The market smelled of bruised tomatoes and fermenting vegetables, fish turning pungent in their trays, perspiring cheeses. The stalls had already been picked over. With all the extra mouths to feed in the city, other cooks would have arrived at dawn, perhaps even waylaid the farmers on the road into town to buy what was best. I jostled through, wishing I could wear Ifrahim’s old, roomy work trousers out here without being sneered at, instead of the too-thick skirt that made my thighs chafe.

The butcher looked at me as if I was mad when I asked for bull’s tail, and I had to bite my tongue rather than roll my eyes and remind him that we always catered to clients’ whims. He was a church man and didn’t like us. The second butcher was friendlier. His stall was smaller, dirtier, and sold what the other had turned down.

‘Try the slaughterhouse,’ he said, palsied hands laying down the cleaver. ‘Heard they had a bull in today. If not, they might give you cow, or a bit of ox. Those drunk bastards won’t know the difference.’

Outside the slaughterhouse, the cobbles were tacky with bloodstained water. When I stepped across the threshold into the dim, reeking shed, I found the place in a frenzy. The butcher was right, they had just slaughtered a bull, but it had gone badly. The creature had worked loose and tried to escape, crushing a boy’s chest in the process. When I asked, the man in charge skinned the tail and gave it to me for free, saying that the beast had been possessed by the devil, and if I wanted to cook with its meat, that was between god and myself.

The bull’s tail was so fresh that it dripped through the newspaper. I paired it with some old, ropey ox-tails and thought it lucky that the slaughterman was such a fool. I imagined telling Ifrahim about it. He would have winked at me and said that idle fears never did put food on the table. That thought was enough to dilute some of the anxiety I’d felt since speaking to Morales.

I had to hurry, for there was the noon meal to prepare and the girls to feed. All week I’d served ajo blanco for lunch, soaking the previous day’s bread in milk and water and pounding it into a silky soup, as cold as I could get it. People scooped it down, sitting on stools in the shade of the balconies, and I was glad to see them eat – glad to see them sigh, soothed by the simple flavours, for a little garlic and bread does wonders for stomachs wretched with wine.