The siblings watched silently as the coffin was lowered into the ground, each outwardly controlled, each aware that they would be leaving their father alone in that pit. Neither had feared for him until this moment. They hadn’t yet found an opportunity to speak properly about the events that had brought them to this point. Standing in a sea of men, still aching from his injuries, Benyamin felt awkward holding his sister’s hand, leaning on a woman for help. He let go of her, and she barely seemed to notice.

One by one, the members of the Jirga stepped forward, deepening Jia’s sense of loss with each handful of soil cast into the grave. Distanced from the hearts and hearths of Pukhtuns for years, the warmth of their love was evident to her now. It enveloped her. Unable to weep, she stared at the ground, and emotions she had long since buried began to rise. The umbrellas did little to stop the rain, and her white kurta and shawl soaked through, clinging to her body. Cold and shivering, she was acutely aware of her every move; every inch of her felt pain, from her skin through to her bone. Mourners filed past, paying their respects, their feet splashing mud from the water-soaked ground, leaving dark stains across her shawl and kameez and her soul, stains that would never be cleansed.

CHAPTER 28

The men stepped back and raised their hands in prayer one last time. The sounds of crying and muffled Arabic seemed to get louder before the imam finally called out: ‘Ameen!’

Jia passed her hands over her face and opened her eyes. The rain made it difficult to see clearly but she knew she was being watched. The boy’s features were familiar, and as he began walking towards her she knew the time for reckoning was here.

‘Ahad, my name is Ahad,’ he said, holding out his broad, olive-skinned hand.

‘I know,’ she whispered as she took it in hers. The last time she had held it, it had fitted snugly in her own palm; now it was large enough to envelope hers.

‘Why didn’t you come and see me?’ the boy asked. They had moved away from the graveside and were standing under a tree, waiting for Elyas. He had left them alone under the pretence of bringing the car closer. The burial was done and the mourners were returning to Pukhtun House.

It was Jia who had asked Elyas to bring Ahad to the funeral and now she wondered why she’d done it. The timing was not perfect, but then when would it ever be? At least the rain had stopped now.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she said. Her voice was empty, her glance anywhere but on her son, as though an anvil had fallen inside her, pushing all feeling deep into the ground.