The street ahead was lined with embassies. Enormous flags—Norah recognised Brazil and Turkey—hung from the facades, billowing in the night like the sails of a ghost ship in a storm. To Norah’s left was a high wall, the rendering crumbling in places and daubed with inexpert graffiti. She wondered what was behind it. A private garden? A park? Something made her stop. Bare trees stretched to the sky on the other side of the wall. The road and pavements were deserted. Life had gone out like a lamp, people were in their beds, sleeping like the dead, but Norah had a feeling that someone was there, very close. She looked about her. There was no one in front of her or behind her, no one on the other side of the road, no one at any of the windows. It was quite quiet. But then it hadn’t been a sound that had startled Norah; it had been a smell, at once exotic and familiar, sickly sweet. She wasn’t imagining things—she was sure she wasn’t. As if in slow motion, she turned to face the wall. Someone was there, silent and unmoving, on the other side. Someone was standing very still, holding their breath, like Norah.

A car sped past, and Norah wheeled round just in time to see a taxi disappearing out of sight. Fuck. She returned to staring at the rough rendering of the wall, as if she didn’t dare turn her back on whoever was on the other side. She stood and listened for a long time. No, there was no one there. Who knew where the smell had come from. But as Norah was about to go on her way, she heard a noise behind the wall.

Gravel. The crunch of footsteps on gravel. There must be a path or drive on the other side. Norah’s heart was pounding. Whoever had been lurking there was walking away with slow, deliberate steps. The crunch of gravel grew softer and softer. Before long there was only a faint smell of pipe tobacco hanging in the air.

9

Even before she opened her eyes, Norah knew she wasn’t alone; there was heavy breathing coming from the other side of the bed. She almost groaned out loud when it came back to her—the bar, the gin and tonics, the man. She girded herself to have a look. He was lying with his back to her, a broad swimmer’s back, tanned skin; he must have been somewhere exotic—or in the solarium. His hair was light brown. She had no recollection of his face.

Norah’s mouth tasted as if she’d been gagged with an old cleaning rag for several hours, and she knew her head would start aching if she so much as stirred. She sat up and felt the hangover kick in. She had a drink from a bottle of water next to the bed, got up, threw on an old T-shirt and staggered into the bathroom. There was a used condom in the toilet bowl. That was something. Norah flushed the chain, went into the kitchen and made two cups of coffee.