She sounded Eastern European, maybe Scandinavian. Neither of the drinks on their table was finished; the trip to the bar seemed premature.

‘Long year.’ I smiled and extended a hand. ‘Christopher.’

‘Anna.’

‘Where are you girls off to tonight?’ I asked. She named a club a mile or so away. I tried to imagine what route would bring them via the Queen’s Arms. It was a down-at-heel start to the night.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked.

I bought them drinks, joined them. The friend, Inga, was taller and quieter. They were art students, apparently. They had just started at St Martins. I spoke at length about art auctions, private galleries, offered to guide them around London. My persona of the last twelve months was a bon vivant, a war profiteer at ease with his demons. It was a relief to resurrect him briefly.

‘Do you both have student ID?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Anna said.

‘You know the government’s trying to persuade universities to put nationalities on a hologram. And then, if your visa expires, you won’t be able to get back in.’

‘What?’

‘Take a look.’

Anna took the purse from her bag and clicked it open. It was thick with cards. She removed a student ID from among them.

‘Where?’

‘Can I see?’ I took it from her and memorised the name and the ID number. ‘Maybe they haven’t yet. Should be the same technology on the bank card.’ I pointed at her open wallet. She slipped a bank card out. Same name: Ms A. Nailand. Bank account at Rietuma Banka in Latvia.

‘You know a lot,’ she said.

‘I’m just paranoid about the government.’

Maybe they were real. I took a mental step back; a pause for reflection. Loss of faith in reality was one of the first signs of psychosis. And of being in the game too long. The laugher and his crew moved off, the girls remained. If this was something, they knew where to find me. Tailed from the airport? Picked up at the hotel? That would be concerning. If it wasn’t anything then I needed to wind down and shake off the tension of the last few months before I made a fool of myself.

After twenty minutes I’d probed as much as I could without appearing excessively suspicious. I checked my watch.

‘I’ve got to run.’ I focused in on Anna. ‘I know a few gallery openings next week. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming along, would you?’

‘Sure,’ Anna said, too readily. I took her number.

‘And can I take a photo of us all?’ I said. ‘Something to make my friends jealous?’

I checked them out online when I got back to the suite. Anna Nailand, Latvian art student, appeared across a few social media sites. So did Inga. How much social media do you need to be real? It was a question I’d spent more time contemplating than was healthy.