Sixty-one

There was the patter of feet moving up the darkened staircase. They weren’t heavy gruesome steps, the feet of a murderer or of a policeman, but rather they were nimble ones, making almost no sound at all.

Blaine got up, and hid himself in the shadows. He had the advantage, as his eyes had had time to adjust to the lack of light.

Taking the last step, Ghita paused. She was barefoot, heels in her hand.

‘Can I talk to you?’ said Blaine, stepping from a shadow.

Ghita let out a shriek.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Something terrible has happened... at Hotel Marrakech.’

‘What?’

Blaine tapped a finger towards the door.

‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ he said, ‘but could I come in?’

Without a reply, Ghita twisted the key back and forth in the old lock.

‘There’s something you should know,’ she said. ‘A little secret.’

‘Huh?’

‘Do you promise not to tell?’

Blaine wasn’t in the mood for games, but he agreed anyway.

They went into the vestibule and the American slumped down on the blood-speckled mattress. He was exhausted, so much so that he hardly even noticed the filth.

‘The secret,’ said Ghita. ‘It’s in here.’

She pointed to the wardrobe. Stepping inside it, Ghita jerked away the hatch at the back.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

Blaine did so, and found himself in the secret apartment. It was made all the more impressive by the low expectations.

‘I don’t believe this!’ he exclaimed, blinking.

‘I made a few adjustments, had the place spruced up.’

Lowering himself onto the couch, Blaine put his head in his hands.

‘I’m beginning to wish for a life with fewer surprises,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this afternoon I met a Chinese backpacker. He was staying in the hotel, in the room across from mine. I was going to invite him out for a coffee at Baba Cool. So I went to his room. But...’

‘But what?’

‘But he was dead – throat slashed.’

‘What?!’

Blaine touched a thumb to his Adam’s apple and swallowed hard.

‘Just like in the movies.’

‘That’s terrible. What did the police say?’

‘I don’t know...’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I ran away.’

Ghita crossed the sitting-room to where the American was seated. She looked at him with disbelief.

‘You can’t run away. I mean... you mustn’t!’

‘I didn’t know what to do.’ Blaine paused, staring into space. ‘I feel so alone,’ he said.

Ghita held up a finger, a finger ending in a manicured nail.

‘I know what to do,’ she replied.

‘What?’

‘You must go straight to the police commissioner, and explain it all.’

‘But I can’t go to the police station. They’ll arrest me.’

The fingernail waved left, right, left.

‘I didn’t say go to the station,’ she said. ‘This is Morocco. You never go through the front door when you can go in the back.’

Lighting a scented candle, the wick flickering in the draught, Ghita lowered her head meekly.

‘I’m alone as well,’ she said. ‘My father’s been arrested, framed for an invented crime. I need to find out where he’s being held.’

‘What did he do?’

Pacing over to the fridge, Ghita took a bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fumé. She opened it, and poured a pair of large glasses.

‘Drugs,’ she said at length. ‘At least that’s what they’ve accused him for. They planted them.’

‘They?’

‘The Underworld. The gangsters... the ones who control Casablanca.’

‘What are you gonna do?’

Ghita took a gulp of wine.

‘Save my father. Then get revenge... I mean, justice.’

‘What’s your plan?’

Ghita looked sheepish. She topped up Blaine’s glass.

‘To get to the commissioner.’

‘The same guy who you’re saying I should go talk to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t that a coincidence... that he can help us both?’

‘Morocco’s like that,’ she replied. ‘Many roads lead to the same place.’