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directly opposite him. He had already read all the other posters – twice
– but somehow this one had eluded his gaze, perhaps – as is often the case in
life – by merit of being directly in front of him.
    ‘That’s
the family and its conscience taken care of,’ it proclaimed. ‘Buy a goat or
some chickens from Farm Africa for £10.’ The poster went on to explain that an
enterprising blacksmith could convert a decommissioned tank into 3,000 farm
implements for a poor African village.
    Mr
Wyndham-Smythe didn’t like animals, particularly smelly farmyard animals tended
to by dirty farmers. He found weapons and militaria much more appealing. Ever
since his father had sent him to military academy and he had met Dick, the
young Wyndham-Smythe was fascinated by all things military. Dick had humiliated
him, played practical jokes on him, beaten him and urinated on him, and
Wyndham-Smythe had loved every miserable minute. As old memories came flooding
back, Mr Wyndham-Smythe reflected on his life, and his thoughts turned to his
children, William and Henrietta. Henrietta had been pestering him all year for
a Sony widescreen laptop with 32X Re-write DVD drive, and all William could
talk about was an X-box. Well … not this year. This year William and Henrietta
would learn about the true spirit of Christmas.
    “Pierre? … Pierre!” The blacksmith had been daydreaming: imagining himself
driving through the village in his perfectly polished, shining silver tank, the
other villagers eyeing him with admiration and cheering as he passed. Now the
village elder’s voice brought Pierre out of his reveries.
    “Huh?”
Pierre took his hand off the tank and looked around, slightly dazed. The
village elder had called all the villagers together for an impromptu ceremony
in honour of the aid workers who had delivered the village’s allocation of western
aid and the donors who had funded the gifts.
    “I
said that you,” the village elder told Pierre, “as the village blacksmith, will
be honoured to make tools out of the old tank, so that we will be able to till
our land again and grow our own crops.”
    “Huh?”
    The
village elder frowned at Pierre and turned back to the villagers, the aid
workers and the two truck drivers who had convoyed in the tank, rice and farm
animals.
    “On
behalf of everyone in the village of Santa Maria Illuminosa Madre di Jesu
Crucifixio, I would like to thank the Giftaid Foundation and all of you for
bringing us help in our hour of need. We also extend our thanks to the people
of Great Britain, in particular to Mrs Jameson of Shepherd’s Bush for the goat,
Mr Thompson of Aberdeen for the chickens, and to Mr Wyndham-Smythe of
Kensington and his family for the tank.”
    “Mr
Wyndham-Smythe of Kensington,” mouthed Pierre.
    The village elder’s speech went on for some time and Alicia was starting to
feel nauseous again. She hadn’t been right since the incident in Utar Pradesh.
It had been dark and the aid truck she was travelling in hit what she and the
driver initially thought was a large black dog. Alicia got out of the truck to
see if it was still alive, and that was when it went for her. It all happened
so fast. Alicia saw the creature’s yellow eyes and large fangs as it sprang at
her throat. She managed to raise a hand to defend herself, but if it hadn’t
been for the driver leaping out of the truck and hitting the animal with the
cricket bat he kept next to his seat, it would have ripped her throat out for
sure. Instead, it reeled under the blow from the bat, then glowered at the two
humans and disappeared into the bushes.
    “Are
you alright?” cried the driver, rushing over to Alicia and helping her to her
feet.
    “I
think so.” Alicia inspected her bitten hand. The shock had not set in yet and
she was surprised at how clear her head was at that moment. “But the dog might
have had rabies,” she told the driver calmly. “I need to get to a hospital as
soon as