassure his wife without mentioning our suspicions.'

They returned to the Maharaja Palace after Ryan had reassured Emma that Parkly was sleeping and it was best not to disturb him, promising he would accompany her back to the clinic later that afternoon.

Back in his room as Ryan zapped the TV to the Indian CNN news channel he could not rid himself of a nagging suspicion as to Parkly's complaint and was impatient to know the results of the tests. However, another unpleasant surprise awaited him, the Mumbai Stock Exchange had plunged seventeen percent and trading had been suspended. Over the last couple of days he had not checked the international or financial news, but he was suddenly concerned to know exactly what was happening after having convinced his mother, just before Christmas, to confide her investments, as well as the proceeds of the sale of her house, to a broker friend of his in the City.

After an uneasy late lunch with Emma and Sarah he called the clinic and was told that Dr Swami had left for Thriuvanthapuram and would not be back until six or seven.

Ryan was preoccupied by the information, not to speak of the financial news, informing neither his mother nor Emma Parkly. On the financial side CNN was reporting that margin calls had triggered the stock market rout. As share prices had risen, a great number of investors had jumped into market, many of whom with heavily leveraged positions, that is paying only a percentage of their total investments, called margin, whilst banks or brokerage houses came up with the rest.

The shares bought on borrowed money were kept as collateral with the lender. It was plain sailing as long as the markets continued to rise, but with the sudden drop in the market the value of investments dropped sharply, and mechanically the value of collateral also dropped.

Thus if an investor wanted to hold his positions, he would have to come up with more cash to maintain the value of his collateral. The result was that those investors who did not have the liquidity necessary simply cut their losses and offloaded their investments. The selling pressure produced a snowball effect with markets plunging even further as investors sold their positions to reduce their losses.

Ryan tried calling his broker friend, Tony Solomon, in London, only to get his voice mail. He figured with the time difference it was perhaps too early. Then recalculating with a difference of five and a half hours it was already 9.30am in London, Tony should have already been in his office. He then dialled the office number, but again there was only his voice mail reply.

After a frustrating couple of hours Kovalam was suddenly looking sour, he had the feeling he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was too hot to go out and he lay on his bed zapping the TV and listening to the financial news. Finally he dozed off. When he awoke it was already dark, he looked at his watch, it was just after six.

He took a shower then called the clinic. This time he got Swami who asked him to come over as quickly as possible – alone. He sounded worried.

*****

Chapter 48

Speaking about links to Western institutions,' said Francis, talking of another of the recurring scandals that had hit the national headlines in India, 'some of these have recently expressed deep concern about their name being used by foreign organisations they don't really control, especially when scandals like illegal kidney transplants start hitting international headlines.'

'Of course it doesn't look good when American dialysis patients are being held here on suspicion of being linked to the transplants,' Ryan agreed.

'It says in the paper they're in hospital in Kochi and their passports have been confiscated.'

'It seems like transplants were carried out on five foreign tourists and on top of that they've found a waiting list of about forty foreigners from different countries."

'Apparently it's been going on for years and the authorities have done nothing about it.'

'Yes, it looks bad, especially since the donors were promised jobs and then tricked into selling their kidneys for about a thousand dollars.'

'And resold for many more times that I'm sure.'

'At least ten times more!'

'It's incredibly gory, the neighbours said they had seen blood in the gutters outside of the house where the clinic was installed and blood stained bandages were discovered with bits of flesh on a piece of nearby wasteland.

'What's worse is that the police suspect at least fifty officials.'

'Apparently the racket was also active in Mumbai and Delhi.'

'A country wide business.'

'Hospitals and doctors involved too.'

It was an old story, for years, India had been known as a 'warehouse for kidneys' or the 'great organ bazaar' and had become one of the largest centres for kidney transplants in the world, offering low costs and almost immediate availability.

In a country where one person out of every three lives in poverty, a huge transplant industry had come into being after drugs were developed to counter the rejection of transplanted organs. The success rates of operations linked with a lack of legislation and loose medical ethics contributed to growth of kidney transplants. On the one hand there were growing numbers of desperately sick people dependent on dialysis machines and on the other any number of desperately poor potential donors willing to sacrifice a kidney for easy cash.

Since donors could continue to live normally with one kidney, an illegal kidney black market had developed, benefiting not only rich Indians but also foreigners, both at home and overseas where donors travelled to sell the their kidneys.

The number of scandals has continued to grow in spite of legislation outlawing the trade. In Bangalore a racket was discovered where almost one thousand kidneys were removed from poor donors, lured by the offer of jobs and their kidneys removed under the pretext of giving blood. Such cases were common in all large Indian cities and involved police, doctors, other medical personnel, international kidney brokers and agents, and even diplomatic staff.

The law passed by Congress, Act 42, prohibited all commercial trading of human organs except those donated by relatives and brain dead donors. Selling an organ was punishable by up to seven years in prison and a fine of ten thousand rupees or one hundred pounds.

However, since Indian states were responsible for their own health affairs, local assemblies were required to adopt and apply the legislation, which many were very slow to do.

There were nonetheless many different ways of circumventing the law, such as kidney marriages since spouses were permitted to donate an organ. The question of dead donors was practically impossible in India due to a lack of infrastructure: no intensive care units, no means of preserving brain-dead cadavers, and a lack of suitable transportation in a region where the hot climate did not facilitate conservation.

Each year more than two thousand people sold their kidneys for cash, including a number of HIV seropositive carriers.

In a country where hundreds of millions suffered from abject poverty, the lure of easy money was irresistible with the destitute ready to sell a kidney in their desperate struggle to survive, and where the distinction between ethics and survival became blurred.

In India, where poverty was rampant and the general standard of living extremely low, the savings for a Briton seeking medical care could be enormous, and some Indian centres even had agreements with health insurers, such as BUPA, entitling those covered to use their hospital's facilities and services.

Though gurus and Ayurveds boasted of their thousand year old system of medicine, conventional Indian doctors, often trained in the Europe or the USA, seemed to forget that Western medicine had commenced in Greece, almost three thousand years ago, and those same Indian doctors had sworn the Hippocratic Oath. The father of modern medicine, Hippocrates, born on the Island of Cos in Greece in 460BC, rejected superstition and believed in the natural healing process based on rest, a healthy diet, fresh air and hygiene.

The Indian government not only approved medical tourism, but planned to invest billions in the sector given its success and the prospect of huge growth.

The country's medical centres boasted specialists in all fields of major surgery, including orthopaedics, cosmetics, dentistry, oncology, dermatology, holistic and Ayurvedic care for the sick.

These centres also provided facilities for post-operative convalescence so as to accelerate the return of their patients to normal physical and mental health after their operations.

Satisfied medical tourists praised the system, which quickly arranged hospital appointments, visas and flights. On arrival patients were met by highly trained and experienced personnel who had at their disposal facilities equipped with the most modern equipment. One satisfied clients boasted to the press that his trip including airfares, hip replacement and dental treatment had cost him less that the dental treatment alone in the UK.

*****

Chapter 49

Without informing Emma Parkly, Ryan jumped in a taxi for the clinic. On arrival he found a police car parked in the forecourt and inside two police officers stood at the reception desk. This time the receptionist, without formality, ushered him into Swami's office, who was waiting for Ryan with what appeared to be a senior police officer.

'Nice of you to come over so quickly Dr Kavanagh, let me introduce you to Deputy Superintendent Vijayakumar, head officer of the Kovalam Police Department,' said Swami, inviting him to take a seat.

Ryan shook hands with the Deputy Superintendent, a little confused and concerned by the presence of a police officer.

'I'm sorry about my absence this afternoon, the hospital called me and I had to get over there very quickly,' he said joining his hands as in prayer and concentrating his eyes on the papers on his desk. 'The tests...we have some...how can I say, unfortunate news!'

'Parkly?' Ryan said, immediately concerned by the sick man's condition.

'No, Parkly is fine,' Swami reassured him, adding as an after thought, 'his condition is stable.'

'Good,' he replied, waiting for Swami to explain.

'The tests have shown the presence of Kommabacillus.'

'Kommabacillus!'

'I'm afraid so.'

Kommabacillus, a comma-shaped bacterium, was isolated by a German physician Robert Koch in 1883. Now commonly known as Cholerae vibrio pacini after the Italian Filippo Pacini, who first observed comma-shaped particles, or vibriones, in the stools and intestines of the victims of a cholera outbreak in Naples; he had hypothesized that the particles could have been the cause of the victims' deaths. However, Pacini's observations, published in the Italian journal Gazetta Medica Italiana Toscana in 1854, went unnoticed by the world until Robert Koch rediscovered the bacteria years later.

The once fearsome, but now easily treated disease, was caused by the infection of the intestine, producing diarrhoea, vomiting and leg cramps. In most cases it could be treated by a single dose of 300mg of doxycycline, a powerful antibiotic, and rehydration.

The problem was that beyond the disease itself was its terrible reputation, capable of destroying the reputation of a town like Kovalam overnight, with the certain risk of tourists fleeing Kerala and the collapse of its tourist industry, one of the state's key economic sectors of activity.

Ryan remembered reading the case study of the famous Swiss resort of Zermatt, where in 1963 officials denied the rumour of an epidemic of typhoid fever with the result that four people died, including a tourist, and hundreds were infected. The conspiracy of silence caused ten thousand tourists to flee the resort, transforming Zermatt into a ghost town overnight, sealed off from the outside world, a financial disaster that took the Swiss tourist industry years to live down.

'How did this happen,' Ryan asked, knowing full well, from what he had observed, Kovalam beach was a breeding ground for all kinds of dangerous pathogens.

The disease was spread by unsanitary conditions and transmitted through the consumption of water contaminated by the bacteria. Cholera however was rarely spread directly from person to person.

Cholerae vibrio lived naturally in the plankton of fresh, brackish and salt water, attached primarily to copepods, small crustaceans, which formed part of the normal zooplankton. Both toxic and non-toxic strains existed. The non-toxic strains could become toxic with coastal cholera outbreaks often following a sudden increase in zooplankton. Cholera was therefore a zoonotic disease, that is to say transmitted to humans from other creatures, and in the specific case of cholera, to those present in contaminated well water.

'The authorities will look after this Sir,' announced the deputy superintendent.

'May I ask which authorities?'

'The state authorities Sir.'

'In Delhi?'

'No Sir,' replied the deputy superintendent to Kavanagh, thinking the tourist clearly knew nothing of India. 'We have a national, state, district, block and village structure in India, so in this case the governing authority is that of our state, Kerala, and to be precise our district authorities in Thiruvananthapuram,' he added didactically.

'I see,' said Ryan realizing he was out of his depth.

*****

Chapter 50

The first known outbreak of cholera occurred in August 1817 in Jessore, now in Bangladesh, just seventy miles from Calcutta. It spread from the subcontinent to the Middle East and Russia, and by 1831 every European capital was threatened. Its symptoms were extreme diarrhoea and vomiting, the victims dieing of extreme dehydration, sometimes within just a matter of hours. By the end of the nineteenth century it had killed many hundreds of thousands of people across Asia, Russia, Europe and the Americas. It was named cholera; a Greek word signifying spewing out.

At the beginning of the 21st century, the world was experiencing its seventh great pandemic of cholera with over sixty countries reporting outbreaks each year.

Typically Cholerae vibrio bacteria were excreted by infected persons and it could be spread directly to others, who after touching the sick person failed to very carefully wash their hands before eating. The bacteria could also contaminate food or water supplies and in certain cases cause an exponential epidemic.

Once inside the intestine, the bacteria multiplied and produced a toxin causing the intestines to secrete considerable quantities of liquid leading to severe diarrhoea and vomiting. An infected person could lose more than fifty litres of fluid during the course of the disease.

An untreated victim normally died of dehydration after a ten or fifteen percent loss of body weight and in extreme cases in only a couple of hours.

There was no effective vaccine against cholera. The only means of prevention and contamination was by stopping the cycle of contagion, but if Cholerae vibrio reached the water table and wells it could spread uncontrollably.

Infected persons required urgent oral re-hydration with a solution composed of a mixture of glucose and electrolytes. However, because of severe vomiting many cholera patients could not drink the solution and intravenous drips were necessary for rehydration.

Cholera was much more common than the average tourist imagined and very recently a cholera outbreak in Vietnam, another country in vogue with tourists, had affected several hundreds of people in a number of the country's provinces with four deaths.

A cholera epidemic in urban areas demanded a strict epidemiological surveillance system and the immediate availability of medical supplies and equipment, a challenge for the Indian authorities who normally dealt with epidemics in less high profile locations.

Ryan recalled reading the recommendations published by the Foreign Office and on various web sites concerning India. One site estimated the risk of cholera infection for European or North American travellers to endemic areas as one or two cases per million trips, which translated into six cases of cholera annually given the four million foreign tourists travelling to India.

'I imagine you're taking all the isolation precautions in the clinic?'

'Of course.'

Then the deputy superintendent, speaking in an official tone, said: 'Doctor Kavanagh, I must advise you that the Director General of Police in Thiruvananthapuram has been instructed by our Health Minster to report all developments in this case and has ordered to us take all the necessary precaution as regards preserving public health in Kovalam. I have been informed that a specialised medical team has been put on alert and in the meantime Mr Parkly will be moved to an isolation centre in Thiruvananthapuram.'

Ryan was about to speak when the Deputy Superintendent held up his hand.

'Sir I must also inform you that though Mr Parkly is a British subject, this is an Indian affair and more specifically concerns the State of Kerala.'

Ryan was stopped in his tracks: 'But Mr Parkly's family?'

'They are being informed, one of my officers, a lady, has left for the hotel.'

'I am Mr Parkly's physician and would like to ensure he is suitably cared for.'

'Our doctors are perfectly capable of assuring Mr Parkly's treatment and will advise you of his progress. Dr Swami assures me he will be on his feet in a few days.'

'I see, I will have to inform the British Embassy, perhaps you are aware Mr Parkly is an important financier in the City of London.'

'We shall do that Mr Kavanagh, and perhaps you should recall the British have no jurisdiction in India,' he said adding sharply, 'since 1949!'

Ryan held back not wanting to antagonise the local authorities.

'You may return to your hotel, you will be accompanied by one of my men. Before you go I have to warn you that the interests of Kerala are involved and I must have your word that you will not divulge the details of Mr Parkly's illness to anybody whatsoever.'

'Am I to believe I'm being gagged?'

'Call it what you like. If you refuse I'm afraid I will have to take disagreeable measures.'

'What measures?' asked Ryan recovering his courage.

'You will be detained in your hotel.'

'I don't believe this.'

'Sir, you must do as we ask or I may be forced to put you under house arrest, you are not in the UK.'

'You have my word,' he said resignedly, not sure if it Vijaya, or whatever his name was, was making an empty threat or not. In any case he did not want to find out what an Indian jail might look like.

*****

Chapter 51

Back at the hotel Ryan looked for Emma, she was not in her room and neither Sarah nor his mother had seen her. He then enquired at the reception and was informed she had checked out.

'Checked out?'

'Yes sir.'

'That's not possible, they are booked until Friday.'

'I'm sorry sir, they have left.'

Angrily he spun around trying to figure out what was happening. He saw two porters pushing a baggage trolley on which he recognised a beach bag he had seen with Emma. There were also packages and items of clothing that should have normally been packed in the suitcases.

Watched by the desk manager, he confronted the porters.

'Excuse me, whose baggage is that?'

'Room 201 Sir.'

'Mr Parkly's?'

'I don't know Sir.'

'Where is it going?'

'I don't know Sir.'

The desk manager arrived.

'Is there a problem Dr Kavanagh?'

'Yes, I would like to know where Mrs Parkly is.'

'She has left Sir.'

'For the airport?' he asked knowing full well it was not the case.

'That I don't know.'

Sarah arrived just as Ryan, not wanting to cause a scene, decided to try another tactic.

'Sarah, let's get out of here.'

Heading for the pool bar Ryan quickly explained that Emma had left the hotel for unexplained reasons and asked Sarah to discreetly return to the entrance and enquire to the doorman where the baggage was being taken.

As Sarah casually strolled back towards the entrance she saw the porters loading the baggage into a taxi. She stopped as though enjoying the evening air, then flashing a seductive smile asked the doorman where the taxi was going.

'Trivandrum Madame,' he obliged, admiring the attractive young woman.

'The airport?'

'No, the General Hospital.'

'Thank you,' she said turning and leaving before she drew any further attention.

*****

Chapter 52

Night was falling when Emma Parkly arrived in Thiruvananthapuram, she was in a daze, in the heat and confusion of the last few hours she had not yet grasped what was happening to her. Swami had brought her to a small, very exclusive private clinic situated in a residential district of Trivandrum.

The clinic stood on the grounds of a large house built by a wealthy British tea and spice plantation owner in the twenties, it was surrounded by a vast walled garden and was almost invisible from the outside, as were many such houses in the district. The clinic belonged to Swami's extended family who had acquired the property after India's independence.

Emma, accompanied by Swami and a woman doctor, alerted by phone some minutes before of their arrival, was immediately led to Parkly's room, part of a private medicalized suite she was informed. The room was spacious and modern, bathed in a soft bluish light, just sufficient for the nursing staff to monitor the patient's condition. The air conditioning hummed softly, electronic medical apparatus beeped from time to time and two screens showed different data plots. Parkly was sleeping or unconscious, he was being hydrated by transparent tubes from an intravenous drip to compensate for the massive loss of body fluids.

'There you are Mrs Parkly, you see we are giving your husband the best possible care.'

There was little doubt Parkly was being well cared for.

'The medical faculty is just a couple of blocks from here and all the necessary tests are being carried out to monitor your husband's progress.'

Emma nodded. She felt very alone in the strange environment.

'What exactly does my husband have doctor?'

'According to the analysis received from the pathology department at the state medical centre, your husband is suffering from an acute digestive disorder.'

'I see.'

'Has he ever suffered from ulcers?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'I see. We'll see how he is tomorrow morning. In the meantime the family room is next door, we thought it better you be close to him. I will show it to you,' he said turning to lead the way.

The family room was equally spacious and modern, almost like a comfortable hotel room with a flat screen television, a minibar, a sofa, a table and chairs, an en suite bathroom and toilet, naturally it was all decorated in an aseptic white offset by framed abstract paintings.

'Your bags will arrive shortly,' Swami said with a sympathetic smile trying to put her at ease. 'For diner there is a menu, just pick up the phone and it will be delivered to you. You'll find everything you need to drink in the minibar.'

'Thank you.'

'If you need me call Dr Govindurajulu, our medical staff is present night and day. I'll be leaving you now Mrs Parkly. Dr Govindurajulu will give you a mild sedative to help you sleep if needed.'

With that Swami left, instructing his driver to take him to the home of city's chief medical officer.

Thiruvananthapuram was the capital of the State of Kerala, the seat of its legislative assembly, and Kovalam was one of the many wards of the Thiruvananthapuram Municipal Corporation.

The mayor had convened an emergency meeting at the chief medical officer's home so to avoid attracting unwanted attention, especially that of the press. Those present included district the police commissioner – who also headed the Tourist Police, the public health executive engineer, the head of the state tourism department and a senior army officer.

The object was to review the situation and if necessary health inspectors, medical officers, hospitals and public health centres, in all of the district's wards would be put on an emergency footing.

*****

Chapter 53

Kerala, a relatively small state, situated in the extreme south west corner of India, covered an area equivalent to little more than one percent of the total area of the country, and had a population half that of the British Isles with a population density four times greater.

The Western Ghats, a mountain range with its highest peak at 2,695 metres, separated Kerala from the rest of the subcontinent, forming a natural geographical barrier. Its annual rainfall was almost three times the national average making it one of the greenest and most plentiful states of India.

The problem however, was that Kerala with its high population density had less rainwater water per capita than that of parched Rajasthan. Kerala's rain was quickly lost since its abundantly watered mountains fell by almost two thousand metres to the coastal plane before emptying into the sea in just sixty kilometres from the peaks. The water stored in its groundwater aquifers was not sufficiently replenished due to uncontrolled deforestation the direct cause of massive surface runoff and intense erosion.

Wells were the principal source of water for its population with probably the highest open well density in the world, up to two hundred wells per square kilometre, equivalent to one well per acre.

Kerala had little or no municipal effluent treatment and as a consequence of groundwater depletion there was a constant growth in the concentration of bacterial pollution. This was visible in the Parvati Puthan River, which flowed from Thiruvananthapuram to Kovalam, burdened with raw sewage that transformed the river into open drain.

The root of the problem lay in Thiruvananthapuram's sewage system that dated back to 1938, when the population was a mere one hundred thousand, which had since grown to eight hundred thousand producing 150 million litres of sewage a day.

The collection system, controlled by the Kerala Water Authority, pumped its effluent to a seriously inadequate sewage farm at Valiyathura, which because of its low capacity overflowed and seeped raw sewage into the Parvathy Puthanar River that carried it down to Kovalam and the sea.

Kovalam was in fact a suburb of Thiruvananthapuram and because of its importance as a tourist destination a plan had been drawn up to connect it to the sewerage network described in an official report entitled Executive Summary of Kovalam.

It was a dramatically urgent need, and to make matters worse, in addition to the direct discharge of domestic sewage to the rivers there was also that of slaughter houses, markets and hotels. Specialist reports showed that all rivers were contaminated with high levels of faecal coliform bacteria, a sure indicator of contamination, caused by sewage on their lower reaches.

It was ironic, Thiruvananthapuram had been one of the first cities in India to have a piped water distribution system, and eighty years later it was still without a real sewage treatment plant, the direct cause of the high degree of pollution on a large strip of coastline to the south of the city, more precisely Kovalam's beachs.

More than three quarters of the state capital's population had running water, but just a quarter of its households were connected to a municipal sewage collection system. The others relied on septic tanks or soak pits, a serious source of well and groundwater contamination.

The rivers of southern Kerala were dying from sewage discharge from its capital and the surface water systems had been transformed into open drains. At the same time high ranking Union Government officials insulted Australia, before the cameras of the world's television, treating it as a small and insignificant nation, perhaps it was small in numbers, not in size, in any case India would need an incalculable time to provide the equivalent of Australian sanitary conditions for its citizens, rich or poor.

The tragedy of developing countries, like India, was the cost of installing effluent treatment plants for municipal waste water was far beyond their means. It was an absolute impossibility for governments to catch up with their targets for building vitally needed sewage treatment plants. The volume of sewage generated grew at an ever increasing rate and in rapidly urbanising cities like Thiruvananthapuram the situation had become perilous; as for Kovalam and its tourists, who were at the receiving end, that New Year announced a year of all the dangers.

*****

Chapter 54

Dr Swami wiped the transpiration from his brow as he seated himself in one of the comfortable armchairs set out in the spacious reception room of the Chief Medical Officer's home, he fumbled an excuse that was dismissed with the wave of a hand by the mayor who commenced with the business at hand.

'Gentlemen, I have invited you to this off the record meeting following a report from the health department that a case of cholera has been confirmed in Kovalam.'

There was no surprise, they had already been briefed whilst waiting for Swami, the surprise, which the mayor had been holding back was to come.

'The person infected is a foreign tourist and an important man at that!' the mayor announced turning towards Chief Medical Officer.

There was a movement of consternation in the room as those present realised the consequences of the news.

'That is correct Sir,' replied the medical officer. 'Following Dr Swami's examination of the infected person, tests were carried out in the pathology department at the General Hospital and after the germ was identified it was reported to the officer responsible for infectious disease who immediately informed me.'

'I see, you are absolutely sure it's cholera?'

'Yes Sir.'

'I don't have to remind you all of the importance of our tourist industry, it is one of our economy's most important contributors. Trivandrum has become a key arrivals centre for overseas' chartered flights, not to mention the all the efforts and investments we have made for developing medical tourism.'

The importance of the meeting, called so late in the evening, was now beginning to sink in and those present who had been annoyed at being dragged from their homes were now alarmed, as like many high level state government officials in India they had vested business interests.

'An outbreak of cholera would be a catastrophe for our tourist season. If this is true we will have tourists wanting to get out and cancellations everywhere, not to speak of the bad press for the state,' said the head of tourism who looked seriously alarmed.

'Quite so,' said the mayor. 'The question is how do we handle this?'

'There are procedures in the case of a cholera outbreak Sir,' said the medical officer.

'Of course,' the mayor retorted testily. 'Have any other cases been reported?' he asked the chief medical officer, who in turn looked at Dr Swami.'

'No...I'm not sure Sir.'

'Well let's find out and quickly. That's the first thing we need to know, we have to be prepared in case of the worst. This could be a most serious crisis and the best thing we can do for the moment is make preparations to limit the damage.'

They all nodded in agreement.

'We shall meet here at midday tomorrow sharp for an up to date report and review the situation, and if necessary organise ourselves in case we have an epidemic on our hands, God forbid! Lastly gentlemen, I must insist this is all confidential.

'In the meantime,' he said looking to the Chief Medical Officer, 'I suggest you inform the National Institute, as is the usual procedure I believe in this kind of situation, though for the moment do not mention Kovalam.'

The National Institute of Cholera and Enteric Diseases, based in Calcutta, received hundreds of such notifications each day, it was a common event in India, where six to seven hundred thousand children died every year from acute diarrhoeal diseases including different forms of Cholera.

The meeting came to an end and the officials filed out bidding the mayor good night and leaving him with the Chief Medical Officer.

*****

Chapter 55

Ryan switched on his laptop and plugged the cable into the telephone socket, the connection was slow, very slow, but after some patience he found a list of local hospitals. He was surprised to discover there were just 14 district hospitals in Kerala State, but another 124 were described as Ayurvedic hospitals. With a little more time and patience he found the address of the General Hospital in Thiruvananthapuram, situated at General Hospital Junction near the city centre.

He scribbled it down and hurried to the hotel main entrance where he jumped into a waiting taxi and instructed the driver to take him to the hospital.

Trivandrum was a city with a population of over 800,000 – full of crowds and traffic like all cities, but there the similarities stopped, it was totally unlike any other city Ryan had ever visited, it was an Indian city.

As the taxi approached the city centre the traffic came to a grinding halt, the crowd flowed all around them, made worse by the presence of what the driver told him were pilgrims. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of men, half naked, their bodies painted blue, their faces white, orange and other colours, wove their way through the streets without any apparent direction, banging drums, chanting, some on them delirious others fanatical.

The heat in the taxi, which had been supportable on the open road, had become stiffling. They inched their way forward in stops and starts as the driver gave Ryan a flow of incomprehensible explanations, he was not interested, he was not there for sightseeing.

Looking at the dense crowd Ryan came to the conclusion he was perhaps the only European in Trivandrum, which in any case was not a tourist centre, most visitors continued their journey after a quick stop at its temple.

It was bewildering, the traffic chaotic, new SUVs mixed with Ambassadors, smaller cars, tuk-tuks and motorbikes, there were goats, dogs, open drains, small shops, garishly colourful hoardings advertising gory horror films and Bollywood musicals. There was the ubiquitous Indian dirt and litter, a continuous cacophony of horns, honking, tooting, beeping and rickshaw wallahs' bells ringing. Police officers in their smartly pressed uniforms stood at intersections waving their arms to no avail in their hopeless efforts to direct the traffic on the city centre's one way system.

Finally, the taxi driver, after announcing he would wait for him, dropped Ryan at the entrance to the General Hospital where he became the immediate target of a crowd of beggars and hawkers. Back in Kovalam, like most of its other tourists, he had been spared the experience of the real India with its misery, it crowds, chaos and heat. He forced his way into the lobby, where fortunately most of the signs were in both Malayalam and English, and found his way to the enquiries.

The waiting area was packed to overflowing, stiflinglying hot with poor lighting, there seemed to be as many mosquitoes inside as outside. A panel ordered the visitors to 'Keep Quiet', but to little avail, the air was filled with the shouts, demands, protestations, gossiping, coughing, children sniffing and babies crying, all oblivious to the imperative. Ryan had entered another world, not the world of medical tourism, but the reality of India.

He joined the crowd at the window and after what seemed a never ending wait in an exasperating confusion he finally got the attention of one of the authoritative receptionists. Announcing he was a doctor, which had not the hoped for effect, he enquired as to whether a Mr Parkly, suffering from intestinal disorders, had been admitted to the hospital. The receptionist took a note and asked him to be seated, a useless invitation, given there was not a vacant seat in sight amongst the waiting crowd of third world humanity, and he was not about to join those sitting or stretched out on the floor.

It seemed like an eternity before the receptionist rapping at the window, informed him that there was no one of that name registered at the hospital, suggesting he try the Old Fort Hospital, a private clinic nearby. Ryan had difficulty in finding the driver, another Indian in a dense crowd of Indians; finally it was the driver who found him. The taxi took a side street and was soon in a woody though poorly lit residential area, a few moments later they pulled into the gardens of what appeared to be a large house, then he saw the lights of a low, modern, building behind it. The house had been transformed into the clinic's administrative offices and reception area, where the taxi dropped him at a flight of broad steps leading up to a pair of heavy glass doors with highly polished bronze handles.

The Old Fort Hospital was a private hospital for wealthy Indians and foreigners. As he waited to be attended to Ryan picked up a brochure and started to read it, the clinic offered forty beds and several specialised medical services, he was encouraged by its appearance, that of a small well maintained and seriously managed establishment.

It was a world apart from the sweltering overburdened, underfinanced, general hospital he had just left, typical of so many overloaded public hospitals in India, where as many as forty beds were squeezed into a single ward supervised by a single overworked nurse, in a country where only three percent of the population had medical cover or insurance.

The Old Fort Hospital evidently catered for upper class Indians as well as passing foreigners. The waiting area was bright and modern, the reception staff alert and businesslike.

He announced he was a doctor seeking a sick friend and within a few moments the duty supervisor appeared, who introduced himself as Dr. Patil. Ryan explained his problem, but after a quick check Patil informed him that no person with the name of Parkly had been admitted.

'What exactly is your friend's problem Dr Kavanagh?'

'Well it's a bit complicated,' said Ryan fearing a defensive reaction. 'I believe he is suffering from a severe intestinal infection.'

'Can you be more precise?'

'Well...' he hesitated, remembering the words of the police superintendent, 'something serious, perhaps Salmonella typhi.'

'Typhi! Are you sure of that Doctor?'

'Yes, at least that was the information I was given by Dr. Swami in Kovalam.'

'In Kovalam...hmm,' he said absorbing the information. 'It's unusual...I mean typhi in Kovalam.'

'Perhaps, I don't know.'

'Look, perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting whilst I check around, I have a good friend at the centre for contagious diseases at the General Hospital, I'll call him to see what he knows.'

Fifteen minutes later he returned.

'You said your friend's name is Parkly?'

'Yes.'

'Staying at the Maharaja Palace?'

'Yes.'

'Well I'm sorry no person of that name has been registered at the General Hospital and they have no reports of typhi in Kovalam. You know the General Hospital is a public hospital, it has certain limitations, a lack of funds and staff shortages. I would be surprised your friend was brought there.'

'I see, I thought perhaps it was related to procedures for infectious diseases.'

'Are you sure it was Salmonella typhi?' he said feigning disbelief.

'Not one hundred percent.'

'Perhaps your friend is in another clinic.'

'I don't know.'

'I'm sorry Doctor. Since you're staying at the Maharaja Palace I'll call you if I get any information.'

'Thank you.'

An hour later Ryan was back at the Maharaja Palace where he found his mother and Sarah sitting in the bar.

*****

Chapter 56

Ryan ordered his mother and sister to his room. Given his grim face and clenched jaw they followed him asking no questions. He had little choice but to inform them of the situation. He could not allow his family to remain in a hotel where Parkly had possibly been infected.

'Cholera!'

'Yes.'

'What does it mean?'

Neither Nicole not Sarah, like most people, had the least idea what precisely Cholera was or what the consequences of an outbreak were, of course they vaguely knew it was a deadly disease, something that happened in distant places – like India.

'Cholera is an enteric disease...'

'Ryan, speak clearly!' said Nicole abruptly, knowing that he was about to say something important and wanting to hear his words in plain English. Her son often considered them as medical students whenever he stooped to offer them an explanation.

'Okay mum,' he said smiling and lifting his hands. 'Cholera is a highly contagious and dangerous disease, and our friend Parkly has got it!'

Nicole looked at Sarah who looked at Ryan.

'Can we catch it?'

'It's a possibility.'

'Jesus fucking Christ Ryan...how do you know if you've got it?'

'Easy, it a nutshell you have extreme loss of bodily fluids through diarrhoea and vomiting followed by death in extreme cases.'

Nicole starred at him agape.

'How do you catch it?'

'It's rarely transmitted from person to person. Contamination is typically transmitted by people in contact with those infected by the disease...'

'You just said it's not transmitted from person to person!'

'Let me finish mum,' Ryan said calmly, he was never flustered.

'It's when their diarrhoea enters waterways and drinking water supplies. Any infected water and any foods washed in water carrying the germ can cause infection.'

'So it could be in the hotel water!'

'It's a possibility, or in the hotel food supply.'

'Did Parkly catch it here?'

'That I don't know, but he was sick in his hotel room for a couple of days and the germ may have spread...'

'To the kitchens...'

'Or elsewhere, who knows.'

'So what should we do?'

'Leave, now,' he said bluntly.

'When?

'This evening. Call the airport, book a flight, most of them leave late in the night. In the meantime take one of these,' he said producing an aluminium blister pack of tetracycline. 'With bottled water.'

'Sarah call the airport and book three tickets home,' ordered her mother.

'Two,' said Ryan. 'I'm staying.'

'Why,' said his mother.

'I'm a doctor.'

'This has got sod all to do with you Ryan,' retorted Nicole. 'Let the Indians look after themselves.'

'No, it's not the Indians, it's Emma.'

'Sod Emma,' said Nicole. 'If Parkly is as important as Sarah says then they can look after themselves, we're not going to hang around and catch the bloody thing.'

'But...'

'Forget the but, you don't even know where they are, probably in some bloody private clinic, it's not your problem, we're your problem.

'You're right. Let's get out of here.'

Two hours later they had checked out and were heading for the airport where they were told they were wait listed on the next flight to Mumbai. Nicole slipped the flight check-in supervisor a fifty dollar bill and they were promptly handed confirmed boarding passes. From Mumbai they would be able to find a flight to London the following day.

*****

Chapter 57

Though the signs that had warned Europeans Only were gone and Cochin had become Kochi, the Kovalam tourist police kept Indian day trippers from wandering onto the south end of Hawah Beach – strictly reserved for tourists.

The once privileged British entrepreneurs were replaced by a hotchpotch of different nationalities, who sensing a coming boom had set out to make their fortune under the sun and in a country where the prices were still extraordinarily low compared to many other of the world's tourist other destinations. They set up businesses ranging from hotels to restaurants and estate agents to travel agents, but not only in tourism, they invested in language schools, fisheries, sporting activities, furniture, handicrafts and textiles, encouraged in the name of development by the Kerala state authorities.

They, together with European retirees, vied for choice residential property, causing local house prices to rocket in and around Kovalam and more precisely near to or within a very short ride from the beach.

The boom profited India's burgeoning middle classes, fifty or one hundred million people depending on the definition of middle class, as much as twice the population of Spain. However, in general, the middle class did not buy in Kovalam, their ambition was an apartment in the new high rise condominiums that were springing up around every large Indian city, and Trivandrum was no exception.

Speculation was rife in Kovalam with land and property owners sitting on a gold mine, and they knew it. European expatriates could build a palace for the tenth of the price they would have had to pay on the Costa del Sol, not to mind the suburbs of London, Stockholm or Düsseldorf.

The boom was not entirely limited to foreigners, a certain number of middle class Indians were attracted to Kovalam, just a half an hours drive from Trivandrum, acquiring property a little further inland, between their places of work and the coast. The beach area was favoured by a growing number of the privileged younger generation who had long abandoned traditional dhotis and sherwanis for designer jeans and Armani tee shirts.

Johnny carefully cultivated customers who showed any sign of interest in property in Kovalam and had befriended Sid Judge, who had landed at the Moonlight. Sid jokingly called Johnny his pal and Johnny liked the description, to him it was a compliment, then Sid confided to his new pal he was looking to invest a little money in Kovalam. Sid looked wealthy to Johnny, he sported a Rolex, not that Johnny knew what a Rolex was, but it sparkled in the sunlight and looked expensive, however, it was more the way Sid talked that had drawn Johnny towards him.

Sid spoke like a man of the world, moreover he treated Johnny like a businessman, which was not the case with all tourists, many seeing him as little better than a waiter in an Indian restaurant, and when Johnny suggested Sid needed a partner he was not met with a no.

Sid having made some serious added value on his BTL properties had decided to get out, however, it was not just a timely decision, some months previously one or two of his more shady East End acquaintances, noting his evident prosperity, had started to manifest an unhealthy interest in his business.

Serious mortgage fraud was a fast growing business in the UK as criminal interests muscled in on property deals with losses to lenders running into hundreds of millions of pounds a year. False property evaluation applications were the key to big money attracting a new kind of criminal, who abetted by corrupt surveyors obtained loans with grossly inflated valuations. Certain fraudsters raked in millions of pounds of profits with the help of crooked brokers and an inherently poor system of individual identification because of the country's traditional refusal to the introduction of a secure ID card system.

Not wanting any trouble with the strong arm boys Sid quietly sold up and after pocketing his gains started to look around for another area to exploit his acquired talents. At first he had thought of Spain, but he did not speak Spanish and imagined it full of the kind of Latino gangsters he had encountered in Miami. Then by chance he ran into an old pal, Hubert, who over a drink told him his son Harry was off to India for Christmas with Karen and the kids.

Hubert told him of Karen's enthusiasm for Kovalam and to Sid it sounded like a good spot to explore, a long way from the East End villains and a good alternative to Spain. After a few enquiries Kovalam was confirmed as a great place for a holiday by his East London friends and Sid decided to set out and explore it for himself.

The idea of buying a house in Kovalam appealed to Sid and Johnny a likely partner for his investment, since only non-resident Indians and persons of Indian origin were legally allowed to own property in India. However, as Johnny explained this restriction could be overcome by the formation of a company, which was permitted to buy property, or by establishing residency with a continuous presence of more than six months. What had he to lose with the price of a spacious detached house, a ten minute stroll from the beach on a one acre plot, costing well under half the price of a very modest London semi.

As for Johnny, he was a native of Trivandrum, he spoke good English and had studied hotel management. He ran the Rainbow efficiently for the Konguvel family, also owners the Moonlight Hotel, a wealthy Kovalam family. They had built the hotel in the late nineteen eighties to cater for a better class of tourist, the kind they had the foresight to anticipate. At that time it seemed to many a risky venture, the only tourists that Kovalam had attracted up to that point in time had been firmly in the wandering hippy category. Drugs, prostitution and small time crime were rife in the small town, but as low cost flights via the Middle East appeared the Konguvels were proved right and money had started to flow into what was still an unspoilt though scruffy paradise, little known to most travellers.

As travel became democratised a new class of traveller started to arrive, at first the more adventurous of middle class travellers with more money, seeking something more exotic than Bali or Phukit. Then came low priced charter flights and package tours for families in search of guaranteed winter sunshine at very affordable prices, attracting the Mike and Kate Rymans of the world.

It was not long before they were followed by another variety of tourist, those attracted by the easy life and more specifically easy profits, the kind of visitor who saw it as virgin territory, characters like Sid Judge, who had started to shun Spain where the property market was said to be in a worse state than that of the UK. Besides, the climate of the Costa del Sol was not all that great in the winter months, it was not Miami, and in Spain they did not speak English, where discouragingly, a number of the kind of British villains Sid most feared had either moved to Marbella or were holed up there.

*****

Chapter 58

Barton breathed in the fresh morning air, it was another fine day – every day in Kovalam was another fine day. He was up early, proof that his body-clock had adjusted to the time difference, and decided to take a walk to the beach before breakfast.

The beach was practically deserted, the sunbeds and parasols already laid out on the freshly raked sand. Looking around he spotted a girl sitting alone, half bent over on the edge of a sunbed. It looked like Emma Parkly. As he strolled towards her he sensed something was wrong, she looked bedraggled, as though she had not slept all night, and the nearer he got it confirmed his impression.

'Hello Emma,' he said kindly, being careful not to upset her with a gushing good-day.

She looked up bewildered, her eyes were red.

'Oh, Tom.'

A tear rolled down her cheek.

'Is there something wrong Emma?'

She stood up and embraced him, putting her head on his shoulder and cried for a long moment, her body heaving with deep sobs.

Something was very wrong, more than perhaps a simple dispute with her husband. Barton felt embarrassed, he did not like to become involved in matrimonial disputes.

'It's Stephen.'

'Stephen,' he repeated as he took her hand and sat down besides her on the sunbed.

There was just a lone swimmer emerging from the waves, a little further away a couple of women had arrived and were installing themselves under the parasols, they started to look in their direction, their curiosity aroused.

'Yes, he's dead....'

Barton thought he had misunderstood.

'Dead...'

'Yes, he died during the night.'

Barton was confused.

'At the clinic in Trivandrum.'

Perhaps there was an accident he thought as he tried to gather his thoughts.

'How?'

'Cholera,' she said in a flat voice.

'Cholera,' he repeated looking at her closely, wondering if she was delirious.

'Yes, he fell ill a couple of days ago, they moved him to a clinic, then to Trivandrum.'

'Let's go inside Emma, it will be better there.

They walked towards the road that led uphill to the main entrance and took a waiting buggy.

'We'll go to your room.'

'We can't, they told me there was no room...that we had checked out.'

'What! Okay we'll go to my room.'

Emma tearfully explained to Barton that Stephen had died in the early hours, heart failure according to the doctor. Some time after, she told him, she must have left the clinic in a state of shock wandering in the streets nearby the clinic until she found a taxi and returned to the Maharaja Palace, where she had arrived about an hour before.

'So it was a heart condition,' he said in a low voice.

'No, three days ago he had a stomach upset, you know turista, then it got worse and they called in a doctor. The same evening he was taken to a clinic in Kovalam and the next morning to Trivandrum.'

'Did they say it was cholera?'

'No.'

He felt relieved, he knew very little about cholera except for the fact that it was a very dangerous disease.

'But Ryan Kavanagh told me it was cholera, he's a doctor, a specialist'

'Ryan? Ah yes, he's here with his mother and sister.'

'He was, they left last night.'

'I thought they were here two weeks.'

'So did I, but they've checked out.'

'Where are your bags?'

'At the clinic.'

'Listen, I suggest you take a shower, then we return to this clinic. You have the address?'

She searched in her handbag.

'I thought I had their card, it's near the General Hospital.

'Okay, we'll find it.'

An hour later they were at the reception in the Trivandrum General Hospital, where Barton, in the heat and general disorder, unsuccessfully tried to explain he was looking for a clinic.

'Look, we'll ask the driver to bring us to the private clinics nearby, perhaps you'll recognise it.'

After another hour of driving around it seemed like a hopeless task; there were any number of medical clinics, some of them specialising in medical tourism. There were also an impressive number of Ayurvedic clinics that promised to cure every thing from depression to cancer.

'Do you have the name of the doctor who came to the hotel?'

'Yes, Dr Swami, his clinic is in Kovalam.'

Barton asked the driver if he knew of Swami's clinic, he nodded his head affirmatively in the Indian fashion.

At the clinic, the receptionist informed them that Swami was absent and would not be there until later in the day. When Barton asked if a Stephen Parkly had been in the clinic the previous day, she replied she did not know, she had not been on duty and he would have to wait for Swami's return. Barton's suspicion that there was something seriously amiss was confirmed.

At the hotel everything seemed normal. Barton suggested to Emma that she take the second bedroom in his suite, she nodded in agreement, he then proposed she try to get some sleep whilst he checked around.

Back in the lobby he spotted the Russian girls with whom Ryan had become friendly. He asked if they had seen him and was told he had left late the previous evening with his mother and sister. Why the precipitation? They did not know except that he had told them some days before he was there until the end of the week.

'Did you speak to him?'

'Just a few words, they seemed to be in a big hurry.'

He thought for a moment. 'Do you have his phone number?'

She smiled coyly, 'He left me his mobile phone number.'

'Would you mind letting me have it,' he said putting on his best smile, then adding, 'he has forgotten something.'

She pulled out her phone and found Ryan's number.

After several attempts Barton finally got him on the line and informed him of Parkly's death.

'They said it was heart failure, but Emma claims it was something else.'

Ryan was stumped, it didn't look good, he, a doctor, had upped and left a patient in the lurch, because Parkly was, if indirectly, his patient, whether he liked it or not, a patient he had abandoned in a moment of need, without warning. He realised he could only worsen the situation by lying.

'Look we're in Bombay, I wanted to get my mother and sister out of Kovalam.'

'Why?' asked Barton detecting urgency in Ryan's voice.

'Look, I don't want to cause a panic, but it seems like Parkly had cholera.'

'Seems?'

'Yes, there was no definite confirmation from the Medical Institute.'

'So his death could be due to cholera?'

'Yes, heart failure can result from complications.'

'So what do we do now?'

'I would suggest you get out.'

'And Emma Parkly?'

'Yes, that's complicated, there's the body...'

'Look, we need your help, can you inform the British Embassy of the problem?'

It was the least Ryan could do, Sarah and his mother could take the BA flight to London that same evening and he could stay over another day or two so as to inform the embassy of the situation.

*****

Chapter 59

More than one hundred thousand small shareholders had invested in West Mercian Finance, a great many of whom had received their shares in the form of a windfall when the West Mercian Building society had been demutualised, others had bought shares as part of their retirement savings believing it was a solid investment.

Whatever their reasons for holding West Mercian shares most small shareholders were almost totally ignorant of the workings of the City and more specifically those of the West Mercian itself and through their ignorance they risked seeing their shares wiped out if the firm went into administration.

The small investors, many of whom were pensioners who had invested in West Mercian as part of their retirement plans, would receive little or nothing for their holdings if the company folded. All would be losers with the possible exception of part of the personnel who could be saved, though those amongst them who held shares in the firm, as many did, would also lose their money.

The small shareholders were therefore justifiably frightened by West Mercian's dramatic change in circumstances and furious at the lack of accountability of its board of directors to investors. Directors' compensation was one of their bones of contention and notably that of Parkly's, who was conveniently unavailable to comment on the situation.

Parkly himself held a large block of shares and had made over two million in the course of the previous two years, selling his shares when the price was high, whilst at the same time advising employees and small investors to put their money into the firm, which they willingly did, not wanting to miss out on a good deal and the preferential conditions offered.

The shareholders association could do little to defend small shareholders such as Mike Ryman, who at the other end of the world, unaware of his financial predicament, lay bed stricken. Their only immediate recourse was vociferous protestation and legal action. Unfortunately for them any process of law would take years and for many of the elderly shareholders compensation, if and when it came, would be too late.

Those who had confided their life savings to West Mercian turned in vain to the government for help as politicians obfuscated and legislators once again endeavoured to close the stable door after the horse had bolted. Many would face a poorer and sadder retirement than they had planned for, having carefully put aside what was left of their earnings, after the state had taken its bite in the form of every imaginable tax and on every imaginable occasion.

*****

Chapter 60

Swami was the last in line to leave the room, out of deference to the rank of the others, powerful men. Finally, when it was his turn to pay his respects the mayor made a discrete sign to him.

'Dr Swami, would you be kind enough to stay a moment.'

Swami trembled, he was afraid of the mayor, a most powerful man. The Chief Medical Officer closed the door and rejoined the mayor with a worried Swami.

'Dr Swami, you treated this tourist, who exactly is he?'

'It seems he is the head of an important British financial company.'

'It seems?'

'I will check it Sir,' he flustered.

'And his situation?'

'Stable for the moment.'

'Stable? I thought this could be cleared up quickly with antibiotics!'

'I'm afraid there could be complications.'

'Where is he?'

'At the Old Fort Hospital Sir.'

'There's no risk of contagion?'

'No sir, the disease is not contagious by normal contact, only through infected water or food.'

'Ah, infected water, back to our sewage problems no doubt.'

'I'm afraid so sir.'

Swami was in fact seriously concerned about Parkly's condition, more precisely he feared renal or heart failure. Even an otherwise perfectly healthy person could die from the disease. Just before going into the meeting an SMS had informed him that Parkly's blood pressure had taken a sudden plunge and one of the clinics specialists had been called in, but he did not want to alarm the mayor, hopefully things would be looking better the next day.

'Good, keep me informed Dr Swami, we wouldn't like any complications, would we?' he said dismissing Parkly who quickly bowed out.

'Good, let us hope it's a false alert,' the mayor said hopefully turning to the Chief Medical Officer. 'Apart from any other problems the opposition will have a field day if something goes wrong.'

'I'm afraid they will jump at the occasion.'

'We'll be accused of obstructing the City Development Plan and the water treatment plant.'

The Chief Medical Officer was silent.

'Funds, that's our problem, no money, for health or sanitation.'

An outbreak of cholera affecting tourists would be a disaster for Kovalam's reputation as a tourist centre and Kerala's growing industry built around medical tourism.

Outside, as Swami looked for his driver he had broken out into a cold sweat, he started to feel fear worming its way into his mind. Suddenly, through no fault of his own, he found himself in the eye of a political cyclone and the danger could be great if in some way he was made a scapegoat in the affair.

He should have never have brought Parkly to his clinic in Kovalam, his greed had gotten the better of him. He had lied to the Minister, telling him no one else outside a few reliable people at the clinic knew of the results of General Hospital's laboratory analysis.

It had been a long day; the problems of the real medical world were harsher than those he was normally confronted with in his Ayurvedic clinic, where a massage could usually relieve a patient's stresses and worries. Arriving at his home he decided what he needed was a good night's sleep and once safely inside switched off his mobile phone and went directly to bed.

The next morning he awoke early and immediately called the Maharaja Palace, to his great relief he was informed that Kavanagh and his family had left the previous evening. He had barely time to savour his relief when his phone buzzed and he was informed of Parkly's death, even worse the Parkly woman was no longer in the clinic, she had disappeared.

Swami had a poor opinion of most tourists, he saw them as being so different, in spite of that he always played up to their perceived selfishness, offering them the care of his clinic, pleasing them, after all it provided him and his family a pleasant existence.

Europeans little understood the unimportance of life, how transitory this life was, how insignificant it was and how peace could be found inside, not by material comforts.

It was strange that he never saw the contradiction in his views or that of his own cupidity. His wife and family pushed him to give them more and more and he responded knowing the duty he owed them and his cast.

He had come to look on tourists as milk cows, though it was nothing unusual in those who earned their living from tourists. Like a good Hindu he would never kill a cow, but he was not averse to milking it, and as a businessman he milked Kerala's second sacred cow, tourism, for all it was worth. However, it now seemed that by his indiscrete confidence to the English doctor he could end up by killing it.

Swami shuddered at the idea he had been responsible for unleashing the cholera word, but now, in spite of his business worries, he had no choice but to set about the task of the business in hand. Later that morning he was been enrolled in the medical team being formed for the possible emergency with clear instructions to avoid replying to enquiries from over curious foreigners, and only if absolutely necessary, to talk of an outbreak of gastric complaints.

*****

Chapter 61

Emma preferred their penthouse in King Street, Covent Garden, to the other home in Hampshire, she called Stephen's place, he had lived there with his previous wife before their divorce. To Emma, Stephen's ex was not in her class and had tried to acquire a veneer of standing with the over large country home. It vaguely reminded Emma of a nineteenth century country gentleman's house and was just as cold. Emma was not a country type, she was most definitely an in-towner, as she liked to call herself, and her part of the town was not any old part of town.

She did not concern herself with Stephen's business, it was not her role, and as a consequence she knew almost nothing of events that were to turn the West Mercian affair into a Greek tragedy, with Parkly in the unfortunate role of a fallen Midas, everything he touched had once turned to gold, but everything he now touched turned to ashes and there was no Dionysus to save him or a Pactolus in which to wash his hands. Tragic it would be with three thousand jobs in peril along with the investments of thousands of small shareholders.

During the good years over-inflated boardroom reputations were built and government ministers endlessly boasted of the solid prosperity of Great Britain overlooking the lesson of the forgotten New Economy.

After the Northern Rock debacle few were willing to risk their reputation and money on a rescue plan for West Mercian and the once glorious Parkly was forgotten by all and sundry as they fought to save what they could of the firm.

It all began a couple months earlier with questions from the press on the consequences the subprime crisis knock on effect could have on West Mercian. Already the stock had lost almost a fifth of its value since the previous summer as investor sentiment soured in financial markets.

Parkly reassured the press that West Mercian's unique business model with its aggressive market approach would enabled it to overcome any short term crisis by broadening their base, becoming more competitive and producing greater profits, a notion that seemed unrealistic in the view of certain analysts who predicted a credit crises in the housing sector.

It was like the New Economy paradigm, when people had been firmly convinced that there was a new way of making money, which under normal circumstances would have been written off by clear headed people as being too good to be true. The euphoria was gone and funds were drying up, the cycle was at its end, and borrowing short from the wholesale market to lend long to retail customers allowed no room for manoeuvre.

At first ministers were unavailable, then refused all comments as the problems at West Mercian unfolded, initially leaked to the financial press, then splashed over the front pages of the tabloids, it seemed like a repeat of Northern Rock.

There was no longer any question of a quick fix with the government guarantying the savings of West Mercian's investors who fought to withdraw deposits as money poured out of the bank like blood from a stuck pig.

In Parkly's unexplained absence, a spokesman for the firm declared deposits were 'safe as houses', an unfortunate figure of speech in the circumstances. The Chancellor of the Exchequer made himself scarce, already in deep for the equivalent of almost ten percent of the country's budget thanks to the Northern Rock, at the same time the Prime Minister, swanning in front of the world television on an official visit to China, announced it was not government policy to interfere in every minor crisis that befell the mortgage industry.

The share price of West Mercian plunged through the floor, dragging the market down even further, threatening the pound sterling with a repeat of its vertiginous fall during the 1997 ERM debacle.

The government, and more precisely the previous chancellor of the exchequer, had often accused Brussels and their European partners of over generous state subsidies and protectionism, only to now to offer billions, in the form of a government guarantee, to an insolvent mortgage bank, after having constantly refused funds to productive industries in the coal, steel, textiles, automobile, shipbuilding and electronics sectors, costing Britain hundreds of thousands of jobs.

It was incomprehensible to many that the government should offer largesse to a few thousand employees of a failed bank when public funding for vital projects such as aerospace, public transport and nuclear power was unavailable.

*****

Chapter 62

Barton left Emma in the suite, she was extenuated and needed more sleep. As for himself he needed a drink and a breather in order to think, he was not used to handling such kind of situations, his usual dramas were with clients whose mortgage application was refused, until recently a rare event.

As he headed for the bar his mobile rang, it was Ryan.

'First, the British Embassy is in New Delhi, but I've informed the consulate and they've spoken with the ambassador who is investigating the situation.'

'Good, what about Parkly...his body?'

'That's more complicated. Look, I'm at the airport in Bombay, Sarah and my mother have checked in for their flight to London, I've just left them at passport control. I'm booked on an Air India flight to Trivandrum and will be there sometime late tonight.'

'Great, that's the first good news I've had all day. Oh yes, one more thing, nothing complicated, whilst you're at the airport try and pick up a couple of English newspapers for me, you know The Times, Telegraph or Financial Times?'

'No problem, I'll call you in the morning, I'll find a room at the beach, I think it best if I avoid the Maharaja Palace.'

In the bar Barton ordered a whisky, he was not a whisky man but he felt he needed something strong. As the drink arrived he spotted Oxana standing at the door, she was alone and looked a little lost. He made a sign to her to join him.

'How are you?' he asked.

'Fine.'

'Enjoying your holiday.'

'Yes,' she said not seeming very convinced.

'Where's your cousin, Tanya?'

'She's sick.'

'Sick?'

'Yes, stomach trouble,' she made a circular movement with her hand over her pretty midriff, visible under a short top.

'Ah yes, Delhi-Belly,' he said.

'Belly-Delly?'

'No,' he laughed. 'Here they call it Delhi-Belly or turista.'

'Ah turista,' she laughed. 'Everybody seems to have it.'

'Everybody?'

'Well a few of the other people from St Petersburg.'

'A few?'

'Yes. One lady seems to be quite sick, they've called the doctor.'

'When?'

'Just before dinner.'

He ordered a drink for Oxana and they chatted for a short while before he made an excuse to leave, she seemed a little disappointed and he promised to see her the next day.

*

The next morning Barton received a call from Ryan informing him he had found a room at a place in Kovalam called the Rainbow Restaurant, next to the Jasmine Palace, and asked him to come over, with Emma, for breakfast.

It was just a short ride from the Maharaja Palace to the Rainbow. To avoid using one of the hotel taxis – whose drivers spoke English – they grabbed one of the many tuk-tuks waiting near the bus stop on the main road.

The Rainbow stood on a corner facing the Moonlight Hotel at the bottom of the hill leading down to the beach. It was a restaurant with a swimming pool that appeared to be part of the Jasmine Palace. Once inside it took a moment to spot Ryan, he was seated at a corner table, almost hidden by a pillar decked out in gay Christmas tinsel.

*****

Chapter 63

The state health directorate declared a cholera outbreak in the Kovalam area and orders – under directive Section 144 CrPC – were put into effect to control the infected zone, closing businesses, schools and shops.

All vehicles leaving the quarantine perimeter were controlled and sprayed inside and outside with disinfectant solutions. No one was permitted to enter or leave the zone during the first forty eight hours and then only medical and specialised personnel.

An information clamp was put into place with telephone lines and Internet services cut without warning for an unlimited period, from fear of the possible repercussions and effects on trade and tourism in the state.

The Moonlight Hotel was requisitioned by the health authorities and transformed into a temporary cholera treatment centre, while the main building of the Jasmine Palace was transformed into a dispensary.

All persons suffering from symptoms, such as diarrhoea and vomiting were immediately directed to the Moonlight Hotel, where they were administered antibiotics and rehydration, and if necessary admitted for more intensive care. Those showing signs of fever were required to immediately report to the dispensary at the Jasmine Palace, visible from Ryan's new lodging above the Rainbow Restaurant.

In addition to the countless cases of bottled drinking water trucked in were thousands of litres of saline drips, antibiotics, plasticized cover sheets, soap, disinfectant and chlorine as well as gloves and garments for the nursing staff brought in to man the emergency cholera treatment centre and dispensary.

All severely ill patients were hospitalised in the hotel rooms transformed for the emergency with special beds, intravenous drips and monitoring equipment. Those patients still strong enough to drink were provided with a solution containing rehydration salts around the clock.

The risk of cardiac complication and circulatory failure was of course great for the weak and elderly as well as those who had a previous history of cardiac problems, all of whom would be in need of special care and attention with more sophisticated monitoring equipment.

The hotel was constantly disinfected with a strong chlorine solution. At all entrances and exits hand sprays and footbaths were installed filled with a powerful disinfectant solution.

Treatment was relatively simply consisting of rehydration and antibiotics. Normally such treatment required forty eight hours, but in the case of children, the weak and elderly it was longer. In most cases those who reported to the centre were free of infection and after receiving a precautionary dose of antibiotics returned to their hotels.

Controlling the spread of the disease was a much more complex problem necessitating the rapid identification and hospitalisation of those infected, the isolation of suspected cases, disinfection procedures and waste management. Several mobile teams of doctors made the rounds of hotels and guesthouses checking on the condition of their residents.

In the meantime, all soiled clothes and linen were burnt in a rice paddy situated a couple of hundred metres from the Moonlight Hotel by an army unit as a precautionary measure. Bathing in the sea or hotel pools was strictly forbidden and the distribution of chlorine tablets for the disinfection of drinking water was implemented immediately.

Containing the outbreak and locating the source of infection was a priority to prevent the spread of infection. Precious time had been lost because of Swami's dithering and the hesitant reaction of the authorities, three days passed before the neighbouring villages were alerted to the epidemic.

Engineers and laboratory technicians took water samples from taps, wells, streams and sewage drains to try to disentangling the different possible sources of contamination, a difficult task given the haphazard nature of the town's drainage systems, where drinking water pipes lay side by side with those of drains and sewers.

It was seven days before the disease was brought under control, four deaths were reported, all confirmed cholera cases, several other persons suffered from the after effects, who were extremely weak and in need of special care.

In the state parliament voices were raised and fingers were pointed as reports came in not only from Kovalam but also from nearby villages where dozens of people were said to have died.

The opposition accused the government of failing to act quickly and its refusal to declare the outbreak an epidemic. The corporation engineer protested his department's lack of resources, which prevented them from conducting the necessary daily checks, including the random sampling and analysis of water. Monitoring agencies were equally accused of collectively failing to detect the outbreak of the disease.

The mayor ordered an inquiry into the tragedy with a detailed report on why the state government had failed to provide an adequate sewage treatment system, endangering public health, exposing the state's tourist industry to unnecessary risk, causing a major setback for investors and the inevitable loss of jobs.

The source of contamination was finally traced to beach front fruit sellers, who had used water to wash fruit and utensils drawn from condemned tube wells located over sewage contaminated groundwater. Many of the tourists infected were those who had naively ignored the risk of eating fresh and sometimes over-ripe fruit, prepared by poor local women, who for lack of access to piped water had used well water.

*

Normally, in India, strict isolation of the sick would have been unnecessary and provided standard precautionary procedures were respected, there was little risk to medical personnel and other staff.

The problem that had faced the state authorities was the organisation of hospitalization in a high profile tourist resort. In another town and under other circumstances, such an organisation would not have been considered essential for the local population, but it was a priority for foreign tourists who demanded a higher degree of medical care and treatment.

Then there was the press, feared by the politicians and local authorities alike and in whose opinion had blown the story out of all proportion. Once the media had got wind of the story they had arrived like vultures to a feast, inevitably focusing their attention on the plight of the tourists and the incompetence of those they judged responsible.

*****

Chapter 64

Ryan had arrived back in Kovalam the previous evening, just before midnight, where he was dropped off at the Moonlight Hotel by the taxi driver, as was often happened with newly arrived tourists, who showed him to the reception desk in the hope of a commission. The hotel was full – it was to be expected with the high season in full swing. However, the resourceful desk manager invited Ryan to follow him across the road to a smaller hotel, where a room was available.

'A nice room,' said the manager of the Rainbow Restaurant, who introduced himself as Johnny, 'a balcony overlooking the pool, fully equipped, aircon, TV and a fridge.'

Ryan took the room and fell into bed, the previous twenty four hours had been exhausting.

The next morning he was awoke by the bright sunlight seeping through the thin curtains, he looked at his watch, it was just after seven. He eased himself out of bed then opened the door onto the balcony. The view was almost perfect, an image of early morning tranquillity, the only sound was the croaking of the crows and a dog barking, then a small motorbike stuttered past on the narrow road to the left and a dull hammering noise echoed somewhere in the distance.

Below a dragonfly hovered and darted over the mirror like surface of the pool, for a moment Ryan was tempted by the idea of taking a swim, then remembered the reasons why he was there. In spite of that he had to admit he felt a load off his shoulders now that his mother and sister were on their way home, he was even looking forward to the new and interesting sequel to his visit to India that was about to commence. He called Barton and they arranged to meet for breakfast at eight, giving him about half an hour to explore Kovalam Beach in more detail than he had considered necessary up to that point.

*****

Chapter 65

The papers were full of reports on the Federal Reserve rate cuts and the problems at SocGen, a French bank, plunged deeply in the quagmire of the worldwide financial market turmoil. When Barton saw the headlines there was little wonder Bombay was in free fall with small investors resorting to fisticuffs on the steps of its stock exchange.

The consensus of financial analysts seemed to be that Europe and the United Kingdom were also heading into recession.

The Financial Times headline posed the question: Markets ask if the Fed was duped? On reading the details it seemed that after a rogue trader at SocGen had lost four billion euros, the French bank had tried to sell its way out of trouble, causing the panic on world markets, pushing the Fed into making what was considered a massive three quarters of a percent rate cut.

Analysts seemed to agree that the Fed had used its power to intervene to support equity prices rather than ensure the smooth functioning of the markets.

It appeared that bond insurers were having difficulties in reassuring rating agencies they had enough capital to deal with losses related to bond guarantees exposed to subprime risk.

For Barton it was simply further confirmation his own analysis had been right and his departure timely. He also discovered a new word: monocline, related to highly specialized bond insurers, whose names meant nothing to him. It appeared that certain had lost their triple A rating, leaving banks exposed to the risk of uninsured losses.

In other words, mortgage backed securities, underwritten by an AAA rated insurer, could be carried on bankers' books with a triple A rating. But if the insurer was downgraded, as was the case, then the security had also to be written down. So if the credit rating firms downgraded bond insurers, then subprime related losses would go through the roof.

It seemed that the incredibly complex system of financial markets was on the verge of unravelling with the risk of seeing trillions evaporate.

The SocGen trader fraud simply added to the general rout, increasing the fear that a number of large banks had fallen into negative equity, which would keep a downward pressure on the markets and a snowball effect on credit, inevitably leading to a recession in the USA with contagion spreading to the rest of the world.

*****

Chapter 66

As Ryan set out for his quick exploration of the town he discovered the back alleys of Kovalam Beach. Observing the abysmal sanitary conditions behind the gay tourist façade, he remembered people's reactions on the rare occasions the frequent epidemics of infectious disease and related deaths in India made the news in the UK, 'Not many when you think they're over one billion,' was one of the usual remarks.

However, on a comparable scale, the number of deaths linked to enteric diseases in India was the equivalent of 60,000 deaths a year in the UK, gigantic when compared for example to road deaths, making CJD look insignificant and Avian Influenza a purely academic question.

The image of India as a booming country seemed largely nonsense to Ryan. From the misery he had seen of Bombay and Kerala, India had little to boast about, even if fifty million or so had made it to the equivalent of the European middle class almost a billion others scraped by or lived in extreme poverty. That was the truth, the rest was little less than a mixture of self-deceiving superlative hype and misplaced pride. It was evident that Ghandi's example of modesty was now far away. The reality was far closer to Mad Max than that of a first world economic power.

What once had been rice paddies were now transformed into water waterlogged discharges with the small streams and canals used as convenient depositories for every kinds of garbage imaginable. The concept was based on the sure knowledge that in six months all would be washed into the sea when the monsoon rains arrived, as every year, and as far as time went back. In the meantime an evil brew formed, simmering under the hot sun, slowly seeping down into the water table just a couple or so metres below the feet of passing tourists.

He also noted several wells and suspected that they were used for drawing water by the locals even though some were covered by fixed wire grills.

He had commenced with the alley that separated the Rainbow Restaurant from the Jasmine hotel, then exited the Jasmine's gardens through a gate that opened out to the maze of back alleys, which were in fact raised dykes separating abandoned rice paddies and coconut palm plantations.

These paddies had no doubt produced food for the inhabitants of the small fishing village that had once been Kovalam. The village had been progressively submerged by the tourist business that had slowly expanded inland from the beach front, taking over the rice paddies, abandoned for easier money, replaced by small restaurants, bars, guesthouses and shops. Nothing had been planned, it was a chaotic jumble and in the backyards of many of the restaurants the conditions of hygiene he observed were nothing less than deplorable, even though they were in full view of any passing tourist who cared to turn his head and open his eyes.

Apart from the Indians going about the coming day's business he passed a few early bird tourists, pale or tanned faces, evidently content to find themselves looking forward to 'another fine day' far from the rigours of a dark grim English winter or the harsh frozen landscape of Sweden or Finland.

Little did they realise that lurking just below the surface the germs of cholera and typhoid fever patiently waited, in the hope a suitable vector would appear to carry them into the human world, where they could proliferate, wreaking devastation on their passage, not caring whether their victims were unsuspecting foreigners or the natives of Kovalam.

*****

Chapter 67

Ryan stood up to greet them, embracing a tearful Emma. In spite of her tan the sheen of her skin had worn off and she looked weary, like a wilted flower. They sat down and had barely commenced to talk when the waiter arrived with a cheerful greeting and the breakfast menu.

'How are you Emma?' asked Ryan in his kindly doctor's manner, pushing the menu to one side.

It was a useless question, what else could he say in the circumstances, she had lost her husband in the most stressing conditions and so far from home. Her only friends were Barton and Ryan.

'Thank you for being here Ryan.'

'It's the least I could do,' he replied guiltily at the thought of having abandoned her to her fate less than twenty four hours before.

'Have you informed your families?'

'No, not yet.'

'Good, I mean it would be best that they stay where they are given the circumstances.'

Barton looked at him questioningly.

'I don't want to be alarming, but if what I suspect is true there's a risk of a real epidemic,' Ryan said.

'I could be wrong, but I think there's already an outbreak at the Maharaja Palac.'

'What do you mean?'

'One of the Russian girls is ill.'

'Perhaps it's just a spot of turista.'

'I'm not sure, she said there were others ill and one of them seriously enough to have to call a doctor.'

'When?'

'Yesterday evening.'

'That's bad. What we have to do is set our priorities and the first is helping Emma. Number one we have to speak to Swami, he knows where the clinic is, we can also check at the Maharaja Palace. I suggest we go and confront him immediately once we've finished here.'

They nodded in agreement.

'In the meantime take these,' he said breaking out two doxycycline tablets.

The breakfast was relatively quick in arriving on their table, something unusual in India. The heat of the day was just starting to build up as they left, turning down past the small Hindu temple where a group of Indians, bearing flowers and fruit, had gathered for some ceremony. Outside the temple was a line of waiting taxis, more than usual it seemed, they took the first one and instructed the driver to take them to Swami's clinic.

At the clinic the receptionist had again changed. Irritated, Ryan recommenced his story, only to be informed that Swami had left for Trivandrum.

'I see,' said Ryan firmly. 'Now please listen to me I am a medical doctor, I was here three days ago and spoke to Dr Swami about his patient Mr Stephen Parkly who has since died. This is Mrs Emma Parkly, the wife of Mr Parkly. We are not leaving here until we speak to Dr Swami and quickly.'

The receptionist realising they would not take no for an answer called Swami on the phone.

'Please Sir, you may speak to Dr Swami,' she said passing the handset to Ryan.

Swami gave them the address of the clinic in Trivandrum and told them he would be waiting for them.

*

Half an hour later they found Swami waiting at the Old Fort clinic in Trivandrum and together they left for a mortuary where Parkly's body was being held. Once arrived Swami took Ryan to one side.

'I'm sorry to say that we have had to carry out an emergency post-mortem to establish the cause of death and I suggest Mrs Parkly does not view her husband's body, it might be an upsetting ordeal for her, especially since she already saw him after his death at the clinic. You can explain this is due to the risk of infection.'

Ryan explained the situation to Emma, who seemed relieved at being excused from the grim task. No religious service or any other procedure was allowed due to the possible risk of spreading infection.

Barton waited with her whilst Ryan followed Swami to another room, donning plastic aprons and disposable gloves, then proceeded into to the mortuary where Parkly's body was laid out in a cadaver bag ready for inspection and identification formalities.

'As you may have guessed the issue of a 'Freedom from Infection' certificate is impossible under the circumstance and the body must be cremated here...today.'

'Freedom of Infection?'

'Yes, we could not ascertain whether Mr Parkly was free from infection, regulations require two consecutive negative stools at least twenty four hours apart, which was impossible in Mr Parkly's case.'

'May I see the death certificate?'

'Of course, it's at the clinic. Unfortunately we must go back to the office as Mrs Parkly is required to sign some papers concerning the cremation.'

Swami explained that as Parkly had died before the cholera bacteria had been demonstrably removed from his system, it followed that his corpse could still be carrying the germ, it would have required a special embalming procedure, draining the body of all fluids, and using approved refrigerated containers. This was however not possible in India and it was necessary, for public health reasons, the body be incinerated as quickly as possible.

After the formalities had been completed they returned to the Old Fort Clinic, where Emma in a trance signed the official papers.

'Here is copy of the death certificate,' said Swami handing Emma the paper.

'May I see this?' asked Ryan.

Emma handed him the document. It was a local form printed in Malayalam and English bearing signatures and official seals.

It announced death due to heart failure following severe intestinal infection, which was correct, except no mention was made of cholera.

'Are you sure it is impossible to have the body sent back to England?'

'Mrs Parkly, everything is possible, but remember you are in India and we have to take all the precautions necessary,' replied Swami wanting the cremation to proceed as quickly as possible.

Emma bowed her head and concurred.

'You mentioned cholera to me two days ago?' said Ryan.

'There was an error, it was an acute form of gastroenteritis and Mr Parkly suffered heart failure, no doubt he was unaware he was suffering from a heart condition.'

'May I see the autopsy?'

'I am not a member of the public health authority, but I will request that the pathologist's report be made available to you. In the meantime I suggest Mrs Parkly returns home as soon as possible to get over this tragedy.'

Ryan realised there was little to do and to follow Swami's advice was no doubt the best course, though his reference to a 'Freedom from Infection' certificate seemed strange for a man who had supposedly died from heart failure.

'By the way would you like to collect your bags before you return to Kovalam?'

*

Cholera outbreaks were always went hand in hand with the fear inspired by the disease's terrible reputation and its history of high mortality, and though for decades it had become a pathology that could be treated by simple rehydration and antibiotics, its presence could quickly give free rein to panic and be instrumentalised by those of ill intention.

*****

Chapter 68

Barton thumbed through the newspapers Ryan had brought from Bombay. The three day old Daily Telegraph announced that the shares of West Mercian, the third largest mortgage finance company in the UK, had crashed another forty percent on the London Stock Exchange. The plunge had brought the value of the firm's shares back to the level quoted when West Mercian had been demutualised over four years before.

The news was bad, he would have to get rid of the paper, there was no point in letting Emma see it at such a difficult moment, the debacle of Stephen Parkly's firm would only aggravated her pain

West Mercian had relied too heavily on the credit markets to finance loans for its mortgage borrowers and now, in addition to its announced losses, it was about to be hit by the looming credit crunch. Its only way out was to appeal to its shareholders, but the questions hanging over the quality of its mortgages threatened its future with an avalanche of defaults.

Barton recalled how in his early days in the business firms such as West Mercian were fairly strict about applicants financial information, such as County Court Judgments and the like, and all those who had been declared bankrupt were excluded from the possibility of obtaining a mortgage. Attitudes had since changed, already at the peak of the previous housing boom mortgage firms had loaned money to almost anyone and for almost anything, turning a blind eye to the real financial situation of its applicants and their unrealistic evaluations.

More than fifteen years later the lessons of the previous crash had not been learnt and up until the new crisis had broken more than a fifth of new mortgages had been subprime or self-certified.

Barton, with his knowledge of the real estate market and housing loans, knew that the danger was not just from subprime lender defaults, there were also a good many trustworthy home owners who had gotten themselves into debt and overstretched themselves financially.

The number of people who had been sucked into the vortex of ambition and success was considerable. People had wondered why they were alone in missing out on the boom, especially when they saw friends and friends of friends getting rich as prices shot up, finally joining them by jumping on the bandwagon.

He remembered a friend, Derek Hawes, who had inherited a car salesroom and parking lot back in ninety four, near the centre of Romford. It had provided his parents with a fair though relatively modest living.

Then as the housing slowly boom got underway Hawes sold the property to a developer who demolished the showroom to build a block of private flats on the site and the parking lot. He made a killing, accepting as part of the deal five flats in the development. Hawes then quit his job in the City as the price of property rose, living on his capital and the rents of from the flats, buying a nice detached home in Epping for cash.

Hawes was not yet rich and was cautious, but as prices continued to rise so did his ambition. The pundits declared house price increases would go on forever and it seemed they did. In early 2000, with the knowledge and experience gained renting the flats, he was certain BTLs were a safe bet and invested in several more.

He was right, the housing market never faltered, even after the World Trade Centre attack. Hawes' investments snowballed, he was soon a millionaire, though as with many small property tycoons there were substantial loans on his properties, it had become the accepted norm, loans which in any case were be absorbed as the value of property rose with each passing month.

Property values were like a machine on a fixed track with only one direction – up. It had been called a new paradigm and the new paradigm was part of the new buzz in booming Britain, led by the sure smile and confidence of Tony Blair and his stalwart chancellor Gordon Brown. The message was get rich and that is exactly what Derek Hawes did, like so many others.

The City boomed as new office buildings, of towering height and imaginative design, sprung up and confidence in Britain as the world's financial centre abounded. It was if Britannia once again ruled the waves as the British Army followed George Bush into Iraq, smashing his way to Baghdad, Saddam's armies evaporating like the early morning dew in the desert.

Money poured into the City, foreigners flocked to London for a share in the bonanza, investing in extravagant homes. London was the centre of the banking world announced Ken Livingstone, he was right, more than five hundred international banks had established bases in the City compared to just half that number in Frankfurt or Paris, and surprisingly even fewer in New York.

Some months before Barton had fled London, he had been approached by the very same friend, Derek Hawes, wanting to raise money on his house, now worth three million. It turned out that Hawes had over invested and was in need of liquidity, 'just in case'. 'Why not sell some of your BTLs whilst the market is still good?' Barton had asked. The answer was no, house prices will not go down he was told, and in the worse case would simply reach a plateau.

Barton processed a substantial loan on Derek's home, after all it was not his job to discourage people from borrowing, even his friends. It was now apparent Hawes had made an error of judgement, and those who financed him, continuing in the mistaken belief they still had a good risk on their books, were in for a nasty surprise with default just waiting to happen.

How many other such cases were on the books, Barton wondered, waiting for disaster to happen?

*****

Chapter 69

Barton's phone rang, it was Ryan.

'I'm here on the road outside of the hotel.'

'Come up.'

'I can't, they won't let me in.'

'Why?'

'I don't know...maybe I'm wrong, but perhaps it's to do with...you know...'

'I see, right, I'll get down there.'

He turned to Emma, 'Ryan's downstairs, they won't let him in!'

'I'll come with you.'

Barton sensed a new sound in her voice, a new resolution.

They arrived in the vast lobby where a crowd of guests, hotel staff and other people were milling about.

A voice spoke out.

'Ladies and gentlemen, please...'

The hubbub continued.

The voice spoke out louder. It was an Indian, a man of about fiftyish.

'Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.'

The noise died down.

'I am Doctor Vishna, from the Kerala Public Health Department.'

He now had everybody's attention.

'I have to inform you that we have had a couple of cases of enteritis amongst the hotel guests. Nothing to get alarmed about, but it is advisable that the guests and personal be examined to avoid any complications...'

His words were drowned by a Babel of alarmed voices: English, Swedish, Russian, Malayalam, Hindi and others.

'Enteritis, what's that?' asked a Russian.

'Enterit,' replied another Russian.

'Tarmkatarr,' said a Swedish voice.

Vishna spoke again, this time with a small loudhailer: 'Please...I must have your attention, each person must be seen individually by our doctors and will if necessary be given an antibiotic.'

Chaos broke out as people, breaking up into groups of linguistic affinities, tried to make sense of the sudden and unexpected announcement that had commenced with a printed circular, handed around at lunch time, calling the guests to a meeting in the lobby at four o'clock for a special information meeting.

The reception desk was inundated by a crowd of shouting guests as the manager called for calm.

Vishna made another appeal for calm, 'Please ladies and gentlemen could you proceed to the Tea Plantation Conference Centre where the examinations will commence, the hotel staff will show the way.'

In the meantime Ryan had made his way downhill to the hotel's lower entrance, nearby the beach restaurant and Tea Plantation Conference Centre. As he approached he saw the entrance was blocked by a police car and an army jeep. Screens had been set up, but beyond he could see people in white coats toing and froing, unusually active in the sweltering heat.

He took out his wallet and pulled out his hospital identity card, then with a professional air made his way to the entrance where he presented the card to the police officer. Without more ado the officer waved him in.

He made his way up hill to the main entrance and lobby where after some moments found he Barton and Emma in the general chaos. It seemed like the tourists had their own ideas as Vishna and the hotel management struggled to control the guests, most of whom were used to giving orders rather than receiving them.

'So this is their version of damage control!' said Ryan.

'If it's what you think what are the risks?'

'Well it's not like fifty years ago, healthy person should not worry.' He saw Emma's face. 'I'm sorry Emma.'

'Will the antibiotic we've taken protect us?' asked Barton.

'Yes, no problem.'

'So what's this? Some kind of quarantine.'

'Just precautions.'

'What about the Russians?'

'They should be okay, antibiotics and rehydration.'

'So why all this?'

'The problem is to identify the source and take measures to prevent it from spreading.'

'So what do we do?'

'Sit tight while I find out what's going on. What did they say it was by the way?'

'Some kind of enteritis.'

'Looks like a cover up.'

'The problem is, did it start here or somewhere else?' said Ryan turning to Emma. 'Did you eat anywhere beside the hotel?'

'Yes, in one of the seafood restaurants at the beach.'

'Which one?'

'I can't remember, they all look the same.'

'Try to remember something about it.'

'There were Christmas decorations.'

That was not very helpful, all the restaurants and hotels were decked out with tinsel and decorations.

'Anything else?'

'Well it was the best looking, I mean Stephen was rather particular about where he ate.'

'What did you eat?'

'Tiger prawns and marlin.'

'Is that all?'

'Stephen took a fruit salad and we took a coffee.'

'Okay we'll check that out.'

'Did you see anything special in Kovalam?' Barton asked Ryan.

'Special?'

'I mean like this.'

'No. Perhaps I should try speak to Swami and find out what's going on.'

He dialled Swami's number. Nothing happened. He tried again, there was no access to the local network.

'I think they've cut the phones.'

'Is that possible? I mean what about the police?'

'They have their own communication system, or perhaps they've just cut off foreign phones.'

'Why?' asked Emma.

'A news blackout, you can imagine what this will do for tourism if the news of what it really happening gets out!'

At that moment Ryan spotted Oxana who was with a group of bewildered Russians.

'What's happening,' he asked her.

'I don't know, I don't understand. But my friend Tanya is very sick and I can't go into the room.'

She was sharing a room with Tanya who was evidently infected and had been isolated. It would be at least three days before she was well again, if there were no complications.

'We are going home tomorrow, what shall we do?'

It was Friday and that was the question many of the guests were asking themselves. Ryan doubted whether the Indian authorities would allow tourists, potentially infected by cholera, to take their flights home to Europe and a dozen different cities from Moscow to London?

*****

Chapter 70

Barton knew that hundreds of thousands of families were in danger of losing their homes given their huge mortgages and other accumulated debts. The banks being hard hit could not help them as they came out of the fixed rate term on their home loans. Even the smallest increase in bills or repayments could tip them over the edge and it was people like himself who had been responsible for signing up almost one-fifth of those who had taken out a mortgage over the previous two years and who now risked default and eviction.

They included first time home owners and those who had remortgaged their homes drawing down on their hypothetical gains when property prices soared.

Those most at risk were those who had put down a deposit of less than ten percent and those who had taken out a mortgage of more than twenty five years or had borrowed more that three and a half times their annual income. The first to fall would be those who were guilty of all three of the deadly sins, including Danny, who oblivious to the impending disaster was sunning himself by the pool at the Rainbow.

Danny was what could have been called a successful salesman, he sold central heating systems, in and around the Southport–Liverpool area. He had made a good living from the housing boom over the last ten years. He himself owned a nice house overlooking the Birkdale golf course and drove around town in a new Range Rover, his wife Cilla, who worked in a local estate agents office, drove a bright new BMW.

At thirty four he was doing well, the only black spot on his otherwise success story was that he had grown into the habit of spending more money than he earned, there had always been a delay between the payment of his commissions and his bills, which had drawn him into the habit of living on credit.

They never whinged about the price of things, for them only the best was good enough. They had never known anything different. Since Danny had graduated from apprentice heating systems installer to salesman more than ten years earlier things had always looked up, there had never been a slow down in house prices and there had always been a constant demand for home improvements. It was much the same story for Cilla, three years younger than Danny, she had started work at the estate agents as a secretarial assistant as soon as she left school, an enthusiastic worker she had moved up in rank with more responsibility showing prospective buyers houses and was on commission.

Almost everything they owned was on credit, the house of course, the cars, the new kitchen, the heating system, their home cinema, clothes and holidays. Once things were paid for, they upgraded to something bigger and better. It never worried them, working a little harder and earning a little more would solve any passing difficulty.

Danny and Cilla had decided to get away and take a holiday in the sun, it was the in thing to do, in any case Christmas was always a quiet time in their respective businesses, people were spending money on buying presents and stocking up on food and drinks for the holidays, they were not thinking of new homes or home improvements.

Friends had shown them holiday pictures of house boats and the Backwaters in Kerala, it looked different from Miami or the Canary Islands. Cilla decided it would be Kerala, she like the slogan God's own country. Naturally the holiday went on one of their many credit cards and they did not seem overly concerned about the price of the fourteen day holiday with three nights on a Backwater houseboat.

They like millions of other Britons would be facing a New Year cash-flow squeeze, working their credit cards to the limit, their finances in tatters after the seasonal spending spree.

The average Briton spent almost eight hundred pounds over Christmas on gifts, food and drink, parties and travel. Credit and belt tightening had become a British tradition during the month of January for a large part of the population after their year end binge, but the end of cheap credit boded badly for those used to easy money, with many facing the prospect of insolvency and bankruptcy.

It was nothing new for those who like Barton worked in the finance and credit industries, he had seen a huge increase in the number of demands for those seeking better deals as they came off fixed-rates moving their mortgage elsewhere.

The future was looking grim for the Dannies and Cillas of Britain with the growing evidence that consumers like them were beginning to desert the high streets and estate agencies as signs that a house price crash was slowly but surely taking form.

A huge number like them would be faced with financial difficulties, from credit card refusal to the loss of their homes and insolvency as borrowing was stretched beyond its elastic limit. The least change in personal circumstances would lead them to disaster, job loss, divorce, illness or death in the family.

It was no longer Barton's problem, his thoughts were elsewhere, he had read a report in the Guardian that the FBI was investigating banks in the US concerning possible accounting fraud and other misdeeds linked to the subprime collapse. Sure it was not the CID he reassured himself, but he knew how short a step it was to authorities back home copying anything that happened on the other side of the Atlantic.

Criminal investigations into improper lending practises in the housing market would surely lead to West Mercian and inevitably to the likes of himself. Once the hunt was on, it would not be long before his once faithful customers started to lodge complaints.

Barton was unafraid of the Financial Services Authority, a toothless lion, whose prosecutions were so rare as to be almost inexistent in view of the unwritten financial market law of caveat emptor. Though when justice did close in, those caught in the trap were crucified and invariably abandoned by all and sundry, even their close friends and acquaintances. Barton had never taken advantage of any of those who had come to his firm, if they had made bad investments it had been their decision, but if the worse came to the worse their bad decisions could come back to haunt him.

There were fraudulent unlicensed brokers in the City who used their investors' money to fund daily expenses, holidays and high living not to speak of poor investments. Those who were cheated into confiding their savings to unauthorised brokers invariably lost their money; by definition they had no recourse through the organisations designed to help them such as the Financial Ombudsman Service or Financial Services Compensation Scheme.

*****

Chapter 71

Steve and Maureen Simonds looked like a couple of walking wounded sitting by the Rainbow's swimming pool. They were noticeable not only for their nice tans and good looks, compared to their older, paler and overweight neighbours, but also by their bandages, which apart from anything else looked seriously botched.

They were from Ashford in Kent, he worked in a DIY centre and she as a secretary in a building firm. It was their second visit to Kovalam, which they had planned not only for a holiday in the sun, but also for dental care, not that there was much wrong with their teeth, it was more a question of cosmetic dentistry than anything else, teeth whitening for Maureen and a couple of crowns for Steve.

Things had gone well until they decided like many other tourists to hire a motorbike. The problem was they had neither anticipated the difficulties of driving on Indian roads nor the difference in their driving habits and those of Indian truck and tuk-tuk drivers. Trying to avoid a truck pulling out of a field and an oncoming tuk-tuk driver they had ended up in a ditch, nothing really serious, just a few nasty cuts and grazes, but in tropical climates certain precautions were necessary to ward of a multitude of infections.

Maureen's left leg was bandaged as was Steve's left elbow, a consequence of their untimely landing. In addition Steve had several stitches to his scalp. The first aid and antibiotics had cost them a few pounds, the taxis, the tow truck for the motorbike and repairs much more, in all they had well over two hundred pounds in expenses they had not catered for.

Now they were bound to the swimming pool where they rested their wounds and made small talk with the other sun fans.

'The dental clinic was great, everything brand new, the latest gear, much better than anything I've seen in the UK. I'm happy, there's no risk involved in a getting a new crown, less than on the road' Steve said laughing at his predicament.

It was the policy of the national and state governments of India to promote medical tourism industry, it was a huge industry with certain private groups having thousands of beds in dozens of hospital. Competitive healthcare was big international business with countries such as Morocco, Tunisia and Thailand offering inexpensive medical services for Britons and Americans, who either could not afford the healthcare services of their own countries or those services had become incapable of providing the services they were created for.

An American or a Briton could have dental care and a holiday into the bargain if he or she opted to have the work performed in India and not at home. The dental services of Kerala boasted root canal treatment cost ten times less compared to the same treatment in the USA.

However, the world-class facilities tourists expected were not always what they got, which did not bode well for serious treatment like cosmetic surgery, hip replacement and more complex dental work.

'They're so vain and unrealistic it's almost bloody laughable.'

'I know what you mean.'

'One of them interviewed on the news said the Yanks should have outsourced the job of shooting down their satellite to India.'

'With what? A tuk-tuk with a booster!' Steve laughed.

'Probably, but then one of them said, "We could have done the job for them from Bangalore for a quarter of the cost!"'

'The trouble is that India is like China, for the moment they don't invent much, all their ideas and technology comes from us, the only thing they do is outsourcing.'

'Yeah, even their doctors are trained in the UK.'

'First they should look after their poor,' said the thin woman next to them lighting up her umpteenth cigarette of the afternoon. 'Just look at the place, no supermarkets, no frozen goods, no cans, no imported products, just souvenir shops and shoddy clothes, even in Trivandrum!'

'You're right there luv, a full one quarter of the world's poor are here in India,' said her more knowledgeable husband. 'India's total annual exports are a drop in the ocean compared to the Japs who export a hundred times more to America alone.'

'They've a long way to go mate.'

'We're not one to throw stones, look at the state of us back home,' said Maureen, shifting her suppurating leg.

'You're right there mi dear. In my opinion we're heading for a crisis with the housing thing and all that.'

'A bloke I met in the dispensary told me that mortgage companies at home have announced they're winding up their 125% home loans. We were lucky, we just got in in time.'

'You're first place?'

'Yeah, brand new.'

'Good interest rate?'

'Great. Fixed rate for three years!'

Steve and Maureen were like so many other first time home buyers who believed that ever rising house prices would help them to pay off their large loans.

The crunch would come when their two or three year fixed rate term came to an end and repayments would rocket. The hopes of hapless borrowers finding a new deal were dwindling by the day as the bad news came in hard and fast. Many would lose their homes, unable to afford new interest rates, in spite of the much publicized rate cuts by the Bank of England that were not handed on to home owners.

Steve and Maureen's 125% loan was composed of 95% of the house price in the form of a normal mortgage and 30% as an unsecured personal loan.

*****

Chapter 72

Ryan was amused by the tourist brochure that described Kovalam as an enchanting strip of golden sands laced with the rich greenery of coconut palms, an evergreen and pleasant climatic beach resort, a dreamy place for tourists from all over the world, the Paradise of the South. Every brochure was filled with syrupy terminology: emerald green fields, azure blue waters and golden sands.

The state had always been a backwater in more than one meaning of the word with little industry, that is until the discovery of modern package tourism and charter flights.

All he had seen could have been summed up in an SMS to a girl friend back in the UK on New Year's Eve: 'a scruffy beach in the sun decorated with palm trees'.

The narrow sea front promenade was decorated with long streaks of red betel nut expectorations, cigarette butts, bottle tops and fruit peelings. The shopkeepers regularly swept their shops clean, brushing out the dust, sand and cigarette butts onto the seafront promenade, those more demanding as to the cleanliness of their shop front went further sending the sweepings flying onto the beach.

Francis told him you get used to it, after all betel nut stains were no worse than chewing gum, but Ryan was not convinced, it reminded him too much of the blood coughed up by tubercular sufferers he had seen in Africa as a medical student.

As Ryan waited drinking his coffee in the Rainbow he was a little surprised to see an extended Swedish family meticulously going through the process of wiping their own and their children's hands with a disinfectant product at the table before eating. A few days before he had seen the same family at a beach restaurant the kitchen of which backed onto an abandoned paddy filled with putrefying rubbish, no doubt the kitchens and backyards being out of sight were out of the diners' minds. Their hotel's laundry service, situated in a dilapidated house behind the hotel, washed the sheets and towels by hand in well water and hung them out to dry above the rubbish strewn yard – perhaps the sun and the ironing had more powerful disinfectant properties than he had previously thought.

The Swedes, so critical of hygiene standards when travelling in southern Europe, seemed oblivious of the dangers their children were exposed to on the beach or even in the hotel pool.

One of the women who seemed to recognise him said good morning either out of politeness or out of curiosity. He smiled and she took it as an excuse to strike up a conversation.

She was in on holiday with her family, parents, brother, sister, their spouses and a gaggle of children. There were at least ten or twelve of them. She informed him they were off for the day to a classy Ayurvedic spa where they would be treating themselves to a variety of massages and pseudo medical cures for their aches and pains.

When asked what he thought of Kovalam he replied, a little too unenthusiastically, that it was fine. She had the self confident open manner of many Swedes, which not a few of their Nordic neighbours took for arrogance, whatever it was she felt free to ask any question she liked, discrete or indiscrete.

'What is your business?'

'I'm a doctor.'

'Ah, what do you think of Ayurvedic medicine?'

'Well, a lot of people seem to appreciate the treatment.'

'I mean its medical virtues,' she insisted, not wanting to let him off with a noncommittal answer.

'It's a very old traditional medicine, no doubt based on centuries of trial and error, so I'm sure that it has many good things to offer.'

'Do you think it can cure everything the brochures boast about?'

'Very frankly, no!'

'You think our scientific approach is the only one?'

'No, perhaps a judicious mixture of Western and traditional medicines would not be a bad thing. Personally I don't think traditional medicine can replace scanners, surgery or antibiotics.'

'Of course, traditional medicine can't cure appendicitis, but I'm not sure about antibiotics.'

Ryan shrugged, he wasn't really interested in her medical opinions.

'What do you do?' he then said playing the game, as she inspected him.

'I'm a journalist – television,' she replied, as if to say what about that then?

'Interesting.'

'I've just come back from Bali, the world climate conference.'

'Is it as bad as they say?'

She described the well predicted catastrophe that was about to hit the planet, obviously more concerned about the fate of the world than the risks she and her family ran from the germs lurking in the Kovalam subsoil.

'The centre we're going to is very good, I'll bring you a brochure, you should try it.'

'You've been here before?'

'Yes, a couple of years ago.'

'And your family?'

'No, it's their first time. We were wondering where to take our year end break and I suggested Kovalam.'

'They like it?'

'Yes, very much.'

'So, have a nice day, enjoy yourselves,' Ryan said excusing himself, wondering what she would think if she knew that the town was facing a cholera outbreak and that perhaps her father, who was she said was showing signs of stomach problems, would soon be fighting for his life.

*****

Chapter 73

The Kovalam authorities, faced with so many hotels calling for medical doctors and the local dispensary overflowing with sick tourists, appealed to the Trivandrum Health Department for help.

The Kovalam Beach holiday resort lay at the end of a short valley facing the sea and two beaches: Lighthouse Beach and Hawah Beach. There were only two roads into Kovalam Beach, both very steep, the main one, open to all traffic, led down to the centre of the town and a taxi station by the Hindu temple, the other, accessible to cars and two wheelers only, lay on the south side of the town and led down to the Lighthouse Beach area. A third, though much smaller road, too narrow for motor vehicles, led down to the north end of Hawah Beach from the bus stop outside the entrance of the Maharaja Palace.

In the early hours of the morning the town was cordoned off and the Health Department set up sanitary control check points on the three roads into town manned by police and army units.

Ryan was awoken by the noise of vehicles and voices. He looked at his watch, it was just after five thirty in the morning, got out of bed and went out onto the balcony, below, on the narrow road separating the Rainbow from the Moonlight Hotel, was an surrealist scene, a group of police officers and people clad in white coats were showing groups of sleepy people – some in pyjamas – into a coach. Amongst them he recognised the bewildered Swedish family he had seen at breakfast in the Rainbow. He quickly dressed and hurried downstairs where he found Johnny and his staff watching the strange sight.

'What's going on?' Ryan asked Johnny.

'They're evacuating the Moonlight.'

'Why?'

'I don't know.'

'Where are they taking them?'

'One of the boys said to the Sagara Hotel.'

'Where's that?'

'Up the hill.'

'But why?'

'Because it's bigger I suppose, they've got empty rooms there.'

Ryan went outside to discover what was going on.

There were a few bystanders including a taxi driver he recognised who lived in a house further along the road.

'What's happening?' he asked the driver.

'They've cordoned of the town, they're transforming the Moonlight into a medical centre.'

'Why?'

'Just a precaution Sir, they said some people are sick with enteritis.'

'Enteritis?'

'That's what we've been told Sir. There's a dispensary at the Jasmine,' he replied pointing to down the road.

Ryan looked to the right and saw a group of men unloading materials into the hotel. Precaution was an understatement, as a doctor he had seen medical teams in Africa at work and from the scale of the operation it was much more than a 'precaution'. It was urgent to find out if the world outside knew of the precautions and the exact nature of the epidemic.

*****

Chapter 74

The quarantine measures were a clear confirmation that the authorities had recognised the existence of a cholera outbreak of epidemic proportions. After what Ryan had seen over the past three days he had little confidence in the authorities handling of the situation, and even worse the outside world was unaware of what was happening.

His greatest fear was that inaction would result in the death of many innocent people. He had seen how Swami and the clinic in Trivandrum had tried to play down the situation. The unveiled threat from the police superintendent had been a clear indication that a cover-up was a distinct possibility.

That was now transformed into the fear that the Indian authorities, out of misplaced national pride and fear for their tourist industry, would prevent outside help from coming in.

Ryan quickly returned to his room and plugged his laptop into the telephone line. There was an occupied signal. He ran downstairs and told Johnny the phone was not working only to be told that the lines had been cut.

Francis was his only hope, he had a satellite link, the only means of circumventing the local authorities and getting outside help, contacting the British Embassy and his friends at University College Hospital for Tropical Diseases.

Decided, Ryan quickly headed off in the direction of the back alleys to find Francis. It was still dark, to the east there were the first signs of day with a dull rose colour to the sky, barely enough to make his way forward along the narrow alleys. He avoided the beach knowing that he could reach the lighthouse hill by the alleys.

At the other end of the town, he had difficulty in distinguishing one house from the other in the dark and to make matters worse the sound of his footsteps seemed to have woken every dog in town. Finally he recognised the outline of the huge old knarled tree that overhung the writers house and then spotted his motorbike leaning against the trunk.

The gate was open and he found his way to the door and knocked. A light came on after some moments.

'Who's there?'

He recognised the voice of John Francis.

'It's me Ryan...Doctor Kavanagh.'

The door opened.

'There's something wrong?'

'Yes.'

'Come in.'

'Thank God you're here.'

'What's the problem then?'

'The town has been cut off, quarantined.'

'Quarantined?'

Francis like all those in Kovalam was unaware of the health crisis, comfortable in his house he rarely ventured down to the beach area and even if he had he would have known nothing of the pending epidemic.

Once Ryan filled him in on the situation they set to work, first informing the British Embassy in Delhi followed by the media in London and finally University College Hospital.

It was not until much later in the morning that a reply came in from the news desk of SkyNews, then from one of their reporters. Once Ryan's identity was confirmed he informed the news channel of the urgency of the situation and demanded that the Home Office or Foreign Office be informed immediately of the situation as well as the embassy in Delhi, from which he still had no reply, no doubt because it was a Saturday.

It was another couple of hours before contact was made with the British Embassy who announced a representative would be on the spot the same evening and that an emergency medical team was being put together.

With the arrival of Barton the house was transformed into an information centre, the three men trying to handle the continuous flow of questions that poured in, questions relating to the number of foreigners present, their nationalities, the number of people infected, on the spot resources, sanitary conditions and a multitude of other details. The most difficult however was providing information pertaining to the Kerala authorities handling the crisis, the little information that Francis possessed was at the very best extremely scant.

The British Embassy had already been informed of Stephen Parkly's death, though they had no precise information as to the exact causes. With the information from Ryan their first priority was to British citizens in the region and only then they alerted the embassies of other countries known to have large numbers of tourists in the Kerala.

*****

Chapter 75

Explanations describing cholera were flashed across the television screens of the world and the front pages of newspapers. Specialists invited for the occasion announced scientists had only recently discovered Cholerae vibrio was one of the normal denizens of estuary and river waters.

Surprisingly vibrios were one of the most common organisms in surface waters of the world, occurring in both marine and fresh water. Some vibrio species lived in association with fish and other marine life, while others could cause disease in fish and frogs as well as other vertebrates and invertebrates, which meant that even if the disease could be eliminated in humans, vibrios would continue to live in the environment.

The Medical College Hospital pathology department isolated a mutated strain of highly virulent Cholerae vibrio O139 having a high resistance to antibiotics, which had first appeared in Bangladesh in 1992 then spread to several other Asian countries.

Cholerae vibrio produced a toxin, which attacked the walls of the intestines and produced the characteristic diarrhoea associated with cholera. In its extreme forms, cholera was one of the fastest acting fatal illnesses known to man. A normal healthy person could die within two to three hours from the onset of symptoms if urgent treatment was not at hand. In most cases the disease progressed from the first signs of diarrhoea to shock in a period of four to twelve hours followed by death in a few days or less.

Most antibiotics and chemotherapeutic agents had little value in the treatment of the disease, however tetracyclines, which could shorten the duration of diarrhoea and reduce fluid loss, were effective in spite of a growing resistance to antibiotics.

In the vast majority of cases glucose enriched rehydration, either oral or intravenous, could cure the disease and complete recovery of most infected persons could be expected within a few days.

*****

Chapter 76

The news hit West Mercian with devastating effects, in the middle of the gravest crises ever to have hit the bank, their CEO was dead and already cremated in far away India. It was a shock of staggering proportions and provoked a panic with investors and savers rushing to withdraw their money from the firm's property funds and savings accounts. The shares finally collapsed to the level of junk bonds and this time government intervention was not forthcoming.

Without realising it Emma Parkly's inheritance, most of which was locked into her dead husband's shares and stock options in West Mercian melted like a popsicle on a Kerala beach. Their house in Chelsea and their country home had been heavily mortgaged with low interest loans - Parkly's privilege as CEO.

It was a field day for the press that only recently had so loudly acclaimed Parkly as one of the City's most shrewd CEOs. West Mercian's available cash was reduced to a chagrin and all withdrawals frozen to the ire of small investors who clamoured to no avail before the solid bronze doors of the bank's office in Fenchurch Street.

Pensioners like Mike Ryman were caught in the whirlwind, though Mike was oblivious to the crisis, bedridden with an intravenous drip in his arm in the Moonlight as his wife Kate sobbed alone in her room in the garden wing of the Jasmine Palace, forcibly separated from her sick husband.

Countless millions were wiped off company valuations as the price of commercial property fell and investment fund cash reserves dwindled to a level far below the recommended percentage of total liquid assets necessary to face up to the crisis.

They were between the 'devil and the deep blue sea' as one tabloid columnist put it, sell properties and seeing the market plunge further or risk collapse with an onslaught of withdrawals.

The Times reported a banking executive had thrown himself under a train on the Liverpool Street line the previous day. He was said to be a director of West Mercian Finance, the mortgage and investment firm in grave difficulties, perhaps confronted by a hostile takeover or even worse liquidation. West Mercian had billions in mortgage loans on its books and employed thousands of people.

In recent years, both small and large investors had become used to double digit returns on commercial property funds, which outperformed shares and made ordinary savings accounts sickly.

The flow of money into commercial property had dried up like a desert wadi and credit looked like it was headed in the same direction. The fabulous deals that had made headlines in the financial press were forgotten as predators moved in for a killing with prices falling twenty to thirty percent as cash-strapped funds were forced sell their properties.

There was no end to the bad news. The question was what else lay hidden in the books of banks and investment funds and what effect would it have on the economy.

*****

Chapter 77

A SkyNews team was despatched from Mumbai to cover the news. They held all India press and television permits issued by the Union Government authority and had been initially in the country to cover an official visit of the British Prime Minister to Delhi. However, following the banning of one of India's top cricket stars during the ongoing Test series with Australia, accused of racist remarks, their stay was prolonged to cover the violent and jingoistic reactions of the country's politicians playing up to the howls of rage from Indian cricket fans and the news media.

Cricket was obsession of the Indian middle class, part of their the need to see their country as a success, and when their cricketers lost to nations with populations less than that of Mumbai and Delhi put together it was a form of humiliation for them. It did not match the highly publicized success of Indian business takeovers, such as the Tata group taking control of Tetley or Corus, and setting its sights on Jaguar and Land Rover.

The SkyNews lead reporter had returned home, leaving Bruce Davies his second string in charge, since cricket insults were not rated as prime news. It was the Davies' first visit to the subcontinent as it was for his small team that consisted of a cameraman with a sound and lighting technician. Though Davies had carried out reports in the third world, the cameraman, Collin Williams, was older and more experienced.

The SkyNews desk in London, alerted to a potentially sensational scoop by a British doctor in Kovalam and having received confirmation from a contact at the British Embassy in New Delhi that a story was indeed breaking, Davies and his team were ordered to drop everything and grab the next flight down to Trivandrum.

The newsmen booked into a hotel in the city centre and the next morning set off for Kovalam in a hired Toyota Fortuner with a fluent English speaking driver who could also act as their translator.

The entry to the town was sealed off and they were turned away with a point blank refusal by the police. The situation was identical at the Lighthouse end of the town. Davies like most reporters was not one to be put off, any good pressman worth his salt knew such barriers were indicative of a news worthy event in the making. After few words with their enterprising driver, a local man, he drove them to a spot where a dirt path led down the steep hill to Kovalam Beach.

It was strangely calm in the small resort, nothing like the scenes of misery and disaster the reporters had expected. The tourists were stoic, they had rooms, the restaurants were operating though few customers dared to visit them. Many of the Indian workers had disappeared, especially the locals, where to, it was difficult to say, though most probably home, up through the coconut plantations avoiding the check points. Those that remained either lived in the town or had no where else to go.

Kovalam had almost become a ghost town, the beaches were empty as were the souvenir shops and bars. The strollers had been replaced by paramedical teams in white coats questioning the few tourists out and about, handing out information leaflets, whilst army personnel, wearing surgical masks, made their rounds delivering bottled water.

Davies like all reporters needed more dramatic images, he knew the golden rule of news reporting, images that could not grab the viewers' attention in the first five seconds would never make the headlines. After questioning locals with the help of the driver they turned their attention to the small fishing port of Vizhinjam, just two or three kilometres to the south of Kovalam.

Vizhinjam had once been the capital of the Ay Kingdom, but was now a small and dirty third world fishing port, one of the busiest in the Thiruvananthapuram District, with its population eking a living from the still generous Arabian Sea.

Apart from the occasional cruise ship that anchored at a recently built dock in the port, relatively few tourists seemed to make the effort to visit the town, which was not without some attractions, including Christian churches and chapels, and the huge, almost outlandish, pink coloured Juma Mosque that dominated the skyline to the north-east side of the natural harbour and its large fleet of small fishing boats roasting under the heat of the ever fierce sun.

The newsmen discovered the town had been hard hit by the epidemic. However, life went on as normal, there was no social security services to pay sickness benefits or put food into the mouths of the towns' inhabitants. Fishing boats arrived with their catch all through the day with crowds swarming into the water around them as they were beached: boatmen, porters, fishwives carrying their large basins, beggars and onlookers. They shouted and pushed, the women insulting each other as they angrily vied for the meagre catch.

To onlookers not used to the daily scene it was looked like a desperate fight for food and made good footage for Davies. The SkyNews team then made their way along the shore where old boats lay beached, hulls up, between the low miserable shacks of platted palm leaves, less than shoulder high, which served as homes for the most wretched. Here and there they stopped to film women cooking over small fires surrounded by their small naked children.

The huts continued spilling over onto the edge of the road, a couple of stretcher bearers wearing surgical masks were attending to a woman before her miserable dwelling, there was a terrible stench of human excrement in the air and fat black flies swarmed around them. Williams pointed the camera at the woman, she looked dead, excrement dripped from her as she was placed on the stretcher, she then weakly opened her eyes, just a few feet away in another hut a woman fatalistically ignoring the drama being enacted before her eyes crouched eating from a small bowl with her fingers.

'Sir, we should not stay here,' said the driver leaning backwards his hand over his mouth. They did not wait for him to repeat his warning.

'Where are they taking her?'

He pointed towards a tall brightly painted church tower perched on a nearby hill, the tower had a strange geometrical form, tiered like a wedding cake and without a spire.

They made their way up hill through a series of narrow streets and larger houses, which if they had been in a better state of repair and maintenance it would have been picturesque with the large tropical trees shading the yards and gardens.

Reaching the top of the hill they arrived in a broad square. To one side was a school, to the other the gaily coloured Madre De Deus church, a tall Christmas tree still stood in its forecourt decorated with tinsel and large plastic stars. Facing the church was the village meeting hall where a medical centre had been set up. The school had been transformed into a makeshift hospital lined with narrow camp beds on which the sick lay connected to intravenous drips for rehydration.

The problem in Vizhinjam was very different from that of Kovalam where hospitalization, not considered vital for the local population by the authorities, was necessary for its tourists with the authorities forced to provide a significantly higher degree of medical care and attention.

Normally in India strict isolation was unnecessary in hospitals where providing standard precautionary procedures were respected there was little risk to medical personnel and other staff.

The reporters were met by a scene of lethargic, fatalistic, despair. Nursing sisters from a Christian religious order, bearing looks of pious sufferance, slowly moved among the sick as a parish priest went through the ritual of dispensing blessings. They were only disturbed by the movement of the wretched stretcher bearers.

In the municipal hall young Indian doctors examined their patients, many of whom were the very poor. It was manifest that the medical staff desperately lacked means. Here there were no police or officials, apart from the medical officers. Enteric epidemics were not an unusual occurrence in Indian villages, though this one seemed to be particularly virulent.

Davies pointed his cameraman to a long line of patient villagers being vaccinated by a young doctor assisted by a nurse, who from her clothes appeared to be a nun. It was the kind of a shot that always drew the sympathy and brought the reality of disease and poverty home to viewers.

The doctor was surprised to see the agitated Europeans pointing their camera at him.

'Do you speak English,' asked Davies.

'Yes Sir.'

'Why are you vaccinating these people?'

'There is a risk of typhoid, so we have been instructed by the Chief Medical Officer's bureau to carry out a vaccination campaign whilst we are here.'

'Why don't you jet-guns, they're more hygienic, you could vaccinate a couple of hundred people in no time.'

'Jet-guns Sir! That sounds marvellous, unfortunately I've never actually seen one,' the doctor replied. 'We have very little money.'

They pressed on and a few moment later at the back of the hall they made a morbid discovery, a line of cheap plywood coffins lay waiting for the next victims. In and around the village many people had died and more were to die before the disease was brought under control.

The newsmen headed back to their hotel where they first showered, thoroughly scrubbing and rinsing themselves, again and again, before changing into fresh clothing. Williams then started work, viewing and editing the tapes, splicing those filmed in Kovalam with shots of the grim scenes taken in Vizhinjam. The cobbled together images were then uploaded via satellite and transmitted to London where they made the early evening news causing panic amongst tourists' relatives. The same images were then retransmitted to European national television networks in time for the main evening news – setting phone lines buzzing all over the continent and prompting a rush of ministerial crisis meetings.

The next morning the reporters were back in Kovalam. Davies hit gold in a report that was to make his reputation, their driver had been informed by his friends of the presence of a certain Dr Ryan Kavanagh, the British doctor who was reported to have alerted the authorities. It did not take Davies long to locate Ryan who went on tape describing the events that had led up to the death of the well known British financier Stephen Parkly, CEO of the troubled West Mercian financial group, and the outbreak of the disease in Kovalam.

It made sensational news in the UK, transforming the good looking young doctor into an instant hero, with images in which he could have been compared to a modern day Albert Schweitzer, or the counterpart of a Mother Teresa or Florence Nightingale, caring for the sick in a distant plague ridden land. The disaster became even more sensational as the public learnt of the death in Kovalam of the now almost infamous financier, his photo flashing across television screens in millions of British homes with that of his attractive young wife, now a widow trapped in the tragic events taking place in what – with the images of Vizhinjam spliced in – looked like a hell hole, thousands of miles from home in the cholera stricken town of Kovalam, making the average viewer wonder what on earth tourists were doing in such a desolate underdeveloped tropical slum.

The hunt was now on, news agencies clamoured for interviews or photographs of the bereaved former model, Emma Parkly, and every news team and photographer present in Kovalam worth their reputations knew that there was a major scoop to be made if they could find her.

It was not long before international reporters who had been following the Bhutto assassination in nearby Pakistan dropped what they were doing and flocked to Kerala. Not since the tsunami had there been an equivalent influx of international press reporters to a tourist resort. The difference however was they were prevented from accessing the zone by the Indian authorities and this together with the lack of telephone communications made it almost impossible to get first hand reports out of the crisis area, raising speculation that it was more serious than the Indians were prepared to admit.

The first tourists to get a hint of what was happening were those due to leave for home that weekend as departing groups were informed of unexplained problems relating to their flight arrangements, being told they would have to remain put until more information was available.

To the others it looked like another day. It was some time before news and rumours spread and people started talking to each other as medical teams commenced their rounds. Their first reaction was of amusement and disbelief, then anger, before panic set in and they headed towards the town's Internet cafés to inform the families at home of their predicament, only to discover they had been shut without explanation.

The immediate reaction to the headlines in London, Stockholm, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo and many other capitals was the wholesale cancellation of travel to 'incredible' India, followed by an onslaught of calls by anxious relatives to their foreign affairs departments and consulates. Crowds formed outside of Indian embassies across Europe. The usual long lines of patient visa applicants were replaced by unruly mobs shouting for news of their loved ones.

Television viewers, watching medical specialists invited to news programmes for their analysis of the cholera epidemic, were horrified to discover that hundreds of thousands of Indians died each year from enteric diseases. Indian and Pakistani restaurants across the world were forsaken for Chinese and other eateries. Flights to India emptied and travel agencies registered an unprecedented number of cancellations to the sub-continent and neighbouring countries.

*****

Chapter 78

SkyNews ordered Davies to find Emma quick, but she was nowhere to be found. The driver had learnt she and her husband had checked out of their hotel some days before for the clinic where Parkly had died. The first job of the day for Davies was to visit the clinic and interview the staff.

They were out of luck; they shot some footage of the clinic and spoke with the receptionist who called a senior director who refused all commentary.

Davies then realised that the sure way to find her was through Kavanagh who he knew was staying at the Rainbow in Kovalam, just a few metres from the spot Williams had judiciously selected as the backdrop for the previous day's interview, a rubbish tip at the bottom of the hill leading into Kovalam Beach nearby the Hindu Temple, the tip was incongruously decorated with a bright banderol advertising the Lonely Planet vegetarian restaurant.

They hung around and sure enough Kavanagh appeared at the gate of the Rainbow. Davies made him a casual wave.

'Hi there, what's new?'

'Nothing much.'

'The interview was shown yesterday evening on the news.'

'Oh, good,' said Ryan not particular impressed or concerned.

'Tell me, you were with the Parkly's,' Davies said as nonchalantly as possible. 'What happened to Mrs Parkly?'

'As far as I know she's in Trivandrum,' replied Ryan sensing Davies' intentions. He had seen the press in action in London, whenever people in the news had been hospitalised at St Georges, and knew of the kind of ruses they got up to for a picture.

'Hmm, pity it would have been nice to speak to her,' said Davies.

Ryan shrugged and said goodbye turning left and making his way to Francis' place on the other side of the town.

After a couple of moments Davies nodded to the driver to follow Ryan on foot then turned his attention to the desultory movements of the police and officials standing around on the corner.

Things unexpectedly started to move when a series of buses slowly rolled down the steep road into the town and were directed to the car park opposite the Sea Rock Hotel. The evacuation had started.

Lists of tourists and their return destinations had been drawn up by the authorities with the help of the hotels. Each family group had been issued with a number according to their return destination and was invited to assemble in the car park with their baggage, at a precisely given time, from where buses would take them to Trivandrum airport. There charter flights organised by the governments of the tourists' respective countries were waiting to carry them home.

The SkyNews team after bribing the desk manager at the Sea Rock, had a grandstand view from the hotel's roof, filming what seemed like an orderly procedure, but soon their patience was rewarded and things started to go awry.

As the first buses filled with passengers they started to leave the car park, only to find themselves face to face, at the bottom of the steep and narrow road leading out of the town, with a line of buses arriving for the second group of departures. It was impossible for the buses to pass each other, the road was barely wide enough for one bus, and any idea of backing the heavy incoming buses up the steep hill was out of the question. As the police responsible for the organisation desperately waved their arms and shouted contradictory instructions, the departing buses waited their motors running, then one stalled, its motor overheated, and slowly but surely the well calculated departure plan collapsed into disorder.

The traffic was in gridlock and the car park slowly continued to fill as new groups arrived at their scheduled departure time. The temperature climbed as the sun reached its high point in the tropical sky. Clouds of dust mixed with diesel fumes rose as drivers manoeuvred to make way for the buses trying to back into the car park. Bags were mislaid, children cried and tempers frayed as drivers shouted incomprehensible instructions to each other, whilst the overtaxed police desperately tried to bring some order into the situation.

Davies revelled in the chaos, shooting close-ups of children's tears and hysterical mothers. It looked like a repeat of the 1940 wartime evacuation of London, more colourful, more chaotic, with to add to the strangeness of the scene a background of coconut palms, their fronds waving lazily above the dust, fumes and cries in the car park.

*****

Chapter 79

Money had not been Barton's motivation, what he liked about his business was it enabled him to lead an easy going life. He did not like the pressure cooker atmosphere of finance houses and trading rooms, he did not like high powered managers out to make a kill – if not kill each other – he did not like working long hours late into the night and he had not wanted to be washed out and dumped on the scrap heap at forty.

When he watched stressed fund managers, traders, back office supervisors, risk analysts, controllers, quants and all the other financial market specialists, he did not envy them.

Barton could have accepted one of the many high flying positions that had been offered to him over the past ten glorious years the finance sector had enjoyed, or perhaps sold his small brokerage business for a handsome sum to a larger firm wanting a foot in the market, but he turned down every offer preferring his own easy going pace. His business seemed to function by itself, receiving more demands than he cared to handle. He deliberately avoided any notion of expanding, preferring to refer excess demand to his more ambitious friends.

For the same reason he had unconsciously avoided marriage, he had had many girl friends, but always, at some indefinable point, those close relationships faded to mere friendships.

He had often wondered whether he had created a selfish existence, avoiding responsibility, but then reasoned a responsibility to whom? If his responsibility was to himself then he was responsible, in the meantime he had no other personal obligations, he had been an only child and had always made an effort to please his parents, though moderately so. Apart from that he helped his clients transform their dreams into reality or at times helped them out of a passing difficulty by cashing in the capital locked into their property and was in return paid for his professional advice, he never judged the motivations of those to whom he rendered his services, after all they held the responsibility for their decisions, including reading the small print.

Taking on a mortgage was often one of the most important financial decisions his clients made in their whole lives and Barton's firm offered them the services of a qualified mortgage broker, who had access to a wide range of mortgage products with tailored made solutions for individuals and small businesses.

Over the years he had become a fine observer of human behaviour, tuned into the ambitions of a population conditioned by the idea that success was the overriding goal of their lives, and the notion that their homes were symbols of that success. His typical client was a low to medium range manager working in the City for whom he had established the reputation of offering an efficient service with competitive mortgages, which was principally due to the fact his customers were good risks. There were also the owners of a small to medium sized businesses, which included anything from restaurants, shops, small building firms and garages with occasionally manufacturing companies, these clients came in a different category and produced good commissions since the risks were always higher and consequently so were the costs of their mortgages.

Everyday he observed his fellow commuters on the train into town, he could identify them by salary, profession and debt, he recognised the plodders, the high flyers, confident managers, those in trouble – threatened by divorce or debt, and the dead enders, in their respective uniforms, high flyers in bespoke suits wearing City fashionable ties and stylish shoes, the plodders wearing off the peg suits and faded ties; then there were the power girls, the secretaries and weary mothers. He could see their lives traced out before them, at the end of the road, weary, worn-out, bent, grey haired men and women, walking frames and poor health, arm in arm in their dreary everyday routine of suburban Romford, Hornchurch or Upminster, a vision that as time passed he unconsciously thrust aside, dismayed at what the future could hold.

When he caught the ramshackle morning commuter train, it was always just after peak hour, the only advantage was it was fast, even if not always on time. His secretary and small staff were early risers and handled the first callers, during which time, Tom Barton, after a short walk up Fenchurch Street, stopped for a latte in the coffee shop situated in the office building arcade, arriving in his office just before ten.

Over the years he had allowed his small staff to become junior partners in his brokerage business, taking care to keep all his forays into property separate and in his personal name, free of any liens to the firm. In the case of a sudden down turn in the property market the brokerage firm could continue as an entirely separate entity, in the form of a limited company, even if one day he was forced to dispose of his own share.

Many other such businesses were run through the structure of a limited company, but he never gave a director's guarantee or took on debts in the firm's name, it was a principal he had established from the very start, to provide a form of job protection for those who placed their confidence in him.

From the beginning of the previous year he had seen signs that the bubble had reached bursting point, what was surprising was that it had not happened earlier, in any case it would not greatly affect his business, euphoria had reached its peak, the pundits forecast a never ending though less steep house price growth curve, others predicted a soft landing, but the bulls dominated market thought and contrarians were seen as doom watchers predicting an unlikely Malthusian collapse.

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Chapter 80

The news from London was not good, in a bid to stop panic selling another major life and pension firm announced it was halting redemptions from its property funds for up to six months It was one more on a growing list of firms taking action to prevent a Northern Rock style run.

Years of high returns had ended in a sudden slowdown in the market as a result of the credit squeeze and the fall of commercial property values with demand almost disappearing.

Fund managers had been forced to introduce restrictions to avoid panic selling in the forlorn hope that prices would rise again, which had the opposite effect, as investors no longer believed in the optimism of the desperate fund managers, if past crashes were anything to go by the bottom of the downward spiral was a long way off.

It was only a question of time before the credit squeeze wreaked havoc in the market causing shares and house prices to dive. Barton knew and if he had any advice to give it was sell quick, before the situation reached catastrophic proportions. Investors could always buy property back once the markets stabilised. Liquidity was the name of the game.

Those hit first would be amateur BTL owners, those with large mortgages and little equity, commercial property owners and those owning heavily mortgaged property in Ireland or in Spain.

Forming on the horizon was the threat of the kind of deflation Japan had experienced after their economic crash in the late eighties, which had already lasted for twenty years and showed no sign of ending as a fresh wave of bad news arrived.

All those who cried out for lower interest rates had only to look at Japan, where the central bank's interest rate had hovered at around half a percent for two decades without stimulating economic growth, its only effect had been to create a huge Yen carry trade market, where speculators borrowed Japanese currency at a ridiculously low interest rate and either reloaned in other currencies at six seven times the rate, or used it for low interest acquisition loans.

Those with vested interests tried to talk the market up pointing to the 'lack of housing', their favourite chimera. It was like pointing to the slums of Mumbai. People without the means could not become property owners, helping them with low cost loans was precisely the cause of the on-going crisis. The same went for BTLs, if low wage earners could not afford the rents then how could there be money in it for investors. The only solution was to provide government housing in exactly the same way as it had been provided by the state after the war.

If the crisis Barton feared became reality the consequence would be falling asset values, job losses, low investment and a fear of borrowing.

Those who pointed to India and China as locomotives for the global economy were pointing to giants with feet of clay. A closer look at the gyrations of the Mumbai Stock Exchange would send any sane person rushing to sell their shares, whilst the Shanghai Stock Exchange had become nothing less than a gigantic betting shop.

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Chapter 81

Ryan observed the pandemonium with grim amusement, safely perched on the roof of the Sea Rock Hotel, watching the SkyNews team in action.

He remembered reading in a brochure back at the Maharaja Palace that Kovalam meant coconut grove and was described as an enchanting strip of golden sands, but now it had the air of a bungled evacuation from a third world war zone.

Just as he was thinking that all that was missing were the helicopters, he heard the unmistakeable throbbing of rotor blades, he turned and saw what looked like an army or police helicopter coming in low from the south, above it heavy dark clouds filled the sky.

Davies pointed a finger to the hill at the north end of the beach, indicating to Williams he should zoom in on the large crowd of colourfully clad Indians who, in spite of the restrictions, had gathered to watch the extraordinary spectacle.

Below, dust and fumes were lifted into the air by sudden gusts of wind as vehicles heaved and humped over the unmade surface of the car park. The whole area darkened as the sun faded behind the gathering clouds, the wind gusted, growing stronger by the second as a tropical squall veered towards the town, soon the whole area became a blur, smothered in an angry cloud of sand and dust. The crowd moved in unison like waves on a beach surging forward then flooding back, then suddenly the clouds opened with a violent downpour of tropical rain, almost instantly transforming the car park into a quagmire.

All the good intentions and planning by the local authorities were lost in the melee as families frantically tried to seek shelter, their overloaded shopping bags and parcels spilling open in the stampede, the contents: gifts and souvenirs, bottles and fruit tumbling out, trodden under foot into the mud and the pools of thick grey water that quickly formed in the ruts. Spouses and friends were lost, children screamed, baggage abandoned as the churning crowd, in total pandemonium, pushed aside the hapless aides enrolled to distribute drinks and snacks for the short ride to the airport, their plastic cups flying into the air, as harassed police officers shouted helplessly, waving their swagger sticks in a desperate effort to put order into the growing disorder, the heavy rain transforming their neatly pressed uniforms into sodden bags and their shinny shoes into mud waders.

The Trivandrum City Police Commissioner looked on in dismay, oblivious to the fact his operation, which had been mounted as a demonstration to the world of India's exemplary skills in crisis handling, was being filmed from the roof of the Sea Rock Hotel and would be flashed across countless millions of television screens, breaking the news in Europe and Asia that evening and all through the next day.

Collin Williams filmed as Bruce Davies excitedly issued instructions, the scenes of panic would make world headline news. In his wildest dreams the young television journalist had never imagined filming such sensational footage.

It was three hours before some semblance of order was restored and the buses finally started to get under way. A first aid station had been set up in the Sea Rock hotel where those hurt in the pandemonium were treated for hysterics, cuts and bruises, fainting and one broken leg. Two tourists suffering from heart trouble were transported to Trivandrum by helicopter.

Davies was sure there was better to come and when there was nothing new to film they headed back uphill through the coconut groves to their Toyota waiting on the main road and set off in the direction of Trivandrum International Airport.

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Chapter 82

The Aureolus Clinic was a private establishment specialised in major surgery for wealthy Indians and foreigners. Their medical services included kidney transplantation, that is to say grafting a healthy kidney, removed from either a living organ donor or much more rarely from a newly deceased donor, into a patient suffering from renal disease.

It was a recently built and well equipped medical centre, its staff included specialists such as transplant surgeons, nephrologists, urologists, and of course highly specialised assistants and nursing staff.

The benefit of a new kidney was that it enabled the beneficiary to lead a normal life, which in the case of a successful implant could be as long as normal life expectancy in healthy persons.

The next morning Ajay arrived at the clinic for his appointment with the operating surgeon, Harish Patil. He was impressed by the modernity of the clinic that contrasted sharply to what he had seen outside.

'Well, you seem to be in good condition, apart from your kidney problem, which we shall soon put right,' announced Patil, a dry serious man in his middle to late forties. 'As we informed you we have a donor with matching blood type and antigens, therefore the risk of rejection is extremely low.'

Ajay nodded. Since his illness had been first diagnosed he had become well informed on all the medical terms and treatment related to the disease, prior to that point in time he had only been vaguely aware of such medical terms. In the family owned care centre at home in England his role had been managerial and not medical and such details had been far from his centre of interest.

'May I ask who the donor is?'

'It is best the donor remains anonymous, the person concerned is what our law describes as an altruistic donor. I believe you were informed that the donor was recommended by a humanitarian organization,' said Patel a little frostily. 'For your peace of mind the donor is young, in excellent health and will lead a perfectly normal life with his remaining kidney.'

Ajay did not pursue is question.

'First we have to sign some papers, these are part of the legal requirements for all transplants. The donor has been approved by an Authorising Committee and we have scheduled surgery for Thursday. But first things first, before you leave we need some blood and urine samples for confirmation that all is in order, as per the data we have on your file, nothing complicated as far as you are concerned,' he said with a professional smile.

'No problem.'

'In the meantime rest, and no alcohol, we need you in good condition, fully recovered from your journey...by the way is your accommodation comfortable?' he said in a stiff attempt at cheerful banter.

'Yes it's perfect.'

'Good. In the meantime we shall commence your immunosuppressive therapy with cyclosporine.'

'Can I do a little bit of tourism before Thursday?'

'Tourism?'

'Yes, look around the town.'

'Why not, but nothing tiring, it's rather hot here compared to London.'

After visiting the pharmacy and receiving instructions for his coming hospitalization Ajay returned to the house for a lunch and a short rest. Then, after some gathering a little information from the house manager, he set out to discover India, taking one of the many tuk-tuks waiting for a fare outside a couple of nearby up-market guest houses.

What he saw confirmed the idea that India was an enigma; it was clearly a land of contradictions. That morning he had left his apartment, not unlike any modern apartment in London, for the clinic, modern to the point of being futurist compared to many he had seen in the UK, and now here he was in another world on the narrow streets of Fort Kochi.

There were not the crowds or traffic he had seen on the drive in from the airport, though the leafy green of the airy residential district where the apartment and clinic stood slowly gave way to the city's well known, but run down tourist quarter.

He was a little puzzled as it was difficult for him to determine whether the tourist quarter was run down or up and coming, in any case it was far from the description given in the guide book the house manager had loaned him.

Ajay had not travelled much beyond the frontiers of Europe, he had visited his grandparents in Mauritius when he was much younger, but after they had passed away there was little that remained of the family, many of whom had moved to England, it was too far, only his father went home from time to time, no doubt in search of his youth and the fragrances of his lost tropical island home.

What struck Ajay most was the dirt and the dilapidation of many of the buildings, crossing Fort Cochin Park he even saw a goat nibbling at the paper of a peeling wall poster. On reaching the water front and the Chinese fishing nets, he was disappointed by the ramshackle state of the structures, the scene was colourful enough, but the squalor and evident poverty of the small market, and the much vaunted tourist attraction in general, was not what he had expected, to the point he had even wondered if he was in the right place. He decided it was not worth lingering there any longer and asked a tuk-tuk driver to take him to the Dutch Palace, in the Mattanchary district, in the hope of finding something better.

The first European known to have visited Kochi was Vasco da Gama in 1502, where almost a quarter of a century later the explorer died in 1524. It was one of the oldest ports on India's west coast. The streets behind the docks in the Mattancherry district were full of run down warehouses, where betel nuts, cinnamon, ginger, pepper, coffee and other spices were stored.

Though Kochi was the economic capital of Kerala, a port and trading city, it had been slow to industrialise. However, after a long period of economic stagnation it was quickly changing with new investment pouring in, making it one of the fastest growing cities in India.

One of the city's most important sources of income was from the remittances of its large expatriate community in the Gulf States, forced to find work overseas, in often less than desirable conditions, as a consequence of the city's long standing high level of unemployment.

Mattancherry's historic centre seemed a little less run down. Ajay was surprised to see how the much vaunted buildings with their unique architecture were allowed to become so run down. The narrow winding streets were filled with a multitude of shops, stalls and vendors hawking every imaginable kind of wares. The tourist attractions included the Dutch Palace and the Synagogue in Jew Town – as it was called, not forgetting the streets filled with what seemed to be an almost absurd number of tourist shops, selling everything from souvenirs to textiles and antiques to furniture.

Wandering beyond the tourist zone he discovered the throngs of ordinary Indians going about their daily business, he was not overly pestered by the mendicants and children. Ajay was not dark skinned and was perceived as a light skinned Indian, which he was by his father, since many Indians of higher caste were lighter in colour, though that was not necessarily the case in Kerala. Animals freely roamed the streets: goats, cows and dogs, he even saw three small black pigs rooting for food in the piles of rubbish on a street corner.

In a market district vast hordes of human misery churned around in search of their next meal, some slept on the pavements or in doorways, others poked at the dirt on a piece of open land or sat in the shade of their wretched low wooden shacks and makeshift plastic tents. An endless number of small shops sold everything from cooking oil to used engine oil and from betel nut to food. At the water pumps women filled plastic buckets and jerry cans as others washed their feet.

Returning to his apartment he stopped at a broad green square nearby the St Francis Basilica, a scene in total contrast to the not so distant slums, where groups of teenage boys passed the afternoon playing cricket in the sun. Shading himself under the branches of one of the many huge tropical trees that lined the green, Ajay took a seat on the low perimeter wall to rest and watch the young Indians at their favourite sport. It was not so different from an English village green, an almost pastoral scene, except for the heat and a group of poor labourers on a nearby corner, lethargically tending a smoking tar machine from a bygone age, repairing the ruts and potholes in the road.

Women on their way to the basilica passed him by, some wore colourful saris, others western dress. A few of the young men watching the cricket played with their cell phones as groups of school children passed by in their neat school uniforms.

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Chapter 83

Trivandrum International Airport lay just ten kilometres along the coast to the north of Kovalam and once the buses were out of the jam they were quickly on their way to the international terminal where a section in the departures area had been cordoned off for the evacuation.

There were normally about twenty flights a day from the airport, which operated day and night because of the country's geographical position on the crossroads between Europe and South East Asia. That day the number of flights scheduled from early afternoon to late evening had been doubled with flights specially chartered for the repatriation of tourists by the governments of their respective countries, including an El Al flight that demanded special security measures.

Davies and his team arrived before the first buses and started to film the preparations that had been put into place to receive the evacuees. Their driver reported two charter planes were already waiting and others would soon be arriving. The operation was already three hours behind schedule.

The first evacuation flight for Stockholm had been scheduled for two in the afternoon, but a snow storm in Arlanda Airport had delayed its departure from Sweden by three hours. The two waiting planes were destined for Birmingham and Gatwick in that order.

In the panic and confusion at Kovalam Beach the message concerning the rescheduling of the buses went unheeded and the first six buses at the airport carried two hundred and fifty Swedes.

At Trivandrum Airport all departing passengers and their baggage were required, immediatly on entering the terminal building, to go through security checks and metal detectors. Once through the main doors there was a waiting area before the check point with enough space for about fifty or so passengers with their baggage, any other passengers had to wait their turn on the pavement outside of the building. After security there was a check-in area followed by passport control points before passengers could proceed to the embarkation hall, four boarding gates were situated in the hall where buses carried passengers to the waiting aircraft.

The airport, like so many others, had been designed for fewer flights and no longer had the necessary capacity to handle the growing traffic, especially when delays caused flights to pile up.

The Airports Authority had refused an easing of security checks and all departing passengers were required to submit to the usual procedures, in addition the Kerala State Health and Hygiene Authority had installed a thermal imaging system to detect passengers with unusually high body temperatures.

What they had not foreseen was the procedure to be followed in the case a passenger was detected with a high temperature. The installation of the system was more designed to impress the attendant state television cameras, projecting the image of a technically modern India to the world, the only problem was the system had never been used at Trivandrum Airport and the technicians were not fully experienced in its use.

The procedure was slow and resulted in at least two hundred tired and impatient passengers overflowing onto the pavement outside of the terminal, which was not a real problem in itself, as it happened from time to time even under normal circumstances. However, the circumstances were not normal and when the second batch of departures arrived hot on the heels of the first the numbers doubled.

The Swedes once inside the terminal could not check in because of the delay in their flight and when the airport officials tried to prevent them from continuing to enter they refused to budge. First they could not understand the English of the officials, secondly they did not want to be separated from those who had already passed through security and thirdly they refused leave their place to the Brits who they thought were being privileged.

Soon there were hundreds of angry passengers on the pavement outside the terminal. The confusion grew, compounded by the arrival of passengers for the other regular scheduled flights who had not been warned of the operation and for whom the arrangements were more summary. In addition no special plans had been made to change scheduled flights for the Middle East or to other parts of India.

Amongst the crowd were the Rymans and the Parkins, sitting on their suitcases, wearily waiting in a seemingly static line to undergo the security and check-in procedures for their respective flights to Gatwick and Birmingham.

More buses arrived at the airport, as officials in Kovalam pressed to complete the operation before night fall hurried the buses away without taking into consideration the pile up of waiting passengers at the airport.

Delays in the departure from Kovalam had been aggravated by the general confusion with many people mistakenly or deliberately climbing into the wrong bus or any bus in their panic. Throughout the afternoon long lines of tired tourists wound their way around the carpark under the hot sun. People were hungry and thirsty, their water bottles trodden into the mud in the carpark or drunk during the long wait for the buses. A few enterprising hawkers were selling water at three and more times the going price, refusing to give change for large notes and refusing foreign currency.

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Chapter 84

Ajay was prepared for surgery prior to being moved to the operating theatre. First was an enema to clean out his intestines and prevent bowel problems after surgery, then his bodily hair was shaved off and he was given a sedative to sleep.

Once in the theatre, an intravenous needle was inserted in his forearm for fluids and medications and he was ready for the transplant operation to commence. A nephrectomy was carried out on the donor in an adjacent operating room and the living kidney was quickly carried to Ajay's surgeon for grafting. It was placed in the lower abdomen where the renal artery and veins were connected and the urethra was linked directly to the bladder. His existing kidneys were untouched.

The operation was completed in three hours without complication and Ajay was transported to the intensive care unit. The anonymous donor, after immediate post operatory care, was transferred to a secondary clinic in Kochi, not far from the slum area where he lived.

The city's slums suffered from the same predicament as all Indian cities: poor sanitation, a lack of drinking water, industrial pollution, high unemployment and one of highest rates of crime in India.

One of the problems was that organ transplantation had become associated with business and not healing, which meant that the health of donors – after donating a kidney – was a question of secondary concern to hospitals and clinics as there was no profit to be made.

The length of time spent in the intensive care unit varied according to the patient and in Ajay's case he was soon sent to a special unit in the clinic that cared for post transplant patients, where his condition was closely monitored.

The main danger faced by transplanted patients was rejection, a normal reaction by the body to the introduction of something foreign, which the body saw as a threat and the immune system developed antibodies to fight it. This reaction was countered by the use of immuno-suppressant drugs such as cyclosporine, which helped to prevent the rejection process.

Before Ajay left the clinic he was provided with all the necessary information related to medication, post operational follow-up and diet. Living with a transplant was a life long process and the risks were important with many patients experiencing acute rejection within the first three months after the transplant, though after one year the risk fell considerably, providing anti-rejection drugs were regularly taken.

During Ajay's hospitalization another drama was being enacted in New Delhi where the police had arrested a notorious kidney racketeer dubbed 'Doctor Horror' by the press. He had been tracked down by the Indian Central Bureau of Investigation and arrested in Nepal, where he had been in hiding in a wildlife resort with more than two hundred thousand dollars in cash in his possession.

The authorities revealed that the doctor and his assistants had performed more than six hundred kidney transplants in recent times. What was shocking was he together with his anaesthesiologist had already been arrested on three previous occasions on charges of illegal human organ transplantation, but had been released on bail.

His victims were the poor uneducated slum dwellers of Delhi and its surroundings whose kidneys had been bought and then transplanted into the doctor's clients, amongst whom were residents of the United States, England, Canada, Saudi Arabia and Greece. According to the police, the business had been going on for six or seven years.

After the Indian government had introduced legislation banning the trade in human organs, more than a decade previously, it had simply gone underground, where the sordid business had continued to prosper. It was not difficult to understand the mechanics of the system, the demand was huge and ever growing with almost two hundred million people worldwide suffering from diabetes, a disease that often resulted in acute kidney failure – a figure that health authorities expected would double over the twenty years to come.

The press reported that more than fifty Indian hospitals were under investigation by the Department of Medical Services, but only a one or two had had their licenses revoked.

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Chapter 85

In any surgical operation there are risks of post-operatory bleeding, infection, or respiratory problems. However, in Ajay's case everything had gone well with no complications. He awoke from his operation and apart from a floating feeling and a vague sensation of stiffness in his body everything seemed fine. He examined his immediate surroundings and discovered a number of tubes protruding from his body, besides the bed were what seemed like a mass of monitoring apparatus and drips. There was also a catheter, connected to a plastic bag, which was to remain in place for a few days to monitor his urine.

After a while a nurse appeared. She smiled when she saw he was awake, then after checking the monitors she asked how he felt. He nodded and mumbled he felt fine though a little thirsty. The surgeon would be passing shortly she told him looking at her watch then allowed him to sip a little water.

Later Ajay was told the operation had been successful and the new kidney had started to function correctly at once, producing urine without the least trouble and his blood was normal. Soon he would be out of bed and if all went well he could leave the hospital within a week.

In effect the next morning, assisted by nursing assistants, he took his first steps, part of essential activity procedures designed to prevent complications such as pneumonia and the formation of blood clots.

Two days later he was feeling considerably better, the only questions was had his parents arrived? He had informed them by telephone once the date for the operation had been fixed and before entering the clinic, on the eve of the transplant operation. His father had announced their flight would arrive late on the day of his operation.

When he enquired to the nurse he was simply told there had not yet arrived, flights had been held up in London due to bad weather and there was nothing to worry about. He tried the phone, but the direct dialling was not working and the operator informed him that there was a temporary problem with international calls.

He was soon eating almost normally in addition to taking an array of different medications necessary to prevent both organ rejection and infection.

On the third day he finally received a call from his father who it seemed had been informed of his progress and recovery. He explained to his son their departure had been delayed due to bad weather and air traffic problems and they expected to arrive in Kochi in the next three or four days.

What he did not tell Ajay was that all flights to Kerala from the UK had been suspended by the airlines following the cholera panic. He had however been in constant contact with the clinic who had advised him not to inform Ajay of the crisis as it would provoke unnecessary anxiety, which could possibly hamper his recovery.

Three days later his parents arrived in Kochi and easily found an excellent room in one of the better guest houses. They accompanied him back to the apartment where he was booked for another week when he was scheduled to return to the hospital for his finally check-up before being allowed to travel.

With his parents they decided to stay on at least until the end of the month, to ensure he was fully fit and there was no risk of complications, taking advantage of the time to do a little tourism and enjoy the good weather before confronting the winter back home.

After looking at the different options for Ajay's convalescence they decide to spend a few days on a house boat in the Backwaters of Kerala. It would not be tiring and they could relax after Kochi, which was very limited in what it had to offer to the visitor.

Through a travel agency in Fort Kochi, they hired a house boat that would take them eighty kilometres to the south on the Backwaters to Lake Vembanad. They were booked for three nights on the luxuriously appointed boat, disembarking in Alleppey from where they planned travel to Thekkady and the cool air of the Western Ghats.

They were pleased to get away from the traffic of Kochi and its pollution, the endless traffic with it assortment of motorbikes, tuk-tuks, cars, buses, as well as just about every other kind of vehicle on wheels or on hooves. They abandoned the struggle with the crowds, cows, chickens and goats leaving the helpless traffic police behind them, who, in spite of their superhuman and somewhat authoritarian efforts, barely managed to put a semblance of order into the chaotic traffic and road system.

The Ajays were filled with foreboding as they crossed the canals and rivers, and their chauffer driven car made its way to the south of the city. Many of the waterways in and around Kochi had once been a part of a vast navigable network, but they were now were filled to overflowing and the least shower of rain threatened the slums that lined their banks with a flood of raw sewage and the rubbish that accumulated all through the dry season. The canals were a constant threat to the health and wellbeing of Kochi's population with the mosquitoes that breed in their waters carrying malaria and chikungunya.

The risks were enormous with over two hundred slum areas officially listed in Kochi and more than seventy thousand slum dwellings housing more than twenty percent of the city's population.

To their relief as they finally approached the inland tourist port they found themselves in a much more pleasant landscape filled with rice fields and coconut palms. Once arrived they left the car in a rough and ready parking area and followed the driver on foot along a dirt road that led to the boat quay. The road was strewn with gravel and rubbish, around the ruts and potholes were piles of construction materials of every description: wood, bamboo, palm leaves, toilet fittings and tools.

A long line of houseboats lay at the dock, the tourists had all but disappeared, it was evident even to the inexperienced eye that the season was a disaster for the operators, now using the time they had on their hands to carry out repairs and maintenance.

Not since the tsunami had the region been so affected. The tsunami, though it had been unjust, was the work of nature, and in any case Kerala on the west coast of India, far from the zone struck by the waves, had been untouched. The real threat was the kind of epidemic that had struck Kovalam could strike again, and at any moment, unleashing not only cholera, but a multitude of other vector borne diseases.

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Chapter 86

Four days after the transplant, Anhil, the donor, was in a convalescence centre outside of Kochi to ensure full recovery before he returned home and resumed normal life, and apart from a little pain, whenever he turned at an awkward angle, he was recovering quickly.

The removal of a kidney involves major surgery on the abdominal muscles, which excluded any donors who earned a living by manual labour. Anhil was more fortunate than many others, he was a small shop keeper, a business he had inherited from his father. He had sold his kidney for purely financial reasons, he had been paid the equivalent of £1,500 for his kidney, a good price, which would enable him to buy a small piece of land he coveted adjoining his modest village commerce.

He was not ignorant, as often were many who sold their kidneys, he had in fact volunteered as a donor and carefully discussed the subject with a medical representative, who had assured him he could continue a normal life after the operation if he took care.

The fact was many donors knew full well the existence of the donor network, it was a subject of common knowledge in many Indian towns. Besides pharmaceutical distributors, medical representative worked with a number of clinics including the Aureolus Clinic, directing those who could either afford their care or whose costs were covered by religious organisations. In the case of kidney donors great care was taken to ensure the donors were willing and fully informed of the implications of being a donor, they were well paid, relatively speaking, and were given good post operatory care.

The system was based on the altruist clause of the government act and in the vast majority of cases only Indians or those of Indian descent were transplanted, in order to avoid any possible accusations of fraud linked to the credibility of emotional links between donor and recipient.

Many in the medical profession were in disaccord with the moral and philosophical arguments put forward by lawmakers and intellectuals, which resolved neither the problems of the needy or those of the sick. The eternal question was, should those suffering from terminal kidney failure be condemned to die a slow death because it was illegal for an unrelated person of sound mind to sell a kidney?

In the meantime charlatans and unscrupulous agents went about their sordid business, often with donors, who though uneducated, were fully aware they were selling a vital organ for cash.

*****

Chapter 87

A vast number of potential donors lived in the third world slums of Kochi, where for decades the jobless had been forced to find work overseas in the Gulf States to support their families, returning home only once a year or less, providing their families with the means to survive by sacrificing their own lives in harsh working conditions on constructions sites for miserable wages and often in danger of their lives.

The authorization committees were a fully legal part of the system, their duty included interviewing each legal donor to ascertain his or her willingness to donate a kidney and the donation was authorised only when the committee was entirely satisfied that the donation was voluntary. It was the old story of the sick and desperate in search of a cure, who had money, and unprincipled dealers and surgeons ready to sell them a cure at a price.

Transplantation had become part of standard medical therapy for the treatment kidney diseases and tens of thousands of such transplants were carried out each year across the world, both legally and illegally.

As a consequence low cost medical treatment linked with an unlimited supply of kidney donors made India a prime destination for the desperate, a source of profit for many and a vicious trap for bonded labourers, slum-dwellers and other poverty-stricken people, who were more than willing to sell part of the only thing they possessed: their bodies, and more precisely a kidney, for the survival of their large families.

Nature had given man two kidneys and it was possible to remove one from a living person without endangering life. Since transplant operations involved a relatively low risk of major complications for the donor, a thriving and lucrative business had developed.

In the developed world however, kidneys were mostly taken from clinically or brain dead donors, compared to India where transplants were carried out with organs bought from the poor by middlemen.

It was not until a scandal involving Middle East Arabs coming to India to buy kidneys made international headlines did the government act, introducing the Human Organs Transplant Act in 1994, making trade in human organs a punishable offence, though it allowed the removal of organs from dead bodies after proper consent. The goal of the Act was to regulate the donation of organs from relatives.

This did not prevent many doctors and intellectuals arguing in favour of the idea of a kidney market, saying that to help a dying person by selling a kidney was not morally wrong, especially when the donor could provide for his family by the sale of a kidney and that legalisation of the trade was desirable. After all even a former Indian prime minister had donated a kidney. Whatever the arguments, the trade in kidneys had thrived and in recent years the buying and selling of organs had taken on a new form.

The law required unrelated donors and recipients to file a declaration with an authorisation committee stating that they were emotionally related and therefore a transplant should be allowed under the clause of altruistic donation. In other words, live donors, who were not blood relatives, such as adopted family members, spouses, or life long friends, who were willing to donate a kidney to the recipients were allowed to do so. The clause stated such donations were permitted by reason of affection or attachment towards the recipient or for any other special reasons, providing that the transplantations had the approval of the Authorisation Committee, as decreed by the Act.

Marriage was one of the many ways to comply with law. Donors entered into a temporary marriage with a rich or middleclass recipient, thus fulfilling the obligations set out by the law and the Authorization Committees, who under the circumstances, approved donations between spouses.

It was not surprising, because of the lack of state controlled monitoring agencies and wide spread corruption, the kidney business prospered given the number of persons suffering from severe renal deficiency, with hospitals and clinics regarding transplantation as a purely business transaction, and of course the vast reserve of willing and penniless donors.

The situation was aggravated by the fact that the governments of many Indian states, including that of Kerala, openly supported and even promoted medical tourism, a huge foreign currency earning business. It was part of a growing Indian attitude towards the commercialisation of medicine, whereby many politicians, businessmen and intellectuals were convinced that the practice of medicine in general and transplantation in particular had not the obligation to conform to all conventional ethical principles.

A new philosophical attitude had developed with India's conversion to globalisation, where modern technology was the order of the day, and as a consequence laws, perceived as outdated or out of step with new technological development, could be ignored, justified by the overriding needs of the bright new temples dedicated to progress and technology in health care that had sprung up on the outskirts of almost every large Indian city.

After decades of state socialism the market economy had acquired a sudden respectability in India, backed by the encouragement of both the Union and State governments.

The permissiveness of the new economic climate could be seen in the policies of the state government of Kerala, ruled alternatively by the Communist Part of India and the Bharatiya Janata Party – the party of Sonia Ghandi, which actively encouraged the development of private medical centres, both conventional and Ayurvedic, often to the detriment of certain services in public hospitals, seen as superfluous with the presence of so many specialised private centres in the state, either existing or planned.

*****

Chapter 88

Kate Ryman and her considerably weakened husband disembarked from their charter flight at Gatwick. It was two in the morning and the temperature was minus three degrees centigrade when Mike was sat in a wheelchair and given a blanket.

The flight had just arrived in London, almost eight hours behind schedule, having left Trivandrum the previous afternoon following a day of total chaos at its small airport. They together with their fellow passengers had been disembarked by a mobile stairway into the freezing night air fifty yards from a provisional medical centre set up in a hanger, far from the main arrivals terminal, specially prepared for passengers disembarking from the infected zone.

Police officers wearing surgical masks pointed the way for the two hundred and seventy weary passengers to a waiting area in the hanger with the crew dispatched to a separate part in the same hanger.

Similar scenes were taking place all over Europe as health authorities took what could have been exaggerated measures to prevent an unlikely pandemic.

Information sheets were passed around reassuring the very weary travellers that the disease was not contagious, if the elementary rules of hygiene were respected, principally the thorough washing of hands and fresh food. A form was to be filled in by each person to be handed to the examining doctor, who questioned each person on their condition, took his or her temperature and made a cursory examination.

Each passenger was instructed to remain at home for at least three days and to call a special number in the case of diarrhoea or any other suspect signs. A medical certificate was provided for their employers and they were then allowed to identify their baggage, which had been deposited in the hanger, and informed it would be held in quarantine for at least one week. A numbered ground transport ticket was given to each family and they were instructed to await their call. In the meantime they were served with hot tea and sandwiches.

The atmosphere in the waiting area was subdued, their holidays had come to a strange and sudden dramatic end. The fear and suspicion that had been ambient during the flight persisted, it was as though each suspected his neighbour of carrying the germ.

When a number was called out the family concerned was seen to a waiting army ambulance and driven directly to their home, where they were instructed to await contact by a local medical visitor. Each person was handed a bag of provisions to see them through the first day. Finally a notice was handed to each individual warning them of prosecution if the instructions issued by the public health authorities were disobeyed.

It was the first operation of its scale affecting public health since the CJD scare ten years previously and the first large scale operation mounted to protect the public at large since the end of the Second World War.

It was six in the morning when Mike and Helen finally arrived at their cold Surbiton semi. Several telephone messages awaited them from their anxious daughters wanting news.

As Kate them made a cup of tea, using the powered milk she found in the provisions given to them at Gatwick, the phone rang. It was the medical visitor to confirm the instruction they remain at home for three days, during which time they would be supplied by a special Meals on Wheels service.

Mike had flopped into his favourite armchair before the television and watched SkyNews. A correspondent stood before the hanger at Gatwick reporting the latest news on the health emergency, it was followed by an announcement from the Minister of Health who reassured the public that the risk was minimal and no special precautions were being taken or were necessary to ensure the safety of the general public. All those travellers from the infected area were being confined to their homes for a precautionary period of three days after which they would be free to go about their normal lives.

The second headline was the crisis in the financial markets and Mike discovered that disasters came in series when he learnt to his great alarm that his savings were frozen for a period of twelve months as West Mercian tottered on the brink of collapse. He said nothing to Kate when she brought him his cup of tea.

The phone rang again, it was Penny, one of their two daughters. Kate reassured her they were in good health and promised she would visit her after what she called the quarantine period.

'Better not Mum, you know for the children,' replied Penny.

It would be several weeks before confidence returned, the Christmas holiday makers who had the misfortune to choose India, the Maldives or Sri Lanka had become pariahs shunned by their friends and neighbours. They were not the only ones, Indians were avoided like the proverbial plague, even Pakistanis and Bangladeshis, whose homelands were far from being on the tourist map with few travellers foolhardy enough to risk a holiday in such countries.

At the same time David and Barbara Parkins went through a similar procedure at Birmingham Airport before being able to return to their home in Smethwick. Amongst the messages awaiting them was one from the head office of the hotel chain inviting David to take paid leave until further notice.

The reaction was the same as that other holiday makers and travellers returning from India were to encounter, they were unwanted by their employers and their colleagues.

Though Barbara was not yet aware of it, her plans to expand her Ayurvedic and yoga classes could be forgotten for a long time to come, the oils and creams she had ordered could be despatched to the rubbish bin, if they managed to pass the customs and sanitary cordon that had been thrown up around Indian goods and more specifically food and medicinal products.

Bad news never came alone. On checking their bank account David discovered that the new tenant for their first BTL had not paid his rent and the second the prospective tenant had backed out.

Up and down the country BTL owners were discovering that business was difficult with a fall in rental yield and increasing signs that more and more investors were struggling and falling behind with their mortgage repayments.

At the height of the BTL market boom almost one thousand mortgages were taken out each day with the total number of BTL mortgages passing the one million mark, compared to only thirty thousand a decade before, an extraordinary transformation of the property rental market.

It was as though every Barbara and David had been piling into the market with more BTL loans approved during the previous six months than ever before, in spite of the much broadcast house price crash the press had announced as being imminent and the highly visible collapse of the Northern Rock.

*****

Chapter 89

As Barton and Emma visited Delhi's tourist sights, Karen together with her sister and their children lazed on the beach in Goa. Their men were making the rounds of the travel agents in town trying to renegotiate their return tickets. They were completely oblivious to the drama that had been played out in Kovalam, their main concern was having their flight bookings put back to the end of the month and the excuses they would have to make up to justifying their girls missing out on school. Little did they know that their problem had been settled for them.

They had left Kovalam before the travel restrictions had been put into place, taking a train from Trivandrum to Goa, a journey of thirty six hours in first class, which could have not been described as comfortable, though it was infinitely better than the conditions ordinary Indian rail travellers were used to. They had read their books, slowly, they were not fast readers, as to papers they had little time for news, in any case there were no English papers available and Malayalam, Marathi or Hindi were of course incomprehensible to them.

They had no difficulty in finding a hotel close to the beach in Goa, it seemed different to Kovalam, there were few if any tourists about. However, they were not curious, they were locked into their family world, though it was unlike most people's idea of family, but they were happy, taking life as it came.

It was estimated that three thousand foreigners, mostly Britons, had bought properties in Goa. Destinations like Spain had become too expensive, in Croatia they were confronted by the language barrier, but India was vaguely familiar and English was the country's lingua franca.

In spite of the influx of tourists to Goa with more than eight hundred charter flights a year, it was not the safe place described in the tourist brochures, it was crime infested, corrupt and dangerous. Each year many Britons died there, forty in the first weeks of the year, by accident, drowning, illness, disease, overdose and murder. Drugs abounded in the small state, including ketamine, marijuana, ecstasy and MDMA.

Despite the rampant corruption, crime and other dangers, Britons, many of whom were retired, were attracted by the low prices, with a two-bedroom apartments going for as little as £25,000. A couple could live comfortably in the state for less than £500 a month, including food, electricity, taxes, the luxury of a chauffeur driven car and first class medical facilities on hand at affordable prices.

Goa and Kovalam had many things in common, not only tourism but also a property market for foreigners buyers, in spite of the strict regulations concerning foreign ownership of property.

Besides nationals, only non-resident Indians and persons of Indian origin were legally allowed to own property in India. However, this restriction could be circumvented by the formation of a company, which could acquire a property, or by establishing residency with a continuous presence of more than six months in the country.

Once a property owner and a resident, a foreigner soon became the target of corrupt officials, in a multitude of every day dealings, with the constant threat of expulsion and losing their property hanging over him.

*****

Chapter 90

It seemed so strange to Emma, only three days before she had been enjoying a break from her life in London, a life that had become so routine she had taken everything for granted. Suddenly she was alone, stranded in India, a widow, without a friend, at least a friend she knew. She thanked God that Tom Barton and Ryan had appeared.

She had to face up to the formalities in a world she in reality knew absolutely nothing about, faced with a journey to Delhi and the painful formalities at the British Embassy. She would also have to inform Parkly's family, her own family, and of course West Mercian Finance.

She felt emptied of all emotion as she stood staring at the sea through a window in Barton's suite. On the beach in the distance she saw the local fishermen hauling in their heavy nets, just a few days ago she like other tourists had photographed their meagre catch, not even stopping to consider how they lived, taking them for part of the scenery, shutting their misery out of her mind. They were Indians, poor Indians, in an almost desperate daily struggle scratching for a living. If things had gone as planned she would have already returned to London and be showing the photographs of beach fishermen to her friends, nothing more than a few picturesque memories of the New Year in Kovalam.

Fate had decided otherwise, her previous life had come to a full stop, it now seemed meaningless: fashion, diner parties, shows, weekends in the country, the famous, it meant nothing, she now knew life could be taken away in an instant.

'What are you thinking? asked Tom.

'I don't know...just things will never be the same again.'

He stepped forward and taking her in his arms. He too realised how life could play tricks. They sat down and stared at each other, unseeingly and lost in their thoughts.

'There are some things that have to be settled,' he said after a moment.

'Yes. I have to inform everybody, then the Embassy I imagine.'

'I think so...formalities.'

'Thank you Tom, I don't know what I would have done without your help. What are your plans?' she said pulling herself together.

'I have no particular plans for the moment, I came here to get away from London. If you need help...'

Emma realised she could not manage by herself. The last forty eight hours had seemed like an eternity, in that time Tom had become a trusted friend, and besides her difficulties were far from over.

'Yes, I would like that.'

They both sensed they had sealed an unwritten pact in which they had agreed to see, together, the drama through to its conclusion.

*****

Chapter 91

After a catastrophic end to her winter holiday Nicole was back home, her money was safe thanks to Ryan's swift action and to top it all she was bursting with pride. Her son was a national hero and his photograph figured on the front pages of tabloids and television channels vied to interview him.

Her reward was a first class ticket home for Ryan, who by that time had had enough of samosas, pani puri, bhel puri, the smell of curry, not to mind the heat and dust to last him for the rest of his life. All he was looking forward to was a good steak with a glass of red wine in his favourite Chelsea restaurant.

Back in the UK others were following Barton's decision to walk away from trouble, it was becoming a habit, as more and more borrowers handed the keys of the house to the bank, many of which were facing substantial losses due to subprime related difficulties with repossessions rocketing.

In the past borrowers had felt responsible and trapped in situations they did not understand, but things had changed and many borrowers knew full well what they had got themselves into, having significantly exaggerated earnings by falsely declaring their incomes to mortgage lenders, it was a bet they had lost, from the outset many knew they had nothing to lose and everything to gain, if by some miracle things worked out.

When Barton had started his brokerage, it was normal for home buyers to arrive with a down payment of fifteen or twenty percent, which represented several years of hard earned savings, and which in turn made any idea of walking away in the event of financial difficulties unthinkable, the price of their property would have to fall by the same amount, plus repayments, to leave them with zero equity.

With government approval and the financial industry's willingness to expand into new and unknown territory by offering easy loans, sometimes requiring no down payment at all, the mortgage market was completely transformed. Some lenders even offered interest only mortgages, and to top it all it equity withdrawal was invented, though initially for home extensions, theoretically building up the value of an asset, which formed a guarantee in case of difficult times, but finally it was used to finance cars, holidays and even face lifts.

Many people knew exactly what they were doing, simply treating the house they lived in as though they rented it, but without a landlord to bother them. If at the end of the day they went into voluntary liquidation they would be blacklisted by credit companies, but for a limited time, in the meantime they lived comfortably, the days of bankruptcy, debtors prison and shame were so long gone they had been totally erased from living memory.

Lenders had overlooked the kind of scenario whereby borrowers would simply hand in the door key and disappear, they had assumed people would pay no matter what happened, and had never imagined they would one day find themselves with thousands of empty homes on their books in a shrinking housing market. Many had suddenly woken up to the nasty surprise of finding themselves in the position of having to renegotiate more favourable conditions for the borrowers or accepting substantial losses.

Those who tried to talk up the market, putting out the idea that Britain was an overcrowded island lacking sufficient housing, ignored property collapses in densely populated countries such as Japan, Taiwan or Hong Kong, countries that had never recovered from the bursting of their huge property bubbles at the end of the 1980s. Nearby Ireland had just entered the correction phase with Dublin property prices falling almost ten percent in less than a year and the repossession of homes in the USA ballooning in an alarming fashion.

Back in Britain the experts belatedly estimated that the majority of all home loans made over the previous two years had been either subprime, risky BTLs, or based on some other over extended financial arrangement.

*****

Chapter 92

After the drama Barton found himself in a quandary, the tourists had fled and he was one of the few foreigners who remained. He would have liked to leave, but to go where? A week later the epidemic was declared under control by the Kerala and Union authorities and travel to and from other parts of India returned to normal, allowing Emma, accompanied by Barton, to travel to Delhi to complete the formalities relating her husband's death.

They had thanked Ryan and wished him goodbye two days before. He had played a key role in informing the UK authorities of the situation thanks to Francis's satellite link and there was no longer any need for his presence in India.

Little did he know that the press at home was waiting to offer him a hero's welcome, the prompt action of the English doctor had alerted the international health authorities and his efforts had ensured the health and safety of thousands of tourists with their mass evacuation from Kovalam. Four foreigners had died, Stephen Parkly, a Russian and two Swedes. How many Indians had died was unknown, but hundreds had been infected in the surrounding villages.

Barton's situation was different, though internal travel restrictions in India had been lifted, many neighbouring and nearby countries were still refusing its travellers, that is other than their own nationals returning home, which meant that the only destination open to him was the UK, and he was not about to walk into the lions den.

Emma's own family and her in-laws had not been permitted to travel to India, and if the truth was known there had been a secret sigh of relief. In any case there was little they could have done but comfort her. After the shock that had affected her during the first days she had recovered her strength, the presence of Barton had comforted her, he was discrete and uninvasive. Ryan's presence had also helped, and though she could not forget his hesitation, his cool professionalism and distance had reminded her of Stephen.

When Barton offered to accompany her to Delhi she gladly accepted and his down-to-earth approach eased her apprehensions. The embassy formalities were less complicated than expected; she presented her husband's death certificate with the papers relating to his cremation and his death was registered, it was over in a matter of minutes. She was then received in private by the ambassador who offered his assistance, sympathising with her personal disaster and that of her husband's firm – something that seemed rather strange to her.

She said nothing of the ambassador's enigmatic words concerning the 'firm' to Barton, imagining it was their loss too and after returning to the hotel she called her parents. Her father tactfully broke the news concerning West Mercian's difficulties and its consequences for Parkly's estate. Her family solicitors had been in contact with Parkly's who had informed them that probate would be a long process.

The idea of returning to London and facing Stephen's family and friends was not encouraging and now the additional problem of unscrambling Stephen's financial affairs frankly depressed her. Her father had proposed flying out to help, once travel restrictions had been lifted, but she had refused, she had been brought up with a very independent attitude and her parents, deeply affected by the tragedy, regretfully accepted in the knowledge she would survive the difficult period and probably come out stronger from the experience.

Her father had spoken with the British Ambassador in Delhi and had been reassured that they would do everything in their power to ensure her safety and wellbeing. Incredibly, with the exception of Stephen's life long friend and head of human relations at West Mercian, there was no news from the firm, not one single other person had contacted her, perhaps it was due to the difficulty of communications, besides the unresolved crisis at West Mercian had everybody fearing for their own future, not to mind that of Emma Parkly, who many saw as a little rich girl and the wife of the man responsible for their misfortune.

She announced no immediate plan to return to London and Barton raised no questions as to her plans, content for the moment by her presence and unclear as to his own plans. They fell into an almost silent routine of meals and drinks punctuated by Emma's phone calls to her family and friends.

Her life hand changed, she could not go back to the life of the frivolous young woman she had been before she married Stephen. Further, she was not ready to play the roll of a widow and go through the grieving that would be expected of her by her family and especially her in-laws. An even worse prospect was that of a Church of England memorial service in the village.

After three days Emma announced she wanted to visit the Delhi and produced a small guide she had picked up at the reception.

The weather was fine with spring like temperatures in the low twenties, a huge relief after the heat of Kovalam. After visiting India Gate and the parliament buildings, built in 1927 and designed by Sir Herbert Baker, they left for the Red Fort, a palace built by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan to adorn his new capital, Shahjahanabad, in 1639.

While they visited the extraordinary palace Barton could not help noticing that Emma seemed more relaxed and lighter hearted as she listened to the words of the guide. It was though a burden had fallen from her shoulders. Looking out through the open windows of the Fort she announced to his surprise that the Jamuna, the river below, was a tributary of the Ganges.

'You're very knowledgeable,' he said smiling in mock surprise.

She laughed and took his arm.

The next day they took a chauffeur driven car to Agra and the Taj Mahal, a three hour drive from Delhi. They watched the strange mixture of traffic on the road, over loaded buses, colourful trucks, a camel drawn cart, cows and even an elephant. They discovered the Taj Mahal, one of the world's wonders, according to the guidebook it was in fact a tomb built by a prince in memory of his young wife.

Though it was much smaller than they had expected, they had stood in silence and gazed at it spellbound for several minutes, the beauty, harmony and perfect symmetry of the dazzling white monument, built for a prince's lost love, was almost overwhelming.

On the road back to Delhi, Barton was aware that Emma sat closer to him, she seemed pensive.

'Tom, tell me about yourself?' she suddenly demanded.

'Myself?'

'Yes, I know almost nothing about you.'

'What can I say...?'

'I don't even know – where you live for – don't you have a home?'

'Well I've never been married and I live...or lived in Epping.'

'Lived?'

Slowly he told her about his life and how he had decided to abandon everything, without any clear plans, embarking on a journey with no precise destination. She listened to his story, he was frank, he made no attempt to justify his actions, no excuses. There was a long silence.

'Life is strange,' she said slowly and then paused. 'When I spoke to my father he told me about West Mercian, it seems they are on the verge of bankruptcy...if what had happened to me in India had not happened, Stephen and I would have been in a similar position to you, but in the eye of the storm. I watched the news on the television...things look bad.'

'Yes, it seems that way.'

'Your timing was good,' she suddenly said brightly, smiling at him. 'That's important.'

'Perhaps.'

'I believe in fate, to some extent, in any case after events. Fate has decided things will be as they are and we have to make the best of it,' she said taking his hand.

*****

Chapter 93

After several weeks a mystery still surrounded the whereabouts of Tom Barton, the head of Barton Finance, a City mortgage brokerage firm, who was suspected of links with the West Mercian Finance scandal, had disappeared over the Christmas holidays.

Frantic calls from the broker's clients had been met by denials of any wrong doings. The firm's solicitors had published at statement announcing the firm was under new management and it was business as usual. Any link to the troubled West Mercian Finance was denied other than that of a mortgage broker's, and a small broker at that.

The statement continued, advising clients that enquiries concerning existing or approved mortgages by West Mercian were to be addressed directly to West Mercian Finance. Those who had paid deposits or who were in the process of buying or selling properties were reassured that there was absolutely no risk since the firm had respected all legal procedures concerning the safety of deposits.

One customer who had been trying to get in touch with Barton for weeks, relative to a mortgage application, suspected he was overseas.

Around that time, Barton, as he boarded a Thai Airways flight for Bangkok, where he was to be joined by Emma a few days later, picked up a copy of the Bangkok Post. The headline announced a huge banking loss in France, no doubt another subprime loss he thought, he was now used to the revelations over the past weeks and months that seemed without end.

He took his seat and unfolded the newspaper. The Bangkok Post announced that markets were stunned by the loss of four billion euros by an as yet unnamed trader at Société Générale, France's second largest bank. He could not help smiling to himself thinking this was much more fun.

If he remembered rightly it was about five times the amount that Nick Leason had cost the Barings back in 1995. To make matters worse Society Générale's loss was compounded by a write-down of a billion euros in its subprime dealings.

His first impression was that it was a cover up, the bank was accusing its trader, of apparently little seniority, of being responsible for fraudulent trading losses that had wiped out its almost entire profits for the year just ended. It seemed to Barton highly unrealistic that such a loss could have gone undetected by the bank's control system. Most amusing was the information the bank had been the recent winner of the Equity Derivatives House of the Year award in the City of London.

The chairman of the renowned bank, Lehman Brothers, was reported in the Bangkok newspaper as saying the fraud, if that was the word for it, thought Barton, was 'everyone's worst nightmare'.

Leason, whom Barton had always openly admired, had served more than six years in prison, but had resurfaced again as a writer, speaker and football club executive. The same article reported he had been inundated with demands for interviews after the announcement of the French bank's losses, and his press agent was auctioning interviews to the highest bidder.

Barton was pleased to learn that the losses were 'gigantic and colossal', because, together with the other scandals that were rocking the financial world, including the Northern Rock, followed by West Mercian Finance and the strange and tragic death of its head Stephen Parkly in India, it meant that his own story would be considered of little real interest or in the worse case would attract no more than a cursory investigation.

The news from UK limited was grime, the Chancellor of the Exchequer announced the nationalisation of the Northern Rock, the country's fifth biggest mortgage lender. It was the first time a major high street bank had been nationalised in recent history, leaving the taxpayer with a bill that was expected to grow to tens of billion of pounds as the state took over the responsibilities for the eight hundred thousand mortgages Northern Rock held.

Finally all negotiations for a private take over had failed due to a lack of 'sufficient value for money to the taxpayer'. It seemed that the tycoon who had been leading the bidding had not come up with enough guarantees or was too greedy, whatever the reason he had wallowed in the free publicity, the name of his holding making almost daily headlines during the course of the previous six months.

The government announced the nationalisation after months of fruitless discussions with the press accusing it of incompetence, but was it really the government? Of course the government had taken the plunge to save Northern Rock, but had they any choice? But on the other hand, were they responsible for the events that brought the bank to its disastrous situation?

The whole country had been drawn in by a frenzy of spending on the never-ever, when money was dangled before consumers via their letter boxes every morning with new credit cards, offers of bank loans at interest rates never before seen, demanding almost no guarantees. It was as though there was no pay back date, and in any case the gains made from rocketing property prices would cover all sins.

It was the old story of a badly run company trading in a booming market, growth covered all incompetence and bad management decisions, but once the market slowed the chickens came home to roost, or were they vultures?

West Mercian had been eclipsed by the Northern Rock rescue, its employees were faced with massive layoffs and the tens of thousands of small investors facing huge losses without any hope of state intervention, the Chancellor had been caught once and he was not about to be caught the second time.

There was much talk in the market of a repeat of Black Wednesday, when billions of pounds were wiped off Britain's reserves when the government pulled out from the EMR, hiking interest rates to an astronomical twelve percent.

Barton saw a much larger crisis unfolding in slow motion and was reminded of how curious it was that memories were so short and how analysts mechanically repeated their time worn exhortations, desperately trying to convince the world all was well, when it was evident the game was up. Barton had always been prudent, avoiding the trap of willing the market up, that is until he himself had slipped.

Estate agents announced the numbers of properties on sale in the UK had increased almost twenty percent compared to the same period of the previous year, as home owners panicked, rushing to sell before the bottom fell out of the house prices, others were forced to sell because they could no longer support the burden of their heavy mortgages and growing debts. The mechanism was well known to the old hands: stock of unsold houses automatically grew as sellers asked for unrealistic prices.

Good for Leason's pal he thought as he folded the newspaper and slipped into the pocket before him, then leaned back in his comfortable seat and accepted a glass of Champagne from the pretty Thai hostess. In any event Barton concluded it was now time to turn to something new. The twists and turns of the last weeks were more than some could expect in a whole life time, he was tired, but life was finally beginning to look up and a new future was taking form.

*****

Chapter 94

India was a contradiction, its middle classes thirsted for recognition from the outside world, and while presenting a glowing picture of their country's success there remained nine hundred million or so poor Indians struggling for survival each and every day of their desperate lives.

The world business press spoke more and more of the rising middle classes in the emerging world and more specifically in India with its huge population of potential consumers. The question for marketers was how to define the much vaunted middle class of India?

It was not an easy task in such a large and varied country, but the Indian National Council of Applied Economic Research defined middle class as approximately sixty million Indians earning between £2,000 and £10,000 a year, which in terms of purchasing power was about five times greater than in the UK,

This, in simple terms, meant that few of these could afford to buy a car or indulge in overseas travel, not to mind thinking of a kidney transplant – without hugely indebting themselves.

Certain studies defined the twenty percent who owned a two, three or four wheeled vehicle, a colour TV or a telephone, as qualifying for middle class membership, even though most were in an income bracket of only £750 to £1,500 a year.

The vast majority of this so called Indian lower Middle Class were struggling to make ends meet, barely keeping their heads above water, living in big cities such as Mumbai in what could be described at best as slum dwellings if compared to Western standards.

A mere one percent of the population could afford the status symbols common in the West – less than ten million – and the remaining four fifths of the middle class defined by the National Council could only aspire to the lesser status symbols.

Beyond the hype surrounding India's economic rise, three hundred million Indians lived on less than fifty pence a day faced with the immense social and economic problems affecting most of the country's citizens.

Further, those who saw India and China reaching the level of the middle classes in the West should have stopped to think whether the economic resources of the world could support doubling and tripling its middle classes, a problem that also boded ill for the West.

Looking at the bad news from the Bombay Stock Exchange ticker tape on CNN it was more than strange to think that Indian punters had unwittingly tied their fate to that of defaulting investment funds on the other side of the planet and defaulting homeowners in distant Cleveland and Bakersfield.

*****

Chapter 95

India was already the world's second most populated country with over 1.15 billion people, not far behind China's 1.3 billion. The UN expected India's population to continue to rise eventually reaching around 1.6 billion by 2050, by which time it would have overtaken China becoming the world's most populated country.

Ryan's short stop in Mumbai, India's largest city, simply confirmed his idea it was one of the most crowded places on earth. He was not far off the mark, the city's population was estimated at around twenty million and it could also boast the world's largest slums, and an infrastructure system, which to all intents and purposes had collapsed.

Traffic was permanently jammed and railways stations and trains were packed to bursting point, passengers still perilously hung onto the sides of wagons sixty years after independence, and air pollution reached catastrophic levels

Some explained the population increase by people living longer. In any case, progress had been made since India's independence at which time average life expectancy was just thirty three, since then improved food supplies and medical care had raised the average life of Indians to sixty.

Birth rates had fallen, but not sufficiently so to compensate for the increased life expectancy of the overall population. The tradition of large families in rural areas was linked to an increase in the number of hands contributing to feeding a family, an insurance for aged parents, in a certain manner of speaking a retirement plan.

Family planning was a mere a drop in the ocean for reasons to do with culture, religion and the lack of education, mostly affecting the poor who had the highest birth rates.

As a consequence the population of India was inexorably set to rise for another fifty years with another five hundred million mouths to feed by the middle of the century, presenting the country with an almost insurmountable problem, and in a world where competition for food and resources would be fierce.

Its own resources were limited, especially its agricultural and fresh water resources, and expanding these to provide for a population of 1.6 billion an almost impossible task – without taking into account the country's industrial needs and the effects of pollution caused by the same industries.

India had gained its independence without war, without revolution, and the traditional landed ruling class had inherited the reins of power. A selfish power, where wealth was gathered uniquely for the good of the family – families such as the Tatas, Mittals, Birlas and others, whose extravagantly lavish living styles mocked the poor masses of their fellow countrymen.

The End

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