‘That what I told myself. She couldn’t be a real rival. She couldn’t be his wife. That’s what I told myself. But then I thought — this was after my visit to the prison, after Tragic Week, when I was doing a lot of thinking — I thought that maybe she felt like me, maybe she felt as much as me. And I–I almost felt sorry for her.
‘But then I thought, maybe she felt like me, and was just as jealous as I was. Because I was jealous, despite what I said just now. Deep down I was jealous. Very. And I thought maybe she was, too. And that maybe — maybe she had killed him. Because of that.
‘And then I thought, maybe it wasn’t her. It was him. Her husband. The high-up. Well, it could have been. He wouldn’t have liked it, would he? And he could have done it, couldn’t he? While he had Sam there, at his mercy… Well, he could, couldn’t he? He could have done it.
‘But then I thought, perhaps I was imagining things. I tried to put it out of my mind. But I couldn’t. I kept imagining… and then you came,’ she said to Seymour, ‘and I thought, maybe he will find out. And I thought, if it is a woman I will kill her. And if it’s a man, well, perhaps the authorities will kill him. And if they don’t, I will.
‘But then I thought, if it is this high-up, maybe he’s got it all sorted out. I mean, why haven’t they found him out already? It must be because they’re not looking. Because this man, the high-up, has got it all fixed. And I thought maybe this new man, this Englishman, coming to it from outside, will get somewhere. Because they won’t find it so easy to fix him.
‘That is what I thought. But now the warder says the woman who gave him the food to take in was an Arab. So I couldn’t be right, could I, about her? But I could still be right about him. The high-up. He could have got someone else to do it. It would be easy for him to get an Arab.
‘I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to think now.’
She burst into tears and Manuel led her away gently.
Seymour stepped down into the underground cafe. It was more full than it had been before. They were all Arabs, of course. He was conscious of them scrutinizing him surreptitiously. He hoped that they would recognize him and know that he had been before and that he had talked to Ibrahim, so that he had, as it were, credentials. The waiter came to him more quickly than he had done before and served him coffee, so that, perhaps, he thought, they did.
He didn’t mention Ibrahim this time, just sat there.
A man went out and a little later Ibrahim came in and sat down beside him.
‘You are still here, then?’ he said.
‘For just a little longer. Then I shall go back to England.’
‘Did you speak to Leila?’
Seymour nodded.
‘I think she plans to build a life here,’ he said.
‘Don’t we all?’
‘Despite losing her husband.’
‘That is brave,’ Ibrahim said. ‘But perhaps she is right. Once you have made the step you shouldn’t go back.’
Seymour looked round the cafe with its solely Arab clientele.
‘Isn’t this a kind of going back?’ he said.
‘Yes. But you can only go so far at a time. Later, perhaps, you will take another step. What was it you wanted to know?’
‘I want to know if any of you visited Lockhart when he was in prison.’
Ibrahim made a little motion with his hand and the waiter brought more coffee.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Others did. I wondered if his friends did, too.’
‘It was just after Tragic Week,’ said Ibrahim, ‘and most of us were lying low.’
‘You must have talked together, though. And possibly about him.’
‘We talked, certainly. And, when we heard, about him. There was a lot to talk about and many of us were in two minds.’
‘About Lockhart?’
‘Yes. But mostly about what was to be done. And we were still deliberating when we heard that he was dead. You have to remember this was just after Tragic Week and the police were looking for us. They were looking for others as well, of course, but it was thought best if they did not see us together for a while. So, for a while, the community was fragmented.’
‘And then you heard that Lockhart was dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you think?’
Ibrahim shrugged. ‘That a good man was gone.’ He hesitated. ‘At least, many of us thought that.’
‘And some didn’t?’
‘Some didn’t.’
‘What did they think?’
‘That perhaps it was best if it ended.’
‘Even like this?’
‘Even like this.’
‘Did you think that?’
‘I did not see how it could end like this.’
‘Because…?’
‘Because in the Arab world things like this never end.’ He sighed. ‘I sometimes think that is the reason why I am in Spain and not in Algeria. If you never let things end, what hope is there? And yet this is all so bound up with the way we are.’
‘And the way Lockhart was?’
Unexpectedly, Ibrahim laughed.
‘You could say that,’ he said wryly. ‘But in a different way.’
He touched Seymour’s hand.
‘But I’ll tell you this,’ he said. ‘That is what Leila thinks. Let it end, she thinks. Let it end here. And I think that is why she will never go back. She wants to put it behind her, all that has happened, and not — not pursue it.’
Seymour nodded. ‘I had a specific reason for asking if any of you had visited Lockhart when he was in prison. Perhaps I should have made it clearer: if any of you had visited the prison while he was there, not necessarily Lockhart himself.’
Ibrahim looked puzzled.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
Seymour hesitated. How far could he go? How much could he rely on Ibrahim being on his, on Lockhart’s side? He hesitated, and then plumped.
‘Lockhart was poisoned in his cell,’ he said. ‘Probably by some food that the warder was given to take in to him. A pie, probably. The warder was given the food by a woman. She gave him money, too, to take it to Lockhart. The woman was an Arab.’
‘An Arab?’ said Ibrahim. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Ibrahim sat there for some time thinking. ‘I am shocked,’ he said. ‘I do not know a woman from our community who could have done that,’ he said. ‘But, as I told you, after Tragic Week, the community was very fragmented. Even so…’
He thought some more.
‘I do not know who it could be,’ he said. ‘Even though there were disagreements among us over Lockhart, I find it hard to believe that…’
‘Do you really find it so hard to believe,’ said Seymour, ‘knowing the kind of man that Lockhart was?’
‘I know the kind of man that Lockhart was,’ said Ibrahim, ‘especially, and I think this is what you are saying, the kind of man that Lockhart was as regards women. But Arab women! It is not with Arab women as it is with Spanish women. Or English women, as far as I know. An Arab woman is hedged around. It is not easy for her to meet a man, let alone… Which is, I think, what you have at the back of your mind. Harder here, even, in some ways, than it is back in Algeria. We are a small community. Everyone knows everything. And we are, as I think you were suggesting earlier, defensive. We look inwards still. Too much. Not outwards. That kind of thing — our women — we are jealous of. It touches us closely. Our pride, perhaps, but also our fear. I find it hard to believe…’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Seymour, ‘it was an Arab woman.’
Ibrahim sat there for some time turning it over in his mind. Then he said, ‘Go away for a while. An hour perhaps. And then come back.’
Chantale, meanwhile, had been doing what she had taken to doing more and more when Seymour was away. She had gone out into the plaza and sat on a bench beneath a palm tree. At first when she had been left alone she had gone for a walk along Las Ramblas. The feeling of release and freedom which she had experienced on the first day was still with her; but she was beginning now to have a sense of horizons closing in, that things couldn’t go on like this.