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newcomer to Lausanne, monsieur.’
    He thought about it for five.
    ‘I suppose I am.’
    ‘You must take time to visit the cathedral.’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘In the old city.’
    He stared at her, wondering about the weirdness of a half-naked woman in a strip club telling him he should see a bloody cathedral.
    ‘I’ll try and fit it in.’
    The bartender gave it another ten seconds.
    ‘Is there anything else I can offer you, monsieur?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I could ask one of our lovely dancers to join you for conversation, if you wish.’
    ‘Conversation?’
    She tapped a small notice on the bar: ‘ Merci de vous souvenir de GG’s: vous pouvez regarder mais pas toucher ’, You may look, but not touch.
    He looked at her, wondering what one says to a half-naked woman.
    ‘Actually, I’m waiting for someone.’
    She opened her arms. Her breasts perked up under the silk. They were perfect.
    ‘I’m someone, monsieur. A very nice someone for you to talk to.’
    ‘The someone I’m looking for is a man.’
    She leaned over the bar, smiled somewhere between coy and coquette.
    ‘Then, monsieur, you are in the wrong place.’
    He looked in the mirror above the bar. Portrait of a thirty-something chap in a tweed sports jacket and loose-fitting tie, propped at the bar of a strip club in Lausanne. Like being there and not there at the same time. His eyes fell from the mirror.
    ‘Funny you should say that, mademoiselle.’
    He finished the drink, set the glass on the bar.
    ‘You will have another drink while you wait?’
    ‘There comes a time in the tide of human emotions.’
    ‘ Excusez-moi? ’
    ‘I’d love another drink.’
    He smoked, waited for the refill. Up in the spotlight, a caramel-coloured woman with long dark hair took the stage. She wore a gold sari that glimmered in the spotlight. She pulled it from her shoulder and it slid from her body like something liquid. She held it in front of her as the spotlight dimmed and blue backlight swelled, casting her naked form against the cloth. He watched the sari rise slowly to the woman’s eyes, watching her watch him. Inviting him to talk about the sensation of desire, maybe. He turned back to the bar, saw himself in the mirror again. Portrait of a thirty-something chap who couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a thing. The bartender was back with his drink.
    ‘I hope you enjoy it, monsieur.’
    ‘If it’s anything like that last one, I’m sure I will.’
    He stamped his smoke in the ashtray, scanned the tables again. The man from the photograph still nowhere to be seen. Strange place for a meet, but it was the place the man wanted. Someplace safe, someplace they couldn’t be overheard. Too dangerous, time running out, must give you something. Sounded desperate, crazed even.
    He sipped his drink.
    An even heavier blast of vodka.
    Shaping up to be a rough night.
    Standard operating procedure since coming to Lausanne. Couldn’t sleep in this town any more than in London. Just sit on the settee. Drink, smoke, watch History Channel through the night, every night. Not so much getting pissed as trading the sensation of memory for all there was to know about the two and a half million years of human existence. From the moment the Homo ergaster line of humanoids became bipeds, learned to control fire and file stones into hand axes. Bit of the old drinking game before pretending to sleep. Pour a round and chug it down every time someone on the telly said the words ‘war’ or ‘mankind’. He shook it off, lit another fag, looked around the joint. Place filling with more punters in search of conversation with a naked woman, but not the man he was waiting for. He turned back to the bar with his empty glass. The bartender in the red silk had another refill waiting for him.
    ‘You’re a mind-reader, mademoiselle.’
    He checked his watch again.
    Eleven minutes after eleven o’clock.
    Flashing back again.
    Seven weeks ago.
    The last time he saw the hands of