‘You seem to know your way around,’ Norton said, ducking past a group of women laden with shopping. ‘How long have you been in this hellhole?’

‘Here? A few months. Two, nearly three, I guess. I’ve lost track.’

‘I hope I get used to it.’ Norton stopped on the street, where two potted palms flanked a recessed door. ‘Well, this is me. Come in and I’ll get you that change.’ He glanced inside. ‘Actually, there’s a bar here too. Let me buy you something stronger, to say thanks.’

Sam stared at him, then beyond into the dark lobby, where a uniformed bellhop waited. The El Minzah was one of the good hotels. He shifted in the sticky espadrilles.

‘I’m not exactly dressed for it.’

For the first time, Norton seemed to look at him properly, eyes roaming from the tangled hair brushing his shoulders, to his jeans. ‘I’m sure that won’t matter,’ he said uncertainly. Then his eyes brightened. ‘Here,’ he said, loosening his tie and passing it over. ‘They won’t say a thing if you’re wearing that.’

Sam dropped the loop of fabric over his head, feeling stupid, knowing that he looked it too. The man must be desperate for company, he thought. About as desperate as I am for a proper drink.

He followed Norton into the lobby, trying not to duck his head. Inside, it was quiet, marble-cool. A record was playing somewhere, soft jazz. For a second the lobby and the streets seemed to curdle around him, like milk and orange. Norton was sighing in what sounded like relief, walking up a short flight of steps, and Sam had to follow.

He’d heard of the bar at the El Minzah, but had never been in. Too expensive. Not his scene. Ahead, he saw a cavernous space, where red carpets made the air drowsy with dust, barely disturbed by a breeze, despite the open windows. It was empty, except for a pair of older women who sat stiffly on a sofa, small glasses before them. It wasn’t yet noon.

‘God,’ said Norton, dropping into a chair. ‘What a day.’

Sam followed suit. He had the odd feeling that he had tripped, somewhere on his way up the Avenue Pasteur, and had fallen into a different reality. It was all too strange; Norton and his fat wallet, the stuffy bar with its promise of booze. What if the man was a fake and wanted something from him? He watched as Norton craned around to summon a waiter, and decided that he didn’t have the energy to care, not for an hour. Perhaps in that time, he’d work up the courage to ask about borrowing a few dirhams.

‘What’ll you have?’ Norton said, shucking off his jacket.

‘I don’t know.’ Sam’s head felt light from the coffee and the sugar and the lack of nicotine. ‘Are the beers cold here?’