Episode Eight: Morning Has Broken

Don, Gabriel, Roberta and Rohelio were quite happy to receive an invitation to have breakfast with Verity. They were quite astonished when they saw where. All of them had to open mapping apps on their phones to even figure out a route. All of them questioned what on earth she was doing there, around an hour from where the action was in Ormoc. But, at the same time, a free feed was a free feed.

Although her second text did seem a little unusual: ‘Make sure you are not followed’.

Don’s technique for not being followed was a little unorthodox.

‘Are you sure about this, Sir Don?’ Roberta asked him, from her privileged position sitting beside him in the air conditioned cab, while the more entitled passengers – Rohelio and Gabriel – were seated outside, in the heat and the dust of the multicab’s roofed, but non-air conditioned rear.

‘Yes. The new Diversion Road is by far the quickest way to get to Merida. It said so on all the publicity.’ Don justified his choice.

‘But is it the fastest way today?’ Roberta asked. Their journey through Ormoc had been smooth – not very quick, but smooth – until they'd reached Badminton City and its nearby Tempura Haus restaurant. As soon as they'd passed them, they'd hit queueing traffic, stoically patient as vehicle after vehicle waited for others to pass through a narrow contraflow, past road works that never seemed to end. They were passing through Barangay Linao at a snail’s pace. Vendors selling puto and fruit and various cleaning cloths were walking from vehicle to vehicle faster than the vehicles were moving forward.

‘Well, the jury’s still out on that one.’ Don admitted grudgingly.

Rohelio tapped on the window, signalling for Roberta to pick up her cellphone. She took it out of her pocket and he called her on an encrypted app. ‘We’re bring followed. Black car. Japanese. Six cars back.’

Roberta tried to deflect him. ‘How can you be sure?’ she asked, although she was certain it was the case.

‘Because a similar vehicle followed me last night, and they’ve maintained the same distance since the Superdome. I’m telling you, Roberta, they are on our tail.’ Rohelio informed her.

She informed their eccentric driver.

‘Okay. Fasten your seat belts, folks, and get ready for a classic avoidance strategy.’ Don told them. As they sat still for several more minutes. ‘Eventually.’ He added.

The traffic inched further and further forward. Don kept a keen eye on their pursuer. They crept past a school, some stores and a Catholic church. In all that time, hardly any cars veered off into the small streets on either side.

Still inching forward, he noticed three young kids wandering back through the traffic, bucket of soapy water and cloths in hand, offering to clean windshields. He called them over. ‘Hey! Mga bata! Ari diri!’"

They ran towards the older foreigner, who looked a little hot and bothered (but not as hot and bothered as his passengers). They stood at the passenger side door. Roberta rolled down the window so he could talk to them. ‘Do you see the black Toyota around six cars behind me?’

The children nodded.

‘Their windshield looks dirty. I will give you...’ He rooted around in his pocket, found his pocket and whipped out a crisp yellow banknote. ‘Five hundred pesos if you wash their windscreen.’

The children’s eyes lit up as if they had won the lottery. They nodded enthusiastically.

Roberta almost choked with shock. ‘Five hundred!’ she exclaimed.

Don gave it to her to give it to them, which she did, bemused. ‘What are you doing, Sir Don?’

‘You can knight me later, if this works...’ he told her, as he watched intently through his rear view mirror. ‘Call our esteemed passengers. Tell them to hold on tight.’ he instructed Roberta, as he watched the children approach the black car.

She did as she was told.

The kids reached the car. The bucket of soapy water was chucked all over the windshield with a huge, unexpected splash. The driver and passenger yelled at the children. The passenger got out. He gave chase, screaming at them in frustration. The children ran off, giggling and squealing with glee.

‘Now!’ Don exclaimed. He yanked the steering wheel to his right and drove the multicab at four times the speed it had travelled in the past twenty minutes down a bumpy side-road. He took a left, drove past a further left turn and then backed into it.

The two passengers knocked on the window behind the driver’s cab and waved at him frustratedly. Don turned around. He signalled them to be quiet and calm down.

Roberta laughed. ‘What is this, Sir Don?’

‘Hide and seek.’ He replied.

Rohelio called Roberta. ‘What is this crazy puti doing?’

‘Hide and seek, daw.’ Roberta replied, still completely bemused.

‘How long do you think, Roberta? Five, maybe ten minutes?’ Don asked his front passenger.

‘Until what?’ she asked him.

Don grinned slyly. ‘Until our tail passes the junction and realises we’re not there anymore.’

The peso dropped. Roberta laughed. ‘Oh, that is clever! That... that is really clever.’

The passenger returned to the black car, where the driver, incandescent with rage, was wiping soap suds off his windscreen with a cloth, before letting his wipers loose on them.

The passenger too, now also hot and bothered, was extremely frustrated.

They were even more frustrated when they looked in front of them and saw that the multicab had gone. They inched further and further ahead with the traffic, passing through Naungan. The passenger picked up his mobile phone and made a furious call to their handler.

In the side street, another little girl wandered over to the multicab. She held out handmade cloths towards Don. ‘Sir!’ she called to attract his attention. ‘Sir!’

He looked at them. ‘I like the colour and the quality. These look good.’ He pulled out a hundred peso note from his wallet. ‘I’ll take one. Don’t tell your friends, huh? This is our little secret.’ He told her, making a shushing gesture with his finger against his mouth, before handing over the money.

She grabbed it eagerly from him, threw the cloth at him, which he caught, and ran back into her house.

Roberta’s phone buzzed. She looked at the caller ID. A brief panic set over her. Why now?

Then she smiled. She knew.

‘Aren't you going to answer that?’ Don asked her.

She swiped it away. ‘Junk call.’ she told him. ‘But I think we can go back now.’

Don looked behind him. Twenty children were suddenly emerging from a nearby alleyway, all clutching handmade cloths, holding them high so he could see them and yelling towards him with gusto.

‘Yes, I think I agree.’ He told her. He lifted the handbrake, pressed on the accelerator, and the multicab lurched out of its hiding place, headed back down the road and, with a manoeuvre that could either be described as skilful or horrendously rude, re-joined the funereal procession of traffic towards Naungan and the Diversion Road.

Once they left the slow crawl through Ormoc’s southern neighbourhoods, they bumped their way over the still under-construction Diversion Road, turned left onto the main road and, twenty minutes of scenic drive later, pulled off into Merida, took the first left down Siapon Street and followed it to the very end.

In front of their vehicle were two constructions: directly before them was the town's slaughter house, an open sided construction with a slanted roof on four pillars, blood still dripping from its latest unfortunate victim onto the ground; on their right was the gate for La Vista Del Rio.

Don smiled cheekily. ‘I bet in lechon season this place is a scream.’ He joked.

Roberta stared at him blankly. ‘Was that Scottish humour?’

Don cleared his throat to excuse himself and drove the multicab to the right, into the resort, where a friendly chap, who also did the gardens and helped out around the place, gave Don directions for parking.

All three passengers and driver leapt out onto the ground. While breakfast was cooking, the owner, a taller Filipino with long hair tied back by an elastic band and a short, scraggly beard, toured them round the resort. They all gazed in admiration at the smartly kept grounds, function hall, tee pee huts and gardens.

And the pool. They reached the beautifully built pool just as the owner’s daughter was in the middle of her morning swim. They watched as she pushed off from the edge nearest to them and held her breath, not coming up for air, until she swam under the white hump-backed bridge that bisected the pool and reached the other side.

Something bothered Don. He turned away muttering, ‘Hold on. No. That can’t be right. No. Surely not.’

Verity called over to him. ‘Are you alright, Don?’

‘Yes, I mean, maybe. I think.’ He replied.

As their guide was headed towards the view deck at the edge of the Siapon River, they completed their tour.

‘Well, this place isn’t bad at all.’ Don commented appreciatively. ‘Wee Verity will want to fall out with her grandparents more often.’

They wandered back for breakfast, under a gazebo near to the check-in desk, after ordering their silog meals (a combination of garlic fried rice, fried egg and various meats or fish).

‘Nice place you have here.’ Don told Verity, through a sweet and spicy mouthful of chewy pork tocino. ‘A lucky cat couldn’t have fallen on its feet better.’

‘Yeah, well, I'm still trying to figure out why I’m so dangerous. I mean, I could be a restaurant reviewer or a sports writer.’ Verity mused.

Don looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Really? You?’ he exclaimed.

‘I mean, I’ve known you for barely twenty-four hours, and I could not see you, notepad in hand, keeping score at a fiesta basketball match.’ Rohelio smiled.

‘Your job is risky. Like ours. They don’t want to have the same risk. I get it. It affects all of us.’ Roberta added, as she munched on a fork full of fried milk fish.

‘It’s why I never married.’ Don told them, trying hard to be serious.

‘If that’s what you think...’ Verity smiled cheekily.

No-one heard the resort owner’s wife, who managed the resort, whispering down her mobile phone, ‘Listen: we have a foreigner here. Tigulang siya, pero single! Single jud! As in! Call the ladies. We’ll find him someone.’

Charlotte was also eating breakfast, and just about finished. Gloria was in the kitchen, making a head start on the dishes and humming what seemed like a Christian worship song with no little enthusiasm. Charlotte smiled. This was the happiest she could ever remember being – while sober, at least. But she knew today had to be faced.

And the midday ferry to Ormoc City would not wait for them.

Alexei woke much later, an hour from the end of the buffet breakfast at his hotel. He rushed downstairs, after making himself as respectable as he could, before entering into the spacious and enticing breakfast lounge and helping himself to the seemingly endless delectable delicacies they offered.

The food here was so great that he could feel his weight increasing just by looking at it.

Today was going to be a packed day for the investigation team. Verity’s cover had to be maintained. She was working as a journalist for a local newspaper, so she had to do local newspaper journalism, and that meant a ‘puff piece’ with the mayor about the upcoming Piña Festival.

Not exactly Pullitzer material, but it would at least look genuine. So after breakfast, she roared away on her ‘two wheeled death trap’, as Don called it, to interview the mayor in her out of town mansion.

Rohelio and Roberta had some preparatory work to do to set up the ‘sting’ at the Heritage Hotel. Rohelio had also received a text stating that a critical witness to their case was arriving today, so he was waiting for the call to pick her up.

Gabriel had his usual work: assigning junior reporters to cases of attacks on remote telecoms towers by the NPA (or copycat groups), gathering pictures of real estate for sale, planning where the adverts should go in tomorrow’s paper, and where to put the graduation announcements, and also the announcements made by people who believed that their midwife had misgendered them at birth (something that takes a special kind of short-sightedness).

So while Verity whizzed along the country roads and avoided the congestion on the Diversion Road, Don trundled the rest of the team back to Ormoc in his white multicab, which spent at least part of the journey being overtaken by buses.

Mayor Joy Abad had been Mayor for three years. She had succeeded her husband, Alejandro Abad, as Mayor, once his term had finished. Alejandro had been an actor – and a highly successful one – for decades in Tagalog dramas and movies. He had met his wife, then Joy Calinaw, while she was a former beauty queen who had climbed up the ranks from poverty using her good looks and charm, when they were hired to do a toothpaste advert together. They’d fallen in love instantly, got married, been the darlings of all the gossip columns, and then settled in the outskirts of Ormoc City, to which Alejandro took an instant liking as the slower pace contrasted sharply with the frenetic lifestyle he’d had in his native Manila.

However, Alejandro had been moved by the plight of his fellow, much poorer, Ormocañons, and so, with no little trepidation, seven years previously, he’d campaigned to be Mayor and won – quite convincingly too. When his term finished, his wife campaigned on a similar platform, and also won convincingly.

Now this man and his wife, with zero prior political experience between them, had jointly transformed the town of her birth. There were more police on the streets, which were also cleaner. Monopolies had been broken, allowing other big businesses to come to the city, and thrive. They were putting in new infrastructure, clamping down hard on people who abused the poor and doing everything they could to attract visitors and investment.

As Verity rounded the Rotunda and headed up the Palo Road towards the mountains, she had to admit: they had done a really good job. She was used to going after British politicians, with their slavish loyalty to political doctrine and their shameless pursuit of power. It was easy to get a headline from them. Often they wrote the headline themselves.

But the Abads?

This was going to be tough.

Although, she had done some research on them. There were a few flies in the ointment. And she wasn’t afraid to point them out.

Charlotte and Gloria were seated facing each other in the back of an ancient, yet heroically hardy, and beautifully painted, jeepney, for the thirty minute drive to Puertobello Port in Tudela. Charlotte had seen some of these colourful diesel vehicles in Cebu and Manila, but environmental issues meant that they were a dying breed. She'd never had the chance to ride one. Yet here she was, out in the sticks, bouncing along back streets, the wind playing with her hair, watching as bemused passers-by tried to flag them down, obviously not seeing the ‘Private Use Only’ signs painted on the side.

Although she was facing a scary situation that could potentially cost her freedom, Charlotte was living in the moment and, unexpectedly, was rather enjoying herself.

Alexei staggered to the elevator, and then to his room, feeling like he was about to pass out in a food coma. He unlocked his room, stumbled inside and collapsed on his bed. His ferry wasn’t until tonight. He could easily sleep some more.

But someone had other ideas.

His burner phone rang. He took the call. ‘Hello?’ he answered wearily.

‘We have a date.’ The voice of the man Roberta knew as ‘Sir Michael’ told him.

‘Good. Well, you and her have a good time.’ Alexei drawled.

‘For the job.’ Michael seethed through his teeth.

Alexei was marginally more awake now. ‘Okay. Shoot. Oh, sorry: you tell me and I’ll shoot.’ He chuckled.

‘Have you been drinking vodka?’ the disapproval was clear and strong in Michael’s voice.

‘That’s just about the only think they didn’t have at that breakfast buffet.’ Alexei told him.

‘Okay, Orlov, get it together!’ Michael snapped. “The date is tomorrow. The time is some time after the Parade of Lights, so likely in the evening.’

‘And where?’

‘We are still waiting on that information.’ Michael admitted.

‘Call me when you have something good. Or better still, in about three hours.’ Alexei drawled, as he ended the call, placed his phone on his bedside table, and went to sleep.

Verity had long left the oppressive heat of the city behind her. As she drove deeper and deeper into the mountains, she could feel the air becoming a few degrees cooler and, if she was not mistaken, a little wetter.

She soon reached the village of Dolores, hoping that somehow the skies would not open and the threatened deluge of rain would not come. Just outside Dolores lay a long concrete wall that seemed to be unending. Behind it was a villa perched wonderfully on a hill, with what she assumed would be stunning views of the surrounding countryside. Although she wouldn’t have to assume if she had seen the Tagalog film that had been shot there. Her mother had always encouraged her to watch it, to see the place of her ancestry on TV, but Verity hadn’t seen more than two minutes of it before she had become hopelessly bored and gone off to do other things.

It just wasn’t to her taste.

The gatehouse to access the large estate almost snuck up on her. The gate itself was large, made from wrought iron, and looked like it would withstand the attack of someone out to do them harm.

Or a crazed fan.

She slowed her motorbike, turned right and headed up to the gate house.

In the booth was an older man – she estimated around fifty – who wore a neat barong Tagalog shirt and dress trousers and shoes.

Verity was quite surprised. So formal for a security guard. Maybe she was under-dressed. She had clothing for the operation later on in her rucksack. Should she change? Would she have time to change? Would it be appropriate to dress like that to interview the Mayor?

Questions were flooding into her already quite nervous brain.

So she thought she’d start by removing her helmet and speaking to the guard. She set her bike on its kickstand, removed her helmet so she looked a bit less like a pizza delivery person in black, took off her biker’s gloves, threw them into her helmet and approached the guard’s booth.

She introduced herself. ‘I’m Verity Defensor, from the Island Times. I’m here to interview Mayor Joy Abad.’

The guard didn’t look at her. He thumbed lazily through what appeared to be an A4 sized notebook. Then he said, ‘Sorry, Ma’am. You’re not listed here. They are very busy with the Piña Festival being tomorrow. Maybe you could call their office and arrange it another time?’ he told her.

‘But my people spoke to her people... My editor Gabriel De La Cruz personally assured me this morning that this interview would happen this morning.’ She insisted.

The officious guard finally lifted his head and stared at her. ‘What can I say, Ma’am? They have not told me so I cannot let you in.’

Verity sighed. So much for her cover!

She headed back to her motorbike, feeling thoroughly defeated.

Suddenly, she could hear a crackle of radio from the guard booth. And a snappy, efficient-sounding reply of ‘Yes, sir!’ And then a buzz and a whirr as the great wrought iron gates were opened.

Was this for her?

She turned around. Down the hill from the house, two black SUVs with tinted windows were coming towards the gate. Closer and closer they loomed until they both passed through it and turned to the left, to head back towards the city. The gates closed behind them with a loud clunk.

That was that, then. No interview. Verity thought, resigning herself to the wasted journey.

Until she noticed that one of the SUVs had stopped. The kerb side back passenger window rolled down. A handsome man in his early fifties with a winsome smile and perfect teeth and hair popped his head out of the window. ‘Verity Defensor, is it?’ he called to her.

‘Yes, sir!’ she replied, suddenly, just like the guard.

‘We’re heading to Highlands Barbecue for an early lunch. Would you like to join us?’ the man said.

‘Yes, please, sir. I’ll be right behind you.’ She accepted, before revving her motorbike and following the SUVs down the hillside.

The window was quickly rolled up. ‘Single na siya? I’m not surprised. I don’t see her as a match for our son. I have a feeling she might be batting for the other team.’ The man’s wife whispered to him.

He smiled. He tended to agree, but said nothing.

A few minutes later, both the SUVs and the motorbike arrived in the car park of the beautifully traditional restaurant: with styled wooden floor, roof, chairs and tables, green plants and water features adding to the spectacular interior. The staff recognised their Mayor immediately, and quickly ushered her, her husband, and Verity, to an outer VIP area, curtained off from the public, while her staff, including her security detail (except for one lone guard) remained in the public area.

‘Well, this is very nice. Thank you for inviting me.’ Verity told them, even though she was still a little full from her breakfast at La Vista.

‘You’re welcome.’ Alejandro responded, gesturing to a highly attentive staff member, who pulled out a seat for her at the table.

‘It’s all a little crazy at the moment, at City Hall and at home.’ Mayor Joy told her as she sat down. ‘We just wanted to get away for a little while.’

‘I understand that completely.’ Verity told them.

‘Please accept our apologies for Juan. He is a little, you know, up tight, at times.’ Joy continued. ‘But is he very good at keeping us safe.’

‘Oh, the gate guard? No problem. He was just doing his job.’ Verity told them.

A waiter came very quickly to their table and took their drinks order. Pitchers of iced tea soon arrived, which Alejandro poured out for everyone.

Verity was quite astonished at these people. They had money, power, fame. About as much as it was possible for them to get. And yet they were nice people. Really, down-to-earth, nice people.

Maybe writing a ‘puff’ piece about them would not be so hard after all.

Joy got down to business. ‘So, your Editor wants you to interview us for the Piña Festival edition of your newspaper.’ She stated.

Verity nodded, just after taking a gulp of cool iced tea. ‘Yes, if that’s okay.’

Joy and Alejandro both nodded. ‘Of course. No problem at all.’

Verity got out her mobile phone, opened the sound recorder app and pressed record. ‘Okay, Ma’am Joy, Sir Alejandro...’ she began, using the typically respectful Filipino way of addressing your betters. ‘...tomorrow is the most important day of the Piña Festival here in Ormoc City. This festival was started under your reign over our city. Could you explain your thought process in founding this festival?’

Both Alejandro and Joy smiled. They liked this question.

Joy began the response. ‘Everyone from Ormoc knows that the Queen pineapple is the best in the world. I grew up eating them. Wherever I have travelled in the world, I have always missed them. And we have been to so many places in Europe or America, or even elsewhere in Asia, where they celebrate their local delicacies with a festival. We thought it was about time we did something for our local delicacy.’

Alejandro joined in. ‘If you look at the other big, better-known fiestas in our country, they bring in many, many thousands of visitors, which is a serious boost for the local economy. The thought we had was to use our social media presence to promote the produce from the city we love and to put on a spectacle for people to enjoy.’

Still squeaky clean, then. So far, no scandal.

Verity continued. ‘There is definitely an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation in the city, so I think you have succeeded. You have been in power between you for seven years. What would you say have been the main achievements of your reign?’

Again, a very comfortable question, but this time Alejandro led off. ‘Although we are a married couple, we are two different people, with different perspectives, so our achievements are a little different from each other. I would say my main achievements are encouraging inward investment, cleaning up the city and putting it on the map. I have to say that before I met Joy, I had not heard of Ormoc City. Honestly. But once I visited and moved here, I fell in love with the people: their warmth, their humour, their hospitality. I wanted to do something special for those people.’

Joy then chimed in. ‘I would say my main achievement is safety, particularly for women. There are more police on the streets. There is also a ten PM curfew, which has reduced crime. These make the city a safer place to live and work. I am particularly proud of that.’

So far, so easy. It almost felt like a bland political broadcast. Cheesier that an Italian cheese bank. Duller than a summer's day in Glasgow.

Something inside Verity told her she had to change this up slightly.

‘Would you say you have established a political dynasty?’ she asked.

They were less happy with that question. ‘No, no. I don’t think so.’ Alejandro objected.

‘We will only stay in power for as long as the people want us.’ Joy added.

‘But Filipino elections are often riddled with corruption and vote-buying. Do you think your vast financial resources give you an edge over other candidates?’ Varity probed.

Alejandro’s expression began to darken. He could smell the accusation coming. He would have none of it. ’Corruption in our elections is pointless. You can pay people as much as you want, but once they get into the voting booth, their actions are their own. We cannot control them.’

Joy was resolutely behind him. ‘We stand on our record and our record alone. We have consistently delivered on our promises and will continue to do so. If anyone sees or hears of vote-buying, which is illegal, they should report it to the authorities.’

Oh, they were good. But Verity was better. She had been watching ‘Question Time’. She was good at ambushing politicians. Her next question was a doozy.

‘One of your main promises was to bring commercial flights back to Ormoc Airport. You’ve designed and built an impressive terminal. Yet there are no commercial flights. Why is that?’ she probed hard.

This was not what the Abads expected or wanted. They both looked thoroughly disgruntled at the question. ‘I did all I could, and continue to do all I can, to bring commercial flights by carriers such as PAL, Cebu Pacific and AirAsia to our city. They have to take their commercial decisions, which I am disappointed by. But this doesn’t mean I am giving up.’ Alejandro frowned, really not happy at the way this was going.

‘So it’s not a private terminal for the Manila jet set to use for holidays in Leyte?’ Verity posed.

‘Absolutely not. No way.’ Alejandro fizzed.

‘I am not sure about this interview. This is not what we agreed with your Editor.’ a disquieted Joy pointed out.

‘Just one last question.’ Verity said, trying hard to get this out of the way. ‘A business associated with your main political opposition complained recently that they had been denied a business permit – they said abusively – for their chicken farm. What would you say to those who allege that you are using your power and position to quell opposition ahead of the next elections?’

That question tested their patience to the limit.

‘That... that’s too much.’ Joy stammered, clearly upset. ‘Our inspection team works at arms length from me. I do not control them. They reported welfare issues with the chickens they were keeping: their hen houses were too close together; the chickens did not have enough room. Now, I know that seems like nothing. It’s just chickens. But what about all the businesses that play fair, that do the right things, and make less profit as a result? Should people who do not obey the law be allowed to get away with it just because of the party they support? Of course not!’

Alejandro was equally as vociferous. ‘We have been clear to our supporters that they must be clean. We have to be fair. They have to comply. Other people must comply. If anyone breaks the rules, they can expect the same punishment.’

Joy’s face was reddening with anger. Her eyes were becoming hot with gathering tears. ‘We have never, ever abused our power. And we will not. Not ever. Not like the previous incumbents. There are no monopolies here in anyone’s favour. Those who accuse us of these things are just really sore losers.’

Noticing his wife was visibly becoming upset, Alejandro could take no more. ‘Miss Defensor, I appreciate that you have been born and raised in the United Kingdom, where the press is somewhat more intrusive and aggressive, but that is not how things work here in the Philippines. Here we have a culture of respect: we respect your freedom to do your job; you respect our freedom do to ours. When this respect is absent, then there are problems.’ he snarled.

‘It’s because people like you that people like us have to live behind guards and high fences and razor wire – like prisoners in our own home.’ Joy snapped, a scalding tear trickling down her cheek.

Verity could not believe what she was hearing. And she couldn’t accept Joy’s argument. Not one bit. If they were in a cage, it was thoroughly gilded, compared to the lives lived in poverty of many of the occupants of their, and other, Filipino cities. And there was something else: ‘Are you saying that the reason why the Philippines is a hundred and forty-seventh on the World Press Freedom Index, below Colombia, Venezuela and Ukraine, and why every year journalists are killed in this country, is because we are not being respectful?’ she seethed.

‘Of course not!’ Alejandro thundered. ‘And if you are going to twist my words like that, then I do not see how you can do your job honestly and ethically as a journalist. You need to go. Right now!’

‘But Mister Abad, sir!’ Verity pleaded.

‘Right now!’ Alejandro barked.

The burly security guard standing nearby came and stood behind Verity. Her time was up. She knew that. She stood up. She faced them. She wanted to say something in her defence. Nothing came out. The security guard moved her chair back for her to get out and glared at her. Verity took the unsubtle hint. She snatched at her phone, stopped the recording and stormed out the restaurant, attracting the attention of the other diners like iron filings to a magnet.

Alejandro reached out an arm and held his beloved wife close. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ He told her softly.

‘Do you see what I mean? Too aggressive. Lesbian for sure.’ Joy pointed out.

‘You may be right.’ Alejandro admitted.

Verity was shaking with disappointment, frustration and fury. She could not face the city right now. She needed to clear her head.

She needed to drive.

She sniffed back angry tears, slipped on her helmet and gloves, revved up her bike until it roared like a wild beast that would eat the road whole, and then drove. And drove. And drove. Deeper and deeper into the mountains. Behind the majesty of the guitar-shaped Lake Danao. Down to the one place that would help her clear her head and think things through.

Charlotte boarded the midday ferry and sat between Gloria and the sea, watching through the window as their fast craft sliced effortlessly through the deep.

An hour and a half and they would be there.

She should appreciate every second of the freedom she had.

She might not have it for long.

She shivered.

Gloria touched the back of her hand where it lay on the armrest. ‘The aircon here is pretty cold, no?’

Charlotte nodded.

But the aircon wasn’t the problem.

Alexei was bored of his hotel room. He needed to stretch his legs. But he didn’t want to go far. Neither did he want to battle the heat or the humidity for too long. The one place he could go, just for the fun of it, was the large shopping mall nearby: SM City Cebu. He got up from his bed, washed his face a little and headed out, dressed in a dark green t-shirt and khaki cargo trousers.

The heat and humidity hit him like a tidal wave as soon as he stepped through the hotel’s glass front door. The noise soon followed: the constant roar and growl of the traffic; the deafening symphony of car horns; the incessant chatter and laughter of people – even noisier than Russia or Ukraine could ever be.

Undeterred, he jumped into a taxi in front of his hotel, where the air con resembled a refrigerator, and let the taxi driver take him through the monstrously busy traffic to the mall.

He paid the driver, ducked out into the sauna-like conditions and trotted up the steps to the mall entrance.

An armed guard with a metal detector stood in his way. Alexei submitted to the search. ‘What do you have in here: the Crown Jewels?’ Alexei quipped sarcastically.

The guard did not respond. He just waved Alexei inside.

What he saw there quite knocked him for six. The noise. The lights. Everything.

Every store had some form of music playing. Every single one. And there was muzak playing in the mall walkways.

Every shop dazzled. Lights and brightly coloured displays were everywhere. He did not want to even imagine what this place would be like at Christmas.

Everywhere he went, people were chatting and joking and laughing at least twenty-five percent louder than he was used to.

Just as he stood there, dazed, longing for his senses to cope with the overload, he heard the tooting of a horn. He jumped forward, and a miniature train, packed with small children and selfie-taking parents cajoling them to look this way and smile – a train with a sound system that was playing nursery rhyme tunes on repeat – passed behind him.

Alexei quickly realised that this was not where people came for peace and quiet.

He wandered through the mall, paying passing interest to the dolled-up stores that stood on the side of the mall streets, silently asking him if he wanted to have a good time and naming their prices.

This was a glimpse into what Filipinos valued and sought after and saved to buy. And it was quite some insight.

Western and Asian brands clamoured for attention like spoiled children to workaholic parents. Offers for real estate tried to out-muscle locally farmed produce and charities for his money. Travel companies and couriers and book shops... This place had everything (except, and he really noticed this, toilet paper in the washrooms).

He though maybe he could get respite from the capitalist mayhem in the food court. But no: even that was a market place.

And the food choices were almost dizzying – like night and day compared to the dried food and tasteless, rotting vegetables the Russian army had fed even their most feared mercenary division.

He chose some local barbecued chicken and rice and sat down at a vacant table. All around him, the endless happy chatter of locals, and the drained looks of some of their older white companions (he assumed sugar daddies with their trophy wives) were deafening, seemingly echoing off the brightly painted walls.

This place really was a hyperactive assault to the senses.

He tucked into his food, knowing he could retreat at any time to the sanctuary of his hotel room since he had a late checkout. He had to admit, the food was delicious. Really tasty. Particularly for mall food.

Just as he was relishing his culinary prize, a Filipino man, small, podgy, and seemingly in his early twenties, stared at him hard from several metres away. ‘You!’ he shouted accusingly. ‘I know you. I’ve seen you!’

Alexei cast a disapproving glance at this attention-seeker. No. He could not recall him at all. He probably wanted money. He ignored him.

‘You. You are Russian. You were in Ukraine. Dnipro. I was there. Studying.’ the man volleyed.

Now Alexei was engaged. He looked hard at the man, fork and spoon in hand.

‘You have the wrong person, my friend.’ Alexei told him, before bowing his head once more, intending to finish his lunch in peace.

The man became hysterical. ‘No! No, I don’t. I remember. You burst into our dorm. You and your men. You killed my room-mate! He killed my room-mate.’ He pointed a shaking, accusing finger right Alexei. ‘And now you’re here! Why?’