Page 84 of The Last Postcard

‘Where did you go?’ he demanded.

I couldn’t think straight; the pain was muddled together with the memory of Cabrera saying my real name, with the fear of what he might do if I didn’t comply. ‘I went to the tailor’s.’ My voice sounded vague. ‘I left a note.’

‘The truth, del Potro.’ Langham’s hand was beneath his desk, in one of the drawers. ‘I need to know where …’

I didn’t hear the rest. The throbbing grew worse, blue and yellow lights filling my vision. The next thing I knew I was on my knees, staring at the rug, hearing Hilde’s panicked voice.

‘Arthur!’

She was at my side. I could smell her scent: powder and lilies and the clinging bittersweet tang of smoke. Coolness touched my skin, her fingers, exploring the back of my neck. ‘My god,’ she murmured, when she found the crusted blood. ‘Who did this to you?’

I forced my eyes open. Langham was staring down at me, his face taut. I couldn’t betray him, I realized. Not now. I met his eyes.

‘Cabrera.’

Bouzid was dispatched to fetch ice, Hilde the medical chest. For a moment, it was only Langham and I in the room.

‘Cabrera knows about me,’ I said, hauling myself up using the edge of the desk. ‘He knows what I am and he wants me to set you up. He said you have unfinished business.’

Langham’s shoulders dropped. ‘Alejandro.’ He was stepping close, taking my face in his hands. ‘I’ll kill the bastard for hurting you. Did they …?’ His hands tightened.

‘No.’ I closed my eyes, unable to focus on him. ‘No. He didn’t want anyone to think anything was wrong. He needed me to be able to pretend everything was normal.’ I reached for the back of my head. ‘I don’t think Márquez was supposed to hit me so hard.’

Langham produced a bottle of brandy and pushed a glass into my hand. I sat on the floor cushions in the lounge and sipped at it while Hilde swabbed at the back of my head. More nauseous than ever, I told them what had happened, how Cabrera had intercepted my note to Souissa and sent the tailor’s son to lure me there.

‘They must have been watching the house,’ I said, looking up. My eyes were swimming with the sting of alcohol, but even so, I saw the look that passed between Bouzid and Langham.

When Hilde had finished, she made me lean back against the sofa. Langham came to sit opposite me, his face serious.

‘What information does Cabrera have on you?’

‘He knows I’m a woman,’ I murmured. ‘He knows my real name.’ I gripped the glass of brandy, its amber colour all too similar to Scotch. ‘He knows I’m wanted by the police in Spain, and that if I’m caught I’ll be garrotted for murder.’ I glanced up at them. ‘I didn’t do it, but that won’t matter. There are people who will swear I did.’

Langham was very still. His eyes never left my face, but I could tell he was thinking hard, trying to decide what to believe of me, whether I was capable of killing a man, what it meant that I had lied about it. Would things ever be the same between us, now? He had asked me not to bring trouble into his house, and that is exactly what I had done. There was no sympathy in his look, or anger. Part of me wished he would react: shout and swear at me, or take my hand, but he did neither and I had to look away.

Hilde was frowning at me too, worrying at her lip. Her trust in me had been based on the story I had told; a story so like her own. Now she knew that I had lied – would she understand?

Finally, Langham blinked. ‘What exactly did Cabrera want you to do?’ he said slowly. ‘Use his exact words if you can.’

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to remember it; the stench of Márquez at my back, the awful closeness of Cabrera’s face as he spelled out his demands.

‘He wants me to report everything to him. Who telephones, who comes to the house, what Bouzid does. He knows about the party tomorrow night. He wants to set up the rendezvous for then, he said it would be the perfect cover.’ I forced myself to look up at them all. ‘He wants me to get into your study and take some papers from your desk, from any green file he said, and place them secretly in your coat or bag so that you carry them to the meeting.’ I could feel my face growing hot, ashamed of my own foolishness. ‘He said that would be enough.’

To my surprise, Langham was nodding. ‘What about Hilde? Did he mention her?’

Hilde’s face was curiously pale, her eyes fixed on Langham.

‘No,’ I stammered, looking between them. ‘No, he didn’t mention Hilde at all. He said that I should stay here during the rendezvous. He said that some other people might come to search the house, and that I should let them in.’

‘Other people – did he say who?’

‘No. He said I’d be able to tell when they arrived, though.’

‘And that was all? You’re sure?’

I nodded my throbbing head. ‘Yes. I swear.’

Abruptly, Langham’s flint-like expression softened. He reached over and squeezed my shoulder, before looking up at Bouzid.