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and handed me back the cups.
    â€˜Smells good,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the tea. All fixed now. Any problems, just give us a ring. Your mum’s got one of our cards.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said.
    He walked down the hall and called over his shoulder, ‘Bring the rest of the tools, will you, Dan. I want to have alook at those drains before we go.’
    I slipped into the bathroom. The boy was kneeling on the floor, dropping tools into a bag. He looked dazed and troubled and he had a cut on the side of his head. I could see where the blood had soaked into his hair. Dan. That’s what his father had called him. I wanted to say his name and make him look at me. I didn’t dare. Instead I touched his sleeve. He pulled back, startled, as if his thoughts had been far away.
    â€˜Please. Don’t tell anyone about the gun,’ I whispered.
    Still avoiding my eyes, he zipped up the tools.
    â€˜Swear to me you won’t say anything.’
    He gave me the tiniest nod and walked away. The front door slammed behind him.
    The flat felt very empty when he’d gone.

    The rest of the day crawled slowly. I tried to fill time by reading the book I’d borrowed from the library. It was Oliver Twist , one of my father’s favourites. But the story was sad, about an orphan boy lost in London, and my thoughts kept slipping back to Behrouz and all the things I’d say to him when he got home. When it was time for our evening meal, I ate only a small piece of naan dipped in yoghurt and stood at the window watching for Behrouz while my mother and Mina picked at the dish of banjaan . Night was falling, studding the view from our flat with glimmering lights as if someone had spilt a basket of jewels across a dark carpet. I watched the lights gleam andtwinkle until they merged into a shimmering blur. I was still there long after Behrouz’s food had gone cold and my mother and sister had gone to bed.

    At midnight, when Behrouz still hadn’t come home, I threw my mother’s shawl around my shoulders, took my purse from the drawer and crept out of the flat. The lights on our landing were broken and the yellow glow from the street lamps threw long jagged shapes down the stairwell that seemed to follow my footsteps. I wanted to turn and run back inside but I shut my ears to the voices in the shadows and hurried across the car park to the all-night garage on the corner. There was a phone booth on the forecourt that I used when I had to call the doctor about my mother or speak to Mrs Garcia from the refugee centre. I took out the piece of paper and dialled Behrouz’s new number. It went straight to his voicemail. I hung up and searched in my purse for the card for the minicab company where he worked. I held it to the light and dialled again. A woman answered.
    â€˜Khan’s Cars. How may I help you?’ She had a deep, throaty voice and an accent I didn’t recognize.
    â€˜My name is Aliya Sahar . . . please, may I speak to Behrouz?’
    â€˜No private calls on this line . . .’
    My words tumbled out. ‘Please, I am his sister. He hasn’t come home and he doesn’t answer his mobile. I need to know if he stayed to work a night shift.’
    â€˜I’ve just come on, but I’ll check for you.’ Her voice was kinder now and it got fainter as she swung away from the speaker.
    â€˜Hey, Liam, is Baz on lates tonight?’
    I clamped my hand over my other ear, straining to hear the answer.
    A man’s voice said, ‘Nah, he came in early, dumped his car and buggered off.’
    â€˜Was he sick?’
    â€˜Don’t think so. I reckon he’s got himself a bird.’
    I heard other men laugh. The woman snapped something I couldn’t make out and came back to the speaker. ‘Sorry, he didn’t work today.’
    â€˜Oh . . .’
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    â€˜Yes. Thank you.’
    I hung up. But I