22

East ♦ Dwyrain ♦ Alsharq

EMRYS HAD BEEN UNSETTLED today. Pacing. Caged in the house. He had taken all his old books down from the shelves and put them back in a different order. He’d done it over and over, unwilling to stop to eat or drink, as if he were arranging and rearranging the stories in his mind. He had shouted at her, too. Raised his arm sharply when she touched him so she had just retreated, sat and watched. Waited for him to exhaust himself. After that, he had sat by the window overlooking the sea, his mind preoccupied by the passing clouds, the shape of the coast, asking her over and over what he was seeing, the relationships between objects and their names loosening, the references of colour and form slipping away. He was asleep now in his chair and Efa had decided to leave him there.

She had asked a man to come and put some new locks on the outside door and she had started keeping the keys in her pocket at all times, but still she couldn’t sleep. Every time she’d close her eyes, she’d see a dark figure framed in a whitewashed window. It was a man, she was sure of it, and they were looking for someone. The police. They must be looking for someone, and it wasn’t Joseph.

Efa kicked back the covers; there was no point trying any more. She walked softly downstairs to make herself some tea. If she had noticed, how long would it be before someone else did? She waited for the kettle to boil, measured herself a spoonful of strong loose leaves. Nefyn and Joseph didn’t keep company and Joseph’s friends were mainly acquaintances on the boats, from what she could gather. They had no family left. She took her mug to her favourite chair at the window, overlooking the harbour in the distance, her thoughts running backwards like the tide receding. Back to Nefyn’s mother, Arianell.

Arianell had refused to be baptized, but still wanted to take Holy Communion. The vicar had not allowed it, saying she would have to be cleansed with holy water first. She had wanted to receive His body and His blood, but could not bring herself to see herself as dirty. To admit sin. Efa had taken her side, tried to talk to the congregation, but they had turned their backs. The place where Nefyn’s mother came to find peace became a place of judgement. She would still see her there, though. The church remained unlocked and Efa would clean it regularly as per the rota. She would sometimes find Arianell weeping quietly in the back pew. She tolerated Efa, not because she showed her compassion perhaps, but because she allowed her to feel her rage without trying to sympathize or cajole. Efa had seen the bruises on her body, the rolled-down sleeve of her blouse. Everyone knew about Nefyn’s father.

To this day, she didn’t know quite why she’d done it. Efa held the keys to the sacristy, where the cleaning cupboards were. She had pushed the key into the lock. Opened the chest where the wafers of bread and wine were kept and carried them to her. Arianell had watched Efa coming down the aisle, watched her sit in the pew at the front. Place the sacramental cup down before bowing her head and praying, her back to the altar. Their whispers combined and echoed around them as they finished. Then, Efa placed some bread on to her palm. Watched as she pressed her lips to it and crossed herself. Efa then held the cup to her mouth. The jewelled colour of the lights through the window illuminating them both. She watched as she drank. Her tired face, her thirst. Her hand over Efa’s hand as she swallowed. She closed her eyes and Efa saw the tears slide silently down her face. And there they sat, in that cold church, a communion of women. That was the last time she saw her. A few weeks later she had gone. Disappeared. He said that she had left him but Efa was never so sure. He had a boat. She was terrified. Weaker than him. Efa had vowed to herself then that she would try to look after Nefyn as much as she would allow. When news came of her father’s death, Efa did not grieve, felt only relief mixed with a concern about the children. They were both so young.

She looked out, the light lingering longer as spring started making its presence felt. She would have to go and see Nefyn. She wouldn’t rest until she had.

Hamza had watched her as the light grew around them. They had lain intertwined, their bodies borderless. Each reviving the other, sharing their warmth. They had not kissed, but had simply lain, her back to his chest, listening to each other breathing. The strange closeness of someone else. After she fell asleep, her head heavy on his arm, Hamza had held her against him. The thin skin of her freckled shoulder under his chin.

He looked at the compass in the half-light. It wasn’t impossible that she had found it. It might have been brought to shore just like he had. But it was heavy – surely it would have sunk, been dragged to the depths and lain there, immovable. She must have swum. Swum into the sea and looked for it. But the expanse? The size of the compass? He had tried to find out, but she had given no more explanation and the shadows under her eyes made him reluctant to ask again.

She was warmer now, her hair still thick with salt. The act of kindness that almost killed her. Hamza had considered himself blessed. His mother had believed that kindness was a child’s best teacher. That scolding would only work temporarily. Fatima was the same with Hussein. She would see things through his eyes, kneel close to him. A certain softness in her that she reserved for him only. And when she was tired, overcome, she would place him in Hamza’s arms, go for a walk. She believed that shouting at a child was beneath her, that it was the same as becoming a child again yourself. Her quiet, instinctive understanding of Hussein’s needs – he recognized it in Nefyn, something achingly familiar.

His mind returned to the crackly voice on the other end of the phone. The first time he had heard his language for years. Its cadences, its rhythms. The fact that his colleague might somehow know by now that he was alive. A growing resolve inside him as the glimpse of home made him hunger for more. He watched as she started to stir. Her green eyes staring before looking around, disorientated. She stayed a moment in his arms, in complete stillness, before pulling herself away from him and going to her room, looking back at him as she closed the door. He lay and listened as she washed and dressed.

They ate breakfast in silence, the compass rotating between them on the table. Tramontana. Greco. Levante. Scirocco. Osto. Libeccio. Ponente. Maestro. Both watching as the pin turned, restlessly, from one direction to another and another. He looked up.

‘Nefyn?’ He waited for her to look at him. ‘When you were gone, your brother came, I … I took his phone …’

Nefyn’s gaze didn’t waver. Her face pale.

‘I called home.’

Nefyn smiled, her eyes unreadable.

‘I hope, I think, that maybe my friend knows I’m alive … But then someone called here, I was seen. I’ll have to leave,’ he said.

Her face became troubled.

‘Who saw you?’ Her voice was even.

‘An old woman came. I’m sure she saw me.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘She was older, skirt, a scarf around her neck … heavy coat.’

Nefyn nodded as he described Efa.

‘You don’t need to worry about her. She won’t have told anyone.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know …’ Nefyn thought for a moment. ‘Efa, she brings me food when Joseph is away. He always told me that she couldn’t be trusted but she can.’

Hamza took this in.

‘I wish I’d never listened to him. Those tablets he gave me. I couldn’t think.’

‘Your brother said they’re looking for me.’

Nefyn studied him, her strength returning to her body. Her senses. He was scared, Nefyn could see that. His breath had become short, his chest tightening. Her eyes dropped to the spinning compass once more.

‘I’ve been thinking about your father’s boat,’ he said. ‘The one in the boathouse.’

Nefyn followed his train of thought. ‘Can you sail?’

‘Yes, but not well.’

‘We should go and look at it tomorrow.’

Hamza nodded. He did not know how feasible the plan was, but it seemed like his only choice.

‘Perhaps your friend Efa can help us,’ he offered gently.

Nefyn’s face softened, her eyes warming at Efa’s name.

‘Yes, I’m sure she’ll help us.’

Hamza nodded but she wasn’t looking at him now, she was studying the compass whose pin had been slowing as they talked. It trembled on its axis, and eventually stopped. Nefyn looked up. Levante.