Just before dawn, Mariam awoke from a dream about home. Her aunt always rose before dawn for the first prayer of the day, and because Mariam had shared a bed with her almost all her life, she still woke at this hour, out of habit. She turned over in bed, and came face to face with the white girl, this ghost. Mariam had forgotten all about her. Nor had she ever been this close to a white person before. But now she remembered. The girl began to speak. She spoke of him. Mariam felt the insides of her body turning cold. One hand went down to her belly, to shield her baby lentil. The girl repeated: as his sister, she would know what a caring man he was? Even if she can’t bloody well speak English? I miss him so much, the girl said. She’d come all this way to find him. I want him to be happy. Don’t you understand? The girl’s hand reached for her phone on the bedside table. She flicked through the pictures.

Him and the girl smiling,

Him and the girl almost naked on the beach,

Him and the girl in a restaurant with green shiny tables,

Him smiling in a way Mariam had never known.

TRANSLATOR: A bad mistake, to have let a stranger into her home without consulting her husband.

JUDGE: I think we might need to conclude today’s session.

Father. Aunt. Aliya. Mariam thought of what each would tell her. She thought of the life she had, such a short one. She thought of her baby lentil. She didn’t want it to know such a father. She thought of the sick-making English girl. She thought of the waters rising angrily and washing away everything she knew.

She got up from the bed, packed a small bag of clothes, her ornaments and passport, her father’s bird stone, the photos of Aliya, and last night’s dinner in a tiffin. The remainder of the money which her husband had left her came to almost £50, and this she put in the inside pocket of her handbag, next to her passport and the plastic card she wasn’t supposed to use. She lifted her bags, to test their weight, and finally added three books: A Textbook of Pakistan Studies, The Risalo of Shah Abdul—

TRANSLATOR: Not a well-respected poet.

JUDGE: That’s enough!