Page 64 of The Last Postcard

‘No!’ Sam stepped away from Norton. ‘No, don’t do anything, please. Just let me …’ He tried to think. This was his story, and it was running away from him in Norton’s hands. He had to get it back under control. ‘Let me talk to the man first. We might be jumping to conclusions. There might be a simple explanation for all of this.’

Norton didn’t answer.

‘Ellis, please.’ Sam took his shoulder. ‘This is my discovery, after all.’

For a moment, he thought Norton would refuse but finally, he sighed. ‘Fine. I won’t mention it to anyone yet. I’m going to keep looking though, and I want to hear what happens as soon as you’re out of there.’ He checked his watch. ‘Speaking of which, shouldn’t you get going?’

Sam glanced at the clock. It was quarter to five. ‘Damn!’ He wheeled towards the door, only to stop. ‘The suitcase! I need it!’

Norton was hurrying towards the reception. ‘Jan,’ he called to the receptionist, ‘give Mr Hackett some petty cash for a taxi, will you?’

The receptionist frowned as Norton disappeared into the room behind her. A moment later she was taking a lockbox from under the desk and counting out a handful of coins. Sam checked the clock again. He felt sick. If he was late, would Zahrah be there to open the door? Or would he have missed his chance?

‘There you go,’ the receptionist said, pushing the money towards him.

‘Taxis can get through as far as the Bab al-Bahr, can’t they?’ he babbled, fumbling the cash into his pocket.

‘I think so,’ she said, bewildered.

Then Norton was back, swinging the suitcase over the reception desk.

‘Thanks.’ Sam grabbed it. ‘I don’t know if I can pay—’

‘Don’t worry, call it an advance. Now go!’

Sam barrelled out of the Interpress doors, almost knocking down a man on the other side. He made for the line of grand taxis that waited by the kerb at the edge of the Place de France. Unlike the cheap, petit taxis that zipped about, crammed with people on different journeys, these cars were almost always empty, reserved for rich people, for long trips. He’d never had the cash to take one before.

‘Bab al-Bahr,’ he gasped to the first man in the line. ‘Please, quickly!’

The taxi driver waved his hand. ‘Not far enough,’ he said, flicking ash from his cigarette. ‘Take a petit.’

‘Here.’ Sam shoved the pocketful of dirhams at him. ‘I’ll pay you that, just get me there as fast as you can.’

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. A moment later, he threw away his cigarette and was climbing into the car, motioning for Sam to get in. Then, they were speeding into the traffic, almost blindsiding a motorbike.

‘When’s the call to prayer?’ Sam yelled over the man’s radio, blaring out a French rock song.

‘For Asr?’ The man checked his watch. ‘Soon.’

‘How soon? I need to be there before it ends!’

‘Vale!’ The driver put his foot down, cutting off another taxi.

As they turned on to the Rue d’Italie, Sam heard the first crackle of static. The muezzin’s voice began to echo from somewhere above them, competing with the noise of the traffic. Come on, Sam begged silently.

The driver slammed his palm to the car’s horn, trying to ram his way through the crowds of people spilling from the medina on to the street. They ignored him, for the most part. Finally a gap opened, and he sped forwards. Sam was thrown back in the seat as they raced up the steep road, the taxi’s engine whirring and struggling. The call followed them, taken up by one loudspeaker after another until Sam felt as if they were racing it to the top.

With a final rev, the taxi screeched around a corner, beneath an archway and into a ramshackle square. Ahead, the Bab al-Bahr loomed. It was as far as they could go; the streets of the casbah were too winding, too narrow for cars. The taxi driver stomped on the brake just as the muezzin’s voice began to fade.

Shoving his way out of the car, Sam gasped a few words of thanks before setting off at a run, the suitcase clutched in his arms, towards the old sea gate.

Please be there, he thought, as he ran down the steps on to the perilously narrow walkway, collapsing against the wooden door with a thud. Almost instantly, it creaked open an inch to reveal the young woman. She took in Sam’s sweaty face, his heaving chest.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

‘Nothing. I just … ran … to get here on … time.’

She looked at the suitcase in his hands.