Page 34 of The Last Postcard

‘What a lucky meet,’ the journalist was saying, ‘I’m just on my way to lunch. Care to join?’

Sam shrugged out of Norton’s grip and stepped around him, peering into the crowd; too late. The space by the gate was empty. The figure was gone.

Fedora

Take a pony each of brandy and Curaçao. Add to this half a pony of good Jamaica rum and half a pony of Bourbon. Stir into this half a teaspoon of powdered sugar and a slice of lemon. Shake with ice and serve ornamented.

The devil knows how I fell asleep. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the pain, the heat of the brandy in my empty belly or the assault of so many new things upon my senses that made my mind close the shutters for a while, sending me into nothingness.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the hat. It was sitting upon the table before me, quiet and elegant, the colour of cream with a dark brown band. A piece of paper was resting beneath.

I hoisted myself on to an elbow. Only then did I realize that the room was empty. For a moment, I stayed very still. Someone had half closed the shutters to keep out the heat. A clock ticked, a fly droned and the tock of croquet balls floated up from the hotel’s lawn.

They were gone, the gentleman and the lady. There was nothing in the room to suggest that anyone would return, no suitcases or valises, no kicked-off shoes or robes hanging on doors. Even more worrying, I found that my trouser leg had been rolled up; the cut on my shin had been washed with livid yellow iodine and dressed with a bandage. When had that happened? Uneasy, I felt at my chest, but everything seemed the same, the bindings in place. Had they found me out? Were they keeping me here while they called for the police? I listened again, and heard nothing. For a minute or two I became convinced that if I went outside, I would find the world deserted, every motor-car abandoned, the dining room full of half-eaten plates and no one but me left to wander through it all.

Hands a little unsteady, I took up the note, to reassure myself that this was not a dream:

This should keep the sun from your eyes.

With compliments,

A

A. Arthur. The man with the saint’s face and the cryptic smile was giving me one of his hats? It seemed too much, a strange, personal gift. I lifted it gently to touch the inside band, which must have rested against his forehead and lapped the sweat of his brow, only to stop, as another piece of paper fluttered into my lap.

A twenty-five peseta note. I could only stare. Twenty-five pesetas … it was more money than I had ever held in my life. It would buy me a room in La Atunara for weeks, even a good one. It would buy me fifty meals, a hundred drinks. I touched the corner of the note, afraid that I would turn it over and find it one-sided and false. But it was real. What did it mean? Had the man tucked the money into his hatband and forgotten it there? Who would forget twenty-five pesetas? The man must be richer than I thought.

I picked up the note again. With compliments.

It was hush money, I realized, like Morales used to pay to the guardia and the city inspectors. It was a reward for my silence, a request for me to leave Gibraltar quietly and without fuss. I shoved the note into the wrappings around my chest, blinking hard. It was more than I’d anticipated getting from this encounter. Far more. So why was I disappointed?

Carefully, I picked up the hat and pushed myself to my feet. There was a mirror on the wall near by, large and gilded. The reflection in it was still a shock. A boy, that was what I saw. A moody gitano boy who’d been in a scuffle. I placed the hat upon my head. It was bigger on me than it had been on the man, but it fitted. The cream colour suited my skin, but combined with the grubby suit, it looked absurd. I felt a pulse of envy for the man who had left it, for his wardrobe of beautiful, pristine clothes, for the way he had carried himself without a care. And at the same time, something rushed through me that I couldn’t name, something like excitement, a shiver of possibility that made me raise my chin just a fraction …

There was a noise at the door. I swiped the hat from my head and held it tight.

‘Who’s there?’ I called.

It was a hotel man in a dinner jacket, a stiff collar around his turkey neck. His mouth was tight with distaste, and I dropped my chin, not wanting him to look too closely.

‘I see you are awake,’ he said. ‘In that case, we will have you taken back to the border.’

‘To the policía?’ I backed a pace into the room. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

‘You are not in trouble,’ he said, irritable. ‘But neither can you stay in Gibraltar.’ His eyes flicked to the hat in my hand, and he frowned.

‘Where are they?’ I asked, gripping the hat’s brim. ‘The man and the lady? I’d like to thank them.’ Really, I didn’t want to do anything of the sort. I only wanted to know who they were, whether they were still in the hotel.

The man’s face hardened. ‘Mr Langham and Lady de Luca Bailey departed after luncheon. You are very lucky. There are not many who would have treated you so well.’

Langham. The word caught my attention, like a thorn snagging cloth. Arthur Langham.

‘What do you mean “departed”?’ I asked, forgetting any pretence at manners. ‘Departed where? Will they be back?’

The man’s face was turning sourer by the second. I saw now that he held the piece of stamped paper in his hand, the one that had been issued by the soldiers at the border.

‘They took the afternoon boat for Tangiers,’ he snapped. ‘Whether they will be back is their own business, and none of yours.’ He held out an arm, to funnel me towards the door. ‘Now, I must insist …’

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.