He felt his body warm with the movement, the dull ache in his ribs making itself known again. The sky was heavy with rain and the gulls wheeled noisily overhead as he hammered. He tried to match the tiles, push them under the ones above so as to make the seal watertight. There was already a hole in each one, made by a more skilled hand decades ago, so all he had to do was position them, nail them home.

There would be storms at home, too – snowstorms, and the occasional storms of sand when the desert would be flung into the air. There would be nothing to do except stay inside, watch as the world turned sepia, the sun disappearing. They would last for hours, sometimes days, and the fine red dust would leave a film on any surface – cars, windows, the insides of your lungs. His father used to say that it was a good reminder that they came from dust and would return to it. His mother would scold him, saying that he did not have to keep the house and their clothes clean so it was easy for him to say. When he was a boy, Hamza would struggle to breathe as the world disappeared. As he got older, the fighting, the dust clouds and sandstorms seemed to intermingle, making the outside world appear as if it were crumbling, dissipating in front of his eyes. The wind caught his breath; it was still cold. Sharp. Burning his face. He hammered another tile in place before descending the ladder, moving it and climbing up once more.

He tried not to look across towards the cliff edges as he worked, tried not to look for her. She would be back soon; the sun was overhead by now. He continued with the work, stopping only to descend the ladder and gather more tiles. He had just nailed the last one in place when he heard footsteps. His heart gladdened as he turned, his back towards the eaves of the cottage, one foot on the top rung of the ladder when he heard the voice.

‘I need more clothes.’

It was Joseph. Pale in the spring light. He was smaller than Hamza remembered. ‘Where is she?’

He climbed slowly down the ladder.

‘She’s not here.’ Hamza suddenly became aware of his own breathing. Joseph measured him with his eyes. Walked forward a little.

‘They’re looking for you … you know that?’ Hamza could smell his breath was sour. ‘It’s only a matter of time till they find you.’ Hamza didn’t answer. Joseph looked away. ‘You know she’s not right,’ he said, ‘you know that.’ Hamza resisted the temptation to retaliate. ‘She’s ill and you’re taking advantage of it. You’re making her worse because you need her,’ Joseph said, studying Hamza’s face.