I

Finding somewhere to eat was harder than I'd thought. True, the streets were full of pizzerias. But the pizzerias were full of pilgrims swigging down olives and mozzarella with bottle after bottle of sweet red wine (building up their energy for all that sacramental ear-touching, I guess).

"Don't worry," said Turtle, as we peered in through the window at the pilgrim-packed tables. "I'll get something to eat at the station." But I was a man on a mission.

"I promised you pizza and pizza you shall have," I said.

I remembered having seen some smaller restaurants down the side streets near to where the parade had been the previous evening, and managed to convince Turtle that we should give them a try.

The main road which had been packed with people for the parade was deserted (but for an occasional coach-load of pilgrims ploughing through the darkness). I wasn't sure quite which way to go, but confidently led Turtle on.

"I' m sure I saw one somewhere down here," I lied and headed towards a dull glow which bathed a gaggle of bins halfway down an otherwise unlit alleyway.

"Are you sure about this," asked Turtle?

"I'm sure I'm sure," I said.

And then, as if by magic (just like in a Mr Ben cartoon), the Pizzeria Dante appeared.

"Told you," I said.

From the outside, the Pizzeria - with its lost letters (P--zar-a D-nte), dirt streaked windows and felt-tip penned menu - didn't looked as if would merit too many Michelin stars. Inside (although it was not the first place you'd choose for a romantic meal) it was not quite the culinary hell that its name implied. In fact, in a woodchip and plastic kind of way it had what you might call a certain understated charm.

Actually, to be honest, had there been any alternative to the Pizzeria Dante, Turtle (judging from the not-so-sweet frown on her face as she peered in through the dirty window) would have gladly taken it. But we had already trekked to and from a hundred other hotels and restaurants that evening. The rucksack - which she refused to let me carry - must have been weighing heavier and heavier on her back. And I guess, rather than going on any further, she would happily have sat down among the artichoke stalks on the street and eaten the blue granules of warfarin scattered round the pizzeria's bins.

"At least they've got plenty of tables free," I said, with an enthusiastic grin.

In fact, every table in the place was free - although there was a grey-haired old man sprawled on a stool at the end of the bar. The man had two bottles of wine, a rapidly emptying glass and various buttons undone.

He was watching some game show on a snowy TV mounted on the wall above a nicotine-yellowed poster of the Italian national squad that won the World Cup in 1982. Behind the bar stood a waiter who resembled a young Peter Shilton. He wore a tuxedo and a white bow tie (incongruous with the meagreness of the place almost to the point of surrealism). Noticing us lurking outside, he waved. .

Possibly he was merely making the most of the rare opportunity to be sociable (as, I guess, not many people passed down that alleyway of an evening). Possibly he was indicating that the restaurant was actually open.

Or maybe he just wanted to check that we weren't just apparitions contagious delusions of an alcoholic imagination - somehow conjured up by the drunk at the end of the bar.

The waiter seemed overjoyed when we actually went inside. He flourished a pair of crimson menus with a smile so wide it threatened to cut his face in two. Our entry even stirred the old man at the bar to raise his glass, swaying on his stool and murmuring incoherently to the bottles which surrounded him.

The waiter led us to a table on the far side of the room opposite the TV. On the wall next to the table was a very old picture of thousands of pigeons in St Mark's Square in Venice. It was an aerial shot of the words 'Coca Cola', each letter made up of hundreds of pigeons pecking and flapping at bird seed, sack-loads of which must have been laid out in the shape of the logo.

"That's clever," said Turtle. She took off her rucksack and put it down beside her chair. "I wonder where they got all those pigeons from?"

"Must have made a mess," I said.

The waiter brought over a single red carnation in a glass on a tray and put it in the middle of the table. He smirked and said something unitelligible in Italian.

I stared up blankly at him, then looked to Turtle for help.

"He asked if you want wine," she explained.

"For drink, a bottle of wine perhaps?" he translated. "Is Italian, is very sweet, but very, very nice."

"I think I'd prefer a beer," I said.

"Me too," said Turtle.

I looked back up at the waiter.

"Due beers, per favore," I said in my best Westingshire accent.

"Kronenberg?" asked the waiter.

"Kronenberg?" I asked Turtle.

She nodded.

"Due Kronenberg," I said.

"Va bene," said the waiter. "Piccolo?" he said with a sad face and mimed holding a matchbox between thumb and forefinger. "0r grande?" he said with another face-splitting smile and mimed holding the European Cup Winner's Cup up to a capacity crowd in the San Sero stadium.

"Grande for me please," said Turtle.

I nodded.

"Me too," I said. "Due grande."

"Due?" he asked, with raised eyebrows. "Due grande?" He held up two fingers in an incredulous peace sign.

"Due," I confirmed.

"Va bene, due grande bierre," said the waiter.

He scribbled on his pad and disappeared through the door to the kitchens, shaking his head. He reappeared a minute later with the obligatory white cloth over his arm, and a tray with two huge tankards brimful of beer expertly balanced on his fingertips.

"Bloody hell," I said, pulling a face at Turtle as the waiter placed one of the frothing tankards in front of her. "There must be at least a couple of pints in there."

"E problemo?" asked the waiter.

"It's OK" said Turtle, "I'll drink it." She swigged an enormous mouthful of beer, a little ghoti beard of froth sticking to her chin.

"No problem mate," I said to the waiter and smiled.

He brushed an imaginary crumb from the edge of our table and went off again polishing his tray with his cloth, muttering to himself with a muted laugh.

Turtle smiled.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," she said. "But I think he thinks we're German and that we're crazy."

The pizzas were freshly baked in a brick oven and tasted absolutely fantastic. And as we munched away (furtle at her pepperoni and me at my quattro formaggi - that's four cheeses to you), we were getting on really well, chatting like old mates and supping our lagers. Towards the end of the meal I noticed Turtle was getting rather tanked up, even though she'd only had a couple of pints. I guess she normally stuck to halves of pale ale or white wine and soda and stuff like that.

When we'd finished our pizzas the waiter came over.

"E bene?" he asked.

"Yes, it was fantastic," I said. "Belissimo! Best pizza I've ever tasted."

And I wasn't joking.

"Gracie," said the waiter. "E adesso due espresso?"

"No, due grande bierre," said Turtle loudly in a really over-the-top Italian accent (as if she were terribly offended by the mere suggestion that we would even consider consuming a drink that did not contain at least five per cent alcohol). "Due grande bierre!"

"Va bene," said the waiter throwing his hands to the heavens. "Encore due grande bierre. " He went off laughing and muttering again.

"Crazy Germans?" I said in a mock Italian accent.

Turtle laughed absurdly loudly, so loudly she managed to break through the alcoholic oblivion of the old man at the bar. He turned away from the TV set and looked over at us, smiling and nodding as if he were in on the joke.

"Maybe we should just have a couple of cappuccinos and go," I said.

"Don't be a spoil sport," she said. "It's great here. Anyway, I want to see that waiter again. He's got a really nice bum."

Yea great," I said!

Turtle nudged me in the ribs.

"Look he's back already," she said giggling. "Cor, he isn't bad from the front either!"

She narrowed her eyes and curled her top lip back in an extremely crude gestUre, wincing with lust (as if she'd just been penetrated by a lover of elephanune proportions) and cackled with laughter.

"Honestly," I said "Can't take you anywhere."

By the rime we'd finished our second tankards of Kronenberg, I have to say I was feeling pretty merry myself. Turtle was completely shanted. She insisted on kissing the waiter on each cheek as we left. I apologised and slipped him an extra five thousand lira.

"Gracie," he said, then winked at me and whispered something in my ear. Of course, I couldn't understand a word he'd said, but I winked back at him and murmured, "Si, si," with a nod and a smile.

The waiter laughed, raising dark eyebrows and held the door wide open for us, standing well clear of Turtle as if she were rather more unsteady on her feet than she actually was. I grasped Turtle with one hand and her rucksack with the other.

"Ciao," said the waiter and waved.

Turtle blew him a kiss over her shoulder and we stumbled out into the street.

"So, did you enjoy your pizza?" I asked, as we wandered up the alleyway towards the main road.

"Yea, it was scrummy," said Turtle.

She was hugging herself, bent over slightly, as if she had stomach pains.

The night had grown quite cool and I guessed she was trying to keep warm.

"You all right?" I asked. "Do you want to borrow my jacket. I mean, it's getting quite chilly."

Turtle shook her head.

I thought I might have offended her again (she still hadn't forgiven me for offering to help her finish off her second tankard of beer).

"What are you bent over like that for then?" I asked, laughing, "Have you got wind or something?"

Turtle giggled. I saw a comer of something, something dark and wooden, poking out beneath her elbow.

"What have you got there?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said.

I pulled at her arm.

"What is that?"

She pulled away quite brusquely.

"It's my picture," she said.

"What picture."

"Pigeon picture."

"Oh, shit!" I said. "You've bloody nicked the Coca Cola pigeons."

"I only borrowed it," she said.

"What do you mean you bloody borrowed it?"

"I like it," said Turtle.

"But it's old and valuable," I said. "It's probably irreplaceable."

"That's why I like it," said Turtle.

"You're a bloody terror you are," I said (glancing back up the street to check that the waiter wasn't coming after us with a cleaver to retrieve his stolen photo).

"Am not," said Turtle.

"Yes you fucking are," I said. "That's someone's picture, that is."

"My picture now," said Turtle. She giggled and stumbled over an invisible step.

"Christ," I said. "And you reckoned you could hold your drink."

"Can!" said Turtle.

"You're bloody pissed as a fart," I said.

"Am not!" she said. She lowered her head, dragging her feet like a sulky child, and crashed into a cracked plaster column. She stared at the column crossly as if it had leapt out of the darkness just to spite her, then stumbled off down an archway-covered side street.

"Jesus," I said slinging her rucksack over one shoulder and breaking into a jog to catch up with her.

"Oi, where are you going?" I asked.

"I'm going to the stashun," she slurred.

"Not in that bloody state you're not," I said.

"Gowing ta Flowence," she said sucking out her bottom lip and collapsing onto a stone bollard outside a heavily shuttered shop.

"Come on," I said. "Get up!"

"Don't want to," she said.

"Come on," I said. "It's not very nice round here. Best keep moving."

Up the street I could make out a couple of figures. At first I thought it was two women with lots of hair and very short skirts. But, as we walked past, I could see that one of the woman was actually a man in three inch heels and a spiky orange wig. In nearby shadows another man stood watching them, his trousers round his knees.

"Did you see what he was doing?" asked Turtle staring back over her shoulder.

"Just keep bloody walking," I said.

Cars rolled slowly past all brake lights and wound-down electric windows. Along the street more women (and men) with shaved legs and false nails were smoking and drinking from a flask. They eyed us curiously as we passed, tugging at bra straps and wetting fingers to pick spilt ash from short, tight skirts. In nearby shadows sat two boys surrounded by discarded syringes.

They didn't look like junkies normally look (well at least not how they look in those public infonnation films, all greasy haired and pimply, staring blearily into the camera with bags beneath their eyes big enough to carry a fortnight's shopping in). No, these two kids were both clean cut and bright eyed, smooth skinned and handsome. One had his sleeve rolled up, a belt loosely drawn around his blood-flecked ann. The other fumbled with the flame of a lighter beneath a charred strip of foil, folded in the middle like a feeding trough for toy cattle. Chasing the dragon, I guess.

A little old lady in a coat came towards us. She was about sixty with bare legs and granny boots and the kind of bright blue eye shadow that only someone senile or insane would choose to wear.

"She shouldn't be wandering around here," I muttered and hoped the man with the trousers round his knees would be gone before she reached the other end of the street. After the lady had passed, I saw another shorter figure stumble out of the shadows. "Bloody hell," I said. "Now here's some kid out by himself." As the figure got nearer I could see it wasn't a child, but a dwarf. And it wasn't just any old dwarf. It was the dwarf who'd been in the parade.

Although the last time I'd seen the dwarf he'd been dressed up as a harlequin and sat in the boot of that Fiat Regatta Estate, I recognised him instantly. He still looked kind of hungover and there was no mistaking that melted eye socket.

As the dwarf reached us, he suddenly stopped, blocking our path. He reached in the pocket of his filthy coat, pulled out a crumpled wad of lire and waved the money in front of my face (or rather, in front of my waist). He grabbed the cuff of my jacket, pointed at Turtle, and started muttering something over and over again. I shook my head, and pulled free from his grasp, but he wouldn't leave us alone. He kept on following us down the street, repeating the same thing, jumping up at me waving his money, thumping my arms with his little fists.

"Piss off out of it you little git," I said, pushing him away.

"Oh don't e nasty to him," said Turtle. "He's only little."

"He's bloody bruised me to bits," I said, and gave him a shove, which sent him spinning into a wall.

The dwarf snarled and fired a torpedo of spit at my feet. Then, growling like a bad tempered terrier, he finally gave up and backed away. We turned to watch him trot ofT down the street. The little old lady with the mad blue eye shadow was still there, standing by an archway like she was waiting for a lift or something. The dwarf went up to her, waving his wad of notes.

"Maybe I should go and see if she needs any help," I said.

But, as we watched, the old lady took the dwarfs money and counted it.

And with a nod of her head and a sigh she beckoned him to go with her.

The dwarf grinned and started to unzip himself as he followed her behind a crumbling arch.

"Bloody hell," I said. "Did you see that? Jesus. What kind of place is this?" We walked on quickly to the end of the road and reached the edge of the town centre. We sat on a bench near a comfortingly crowded cafe, the rucksack between us. Turde put her head in her hands.

I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder.

"I guess you don't normally drink this much," I said.

Turtle shook her head.

"More," she said, and looked up at me with a dazed grin.

"Oh yea?" I said. "Well you are going to have one hell of a head in the morning, I can tell you." She put her head back in her hands and I stroked the side of her head very gently, smiling at the soft wannth of her hair, hoping she could understand the message in my fingertips.

"Come on," I said softly. "Let's go. It's getting late."

I tried to lift her up, but she pulled away from me, her shoulders starting to tremble.

I put my arm around her.

"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked, all serious and concerned.

Turtle raised her face, took one look at me and, with a snort that any pig would have been proud of, burst into fits of laughter.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"You," she said. "And that little man." She was laughing so much she could hardly speak.

"What?" I said.

"He was beating you!"

"No he wasn't," I said.

"He was," she said, giggling.

"Well I didn't think it was very funny," I said.

Turtle doubled up with laughter.

"That woman," she said.

"What about her?" I said.

"She was one of them wasn't she?"

"One of what?" I said.

"You know."

"A lady of the night," I said.

"A what?" said Turtle gasping for air as if she'd just done a length of an Olympic size swimming pool underwater.

"A lady of the night," I repeated.

With a little shriek, Turtle burst into hysterics again.

"More like a granny of the night," she said, snorting. "And that little man - he was trying to buy me, wasn't he?"

"I suppose so," I said. She slapped her hand on her pilfered pigeon picture and leaned back, her breasts heaving with laughter like a couple of pink helmeted pot holers trying to break free from a blue cotton cave.

"I still can't see what's so funny," I said.

"You are," she said. "You take everything so seriously."

"Sorry," I said.

"It's quite sweet really." She gave me an unexpected peck on the cheek.

I took the key for my hotel room from my pocket.

"Look," I said. "Take this, right. There's only one old guy on reception at this time of night and the place is packed with all them pilgrims. Wait until it gets busy and you'll be able to walk straight in, OK. The room's down the right hand side of the main corridor on the second floor."

"What about you?" asked Turtle.

"Look, I'll be all right," I said. "I can go and sit down in the cafe by the station or something. Honestly, I mean, it's me who said you should comehere. And it was my idea to go for that pizza and me who got you started on the Kronenberg and all that. So, please, just take the key."

"I can't," she said." It's your room and, anyway, I wanted to come here. It's been a laugh."

"Fair enough," I said. "But I'm not leaving you to wander around the station with all these strange blokes about. I'm sorry, but I'm not doing that, OK. So, take the key. Honestly, I'll be fine."

"OK, OK, we'll both go back to your room," said Turtle. "You can have the bed and I'll sleep on the floor in my sleeping bag, OK?"

"Well, yea, we could do that. I mean, I'm not trying to kind of, you know... I mean, I'm not expecting you to..."

"Just promIse me one thing."

"Sure," I said.

"You'll stop blathering on for a bit. You're doing my head in."

"Yea, sorry."

"And stop saying sorry!"

"Yea, sory, right."

II

When we arrived at the hotel, the street outside was deserted, with not so much as a nun in sight. I guess they'd all turned in early, saving themselves for the big festival the next day.

"Right," I whispered to Turtle (I'm not quite sure why I was whispering, but I was). "Let's just hang around 'till someone shows up and then we can sneak in whilst the old guy's sorting them out at reception."

"Give me the key," said Turtle.

"OK," I said.

And before I had a chance to stop her, she'd taken the key and strode straight into the hotel, hauling her rucksack behind her, leaving me stood outside like a lemon.

"What are you doing?" I hissed. But she was already inside.

She walked straight up to the old guy on reception who was carefully copying something into a big red book.

"Ciao," she said and waved my key at him.

"Ciao bella," he said and smiled lustily with a mouthful of little sharp teeth like an alligator's, as Turtle disappeared down the corridor.

I hurried in after her.

"Hey," said the old boy on reception and hollered something at me in Italian. I stopped and turned to face him like a guilty school kid.

"Inglese," I said. "Non comprendo."

"You have room?" snapped the alligator man.

"Yea," I said.

"Numero?" he snapped.

"Twenty seven," I said. "Vente sette."

Behind the reception desk was a big wooden rack with hooks for keys and cubby-holes for letters. Obviously there was no key in cubby-hole twenty seven (seeing as I'd taken it out with me and Turtle had just waltzed upstairs with it), But luckily my passport was still there.

"Name?" asked the alligator man.

"Mr Boyle," I said.

"Eddie Boy-yell?" he asked, looking doubtfully at the dodgy photo in my passport.

"That's me," I said, "when I was small, bambino. "

"Va bene," he said (reluctantly). "You have key?"

"I've definitely got it here somewhere," I said slapping my pockets as if frisking myself. The alligator man tutted and tapped on the reception desk.

"Please to remember key here always when you are leaving."

"Si," I said.

"No take away."

"Scusa," I said.

The man nodded curtly and gestured for me to proceed down the corridor with a wave of his hand, as if he were brushing away a hovering mosquito.

"Ciao," I said. "Thanks."

The alligator man nodded again and scribbled officiously in his big red book. I headed for the stairs, leapt up them two at a time and jogged down the corridor to my room. But when I got there the door was locked.

"Hey Turtle," I said. "It's me Eddie."

There was a sound of running water from within.

"Hey Turtle," I said, thumping on the door again. A couple of nuns came round the comer, quietly chatting. I smiled politely and pretended to be looking in my pockets for my key. When they'd gone Turtle finally opened the door. She was holding my bottle of fizzy water.

"Hi," she said. "I was just brushing my teeth. You were a long time."

"Yea, I was chatting to the man at reception."

"Yes, he seemed very friendly," she said.

"Sure," I said.

Turtle sat down on the bed. She had taken her toothbrush from the bag anti put it on the shelf above the sink. An open pack of Lillets was stratigically placed on the edge of the bed next to a flowery make-up bag, its contents strewn across the turned-back blanket.

"Oh sorry," she said her mouth all shiny and red with fresh lipstick. She cleared her things away, leaving the pack of Lillets.

"I think you may have forgotten something," I said.

"So I have," she said and picked up the packet. "This room doesn't have a shower or anything does it?"

"Oh no, sorry," I said. "Turn right out of the door and it's on the left at the end of the corridor."

While Turtle was out of the room, I brushed my teeth and sprayed under my arms. I was just pulling on a clean T-shirt, when she came back in.

"That was quick," I said.

She stood awkwardly by the open door. I got up from the bed.

"Come and sit down," I said. "You must be exhausted."

Turtle shut the door and sat down on the edge of the bed. I sat down an arms-length away from her. We both stared at the wall.

"Right," I said standing up again, "pass us a pillow and I'll make up a bed on the floor."

Turtle reached up for my hand and held it hard.

"For God's sake," she said, pulling me back down beside her.

I tumbled onto the bed, falling back on the pillows, loosely wrapping myself around her thighs. She started to kiss me, biting at my bottom lip, and pulled me closer. I was amazed (as I am always amazed) at the soft warmth of her female skin. It was a bit like the feeling you get when holding a snake. You imagine it will be cold and slippery but find it actually to be pleasantly smooth and dry. Not, of course, that I'm suggesting women have skins like snakes'. Far from it. It's just that women never feel like you think they are going to.

I always expect thin women will feel cold and brittle like fine china - all polished and glossy like the air-brushed photos that fill all those fashion magazines. Larger women (what you might call the more accessible cuddly types), I imagine will be much softer than they really are. Actually, in my experience, the more flesh women have the harder it seems to feel. The unstretched skin of the skinny (though there isn't so much of it) often feels a lot softer.

Anyway, enough of such subtleties. Suffice to say, all women generally feel pretty amazing. And Turtle felt more amazing than most as her breasts and thighs pushed firm and hot against me. Maybe it was because it was kind of romantic meeting someone in Venice like that. Perhaps it had something to do with all that Kronenberg swilling through me, but I have to say Turtle felt a lot hotter and firmer than the kind of girls I usually date.

Actually, when I say the girls I usually date, what I really mean is the ladies I usually date. Although, to be honest, there is very little ladylike about some of them after they've got a few Bacardis and whatever else inside them. Still, that's another story!!

As we kissed I pushed against her, the old two-piece jigsaw puzzle slotting into place. She squirmed and emitted a little groan. I tasted blood on my lips where she had bitten them. I slipped my hand inside that tight blue top as I had longed to since that afternoon when I'd seen her with her map in the square, sweetly frowning. She arched her back like a contented kitten as I pulled up her top and lowered my head to kiss those hot, heavy handfuls (rapidly developing a pan handle to rival that man on his horse in the garden of the Guggenheim).

Switching into auto-pilot (my brain delegating control to the joy stick in my pants), I slid my palm down across Turtles flat, hot stomach, fingers wriggling under the waist of her jeans. She grabbed my wrist.

"You can't," she said.

"Sorry" I said, my brain re-engaging, slowly whirring into action, like an old slide projector, flashing up an image of that little flowery packet Turtle had left, oh so discreetly, on the edge of the bed.

I pulled her top down and cuddled up, kissing her neck.

"Let go for a minute," she said.

"Sorry," I said. "Was I crushing you?" Turtle ran her hands up under my T-shirt. I shivered and my body stiffened (that is, the bits of my body which weren't already stiff, ha, ha, ha).

"You're very muscley," she said.

"It's all that painting," I said.

She laughed, thinking I was joking, not knowing I was that kind of painter.

She ran her hand slowly over my chest her finger deliberately lingering on my nipple (like a blind woman who'd only just begun to learn Braille, trying to read some message printed on my body). It did nothing to appease the pan handle that was already threatening to split through the zip of my Levis. She reached down and stroked the bulge with the back of her hand, then turned her back to me. I wrapped my arms around her, and lay against the curves of her body, my knee caps in the hollow-backs of her knees, pushing closer. She pulled away, recoiling suddenly like she'd been stabbed with a cattle prod. (Women, I don't know. They think you do it on purpose. All I can say is they should try controlling a rampant prick sometime, and see how well they get on!) We lay there without moving for a while, then I rolled over to the edge of the bed and got up.

"I'm just going to the bathroom," I said. "I'll take the key with me, OK?" Turtle, shifted her position on the bed slightly (presumably indicating that she'd acknowledged what I'd said).

I locked the door and crept down the corridor to the shower/toilet room.

For a while I just sat in the darkness in the toilet cubicle my trousers round my ankles, that huge pan handle staring up at me through the gloom like a one-eyed serpent with rigor mortis, marvelling at how well it's torpedo-like design was suited to the task for which it was intended (and indeed the task in hand).

As I attempted to subdue it's boastful swelling, for want of a better euphemism, (telling myself I was doing it for Turtle's sake, to save her a night of unwelcome pokes and prods) the toilet seat (loosened no doubt by decades of punishment from constipated nuns) started to rattle and creak alarmingly.

Having tried unsuccessfully to silence the seat by shifting my weight from one side to the other I opted for a kneeling position on the floor and tried to imagine (vividly recalling my recent grapplings with Turtle's breasts) . what it would be like to give her a damn good shagging. Maybe it was the silence of the room, maybe it was the thought of Turtle curled up on my bed just a few feet down the corridor, but other thoughts kept interrupting the matter in hand.

What if some huge nun were to walk in and push against the door, snapping open the flimsy latch, and see me knelt there. Maybe I could pretend I was praying, I thought (but surely not even the most naive of novice nuns would believe that there was any acceptable reason for a man to pray on the floor of a darkened toilet cubicle with his jeans round his ankles).

I imagined a huge group of nuns gathered outside the cubicle peering through the door (as if it were made of that one way glass they use at the back of championship squash courts). What would they think watching this man slipping his pride and joy back and forth through his fist with his hand to his heart, teasing his nipple to quicken the climax before someone caught him at it.

I hurridly turned the nun's habits into black satin sheets, and imagined Turtle lying back on them. Her thighs apart in close up clinical detail like something out of Rustler magazine. Breath held to heighten delight, purple and yellow flowers of morphine started to spin in my skull. Fluorescent catherine wheel jellyfish pulsated behind flickering eyelids as hot treacle flowed through every vein, and, and, and....with one final intake of breath the stench of shit and disinfectant cut short the splattering joy. The memory of Turtle's tits and tongue, the conjoured-up taste of her, was replaced by the face of a small boy. Shit and blood dripped down his nose and ran across the corner of his mouth. I tasted it on my tongue and saw a group of schoolboys laughing at him, laughing and laughing. And who was that with them? Who was that standing there laughing too? Who the fuck was that? It was you, you wanker, screamed the imagined nuns. It was you. It was you, you pathetic little cunt.

I look down at myself kneeling there in the darkened cubicle, my prick limply held. I zipped up, washed my hands and hurried back down the corridor, wondering how long I'd been gone. I hoped that Turtle hadn't tried to leave the room, to come and find me maybe, discovered the door locked, imagined me to be some kind of madman who'd deliberately shut her away whilst he'd gone to look for an axe.

Back in the room, Turtle was as I'd left her, but asleep (or if not asleep, then doing a bloody good impression of it). I curled up on the bed beside her covering us both with a spare blanket, filled with the bitter/sweet piety of a shoplifter who, having stolen a pair of trousers or a bag of sweets, stops short of the door and returns them to the shelf, content that a sin half-committed, a sin not fully consummated, is really no sin at all.

III

I am standing by the side of the road, hitching a lift. The road leads down to Dominic's house. It is like a race track, all molten rubber and the smell of burning oil. The day is really clear, and as I look down the hill I can see the sun reflecting off Dom's dad's Range Rover. I imagine his mum in the kitchen sat on her stool with the window open picking at a bowl of tortilla chips and reading one of those women's magazine.

The house is surrounded by fields, a sea of blue linseed and yellow rape. Just to look at it makes me sneeze. I am wearing a black vest and the sun beats down on my face and shoulders. My feet are sweaty and blistered as if I've been walking forever. All of a sudden, I hear a van coming, it's engine droning like a drowsy wasp as it struggles up the hill in third gear. It's my old van, the one with the orange stuff taped over the broken indicator. Red brake lights flash faintly in the days brightness and the van reverses. Turtle is driving. There is a baby in the front seat, a tiny, tiny baby in an incubator, like that one in the photograph stuck to the altar in St Vi's. I climb into the back of the van among the brushes and cans.

"Where to?" asks Turtle.

"Govia please," I say. "It's in between Venice and Verona."

"I know where it is," she says sulkily. "That's where I was going anyway."

I'm taking her home." She taps the incubator.

Turtle shoots off driving like mad down the country lanes. I brace myself, pushing the soles of my Reeboks hard against the side of the van. I can hear the incubator bouncing about on the front seat.

"Is she all right?" I ask.

"Stop fussing," says Turtle. "I do know how to drive you know." She reaches down and picks up a two pint tankard of lager. It is spilling all over her tight black top. Froth runs down her cleavage.

"Do you think you should be doing that?" I ask. "You're not really meant to drink and drive."

We head along the causeway to Venice.

"Hey isn't this the way the trains come? I didn't know cars could go down here."

"Stop worrying," says Turtle. "I checked the timetable. There're no trains unti ater.

We career out of the train station, beep beeping past the Orient Express, pllssengers scattering like pigeons. The Englishman, who was on the train that morning, chews his cigar and shouts out, 'bloody tearaways,' as the van humps up over the big white bridge and down the other side like a film of a roller coaster ride, then squeals and skids through the narrow streets.

"Hey, slow down," I say. "You're going to run someone over if you're not careful."

"We're late," says Turtle. She slings her empty tankard out of the window. It shatters at the feet of the stone Madonna in the painted goal. A police boat chases us, siren wailing as we speed along by the canal.

The van approaches a narrow bridge.

"I don't think we can get through there," I say.

"Course we can," says Turtle, stubborn as ever.

We hit the bridge and briefly fly through the air then plunge into the canal, sinking deeper and deeper down, down to the bottom where the crabs are waving their claws and eels swim dark and slimy into the car. I kick out at the eels. I'm surrounded by water. The crabs are allover us. Got to get out of here, I gurgle, got to save Turtle, got to save the baby. I kick open the back doors of the van and swim out. I open the side door and grab the baby from the incubator, then start to rise up, up towards a distant light. I rise and rise yet seem to get no nearer to the surface until, at last, I suddenly break through into sunshine, gasping great lungfuls of air.

The baby cries. She is alive. I leave her on the tow path and dive down to the car to free Turtle. She is lying in the driver's seat. The little green crabs are all over her. They have nibbled away the skin from her face. She looks like one of the skinned lambs in the market, all lipless teeth and those eyes, startled and startling. She is beyond saving. I surface, shaking off crabs and eels. I hoist myself up onto the tow path. The baby is gone. I look around. I start running, running and running, but there is no one anywhere.

I reach the church square and fall down among the pigeons and shattered glass. The babys family come down the church steps dressed in black and holding candles. The old woman who waved at me earlier from a high veranda approaches and points over at me lying there. They surround me and ask:

"Where has the dwarf taken her? Please just tell us. Where has the dwarf taken her?" I shake my head.

"I'm really sorry. I don't know," I say. "I didn't see which way he went. I'm sorry."

I lie on my back blinking into the sun.

IV

I reached out expecting to touch Turtle's warm flesh. My hand fell to the mattress. It was damp with sweat, stone cold sweat, so cold I knew she'd been gone longer than the time it takes to visit the shower room. I sat up and wrapped myself in the blanket. A small white tent of paper was perched on the sink. The note was written in purple pen.

Eddie, you've got a really nice body but you worry too much about everything. Relax and enjoy the rest of your holiday. Had a quick look at your pictures. The church was a bit naff, but the other stuff was OK.

The note was signed with a T and a kiss and a little cartoon turtle.

"Cheeky bitch," I murmured out loud and laughed. Then my eyes filled up. I began to make the bed, but then I thought - 'Sod it! Why bother?

They're only going to have to change the sheets anyway.' I smiled at the memory of the night before. Turtle with her soft hair and sweet frown, stumbling down the street with her stolen pigeon picture.

I started to fill up again, I couldn't stop myself. Tears dripped onto the note, chasing the words away in a purple blur.

I screwed the soggy note into a ball and flung it at the empty bin beneath the sink. It missed. I kicked the bin across the room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crash, my bare toes filling with pain. I retrieved the bin and hobbled back to the bed and sat there softly punching the pillow.

When I went downstairs with my things to pay up, the 'trendy monk' was back on reception.

"Ciao Eddie," he said, smiling broadly.

"Ciao," I said and put the red fobbed key on the desk.

"Where are all the pelligrini?" I asked. "Still in bed?

"They have all gone out," he said.

"Oh," I said. I looked at my watch. It was twenty past eleven. "I didn't relaise it was so late."

"You have a late night yesterday I think?" said the trendy monk with a grin. "I see in your eyes. They are all red,"

"Yea, I went out," I said, "with a friend".

"You have made friends here in Govia?"

"An English friend," I said, "travelling. We met yesterday and went for a beer ," I mimed drinking.

"Oh yes," he said. "You English and your beer. I thought you look like a piece of sheet.

I laughed, "Is this right way to say?" he said. "If you have been drinking many beers then in the morning you are like a 'piece of sheet'?"

"Yep," I nodded. "Like a piece of shee-it. That just about sums it up."

He nodded sympathetically.

"Well," I said, handing him the key. "I guess it's time I took back my passport and gave you some money.

"You are leaving?" said the trendy monk.

I nodded, He looked genuinely disappointed. He lifted the hatch at the end of the reception desk, came out front and gripped me with a vicar's handshake.

"You have enjoyed your stay here?" he asked, still holding my hand.

"Very much," I said, pulling gently free of his grip. "It's a beautiful town."

He nodded.

"It is sad you must leave today. I was to invite you for a meal at my home. My mother she makes real pasta. I think you would have enjoyed. And we could have then talk some more English. I must practice as I am now very bad."

"No, no," I said. "You speak very well. Very well."

He grinned.

"Maybe if I come to London I will see you in Stringy-fellows no?"

"Quite possibly," I said (despite the fact that I had never set foot in the place and had no intention of doing so).

"So now you go to airport in Venice no?"

"Not just yet," I said. "I thought I'd go further south for a bit, to Florence maybe."

"Si, of course, Florence. You must go." He shrugged his shoulders and raised his palms, admitting defeat.

"So you go with your English friend?"

"Sort of," I said. "I was hoping I might meet her down there. You don't happen to know when the next train is?" The 'trendy monk' raised his hand to his face, gently squeezing his nose between thumb and forefinger (as if it were some kind of magic button that would automatically switch on the train timetable in his memory).

"I think there is one soon," he said. "I don't know for sure, but I can find out."

He picked up the telephone on the reception desk and started to dial.

"It's OK," I said. "Don't worry about it."

"Is no problem," he said, He picked up a pen and twiddled it slowly between his fingers. He leaned over the counter to reach for a scrap of paper by the key rack, lowering his head to one side like a sleeping bird, holding the receiver in position between his shoulder and the edge of his chin,

"Mi dispiace," he said, after a few more seconds. "I try. But nobody is answering."

"They're probably all having a cappuccino break," I said.

He didn't get the joke (not that it was much of a joke),

"I try again in a few minutes," he said.

"Don't worry about it," I said, galncing at my watch. "I better be going now anyhow."

The 'trendy monk' nodded.

"So what's the damage?" I asked.

He looked puzzled.

"Something is broken?"

"No, no," I said hurriedly (determined to avoid a lengthy explanation of the origins of the expression).

"How much do I owe you for the room?"

He went behind the counter and opened the big red book. He did a quick calculation on his fingers, scribbled a figure on a piece of headed hotel paper and passed it over to me, face down. I picked up the paper and quickly checked that the numbers (all cross-hatched sevens and loopy threes) seemed reasonable, then reached in my pocket for my wallet. I carefully counted out the correct number of notes and he slipped them between the pages of the red book. I hesitated (uncertain whether or not I was doing the right thing) then pushed an extra ten thousand lire note across the counter to him. He pushed it back and I put it back in my wallet with a small nod and an apologetic smile.

"Well," I said. "I better go now. But I'd just like to say... uhmm...you know...I mean, I've enjoyed our little chats and everything."

The 'trendy monk' nodded and scribbled on another sheet of hotel paper.

"My number," he said, handing it to me. "Next time before you visit you give me call," he mimed dialling a phone with an imaginary receiver held to his ear.

"My apartment is only quite small, but it is close to the town and I would be very happy for you to stay."

"Thank you," I said. "That would be great."

We exchanged grins.

"Can I borrow your pen?" I said.

He handed it to me. I delved into my pocket and pulled out a used bus ticket, the one the lady had helped me buy at Venice Airport. It was weird. When I'd first arrived, the ticket had seemed so foreign. And yet, after just a couple of days, it seemed like any old bus ticket. I don't know. I guess you just get used to things after a while. Anyway, I scribbled my parent's telephone number on the back of the ticket and handed it to him.

"If you are ever back in England, give me a call," I said.

"Hey," he said, with a look of genuine joy on his face, as if I'd just told him he'd won a million pounds on the pools. He clasped my hands in both of his, then hugged me, patting my back as if we were long lost brothers meeting for the first time in years. And I felt suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. I know I was in a bit of a state about um and Turtle and everything anyway. But it wasn't just that. I was genuinely moved by his gesture and, as we parted, I had to turn away so that he would not see the tear that spilled without warning from one eye.

"Ciao," I mumbled. I picked up my bag and headed towards the hotel door.

"Stay cool man," said the trendy monk.

I laughed and gave him the old thumbs up.

I paused for a moment outside the hotel, to wipe my eye with the back of my hand, and say one last goodbye to the trendy monk and the noisy maids, the long corridors and cracked floors, and the smell of incense and disinfectant that even now fills my nostrils whenever I see images of Northern Italy on TV.

V

Outside, framed by the carriage window, hotels rose up against coal grey mountains, as willow-sleeved ditches fed by hot springs steamed in the morning's chill. Down the line, foothills and farms led to a small town of cream walls and red roofs which, no doubt, housed workers for the chemical plant nearby, its sidings filled with large cylindrical tankers, orange and blue.

Slowly we fell to the endless plains where huge fields, furrowed and strung with telegraph wires, disappeared into the milky grey distance where swollen clouds swallowed up the mountains and threatened rain. The skies darkened and finally opened up over orchards of regimented fruit trees pruned in uniform rows, stippled pale pink and carnation white, as the train glided past a small farm with piles of logs stacked against a derelict barn's ivy clad brickwork, covered in plastic sheeting held down by old tyres.

The rain fell harder as we arrived at a larger town, crested with ten thousand 1V aerials. At the station more passengers crammed into the train.

Through the nearest door two woman entered stumbling over bags and cases and the boots of two young soldiers..

One of the women had a short skirt on and great legs. The soldiers exchanged glances as she sauntered past all thick lipstick, gold rings and an expensive looking handbag. The other woman was fat with a couple of little kids, a boy and a girl, and a shopping basket on wheels. She squeezed in between me and the soldiers as we watched (as if with one pair of eyes) the tightly-skirted bum of the tall woman in heels disappear disappointingly through the door to the next compartment.

It was quite hot in the carriage and the fat woman began to smell like my piua had the night before - quattro formaggi. Her kids began to get restless. The boy pulled the girls hair and she pinched his leg. The boy squealed and started crying. The big fat mama yelled at him and slapped the girl, which set her off as well. The smell of mozarella got worse.

I peered outside at fishermen in green quilted waistcoats sat sheltered beneath big umbrellas beside a pond rippled by raindrops. Approaching the next station, the train stopped beside twisted rows of tightly-branched tracks, rusted and tangled like the dark eels in their tank and my nightmare, then lingered for several minutes beside empty carriages and platforms dampened by a fine, persistent drizzle.

Eventually we continued on our way, past gently rolling hills and archery targets in a field. Then without warning we were plunged into the darkness of tunnels and more tunnels, between which I glimpsed mountains, climbing higher and higher, gradually replacing the sky with each paler break of daylight.

Beyond the tunnels the train clattered through a gorge of slender branched trees where rocky outcrops and violent pink blossoms hung above a turbid river, which foamed and frothed past more factories with corrugated roofs and homes perched precariously on terraced hillsides.

After a while the hills became lower and the river calmed and soon we entered a confused concrete Legoland of endless flats and houses, passing slower and slower as the train finally eased into Florence station.

As I stepped off the train, a voice called out to me.

"Oi Eddie!"

I paused on the platform, then felt foolish. Don't be stupid, I told myself, you're imagining things. You're in bloody Florence for Christ's sake.

"Oi Eddie!" the voice persisted.

I couldn't resist turning to look, and came face to face with Nasher, a permanently-plastered plasterer who I'd last seen, with a trowel in one had and a can of Special Brew in the other, on an industrial estate on the edge of High Wycombe.

"Eddie what the fuck are you doing here, you old cunt?"

"Oh, you know," I said (only mildly relieved that I hadn't been hallucinating), "seeing the sights, getting a tan and all that."

"Hey," Nasher called down the station platform. "Hey Clive, come over here a minute. It's me mate Eddie."

A man in the crowd of passengers ahead of us stopped and turned. He was in his early forties, I guess, with a grey crew cut, a rich tan and thick gold chains around each of his wrists. He wore an earring, a lilac and black Nike T-shirt and shiny, shell suit leggings.

Nasher introduced us.

"Clive - Eddie, Eddie - Clive."

"All right?" said Clive with a broad grin, capped teeth, perfect pearls. I grinned obligingly.

"What are you doing here then Nash?" I asked. "On holiday?"

"Holiday? I bloody wish?" he said, and glanced ruefully at Clive. "Naa, I'm working on this Villa. Clive here's the guvnor. He s got four villas now in Tuscany, two here and a couple up towards Umbria. We do them up dead posh - swimming pools, jacuzzis, the lot. We're just working on the fifth one at the moment."

"Working?" said Clive "Kicking a fucking football about and watching MTV more like."

"You always come round when I'm on me lunch break," said Nasher.

"Funny that ain't it," said Clive.

I smiled.

"Sounds like you're having a good time," I said. "Beats working up in Wycombe."

You bet," said Nasher. "Good money an' all."

"Must be expensive, though," I said. "Buying a place out here."

"You're kidding," said Nasher. "It's dirt cheap. If you ve got a bit of spare cash you can buy up a derelict place round here for peanuts. Then all you have to do is tart it up a bit, put a couple of ads in the Sunday Times 'luxury family villa in Tuscany, sleeps eight, only a grand a week' - the toffs fucking love it. The place just about pays for itself after a couple of good seasons." Nasher rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as if fanning out a thick wad of invisible notes.

"Nice little earner, eh Clive?"

Clive smiled briefly.

"Sounds like you've got it sorted," I said.

"Here," said Nasher. "Where you working at the moment?"

"Oh I'm juts doing a few bits and pieces," I said. "You know what it's like - a lot of people looking and not a lot going."

Nasher glanced hopefully at Clive.

"You was saying you could do with an extra pair of hands up at the villa."

Clive looked uncertain.

"C'mon," said Nasher. "He can join the footie team." He turned to me. "We play the locals most weeks see. You still play?"

"A bit ," I said although I hadn't so much as kicked a ball for years.

"There you are then," said Nasher. "He's a midfield dynamo. In the school team and everything he was, all over the bloody park, a real work horse. He's the same on the job too, works dead hard. You'd get the place finished quicker with an extra pair of hands up there. You sauid so, yourself."

"You lads'll bleed me dry," said Clive. He raised his hand to his brow and winced as if in great pain.

"OK Eddie," he said. "Here's what I'll do. If you're interested in a couple of weeks work you can come and join us. But I don't have no room for time wasters. You piss me about, and you're out on your fucking ear."

"There you go then," said Nasher. "Are you in or what?"

All I could think of was Turtle lost in Florence somewhere Wlth her rucksack and her map, getting directions from some tall handsome Italian. All those pictures I meant to paint.

"Come on" said Nasher. "Look at this tan! It's hotter than a camel's twat up there. Spend a couple of weeks with us and you'll be able to go home and tell the lads you won a holiday to Bermuda"

"Yea, thanks and everything," I said. The thing is..."

"Look, we'll sort the details out later," said Clive, he shook my hand and winked. "Welcome to the team Eddie. Right, you can come and help us get some stuff from the supermarket and then we're heading straight back out to the villa. You fit?"

I sighed and nodded.

"Lets get cracking then," said Nasher.

As we wandered through the crowded streets I kept on seeing Turtles rucksack (but unfortunately never hanging off her shoulders). I guess, it must have been a popular make.

"You looking for something?" asked Nasher.

"No," I said. "No, just looking round."

"Yea, nice place, ain't it," he said.

We continued towards the supermarket and soon came to a bridge over a wide river. Half way across I paused momentarily (the way you always do when on a bridge) and gazed to my left at the town. I felt sure I'd once seen that same view in a film (although I couldn t tell you which film it was, as I have a terrible memory for things like that). As we stood there I gazed down into the water. I don't know why. There wasn't anything I expected to see. But I looked anyway and noticed a rusty pram being buffeted slowly down stream.

It's funny, if you go looking for something, something specific (a lost sock, a run away dog) you'll never find it. Instead you'll always find something that you weren't looking for. Serendipity they call it. So it was inevitable really that having gone looking for Turtle I should bump into Nasher and Clive. I wish it had been the other way round. I wish I'd gone to Florence for some other reason, to see some art gallery or something, then I might have bumped into Turtle again, just by chance. But chance is a strange thing. And it seems to be controlled by this weird set of rules. Rule One - you'll never find something if you go looking for it, but...Rule Two - go looking and you'll definitely find something.

"How did you get into this lark?" I asked Nasher, as we pushed a trolley round the supermarket.

"You remember Dave?" he said, stashing a bumper pack of bog roll besides stacks of bottled beer and tinned beans.

"Irish Dave?" I said.

"No Dave Preston, the bloke with the little tash who worked on them flats up by Newbury."

"Oh yea," I said. "I know."

"Well, his brother's moved out here."

"Really? The lanky one with a scar by his eye?"

"That's the one."

"Well, I never knew that."

"Yea, there's loads of English out here. There's this one part where so many of 'em live they call it something or other. What is it now?"

"Chiantishire," said Clive, handing him a bag of oranges.

"That's it, Chiantishire," said Nasher.

"I see," I said. "Like Westingshire or Wiltshire right?"

"Only the wine and the weather are better," said Clive.

"And the women," added Nasher nodding at a couple of Italian beauties, dark and immaculate, who were picking out pre-wrapped chunks of parmesan from a display of about a million different cheeses. We all laughed.

When we'd finished getting the stuff from the supermarket we took it all back to Clive's car, a big Blue Mercedes with tinted windows parked in the drive of a huge house with cream walls and the inevitable green shutters.

"A mate of Clive's owns this place," said Nasher.

"English?" I asked.

"No, Italian," said Nasher. He tapped his nose.

"Nice place," I said.

"Wait until you see the villa," said Nasher.

"Smart motor too," I said as we crunched off the gravel drive.

"I like it," said Clive. "I spend so much time out here now, I thought I'd get meself something comfortable with left hand drive to get about in. Know what I mean?"

"Sure," I said.

I sank back into the seat and lowered the electric window to gaze out over the river towards the purple haze of mountains where cypresses stood tall, dark and majestic, peering down over the steep, cherry-blossoming, yellow catkin-hung hills.