‘Why would you?’ Her response sounded severe; Sara suspected it was just her manner, aggravated by the suffering and frustration of dealing with a damaged daughter. Mrs Green offered a handshake. ‘Sorry, it takes me over. I don’t like formality. Call me Elizabeth.’

‘How long has Marion… Maryam…’

‘Stick to Marion – though it can change.’

‘How long has she had this?’

‘Since we got her back. Off and on.’ Elizabeth Green sighed. ‘Over ten years now. Almost eleven, in fact.’

‘You got her back?’

Elizabeth did not elaborate. ‘Come and ask her yourself. I don’t know what you’ll get out of her. It goes up and down.’

They stepped through French windows into a sitting room. Sara itched to ask how they’d known where to find her but she sensed that Mrs Green wanted to get straight back to her daughter; it would be a mistake to interrupt her. She must bide her time; maybe it would emerge naturally.

A wispy figure, holding one hand to the side of her face, sat on an armchair at right angles to the invading shafts of sunlight. Elizabeth headed for a sofa opposite and gestured Sara to sit down beside her. The woman in the chair was skeletally thin, wearing a pale cotton blouse which drooped over small breasts and a loose-fitting white skirt. Though the day was fine and the sun strong, Sara could feel the artificial warmth of radiators. She stole a look at Elizabeth, seeking her guidance; it was returned with a nod.

‘Hello, Marion,’ Sara said quietly. The face opposite raised itself and the hand moved from the right cheek to rub both eyes. She squinted, trying to focus. ‘I’m Sara. We met once. You… your mother… phoned me.’

‘Yes, of course, of course.’ The face was suddenly animated, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Sara. Sara Shah. You came.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Mama, it’s Sara Shah, have you met her?’

‘Yes, darling, we introduced ourselves. When I mentioned her name to you, you said you wanted to see her.’

‘Did I? Yes, I think I did.’

‘Why did you want to see me, Marion?’ asked Sara.

‘Don’t you know? You must know. My Kareem. He talked about you sometimes.’

‘He talked about me?’

‘Oh yes, all the time.’ Marion stretched out her left hand to a photograph in a silver frame on a side table and handed it to Sara. ‘Shareef. Our son.’

Sara stared at the photograph of a boy around ten or eleven years old, she guessed, with the unmistakable features of his father; the straight lines of jaw, chin and nose, the full head of wavy black hair and dark brown eyes staring soulfully into the camera. Only his skin was different, a tone or two lighter.

‘He’s a beautiful boy, Marion.’ She handed the photo back; Marion held it close to her face, her eyes relaxing as she silently and absently gazed at it.