It was a voice like Albert had never heard, rich and musical, every syllable meant for him and him alone, reaching out to him, the words caressing him gently, whispering in his ear, soothingly wrapping themselves softly around him, their golden glow providing a protective shield around him that nothing could ever break through. In that moment he knew that his troubles were at an end—no matter how deep or terrible—that it was all over, melted away in the warm glow of the voice that had all the answers. And the beautiful part, the simple, beautiful, beautiful part was that all he needed to do was to follow it where it took him. He laughed delightedly, feeling an all-encompassing tranquillity—the sort that came from knowing that a power higher than himself was personally looking after him and nothing could touch his spirit or soul ever again. He had never experienced a feeling like this before. All he needed to do was tell his troubles to the voice, hand his life over to it, and then he would be free. The voice would take care of him, of everything.

He looked around. Every single person in the crowd was staring at the stage, mouth agape, faces fixed in looks of unshakeable adoration. They were mesmerized. He turned back to the stage where Vail was still speaking, each word a universe of mellifluous wisdom. With difficulty, he forced himself to focus on the words, what they were saying.

‘They tell us we do not understand, that we do not know the whole story. But we know enough stories. For instance, there is the story of a little girl called Rita who, just last evening, put on her favourite silver earrings—her only earrings—and went outside to play. Next week, Rita would have been nine. Hers is a poor home; they don’t have much, but they prepared for the day as best they could. Her mother made her a dress, her father fashioned shoes. Together, these poor people worked and slaved and put together enough food to invite a few of Rita’s friends over to celebrate the occasion. But her friends will not come over next week, and there will be no occasion. Because last evening, Rita was struck down where she played outside her home, left to die while her parents worked to make a special day for her. And why? For five minutes.’

He stopped to hold up five fingers to the crowd. Albert stood motionless, feeling the lump in his throat, and the slow, rising anger in his belly. Around him people were standing with their fists clenched, their faces twisted with rage.

The voice went on. ‘Five minutes. Because a five-minute high is what Rita’s silver earrings fetched. Five minutes of bliss for some deluded person who did not know or care what they were doing. And because someone needed to gain those five minutes, Rita had to lose her life.’