Maps for Lost Lovers

members are reminded, sadly, of 1 Corinthians 5 vii, about not associating with them. He followed this by naming the two lovers in church and telling worshippers that if they loved the couple and did not want them to burn in Hell, they would support his decision. Then he published a clarification on how church members should behave towards the couple, making the points that 1 Corinthians 5 vii is not optional; that it is not loving to offer hospitality and comfort to someone in rebellion against God, because that would tend to confirm them in their disobedience, which leads to eternal death; that invitations to share fellowship should be conditional on repentance first being fully shown.
    Before leaving the house over the past few days, Shamas has been hoping he would not run into the vicar. He doesn’t want to risk hearing the man speak of the matter lest some phrase or reasoning of the holy man may apply to Chanda and Jugnu, lest he, Shamas, be given a new insight into the motivation of the two killers, a disturbing piece of knowledge he would later wish to expel from his consciousness.
    The bodies of the two lovers could be anywhere—here in England, in Europe, in Pakistan. Illegal immigrants come into the country in lorries and trucks and planes and boats without anyone knowing anything about it. If the living can be brought in, why can’t the dead be taken out?
    The summer’s ending and soon it would be like being surrounded by wounds, the leaves of autumn. The van the two brothers owned is still there outside the shop, used by the father to bring in supplies from the cash-and-carry, though it is hard to know how the couple manages to keep the shop going on their own. Kaukab says she has heard that a new boy is at the premises these days; walking by she has caught a glimpse of him amid all the sacks and boxes—it is someone they have taken on as help, no doubt.
    Behind him someone clears his throat, bringing him hurtling forward from the summer to the present moment—the summer’s almost-end. “Brother-ji.”
    He turns and is face to face with a stranger. “Yes?”
    The man is smiling under that moustache as fine as mink, the hair spreading out a little because the lips are stretched, and he places a hand on his shoulder in a good-natured Pakistani manner. “Allow me to introduce myself . . .”
    Shamas doesn’t catch the name or the beginning of the cascade of pleasantries that follows it because he is alarmed by the fact that the hand on his shoulder is holding a burning cigarette, an inch away from his cheek, his eyes. And in the second or two that it takes for it to become clear that what he has mistaken for a cigarette is in fact a pale-apricot Band-Aid wrapped around the man’s index finger, the name has been spoken; the ripple of panic on his face has also caused the man to remove his hand and take a step backwards, embarrassed at his over-eagerness, or perhaps offended by being rebuffed.
    Shamas gives his name and, transferring the bundle of newspapers to the other side of his body, frees his right hand for a handshake. The man’s aftershave or cologne has a citrusy note, like raindrops flavoured by falling on lemon trees, like a room in which someone has recently eaten an orange. Didn’t he smell it earlier—was this man walking behind him, without him being aware of it? “What can I do for you?”
    “Nothing, brother-ji. I saw you just now and decided to come over to say salaam-a-lekum, a little hello. I am well aware, Shamas-ji, of the kind help you have provided for us Pakistanis through your office and am a great admirer of yours. I just wondered if I could be of any help to you in this difficult time.”
    For the briefest of moments but comprehended perfectly during it—as when a summer insect flies across a lit television screen in a room that is otherwise dark, the components of the insect’s flight seen in a sequence of perfect silhouettes—Shamas wonders absurdly whether this man is an apparition seen only by him, sent to bestow benevolence. But the moment passes and the insect disappears into the darkness it had come out of. “Difficult time?”
    “I meant the difficulty you are having with your daughter and your younger son. They have left home, yes?”
    Shamas takes a step back, in shock and incomprehension. “Forgive me but I have to leave.”
    “We know these are delicate matters but we feel we have to offer you our services. We are aware that the girl and the boy