The thin linen shirt was sticking to his skin as Brogan made his way back along the esplanade towards Gala Bona. He'd left some of his stuff back in the hotel room; dirty clothes and a few toiletries, just so it looked as if he was going to return. He shouldered the new backpack that contained his possessions. All he needed was in here. He gave a grin remembering the mantra that his pals recited before they left for holiday: money, tickets, passport. Well he still had enough money to keep him going, some of it already changed into American dollars, the favoured currency in North Africa, he'd been told. His passport was tucked inside his trouser pocket and as for his ticket? Well he'd paid his new mate, Carlos, for that trip, hadn't he?
The sun was a red ball in the sky, sinking towards the edge of the sea when the receptionist looked up to see two officers from the local police.
'Can I help you?' the girl smiled at them. But as they motioned her to a back room out of the hearing of several guests who were gazing at them with unashamed curiosity, the receptionist's face became grave.
'A Setior Brogan. Englishman,' one of the officers began.
'tic is un Estods,' the girl corrected him primly. 'Not Ingle's.' 'Where is he?' the other officer demanded, clearly quite uninterested in the distinction.
'He left his key in reception,' the girl nodded to the desk.
'Went out hours ago. Probably gone for dinner by this time.' She glanced at the clock. 'Almost nine. He'll likely be in one of the tavernas, I would say. What d'you want with him, anyway?'
'Where's his room?' the first policeman asked. 'We need to look at it.'
'Has he done something wrong?' the girl's hand rose to her mouth in alarm.
'Key to his room, please, senorita,' the other officer said, holding out his hand in a manner that brooked no argument.
The glass doors to the balcony were open, thin muslin curtains blowing upwards, letting in a draught of the night air when the two Spanish officers entered Brogan's room.
'Doesn't look as if he's gone for good,' one of them remarked.
'No,' the other agreed. And see here,' he opened the wardrobe to show the clothes still hanging upon their rails. 'Look in the bathroom. See if he's taken his razor and stuff.'
Moments later the other man returned. 'All there. He's not done a runner by the looks of things.'
'So he doesn't know anyone is looking for him,' the first officer said, nodding. 'And he will not be expecting us to visit him when he returns.'
'What are you suggesting?'
'Park the car round the back. We don't want to warn him off.
Remember what our instructions were.'
'To keep a low profile,' the other officer said as though he were repeating someone else's words. 'But what are we actually supposed to do?'
'We'll wait here for him to come back, won't we? I could do with a couple of San Miguels,' he grinned at his companion. 'How about phoning down for a little room service while we cool our heels up here?'
The boat had slipped quietly out of the harbour, unnoticed by the mass of tourists seeking their evening's pleasure onshore. It was a good time to leave the island, thought Brogan, as he watched the twinkling lights recede. Taking a deep breath full of salty air, he stood on deck, watching as the old sailor guided his boat out into the choppy waters. This was it, then. A new adventure! Billy Brogan laughed softly to himself: he'd done it! They could look high and low for him all over the damned island but they'd be chasing shadows. He was off and running with this tide, evading anyone who might try to takes him back to Scotland to face a mess that was not of his own making.
Brogan frowned. Was he in any way responsible for what had happened to Fraz and Gubby? He sniffed. Och, they'd run close to the edge, that pair. Not his fault if they'd come to a bad end.
And Marianne? Och, she'd be fine. Amit would be looking out for her, he reasoned. But the creases on his brow persisted and he chewed a guilty lip, wondering just what was going on back in the place he had once called home.
A full moon made a track across the waves as though leading them onwards into the dark seas. Brogan shivered, rubbing his arms. Carlos had advised him to wear something warm but he had ignored the man, choosing instead to wear this thin linen shirt that now flapped in the gathering wind.
As the lights from the shore grew smaller and smaller, the island appeared as a large brooding mass, frowning across at the boat bobbing uncertainly on the rising waves. Brogan staggered from the deck to the safety of the large inside cabin, sliding open the door, feeling unbalanced in the heaving swell that made the timbers beneath his feet rise and fall.
His stomach gave a queasy flip and he caught hold of a wooden rail to steady himself. Fifteen hours, the Spaniard had told him.
He let out a yelp as the boat rose and fell over a particularly high wave. Oh. That wasn't funny. A feeling of nausea came over the man as he clutched the rail harder then shuffled to the nearest seat. Fifteen hours of this? Brogan groaned aloud. Just what had he let himself in for?