Page 65 of The Last Postcard

‘Come in then.’ Her voice was quiet.

They walked through the overgrown gardens. With every step, the city outside the walls receded; the fumes and radio fuzz and traffic became a distant memory.

‘You look strange,’ the woman said, frowning at him as they approached the back door.

Sam realized he’d been staring fixedly at the house. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, though he knew he wasn’t. There was sweat coating his back that had nothing to do with the heat. Who was waiting for him inside? ‘Could I have a glass of water?’ he asked.

She shrugged and poured one from a jug on the sideboard, where a lace handkerchief kept off the flies.

He drank slowly, trying to calm himself.

‘Thank you,’ he said, handing the glass back. ‘It’s Zahrah, isn’t it? Your name?’

She nodded briefly. Today she was wearing denim shorts, a faded blue t-shirt. Her nails were stained yellow, as if she’d dipped her fingers into pollen.

‘Is Mr Langham …’ The words from the newspaper article nagged at him, like someone whispering in his ear, even as he tried to speak. ‘Is he your employer? Do you work for him?’

She half smiled. ‘Something like that.’

‘For how long?’ he pressed, his voice low. ‘I mean, how long have you worked here?’

‘About five years.’ Somewhere in the house, a door creaked. ‘Go on,’ she said, motioning to the corridor. ‘You’re expected.’

Sam hesitated. She seemed like a bridge between times, this woman; a real person in a place of shifting, unreal things. How did you come to be here? he wanted to ask. Who are you? Do you live here? What do you know about all of this? But she had turned her back and was clattering at the sink. She wouldn’t talk to him, he sensed, until he’d spoken to the person waiting in the study.

The man was standing at the window looking out on to the garden, his hands behind his back, twisting a ring on his middle finger around and around. For a long time, Sam just stood in the doorway, unable to speak.

The body has been identified by personal effects as that of a Mr Arthur Langham.

‘Did you bring it?’ a low voice asked.

‘Yes.’ Sam’s throat was dry, despite the water. ‘Yes, it’s here.’

He took a step into the room, then another. Finally, the man turned.

‘Good.’ His eyes flicked to the case. ‘A drink first?’

‘Yes,’ Sam said automatically before remembering Norton’s words about staying on guard. ‘I mean, no thanks, not just now.’ His face was burning, and he knew he must look awkward. Somehow, he couldn’t remember how to act normally. All he could think about was Mouad’s story and the words Englishman Drowns in Strait.

The man frowned at him. ‘You’re different today,’ he said. ‘Yesterday you were so full of questions. What’s changed?’

‘Nothing,’ Sam said quickly. ‘I mean, I’m just trying to get my head around all of this, you know, first the writing case, then you and this house …’ He trailed off, knowing he sounded false. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out the suitcase. ‘Don’t you want to see it?’

‘Of course I do.’ The man had a drink in his hand, and was moving stiffly towards his chair. ‘Of course. But you must understand, Mr Hackett, that you are bringing me the past, things which have lain undisturbed for a long time. A rusty knife can still be dangerous.’ He took a sip of the drink, and motioned to the case. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Hands trembling, Sam knelt down on the sun-faded rug and pressed the clasps of the suitcase.

‘It was locked when I found it,’ he murmured. ‘I opened it with the key that was hidden in the writing case.’ The man said nothing, his worn fingers gripping the glass tightly. With a breath, Sam pushed the lid open.

The case was in disarray. The linens and collars were jumbled together, the suit trousers balled up, the jacket half-inside out. The book had been shoved clumsily into one corner, its cover bent, the bottles and packets ripped from their holders. Sam stared at it all, horrified. He’d packed it carefully, just the way he’d found it, except for the passport, which he’d slid down one side.

Frantically, he began to search through the muddled clothes. It was not a big case; it should have been impossible to miss that smooth, green card. When his fingernails found only the suitcase’s lining, he felt a stab of panic. Had he left it in his room? No, he remembered packing it. The old man knew something was wrong, he was leaning forwards, the drink forgotten.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘The passport.’ Sam forced himself to look up. ‘It’s gone.’

The man’s eyes were hard. ‘What are you talking about?’