The West had been left behind them. They have escaped all that. No more runaway kids. No more slandering neighbours. No more hidden passwords. No more secret emails. The sea breeze whittles away any doubt they had about the final steps of their plan. They're away from all emotional attachment, their families, and their lives, left behind in a world that's far away. They're two people. It's an American - a man. He's wearing a white suit and hat. He's got a couple of brown Gucci bags by his feet. He's tall, handsome, dark-haired, tanned. He is a very sensitive man. But he looks bored, almost exhausted. Sitting next to him - a woman. She's a real catch, pretty, blond, blue eyes, Nordic. They're both well settled into their thirties - an age perfect for them. Other people would perhaps say they'd look cute together. They speak English, and her accent's British. He loves her accent. It's very cute. Sometimes she hates his apathy and numbness - but she carries great affection for him. He certainly holds a great amount of affection for her, although perhaps, none of this has got anything to do with love. They hold hands occasionally. For most of the time they drop back to looking at the sea, lost in their own thoughts. She's smoking a Marlboro on the deck of the white ferry. She is watching the island come into view. There it is - he points. We're out of the city's reaches. We're going to be on our own here. There's the old French fortress. There are the two piers. There are the local boys practicing in the early morning hours. When one listens, intently, one can hear far away the canting of morning prayers, among the noise of boats, the noise of animals, the rush of sea to the cries of the bare-fleeted fishermen.

They're surrounded by sea and on sea they are very alone. There are no ships apart from the big commercial cruisers that import an endless stream all things that humans need, rice, bananas, peanuts, oil, salt, sugar, pepper " but does not concern the couple. They're almost entirely alone on the white ferry top deck with the morning mist rising. There are a few other early risers, locals going out with their groceries. There are two little boys with their shoe-polishing kits. They don't live out there but will go there for the day. They offer to polish the American's trainers. He smiles and tries to politely decline, but the two boys don't listen. They polish his trainers until they look like they have been lacquered. The man gives up, and throws his arms in the air. He realizes he has no coin to pay the boys and shrugs, hands them a bill from his pocket. They walk away, happy, surprised.

"You shouldn't have - they'll pester you every day." She smiles at him.

"What the hell. Let them."

The ferry has anchored now and will be there for a while. They walk up the sandy pier to the hotel. A local tourist guide wishes to give them an introduction. The American, in a bit less playful mood now, says no. They've got to put their bags at the hotel. She places a hand on his shoulder.

"Everything okay?"

"Everything okay."

There's a promenade along the dock. It's cobbled and lined with pink and yellow houses. Kids are playing in the sand and looking at the strangers. They wave at the couple. Hello! Hello. Going well? Going well. And you? Where's the hotel? Up there, on the hill.

"It's hot here." He takes of his jacket.

"Let's go to the hotel."

Once there, an older, bald, middle-aged Frenchman receives Mr. and Ms. Ronald with great care. He orders them breakfast. The room is on the top " it's the biggest of the ten rooms. The floor squeaks and there are cockroaches in the bathtub, but they're not too fussed. Sitting outside by the promenade they enjoy a breakfast that turns into a brunch as they sit the long hours, eyes closed, cigarettes in mouth, thinking,

"I think I'd like to go for a walk." She says.

"Yeah, I think me too."

They pay the bill and stroll along the sandy streets, passing giant trees, brown and yellow walls, dark windows, the chatter of women and kids playing in the background, the lonely man in the shop, the beads merchants and the hidden bars at the corners, where they order a couple of beer. It's dirt cheap here, he remarks. She nods. I would have liked to have stayed here more. She's a bit distant now. Where did he put the bags? I've put them in the closet. Don't worry. The Frenchman runs an old business. Other Europeans come there as well.

"I think I overheard a couple of Italians in the restaurant."

"I aw a couple of Americans too on far side of the promenade." She says.

"How can you recognize an American on sight?"

"Their shirts."

He toasts with her. The bear tastes like tap water but somehow it makes him dizzy. A few other locals come into the bar and start chatting. They toast some more. One of them points to the Canon camera the American carries around his neck and asks if he wants his picture taken with them. The American tips him a hundred francs and declines. No pictures of us, at all what so ever. We're just interested in the houses and pictures of houses. My wife and I, we're architects. Do you know any good places? No, the man says. He doesn't live here. He turns back to the bar, possibly offended.

"You shouldn't tip people here, they say." She whispers.

"Why not?"

"Because if offends their sense of pride and dignity. They've got a lot of dignity."

"What's wrong with being nice?"

"You were nice; he just wanted the picture taken."

"Well, I don't want any pictures. I don't want people to remember us."

"Why not?"

He doesn't answer. They are silent for a while. She waves the flies away with the sleeve of her shirt.

On the way back to the hotel that evening they stop by the beach to watch the sunset. It's a fast one, but she points out, the sun is red like a strawberry. The sky is painted in every colour ranging from dark blue to bright orange and the clouds are pink dots of cotton. It's just too perfect. The man snaps a photo anyway, with his camera, and checks if it's right afterwards on the LCD display. It's right. It could make a nice one for the photo contests.

"Did you know I had the intention of being a photographer when I was young?" He says.

"It's a good picture."

"I like this place."

"I like it, but think it's hard that you don't want to remember me."

He's not listening. She's looking a bit sad. She's watching the kids play and sing together in the sand, that hour right before bed time, with their mothers standing at the back, the fathers sitting at the bars, with their hookahs. The kids, tomorrow, they'll all be in the mosque, with their fathers, praying. They'll all be there, because it's their holy day.

"But it's rather peaceful here."

The sea wind gently strokes her hair.

The couple head back to the hotel where they are greeted by the porter with supper and wine. The food is excellent. The wine mellows their mood. They could be a couple on a honeymoon. They could be celebrating an anniversary. They could be planning their babies. They hold hands again, finding in themselves, a strength to carry on as usual. He kisses her hand, affectionately, a bit drunk.

"You are looking even more beautiful than the first time I met you."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

She suspects him of being a bit drunk. She feels ugly inside. When they were there, at the beach together, looking at the children playing in the sunset, she unravelled as if by some strange force. Right then, she determined, a part of her had died.

"Did you take a picture of the kids?"

"I did."

The kids had looked at them while he took the picture of the sunset, and she would probably always remember that, their white eyes, staring at them. The American shrugs off the perceived melancholy and drinks more of the red wine. They are already tired of their long journey. It's come to an end too soon. The Frenchman comes over, accepts their complements on the food, listens to their small talk and in impeccable English recounts the history of the hotel, that ever since colonial times has been here, and in his family. Then, he leaves to tend to other guests.

"The French, really, haven't stopped being proud of that colony-shit." The American jests. She shrugs, not up for any more of his small talk. They get up, pass out through the bar. Good night then. Bon nuit. The American orders another bottle sent up to the room. That night they make love, frantic, and he falls asleep immediately, but she stays awake, the whole night.

Dawn spreads a growing unrest. She first gets up first when her watch says 6 AM, has a long bath. When she comes back from the bathroom in a white towel, she sees her on the bed, with one of his bags, opened. The clothes have been tossed hastily everywhere. A knife has been used to cut the false bottom. He has placed the packs and the components systematically on the bed.

"Can you put up the do not disturb sign, hon?"

She nods, tip-toes over to the door, unlocks it, takes the card and places it on the doorknob outside the door, casts a brief glance down the hallway, where the papers have been put orderly in front of them " the Herald, International Edition, and Le Monde. She picks up both, and closes the door.

"Newspapers, darling"

"Thanks, hon."

"You've had some coffee brought up?"

"No, sorry."

This disappoints her somewhat. She wanted the taste of fresh coffee. She opens the window briefly and admires the view to the coast, to the city.

"Close that window, will you, and switch on the light. I need to see."

She does as she is told. The man works with a small screwdriver in his hand. He connects two of the components and attaches the wires. It only takes a few minutes. It's almost set.

"I didn't sleep at all last night. I've had a lot of nightmares." She drops her towel and locates her bra. He stops - looks up at her. She cannot bring herself to smile anymore. It's morning, and the world has again renewed itself, but for her, it's renewed too late. Nothing good came out of last night. Nothing changed.

"What's the matter, hon?"

"I don't think I am enjoying this holiday here." She stands there, half naked, back to him, facing the mahogany doors. She's stopped dressing. He puts away his work, and holds her from behind, kisses her neck.

"It's they way you wanted it."

"But what about them?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know if it's right anymore."

He realized she was crying all the time with her back to him " her eyes are red. He is relieved, somehow. Her tears, when they fall, came in streams and rivers, not little drips. He kisses her and takes her to the bed, where they sit and hug each other for ten minutes, half and hour an hour, a long time.

"Are you thinking of your husband?"

"I'm not thinking of my husband anymore."

It was comforting for a while; two bodies clenched against one another. But they were no longer together.

"Bonjour, Mr Ronaldson."

"Bonjour."

"I hope you are enjoying your honeymoon?"

"Very much, thanks."

"Table for two?"

"Certainly."

They sit down with their newspapers on the white chairs near the promenade, overhearing the odd Italian couple, two rich newly-weds. Another woman, another man, happy together, happy in each other's presence, Designer clothes, big, dark shades, cellular phones at the ready, cigarettes being passed. The Italian man gets up and asks them for a light. The American smiles and offers the Zippo.

"You American?"

"Yes."

"New York?"

"Yes."

"We stayed there until last summer."

"Really? I used to spend some summers as little in Florence."

The Italian smiles approvingly.

"To me, that's a wonderful place. We have family there."

They all introduce and sit down on the table together, and the small chat continues over breakfast for an hour. The Italians are from Milan, and the American notices, unusually outgoing. They live nearby, in a house they bought last year. They were just married. They plan to come here every summer. It's the Italians turn to ask questions. Where were they from? They lived together in New York. Her mother was Danish and she grew up in England. They met in London, on a pub. Three months later he proposed to her. It was one of those shotgun marriages. She's put her shades back on. She nods. She smiles. She can't even make herself laugh at his jokes, and the lies anymore. It's insane. They quickly run out of subjects. The flies are buzzing around them now, picking off every scrap of food left at the table.

"It's time to go."

The breakfast is over. The Italians excuse themselves leave but not before inviting them over.

"Drop by tonight, we are throwing a party."

"We're flying back today."

"Maybe next summer, then. If you ever come back, drop by."

The American jots down their address at the back of a pack of cigarettes. It's at the back of the island, by the fortress. Their windows face the West and they have a pool. The view would extend no doubt all the way to America, if the earth was flat.

Let's go and watch the ferry come back, he says. Let's board and sit on the white deck. She stops, says wait. We can walk along the beach here. Just a few minutes. We can stop on the promenade and look, see how the local men are washing their goats in the waves of the salt sea. The animals are standing in the surf held between the men's knees, letting out frightened groans. The American takes another picture and they stand there for a while, seeing the ferry coming back. It's now 10 AM. They grab their bags of the porter and have to run back around the pier to catch it. Mothers and the daughters are carrying baskets and shopping bags to and from the boat. Policemen are standing idly by in, not even scanning the faces of the two white tourists that pass before them. The two sit on deck, two strangers, already enshrined in their own world.

"I left myself in that place."

"Me too."

Soon they shall arrive back at the city, where they catch a run down, rusty cab off the side street and instruct him to bring them to the supermarket by the town hall and the mosque. All the way there they sit in the mangled seats and stare at the crowds wandering around. She turns to face him, maybe for the last time, in the cab.

"I'm set."

The prayers of the imams and humming of cars fills the silence, the rich, hot and lingering atmosphere. He's not sure what to say.

"It's all ready " it's all in the bag." He whispers at last.

And her stomach is no longer upset. Her face is so calm, now, so incredibly calm. He thought she would falter, she would break. She's not going to.

"What about your nightmares?"

"They're gone."

"Are you tired?"

"Yes."

"We'll have a coffee and then you'll go." The cab stops. They driver some six hundred francs and shoots off, they head off into the nearest bar with their bags. It's cool there, the air fan keeps buzzing, and there's a comfortable lack of tourists. The walls are turquoise. Only a few working men are at the bar, with cigarettes and teas, purposefully doing nothing.

The man orders them two coffees. He goes to the bathroom with his bag. She buys a small painting from a street salesman who comes inside. It's got several tribal men and women dancing around a fire on a beach. The sun is setting somewhere the grey distance. It would be the spitting image of that beach yesterday. Perhaps that's why she buys it.

"It's for you."

She passes it over to him as he comes back.

"Thank you."

"Thanks for everything. Thanks for all your help."

She reaches out for his hands. He forces himself to smile. But he remembers how he was in the toilet a minute ago and his hands were cold and shaking. He had splashed water in his face and dried it off with the sleeves of his jacket. He had changed his shirt. He had taken out the pack and activated the timer. Then he had put it back in, zipped the bag shut, sat down on the toilet cap for several minutes, thinking about that place they met the first time. It was far from accidental. They had already been aware of one another's existence for several years. First, reading the news. Then emails and chat rooms. Usernames and passwords. The overseas phone calls. The research. Then the plane to London. The meeting, where she had outlined her plans. Then the hotel rooms. And, finally the train to Europe. And then the rest of the journey to Africa. He's now back at the table with her. He looks at the watch again. It's now 11.05 AM.

"You're welcome."

With his feet the man pushes the brown Gucci bag over to her side. What if? Maybe in some other world, we would work. We'd be here, on holiday. I could have bought you some of those necklaces in the market. We could have taken pictures of one another. But where you are going, why would I bother with that? He takes her in. She's no longer a woman he new, she is perfectly strange, composed, focused. She takes her shades off, and they look each other in the eyes. All the lies are gone. She is no longer playing her part as an actress. She isn't sad or worried anymore, not troubled by him anymore. By her feet he can feel the bag weighing against her, a weight that seems heavier than a corpse.

"You really want to do this?" The American mutters weakly. He really thought she would break. He assumed there would be some last minute excuse, last minute something. They would dump the bag innocently in a ditch or a container. No. In the end it was he who broke down. Quite simply, she leans across the table, kisses him gently, touches his chin with her fingers, feels the stubble, holds his black hair, and looks into his eyes.

"Goodbye." In one fluid motion she stands up with his bag. She walks out the door of the bar determinedly, joining the crowd bustling along the sidewalk, her white shirt and blonde hair visible through the crowds. For a moment there he thought about running after her on the street. He would shout her name. She would turn around, slowly, and walk back to him. No. It would have been useless. She would never have turned around. She would have walked away. Now she rounds the corner, and is out of sight. He takes their return tickets out. Mr. and Mrs. Sloane " booking confirmed. No smoking, no crying, no thinking, no regret, no looking back. He looks at his watch. It's 11.35 AM. He takes her ticket, tears it into several tiny pieces and drops them in the ashtray.

She looks at her watch " it's 11.45 AM. She approaches the clothes' market, the wooden booths and the gigantic mass of people. She turns down the peddlers, the boys selling Orange SIM cards. She walks through them as if they were air, and by being so strange, so out of place, no-one pays her much attention. Another tourist. The steps of the mosque lie ahead " where she is headed. For a moment everything plays out in slow motion. She turns her head around. One man has seen her. The taxi driver is staring at her from a sidewalk. His eyes are dark. It's the same man they rode with. He throws away his cigarette, joins the crowds, and follows her. She turns away, eyes concealed by shades.

"Madame!"

She continues, quick, unabated.

"Madame! Wait!"

The taxi driver is far behind, but she's afraid. She clutches the bag. It's got to be soon. The watch is five to twelve. The mosque isn't far away now. It's closed for tourists " but what does she care? She walks faster, angry. The screams of the taxi driver is drowned by the crowd. But he doesn't give up. She thinks, slows down, and stops. Facing him coming towards her, she waits. She stands quite still in the street, like a pedestal. What could he possibly know? Did he overhear them in the car?

"Madame, don't run." He comes close to her, exasperated. She notices there is police on the corner " police watching them, thinking a nave Westerner is hustled by a pickpocket. Maybe they will head over to check. The thin Canon digital camera hangs from his fist.

"You left this in the car."

The pictures from the island. The kids who stared at them from the beach.

"Thank you."

She turns away. But, the man is still following her, expectantly. He seems puzzled. Something stirs in her. Something that wants her to drop the bag and run away.

"Keep it." She hands him the camera.

"The pictures...?"

Were there pictures of him in that thing? No, he had, of course, seen to that. Like he saw to everything else. She hands the camera back to him.

"There are no pictures."

"Merci, Madame, merci."

The man leaves with a camera to boot, unaware of the danger passing right in front of his eyes. She watches him as he heads back to his car. Two minutes left. She has been counting the time. Wherever she goes, there will be carnage. It's too late. If she had decided not to do it in the bar, when he had asked her, she could have told the American to switch that thing off. Or, she could have turned around, gone back to him. They could have taken the cab to the airport together. She runs under the columns, in the shade. Above her, the midday prayers are underway. What long and servile prayers " Ramadan. Even the beggar at the steps is praying. Nobody has seen her. She stops. I am almost alone, under these columns. There, look. She turns and looks out from underneath the arch, where the sun gleams and shimmer in the hundreds of tin roofs in the far distance and palm branches wave lazily in the breeze and the cabs roll down the town square of this half-built town and all of the people and their unwritten dreams " among a scent of old harbour, of smog, of salt, oil and fish and all the things that come in from the sea.