‘Because you asked me to,’ I said. Langham’s face was half hidden in shadow, but his eyes found mine. ‘Because I promised you loyalty. Because I want—’ My words ran out, replaced by smoke-filled air. Because I want to crack you open and see what’s inside. Because I want to know you.

‘Because you want what?’ He stepped towards me, raising a hand to touch my chin.

A knock on the door, as loud as thunder and I stumbled away, tripping on the edge of the rug. Langham moved back too. His face was tight, as if we’d been caught in the act. Nothing had happened, but my whole body was buzzing as if it had.

‘What is it?’ Langham called impatiently.

The door creaked open. Was it a trick of the shadows, or did Bouzid’s eyes flick to where I stood trembling, for one brief second? ‘A telegram, monsieur. It is marked urgent. I thought you should know.’

‘Fine, I’ll be there shortly.’

Bouzid shut the door. For one uncertain moment, Langham looked at me, his lips parted.

‘Alejandro—’ he began, but the rest was lost in a tumult of voices and laughter as the guests called Langham’s name from the veranda, demanding more music, more drinks.

I turned and fled, the danger of it all burning on my lips.

Tangier

July 1978

There have been many rumours about the people who live at Dar Nglîz, but Mouad is right. Whoever you spoke to, he must have been a ghost.

Abdelhamid’s words were in Sam’s head as he hurried back towards the Interpress building. The late afternoon light was playing tricks, throwing angled shadows everywhere. In their depths, he thought he felt someone watching, a figure whose eyes were moonlight on water and whose breath held the rank, mineral sweetness of the sea as she called his name …

He shook his head. It was idle café chatter, the gossip of radio medina, passing from one tea glass to another, that was all. A story told around the sebsi, a tale for dark nights in the casbah, a warning that even foreigners weren’t immune to the hidden magic of the city.

He strode across the busy Place de France, the sun in his eyes, not caring about the taxis that blared their horns at him. Mouad and Abdelhamid were wrong, he told himself; Langham was alive and well and living in Dar Portuna, as he had been for years. He was just private, that was all, intensely private.