Beside the cathedral, in the high afternoon heat, the human statues pose. A bronzed Roman centurion, whose only movement is to flick his eyes when a child stares up in astonishment wondering if he is real. He smiles and extends a hand and the child moves to take it and stand beside him. The photographs follow, payment, a note and some coins are pushed through the narrow slit of a circular receptacle. Beside him a fashion model from the 18th century, in long frock with yards of tulle and lace, and wearing a big wide hat. Next door, Fred Flintstone, a muscleman in a hairy bathing suit, holds a massive knobbly club aloft, as he perches precariously on a flimsy podium a couple of feet higher than anybody else. Further down a man dressed as a witch, with a large hooked nose, brandishes a long broomstick. He entices the visitors to straddle it. As they settle, there is a non-too-subtle lift of the stick causing squeals of surprise and of suppressed giggles from some women. When he has enough on 'board', the order is given. Eight right legs lift in unison, and bodies sway to the left as they simulate flight. 'Harry Potter!' a little girl screams in excitement.
        Eamon and Mary walk slowly; they hold hands, very much the adoring couple. In between smiling at each other, they both search the crowds, looking for something familiar, a glimpse that will confirm what they are both sure of, that they are being watched.
        Back again in front of the cathedral Eamon looks at the queue snaking along the double steps to the entrance. Over the beggars scattered deliberately apart, he is sure, and at the tour guides walking along, their umbrellas held aloft. And he sees nobody. And is not convinced. He wonders, not for the first time, if he is missing things. When he turns to Mary and asks how she is, she replies, fine, what a sight.
        They retrace their steps to find a café in the small square just off the Plaza. By now Eamon's stomach is so bloated, he feels almost ill. He selects a café with a view of the street and the square. The crush of people coming from and entering the Plaza is continuous, a stream of humanity, young and old, of all nationalities. He orders a Coke and an ice cream for Mary. Although he normally never drinks Coke, he has discovered it is an effective palliative when his Irritable Bowel Syndrome is bad. At moments like this, it is difficult to believe his doctor's assurances that it is not life-threatening.
        They do the usual tourist thing, of sitting and watching the crowds go by. Sometimes Eamon thinks he sees somebody, a face that passed by a few minutes earlier, now back with a woman on his arm. Others seem to come and go, but there is as yet no pattern, nothing he can be sure of.
        The green Celtic baseball cap is pulled low over his forehead as he tracks past their table heading up one of the many dark, narrow streets that surround the cathedral. Eamon waits, looking ever so casually around as he says to Mary, 'Get him?'
         'Yeah. Strange.'
        'Sure is. Anything else?'
        'No. Want me to take a look?'
        'No. Now he's got us, he'll follow us.'

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