‘He’s badly hurt,’ he told the soldiers. ‘I am taking him to a doctor, and I don’t care to be held up about it.’

‘Sir, with all respect he’s just as likely acting,’ one of them answered. ‘He’s been here all morning, begging—’

‘Be that as it may, I won’t be easy until I’ve had a doctor look at him.’

‘There are doctors in La Atunara.’

‘Over there? Quacks and butchers. No, I have to insist. An English doctor.’

‘Has he any identification with him? Any passport?’

Even in my state, I heard that word well enough. Passport. They meant papers, and of course, I had none. I couldn’t let them search me. If they found out I was a woman, they would be suspicious. Who knew if they’d heard about the murder in Córdoba? The next time their voices turned in my direction, I coughed and gave a terrible groan of agony.

It must have been convincing, because I heard a woman’s voice, exclaiming. I opened one watering eye a fraction and saw her, hanging over the side of the car. I hadn’t noticed her at first; she must have been the person the man was laughing with as he drove. She was just as fine-looking as he, in a peach-coloured hat, hair the colour of custard waving below its brim.

Her rouged mouth was open. I didn’t catch exactly what she said, though she sounded hurt on my behalf. Amongst the words there was one in particular that found its way through the ringing in my ears.

Arthur.

I don’t know how he did it; a mix of stolid English insistence and righteous indignation perhaps, but soon I was being pulled to my feet by the soldiers and deposited into the back seat of the car, beside the woman. The soldiers looked unhappy about it and made the man take a piece of stamped paper. A temporary pass, I found out later, issued on the condition that I left Gibraltar as soon as a doctor had seen to me.

The woman made me lie on the back seat with my head on her lap. It made me nervous, because although my disguise might have fooled men easily enough, women were another matter. So I screwed up my face and tried not to look into her grey eyes.

‘Oh it’s too awful, Arthur,’ she said, as the man got into the car. ‘He’s so young, barely more than a boy.’

‘We’ll get him seen to, Hilde,’ the man said, slamming the door. ‘Well?’ he shouted to the soldiers. ‘Are you going to let us through at last?’

Then came the clacking of the barrier, and the great, warm car was purring into life, speeding forwards, taking us into Gibraltar.