No matter how bad things were at the inn, I rarely went hungry. Perhaps that was why I didn’t entertain thoughts of leaving, until there was no other choice. Ifrahim and I would often keep back the best for ourselves, sneaking slivers of the choicest cuts of meat, corners of fresh cheese, glasses of wine. When the rest of the inn was replete, we would take our cook’s reward in the kitchen. It was a habit I continued after Ifrahim died. Sometimes, I’d even use one of the best crystal glasses for my stolen wine, and recline by the stove, pretending there was someone to wait on me, to turn down my bed at the ring of a bell.

Full belly, happy heart, the saying goes. Mine had never been so empty as that evening on the beach, the end of my first day as a fugitive. My belly wrung itself out, and my guts lay leaden, unable to stir themselves to help my heart.

I staggered to my feet, thinking only of food. From along the beach came the sound of shouting and the smell of cigarette smoke. I made my way across the sand towards it. There, I saw a small boat rolling in the shallows, men swarming around it. They had formed a chain, over a dozen of them, and were passing goods from the boat to the beach, to a wagon that stood, half-loaded.

Before another minute was up they were done, pushing the boat back out to sea. In a daze, I drifted forwards. Hunger and thirst drove the fear of being recognized as a wanted woman right out of my mind.

By now, the men were crowding about someone, exclaiming and stretching out their hands. In the middle of the group, a huge man was paying the workers, counting coins into their palms. Beside him stood a man in a black hat, wearing a starched collar despite the heat. Money – the thought crossed my brain, slug-like – that was what I needed. Money for food and drink and a safe place to spend the night.

Finally, the last men were paid. They dispersed, laughing together, weighing their wages in their hands. One of them caught me staring.

‘Hola chica,’ he said, rolling a coin.

I ignored him, watching the man in the black hat instead, the one who was undoubtedly in charge. But he was already walking away, the leather bag held tight. Abruptly the beach looked deserted.

‘Wait!’ I heard myself calling. The worker who had spoken to me turned back.

‘Changed your mind?’ he leered.

‘Please. Can you spare a céntimo? I haven’t eaten for days.’

He laughed at that, showing the dark gaps of missing teeth. ‘You and me both, sister.’

His friends were catcalling, telling him to hurry up and not to bother talking to a perra.