They’d given him one phone call, like they did in the movies. His fingers had hovered above the smeared digits. He couldn’t phone his parents, anyway, the police would never allow him an international call. Not the American embassy – that would mean expulsion from Tangier. As far as he knew Abdelhamid didn’t have a phone. So he did the only thing he could think of: dialled the operator and asked, in bad French, to be put through to Dar Portuna.

The operator paused when she heard that. A moment later she told him that there was no such place. Of course. In the end, out of options, he had asked to be put through to The Hold.

Thankfully, Roger answered. He said he’d tell Bet and the others as soon as he could, that they’d all do their best to help. And if they didn’t, or couldn’t? Sam didn’t want to think about it.

The other men in the cell were waking up now, wincing and yawning. There were four of them, all Moroccan, Sam guessed. Three had been there when he arrived, one had been shunted in during the night, a young man with long hair, wearing jeans and a ripped t-shirt. His nose was swollen and crusted with dried blood. When he saw Sam was awake, he half smiled and nodded.

‘Hola,’ he said, and pointed to himself. ‘Amir.’

‘Sam.’ He shook the man’s hand. Was he meant to do that? He had no idea about prison etiquette.

‘American?’ the young man asked.

Sam nodded, rubbing at his face. His eyes felt gritty, face caked in sweat and grime from the sweltering room.

‘¿Por qué …?’ Amir gestured around the cell, looking incredulous.

‘A fight.’ Sam held up his bruised knuckles. ‘You?’

Amir shook his head, as if he didn’t understand. One of the older Moroccan men said something, and the others laughed sourly.

The young man kept his gaze on the floor after that. Eventually, he took some tobacco out of his jeans pocket.

‘Do you have papers?’ Sam asked, feeling in his own pockets.

The kif dust he shook from the lining was negligible, but Amir’s face lit up when he saw it. Carefully, they rolled it into a cigarette. One of the other men hammered on the door. A heated negotiation went on, until finally, a guard was passed the joint to light. After taking the first few puffs for himself, he passed it back into the cell.

Amir smoked, then passed it to Sam. He took a drag, trying to figure out what he was going to do. What if he was deported, before he had a chance to go back to Dar Portuna, to see Ale and Zahrah and explain? It was unthinkable. He coughed out a little smoke, and passed the joint back to Amir, who passed it on to the next man.