Praça do Rossio N° 59

“That’s no fish.” The voice was beside her, speaking in English.
Claire jumped. It was the boy from the train station. Without thinking, she folded her arms over the pouch again and backed up a step. His hair was darker than hers, his eyes a piercing green. He was still wearing his beret, and had slung a stubby cardboard tube across his back.
His brief smile at her reaction didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you know what’s happening?”
Claire shook her head. She should just leave, ignore him. Mother had always said good girls didn’t talk to strange men. But he didn’t look at all threatening. Just preoccupied. And his hands – for now, at least – were in plain sight. Not reaching for someone else’s property. She gave in to her curiosity. “What is it then?”
“Not what. I think it’s a person.”
“A person?” She looked back at the boat. The fishermen were raising something long and heavy. Red stained the quiet water below it. Claire’s stomach looped queasily. “Who?”