Around 5 a.m. she stirred, wondering briefly where she was and why she seemed alone. She checked her watch – it would soon be time for prayers. As the events of the night and the image of her immobile father were replayed, she found no inclination for them. Her mouth tasted sour and bitter; her breath must be foul. She tried to recall what she’d eaten or drunk; the attempt made her hungry and thirsty. She rose, turned on a light, and inspected herself in a mirror. There was a door ajar in the corner; she remembered there was a washroom. A toothbrush, toothpaste and unpacked bar of soap were on the basin. For a moment she was puzzled, and then, for a second, even though she’d already packed a toothbrush and paste in her bag, felt a tiny joy. She removed her scarf, brushed her teeth and soaped her face, dabbing it lightly with paper towels.

Rather than turn right towards the intensive care unit, she remembered the nurse’s instructions and turned left to the canteen. There was increased shuffling and pacing of smocked men and women along corridors, trolleys being wheeled, a hospital waking up. She pushed open the double doors; two porters were closing and shifting a partition in the canteen. Its disappearance revealed a single figure sitting at a table, back bowed, shoulders hunched, head flopped on arms. She crept slowly opposite and murmured, ‘Thank you, Patrick.’

A blurry-eyed face raised itself. ‘What for?’

‘The things you got for me. Being here.’ The face shook itself and forced its eyes open. She hesitated. ‘You could have stayed in the room.’

‘You might have thought it disrespectful.’ She smiled at him, saying nothing. ‘Coffee?’

‘This time I’ll get it,’ she said.

She returned with steaming cups and biscuits. ‘I never got to the photograph. The reason you and I are here.’

Chapter 24

24

2005

The audience drifted through swing doors in their ones and twos to the bare lecture room. It was a smallish gathering; Sara did not count precisely but certainly fewer than thirty. Murmurings of ‘Hello, brother’ and ‘Hello, sister’ were interrupted by occasional cries of recognition.

The dramatically changed world after 9/11 had brought both vengefulness and soul-searching. She had marched against the Iraq war in the great London demonstration of 2003, rubbing shoulders with all colours and creeds. But in the warp and weft of daily life, that good-natured togetherness was a mirage. Once you might have been called ‘Paki bastard’ or ‘bloody Arab’; after 9/11 you were a ‘fucking Muslim’ whether or not you’d ever set foot inside a mosque.