They sat in silence again, and Michael pondered the things he was curious about. He had heard that Muslim boys and girls were required to commit large sections of the Koran to memory, and he wondered why. Was the book like a manual, offering advice when you faced a moral question? Or was it simply a demonstration of love for the text? Were the children working from the original, in Arabic? If so, there was even less hope for him, because he’d have to learn a whole new alphabet. He’d have to read from right to left, too, which would turn him into a child again, unable even to decipher letters – sounding out syllables that had no meaning. He could kneel and stand, and put out his arms, but he would never be part of it, so Islam would not save him. The man would soon become impatient with his stumbling misunderstandings, and Michael would be alone. Physically, the man was very big, and his laugh was surprisingly merry. It had a teasing quality, and Michael could imagine him telling filthy jokes, which didn’t quite square with a religion that always seemed so serious, with strict disciplines and unsmiling faces. This man was a version of Steve from the council – the volunteer fireman – but without the malice. Both were men of total, terrifying certainty.

Prayers, and the rituals that went with prayer. The washing of hands, the removal of shoes, and the sheer organisation of a mosque – of so many people in rows, with the women on one side and the men on the other. Days punctuated by prayer at specific times, the closeness to God marked every few hours – by dress, by gesture, by food, by language and most of all by day-to-day conduct.

Michael found himself yearning for such a life. Paradise might be waiting, if he could only join this man’s team.

‘Why are you going to your father’s house?’ he said.

What an absurd question.

‘Today?’ said the man.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, everyone is there. Everyone has come, and I think there are more than seventy people.’

‘A meeting, then? Seventy people in your house.’

‘More. Many people came from Pakistan, you see. To see him – or his body, I should say.’

He laughed.

‘At the hospital, you know – the nurses did not need even to touch him.’

‘In what sense?’

‘Mmm? To feed him.’

‘What, you had family to do that?’

‘To wash him, yes. To clothe him. To help him. To nurse him. The nurses… they did not need to do anything, even at the end. It was his family who helped him to pass, and prepared him and… we did everything. He was never alone, and that made him very, very happy.’