He knew not to hurry her, knew to be quiet so that he didn’t interrupt the reel of her story. The woman was heartbroken and, unable to live with herself, she had left her daughter and walked into a lake, but the water would not take her. The water felt her pain, and denied her death, and changed her into a woman who could live in its depths. His grandmother had muttered that women were always punished for their strength and then denied what they wanted. She would tut, say it was a silly story and whip out his grandfather’s tunic to see the progress that she had made. Each word of the stories she told him whilst trying to get him to sleep marked in a cross of gold. As Hamza grew, he had seen Atargatis’s face on ancient coins. Temples. Tourist sites. A beatific smile. Impassive. He shook his head. Got up. Walked to the living room, sat by the fireplace filled with cold ashes.

The night before, he had dreamt of drowning again. Felt the cold water slide into his lungs. The weight of the ocean on his body. He had felt the panic turn into an ecstasy of pain and then a nothingness. He had gasped himself awake, to find Nefyn fast asleep. He had sat up, forcing himself to rationalize. Pressed his palm to his chest. Felt the dull thud of his own heartbeat. He had lain down again and closed his eyes, much as he had done in the prison. He felt for every limb in turn, slowed his breathing. Thought about every sensation. His body was stronger now, his muscles filling his frame again. His wounds healed. His skin, even-coloured and glowing. He felt strong for the journey ahead. He lay listening to the night and Nefyn’s soft breathing. He became suddenly uncomfortable in the wooden chair and moved to open the door. He walked to the bench and sat there a while.