HAMZA WOKE EARLY AFTER a forced, fitful sleep. He got up stiffly, made his way to the kitchen. The door to Nefyn’s room was ajar and he looked in on her instinctively but she wasn’t there, her bed seemingly unslept-in. The morning light on the sheets. He listened for her but there was nothing save the sound of the gulls over the cottage. She must have made her way to the cove early. He walked into her room a few steps. It was simple, austere. Whitewashed walls, a deep-set window, an old wardrobe, the door open. He reached out to touch her clothes, all moss greens and blues. A single bed, a desk, rows of old books. There was a sense of simplicity here, and calm. Then, he caught sight of himself in a small mirror on her desk. His presence there suddenly obtrusive, obscene. He turned, feeling her absence grow.
The sun was weak today, watery. He brewed some coffee, the cup clattering in the silence. He sat watching it steam, tasted its bitterness. Longed for the sweet coffee that he and his friends would drink at his brother’s house, its cardamom aftertaste. His sister-in-law’s laughter. Their warmth. The way Hussein would run to her and the way she would throw him up into the air. Head back. Laughing. Over the years, he had consoled himself with visions of Hussein tucked under his sister-in-law’s arm, reading, his uncle promising him that his father would be found. Other times, he had tortured himself, convincing himself that he would have been told the worst in order to spare him hope. Hamza got up. Listened to the sea a moment.
The lack of Nefyn changed the cottage elementally. Its sounds and colours. The walls seemed more oppressive somehow, the stone greyer. His mind returned to what he had asked of her, her promise to find someone to help him, apprehension building in him as he thought of her silence. The way she withdrew. He thought he heard the sound of the door, but it was only the seaweed that hung there to forecast the weather, scratching the door in the breeze. He considered following her down to the cove, but the risk of being seen or encountering Joseph worried him. He would have to trust that she would come back.
He tipped the coffee grounds into the sink and turned, pulling one of Joseph’s old jumpers over his head as he went. The clothes smelled of oil and salt and wool, and even though they were not his, he was grateful for them, their character an antidote to the anonymity of the ones given to him in jail. He moved through the living room, and opened the door. His impotency had gnawed at him in his restless sleep, and he had listened to the breeze in the roof as he lay. At least it would be something for him to do until Nefyn came home.
The tiles were scattered around the cottage. Some broken, others unharmed except for having been ripped asunder by the force of the storm. He gathered them up carefully, stacked them by the back door. He found a small lean-to shed of zinc filled with tools, black and oily. And a ladder, rope, nails. He stuffed some of the latter into his pockets. Picked up a hammer and dragged out the ladder. He made his way to the front of the cottage and leant it on the eaves. It wasn’t a high building, but the breeze was mischievous this morning, plucking at the ladder wilfully. He pushed the hammer into the waistband of his trousers before hauling some slates up under his arm. He would start on one side, and work his way towards the other until the roof was once more secure.
He felt his body warm with the movement, the dull ache in his ribs making itself known again. The sky was heavy with rain and the gulls wheeled noisily overhead as he hammered. He tried to match the tiles, push them under the ones above so as to make the seal watertight. There was already a hole in each one, made by a more skilled hand decades ago, so all he had to do was position them, nail them home.
There would be storms at home, too – snowstorms, and the occasional storms of sand when the desert would be flung into the air. There would be nothing to do except stay inside, watch as the world turned sepia, the sun disappearing. They would last for hours, sometimes days, and the fine red dust would leave a film on any surface – cars, windows, the insides of your lungs. His father used to say that it was a good reminder that they came from dust and would return to it. His mother would scold him, saying that he did not have to keep the house and their clothes clean so it was easy for him to say. When he was a boy, Hamza would struggle to breathe as the world disappeared. As he got older, the fighting, the dust clouds and sandstorms seemed to intermingle, making the outside world appear as if it were crumbling, dissipating in front of his eyes. The wind caught his breath; it was still cold. Sharp. Burning his face. He hammered another tile in place before descending the ladder, moving it and climbing up once more.
He tried not to look across towards the cliff edges as he worked, tried not to look for her. She would be back soon; the sun was overhead by now. He continued with the work, stopping only to descend the ladder and gather more tiles. He had just nailed the last one in place when he heard footsteps. His heart gladdened as he turned, his back towards the eaves of the cottage, one foot on the top rung of the ladder when he heard the voice.
‘I need more clothes.’
It was Joseph. Pale in the spring light. He was smaller than Hamza remembered. ‘Where is she?’
He climbed slowly down the ladder.
‘She’s not here.’ Hamza suddenly became aware of his own breathing. Joseph measured him with his eyes. Walked forward a little.
‘They’re looking for you … you know that?’ Hamza could smell his breath was sour. ‘It’s only a matter of time till they find you.’ Hamza didn’t answer. Joseph looked away. ‘You know she’s not right,’ he said, ‘you know that.’ Hamza resisted the temptation to retaliate. ‘She’s ill and you’re taking advantage of it. You’re making her worse because you need her,’ Joseph said, studying Hamza’s face.
‘No,’ Hamza replied, the voice coming from deep inside. Nefyn’s absence was pressing on him. He wanted Joseph to know that he was wrong, but the fact that she still hadn’t returned was weighing on his tongue, making it heavy. ‘She’s not ill,’ he said at last.
Joseph let out a bitter laugh.
‘You have no idea what you’re dealing with,’ he said.
‘Maybe not, but I know cruelty when I see it.’
Joseph’s smile straightened.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ll see.’
‘I’ll see what?’
‘Where is she, then?’ Joseph asked again, recognizing a certain wavering in Hamza’s voice. The uncertainty in his face. ‘Come on,’ he pressed, moving closer so that he was inches from him, his breath on his face. He bore down on him in intimidation. ‘Come on, tell me where she is.’
Hamza shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Joseph found himself smirking. ‘Of course you don’t,’ he spat. Then, satisfied, he moved away and disappeared into the cottage.
Outside, Hamza waited. Listened as Joseph moved around inside the cottage, his very presence strangely violating. He saw him emerge, a bag on his back. He didn’t even look in Hamza’s direction.
‘Tell her I’m staying in the village,’ he said. Hamza watched him go, the mobile phone he had stolen from Joseph’s pocket now in his.