he was wary of six young guys, obviously out on the lash, swearing and laughing, and way too boisterous.Trouble.But Tony had flashed some of his ample City bonus, a hundred quid or more, and the bouncer had smiled and said, Of course, sir…and then…What had happened then?It was all a blur. A blur of thongs and thighs and drinks. And smiling naked Latvian girls and ribald jokes about Russian furs and a Polish girl with unbelievable breasts and endless amounts of money spent on this and that and the other.Alan groaned. His friends had departed at various times: collapsing out of the club and into taxis. In the end it was just him, the last punter in the joint, tucking multitudes of tenners into the G-string of the Latvian girl who gyrated her tiny little body as he stared at her helplessly, worshipfully, dumbly, idiotically.And then at 4 a.m. the Latvian girl had stopped smiling and suddenly the lights were up and then the bouncers had him by the shoulders and they were firmly escorting him to the door. He wasn’t quite thrown into the street like a bum in a saloon, in an old-fashioned western-but it was pretty close.And now it was 5 a.m., and the first throb of the hangover was needling him behind the eyes; he had to get home. He was on the Strand and he needed to be in bed.Did he have enough cash left for a taxi? He’d left his cards at home but, yes-Alan sorted groggily through his pockets-yes, he still had thirty quid left in his wallet; enough for a cab to Clapham.Or rather, it should have been enough. But there were no taxis. It was the deadest hour of the night: 5 a.m. on the Strand. Too late for clubbers. Too early for office cleaners.Alan scanned the streets. A mild April drizzle was falling on the shiny wide paveme
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