Page 75 of The Last Postcard

The bottle of iodine fell into the box as his fingers trailed from my lip, to loosen my tie, to release the top button of my shirt.

I froze. A second later I was pushing myself away.

‘I can’t.’ I scrabbled for the shirt’s button. ‘You don’t know—’

‘Don’t know what?’ He came forwards, naked still, to grip my arms. ‘Tell me.’

He would hate me; he would sneer at me in disgust. He would hide his nakedness from me as if it were something shameful and tell me coldly to avert my gaze, to leave his house.

His eyes were inches from mine. They were so beautiful, golden-brown ringed with black, impatient, searching. ‘Alejandro,’ he said.

A noise broke from me, a half-strangled sob. ‘I’m not what you think.’

His expression changed, turning hard with distrust, and I had to look away.

‘I’m a woman,’ I whispered bitterly.

When I finally looked back, he was staring at me, his face unchanged. I couldn’t stand for him not to believe me, the way Hilde hadn’t, and before I knew what I was doing, I was grabbing his hand and pressing it to my chest, so he could feel the brassiere. ‘You see?’ I was desperate. ‘It’s true.’

For a long moment he didn’t move, only stood there, silent, one hand against my breast. Then, suddenly, he let out a laugh.

‘You fool,’ he said, leaning close. ‘You think I care what you are?’

His mouth met mine, urgent, hungry. My hands found his face, his shoulders, the muscles of his naked back and finally, I was dragging him to me, our bodies were crushing together, as if we wanted nothing more than to be pressed, moulded into one being.

Tangier

July 1978

Loyalty.

Sam sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the writing case and the stack of pages next to it: a story half told. It was a story that had resurrected the past, that had dragged it from a forgotten basement, from beneath dusty piles of wares in a casbah junk shop out into the hot light of the present. He’d done that. He had been following this story as if he owned it, as if it was in his control.

But of course, it wasn’t. He had barged into a series of events that had begun fifty years ago, and hadn’t yet finished. And now there was a chance that someone could be hurt.

If the authorities thought they could tie Ale to a murder, however long ago it happened, they’d use it as an excuse for an arrest, an investigation.

He had to take Zahrah’s word for that, but it didn’t matter either way. He’d promised.

He hurried down the stairs, the writing case gripped in one hand. What on earth was Ale involved with? If the authorities were a threat, then it must be serious. Part of him felt uneasy, wondering whether he should report Alejandro del Potro himself. He knew he’d never do that, but what if Norton was right to be asking questions? Sam had only Ale and Zahrah’s words to go on, and there was still so much he didn’t know. Not least that note.

I am sorry.

He screwed his eyes shut.

‘Monsieur Hackett!’

Madame Sarah was standing in the kitchen doorway.

‘Sorry,’ he said, flushing. ‘I – what is it?’

Her lips were pressed tight, as if she was working up to something. ‘Monsieur Hackett, if you want to stay after this week, you must pay me in advance. I cannot allow any more late rent.’

He stared at her, trying to haul his mind into the present. ‘In advance? But …’ He’d just about been managing to pay a week in arrears. ‘Can’t we just carry on as normal? I won’t be late with it, I promise.’

In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure how much money he had left. Most of the cash from the typewriter had gone on rent, the rest on kif and a supply of paper, new ink and coffee and beers.

Madame Sarah looked unhappy. ‘My sister says I should not let you stay here unless you pay in advance. Last night, when you did not come back, I thought you might have run off without—’