Chapter 32

Fareeha’s chopped-up hair circled the top of her head like a crown of thorns, each black spike stabbing into the white linen of the pillow. As the first subdued light of day edged in around the flour-sack curtain an expression of pain formed on her face: vertical lines furrowed the centre of her brow and crows’ feet clawed at the sides of her eyes. She awoke suddenly and without thinking, she reached down under the covers and touched at the tender skin. She winced, quickly pulled her hand away, and struggled to sit up.

The dream came back to her as she awkwardly shifted her weight from side to side. She was back out on the steppe, rocking up and down on the cushioned driver’s seat next to the Englishman. He moved his arms to flick the reins and she breathed deeply on the unleashed aroma, carried across to her on the gentle sea breeze. Together they drove into desperate village after desperate village, where, to the gratitude of the starving residents, they would miraculously restore a fresh supply of clear, sparkling water. The abandoned village then came back to her; Phipps helping her down from the cart with a clammy hand, the same one that then led her to the empty house . . .

Fareeha’s face suddenly screwed itself up as she reeled over onto her left buttock; her right hand darted towards her crotch, as both eyes filled with water.

The next thing she was aware of was the long, melancholy sound of a distant horn, which filled her bedroom. She looked up and turned her head in the direction of the harbour. The water in her eyes began to drop down her cheeks.