HAMZA HAD WAITED FOR hours for Emrys, but did what he could in the meantime. Once he had finished those jobs he could do alone, he turned back towards the cottage. When he told Nefyn that Emrys hadn’t come, she had looked worried. There was so little left to do, but it was impossible without him. They had spent the day in relative quiet. Hamza had started writing letters in the past few days, one after the other: the events he could remember, the places he’d been held. The people who had helped him and the ones who had been cruel. A letter to his brother, to Fatima’s family and to Hussein. The things he wanted to say. The goodbyes that had been denied him. He omitted where he was now, but told them simply of a friend who had been helping him. He had given Nefyn instructions to post them after he had left, in case he didn’t arrive safely. A testimony of a life lived. He wrote a letter, too, for the old Doctor’s wife, which Nefyn had promised to deliver. He wanted her to know how warmly her husband had spoken of her, how much she was loved. By the time he had finished, he was exhausted. He looked at the reams of paper in the blue light as if he had written a piece of fiction. So different were the events to how he was living now.

When Nefyn came to rest a hand on his shoulder, he pulled her towards him, and they spent the rest of the afternoon in each other’s arms, waiting for the night to close around them. He wanted to feel where he was now, the letters having resurrected memories that he had to push away. Nefyn was lying beside him, holding his hands in hers, listening to him breathing, when she heard the car in the distance. She knew its sound. Her brow furrowed. She got up quietly. Moved towards the door. The light was thickening. A knock on the door. Nefyn opened it to find Efa, pale-faced and worried.

‘It’s Emrys,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Nefyn, I need you to come.’

It was dark by the time Efa’s small car drove back into the village. Most windows were curtained, lights on upstairs.

Emrys’s condition had worsened throughout the day. He had been asking for Nefyn. Whispering her name as the fever burned through him. Efa knew he was too far gone for a doctor. She didn’t know if Nefyn could help, but she had heard that sometimes women like her could. Nefyn had fetched her coat immediately, Hamza kissing her goodbye, both agreeing that it was safer for him to stay at the cottage.

‘He’s upstairs.’

Nefyn nodded. She looked small here. Out of place. Strange.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Fever. Cough. He sounds as if he’s drowning.’

Nefyn took off her coat.

‘Do you need anything?’