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‘Come on, mate, you hungry?’

Back at the allotment, our feet sinking into the earth, I picked and cleaned each radish before handing it to Mustafa. He ate slowly; watching in contempt as the rain mixed with his tears, suddenly I was impatient to be free of him. I felt agitated and fearful, not of being caught stealing but of something else, of being tainted in some way by Mustafa: by his fear of animals, his knowledge of Bobby, his skin that dirtied so easily, and by giblets in the toilet.

*

I pause and look over at Grace. She murmurs and her hands lash about as though seeking something. For a moment, her chest forms a convex arc, the small of her back lifted off the mattress; she breathes heavily until her thrashing hands meet the hard surface of her bedside cabinet, when suddenly her eyelids open and she looks around. She seems momentarily surprised to see me and then smiles. ‘Told you there was a story in you.’

I reply gently, ‘You didn’t hear a word.’

The sight of Grace awakening has stirred memories of the house I have deserted. Is Azra still sound asleep, pulling the white sheet ever tighter around her bony limbs? Would she care that soon she’d be widowed? Or are they awake, Azra and my parents, looking out of windows, standing by the front door peering into the dark street, watching for me? Would they believe — this last thought gives me a curious satisfaction — that I lie not far away, in a stranger’s bed? Would the knowledge of that evoke in Azra some kind of passion or only anger, anger and a disdainful curl of her lower lip?

‘What are you thinking about?’ I ask.

‘Don’t mind if I doze off now and then, I’m still listening.’

I laugh. ‘But you’re not.’

‘I like the sound of your voice.’

‘It’s a soldier’s voice. To my troops it was the booming voice of a sergeant.’

‘It’s familiar.’

‘Strange thing to say.’

‘It pleases me.’

Through the window I glimpse the sky, which has lightened from purple to grey, and even without consulting my watch I know less time will have passed than I think. Ahead of me are still many hours of walking the streets, and here it is warm and comfortable. This here is sin but I will be forgiven. That I will be forgiven is a truth beyond doubt, but still out of superstition I quickly whisper a Bismillah.

5

After that it rained heavily, the sky darkening suddenly, and the wind blew up. I went home, to be scolded, fed, bathed, and spent the afternoon sitting by the fire. As it spat I dared myself to rub the glowing embers into the carpet, leaving tiny black dots in its fibres.

The door opened and I smiled at my father as he came in, wet from his walk home from the shop. He draped his huge overcoat over the fireguard, sucking all the heat out of the room. A brewing steam gathered along its woollen surface and started to rise. The flames crackled as though straining underneath it.

‘Miss that old thing,’ he said ruefully, referring to the old sofa we had put out that morning for the rag and bone man.

I nodded. Misty-eyed, my mother had described it as a good sofa, and it was the only one I had ever known. Over time its spindly legs had broken one by one and been replaced by two stacked bricks. The seat was marked with inkblots and long scrawly lines ran along the armrests — my handiwork as a toddler, my father said. The seat part lifted up and inside Mum had stored old clothes and shoes. Behind the cushions we found various things — a penny that Dad let me keep, broken crayons, an old set of keys Dad had given up hope of finding — and just before we put it out, leaning it against the front of the house for the rag and bone man to take away, he took a Stanley knife to it, slashing the upholstery from end to end. My mother had not approved of this last act. She said it was vandalism and that he should have let it go as it was, with dignity. He should have thought about all the now dead people who had once sat on it. Embarrassed, my father had reached into it, working loose several pieces of wood for the fire.

Now he stood warming himself by the grate, staring at a framed picture of Mecca above the mantel. It was the only picture in our house. In the absence of the sofa, Mum had made me a daybed out of pillows covered by a duvet brought down from my bed. The old brown armchair rested in a corner next to a TV on a stand, and one tall thin dresser stood like a sentry by the door. A low table usually placed before the sofa had been pushed against a far wall. I stretched, enjoying the luxury of a relatively empty room.

‘Where’s your mum?’

‘Out.’

Dad considered me as though I was lying.

‘She’s at Mustafa’s,’ I added.

‘Mustafa?’

‘Across the street, the house with the blue door,’ I said.

‘Stay here,’ he instructed sternly. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

As he picked up his coat, the fire seemed to leap after it, its warmth instantly enveloping my face. I braced myself for a cold gust of wind as he opened the door to the street. From outside came an acrid smell of burning, as though someone had lit a bonfire.

They were arguing as the door opened and they came back in. Once again, the breeze through the open door brought in the smell of fire.

‘You shouldn’t be out tonight,’ Dad said to Mum.

‘She’s all alone with two boys.’

‘You have to think about your own family,’ said Dad.

Mum opened her mouth to say something

‘Shh, not now,’ Dad said through clenched teeth.

He double-locked the front door and draped his coat over the armchair. Lifting the living room curtain at one corner, he looked out into the dark street. He lowered it carefully and wrung his hands, a scowl on his face. Mum went into the kitchen and then joined us in the living room. Sinking to her knees with a sigh, she settled herself onto the duvet next to me. On the carpet in front of her she had placed a bowl of potatoes. She began to peel them. I looked at them and then at her, trying to work out what day of the week it was.

She smiled, patting me on the head. ‘Yes, it’s chips tonight.’

There were noises from the street, at first distant and muffled; yet somehow I knew they were linked to the smell of fire. My heart was pounding, all of my attention suddenly focused on the sounds in the street. My parents were listening too, their faces frozen and eyes wide. They glanced at each other and my mother gave a tiny shake of the head. The footsteps outside — boot soles studded with clattering metal — grew louder and then stopped abruptly like a loud slap. They had stopped outside our front door. Bravely, my father returned to the window and put out a hand to draw back the curtain. Mum shrieked and Dad pulled away. Outside someone shouted, ‘Pakis, come out, you Pakis!’

The warmth of the burning planks in the grate was in direct opposition to the scene I tried to imagine outside and I shuddered, fearful for my parents more than myself. A loud beat started up, something being struck repeatedly against a bin lid. At intervals the crashing stopped, replaced by jeering and monkey noises.

‘Put the TV on loud,’ Mum said to Dad.

‘We will go one day,’ said Dad, moving to stand by the fire and adjusting a stray corner of glittery tinsel that had been sticky-taped around the edges of the Mecca picture.

My mother looked up at him and forced out a smile. She patted the space on the carpet next to her. Dad shrugged his shoulders and remained standing.

Outside I heard the screeching brakes of a car and someone cried out — a noise not dissimilar to the scream of the cat earlier, only louder.

‘I have to go,’ said my father.

Her eyes showing fear, my mother shook her head. ‘Sit down, come on, next to us,’ she said softly.