Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

There was another pause then Marianne said quietly, 'I'm not seeing Amit any more, Billy. That's all over now.'

'Oh, well.' He stopped to think then said, `Go and find Jaffa.

You know where he lives, don't you? He'll arrange for you to see the Hundi.'

'How can I contact you again?' Marianne asked anxiously. 'You left without even telling me what was going on,' she added. 'I know you've changed your mobile. C'mon, Billy. What's your new number? I need to know,' she insisted, angry with him now that the shock was subsiding. 'What if we get cut off?'

'I'll call you, okay?'

'Right,' she said, then there was another pause that her brother took to mean that the conversation was over.

Billy grinned and clicked off his mobile, standing up and shaking a few ants from the hem of his trousers.

He never heard her last words telling him about his old friend or that Max Whittaker had been asking after him. Stepping out into the blazing African sun, he adjusted his shades and sauntered towards a group of dark-skinned boys who were lying in wait for him. One of them held the rope tether of a sleepy-looking donkey in his small fist.

'Taxi,' they yelled as he strode past their outstretched hands, 'air-conditioned taxi!'

Brogan grinned as their yells surrounded him. The donkey was the only air-conditioned taxi they possessed, but he appreciated their sense of humour all the same.

It was not long past midday and the streets were thronging with people. Entering the narrow bazaar was like running the gauntlet, hands tugging at his loose sleeves, eager faces turned his way, voices shouting as the vendors tried to entice Brogan to sample their wares. The noise was deafening, donkeys braying, tuk-tuks puttering round the adjacent streets and the occasional camel train sauntering past, the animals looking disdainfully down their rounded noses. His feet were sore and dusty from the long days walking since he had been abandoned at the village, and all that Billy Brogan wanted now was a bottle of cold mineral water, preferably one with its cap still intact. Above him the daylight was obscured by goods hanging high on wooden rails that crossed from one side of the alleyway to the other, a selection ofgalabayas floating like headless dolls, their hems richly bordered in designs of golden thread. Vendors in white robes or European dress sat at the entrances to their tiny shops, every inch of space crammed full of goods, selections of garishly printed T-shirts suspended from unseen hooks. Some shops had windows made of glass behind which Brogan could see large brass lamps, hexagonal tables and cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl and jewellery twinkling against velvet stands, too expensive to risk being at the mercy of passers-by, too enticing for the tourists to ignore. Most, though, were open to prospective purchasers, three sides of a small, high space stacked high with linens, basket works, vegetables and spices.

Brogan paused for a moment beside a tea and spice vendor who was relaxing with a sheesha, its red and gold pipes connected to the bubbling pot beside him. Packets of warm spices were stacked into the shelves of a wooden cart behind him; saffron, fenugreek, cinnamon and chilli next to less familiar packets of bright blue and muddy green, fragrant smells tickling his nostrils, making him suddenly homesick for a curry in dear old Glasgow. A large basket sat on the ground at the vendor's side, full of some dried flowers the colour of old blood. Herbs of every hue packed in clear plastic dominated an entire wall of the shop and several feet above them was a rail of the ubiquitous cotton T-shirts and signs in Arabic that Brogan could not understand.

'Water?' he asked, shuffling to one side away from a group of men who were coming towards them down the narrow street, one of them so fat that he was like a huge ship in full sail under his galabaya.

The vendor followed Brogan's eyes as the men passed them by.

'Water?' Brogan repeated.

The man grinned at him, showing a set of stained and cracked teeth, then handed over the sheesha as he rose.

Brogan looked at the pipe suspiciously. He wouldn't half mind a wee puff of the old sheesh, but the buzz of flies rising from a stain on the ground made him wary. His stomach was still delicate from the boat trip and the unfamiliar food he had eaten over the last few days, so he wiped the end of the pipe with the hem of his shirt before he took it between his lips.

The vendor returned, a bottle of ice cold water in his hands, its plastic surface dewed with droplets as though he had just taken it from a cooler in the back of the shop.

'How much?' Brogan asked, offering a handful of cents.

The vendor's grin widened as he selected some of the coins.

'American?' he asked.

Naw, pal, Scottish,' Brogan replied. Then, seeing the puzzled look on the other man's face he laid down the bottle and sketched an impromptu Highland Fling, miming a set of bagpipes under his armpit.

The vendor giggled and clapped. `Scoteesh!' he said, then nodded as Brogan took the water and headed back into the crush of bodies.

Other eyes followed the Scotsman's progress as he made his way through the bazaar, wondering if a man who didn't haggle over the price was worth the bother of chasing for a few yards to offer their bargains.

Brogan tightened his grip on the pack. He had swung it to the front of his body before entering the street, fearing any light fingers that might slip under its straps. It contained everything he owned, though his money and passport were carefully secreted about his person, his mobile shoved to the bottom of his hip pocket. The man in the hotel had told him to look for a sign at the far end of the bazaar. He would see a goldsmith's shop then an opening into another street. That was where he would find the travel agent's office.

Sure enough, the familiar green sign loomed ahead, advising passers-by that here was the agency of American Express.

'My son works there,' the hotel manager had told him. 'He will be able to help you with tickets,' he had nodded, looking at Brogan suspiciously as though the request to purchase rail tickets was something illicit. But a couple of dollar hills had changed the man's expression to one of ineffable sweetness and he had been only too eager to give Brogan directions to someone who might escort him to the ticket office as his translator.

The city of Algiers was not somewhere that Brogan wanted to stay in for much longer. Too many foreign faces made the Scotsman uneasy, too many jabbering voices talking in a tongue he would never understand. Even the French words were beyond him; Billy Brogan's limited experience at school hardly progressing beyond parlez-vous franfais? So it was with some relief that the dealer passed the swinging sign into the travel bureau, the young man grinning as he came forward, hand outstretched.

'Train ticket to Marrakesh?' the guy was asking as he ushered Billy into the back shop. 'You got a passport?'

'Aye,' Brogan replied and the young man nodded his approval.

'Come,' he said, beckoning towards a door that led out into a narrow alley. 'Quicker this way.' He grinned again, his dark skin complementing a set of fine white teeth. 'No crowds here,' he explained.

Brogan followed him out along the shaded street. Piles of wooden pallets were stacked at several of the closed doors, bags of rubbish at others, colonies of flies buzzing madly at every untidy heap. A small yellow cat darted past, making Brogan jump: it was little bigger than some of the rats Billy had seen in the Glasgow slums when he'd been peddling gear to junkies. A thin trickle of something that might be water ran down the slope towards them and Brogan stepped over it, shuddering; the smells here were sour and fetid, no doubt wafting up from the rubbish discarded in these bin bags.