The corridor was anonymous, with each one leading to yet another unremarkable pathway. As a mapmaker, he knew a little about the design. How they exploited the natural landscape. How sites were chosen that were favourable. Privacy was always at a premium. This seemed to be common to all countries. Accessible but not vulnerable. Sprawling, rather than clustered, to minimize damage if attacked. Access to a low-skilled local workforce who would not ask too many questions. Hamza stopped at the closed door, waited for Owens to slide a key card over a scanner. The door opened.

‘Left!’ the soldier barked. He had not been this way before. He was usually shown to a cage, covered, no bigger than a tennis court. He waited again. Another card. Another door. Losing his bearings. He had edged off the map in his mind. And then, a small bare-earth exercise yard. A fence around the perimeter. Owens nodded him through. Adley was there already, leaning on the wire mesh, standing guard, smoking.

‘There’s been a change, new directives.’ Hamza stood, not listening, the cold air knifing through his regulation shirt. The noise was deafening. The sound of the waves below the cliff all-consuming after the silence of his cell. He could taste the salt in the air. For the first time in years he could see the sky. Not gridded by mesh, sectioned. The whole expanse, vast and voluminous.

‘They’re allowing you time to pray, four times a day now.’ Owens was watching him. Hamza was still looking upwards. ‘Did you hear me?!’

Hamza tried to centre his attention on him. Out here he looked smaller, nothing more than a boy. He saw him moving closer to him, could feel his warm breath on his face.

‘I said, did you hear me?’

Hamza hadn’t used his voice in weeks.

‘I … I … don’t pray.’ It didn’t sound like his voice any more. Owens let out a bitter laugh.

‘Four times a day for you lot, that’s what they said.’

‘You lot?’ Hamza whispered under his breath.

‘Yes. You lot.’

Hamza watched him.

‘But I don’t pray, and if I did, I could pray inside …’ Hamza noticed Owen’s jaw clenching. The breeze catching his fair hair.

‘I don’t make the fucking rules. I just follow them. And if I say you’ll pray then you’ll fucking pray.’ Hamza’s eyes were adjusting to the light. He noticed that Owens had freckles across the bridge of his nose and his temples, his skin young, like one of Hamza’s students.

‘What are you looking at?’ His eyes were steely grey. Flint-like. Easy to ignite. Perhaps it was the light but there seemed to be a sepia tone to everything. A redness in the sky.

‘It’s just … the cold.’

Owens studied him, conscious of Adley’s gaze.