Invisible Armies by Jon Evans

glare from those next in line, a half-dozen Overseas Indians clutching British passports. The older policeman has a brief Hindi conversation with the sour-faced woman behind the counter, whose wrinkled face is adorned with a bright red dot on her forehead. Then he turns to Danielle. "Tickets, passports, and receipt."
    Danielle blinks, then turns to Laurent. "The receipt."
    Laurent looks at her.
    "For Christ's sake, Johnny, the train's leaving soon," she says impatiently. "Give me the goddamn receipt."
    "I," Laurent nods, "just a moment, yes, of course, I have it here somewhere." He unslings his backpack again and begins to search through it. "It's in the inner pocket here, I'm sure of it." He rummages and his face falls convincingly. "Maybe the outer pocket." But the outer pocket is empty. "Honey," he says, "I don't know where it went."
    "You don't know where it is? You lost the fucking receipt? " Danielle allows her voice to ascend into a screech; easy to do, with her gut churning with anxiety. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
    "Now, honey, calm down," Laurent says faintly, "it'll be okay."
    "I don't care," Danielle says, turning to the policeman. "You must have hired one of your pickpockets to steal it. We know you're all corrupt. We know you people have your little tricks. But not this time. I want our first-class tickets, and I want them right now, do you understand?"
    "Ma'am," the older policeman says stiffly, no longer concealing the anger in his voice, "if you have no receipt, then you have no case, and I will thank you not to abuse my colleagues and myself in this manner any further."
    "Who's your supervisor? I demand to speak to your supervisor!"
    "Ma'am, you have no receipt. There is nothing we can do for you. I must ask you to leave immediately and stop causing a disturbance."
    "How dare you –"
    "Immediately," the policeman stresses, steel in his voice.
    "Honey," Laurent says, taking her shoulder, "we have to go. The train is leaving. We can't be late. We'll miss the flight."
    Danielle looks at him, then at the stony, contemptuous expressions on the two officers, the woman behind the window, and those whose queue they have hijacked. "You haven't heard the last of this," she warns. "I will be writing a very strongly worded letter to the Minister of Railways!"
    "Come on," Laurent says, pulling at her.
    She shrugs him off. "Get your hands off me!"
   Head high, she storms out of the ticket office, followed by Laurent. He falls into step beside her as they climb the stairs that lead up to the platform. They board the train without looking at each other. It starts moving before they even make it to their berths. They sit down on the benchlike bottom berth, opposite a white backpacker couple in their early twenties, exchange a look, and then both of them dissolve into slightly hysterical laughter. Their berthmates look on with puzzled expressions.

* * *

    Danielle lies in Laurent's arms, soothed by the the hum and gentle rocking of the train. She slips her hand under his shirt, runs it gently along his scabbed movie-star muscles, and holds it to his heart, feels it beating slowly beneath her palm. She is grateful for his warmth. Indian Railways always turns the temperature in their air-conditioned compartments down to arctic, and this is especially evident on the top bunk, immediately below the air vents, to which they have retreated for the sake of privacy. On the other side of their berth, on the lowest of the triple-tiered bunks, the young British couple sit and read their Lonely Planet guide. Indian Railways also tends to clump foreign travellers together.
    "Back at the station, that was incredible," Laurent says. "I truly thought we were finished. How did you think of doing that?"
    Danielle basks in his praise. "Just reflex. Law school, years of getting hassled by cops, dealing with lowlife druggie