Bag ladies.

On countless occasions, Ava Blair had observed them. Well, she had seen them... or was, at least, aware of their presence. Homeless, wretched, lost and alone, begging, rummaging in the garbage, sleeping in cardboard boxes and doorways. Ubiquitous in New York City; in any large metropolis for that matter. The previous seventy-two hours would ensure for evermore that Ava would regard these other-worldly 'creatures' from a decidedly different perspective.

Scrounging for food, sleeping in Aden's filthy alleyways, evading assaults... this had been Ava's unimaginable ordeal for the past three days. She had acquired a truckload of empathy and a measure of respect for the street people who endured lives of this existence with no hope of escape.

Ava's immediate hope was to score some supper; a relentless, gnawing ache was tormenting her gut.

Afternoon tea, served al fresco on the terrace of the posh Gold Mohur Hotel was drawing to a close. A few guests lingered but they were couples huddled together, oblivious to all else, talking in low whispers as the sun began to expand and darken in preparation for its descent into the Gulf of Aden.

Ava spotted two of the kitchen staff at a corner table, their feet up, enjoying a cigarette before they cleared the remaining tables. In the distance she could hear the muezzins had commenced their fourth adham, call to prayer, of the day.

Nobody paid Ava any attention whatsoever –just another fully-robed, poor Yemeni woman minding her own business. Funny, she reflected, not many days ago I was here with the Inspector of Police enjoying tea and sunset. Later that day she had splurged, signing up for the Full Monty treatment at the hotel's spa facilities: waxed, shellacked, massaged, Brazilian, French, Swedish... they'd taken her body round the world. Hmph, Ava thought, I'm in a whole different world now... a world of shit!

She meandered aimlessly about the patio, ostensibly enjoying the sunset view, occasionally lingering beside an abandoned table.

Presently, Ava ambled down to the deserted beach and headed for the stand of palms that border the south end of the hotel's property. When she walked by the beach volleyball court a pang of auld lang syne plucked at her heart, but she trudged on stoically. She hazarded a glance back, detected nobody observing her. She darted into the trees and crouched down, making certain she was out of sight, settled in.

Ava retrieved from the sleeves of her abaya: half a bottle of water, a barely-touched mackerel fillet, a dinner roll, and a completely intact lobster tail. Eldorado! A veritable feast! And Ava was in dire need. She had logged several miles on her little red gypsy shoes in the past three days with meager sustenance. She removed her niqab, spread it before her and laid out her picnic.

Hiding in plain sight had proved to be a simple matter. With her traditional robes, Ava was but one out of hundreds of indistinguishable Yemeni women. In Aden, the robes were not mandatory dress by any means, but they were common enough to serve Ava's purpose quite well. On a couple of occasions she'd spotted Inspector Guma cruising her haunts, but he'd failed to notice her... not a second glance.

The tough part was scrounging for food and water, keeping on the move, making sure she remained inconspicuous, and finding a safe place to sleep during the interminable nights.

But at best this was nothing more than basic survival mode. Her situation seemed preposterous. In a B-movie it would turn out to be some cheesy dream sequence. But this was no dream. And Ava had to accept the cruel reality of it. Because, as incredible as it was, it was her reality, and she knew that she needed to formulate a viable plan to exit the nightmare. She needed to somehow establish a secure base of operations, get some money or at least ready access to food and water. Then she could go after the schmucks who'd framed her, prove her innocence, nail the bastards who'd murdered Zalmay. And the ultimate goal: Score the blockbuster scoop!

Terrific plan. But while she dined on strangers' leftovers with grimy fingers, and flies buzzing round her head, Ava wrestled in her mind with each obstacle she faced, and short of divine intervention she couldn't conceive any possibility of overcoming even one of them. It left her dejected and fatigued. She was beginning to believe this Yemen adventure may prove to be the most bone-headed blunder of her entire life.

Following her meal, Ava replaced her niqab and settled back for a nap. Died.

But in short order, her sub-conscious mind delivered up the horror of the Blue Heron Hotel: Zalmay's mutilated corpse, dark sticky blood, flies, and bed bugs!

Ava awoke with a start and a shriek, scratching and slapping convulsively at her arms and neck. She stopped and looked around. The sun had disappeared, swapped for the moon. It was yet low on the horizon, large and tangerine; everything was awash in its warm blush. She calmed somewhat, but wondered how long the Zalmay images would remain etched on her retinas.

Ava pushed up her sleeves to confirm that she was not infested. Nonetheless, she was itchy all over. She had used the public restroom at the Crater Mall a couple of times to rinse out her underwear, changing in a stall in an effort to remain discreet as possible. But any manner of bathing had been out of the question... she couldn't risk drawing attention to herself. The damp-underwear routine had grown old fast; she had ditched the bra and panties. But now her entire body was becoming too uncomfortable. Maybe she couldn't immediately resolve any of the big issues, but she was determined to rid herself of the creepy-crawlies at least.

Seawater is not optimum for bathing but Ava reckoned it was better than nothing. She knew that further south, directly round the point, lay Conquest Bay. It was a favorite with the back-packer set because it was secluded. She figured at this time of night she'd have it all to herself.

She located a garbage can, ditched the remains of her meal and then hiked the short distance over the volcanic-rock outcrop round to the bay.

A wall of warm, south-east, Gulf wind greeted Ava as she crested the hillock.

Before her, completely deserted, and putting postcard renditions to shame, lay Conquest Bay: A  welcoming crescent beach. The moon had climbed higher in the clear night sky; the ocean was quicksilver. She skipped down to the shore, her robes, in the breeze, pressed against her body.

Ava stepped out of her ballet flats. She removed her niqab and pulled her abaya over her head, tossed them aside, and as they floated to the ground, she dashed into the waves, prancing high-legged through the first couple and then plunging headlong into the base of a large one.

She stayed beneath the surface and was astonished by her own strength as she fairly accelerated through the water. It was gloriously refreshing and she felt the pasty smear flushing away from her skin. She surfaced and practiced each of the strokes she knew and then she flipped under water again, diving deep.

When she resurfaced, she was struck by the contrast. The mercurial waters had taken on a dark oily appearance, ominous; the pounding of the breaking surf was now distant, muted. As each swell rolled beneath her, Ava was left in the black and silence of a deep trough, only to be lifted high again on the next wave. Cradled on a peak, she could spot her clothing on the beach. But each time it seemed farther away, until it was swallowed by the dark and distance. The tide, or current, or whatever, she realized, was dragging her out! Heebie-jeebies supplanted the creepy-crawlies. Ava shivered and decided she'd had enough swimming. With swift deliberate strokes she headed in.

After a minute, Ava stole a glance toward the beach. Her advance had been meager.

She sucked up a dollop of determination, put her head down and struck forward once again. Her strokes were long, strong, powerful. She drove ahead inexorably. This Bag Lady could swim!

Uttering a "geesus" of relief and effort, Ava at last found herself amidst the inner surf. She rode a wave the final thirty yards up onto the beach.

When she stood upright the relief shriveled... to be replaced by paralyzing fright.