I move then. And quickly. I yank Benjamín to his feet and start walking. I thank Chavez, smile at the other two men, thank them for their time. I mumble something about getting Benjamín to the medical centre but all the while I keep going, herding Benjamín in front of me until I m out of the office and halfway across the waiting room with the heady thought that we’re going to make it – and then I feel it – jabbing into my ribcage, and I know it’s too late. El Turrón’s hand closes round my elbow and I’m overcome by an immense loneliness as the door to Benjamín’s world slams shut somewhere far, far behind me.

I turn. Chavez stands watching us. ‘Good luck, Alice,’ he says. ‘Buena suerte.’

30

A gun in the back. I’ve seen it in every movie but I’ve never thought about how it feels. Well, it feels like this: like I’ve drunk a shot of distilled fear. Like I want to squeeze my eyes shut, put my fingers in my ears and block out this harsh new world until a safer one comes along. Down we go in the lift. Out of the building and into the butterscotch truck. Nobody speaks. Benjamín seems near catatonic as he climbs stiffly into the back. El Turrón pushes me into the driver’s seat. His breath is hot and too close as I step up onto the worn metal step.

I sit behind the wheel, hands in my lap.

Lounging against the window of the passenger seat, El Turrón keeps the gun on both of us. ‘Turn it on,’ he orders me and obediently I fire up the ignition.

‘Turn the truck around.’

‘No.’ In the rear-view mirror Benjamín’s head is finally raised. His eyes stare back at me; hard, steely. ‘It’s better the other way,’ he says and there’s something in the timbre of his voice that lights a small match-flame of hope.

‘Into Mexico?’ Turrón’s vowels are rounded with Americanese.

‘It is the quickest way.’

El Turrón’s brow furrows with suspicion. ‘She said go through the town.’

‘Es una mujer, una gringa,’ Benjamín says contemptuously, ‘Ni siquiera sabe llegar a su propia casa.’ She can’t even find the way back to her own house.

Still Turrón looks suspicious. He extends his arm until the barrel of the gun is an inch from my temple. ‘You said it was through Temerosa, right?’

Yes, right. Of course, right. Gringa or not, I know there is no road to Temerosa through Mexico. ‘It’s a nasty, near-impossible bit of desert,’ Duval had said.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m not really sure—’