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smudge along his hairline.
    His classmates stood by, riveted, studying the skyline, the strange silhouettes, the masterful strokes, the sense of strangeness, darkness and dread as the night sky loomed above an alien city.
    A few of them whispered and Mr McCarthy nodded approvingly.
This lad will go far if he keeps straight
.
    Faraz was his brightest student, although other staff members often complained about his attitude, his laziness, his wasted potential. They were all sure he was going to fail his GCSEs. But not here, in the Art Room. This was where he came alive.
    But the moment was broken by Maj, a broad slab of muscle with a permanent smirk. “What have you got there, Faraz?” he taunted as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
    Faraz forced himself to look him in the eye, although his heart missed a beat when he remembered their last encounter after school. His mum had fussed for ages over his cut lip and bruised face. ‘Just some kids at school, Ummerji, don’t worry. I can handle it.’
    He hadn’t told her that it was Maj, who belonged to a gang that was forever sparring with Skrooz and his crew. And now, he was involvedtoo. An enemy of the lads was his enemy too, after all.
    He narrowed his eyes, ready for a confrontation.
    â€œOoohh,” minced Maj, striking an effeminate pose. “So Faraz is an ahhhhtist, eh?”
    Some of the others tittered and Mr McCarthy coughed and adjusted his heavy glasses, ready to intervene.
    But Maj didn’t give him the chance. “It’s a pity charcoal can be rubbed out,” he said and, with a slow, deliberate motion, he swept his hand across the painting. The domes, tower blocks and spikes merged into the night sky in a black rainbow arc. “Just like that.”
    A tremor ran through the class. Several girls gasped and Mr McCarthy covered his mouth, powerless in the face of the tension, the restless adolescent energy that could so easily spill blood. He cleared his throat, ready to reassert his authority, bracing himself.
    Faraz stared at his creation, now ruined beyond repair and he felt the pressure build up behind his eyes, heat flooding his brain.
    Abruptly, he pushed his chair back and ittoppled over, scattering the boys and girls behind him.
    â€œMaj, what’s wrong with you, man? What you trying to prove?”
    Maj sneered, looking Faraz up and down. “That you’re nothing, mate. You always have been and you always will be, no matter who you hang with – Skrooz can’t help you here.”
    Faraz thought of all the years of anonymity, of blending into the shadows, of keeping his head down. How the other kids had teased him about his stutter, his parents’ little newsagent shop, his beautiful green eyes and the fact that he couldn’t fight back if the older boys pushed him around.
    But that was then. He was older now, bigger, tougher. He wouldn’t stand for that kind of disrespect any more, not now that he was part of Skrooz’s crew.
    He looked at Maj and considered jumping him, but one look at his beefy arms straining against his school shirt made him think again. Not here, not now. He couldn’t win this round.
    â€œYeah? We’ll see about that.” And he stared Maj down, steeling his eyes against the fear that constricted his heart.
    And then, in the next moment, he grabbed his bag and pushed past everyone as the bell rang, shrill in the crackling silence of the art room.

Chapter 6
Malik
    Farhana dashed up the street, her schoolbag over her head, her school skirt soaking wet. A few metres, the creak of a gate, a puddle-filled path and a slippery key and she had her front door open. She stood there, dripping on to the welcome mat, inhaling the smell of frying chillies and garlic, listening to the hiss of hot oil. Ummerji was making
samosas.
    She also heard the sound of other voices, her Auntie Sajda’s high-pitched laugh and her grandmother’s strident bark - and it