Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

None of the women had joined them for food, Brogan noticed.

But some of them had looked at him with shy almond eyes, giggling as he attempted to thank them in his broad Glasgow accent. They haven't a clue what I'm saying, he thought. And for the first time Billy Brogan felt a pang of homesickness for the place where everything he said and did was understood. A nod, a grunt or a particular gesture could speak volumes when you were with your own kind, he realised wistfully, listening to the excited voices raised all around him.

A tap at his back made him turn and there was Carlos, standing grinning down at him.

The Spaniard made a motion with his head towards the door and Brogan rose to follow him, bobbing a little bow to the rest of the company as he made his way from the smoke-filled room.

'Now is time to settle our account, Setior Brogan,' Carlos smiled at Billy. 'And then we go on our way,' he waved a hand at the boat whose hull was glistening in the sunshine out on the bay. 'Eh, sure thing, Carlos. What do I do?' he asked, looking around him. All Brogan could see was a narrow trail disappearing around a corner of the shoreline. 'Is there, urn, a bus… like… that I can get to Marrakesh from here?'

'Bus, yes. Get a bus at the next stop around the corner. Maybe a mile along the road,' Carlos assured him, wagging his head.

'Right, pal,' Billy said, delving in to his pocket and taking out the dollars that he had kept folded inside his pocketbook. 'What we agreed, eh?' he said, frowning slightly as Carlos licked his thumb and flicked through the notes to check on the amount.

The Spaniard gave him a grin as the money disappeared into a leather bag on a string that he kept around his neck, hidden under the same blue cotton shirt that he had worn for the entire journey. The haces reir;* Carlos said suddenly, giving such a guffaw that Brogan began to laugh with him.*You make me laugh.

'What time's the bus?' Billy asked as Carlos made to walk away.

'Oh, you stay here until tomorrow,' Carlos told him. `Juan's family be very upset if you leave them too soon. Comprendesr 'Aye, comprende right enough,' Brogan agreed. The laws of hospitality were the same the world over, after all; to fail to show appreciation of one's hosts was to give offence. He grinned back at the Spaniard who slapped his back as they returned to the house.

Billy woke up, trying to figure out where he was. The swell of the boat was making him sway from side to side, but as his eyes opened, he saw that he was lying on a couch in an unfamiliar room, silken curtains blowing gently at the windows. It was not the boat that was making him feel so weird, but perhaps, Brogan reasoned, he was still feeling its motion. A scent of something sweet filled his nostrils and he saw twin wisps of smoke coming from a dish beside the couch. Joss sticks, he thought, smiling in remembrance of the many times he'd had pals round for a session.

In Glasgow you burned them to mask the smell of the joints; here they were part of the ambience. Brogan let his eyes close again with a sigh of contentment.

He had little recall of the previous evening, a smoke-filled haze of laughter and girls dancing to the music of tabor and sitar. But he did have a memory of gentle hands guiding him along a darkened corridor and a black pointed lantern pierced with stars that swung to and fro as he staggered away from the throng.

Suddenly he remembered that he hadn't said goodbye to Juan or Carlos. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and felt the tiled floor beneath his bare feet. Padding towards the window, he parted the curtains and looked out across the palm fringed bay.

The boat was gone.

Brogan twisted his mouth into a moue of disappointment. Och, well, they had a long way to go, he told himself. But the idea of being quite alone with people who could not understand his speech was disconcerting, no matter how kind they had been.

He dressed quickly and made his way down a narrow wooden staircase that was painted in stripes of red and green.

The room where he had spent such a joyous time last night was empty. The square table had been spread with a piece of embroidered linen and someone had stacked the cushions in a corner, neatly, out of the way.

'Hello?' he called out, but his voice fell dully against the whitewashed walls and somehow Brogan knew he was alone in this house. Whoever had lit the joss sticks couldn't be too far away, though, he reasoned. Sauntering through to the back, he found a small kitchen with a refrigerator that hummed loudly as though its thermostat were working overtime. "I 'he table in the middle of the room had been swept clean of crumbs and on one side was a mat of fringed cloth laid with a bowl, a spoon and a plate. Had they all gone to work? Brogan wondered. And was this their way of saying help yourself to breakfast?

Shrugging off a feeling of unease that was threatening to make him nervous, Brogan opened the fridge and drew out a jug of milk and a carton of orange juice. He gave a sigh of relief. His throat felt as though someone had sandpapered it during the night.

Pulling open the corner of the carton, he swallowed greedily, wiping the drops that fell over and under his chin.

A cupboard high up on the wall revealed a packet of cornflakes that had been tied up with a pair of knotted shoelaces. An expression of puzzlement crossed his face until he remembered the pavement cafes back in Cala Millor and the hosts of tiny ants that had gathered under the tables. Nodding to himself in sudden understanding at the makeshift precaution, Brogan dumped the cornflakes onto the table and began his meal.

He'd emptied two bowls full of cereal before he thought to look out of the front door to see if anyone was around. Raking a hand through hair that was already damp from the heat, Brogan opened the door on to a wide veranda that looked out onto the ocean.

Looking from left to right he could see nobody at all on the deserted sand, not even one of the old folk who had grinned toothlessly at him from across the table the previous evening.

'Right, Brogan,' he said aloud. 'Time to move on.' He grinned as he squinted up at the acres of blue above him, as fathomless as the stretch of water he had so recently crossed. 'Marrakesh, here I come.'

Less than a quarter of an hour later, Brogan was whistling as he walked down the path that led away from the little village, pack on his back, feeling like a real adventurer.

It would be hours before he came to the next sign of civilisation, foot-sore and weary, but Brogan had no notion that he was on the coast of northern Algeria, nor of the immense distance that separated him from the western tip of this great continent.

Come in, Fathy, sit down,' Lorimer beckoned the young man who had knocked on his door and now hovered on the threshold.

'Any news of Marianne Scott?'

Fathy shook his head. Not yet, sir, but there are still a few departments we have to visit.' He cleared his throat nervously. 'It was on a personal matter that I wanted to see you, sir.'

Lorimer sat up a little straighter, looking quizzically at the detective constable. The thought came to him that Fathy had been a bit quieter than usual during team meetings. And now, seeing the younger man twisting his fingers together on his lap, Lorimer realised that there was something seriously amiss.

'I wanted to tell you why I left Grampian for Strathclyde,'

Fathy began. He looked down at his hands and clasped them together as though to keep them still and calm himself. 'I was the target of some racist incidents,' he mumbled.

'That doesn't sound so good,' Lorimer frowned. 'I suppose the persons responsible were properly dealt with?'

Fathy looked up, his eyes full of appeal. 'That's just it, sir. I never told anybody about what was going on. I just asked for a transfer and came down here.'