‘He isn’t trying to stiff you,’ Sam said, holding a hand up to the waiter to show that he would explain. ‘It’s just that a coffee is one dirham.’ He pointed to the note. ‘He’s telling you he doesn’t have change for that. Haven’t you got anything smaller?’

The young man flushed, right up to his eyes. ‘Oh.’ He stared at the note in his hand. ‘Well then, why didn’t he say? I know a bit of French. He could have told me. I thought they all spoke it here?’

Sam shrugged. ‘Spanish, more likely. Do you have anything smaller?’

‘What? Oh. No, I don’t. This is it. Just came from the bank, you see.’ He stared down into the wallet, as if it would magically sprout small change. ‘I don’t suppose he’d accept pounds?’

Sam grimaced. He already regretted coming over, but then again, there was that wallet …

‘Here,’ he said, pulling a few santimat from his pocket. ‘Let me.’

‘I couldn’t possibly …’ the young man began to protest, but Sam had already dropped the coins on to the waiter’s tray. The waiter nodded to him before walking off, rolling his eyes and shouting to a co-worker near the kitchens.

‘That was very decent of you,’ the young man said, collecting a leather briefcase. It seemed he wanted to be out of the café as fast as possible. ‘I can pay you back.’

‘It’s only a dirham,’ Sam murmured. Twenty-seven, he thought bleakly.

‘Nonsense. I’ll pay you back right now, if you come with me to my hotel. It’s just down the road. Surely they will have change.’

Stepping out of the café was like diving into a pool of colour and smell and noise. Sam sometimes felt as if he was swimming, when he walked the streets during the day, coming up for air when he stepped into a café or a bar or up to a rooftop. It was different at night, of course. But in the day, the city seethed. He watched the young Englishman sweating in his suit as they walked. The man’s eyes kept darting everywhere, from the stray cat that washed itself at the edge of the kerb, to the old woman crouched in a doorway, her hands pushed out to them, her face creased by the world.

Did I look like him? Sam wondered. That mix of panic and concentration, all out of rhythm with the street? Probably, he thought. Amazing what a couple of months could do.

‘I’m Ellis, by the way.’ The young man was holding out a hand. ‘Ellis Norton.’

‘Sam Hackett.’ He shook quickly, conscious of the dirt beneath his nails. ‘You’re British?’

‘Yes.’ The man sounded breathless. ‘Arrived from London last night. You’re American?’

‘Got it in one.’