Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.

– Mary Shelley

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.

Let it not be death, but completeness.

Let love melt into memory, and pain into songs.

– Rabindranath Tagore

Chapter One

Tangier, 25 October 1982

They rise late, around noon, pushing off cotton sheets and draperies to go drink thick coffee on the balcony. The sun is at its apex, and the scent of Old Medina – cumin and thuja wood, and smoke from the snail-sellers, and vehicle exhaust – rises from the streets below the apartment like steam. They open the windows, but keep the curtains half-closed and the big ceiling fans turning.

The housekeeper has left a mound of sweet briouat pastries on a metal platter. In silk pyjamas, still waking and languid from the heat, Kristin moistens the pad of her thumb to press on the sticky pastry crumbs, then licks her fingers clean.

Piping hot coffee, rich with cinnamon, is delivered by the seller at the bottom of the stone stairwell. Simon sips from the distinctive tall glass tucked in its metal holder, sets it down on the balcony table beside the platter with the pastries. In a smaller enamel bowl, ripe figs: Simon likes to smoke his first cigarette of the day with the coffee, then slice a fig in half and scoop out the innards with a spoon. He has removed his black djellaba for sleeping and changed into camel-coloured trousers and a loose white linen shirt, soft slippers on his feet. His hair is the colour of snow on the Atlas mountains.

Peering out at the city through round, wire-framed sunglasses, he surveys the landscape for anything that seems out of place: White faces in the crowd, or local people glancing too frequently at their second-floor eyrie, or an overheard snippet of an American accent. But there is no cause for concern at present, so Simon returns his attention to the foreign newspapers piled on top of his stack of medical texts.

He selects a copy of The New York Times and examines the headlines. ‘And what is on the menu for us today, dearest?’

‘The gemstone man again, sadly, as our coffers are getting low.’ Bothered by the sun, Kristin rakes her long hair back from her face. She fans herself with one pale hand. ‘Then I can pay all our accounts, and perhaps buy more paints. And I should visit Dimity for a while this afternoon.’

‘Give her my very best regards,’ Simon says absently, turning a page.

‘I was rather hoping you’d come along.’ Kristin gestures for his cigarette. When he hands it to her, she draws deeply, blows out smoke in a thin stream. ‘It’ll be martini hour, and you know she’d be delighted to see you. And it’s lovely and cool in the riad.’

Simon recovers his cigarette and smiles. Impossible to see his eyes behind the black lenses of the sunglasses. ‘I’m afraid I have some business in town.’

‘By business, you mean chess.’ Kristin rolls her eyes indulgently.

‘Mr Bennani has invited me for coffee and chess,’ Simon acknowledges, still reading.

‘I don’t know what you see in Mr Bennani.’

‘Much the same as what you see in the gemstone man, I think.’ Simon raises his eyebrows.

‘Hmm. Oh goodness, it’s far too hot out here.’ Kristin rises from her cushioned chair. She is unaccustomed to these temperatures in October. ‘I’m going to take a bath before I dress. Do you want anything from the souk while I’m there?’

‘I don’t think so, dearest.’ Simon finally detaches his attention from his newspaper, removes his sunglasses. Beneath them, his eyes are the same startling blue as the khamsa hanging by the balcony doors.

‘Simon…’ Kristin bites her full bottom lip over a smile. ‘Would you fix my hair before I bathe? I don’t like to be a bother, but you do it so well.’

‘Of course.’ His gaze softens, and he stands. Simon is very tall, even in his slippers.

They stand away from the sun, in the cool green-tiled shadow of the apartment kitchen. Kristin turns, and Simon sinks his fingers into her hair, rubbing her skull gently before separating the thick strands of ice white and beginning to weave.

Kristin closes her eyes, shoulders relaxing. ‘Thank you, Simon.’

‘I like that you ask me,’ Simon whispers, his lips behind her ear. From the hook on the kitchen wall, he collects a length of ribbon, ties off the braid.

Kristin turns in his arms, hugs him around the neck, her eyes damp. She presses her length against him, as if she might ease her body into his. Even now, she seems intoxicated by this closeness with him, closeness so long denied. It’s only been five weeks since they set themselves free.

She kisses him on the cheek, wipes her eyes on her hand. ‘Enough – I simply must bathe.’

‘Go bathe,’ he grins, tweaks her braid.

Kristin laughs, disappears inside.

Simon Gutmunsson – doting twin of Kristin Gutmunsson, American fugitive, former resident of jails and hospitals for the criminally insane, sociopathic murderer of fifteen – settles back into his chair on the balcony and picks up his coffee, lights another cigarette.