He leaned forward, wondering whether he’d finally smoked too much kif. But no, his fingers touched metal, tarnished and real. It was a key, a small one, the type that might open a bag or a chest or a bureau. Automatically, he looked to the front of the case, but there was no lock there, just the rusted clasp. Stray key, he thought in delight, what do you open?

Abruptly, he was wide awake. It was as if the silver of the key had shone into his brain and illuminated a corner he had forgotten about. It brought a shiver of excitement, the crackling sensation that came with a new idea, with the urge to write something down. The seed of a story, a mystery. He’d always been a sucker for those, for cheap paperbacks filled with secrets and thrilling adventures, much to the disapproval of his literature professors.

Eagerly, he looked at the other item. It was dull and brown, an offcut of leather, curled like a leaf. Don’t get excited, it seemed to mumble, dead things, that’s all we are. He picked it up anyway, and turned it in his fingers.

It wasn’t an offcut at all, he found, but a rectangle, like a luggage tag. Smoothing it out, he saw a design embossed in gold, a stylized lion’s head. And beneath it, stamped into the leather, was a number:

15

*

Noon found him hurrying through the streets of the medina, the writing case clasped to his chest. In his haste, he stepped in a pile of fish heads left out for the cats and almost slipped, but he carried on, not thinking about his shoes, just trying to reach the shop before it closed for lunch …

‘Abdelhamid!’

He caught him just as he was turning the key in the lock.

‘Monsieur Hackett,’ Abdel greeted. ‘Good afternoon. You have not run out already?’

‘Not yet.’ He tried to catch his breath. ‘I was looking at the case, and I found something inside.’

‘Oh?’ Abdelhamid squinted. ‘What did you find?’

‘A key –’ Sam dug into his pocket ‘– a key for something, like a chest. Did the case come with anything else? From the same set of luggage maybe? And I found this too. Do you know what it’s for?’

He held them out, the key and the crumpled leather tag. A second later, he felt a stab of uncertainty. What if Abdelhamid thought they were important and wanted to take the case back? Sam gripped the handle tighter.

But Abdel just shook his head, turning the little silver key in his fingers. ‘No, no, it was always alone, always just …’ He looked down at the label, and shrugged. ‘Why? You think they are something?’