No amount of crime scenes and post-mortems could have prepared me for seeing my brother’s charred remains, wrapped in a shroud in the mosque prayer room. Out of the casket, and on a trolley, his contorted limbs poked at the white cloth like twigs in a cotton bag.

Since receiving the news of Sabbir’s death, I’d teetered on the water’s edge of grief. Imprinted on my mind were images of him burning alive in his own body fat, skin peeling away from his flesh. I imagined the flames using his petrol-doused clothes as a wick. And here, now, beneath the camphor and perfumes of the washing rituals, undertones of burned flesh and bone lingered.

In the dim light, surrounded by Qur’an excerpts, it was as though the walls were leaning in. My legs buckled and I folded to the ground, knees smashing on the concrete beneath the prayer room carpet. Tears bled into my eyes, and my hijab fell forwards. All I wanted was to curl into a ball on the floor and stay there forever because my kind, sensitive brother was nothing more than a bag of bones and a handful of teeth.

Burned alive in his flat in Sylhet.

My sister was beside me now on the floor, kneeling. ‘Get up,’ Jasmina muttered in my ear. ‘Remember what the imam said.’ She slotted her arm through mine. Hauled me to my feet and turned me to face the mihrab for prayers.

‘In the name of Allah and in the faith of the Messenger of Allah,’ said the imam.

His words rang out like bells from a far-off village.

In front of us, his back filled my view. I had a sudden image of standing behind white robes at the hospital in London twenty years ago when thugs beat Sabbir into a coma. Hadn’t that started it all? Sent him scuttling back to Bangladesh?

I scanned the room for an anchor. Took in the bulging bookcases, and the carved wooden screen which separated my sister and me from the four local men who’d carried in the casket. It was the medicinal smell of camphor that returned me to familiarity: when we were children, and had a cold, Mum would put a few drops on our pillow. Yet, despite the memories, Bangladesh hadn’t been my home for over thirty years.

The imam was asking for Sabbir to be forgiven and I felt the storm of anger swell.

‘Sssh,’ Jasmina hissed into my hair. ‘Maya. Look at me.’ She straightened my hijab and pinned it back in place. Licked her thumb and dabbed at my tear-streaked face.

But he hasn’t done anything wrong, I wanted to yell.

Five minutes later, and despite the humidity, it was a relief to be in the open air of the cemetery. How tiny the grave looked for my big brother.

The imam’s face was tight, and his cheek twitched with the misgivings he’d relayed to us over the phone. It will mean a woman positioning the bones in the grave, he’d said.

I removed my shoes and clambered down the rope ladder into the pit. The sweet smell of freshly dug soil filled my nostrils. It squished, soft and yielding beneath my toes, cold on my skin.

From above, Jasmina passed me Sabbir’s shrouded remains.

The imam’s cough was urgent.

I’d forgotten the dedication.

‘In the name of . . .’ I couldn’t say it.

He took over. ‘In the name of Allah, and by the way of the Messenger Allah . . .’

I carefully positioned my brother’s bones on the soil.

Femur.

Pelvis.

Laid his skull on its right cheek to face Mecca, the way the imam had shown me.

Then, in my periphery, something small scampered across the mud, brushing my foot. The scream was out of my mouth before I could muffle it and I hurled myself at the ladder. A man appeared at the graveside. In one swoop he raised a spade and sliced it down into the pit, on top of the animal and inches from my feet. Spats of fresh blood speckled the white shroud and my bare toes.

The imam raised his hands to either side of his head. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he chanted. Then recited quietly, ‘You alone we worship. Send blessings to Mohammed.’

I imagined Sabbir’s clothes pulling more and more of his body fat into the orange, red and yellow flames as he burned alive.

‘Allahu Akbar. Forgive him. Pardon him. Cleanse him of his transgressions and take him to Paradise.’

His muscles drying out and contracting, teasing his limbs into greasy, branch-like contortions.

The imam gave the signal for the wooden planks to be placed on top of the shroud. Then the soil.

Beside the grave now, I pushed damp feet into my shoes. Took out the poem and, with Jasmina’s arm round my waist, read it aloud. Sabbir’s favourite: about the boy who waits for his preoccupied father to come and give him a hug before bed.

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