‘That’s not true.’ The words were out of Sam’s mouth before he could stop them. ‘His name is Langham, Arthur Langham.’

Mouad was shaking his head. ‘There was an Englishman who lived there, many years ago. I was only a boy, but I remember the story. Shall I tell you?’ Although the question was directed at Sam, he couldn’t help but feel that Mouad was asking for permission. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Abdelhamid give an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Yes,’ Sam said, watching both men. ‘Please.’

‘OK.’ Mouad shifted, looking a little uncertain. ‘They say that, one night, the Englishman heard Aicha Kandicha call his name from the strait. He took a boat out to look for her.’ Mouad lowered his voice. ‘Of course, the boat sank. They say there was a party that night, up at Dar Nglîz. They say the man could see the lights of his house as he drowned.’

A shudder went down Sam’s spine.

‘That must have happened to someone else,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Not to Langham. I saw him. I spoke to him, just yesterday.’

He looked between the two brothers. This time, it was Abdelhamid who shook his head.

‘There have been many rumours about the people who live at Dar Nglîz, but Mouad is right. There has not been an Englishman at the house since that day.’ He looked at Sam over his coffee, a hint of a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. ‘Whoever you spoke to, he must have been a ghost.’

Temptation

Take a piece of orange peel and a piece of lemon peel and twist them together. Soak them in two dashes of Dubonnet Rouge, two dashes of absinthe and two dashes of Curaçao. Pour in a jigger of Canadian Club whisky and stir until inextricably mixed.

He isn’t who he says he is.

Identity can be a slippery thing. It is easy to see a fine suit and a hat and say gentleman when you should be saying stranger or thief or liar. And yet, we are drawn to those in who we see ourselves, for better or for worse.