Immediately, Márquez slammed the door behind me. We were in a sort of storage room, long and low and dim, stacked with crates and boxes. A table was pushed against one wall, a creased tide map hidden beneath papers. Before it sat a man. He was younger than Bautista, his cheeks and chin covered in a dark stubble that merged with the rest of his close-cropped hair.

‘Any problems?’ he asked Márquez, without looking at me.

In the corner, two Moroccan men were slouched, smoking and watching closely.

‘No problems, señor,’ Márquez answered. ‘But this one’s green all right.’

The boss man looked at me then. He had odd, tawny eyes, like a goat or a cat; eyes that saw too much.

All at once, the room felt stifling. The bindings made it hard to breathe. I ran a finger beneath my collar, releasing the sweat trapped there, sending it trickling down my chest. If these men found out what I was … The strange man’s eyes went to the suitcase.

‘Did you look inside?’

He was well-spoken, more refined than his surroundings.

‘No.’ I kept my voice gruff. The less I said, the better.

The boss man barked something in a language I didn’t know. One of the Moroccan men clambered to his feet and came to take the suitcase from me. The moment it left my grip, I realized I shouldn’t have let it go, that empty-handed was a bad thing to be, in that place.

‘Give me your papers,’ the boss said.

My heart gave a sick thud. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask questions,’ Márquez snapped. His breath stank of old garlic. When I took the passport from my pocket, he snatched it and handed it over.

The goat-eyed man began to look through the document, peering at it beneath the lamp. ‘Decent work,’ he murmured. ‘What happened to your real ones?’

‘They were stolen,’ I said. The side of my face was prickling. One of the Moroccan men was staring at me, as the other jimmied a knife back and forth in the lock of the suitcase.

The boss scratched at the ink with a fingernail. ‘Why’ve you come over here?’ he demanded. ‘Got an offer of work? Trouble back home?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘Just a fresh start.’

In that grim, seedy room it sounded ridiculous, and the man laughed.

From the corner, there came a clicking sound. The Moroccan man called something, and pushed the lid of the case open. He shoved aside a bundle of old clothes to reveal what looked like cardboard, dull green files stamped with red. Márquez lifted one out, riffling through the papers. A moment later, he nodded over his shoulder.

The boss man tossed my passport on to the desk. I stared at it, that little rectangle of card, so precious to me. Let me go, I begged silently, please just let me go.