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she saw the sergeant stalk off. ‘Have you seen Banji?’
    â€˜He’s over there.’ Marcus pointed to the far end of the market where Banji was still standing.
    He didn’t notice her looking. He was too busy watching Ruben.
    â€˜How come he didn’t help?’
    She must have spoken the thought aloud, because Marcus came back with, ‘That coconut. He thinks only of his own skin.’
    Knowing that there was little love lost between the two men, she didn’t reply. Besides, she couldn’t help thinking that Marcus was right: Banji had been the first to spot trouble looming, and yet when she had gone to help, he had abandoned her.
    Again.
    As he had done early this morning.
    And fifteen years ago.
    She sighed.
    â€˜Something troubling you?’ This from Pius.
    â€˜Nothing I can’t handle,’ she said, hoping it was the truth.
    8.30 p.m.
    Mr Hashi had asked Jayden to come early, which meant he’d had to skip school, and then Mr Hashi had also asked him to stay on late. Okay by Jayden. He needed to earn enough to see them through until his mother’s next disability payment.
    He carried the last of the plastic bins inside, stacking them below the left side shelf as Mr Hashi had taught him to do. He stretched up on tiptoes, removing the long hook from where it hung and, taking it outside, used it to pull the shutter down. He left just enough space for him to duck under and then, once inside, closed the gap and bolted the shutter. He put the hook back, pulled up the counter, walked through, slammed the till drawer as he passed and opened the door behind the counter to call, ‘Mr Hashi.’
    No answer. He tried again: ‘Mr Hashi.’
    â€˜Come up, Jay Don.’ This was the way Mr Hashi always pronounced his name. ‘We have lahoh for you.’
    He glanced back at the wall clock: 8.40. Lyndall’s mum would be wondering where he’d got to. So would his mum if, that is, she knew what the time was. But he was hungry, and Mr Hashi always acted hurt if Jayden said no to his invitations. ‘I’m coming.’ He pulled the door shut behind him.
    Darkness and something wrong with the wiring, which meant there was no point trying to find the light switch. As he made his way up the steep stairs, he took care to steer dead centre so he wouldn’t bang into any of the goods that lined both edges. As he neared the flat that Mr Hashi shared with his mother, the smell of cardamom and cinnamon and the incense that they always had burning grew more pungent.
    The door he knocked on was immediately opened. ‘Come in, Jay Don.’ As hot as it was, Mr Hashi was wearing that same dark-blue jumper he never seemed to take off. He stepped aside to let Jayden into a small room whose piles of cushions and thick carpeting made everything much hotter than it already was outside.
    Mr Hashi’s mother was sitting on her usual cushion in a corner. Jayden went over to stand in front of her and bow, as Mr Hashi had taught him to do. When she said, ‘Salaam Alaikum,’ he answered, ‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,’ as he’d also been taught, although it always felt a bit strange having to twist his tongue around the words.
    â€˜Are you feeling better?’ he asked, at which she, who didn’t have a word of English but who could tell his question was kindly meant, stretched her grin even wider so he got a glimpse of her few remaining teeth where they stuck out of her gums.
    â€˜Sit, sit,’ Mr Hashi urged him. ‘You are our guest.’
    One half of the room was the women’s section. Crossing into the other half, Jayden lowered himself down. When first he’d been invited in, he’d thought the lack of furniture strange; now he liked the cushions. They were much more comfortable than anything they had at home.
    â€˜Is your mum okay?’ Mr Hashi had needed him early so he could take his mother to the hospital.
    â€˜She is