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for stripping the original wrapping off the boxes and rewrapping them using the heat-sealing equipment and jumbo-sized rolls of polythene set up at one end.
    I squatted down in front of one of the unsealed washing machines, opened the glass door and pulled out a bundle of leaflets and a freebie pack of washing powder. I’d have shoved it straight back if I hadn’t noticed a glob of glue on the bottom of the box. I stared at it for moment, then I slid my finger under the flap, plunged my hand into the soapy granules and pulled something out. A handful of little plastic bags filled with white powder.
    For a second I was baffled – then, like a slow-motion wrecking ball, it hit me. I’d watched enough cop shows to be pretty sure what it was. Drugs.
    I stared around me in shock, not wanting to believe that Dad would ever get involved in something like this. But the evidence was right there, staring me in the face, and it looked like a big operation. Nice little loading bay with nothing overlooking it except the canal, where they could unload and load up out of sight, and plenty of room for storing the appliances, packing them full of drugs and sealing them up again. And who was going to think twice when they saw a couple of plumbers delivering a washing machine or dropping off a few free samples of washingpowder? But if they got caught, they’d be looking at years and years inside.
    Thoughts crashed round my brain. I tried to separate them out, make sense of them, think what to do. My phone rang. It was Dad.
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜What’s taking so long?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Have you found the stuff?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Spare pipe. Did you find some?’
    â€˜Oh . . . yeah . . . plenty.’
    â€˜Well bring it up, then. I haven’t got all day.’
    â€˜All right. I’m coming.’
    I shoved everything back and slipped through the doors, giving the pile of appliances a last swift glance before locking the bolts and stacking the oil drums back into place. The cut on my head throbbed, my heart pumped and I felt sick. Worst of all, I had no idea how I was ever going to look my dad in the eye again.

ALIYA
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    I tried to stay busy. I swept floors, scrubbed pans until my knuckles hurt and sliced aubergine and onions to make banjaan . Outside in the hall the boy’s father banged and sawed and clanked in and out with pieces of pipe. After a while I heard him phoning the boy. He was annoyed. He told him to hurry up.
    My mother called out, asking for her tea. I poured her some, sprinkled it with sugar, the way she likes it, and took the cup to where she lay on the sofa. One of her fists was clenched against her chest as if she was holding something precious.
    â€˜What’s in your hand, Mor?’
    She opened her fingers. In her palm lay a crumpled card printed with the words ‘Abbott & Co Plumbing. Prompt,Fast, Local’ and a scrap of paper with a number written on it.
    I took the paper. ‘What’s this, Mor?’
    She frowned, searching for an answer, then almost smiled as the memory drifted back.
    â€˜Behrouz came home. When you were at the shop. He said to be sure to give it to you.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜He has a new phone. This is the number.’
    The cold darkness made my voice tremble. ‘Why did he change it?’
    My mother blinked at the floor and I knew she hadn’t even thought to ask him. I stuffed the card and the number in my purse and went back to the onions, as if cooking Behrouz’s favourite dish would solve the mystery of the gun and the phones and make everything all right. The boy came back to the flat. I saw him go up and down the hall at least twice. He didn’t look at me and whenever his father spoke to him he grunted or didn’t answer at all. His disrespect surprised me very much. I was frying the onions with garlic when his father poked his head around the door