A taster or a teaser ... call it what you will.

The clinic, set in a fenced compound, was comprised of four white-washed mud and stone buildings and the most basic of medical equipment. Day after day the ill and the maimed queued with infinite patience to see Father Michael, firm in the belief he would cure their ailments. Nina marvelled at his ability to communicate with his patients in their own language, smiling when cantankerous old men berated him with shaking fists, soothing fractious, snotty-nosed babies and advising anxious mothers. She helped him dispense his meagre supply of pills and potions, cleaned suppurating sores and bandaged wicked wounds. Initially all the blood and pus made her want to throw up and she had to force herself not to gag when faced with open wounds crawling with maggots which he assured her were a cheaper, albeit revolting alternative, to antibiotics. But, after a couple of days she became a pro at removing embedded stones from puffy, angry-red flesh and even managed to sew up several gashes with stitches the nuns at the convent school in Ascot would have been proud of. ‘How do these people cope when you aren't here?’ she asked one evening, over a simple meal of rice and dhal. ‘Jaishree and Sushila – the two women who were helping out today – do the honours. They've learned a lot from Sister Angela over the last couple of years and are pretty competent unless there's an emergency.’ ‘What happens then? What if they’re faced with a situation that’s beyond their capabilities?’ Michael pushed aside his tin plate and lit a cigarette. ‘They do what they can, Nina. If they can't cope, the patients die. It's as simple as that. Out here in the boonies the sick rely on Jaishree and Sushila and God ... when he can tear Himself away from the Vatican.’