Spanish dust

He kicked up the soil that sprawled, lifeless and brick-red, over the tarmac from the scrub that bordered the fields. It billowed behind him like an infernal smoke, clung to his shoes and tried to suck moisture out of the leather, to crack and ruin the polish. The sun, stupefied by its own heat, continued to press down on the landscape, squeezing out complication from Mr. Barnaby's head.

There had not been a single cloud since his walking took him close to the sea. He had kicked and rolled tiringly over shingle. The pebbles, he had guessed, were stacked perhaps a foot deep in places. Each smoothed stone had contained fire, had been a hot coal that ground against its neighbours and Mr. Barnaby's feet. As he had paused to take breath, the air emerging a little cooler than it was inhaled, a shadow had passed over him. Cast by a scruffy tuft of vapours. And, succeeded by two much smaller companions, it had looked like a cartoon thought bubble. Indeed, as it passed over him, the relief of shade had enabled him to start thinking and get his bearings. Looking round, and trying to remember the maps he had been shown, he had pointed his shoes full of mangled, jangling bones inland. The cloud had then passed.

It had been a mistake to start walking. The airlessness of the bus had been a fat, sweaty man sitting on his lap; it had made him itchy, clammy and, moreover, paranoid. He had become certain that a young man at the back of the bus was watching him. Given his circumstances, Mr. Barnaby had taken the opportunity of the bus breaking down to strike out on his own.

Now he headed towards what he hoped was Paio's villa, off the autopista that he had left - to take a short cut - an hour ago. His suit jacket was crumpled in his left hand, soaking up a little palm-sweat. A white envelope, fattened to a few stiff millimetres, poked out his the waistband and pressed into the small of his back - reassuringly. When he had removed his jacket, he could not conscience leaving his innocuous-looking cargo in the inside pocket, to the whims of however his twitching hand folded and refolded the material.

In his right hand he carried a sports bag containing the few things he had thought he would need for the trip. There was nothing in there, of course, that might be of use in this bizarre eventuality. No trainers, or cool clothes, or a hat or cold water. The bag had very little structure and he was sure that all the clothes inside would now be well creased. It was perhaps this that had made Mr Barnaby decide, in a way that he was not fully conscious enough, not to put the envelope in with his mess of clothes.

The heat fuelled a buzzing in his ears. His legs were getting heavy, and he felt as though he was climbing. He stopped, swaying a little. Straightening his back he scanned the horizon, and realised he had been climbing. Behind him and then below him stretched the sea and the coast. A long breakwater made a discontinuity in the pattern of the waves. Two sailboats gave the illusion of being stationary. The panorama made him think of a long draught of cold water, renewing faith in his sparse memory of the terrain. He convinced himself that contour lines had to be cut, and pressed onwards, upwards.