The Road to McCarthy by Pete McCarthy Page B

anything away. After all, I’ve already told Mohammed my name and it would be foolish to repeat the mistake.
    “Peter.”
    It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s so stoned he forgets it immediately. Do I have a guide? Did he take me to the casbah? He’s not a very good guide then, says Mustafa, because tomorrow is Friday, Muslim holy day. Casbah will be closed. I tell him I know. Ah, yes, he says, but also closed Saturday, Sunday and Monday. For festival.
    “What festival?”
    “We kill sheep. So maybe you visit casbah now, see snake charmers, acrobats, fire.”
    He pauses, then goes for it.
    “And camels.”
    “Camels?”
    “Yes, William. Camels. Come. I show you.”
    I know he isn’t government approved, and probably doesn’t subscribeto any professional code of conduct in the way that real estate agents and contract killers do; but I think I’d feel a bit of a Charlie if the casbah stayed closed for the duration of whatever this festival is and I had to go home and tell people I hadn’t even seen the wretched place, but I’d managed a pizza and a few beers in the hotel bar instead. It’s not very adventurous, is it? I know he’s probably a bit dodgy, but the dope seems to have made him quite mellow, and I’m actually starting to feel like I know my way around. After all, what can happen really?
    Actually, on second thoughts, a lot might happen. Don’t bother. It isn’t worth the risk. Just say No.
    “Okay.”
    This is crazy. I’ve already got Mohammed. At this rate I’m going to end up with more guides than Lonely Planet. Whatever happens now I have to give this guy some money as well. I’m beginning to realize that I’m not very good at this.
    We stand to leave, and Mustafa insists on several clenched-fist handshakes.
    “What is your name?”
    “Still Peter.”
    “Peter. You. Me. We are like brother.”
    We head off into the medina, heading up the hill to the casbah, the fortress within a fortress, maze within a maze, where once no outsider was permitted to tread. Soon we’re climbing steps and the buzz of the nighttime market is falling away behind us. I’m aware of our footsteps, and the sound of my heart racing.
    “Here are Jewish houses. Later I show you film-star house. What is your name? Ah, where you from? I know English people. Not rich like American film star. Jean-Claude Van Damme, he make movie in this house. You are afraid? Do not be afraid. No one hurt you here, William. You are with me. Like brother. See there? They sell knives. To kill sheep. For festival.”
    We’re inside the casbah walls now—“bottom half Phoenician, top Portuguese”—and in a maze of medieval alleyways, all sense of direction long since lost. He’s pointing out a selection of interesting doors.
    “Here German. Swiss here. This lady has art gallery. Where you from?Ah, here English film star. Tony Williams. You know him? Here other Englishman. We call him Eric. Skinhead.”
    We seem to be getting nearer the center, where the acrobats and camels and snake charmers must be. Here’s the women’s mosque, full of children singing and chanting verses from the Koran. Round the corner and—no, it’s dark again, and I’m very uneasy now. If I reach out I can touch the walls on either side. But now there are some small children in a doorway playing, and a woman in traditional dress with a baby, a biblical image that’s immediately superseded by a businessman with an expensive blouson and briefcase making his way home. The alley opens out and we stop briefly to admire the great mosque, or at least as much of it as you can see in the dark, before moving on and stopping outside a house with gates. Mustafa looks proud. This is clearly a highlight of the tour.
    “Here Barbara Hutton house. Come.”
    He shakes and rattles the gate till it opens. I take a couple of paces back.
    “Come. Now!”
    He makes me walk ahead of him up the path, a sensible precaution on his part in case there’s a Doberman that’s