Thirty minutes later, I found myself ejected from Gibraltar, back into the dust of La Atunara. Thankfully, the British soldiers didn’t ask any questions, only ripped up the temporary pass, pleased to see me back where I belonged. I stared up at the great, gnarled rock from the wrong side of the checkpoint. I wanted to walk freely there, among the stiff English men and ladies, wanted to feel the power of a suit that smelled of starch and cologne, that didn’t bag and chafe, that wasn’t ingrained with dirt. I wanted to plant a cane into that ground that was neither England nor Spain and stare out to sea, the way the man – Arthur Langham – had done.

Tangiers, the hotel man said. Tangiers. The name was familiar. Was it from one of Ifrahim’s stories? I squinted in the late afternoon sun, trying to find the dark shape of land on the horizon. The name brought an idea of hot sun, of a port full of ships from every country of the world, of money and spices and danger, where anything was possible, where a person might pull a brand-new name out of the air.

Tangiers. Beneath the bindings, my heart began to quicken. I turned towards the town, the peseta note crinkling against my skin.

Money can buy many things. In La Atunara it was possible to find a suit of passable quality amongst the clothes stalls of the market, a tailor to shorten the trousers, to unpick the initials of the person it had once belonged to. It was possible to find a pair of second-hand shoes, a bundle of men’s socks and linens, a roll of bandage stolen from a military hospital. It was possible to find a barber who would trim uneven clumps of hair into better shape, without commenting on a young man’s lack of stubble. It was possible for a person to transform themselves over a couple of days, all for the cost of ten pesetas.

I bundled up the stolen clothes, the torn apron, everything that remained of my old existence. The only thing I kept was the knife, its handle worn smooth by years of use. I did not want to walk the streets of La Atunara without it, in case someone saw through my disguise.

Langham’s hat was the final piece. Holding it before my face, I caught a wisp of his scent. Wax from rose-scented hair pomade, musk from cologne and a faint, elusive note I recognized as sweat. I settled it upon my head, and looked at myself.