“And what about me, Mr Djvonic?” the kid calling himself Lazarus asked. “Surely you too have done your homework?” “Well Mr Lazarus, if that�...�s who you are,” Djvonic began, choosing his words carefully to mitigate his great lack of useful information. “With apologies to Winston Churchill, you are a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Beyond eight years ago, there’s no trace of you, but since then you’ve cropped up in identity theft and long cons. In the last year or two, rumours began. I had told myself I was going to be a good girl and not mess around with him anymore and had not had any contact with him in several months. But nonetheless he approached me at the bar, bought me a drink and we began talking. We talked briefly but I continued dancing, drinking and having fun with my friends I was out with, not really paying much mind to him. As the night went on, growing tired of dancing I took a place at the bar where he sat beside me and we started talking again. He was. More

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