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old.’ Mr Hashi gave a resigned shrug. He turned to the stove, picked up the silver teapot and poured from it into a glass cup. He added milk and a spoon of sugar, and then he put the cup on a silver tray on which was already laid a plate piled high with the flat pancake bread that Jayden had learnt to love and, beside it, a bowl of honey.
    â€˜The till drawer was open, Mr Hashi,’ Jayden said. ‘You got to get it fixed.’
    â€˜True. I got to.’ Mr Hashi put the tray down on the small metallic side table beside Jayden. ‘Now worry about yourself, growing boy, Jay Don. And eat. My mother baked the biscuits you like. She will be most disappointed if you don’t have at least five.’
    9 p.m.
    Cathy and Lyndall had opened every door and every window and still the place was too hot, so they had moved out onto the landing. As had most of the estate. Conversation, laughter and the sounds of quarrelling rose up into the sticky air to the accompaniment of the heavy base beat blasting out of one of the flats. Arthur from next door had fallen asleep in his rickety deckchair, his mouth slack, his snores beating out their own rhythm against the general racket, and nothing, not even the giggling kids who were running up and jumping over his outstretched legs, occasionally delivering a mistaken backward kick, disturbed him.
    â€˜Shift up.’ Cathy used a foot to nudge Lyndall, who was sprawled out on sofa cushions. ‘And take this, will you?’ She passed down the plate she’d just fetched from the kitchen.
    â€˜Mmm.’ The cake was a soggy mess surrounded by a sticky puddle of icing. ‘That looks . . . umm . . . good?’
    â€˜No need to lie.’ Cathy lowered herself down ‘It’s my worst ever. Chocolate wasn’t the best choice in this weather, especially with the fridge on the blink. But it’s Jayden’s favourite, and it may taste better than it looks.’
    â€˜And Jayden is where exactly?’
    â€˜He’s never been the most punctual of boys. Give him a knock, will you?’
    Lyndall, who was in one of her more cooperative moods, sprung up, her gazelle legs making short shrift of the distance between their front door and Jayden’s. She beat a tattoo against the board that had been nailed in over a broken pane. No answer. She knocked again, and harder. A long pause before the door opened a crack. Lyndall spoke into it, and whoever was behind the crack said something before banging the door shut.
    Lyndall shrugged and came back. Standing in front of Cathy, she lowered her head and raised her shoulders in a perfect imitation of Jayden’s mother’s slump: ‘She doesn’t know.’ She also had Jayden’s mother’s monotone pitch perfect. ‘Never sees him. Doesn’t know what he’s up to,’ and now an escalation in pitch, ‘doesn’t care. He should be protecting her, but he’s a bastard. Like his father. End of.’ Lyndall smiled. Having ditched Jayden’s mother’s sour expression, she now looked so pretty, especially given that the lowering sun added a golden lustre to her coffee-coloured skin. ‘Who’s Jayden meant to be protecting her from?’
    â€˜Her enemies, I guess.’ Cathy sighed. ‘Of which she makes many. She’s going to be at the bottom of every list when they close the Lovelace.’ She sighed again. ‘Poor Jayden.’
    â€˜At least he knows who his bastard of a father is.’
    â€˜Lyndall!’ Cathy had to shield her eyes against the lowering sun in order to see her daughter. ‘You promised.’
    â€˜Yeah, okay.’ Lyndall’s hands raised high in mock surrender. ‘I won’t ask for another week.’ She dropped her hands, slapping them for emphasis against her bare legs. She gave a quick smile, her way of showing that she didn’t bear a grudge, before she walked the few paces to the low