Page 83 of The Last Postcard

‘Well?’ she asked briskly. ‘What are you going to do? I’d suggest a bath, for starters.’

He tried to smile. ‘I have to go to Dar Portuna to tell them about all this, try to apologize and hope that Ale can stay out of trouble. Then …’ He looked around at the heedless, blistering city. ‘I guess there’s no point in me staying. If I’d gone home a month ago, like my parents wanted me to, none of this would have happened.’

Bet patted his arm. ‘Well, be sure to come and say cheerio to all of us at The Hold.’

She didn’t sound overly concerned. She must have met hundreds of people like me, Sam thought bitterly, seen us all give up and go home.

‘Thank you, Bet,’ he said. ‘For everything.’

She smirked. ‘Give an old lady a kiss.’

He finally managed a weak laugh, and leaned down to kiss her weathered cheek. Before he could pull away she grabbed his collar.

‘That newspaper’s a rag, Sammy,’ she whispered rapidly in his ear. ‘Don’t let it get you down. Hacer de tripas corazón, as my old friend always says.’

She released him and he stepped back in surprise, trying to see her face, but she was already walking away, stomping through the traffic with practised ease. He watched her disappear around a corner, half stunned, wondering whether he’d imagined what she’d said. Only then did he realize she hadn’t given him back the passport.

He rubbed at his eyes. You’re not to be trusted with anything. Still, he was sure she’d keep it safe. He was so tired, beat down by the long night and the awful newspaper article, he couldn’t think any more, could barely look where he was going. When he stepped into Madame Sarah’s cool hallway, it was with relief. All he wanted to do was wash and sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He had to get to Dar Portuna and face what he had done.

The moment he set foot on the stairs, there was a shout from the kitchen and Madame Sarah appeared, pushed aside by her sister, a formidable woman in a bright orange headscarf.

‘Monsieur Hackett?’ she said.

‘Yes?’ he answered wearily. He dug his hands into his pockets, ready to give up however many dirhams he had left, only to stop – all of his money had gone to pay off the police. He felt himself turning red. ‘Ah, about the rent. I just need an hour or two before—’

‘No.’ The sister glared from the doorway. ‘Two nights you stay out, you don’t pay, and now you bring women into the house.’ She raised her chin. ‘This is a respectable place. We will not have it.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m—’ Her words caught up with him. ‘What do you mean, women? I’ve never brought anyone here.’

She let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You tell us that, when there is one upstairs right now, one who is rude, who came in here without—’

He didn’t wait to hear more. He ran up the stairs two at a time, racing for his top floor room, knowing it could only be one person.

Zahrah was standing by the window, wearing her old djellaba. Her short hair was messy, as if she’d been running her hands through it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, stepping through the door. ‘I’m so sorry, I tried everything. You won’t believe the night—’

She turned to face him. Her eyes were reddened, swollen from crying. The guilt froze solid in his chest.

‘What’s happened?’

She said nothing. A moment later, her face collapsed and he knew. She stepped towards him; instinctively he put his arms around her, as her breath turned into a sob.

‘Ale’s gone.’

Scofflaw

Take one dash of orange bitters, three quarters of a pony of Canadian Club whisky, the same of French vermouth, a tablespoon of lemon juice and a tablespoon of imported grenadine. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Drink fast, before it catches up with you.

All things come at a price.

I’d grown up around swindlers and thieves – I should have remembered not to trust anything that seemed too good to be true. I should have realized that the diamond walls of my world could turn to glass and crack; that the elegant fabrics could rip and unravel, that my saint’s gold could peel away like cheap gilding on a false coin. But I didn’t. Not until it was too late.

Bouzid found me at the gate of Dar Portuna, bracing myself against the wall, my eyes screwed closed against the awful, dull throbbing in my head. The wound had stopped bleeding now, but I could feel it, flaking and tacky at the base of my skull. Bouzid was angrier than I had ever seen him. He grabbed my jacket, the way he had all those weeks ago when I had first trespassed into the gardens, and dragged me into the house, unheeding of my protests.

He didn’t stop until we reached the study.

Hilde was perched on the edge of the desk, her face strained, chewing at her nails. And Langham … when he looked at me, his eyes were like flint.