I should have had security. I should have had it from the moment I realised what I was doing, from the first time I saw the shark in the numbers on the cathode-ray screen. I should be sitting in a bulletproof car right now, the kind that can squash a Hummer like a soft-boiled egg. I should have two guys in the front seats called Steve and Warislaw, both with those mid-Atlantic accents that tell you they learned English in Slovakia, the hard skin on their hands that tells you the other stuff they know. The car should have machine guns and rockets and an internal oxygen supply and widescreen TV and a fucking pole for the dancers.