‘Sorry,’ James mumbled and backed out. Not knowing which way to go and feeling slightly unnerved, he wandered outside on to the terrace.

The view from here was stunning. Past the polished granite rocks, dotted with prickly pear, he could see the sparkling turquoise ocean and a group of nearby islands.

‘Hello.’

James heard a soft voice and turned round. Standing there was a man wearing a long, loose Moroccan robe and curly, pointed gold slippers. He was small and slight, his skin tanned a deep nut brown and he had a curly moustache and pointed beard. His oily hair had been teased into what looked like two horns on either side of his head so that he resembled some sort of devil.

This was not cousin Victor.

9

La Casa Polipo

The man was staring at James intently with gleaming, brown eyes.

‘James Bond…?’ he said in a thick Italian accent.

‘Yes,’ said James and the man advanced on him and fixed him with his gaze, looking deep into his eyes.

‘James Bond. Such an English name. Such a boring name. A dull, blunt name. Like a stone. But you,’ he said, ‘you hide behind your name. You are not boring. You are interesting.’ He paused, then said quickly, ‘Imagine a number, James Bond.’

‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’

‘Close your eyes and think of nothing else,’ said the little man. ‘Only a number. Not higher than ten. Do not tell me what it is. Hold it in your mind, deep in your mind. This is your special number. Do you have it?’

‘Yes,’ said James.

‘I know it,’ said the man, widening his eyes.

‘OK,’ said James. ‘What is it?’

‘It is seven.’

James smiled. ‘That’s right. How did you guess?’

‘I did not guess… I know you. Seven is your number; it will be a very important number for you in your life. Seven is the luckiest of numbers. There are seven deadly sins. Seven wonders of the world. Seven archangels –’

‘Seven dwarfs,’ said James.

‘What?’

‘In the fairy tale. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Or the number seven bus. In Kent where I live.’

‘Ah…’ the man thought for a while, studying James with an unnervingly steady gaze. Finally he spoke. ‘You fascinate me, James Bond. You have the mark of death upon you.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I can see it. Seven is also the number of Death. I see you and I see the number seven and the figure of Death. Death will walk by your side through your life.’

‘If you say so.’ James smiled politely and wondered how he could get away from this strange little man.

‘I do say so,’ the man murmured. ‘But there is more… Death is following you. Somebody is trying to kill you; he wants you dead. I see a tower. I see –’

‘Stop that, Poliponi!’

There was a shout from the house and James turned to see his cousin Victor coming out. He also was dressed in a Moroccan robe, which looked incongruous, matched, as it was, with a battered old straw hat perched on his head. He was smoking a long yellow cigarette, and was almost as tanned as the satanic artist. He had grown his hair long and it was tied behind his neck, where it hung down in a loose mane, the blond locks streaked with grey.