It surprised Salma that, out of all the women in the group, Moni was the one who ended up coming. They were not particularly close. As for Iman, she went everywhere with Salma, sitting next to her in the front seat. If you wanted to be mean, you would say that Iman was Salma’s sidekick. If you wanted to be nice, you would say she was like a devoted, much younger sister.

Iman was beautiful. Old-fashioned eyes and sulky lips, the dip of her head and husky voice. Even with her hijab, men smelt her from afar, looked longer at her, exerted themselves to make her smile. She was in her twenties but on her third marriage. Once widowed, and once divorced. When Moni had first met Iman at Salma’s house, she was kept amused listening to Iman’s tales of prospective suitors. She seemed to have an unlimited supply – of both tales and suitors. Yet she narrated her stories in a flat voice, as if it was boring, after all, to be stunning. Moni would never know. She had, at certain times of her life, with the help of expensive attention and good taste, pulled off looking attractive. Her wedding photos, professional and stylish, were widely admired. These days she looked nothing like she had done at her wedding.

Salma, Moni and Iman – travelling companions. Escaping the stuck-together buildings of the city, the regenerated Water­front, the Jute Museum, the busy Tay Road Bridge and the pretty park overlooking the estuary; distancing themselves from the coffee-scented malls, the kebab restaurants and the trapezoid mosque; getting away from the scheduled rubbish collections and the weekly meeting of the Arabic Speaking Muslim Women’s Group. The three of them moving together and alone.

On the morning of their departure, Moni needed to settle her son first at the nursing home. Salma and Iman waited for her in the car. Moni had never been separated from Adam. She sat on the bed that had been assigned to him, holding him up on her lap, manoeuvring him out of his jacket. She was used to doing this, his head lolling if she didn’t support it, his arms flopping wide. Five-year-olds his age would be tying up their own shoelaces, but Adam had severe cerebral palsy. Looking around her, Moni approved of the small ward, it’s cleanliness and order, and she had been given a tour of the dining room, the recreation room full of toys and a television, the garden for regular fresh air. ‘It’s Adam’s first time with us, right?’ the nurse had asked her. Moni liked the direct use of his name, the dignity of it. Moni had often been encouraged to take a respite, and Adam’s health visitor outlined the length of time and kind of relief that the services offered for carers of profoundly disabled children. But it had taken Salma’s insistence to get Moni to take up the opportunity.

Moni felt soothed by the soft colours of the walls, the cartoon decorations, the tunes of a childish song coming from the next room. Once his jacket was removed, Moni placed Adam on the bed, folded his wheelchair and started putting his things away in the bedside chest of drawers. Another nurse came to talk to her, though when she introduced herself, she said she was a student volunteer. The girl, with angelic eyes and braces, smiled and chatted to Adam as if he could understand all that she was saying. It made Moni smile and pitch in for him, venturing answers as if speaking on his behalf. She glanced at the other children, some in wheelchairs and some in bed. A few were even more disabled than Adam and that made her feel better.