Gerry slumped in a chair in the hotel lobby, because he couldn't face his room. It was small and spartan. There was nothing in its interior or outside its tiny window that assured him he was in Venice. At least in the lobby there were tacky frescoes of San Marcos and real Venetians obsequiously serving the tourists.

Gerry waved at the puffy Belgian man who had befriended him at dinner last night. They had both drunk too much and proceeded to make gentle racist jibes at each other. The Belgian was looking sheepish this morning, as he browsed for a postcard for the niece that he couldn't shut-up about. Why on earth was he wearing a Hawaiian shirt? It can't help his hangover. Some people just doff them as a travel uniform, even if they're going to Greenland.

The Belgian pondered a great deal on the postcards, as his brain was a little stuffy this morning. Ah, yes. The completely black one that says, "Venice by Night." Never fails to get a smile.

Gerry finally gathered the strength to go to his room, irritated by the Belgian's drawn out decision. Upstairs he lathered his face with his mock-executive shaving brush and dipped the razor in the water. At that moment a muffled explosion erupted from under his feet, knocking the brush off the sink onto his (now soapy) toes. He continued shaving until he heard the familiar sound of an emergency vehicle.

That timeless morbid curiosity drew him to the window where he could just see an ambulance draw up at a side entrance. Soon enough a covered stretcher appeared from inside and Gerry could just make out a tattered piece of garish cotton printed with palmtrees. He feared as much. Slowly his head tilted forward until it touched the pane, and there he stood, lather still on his ears, in a trance of memory and grief.

Not so much for the Belgian, whose name he couldn't even remember, but for his (ex)wife who met a similar fate on a holiday in Japan. In a way this trip was an exercise in proving his resilience, and today's unhappy incident almost pulled the rug out from under him. He closed his eyes and turned the wringing hands inside him into tentative fists, reminding himself that travel, now more than ever, is an adventure. One that gathers kudos faster than practically any activity.

A coffee! That's what he needed. A genuine Italian expresso with one of those creamy cheese slices. He reached for the guide-book and looked up cafes. Almost all of them had the ubiquitious skull-and-cross-bones symbol after the name. He noticed one nearby that only had a light grey rating (rather than the usual black) and decided the risk was worth it. Perhaps its rating had altered since publication. It was this year's guide, but things changed very quickly these days - as the five page disclaimer at the beginning of the book testified.

Once at the cafe he ordered the items he craved, and tried to read a book to calm his nerves. He had had one sip of coffee and hadn't even touched his cake when two samauri stars silenced the two noisy Americans three tables across. Instantly, the waiters descended on the couple like swooping magpies, relieving the warm corpses of their wallets and cameras. One of the waiters pointed at the lens and said something humorous. Gerry translated the fact to himself that it was a disguised gun - its ineffectivity being the ironic focus of the waiter's remark. Gerry, who abhorred arming himself for a holiday, began to reconsider.

As soon as the waiters retired to the kitchen with their loot, Gerry grabbed his slice and ran. He ran inland through the maze of stone alleyways until he could go no further, collapsing in a small abandoned square. When he had recovered his breath he began to eat the slice, distorted out of all proportion by his tense grip. This somewhat revived him, and the peaceful nature of the piazza soothed his spirit. The sun was low and the air cool. Pidgeons cooed quietly on the window ledges, and the walls peeled magnificently.

Well, thought Gerry, I bet no tourists have been here for a while. This is the real Venice. But soon the silence began to jar, and the absence of life suggested an impending presence of death. Gargoyle pipes began to look disturbingly like gun barrels. So he stood up, brushed himself off, and went in search of dinner...

Several labyrinthine twists to the east (or was it the north?) found Gerry at a small bar. He took a deep breath and sauntered in, trying to look at least Italian, if not a local. His white suit and small hat was a laughable disguise, but he was still alive wasn't he?

Almost instantly his eyes alighted on a young woman who was sitting at a table in the corner, facing away from the door. It seemed to him that she was dabbing tears from her cheek with a lace handkerchief. Her blonde hair and evening dress stood out sharply from the somber scenery of the cigar scented bar. As she seemed alone and in some distress, he approached her table.

"Scusi senorita..." he began, at which she turned with a startled expression. Her jade coloured eyes swirled with bewilderment, as if she was yet to recover from a shock. Gerry noticed that she was not dabbing tears with a handkerchief, but blood with a dirty serviette. A thin, but deep gash traced her left cheek-bone.

"My god, what happened?" he said, slipping automatically into his native language.

"Oh you speak English," she said, relaxing a little.

"You're hurt," he noted, perhaps unnecessarily.

"It's nothing really. I'm just glad to still be...." her jaw clenched up as the stress seeped into her eyes. Gerry, being a romantic soul, consciously noted the moment as the exact point he fell for her. He took her hand and provided her with his own starched handkerchief.

"I don't think it will need stitches, just try not to smile."

She fought valiantly but surrendered to a sweet grin of gratitude.

"Are you English?" she asked.

"No Australian."

"Oh I'm sorry, we Americans always make that mistake."

"You are American? There is something Continental in your accent.."

"Yes. I was raised in Sienna but have lived in America for the last thirteen years. I thought it was time to visit home. I had no idea...."

Gerry let out a sigh which he punctuated with a disgusted, "on their own kind!"

"They weren't to know."

One of the old gentlemen at the bar shuffled up to their table and asked if they would like to hear a song. At first they stared at the man with suspicion, summoning back the keener instincts they had temporarily relaxed. But his smile seemed genuine and indulgent, so they said they would be honoured.

He sang a love song set in the streets of Venice, and the presumption that such a theme was appropriate ensured that they listened with a mixture of pleasure and embarrasment. When he finished he simply bowed, smiled and returned to his seat. Gerry was disorientated by the gentleman's failure to ask for some money, so he bought him a grappa to ensure that such a social transaction was at least coated by commerce.

Gerry and Lena (for that was her name) ate where they sat and talked long into the night. Each mouthful of food was washed down by the tonic of each other's companionship and conversation. By desert they had both forgotten the trials of the day and felt like they were both on a proper holiday.

"Ah," said Lena. "Now I remember why I travel."

They toasted this proclomation, smiles full of promise and affirmation.

Venice was calm when they negotiated their way back to the hotel hand in hand. During the course of the evening they had realized that they were both staying at the Rialto. Although neither of them mentioned the word "fate," the echoes of its articulation hung in the forefront of their minds.

The champagne was still fizzing in their bloodstreams when Gerry raced up onto the Bridge of Sighs and gave his most melodramatic expungement of emotion. "I've always wanted to do that," he confided. Lena pronounced that he was indeed a fool, but their laughter ceased when the eerie sound of a strangled cry drifted across the water from a nearby gondola.

"Quick, we should move on," hissed Lena urgently.

"It's alright," said Gerry, feigning confidence. "They can't make us go on one of those things."

Nevertheless they kept walking.

After a while of more sober saunterings, Lena sat down to massage her feet. She ignored Gerry's insistence that the hotel was five minutes away and they should continue. So he sat next to her and rubbed her heels, arousal soon overpowering any sense of caution. She moaned with that peculiar pleasure stemming from deep muscle pain, her eyelids drooping drunkenly and her head swaying side to side. Gerry's hands moved to her slim calves where they pondered their next move, before he noticed that her head was swaying out of control, as if she were hypnotized.

"Lena, what are you doing?"

She merely pointed, and Gerry's eyes followed her arm to where a giant pendulum swung from the town hall. For a while they both swayed in motion, until the dim moonlight revealed the full nature of the spectacle. Gerry ran up some marble steps to where a man dangled from a noose tied to his feet.

"Finally," said the inverted tarzan.

Gerry untied the loop so that the man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The man swore like a pirate and rubbed his ankle.

"You o.k.," asked Gerry.

"Sure. Just got a fucking massive headache."

"And empty pockets too, eh?"

"True enough," he said, without even checking them. "Pretty bodgy snare, really. I would have got out sooner or later. I make better ones meself, back in Ireland." He laughed to prove that he could take a joke.

Gerry and Lena helped him up until the blood returned to his legs and he could get back to his pensione.

"Thanks," he said, and ran into the night.

Fine drizzle began to fall just as Gerry and Lena reached their hotel. Some delicate word-work was spun between them before they arranged to pocket one key and share a room; in the end they decided on hers due to the convenience of its double bed.

They were both drunk and exhausted, but they had an unspoken promise to fulfill. After dressing the cut on her cheek, Lena reclined on the bed and invited Gerry to continue the ministrations on her leg. He instantly obliged. His heart began to beat and his fatigue to evaporate as this Tuscan beauty's brow frowned with pleasure. He began to kiss her leg, edging ever closer.

"Darling," she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Turn off the light please."

He paused in disappointment, but he was in no mood to argue. He leapt up and walked across the room to the light-switch, taking one last look at the languishing Venus. He walked towards the bed, feeling his way in the dark when a magnesium flare exploded in his brain. It took a blinding second to realize that this was a message of extreme pain being express delivered through the marrow of his shin bone. Through his confusion he could barely feel the deft hands removing his wallet and relieving him of his key. He writhed, snorted, and sobbed like a speared lion.

He fought unconsciousness as he groped for the source of the agony. All he could feel was something hard and cold. He searched for his lighter, fumbled it out of his pocket and ignited it with a violently shuddering hand. His right leg was caught in a steel clamp with thick spikes and an industrial strength spring. It looked like a malevolent clam. Etched into the side, just above one of the lynch pins, were the bold words "Tourist Trap Pty Ltd."

"Jesus Lena, they've got me," Gerry whimpered.

He lifted up the lighter - she had disappeared. The last thing he saw before he slipped into nothingness, was his distraught reflection in the full length mirror. A man in a bear-trap, holding a cigarette lighter, with lipstick on his cheek.