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When Ashvin was sure he was alone he made a solemn effort to prop himself against a wall, taking slow breaths in the rain. His eyes gleamed as he wiped himself down.
    From his hiding place behind dustbins, James watched Ashvin as the rain abated, feeling pity and something else that he couldn't quite describe until much later.
    As time slowed the only sound came from gentle rainwater filling street drains. James watched Ashvin until the street lights awakened and the brightening moon cast a hideous glow over the East End. He said he felt ashamed. When I pushed for more detail, James said he would have cried but he remembered staring directly into Ashvin's eyes looking for tears, and they only glistened in triumph.
    Ashvin made for a lonely sight. Blood seeped from the split on the bridge of his nose and yet he sat very still, staring at a pigeon. Every now and then he would shiver because of a sudden icy breeze. It was like watching a scene from a poem. 'I will never forget the look on Ashvin's face,' he said, 'the way he hunched his trembling shoulders and glared across at the traffic, the tower blocks, the run-down council houses and the unkempt front gardens.'
    I loved my brother dearly. Thinking about him now invites only pain. He had a brilliant mind and I imagine what kind of life he could have had, the wife he would have chosen, about his kids. Ashvin was slightly built and had a serene face, smooth cheeks with cinnamon skin. I clearly remember the day those boys put a gun to his head – the thoughtful look on his face when he returned home. His orange jumper was covered in dirt and his curly black hair full of dust and dried blood.
    'Where have you been?' I asked him.
    'I made a friend,' was all he said. And he smiled.
    When James came out from hiding, Ashvin had walked briskly in his direction, shadow-boxing while holding his belt and mumbling in his raspy voice.
    ' Suffer, poor Negro, the whip whistles, whistles in sweat and blood .' He often recited random lines of poetry, my brother. His delivery was serious and natural. He wasn't showing off, just practising, he would always say. At school in Somalia we learned to recite poetry and Langston Hughes was one of my brother's favourites.
    'What?' James asked him when he emerged from behind the hedge. 'What did you just say?'
    ' Suffer, poor Negro, the whip whistles, whistles in sweat and blood ,' said Ashvin.
    The only poet James knew by heart was Lil' Kim.
    'Suffer, poor Negro? Who's that?' asked James.
    'That's Langston Hughes,' said Ashvin.
    'Langston who? Old or new school?'
    Ashvin smiled as he squinted his eyes at James incredulously and pulled his lips in a grimace. His teeth were stained red; he had a gash above his right eye and the split on his nose widened. He looked up at the brownish sky.
    'It's started again. It's not going to stop,' he said.
    James turned his face upward and flinched as he was pelted with cold rain.
    Ashvin continued shadow-boxing on his way. ' Suffer, poor Negro .'
    Intrigued, James followed.
    James knew Ashvin lived on the Lumumba estate that was just behind his. They took the long way, past Stratford cinema. There was a long queue and people, adults, saw Ashvin's blood and beat-up face but no one met his eyes. Stratford Picturehouse was showing The Queen . Ashvin held up two of his fingers and spat blood loudly when he looked up at the poster of Helen Mirren as Her Majesty. James, smiling, spat too.
    They did not speak much to begin with. They walked steadily, coming to terms with each other's presence.
    'Why didn't you run home?' James asked.
    'What? So they can know where I live?' Ashvin said.
    'Look,' said James thoughtfully, 'I've watched you in class and wondered why you don't just change your trousers, get some new shoes?'
    'I have got new trousers. My sponsor bought me expensive jeans, same as everybody wears, with the red sign on the back pocket. He bought me trainers too, Air Force 1s,' said Ashvin.
    'Good for you. So why