I grope along the asphalt and then I beg the young man, who is staring at me in disbelief, to take off my wristwatch and hold it up in front of my eyes. I want to see my final hour. I want to know the time of my death at the end of this gray day.

Without Eddie, all color has seeped out of life, its very pulse has gone, as if that final bright October day has been followed by one very long, gray day. I spent that long, gray day looking for what was real. Many times the world has seemed shaky, as if it were flickering and behind the flickering there were something else. Mind you, that might have been caused by alcohol.

When I was in London without a new assignment to rescue me, I felt as if I were in a great urban cage. I drank too much and if on those hazy nights I met a woman who suggested, either forthrightly or subtly, that I might spend a night with her to recover, I didn’t take up her offer. What was I supposed to do when I kissed her, embraced her, undressed her? If she wanted me to watch her? Me, a man who never manages to hold on to what he loves.

I was always roaming, continually inebriated to dull the pain, but not drunk enough to be able to sleep at last without being plagued by dreams. And then, as I reached a stretch of road where some of the streetlights were broken, Carl was waiting for me in the dark.

“Hey, mate, I need help, you know,” he said. “Name’s Carl. What’s yours?”

“Henri.”

“I’ve got two kids, see, but me wife tells me she don’t wanna see me shooting up no more, so I’m out on the street. Can you help me out?”

I realized that this wasn’t some uplifting message or a plea for a place in rehab. I gave him all the money I had.

“Ain’t you got no mobile, mate?”

I gave him my mobile.

“Shit, it’s fucking ancient.” He threw my Motorola Razr into the bushes. He really did look like a stressed-out father of two, but in the dull glow of night his face had twisted into a junkie’s.

“I sniff, I do pills. I’ll take anything that’ll get me high. What’s the time, by the way?” he asked slyly.

I glanced at my watch. “Just before three.”

“Gimme yer watch!”

“We can go to a cash machine instead.”

“Forget it. Too many people.” He scratched himself. His eyes were red. “Go on, gimme yer watch. Now!”

“There are derivatives now that ease the withdrawal symptoms and—”

“Shut up and gimme that watch!”

“No. It was my father’s.”

“So what? Did he croak or something? Gimme the fucking watch or I’ll chop yer arm off!”