Silkleigh hadn’t found the boat, but near the surface he’d again met his turtle. It was the same loggerhead, with a bite out of her shell. She swam slowly past him, a permanent tear stain below her eyes, like a wall where the paint has run. She swam as you fly in dreams, sometimes barely touching the ground, sometimes soaring, her eyes gazing down on the world, the sun on her tiny gold flippers. She looked like an angel. An old angel with a mossy shield on her back, propelled by sparrow’s wings.

“She looked like Genia Ortiz,” said Silkleigh, coming up for air.

Once out of the sea, he became the T-shirted voluptuary again, ravished by a wrist. “Yes, let’s have another.” But it was not Mohamed, it was Ghanem the Mute who stood beside them, his eyes yearningly on Silkleigh’s plate. “Hello, old thing. Has the television blown up?”

“I think he wants your egg,” said Wavery.

Silkleigh took the peeled egg from his plate. He dipped its shiny end a final time in the salt and offered it to Ghanem. “Happy Christmas.” Silkleigh watched him leave the café, the egg trophied above his head. “Silly fish. Where does he think he’s going?”

But it was time for them to follow. Mohamed was noisily locking the till. A single chime came through the doors. Silkleigh inspected a digital watch. “Midnight,” he said. “I suppose I’d better go and pull a cracker with myself.”

There was a strong breeze blowing from the sea, carrying the traffic roar of the waves on Playa Benitez. The breeze scuttled an empty Coca-Cola can along the pavement. Silkleigh kicked the can at the night, inland towards Africa. He stood, listening to its clatter. As if he only now remembered, he said: “You know, there are tribes in those mountains who worship the wind as the origin of all things.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Wavery. He buttoned his jacket.

“Oh, no, it won’t be in any of your books. And there’s something else extraordinary. They tell lies about liars to summon the wind. They say a liar’s talk is only wind. Can you believe it!”

He thrust his hands into his pockets. “On that note, I wish you felican Kristnaskon,” and he sidled after the can. There was another clatter and another fainter clatter, then nothing more.

Abyla lay wrapped in Senator Zamora’s darkest cardigan. There were no lights shining at the tunnel worksite. When Mohamed switched off the bar lights, the only light on the esplanade shone from the telephone kiosk opposite.

Wavery breathed in the wet-wool scent of the sea. He looked across the Straits, to see if he could see the lights of Europe, where Penny was, and Catharine. But there must have been a mist. He saw nothing save the silvery froth of the waves and the faint bobbing lamp of a solitary boat, fishing by night. On such a night as this the Moors had crossed to Spain.