The sun was weak today, watery. He brewed some coffee, the cup clattering in the silence. He sat watching it steam, tasted its bitterness. Longed for the sweet coffee that he and his friends would drink at his brother’s house, its cardamom aftertaste. His sister-in-law’s laughter. Their warmth. The way Hussein would run to her and the way she would throw him up into the air. Head back. Laughing. Over the years, he had consoled himself with visions of Hussein tucked under his sister-in-law’s arm, reading, his uncle promising him that his father would be found. Other times, he had tortured himself, convincing himself that he would have been told the worst in order to spare him hope. Hamza got up. Listened to the sea a moment.

The lack of Nefyn changed the cottage elementally. Its sounds and colours. The walls seemed more oppressive somehow, the stone greyer. His mind returned to what he had asked of her, her promise to find someone to help him, apprehension building in him as he thought of her silence. The way she withdrew. He thought he heard the sound of the door, but it was only the seaweed that hung there to forecast the weather, scratching the door in the breeze. He considered following her down to the cove, but the risk of being seen or encountering Joseph worried him. He would have to trust that she would come back.

He tipped the coffee grounds into the sink and turned, pulling one of Joseph’s old jumpers over his head as he went. The clothes smelled of oil and salt and wool, and even though they were not his, he was grateful for them, their character an antidote to the anonymity of the ones given to him in jail. He moved through the living room, and opened the door. His impotency had gnawed at him in his restless sleep, and he had listened to the breeze in the roof as he lay. At least it would be something for him to do until Nefyn came home.

The tiles were scattered around the cottage. Some broken, others unharmed except for having been ripped asunder by the force of the storm. He gathered them up carefully, stacked them by the back door. He found a small lean-to shed of zinc filled with tools, black and oily. And a ladder, rope, nails. He stuffed some of the latter into his pockets. Picked up a hammer and dragged out the ladder. He made his way to the front of the cottage and leant it on the eaves. It wasn’t a high building, but the breeze was mischievous this morning, plucking at the ladder wilfully. He pushed the hammer into the waistband of his trousers before hauling some slates up under his arm. He would start on one side, and work his way towards the other until the roof was once more secure.