At first it is sitting outside on the fire escape in his apartment at night over the roar of engines and the indignation of New York taxi drivers, having sold enough Shirley Templars to ensure this month's rent.

Then it becomes a respite that is not his own, a sunset in Damascus, an evening between the sheets with an eager woman in Rome, or, rarer still, the howl of wind and wolf atop a great willow tree.

Desmond thinks he might like to have one of those for his own one day, but in the end, when he finally manages to reclaim it, it's only his hand sliding off a slab of stone and the world going black to the echo of a cruel god's laughter.