Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I was tired of Algiers. The heat was getting to me so I decided to visit the hotel bar. The lobby was incredibly busy. People were gathered around posters advertising a road race from Algiers to Cape Town. Interesting, I thought. I approached the bar and a jovial American turned to me and shook my hand. “Charlie Markman.” “MacRae” “Hello fella, here for the race?” “No, actually, but I may be interested.” “Well if you need a car then I’m the right man to speak to.” “I may partake actually.” “Partake! I like it! Fancy!” Getting slightly irritated at this point I shook the man’s hand again and wrote down the details of the next day’s test run. The race track was incredibly raucous. Full of dust, petrol fumes and the incredibly loud din of engines. Amongst the spectators to my surprise I saw a familiar woman. “Megan? What are you doing here?” She appraised me coolly and drawled “Oh, hello. So, you like cars too, do you?” What was she doing here? “Where is James?” I asked. “Out there, on...

I’m feeling pretty sore over losing the documents back in Paris. I got careless, he got lucky; it won’t be happening again.  In the meantime there are some advantages to being dead, metaphorically speaking of course.  The English guy, Alan, isn’t looking for me – not yet, anyhow. That was his mistake; too much confidence in his old French comrade. Sadly misplaced.  I catch the next boat to Algiers and check into a passable place in the Kasbah – the usual thing – tiled walls, orange trees, terrible bathroom arrangements. It’s a more anonymous choice than the swanky place favoured by Alan; it doesn’t take me long to find where he is staying and I find the night porter to be very helpful with the usual encouragement.  I find a café in a narrow street off the main square and order a coffee. It’s thick and black and burns in my guts but I can’t bear the mint tea that’s the only other offering.  A kid – a boy maybe eight or nine, hard to te...