LE MOMENT MAGIQUE by Nicki Benson But I'd done all that. I was ready for a different kind of action.

The Eurostar sped out of the Channel Tunnel, and at once the announcer began speaking in French. I’d never understood that; the train had the same passengers aboard as when it had left London, so why change the language now?

It didn’t matter. I was an Englishman abroad, which was all that counted.

There were no passport checks at Lille Europe station for incoming visitors. At the top of the escalator you were free to roam wherever you wished. I went to the Rélais first, to pick up a sleeve of Marlboro. In France you can only buy cigarettes from a tabac, and they invariably close early in the evening. Run out after that and you’re fucked.

Then it was along the avenue Le Corbusier to the hotel with the same name as the station. Modern, functional and at 70 Euros per night relatively cheap.

“Bonjour mademoiselle,” I said to the receptionist. “Je voudrais une chambre simple. Commencement ce soir, pour trois nuits.”

“A single room for three nights,” she said, clearly used to hearing English accents. “Would you like breakfast?”

“Non, merci.”

I’d stayed here before. They charged 10 Euros for what you could get in the bar across the road for half the price.

And if things went to plan I’d be enjoying le petit déjeuner tomorrow morning at someone else’s expense.

In my room I spent several minutes at the dressing-table mirror examining my face from every possible angle. I told myself I could still back out, go and waste time in one of the city’s Australian bars, later sample some Vietnamese cuisine or maybe Tunisian instead.

But I’d done all that. I was ready for a different kind of action.

I thought about the preparations I’d made, the items I’d bought, the books and magazines I’d studied…

It had to be now.

I reached down to unzip my bulky dark green holdall. From it I took a beige shoulder bag. I twisted it open, removed the contents and got to work.

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