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Breathlessly they giggled at the disapproving glare of a 17 th century merchant whose portrait hung at the top of the stairs. They made love under crisp sheets on a squeaky bed. Afterwards they would open the window to hear the chimes of the Westerkerk and the grind and squeal of passing trams.
    It was 3.17 a.m. on Sunday.
    The start of a nightmare.
    Max awoke on the bed, dressed but dishevelled, slightly hungover and bloated from the Indonesian meal they had shared the evening before. The bedside light was on. Erica was not beside him. He sat up. The bathroom door was shut. No light came from under the door. He called out for her, waited, then went in. Flicked on the cold, dazzling light. His soft brown eyes squinted back from the mirror. He rubbed his thick curly hair and felt his dark stubble. He splashed cold water on his face and towelled it dry, trying to remember the final hour of the evening.
    They had got back to the hotel at about ten forty-five. Max felt like doing nothing more demanding than watching TV. Erica had lain on the bed next to him while he surfed the channels. At one point she had slid her hands down his jeans, but he had shaken his head and puffed his cheeks out. Not tonight. Not after this afternoon and twice this morning. She had laughed and kissed him, blaming him for eating too much.
    She had cuddled up to him for a while, and then got up and opened her briefcase, mentioning something about e-mails. A few minutes later, while he was dozing and the TV was off he heard her typing on the laptop. The last thing he’d heard her say was that she was going out for a ‘quick breath of air’. So English, he had thought, and turned over.
    That was hours ago. She must have returned, but where was she now? Erica wasn’t a good sleeper. All that nerve energy. Probably talking to the night porter or pacing the corridor.
    Max picked up the phone and dialled zero. The night porter told him Erica had left at eleven thirty and had not returned. The outside door was locked at one and any returning guest would have to ring the bell. There was no chance he could have missed her. He rang her mobile and left a message, the first of many that night. Erica was still out there in the city. Max dressed. It was time to go look for her.
    The canalside boulevard was quiet. The water glistened under the street lights and the air felt cool and damp under the horse chestnut trees which lined the waterside. There was no-one about. He walked left to the two nearest bars. They were both shut, their plastic chairs and tables stacked and chained on the terraces. Then he retraced his steps, past the front of the hotel to where he had parked their rental car. The green VW Polo was still there. Max shrugged and wandered around in the darkened streets for half an hour, seeing only the occasional giggling couple or a cyclist. Finally, he leaned on the railings of a canal bridge, staring into the impenetrably dark water, deferring the moment when he had to return. He mumbled a sarcastic happy birthday to himself and turned back to the hotel. He knew he would not sleep any more that night.

    We found a mother at the side of the road an hour ago. She said her husband had died yesterday and she walked all day without food or water to get medicine for her sick baby. Exhaustion and desperation dripped from her, but as she lifted her tiny bundle her face glowed with hope. Georg gave her water while Amy held the little boy. His entire torso fitted into the crook of her arm, his wrists no wider than a thumb. Only his head, almost dry despite the heat, was of normal size.
    The general opinion was that he had malaria, but the nearest microscope to prove it was probably in Zizunga. While Amy inserted a thermometer I tried to distract him, by resting my little finger in his hand. He didn’t grip, but his enormous brown eyes turned in brief fearful focus and he lay slack as string.
    The mother asked something of Georg and smiled, a