Moni continued to sit on the bench even though she was feeling much better. Her breathing steadied and she no longer perspired. Her vision, too, was free of the black floating jellyfish that had troubled her before. The path dipped down ahead and then rose again between two massive cliffs. Almost hidden behind the rocks was the castle and she could only see the highest point of the ruins, grey and white. The castle seemed protected and out of reach to her, but she acknowledged its beauty, accepted that this was as much of a glimpse as she was entitled to. She took out her phone and clicked open her Qur’an app. Every day she read a section of the Qur’an, or at least tried to. Sometimes, subject to Adam’s needs, she could only read one or two pages. On bad days, she could read none. Now when she finished one page and started the next, it occurred to her that she was free to read as many pages as she wanted. His voice would not call her. His needs would not interrupt. The more she read, the more she zoned out. Her ability to concentrate had deteriorated of late. Her mind flitted from here to there. Images of Adam, his eyes, his hands; she could hear his grunts and unformed words, smell him, but he did not interrupt the flow of her reading. Silly thoughts wound their way through her head even though her tongue was reciting sacred words. She knew that this wasn’t good enough. She knew that she should be reading with her heart and mind clear; she knew that she needed to transcend her circumstances, her daily anxieties and her issues with Murtada. She knew all this – that she was worshipping inadequately – and yet she did not stop. She kept reciting, absorbed in the process. She kept trying with neither hope of success, nor despair. This was because she was drawing support, gaining nourishment and she could do that precisely because she did not rate herself highly as a worshipper. She was inadequate, she fell short. But she was enjoying herself, especially now that her breathing had returned to normal. She gave in to the rhythm and the sounds.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if she was making history. Perhaps for the first time ever, the words of the Qur’an were reaching this particular part of the earth. Perhaps one day, to her credit, coastline, machair and sandstone would bear witness to what they had heard her recite. Long after Moni, with her faults and story, was gone and forgotten.

Submerged in the text, it was only when he came quite close to her and directly passed her that she looked up and saw him. Iman’s husband. Ridiculously young, scurrying down the path towards the castle. He kept his head down and didn’t greet Moni. He knew who she was and yet he did not stop and greet her. He did not greet women he was unrelated to. He did not speak to them unless he had no choice. With a mobile phone in his pocket, he did not need to ask Moni about the whereabouts of his wife. Therefore, he did not need to speak to her.