Iman was not a natural at board games. The rules confused her, and she was a poor loser, huffing and grumpy. Salma allowed her to win, but Moni didn’t. Moni played aggressively and played to win. It was getting her to play in the first place that had been difficult. Iman threw down the dice and threatened to go to bed. Frowning in her witch costume, flapping its matching silver wand, it was as if she was cursing the other two. ‘We will stop playing,’ laughed Salma. ‘We will, dear Iman. We will put all these games away, sit ­quietly and hear you sing.’ Iman pretended to be petulant while Salma pleaded and coaxed.

Moni left them and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. There was no need to switch the light on. None of them had pulled down the blind in the kitchen and the gloaming was enough for Moni to make her way towards the sink. The gush of water from the tap sounded excessively loud. It sounded like a child’s cry. Not one of distress but of a child playing outside, calling out to one of his friends. Moni filled her glass and closed the tap. She imagined a group of young boys kicking a ball, playing five-a-side. But they wouldn’t be playing now, not so late at night. Mullin had said there were others here at the loch, other holidaymakers, presumably families. Their children would play throughout the grounds. Moni, well travelled, had lived in parts of the world where children stayed up past midnight when the schools were closed, where there was no concept of bedtime. Often this was because it was too hot to play during the day. So, at night, boys played football in the street until they were tired out. Girls watched television with their mothers and all these children slept till noon. She peered out through the window but all she saw was her own reflection. Of course, there were no children out and about.

She sat at the kitchen table and gulped down the cool, soft water. Even after finishing the whole glass, she still felt thirsty. I must have put a lot of salt in the food, she thought. Good thing the others didn’t complain. She got up and refilled her glass, caught the sound of playing children again. Joyful, passionate in its own way. It made her smile to think of them, their enjoyments and little triumphs, free from responsibilities and worries.

When she joined the others in the living room, she found that Iman had finally agreed to sing. At first, she sang grudgingly, but then she let the beauty slide through. Outside the cottage, her voice could be heard, the foreign words landing on the grass, picked up by the ears of djinns and those with wings, who understood even more than all three women did what Iman’s song was saying, who she was describing, for whom the longing was due.

Chapter Five