Soul Fire

relentless, far crueller than on Soul Beach. I feel my skin burning already. Ade suggests a walk round the old city, and Cara agrees,
which makes Sahara scowl as she was obviously hoping for some quality time alone with her boyfriend.
    Without Zoe as our guide, we get lost in minutes.
    ‘How can we not know where we are when I can hear the sea?’ Cara says.
    Lewis holds up his iPhone. ‘We don’t have to be lost.’
    I don’t know why he’s still hanging round with us – his conference must have started by now.
    ‘Don’t cheat!’ Sahara snaps. ‘They say you only know a city once you’ve got lost in it.’
    So we keep walking. The streets are long and straight, with canopies of washing hanging out from every balcony, and old women sitting in the road in plastic chairs, chatting to each other and to
their dogs and their budgies, as though they’re in their own front rooms.
    And then we’re in this big square, where kids are playing ping-pong on concrete tables. Sahara wants to go into the covered market, to ‘soak up the local culture’. I’m
thinking that apart from the sunshine and the budgies, the culture doesn’t seem that different from home, but we follow her inside. There’s a cheese seller at the entrance: it makes the
market smell like sweaty feet.
    Sahara goes from stall to stall, pulling impressed faces and giving the vegetables an occasional squeeze. I can’t look at Cara or Lewis or I might burst out laughing, and even Ade seems to
have a slightly fixed expression, as though he’s trying to keep a straight face while his girlfriend gets her culture fix.
    ‘It’s all so authentic ,’ Sahara says.
    ‘I’d rather get my hands on some authentic local wine,’ Ade mumbles.
    Sahara giggles. It sounds like a moth caught in a lampshade. ‘Sorry. Ade warned me not to be a bore. Let’s go somewhere else.’
    Cara gives me a look that says what a loser . The afternoon sunlight has turned the yachts in the harbour pale orange, and Cara keeps up a running commentary as we pass the swishest boats.
‘I’d like the white one. Oh, no, the pink one. Lewis, you can probably afford a yacht already. Fancy sailing off into the sunset with me?’
    But she’s reserving her biggest smiles for Ade. Sahara is either not noticing Cara’s flirtiness, or pretending it’s not happening.
    ‘If we keep heading this way, we’ll hit the Ramblas , which is a freak show,’ Lewis says. ‘But we might as well take a look. Hang onto your bags, like Zoe
said.’
    I catch him up as we cross the main road. ‘You’re an expert on Barcelona. Sure you’ve never been here before?’
    ‘Why would I bother when it’s all on here?’ he says, tapping his phone. I’m about to tell him that it’s sad to travel virtually, then I think of how addicted I am
to the Beach and realise I’m no different.
    Weirdly, though, I’m not missing Soul Beach right now. Reality seems . . . excitingly real and, as we’re all together, I feel safer. I can almost pretend I’m simply on holiday.
Except for having to observe everyone’s behaviour, and look out for Javier’s café, of course.
    We’re on a pedestrian promenade that stretches endlessly uphill. It’s packed with ambling tourists and hurrying locals and what must be the world’s entire collection of living
statues.
    ‘Welcome to the mad house,’ says Lewis.
    We have to use elbows to push through, tucking our bags under our arms. Cara and Ade are grinning as they launch themselves into the crowd. Maybe she’s right about them being a good match.
Sahara looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, as she clutches her rucksack to her chest like it’s a bulletproof jacket.
    ‘Come on. It’s not that bad.’ Lewis links arms with her.
    I’m on my own again, being pushed past the stalls so fast I only catch glimpses of what they’re selling. There are souvenirs celebrating landmarks I haven’t seen yet: the spiky
cathedral, a mosaic lizard, a statue of Columbus. Then pet supplies, plants, old clocks. Every few metres there’s a café offering radioactively yellow paella.
    I’ve lost sight of the others. I’m being jostled and pushed but that’s not what’s making my heart beat so fast. It’s that feeling again – the feeling of being
watched.
    I turn round, but all I see are tourists. Sunburned ones, loved-up ones, nervy ones.
    Maybe I’m only sensing the curious eyes of pickpockets checking me out. Except it feels more threatening than