She was the mysterious figure again, the one he had first seen, emerging from the Gran Café de Paris.

‘You don’t need your disguise, there won’t be any letters today,’ he said.

She gave him a sarcastic smile in return. ‘You try being a woman and walking around this city in shorts.’

She was right, he thought, as he followed her out of the kitchen door. He’d never considered how Tangier might be a different city for her than it was for him – another experience, a different face. One that was less permissive, less open. Just as the streets of La Atunara had been for Ale, without a man’s suit.

‘Ale wants you to come back,’ Zahrah said, as they crossed the garden. ‘Later, after you have spoken to the journalist.’

The thought of confronting Norton made Sam feel sick. But Zahrah was right. It was his fault; he had to try and fix it.

They used the front gate this time. He held aside the fall of jasmine while Zahrah unlocked it with a huge, old key.

‘Not the most convenient entrance, is it?’ he said.

‘I told you, we don’t want people to know about this place.’ She locked the gate behind her. ‘It’s Ale’s safe haven.’

They stopped on the nearest corner.

‘Well.’ For the first time, Zahrah seemed awkward. ‘I will see you later.’

‘Wait!’ he called before she had even taken a step. ‘Can I walk with you, for a while? Where are you headed?’

‘To the library.’ She glanced at his face. ‘It’s not on your way, but you can walk, if you like.’

They set off together. Abruptly, Sam felt more real than he had for weeks. The sun that shone into his eyes and made his headache worse was today’s sun, not yesterday’s, not the sun of five decades ago. He glanced over at Zahrah, smiling foolishly. She caught his look.

‘Now what?’ she asked, as they passed into the shade of an alleyway.

‘Nothing. I was just wondering whether you are as secretive as Ale.’

‘I’m not secretive,’ she said coolly. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Have you always lived here?’

She shook her head. ‘I was born in Melilla. You know where that is?’

‘Isn’t that a Spanish city, down the coast?’

‘An enclave, yes.’ She quickened her step as they passed a group of men who sat smoking on a doorstep. ‘My father was Spanish. He was a soldier in the Legion.’

‘And your mother?’ He had to hurry to keep up with her.

‘She was from the Rif. They were not married.’

‘Oh.’ He glanced at her, but her face was unreadable as she navigated her way out of the casbah. ‘Where are they now?’