When Michael swept into my room almost an hour later, I jumped excitedly up from my perch on the edge of my bed, only to immediately slump back down again when I caught sight of his face.

     “It’s no use,” he declared with a despairing sigh. “Don Pedro will not be persuaded to change his mind.”

     “Did you really suppose he would?” I retorted, the bitterness of my tone perhaps a reflection of my frustration at being obliged to kick my heels for the last hour whilst Michael got on with the important business of trying to talk Don Pedro out of his planned massacre without me. The Governor was, after all, a man who could scarcely believe that a woman might possess an opinion of her own, let alone that it might be one worth listening to.

     “I just hoped that… once presented with a carefully reasoned argument…” began Michael.

     “Reasoned?” I snorted in return. “I’m sorry but it’s perfectly clear that man has about as much use for reason as he has for compassion. Which is to say, bugger all.”

     “I appreciate that but I thought that perhaps, given time…”

     At the mention of time, we both threw an instinctive glance towards the clock on the dresser, uncomfortably aware that this was the one thing that we were short of. The hour hand was already creeping alarmingly close to ten. Little more than two hours before some poor unfortunate was scheduled to gasp their last breath on the gallows in the middle of the Plaza and not a hope in hell of persuading Don Pedro to call the whole thing off. I might have flung myself down on my pillow in despair if the tightness of my corset combined with the fullness of my skirt didn’t make it so damned difficult to get back up again.

     “Do not despair Senorita,” Luisa piped up from her post by the dressing table. “Juarez will not let the people suffer. He will come to the Plaza at noon.”

     “How can you be sure?” I challenged. “Nobody knows where he is. He may not even hear of the Governor’s proclamation until it is too late.”

     “He will hear,” Luisa asserted. “Word will reach him – it always does.”

     “Alright, so Juarez shows up in the Plaza and the Governor gets to hang him instead,” I complained. “I don’t see how that’s all that much better.”

     “Have faith Senorita,” Luisa insisted. “Juarez will come up with a plan. He always has a plan. Just like the one he used to rescue One-Eyed Alfonso.”

     Michael and I exchanged an uneasy glance.

     “You know,” I said slowly, thinking aloud. “Someone really ought to tell Juarez the truth about One-Eyed Alfonso. And soon. If he is coming to the Plaza at noon, he ought to be warned.”

     “Warned about what?” asked Luisa with a frown. “What truth are you talking about?”

     I hesitated, wondering how on earth I might explain matters to Luisa without her thinking I was some nut with an imaginary friend. “The thing is,” I finally began, choosing my words with care, “we have it on fairly good authority that One-Eyed Alfonso made a deal with Don Pedro after he was captured. He basically arranged to betray Juarez in order to save his own skin.”

     “Betray? What nonsense!” exclaimed Luisa. “Who has been telling you such lies?”

     “I can’t really say,” I somewhat awkwardly responded. “But I promise you, it’s true.”

     “I don’t believe it,” Luisa stubbornly insisted. “How could there be any betrayal when Juarez and One-Eyed Alfonso escaped together?”

     “We were both in the stables last night and saw the whole thing,” Michael explained. “There really was a plot in place to capture Juarez – it was only pure chance that enabled him to evade it.”

     Luisa considered this for a moment. “You are both mistaken,” she eventually declared, folding her arms in a defiant pose. “Juarez’s men are loyal to the death.”

     “In the shadow of the gallows any man’s loyalties may be stretched to breaking point,” I suggested, borrowing a line from Bob.

Luisa chose not to respond, keeping her arms folded and her chin jutted out in defiance. I looked over instead at Michael. “I really think we should warn Juarez. He shouldn’t come to the Plaza unawares.”

     “But how?” countered Michael. “We haven’t the slightest idea of where he might be.”

     For this I was obliged to turn back to Luisa. “You said that word always reaches Juarez, so I’m guessing there must be some sort of system for passing on messages,” I mused. “How do people usually call on him when they need him?”

     Luisa responded with a defiant glare.

     “Look, I realise you have no reason to trust us,” I told her. “And maybe Juarez won’t either. But don’t you think he should at least have the chance to judge for himself? The odds are going to be stacked high enough against him as it is.”

     There was an agonising pause whilst Luisa carefully considered my plea. Eventually she grudgingly lowered her chin and unfolded her arms. “Very well, it should be for Juarez to decide,” she conceded. “He will know what to do.”

     “Too right!” I exclaimed in relief. “So, how do we reach him?”

     There was another pause whilst Luisa considered this question. “We could talk to my uncle,” she finally suggested. “I think he may still have some contact with the gang from when they helped to protect his farm. He should know how to pass on a message.”

     “Perfect! Then let’s go – there’s no time to lose!” I excitedly cried, already halfway to the door.

     “Just a minute,” cautioned Michael, stepping forward to block my hasty exit. “We can’t all just go charging off. Don Pedro is expecting you and I, Everingham, to join him in half an hour for a carriage ride around the vineyard. He might get suspicious if we both suddenly disappear.”

     “Hmm, that is awkward,” I acknowledged. “I suppose at least one of us should stay here to keep him occupied.”

     “Exactly,” agreed Michael.

     “Right then. So, you stay and take the carriage ride and I’ll accompany Luisa to her uncle’s,” I briskly announced. “You can tell him I’ve got a headache or something. Too much sun.”

     “Wait a minute. Why can’t I have the headache and you take the carriage ride?”

     “Because you know how much Don Pedro enjoys your civilised manly conversation.”

     “Not nearly as much as he would enjoy spending some time alone in a carriage with you,” suggested Michael with a raised eyebrow.

     “Are you seriously trying to pimp me out to Don Pedro just to avoid spending any more time with him? Shame on you Redgrave! That’s low!”

     “It’s no lower than that time back in Havana when you cheerfully pimped me out to Felicity Fortescue so you could be free to poke around her office,” retorted Michael.

     “That was completely different,” I insisted.

     “I don’t see how.”

     There was a momentary stand-off, neither of us willing to back down, before Michael finally sighed and said, “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to resolve this.”

     “Rock, paper, scissors?” I suggested. “Or toss a coin?”

     Michael fumbled in his pockets for a moment before coming up with a shiny silver dollar. “Coin toss it is then,” he said with some relief. He didn’t have a very good record at Rock, paper, scissors.

     “Your call,” said Michael as he spun the coin up in the air.

     “Tails!” I confidently called.

     Our heads bent together over the regathered coin. Michael left a long, tense pause before he drew away his covering hand (the actor in him could never resist a moment of heightened drama), revealing the result.

     I burst into a triumphant smile. Michael’s face fell like a stone. “Best of three?” he forlornly offered.

*********************************

     Upon leaving the hacienda, Luisa and I soon discovered that Santa Marta resembled more than ever a ghost town. The Governor’s proclamation, posted on hastily printed notices pinned up all over town, obliged every citizen to present themselves in the Plaza at noon but until that hour it seemed that everyone had gone completely to ground, presumably for fear that being caught out in the open risked being the unlucky individual singled out for the noose.

     This absence of life posed a particular problem as Luisa’s uncle’s farm was a couple of miles out of town and we needed someone to transport us there. Time was ticking by and I could scarcely ask Don Pedro to lend us a couple of horses. Precious minutes were wasted banging fruitlessly on doors or peering forlornly through broken shutters before we finally caught hold of the town butcher and persuaded him to give us a lift to the farm in his cart in exchange for Michael’s silver dollar.

     When we reached the farm I could see why Luisa’s uncle had been so determined to fight for it. The farmhouse was a single-storey wooden structure with a rather patched together air but it sat in a beautiful location, nestled in the middle of a fertile river valley with an imposing mountain range rising picturesquely in the distance. A number of neatly-fenced paddocks and outbuildings surrounding the farmhouse held horses, chickens and a couple of goats and beyond those a large herd of fine-looking cattle grazed contentedly on pasture that sloped down to the river. As the butcher dropped us off there was no-one around to greet us but smoke curling up from the farmhouse indicated that at least someone was at home.

     “You had better wait outside,” Luisa advised as we walked across the yard. “My uncle is wary of strangers and if he finds out you are a guest of Don Pedro he is unlikely to listen to a word we say.”

     My first instinct was to argue, afraid that Luisa was still insufficiently convinced of One-Eyed Alfonso’s treachery to successfully press our case. But I could see how acceptance of Don Pedro’s hospitality had put me in an awkward position here and so I reluctantly agreed to hang back, only urging Luisa, “You will try your best, won’t you?”

     She offered a reassuring nod before going forward alone to knock on the door. It was swiftly opened and I caught just the briefest glimpse of a sharp, tanned face peering inquisitively out before Luisa was recognised and admitted. The door immediately closed behind her and I found myself with just the chickens and the goats for company.

     For a few minutes I kicked frustratedly about in the shadow of the porch, hoping to get a feel for how things were going inside. But the walls were too thick for me to catch anything more than the faintest murmur of voices and so instead I took a stroll around the yard in an effort to relieve my anxiety. I was leaning against a fence, admiring the horses, when the words suddenly fell from the sky, causing me to jump so high that I nearly ended up in the paddock with the livestock.

     I can’t say that I am surprised but I am disappointed to find that you have chosen to ignore all my warnings against interfering any further in this story.

     “Jesus H Christ, Bob!” I exclaimed. “I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

     I am a non-corporeal being with no physical presence on this plane of existence. How precisely do you propose that I strike up a conversation without being accused of sneaking up on you?

     “Oh, I don’t know. Couldn’t you just cough gently or something?”

     As I possess neither throat nor airway, I’ve never felt the urge to cough. Besides, I fail to see why that particular noise should be considered any less startling than speech if it comes at you out of the blue.

     “Alright, never mind,” I muttered, leaning back against the fence as my heartrate gradually returned to something like normal. “What are you doing here anyway?”

     I am trying to stop you from doing any further damage to my story. Whilst incidentally saving both yourself and anyone around you from coming to further serious harm. Did you actually listen to a single word that I said this morning?

     “Yes, I listened,” I retorted. “But the plot has moved on a bit since then. The Governor is now planning on hanging an innocent person in the Plaza at noon today unless Juarez turns himself in.”

     This is precisely the reason why I condemned your interference in the first place. If only you and Michael had stayed out of this story then there would be no innocent citizen facing the gallows today.

     “But don’t you see? That’s all the more reason for me to come here,” I protested. “You can’t expect me to stand idly by if there’s a chance my actions are going to get some poor person killed.”

     What’s done is done. You can’t unpick the plot and start all over again at this stage.

     “Maybe not but so long as there’s still a chance that we could put things right then we’ve got to try.”

     There was a lengthy pause.

     Suppose I was to tell you that, so long as you and Michael bow out of the action right now, then Don Pedro will not carry through with his threat to hang an innocent citizen at noon today?

     “Could you really guarantee that?”

     Not guarantee perhaps. This story is still in flux and any number of outcomes are possible. But my position as a narrator does grant me a certain amount of foresight and I think I can quite confidently state that, so long as you follow my advice, none of the townsfolk of Santa Marta will be obliged to step up to the gallows today.

     I considered this offer for a moment. “What about Juarez?” I finally asked with a suspicious frown.

     What about Juarez?

     “Can you see a way to him surviving the gallows too?”

     I’ve told you before, the fate of Juarez is no concern of yours.

     “I knew it!” I exclaimed. “The only reason Don Pedro would refrain from hanging one of the townspeople would be because he gets to hang Juarez instead. So that’s your prediction, is it? Juarez shows up to protect the people and gets betrayed by One-Eyed Alfonso after all?”

     Whatever happens between Juarez and One-Eyed Alfonso is not your responsibility. You have no right to interfere. Your only concern in Santa Marta is with finding the hidden door of Sturridge’s prison. Don’t you think you should be getting on with that instead of meddling in matters that are none of your business?

     “We can hardly get on with looking for the door while the whole town is lying low from Don Pedro now, can we?” I retorted. “Nobody is going to let us go poking around in their house while all this is going on.”

     Then allow me to help you on your way. You will find the door that you seek in the rear of Senora Luna’s dry goods store located in the South-West corner of the Plaza. She is, of course, entirely oblivious to its existence at present but once you point it out to her, she will gladly consent to its destruction. In fact, she will swiftly decide that its presence was a sign of the devil’s work and she will pester Father Esteban to bless her storeroom in order to rid the place of evil spirits.

     “Hey, you can’t tell me that!” I cried. “Whatever happened to narrative integrity and all that bollocks?”

     This is my way of protecting the narrative integrity of my own story. Now you have no excuse not to leave Santa Marta and allow events here to unfold you without you.

     “You can’t really expect us to just walk away and leave Juarez to die at the hands of Don Pedro,” I complained. “It just seems so unfair.”

     Not all stories are fair. Even in the landscape of the imagination the bad guy sometimes wins. If every tale was certain to end with the triumph of the hero over the villain then there really wouldn’t be much to explore, would there?

     I had to admit that Bob had something of a point there. “I get that,” I conceded. “I’m all for a bit of murky morality in my fiction but it’s a different matter altogether when you’ve actually met the guy who’s facing the chop. I mean, I know it was quite a brief encounter we had with Juarez but I really feel like we had some kind of connection there…”

     Ah, so that’s it!

     “What’s it?”

     Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be the first to fall for Juarez. A hero like him is bound to exert a certain sexual magnetism.

     “Hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” I protested. “I mean, he is quite good-looking and kinda dashing, if you’re into that kind of thing…”

     And, of course, there are the peculiar circumstances of your own sexual appetites to take into account…

     “Oy, do you mind? There is nothing peculiar about my sexual appetites, thank you very much!”

     I refer simply to the matter of your so-called love life since entering the landscape of the imagination. In particular, your recent habit of dabbling in ephemeral sexual liaisons as a means of distraction from your unresolved feelings towards your travelling companion, Michael.

     “Aww, c’mon, you’re not banging on that drum again, are you?” I objected. “I’m telling you; I do not have any unresolved feelings towards Michael. We’re just mates, right? He certainly has nothing to do with any sexual liaisons I may or may not have had.”

     Oh, really? Let’s review, shall we, your little fling with Lord Jeremy Tinsdale. Having spent your first few months in the landscape avoiding any kind of dalliance do you really expect me to believe it’s pure coincidence that the first time you indulge in a romantic subplot it just happens to be with a tall, well-spoken Englishman?

     “What? No! That wasn’t what the thing with Jerry was about at all,” I indignantly spluttered.

     Fine. Then let’s just say that you certainly have a type.

     “I do not have a type,” I objected. “How would you explain Eduardo, the waiter at the Majestic, if I have a type? He wasn’t English or well-spoken. He wasn’t even particularly tall.”

     That doesn’t count, that was a holiday romance. We all need to take a break from our preoccupations every once in a while.

     “Listen, I am not preoccupied with Michael…”

     If you say so.

     “And he is not preoccupied with me. You’re just trying to twist our whole story into something it’s not.”

     Frustrating, isn’t it? Now perhaps you have some idea how I feel watching you and Michael stomp all over my perfectly-aligned plotlines.

     I had nothing really to offer in response to that so I merely stood and simmered for a while. Finally, seeing no other way out of our impasse, I said with a sigh, “Look, I’m sorry you feel like we ruined your story but I still think you’re asking too much to expect us just to walk away now.”

     Consider this aspect then. What makes you think that any further involvement on your part will improve matters for either Juarez or the people of Santa Marta? All that your interference has achieved so far is to place even more people in fear of their lives.

     With some reluctance I was obliged to concede that Bob was quite right on that score. “Well, we weren’t quite up to speed on all aspects of the story before,” I somewhat weakly suggested. “Things will be different now that we really know what we’re up against.”

     What you are up against is fate. And I would have thought that your recent experiences might have taught you exactly how strong a force fate can be in the landscape of the imagination. Trying to evade the pull of fate here would be like trying to evade the pull of gravity in the real world.

     I considered this for a moment. “Okay,” I said slowly. “So, gravity is a pretty elemental force but that’s not to say it can’t be worked on in certain ways. Man would never have walked on the moon if he hadn’t found a way to counter the effects of gravity. Maybe it’s the same with fate. If it can’t be denied altogether, it can at least be countered.”

     It took the combined intellectual might of all the great minds of NASA to put a man on the moon. You expect to achieve a similar imaginative feat using your own brainpower alone, do you?

     “Well, I was kind of banking on your help too.”

     The silence that followed was somehow indicative of a sarcastic harrumph.

     “And I don’t think our ambitions are quite ‘moon landing’ level anyway,” I persisted. “I mean, what exactly is fate pulling us towards here? That Juarez should be betrayed and fall to Don Pedro in the Plaza at noon today?”

     That is the story that Abuela Vega must pass on to her grandchildren. Therefore, that is what she must witness.

     “But we all know that witnesses can be notoriously unreliable,” I remarked with a raise of my eyebrow.

     Abuela Varga cannot lie or deliberately obfuscate. She must believe implicitly in the tale that she passes down to the succeeding generations or it won’t have the necessary impact.

     “Fine, so we won’t ask her to lie,” I reassured him. “But she’s gonna be… what? A very young child in a square full of frightened, anxious people. Is she really gonna have a complete grasp on absolutely everything that goes on?”

     This will form a key element of a respected saga; we’re not talking about some third-rate potboiler here. I’m afraid an unfortunate memory lapse or a convenient trip to the loo at a crucial point in the action just won’t cut it.

     “Alright, so I don’t say it’ll be easy. We’ve got a lot to figure out and very little time to do it in. But here we are. You, the experienced professional narrator and me, the – dare I say it – talented amateur. Isn’t there a chance that maybe, just maybe, if we put our heads together, we could figure out a way for events to run in the Plaza today that could suit all our purposes?”

     There was a long, thoughtful silence.

     “What do you say?” I urged with a hopeful smile. “Are we the NASA of the imagination or what?”

******************************

     When Luisa emerged from the farmhouse a good twenty minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the porch, gazing thoughtfully out towards the herd of cattle. “Is everything alright Senorita?” she asked.

     “Fine, just fine,” I replied, jumping up from my seat. “How did it go in there?”

     “I have persuaded them,” Luisa replied. “We will pass on our information and Juarez will decide what to do about One-Eyed Alfonso.”

     Before I could respond, the door behind us swung open again and a short, stocky young guy strode out to a jingling of spurs.

     “This is my cousin, Raphael,” explained Luisa. “He will ride out to a spot in the hills where he thinks he can intercept the gang before they come into town. He will pass on the message to Juarez.”

     Raphael offered up a curt nod by way of introduction before passing by to collect a saddle sitting on the porch railing.

     “Just a second,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him before he could head off to saddle up his horse. “There are a few extra details that I need you to pass on to Juarez. You have to explain to him that he must follow my instructions precisely in order for everything to work out today as it should.”

     Both Raphael and Luisa regarded me with doubtful frowns.

     “You must trust in Juarez, Senorita,” said Luisa. “He will come up with a plan.”

     “Not like this one he won’t,” I replied. “This is the NASA plan. It’s the only way for everything to work out as it needs to.” Brushing aside both Luisa’s and Raphael’s bemused looks, I gave them my most confidence-inspiring smile. “Maybe I’d better write it down for you, just in case,” I suggested.

To be continued…