It was night. The air was thick with the worn-out heat of the day. Sweat and humidity leered in one's nostrils, conjuring the feeling of exhaustion. Three children sat in a doorway, swatting lazily at flies. One picked at the scab on what was left of his arm. Just here, the scent of dry blood and death was suffocating. The lady in the red coat sped up.
She turned into a side alley, a glossy heal sinking into mud. A few steps on, the heal was immersed again, in something far more vile. It was so dark here, that she didn't see the man emerge until his arm reached out of the blackness and gripped her satin leg. With a strangled cry - one that sounded frightened to break the tense silence - she backed away from the toothless, wood-skinned man and fled from the alley.
The street proved little less disturbing. On a corner up ahead, two women lurked in shadow, smoking. The vile grey gas crept up through the air, twining into striking peroxide curls. These women wore red, too, though far less classily. Their brazen outfits provoked an inadvertent noise of distaste from the lady in the red coat. The disgraceful words that followed her up the street shattered the silence, piercing the tension like a shard of ice cold glass. Even after the sound had died out, the air felt far more uneasy.
The lady in the red coat continued down the street, climbing over a boy with no legs, who lay in a pile of mouldy rags. The boy's sister leapt out of the shadows to snap the neck of a rat who was chewing at his thighs. Even the rat made no noise as it died. The sound of the lady's heals was beginning to unnerve her.
The lady in the red coat stopped at the end of the street. She leant against the rotting brickwork of a block of flats, hastily lighting a cigarette. With a toss of rich autumn curls, she checked her lipstick in a compact mirror, and then fished out the scrap of paper. The directions scrawled across it had seemed far less intricate that morning, over a coffee in a class A lounge.
But here was Marius' St. and down that next turning must be St Maria St. ? 603.
She found it quickly. It was the third house down and under the only street lamp she had seen since leaving New York.
The lady in the red coat knocked firmly on the door - a business women's knock - but the voice that spoke when she saw the man at the door was that of a child. "Papa?"

The man was so bent that the lady swore she could see an invisible weight strapped across his shoulders. His skin was pale, and the hand that rested on the door frame looked like death itself: thin and frail and ghostly white. She felt reluctant to move out of the warm amber light towards this stranger; as reluctant as she had been to step off the bus into the dark, silent streets. Then the old man shuffled forward a little, squinting out at her, and she saw his eyes, full of light and life. His soul shone out through them, still undefeated, as her hero had been when he held her on his shoulders all those years ago. "Melanie?" his voice was barely more than a whisper, filled with the pain and suffering that had been forced upon this weakened man over the years. Love flooded through her, and Melanie, the lady in the red coat, threw her arms gently around her father. For a moment, she was just a child being swept up in the arms of her hero.

Michael was throwing his daughter up above his head, spinning her around and around in the water. All he was aware of were the glittering drops of water whooshing around his head, and the high yellow sun casting a halo of light around Melanie's head. She was so beautiful, five years old with pretty elfin features and long curly auburn hair; it was obvious she would grow into a strong confident beauty like her mother. Michael's wife had been so amazing, so sure of everything. He'd felt so safe with her; knowing that she'd take care of him for the rest of his life. Perhaps that was why she'd left him, deep down maybe she'd really needed someone to take care of her. Melanie had been devastated when her mother had gone. You can't expect a child to understand that sort of thing, Michael told himself. At least she was fine now. Shiva had no idea what she was missing; she was sat in America somewhere enjoying a dull life with no Melanie. She'd never hear her daughter's laughter tinkling like the gutter water outside the house. She would never feel the beautiful little girl's arms hugging her so lovingly. Michael would have all that to himself. Melanie squealed as her father swept her back through the blast of water. The other children playing in the fire hydrant laughed, the older ones grabbing their brothers and throwing them into the jet in imitation. Life is perfect, thought Michael. Perfect: just him and Melanie. And it was perfect, right then. The water soared around them and the sun smiled down upon them and things were perfect.

Things felt a lot less perfect now. Melanie shuffled into the filthy corridor, her step so much transformed from the confident, brisk walk she had displayed into the street, and shuddered as the door was closed behind her and she was enclosed by darkness with this stranger that was her father. From her New York apartment, her plan of the meeting had seemed so smooth, and filled her with confidence, but the unexpected flood of long pent-up emotions had overwhelmed her, and things were not progressing as they should. She shut her eyes, trying to force down the images that were unwinding in her mind, and conjured up the ambience of 'classy-business- women' she was now so used to projecting. After a moment's silence, in which Melanie felt she regained her serene exterior, despite her inner thoughts remaining such a tangled mess, she the young lady turned to her father and addressed him coolly. "Michael," She began in the mock-sincere business-like fashion that seemed to come with the territory of New York life. "Is there a light?" A thread of shock registered in the old man's face. The brilliant flash of hope that had filled his eyes with his previous youthfulness subsided, as the flame of a candle dies when it is cut off from oxygen. It was better to do it this way, thought Melanie, better to starve him of hope immediately, that their meeting might be run through and finished with all the profession she had hoped for. It was how she would treat a client being cut loose for the plain lack of profit; she would extinguish hope from the start, and avoid the nastiness of a dragged out meeting with beat-about-the- bush explanations and sorrow filled apologies that might leave the client in hopes that there was a chance to be taken back on in the future. Michael mumbled cautiously about the corridor light being broken, and motioned for Melanie to follow him into the shabby living room (if it might be called that, for by Melanie's standards there was scarcely room for a family of mice to live), which was lit by a flickering orange flame leaping about in a glass lantern. Melanie rolled her eyes at her father's back; the absence of electricity was disgusting to her. However, when he turned to face her and motioned helplessly at the only chair, she smiled a lipstick- coated smile of falseness and said, in tones of insincere pleasure that "this is much better." The chair was covered in numerous doubtful items, which Melanie pushed unceremoniously to the damp floor, and there appeared to be traces of - could it be? - mould at the back. When she sat down, Melanie perched vigilantly on the very front of the chair, thus avoiding both the risk of bad hygiene, and that of appearing to be settling comfortably. This was to be as brief an encounter as she could make it. "I trust you understand why I'm here?" she began after a deep, steadying breath, and if she sounded a little tentative she put it down to the shock of the unexpected squalor she had found herself in. "I must confess, I was ever so worried I wouldn't find you here at all. After all, you've not been returning any of my lawyer's letters, and when I spoke to your landlord on the telephone this morning, he informed me that your rent was fifteen weeks overdue, and that you are facing eviction. I'd rather fancied you might have left the country, but I hold sound convictions that no one - even finding themselves in a country such as this - no one in their right frame of mind could possibly take such foolish actions when facing such imminent troubles with the law." She supplied the last two words with such impression that Michael felt sure they were supposed to convey her disdain at his 'troubles' with the law, and they did so most effectively. He lowered his head to gaze at the floor, studying intently a particular stain in the wood, a pale red hue which was the permanent reminder of the candle wax Melanie had spilled there on her thirteenth birthday, when she and her father had argued over her intentions to leave Brazil. His medical practice here had been so important to him, more important even than his wife, and then his daughter. Melanie was still disgusted at the selfishness of him; doing so much for the poor without the slightest care for the well- being of his own family. Even when he had eventually consented to her travelling moving to a boarding school in America, he would never take time out from his work to come and visit her, he had always been more interested in the affairs of this foul community than in her own achievements. Melanie banished the memories, though one eye twitched as if it had momentarily felt the prick of a tear, and fixed her stare upon her father's greying hair - or what was left of it. Eventually, he conceded, and lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Melanie, I did not intend to ignore your lawyer. I have had rather a lot else on my mind. As for my rent, the landlord and I have some agreement, and I'd appreciate you not giving me a lecture on the importance of obeying the law." He spoke with distinction obviously summoned from age-old memory to match hers equally. However, there was a sigh, and an intangible wistfulness to his speech that portrayed far more than manners; his sorrows, his shattered hopes, his loneliness. Melanie was, as a rule, not very understanding of human emotion - for emotion only weakens when it is allowed to rule - but she was very apt to read it in the voice of another. She was agitated by his seeming miserable; he only wanted to raise her compassion, which would weaken her. It was cruel of him to play on her sympathies. But she would not be beaten like that: he may be her father, but he was tarnishing her name, and she would stop him, even if she had to seek legal action. She determined to tell him so. "Well, I am here now, so we may discuss the problem in person, but quickly, because I have a plane to catch in the morning." "Melanie?" his voice was plaintive, wounded, and almost desperate. She ignored the plea, and continued. "This book you have written - I presume you realise the mistake you made in giving away your profit to the community - uses my name, my full name, my entire identity, in vain. My lawyer has provided the document he sent you repeatedly following it's publish, it clearly states that according to the law you must acquire written permission from me before publication of any document employing my identity. As you most certainly did not, I am entitled to sue, and believe me, my lawyer would most certainly get me a great deal of money." She spoke coldly, and decidedly, threatening any argument that might be forming in Michael's mind. "Melanie, please." He was begging openly now. He stood in the middle of the cold, damp room, thrown half into shadow by the dancing light, surrounded by filth and mess. The crumbling wall plaster seemed to reflect his person; he was a ruin, a shadow of the man he used to be. He could not be her hero anymore: she could never hold any respect for a man who begged so openly for human warmth. But then his manner changed entirely once more. He seemed to try a different angle. His tone still slightly begging, he said softly, "For god's sake Melanie, I've not heard from you in fifteen years and now you show up for this. Can't we just - just - talk? You know, catch up? I'm your father, Melanie." Perhaps Melanie would have usually said no, she certainly felt obliged to now, but some deep, lonely chord was struck in her. An ancient, long-buried longing for family threw a little softness into her. "Certainly, I have perhaps five minutes to spare for talk. But then I want this matter cleared up, and I want to leave." He saw that it was the best he might do, and surrendered: "Five minutes to spare for your poor old father after so long an absence. Fine, but only because I'm so desperate to hear from you that any time at all is better than no time." He paused, and they sat in silence for about a minute, before he began again bravely "How is your career? And have you found a good husband?" "My career is excellent. I am the chief executive of a top New York company that funds, accounts, and backs many companies in New York. As to the husband, the answer is a no; I have not been looking and do not intend to. I have seen marriage only at its worst from an early age, there is no desire for it in me. My career is all that matters to me." Michael had feared as much. He had sensed it long ago, in her letters from New York; she would be a career woman all her life. One day she might wake up alone and realise what a mistake she had made, and he hoped it would not be too late then, for he never wished to think of her as being alone. They talked in much the same manner for much longer than five minutes; Michael asking questions about the life she had cut him out of, and Melanie answering them pertly. But soon he began to feel they had made progress, and the conversation took on a different tone, following up memories of her old life, sighing fondly over stories of the past that they each partook in telling. After a good hour and a half, Michael found himself bringing the reminiscences to an end, asking "did you ever read my book?" Melanie replied guiltily that no, she hadn't, but she had read extracts of the parts that concerned her. The parts that she felt were most dangerous to her identity. They each felt the sting of those words, the painful realisation of 'why she was here' crept back into both of them and they squirmed uncomfortably. "About that -" she began to add, at the same time as Michael started to say "I'll retract it. I'll change the name." "No need to. Really." Melanie smiled at him a little fearfully, but his return secured her submission. Seeing him smile again just brought everything flooding back to her, all the regrets and all the love, and she felt increasingly uncomfortable about what it was that had brought them together again. Catching sight of the clock, she rose in sudden alarm, wrenched from the happy moment with urgency. "It's so late; I have to get back to the city before five am." She said hurriedly. Pulling her red coat back on, she hurried to the door, where she hugged her father goodbye and said "I love you so much. And I'm so sorry - for everything. Now I have to get back to New York, but maybe I could write to you more often from now on. Maybe you could come visit me there?" And with repeated promises to write and call and visit, she stumbled out of the door, and continued to whisper "I love you" for several moments after the door had swung shut between her hero and herself, little aware that on the other side, a much happier and less bent old man was doing the same. Melanie danced the journey through the network of alleyways to the bus stop. Her high heeled shoes kicked puddle water into the air, and her long red coat flapped around her. This time, she didn't notice the stench or the squalor, but her heart went out to the poor souls in it. They saw the lady in the red coat dance past, and step into the inviting yellow light of a bus, and then she was gone. But the lady in the red coat was not forgotten, not by one man. Though he had meant a lot to his community, and it to him, it was with total happiness and lightness of heart that he handed his last pay check to his predecessor and embarked upon his retirement in New York.