
Shaheed!

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Will Miller

Acknowledgments

Many thanks for wonderful editing by Lucretia Castillo, Joel Denno, Simon Fay, Sheena Macleod, Jonathan Rowe, Jake Vickers and Florian Weinhold, and others from the now defunct Authonomy site - all of who are pursuing their own literary art. Thanks too to Najeeb Gul who gave me first hand information about the Pakhtun, and to Henry Miller for design input.

Graffiti artwork: Blue Men, Alex Chupryna, Lugansk, Ukraine, Frunze str. 2 (near Teneri), source: Wikimedia; Girls on Wall, by Miss Van and Ciou, Plaça de Sant Josep/Mercat de la Boqueria, Ciutat Vella, Barcelona, source: Wikimedia; Girl in Black Dress, by Nehloucha (own work), source: Wikimedia; Blue lady by Eoin (9422224981), source: Wikimedia; Red girl, CEPT (13804882184), source: Wikimedia.

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Digital Edition

Copyright (C) 2016 by Will Miller

All rights reserved

One of the things important about history is to remember the true history.

-- US President George W. Bush

# Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Heathrow will be Easy

Chapter 2: Vukovar

Chapter 3: Parathas

Chapter 4: Lorelei's Bounty

Chapter 5: Chaucer

Chapter 6: The Translator

Chapter 7: A Close Shave

Chapter 8: Kittens

Chapter 9: The Great Escape

Chapter 10: Kahve

Chapter 11: Uzi Nine Millimetre

Chapter 12: The Tattoo

Chapter 13: Colonialism Hurts

Chapter 14: Breakfast

Chapter 15: The Cell

Chapter 16: The Broadcast

Chapter 17: Let's Make a Deal

Chapter 18: Knight in White Satin

Chapter 19: Civilisation Here has Stopped

Chapter 20: False Papers

Chapter 21: Jumu'ah

Chapter 22: Doing Lunch

Chapter 23: The Bike Ride

Chapter 24: The Airport

Chapter 25: Chemistry

Chapter 26: A Century of Filth

Chapter 27: The Masjid

Chapter 28: Crying in your Sleep

# Chapter 1: Heathrow will be Easy

The passengers pressed forward with the urgency of goats escaping a pen.

An air hostess with rose-red lipstick bid Jahangir farewell. Corporate advertising decorated the metal passageway, though Jahangir did not understand what it was selling. He halted, seeing a yellow "Passport Control" sign ahead. The crowd surged past, staring at him as though he were from another world.

Jahangir wore the clothes of a fakir tending goats in the mountain valleys of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa district. Not long ago he had used his patkay headscarf to tie a mule. Before he died, Jahangir's uncle had told him Heathrow would be easy. Two weeks dead and the memory wrapped his heart in razor wire.

On the moving walkway, he listened to the hum of machinery. There would be a party, with family, friends and neighbours all invited. That would come after Passport Control.

Unwrapping his patkay, he hung it over his shoulders. "Let them see your face," Uncle Khoshal had said. Jahangir swept a hand through his long hair. "If something happens to me, you will have to continue on your own." It had unnerved Jahangir; he would be lost without his uncle. Now, amidst all the airport signs, he was lost.

"If I am killed, go to Peshawar and find Atal's shop. When it is time to leave, Atal will drop you near the first airport checkpoint, and from there you must have a heart of iron. Remember - show no emotion. If you were to cry, the airline people might tell Border Control. They will ask, 'Why is this fourteen-year-old so unhappy?' Then everything becomes difficult."

Jahangir didn't sleep on the aeroplane. Taliban strictures against music and film meant he had avoided the in-flight entertainment. In any case, the video wouldn't have had subtitles in Pakhto. At most, he might have heard a Pakhtun cleric railing, or a mother wailing in the background of a news report about yet another bombing.

Reaching the main hall, Jahangir joined a queue of EU passport holders. In front, twenty people or so waited to hand documents to uniformed officers in the glass booths. Most were returning from business in the Middle East. The P.A. system, left switched on, buzzed overhead like a monster fly.

Hundreds of white people flooded into the Passport Control hall, returning from various holiday destinations. Children tagged along in the snaking queues. Back in Peshawar, three white men had boarded the plane. Everyone assumed they were intelligence officers working with NGOs.

Westerners risked being kidnapped and sold to militants, who made movies of beheadings. "Peshawar was once a beautiful city," Atal had said as they walked one evening. "Just look what they have done to it." A recent explosion had left a shop a burnt-out shell. Neighbouring shops wore a patina of black carbon in memory of the fire.

Ten people to go until he handed over his passport.

Jahangir tried to slow his heart rate by controlling his breathing. His uncle had taught him how to regulate his breathing the first day Jahangir had held a rifle. "Over a long distance," his uncle whispered as Jahangir aligned the scope on a hare, "even the movement from your heartbeat can make you miss. Take a few quick breaths. Then hold your breath in as you sight the target. Gently, gently, squeeze the trigger." A loud crack and the animal was dead. Uncle Khoshal was delighted.

More Heathrow arrivals poured into the hall as incoming planes landed. The queues snaked back to the rear of the hall. Imagine being there, Jahangir thought, then wished he was.

After six months of hunting hares, his uncle had handed him the weapon he would use for the next eighteen months, a Dragunov rifle. They sat on wicker beds in a hujra, an open-air sleeping area. A friend of his uncle, Bazir, owned the farm. As male guests, Jahangir and his uncle Khoshal slept outside the mud-brick walls of the compound. Observing purdah, the women remained within the walls; only the immediate family slept inside. At night, a sheet kept off the mosquitoes.

A burly, quiet man, Bazir communicated with slight changes in facial expression, usually while Jahangir's uncle continued speaking.

"He captured this Dragunov from Russians over in Afghanistan in the 1980s," Uncle Khoshal said. Bazir's face creased with pride then returned to its usual inscrutability. "It's an excellent weapon, but you will only get one shot because the noise will scatter any game. And now you must shoot wild goats because, with this rifle, there won't be much left of a hare."

Shuffling forward toward the official in her booth, Jahangir imagined his parents' joy to see him, and their sadness at what had happened in the mountains, after he explained how his brother Janan and Uncle Khoshal had died.

At exactly the moment Jahangir coughed, the warning beep of a disabled passenger cart began - the noises merging. A bearded, turbaned Sikh drove an enormous white woman through Passport Control.

"Don't worry about Heathrow," his uncle had said. "The real difficulty is Peshawar. You cannot take a taxi right into the airport, only to the army checkpoint. Unless you have an official car, you must walk five hundred metres through three checkpoints before you reach departures. First you will see the sandbags. In the last four weeks there have been seven bomb attacks in Peshawar and the target of choice is the military. If they think you are a suicide bomber, they will shoot you instantly. Your eyes as well as your words must tell them you have nothing to hide."

The walls around Peshawar airport were three metres high and mounted with barbed wire. Machine-gun emplacements stopped taxis on the road outside. At the first checkpoint an officer examined him for signs of nervousness. At the second, soldiers searched him from head to foot. They bellowed instructions to the passengers as they moved along. If anyone stepped out of line, weapons were raised. At the third checkpoint, two commando officers interrogated Jahangir about what he had been doing in Mohmand Agency.

There were endless questions about why he was flying to London and what he had been doing for so long in Pakistan. His uncle had made him rehearse the answers: "I saw my cousins in Mohmand Agency and stayed on to help my uncle Mahwand build a house near Ghalanai. I'm just returning to London to live with my parents."

Instead, he had been on Bazir's wheat farm in a remote mountain valley.

"At Heathrow you will just walk through," his uncle had said.

Again the queue moved forward, and Jahangir stood before a "Wait behind this line" message printed across the floor. The Indian officer in the immigration booth appeared half asleep.

There was a glimmer in her expression as Jahangir stepped forward; she was awake after all. His Adam's apple hurt, as if stuck halfway through swallowing.

The officer compared his British passport photo with his sun-darkened face. Her eyes flickered over the patkay hanging over his shoulders. Jahangir knew she saw his anxiety, but could do nothing about it.

A white man wearing a uniform appeared from an office at the side of the hall, fixing his gaze on Jahangir.

"Him?" the man said, stepping into her booth and reading from the screen.

"Would you follow this officer?" she said. Handing his passport to the man, she smiled at Jahangir. The man stared at her computer, as though double-checking the information. Sunlight had not touched his skin in many years.

"This way, please." The man walked away without looking back.

"Go," the Indian officer said, pointing.

Jahangir's knees were unsteady. "Remember, you're a British citizen," his uncle had told him, "so they cannot refuse to let you in, but if it should happen they stop you, make sure you stick to the story. Don't worry, your uncle Mahwand knows all about it."

Jahangir followed the grey-haired official across a polished linoleum floor into his office.

"Do you speak English?"

"Small. Little." Jahangir had attended an Islamic primary school in London where he spoke Arabic. At home, the family spoke Pakhto. Over the past two years he had hardly seen a word written in English, let alone spoken it.

Placing a small swab of white material into a black, handheld device, the Border Control officer passed it like a wand over Jahangir's body. The officer put the swab into another machine, and awaited the results. With a gesture, he directed Jahangir to the plastic seats lined against a wall. Picking up a telephone, he said, "I have a U.M. flagged... Fourteen, smallish... X-ray and questions for a start. Residues are positive. Embarked in Peshawar, so Urdu or Pashto. I'm putting it in now so you can see it." The officer returned to his typing.

This wasn't meant to be happening. Jahangir tried to think of nothing at all. The rattle of the keyboard sounded as though typed upon by fingers with claws. He imagined the man's creased hands covered in pale, ancient scales, with each finger terminating in a curved, yellowed nail.

The digital clock on the wall read 2205 hours when a woman wearing a hijab entered. She said "hello" to him in Urdu, and again in Pakhto, testing which language he spoke.

"Let's make a start, shall we?" The Border Control officer stared at Jahangir.

"Will you wait for the Child Protection Officer?" the interpreter asked in English.

"We can go through some preliminaries while we're waiting. Tell him we're taking an X-ray."

In Pakhto, she explained that the officer would ask questions and after take an X-ray of his body.

"Why an X-ray?" Jahangir wanted instead to know when he could leave, but knew he had to play this game.

"To see if you have swallowed bags of heroin."

Jahangir told her he didn't mind having an X-ray. He tried to sound calm, but his breathing interfered with his words.

"Are your parents still at this address in London?" the officer asked, writing the location on a slip of paper. After the interpreter asked Jahangir, he nodded.

The office door opened. A man and a woman stepped inside, both dressed in grey business garb. A stout security guard escorted them, a submachine gun held across his chest protection. All three were white people. The officials smiled at Jahangir.

"We'll take it from here."

The uniformed officer stared. "Go with them," he said, and returned to his typing.

When the translator explained this to Jahangir, he said, "Who are these people?"

"I don't know."

"Ask them."

"What difference does it make? You have to go with them."

"I am British citizen," he said in halting English, which his uncle had told him to say if in difficulty.

"Go, or that policeman will drag you," the interpreter said, as though affronted by his use of English.

The bustle of the concourse became faint as Jahangir followed them into the administration zone; the armed guard always a few steps behind. After passing through a door secured by a keypad, they made Jahangir stand in front of a machine he assumed was for the X-ray. Then he was left to wait in a small room.

"Was that the X-ray?" Jahangir asked the translator. He wondered what the rays had done to his body.

"I think it is more than an X-ray. A body scan that sees inside you."

"How can it do that?"

"What does it matter?"

The machinery of the Westerners was mind-boggling. They had machines that could tell if you were lying. And no-one properly understood how they all worked, as though it were some sort of sorcery. "Even Westerners don't know how things work," Uncle Khoshal had explained, as they pulled apart a mobile telephone on Bazir's farm. "It's just electricity, everyone will tell you. Then ask them, what is 'electricity'?"

When the two officers returned, their politeness vanished. The woman flicked through the almost empty pages of his passport.

"Show me everything in your pockets." The man held Jahangir's white kurta tightly in a fist. He had a small nose and a big chin. "Hurry. Let's see."

Westerners think they are beautiful and kind, Jahangir thought, but often they are like monsters.

Fumbling, Jahangir placed £450 on the table. He had exchanged it in Peshawar for the Pakistani rupees he found in Uncle Khoshal's suitcase.

"Is that it?" The man beckoned Jahangir to stand, and searched his clothing.

"It's a lot of money for a young lad who's just come from Peshawar," the woman said. Jahangir noticed the paint on her face: a pale colouring over the skin, pink on the cheeks, with black around the eyes. Like a Western doll.

"It is payment." Through the interpreter, he explained how he helped his uncle build a house. His rapid breathing made some of his words hoarse.

"What's your uncle's name?" The man had a large, chrome watch, Jahangir saw. Westerners could spend thousands of pounds on a watch. His uncle said it was an insignia of wealth. "But many are deep in debt. Their greed is beyond anything you could imagine."

"Mahwand Halimzai. My mother's brother, in Ghalanai."

"Two years is a long time to build a house. Was it a palace?" the man asked, his face close to Jahangir's.

He recited his uncle's script. "It takes a long time to build a house because they are not made of bricks delivered by a truck. We dig the earth, carry it in a wheelbarrow, mix it with water and straw and pound it into blocks, then the bricks must dry in the sun. After they are made into walls, then they must be covered in mud and painted several times. Everything goes slowly because it is too hot to work in the afternoon, and there are prayers."

"And this is all he paid you? For all that work?" the woman asked.

"You travelled to Pakistan with another uncle, didn't you?" The man appeared impatient.

Jahangir nodded. "My father's brother. Khoshal Halimzai."

"Where is he now?"

"In Mohmand Agency. I helped build the house, but he went to visit my grandfather."

Once again Jahangir felt the sorrow of his uncle's death. "You must have a heart of iron!" Uncle Khoshal had said. "Iron!"

"Where does your grandfather live?"

"Near Koda Khel."

"When did you last see your Uncle Khoshal?"

"Almost two years ago."

"Strange. You travel to Pakistan with him, then don't see him for two years?"

Jahangir realised he was cowering and straightened on the plastic chair. "In the mountains you cannot get a bus, except between big towns. And to get to a big town you might walk fifty kilometres, and it is dangerous. There are bandits who will kidnap you."

"Kidnap you?" The woman sounded sceptical.

"If your family has money. Or, to make you work. Some are kidnapped for sex. Or, to fight in the war." Jahangir looked to the translator for confirmation. Her expression under her hijab was non-committal.

"The war in Afghanistan?"

Jahangir nodded. There was war everywhere.

The man in grey exhaled. "Where did you go to school?"

"I did not go to school."

"Fourteen and you didn't go to school," the woman said. "For two years? So, from twelve to fourteen, no school."

"What religious teaching did you get while you were there?" the man asked.

"None."

"There was no mosque where you lived?" the woman said.

"There is a mosque in Ghalanai, thirty kilometres away. To go to Ghalanai we must walk down the mountain, then up again to get home. It takes two days, there and back. We only visited Ghalanai twice. Jumu'ah prayers are held in a hut in the village." Was it possible, Jahangir wondered, that the questioning might go on all night? Or days even?

"While you were in Pakistan did you meet with any Taliban or al-Qaeda sympathisers?"

"No al-Qaeda. No Taliban." Many Pakhtun were Taliban sympathisers, Jahangir knew. Almost everyone he met had sympathy for the Afghani Taliban, if not always the Tehreek-e-Taliban of Pakistan. Even moderates considered them the only hope for removing the Western powers from Afghanistan and ousting their puppets. "I only stayed with my uncle."

"You received no military training, or training in the use of weapons or explosives?"

"No." Jahangir was surprised the officer appeared not to know that every village boy in Mohmand Agency knew how to shoot. Every Pakhtun male in the Tribal Areas who could afford a rifle carried it wherever he went. He glanced at the translator, but her expression was determinedly blank. For these people, everything about him was wrong.

"The test our colleague did showed residues of nitroglycerine. Faint, but they were there. It will go better for you if you tell the truth now."

Jahangir started at the mention of nitroglycerine. His clothes had been washed in Peshawar. Again he tried to control his breathing.

"We know your Uncle Khoshal was with Nur Darwesh. And we know Nur Darwesh was planning a terrorist act in London. We found your uncle's teeth in the rubble." The man was sitting on the corner of the table.

Jahangir knew of Nur Dawesh, the imam of the madrassa in the mountains in the mountains where his uncle died.

The woman smiled. "Which is about all that's left after a Hellfire explosion. Teeth. But you know all about that."

"Remember, these people know nothing of the Pakhtun or our culture," his uncle had said. "Don't bother explaining anything to them. They live in a dream world. Most have no idea of the atrocities of their own governments."

"The question is, where were you when the Hellfire exploded?" the man asked. "I think you were close by. Lucky to be alive, in fact."

"I was with my Uncle Mahwand."

"I take it you've heard of Big Brother?" the woman asked.

Janan had been Jahangir's big brother, but he supposed she wasn't referring to him.

"It's a TV show. You must have seen it."

Jahangir had only watched Western television years back when he lived in London, usually the news while sitting with his father. The thought of not seeing his father soon filled him with sadness.

"A group of people in a house who aren't allowed to leave and have cameras on them around the clock. Everything they do is observed. That's what's going to happen to you."

"It's called a Control Order." The man moved closer to Jahangir. "You won't even be allowed to leave the house without our permission. We put CCTV cameras all through your house and monitor what you do. You will also have an ankle monitor."

Uncle Khoshal had said nothing about this.

"And we can renew a Control Order indefinitely. For the rest of your life if needs be. Imagine, your every move watched for the rest of your life. Unless you co-operate now."

Jahangir tried his best to frown, to feign anger. "But I have told you everything."

"I've never met such a pathetic liar," the woman said.

"Your uncle was killed in a drone attack on a house used to train suicide bombers. We think you were there too. There is evidence."

Jahangir froze: evidence from a drone? "No matter what, stick to the story," his uncle had instructed. "What are you saying? My uncle was killed? Are you sure?" The translator tried hard to convey his concern, he noted, but they didn't appear convinced.

"You know it's true." The man leant forward, his face inches away from Jahangir's forehead. His breath smelled of cigarettes. "I'll ask you one last time, where were you?"

"Building a house with my other uncle." Jahangir tried blocking everything else out with a blink.

The man shook his head. The woman rang someone on her mobile phone.

"He's not co-operating," she said. "Take him."

"Last chance, Jahangir," the man said.

"We're very sorry, but the truth is you won't be going home. Not for a very long time. Maybe not ever." The woman tried to appear sympathetic, but Jahangir thought she sounded pleased.

"People in America want to speak to you," the man said. "Remember this moment when you're half dead in some dungeon on the other side of the world. Right now is when you could still have had a life. Say 'hello' to the cockroaches for me."

The two officers stood, gazing at him expectantly. He didn't know what to say. The Americans? Jahangir wanted to run, to escape, but outside the door was a guard with a sub-machine gun.

"Stand up and face the wall!" the man bellowed.

"Get up!" the woman shrieked.

Horrified, Jahangir and the translator remained seated.

"As you please." The man detached a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Advancing, he twisted one arm behind Jahangir's back, flooding his shoulder with pain.

Lifted nearly off his feet, Jahangir gasped.

# Chapter 2: Vukovar

"hi, how r u? frank"

Repositioning her phone on the kitchen table, Lorelei read the text on the Nokia her mother gave her. Probably fourth-hand, the font looked blockish. It was dated technology when everyone else, even the new refugees at her school, messaged through Facebook and Twitter. Old school, was how her friend Patasa described it.

"who gave frank my no?" she typed, sending it to a group called "ptsd", then dunked a spoon once more into her cereal. She didn't want him sniffing around. Frank tried too hard. Much too hard by Lyme Road standards.

"<3 <3 <3" Patasa was one of the girls in her Trauma Therapy group.

Frank helped out in the science laboratory where he looked after the pet rabbits, cleaned out cages, and sorted out the mothers and their endless litters. He knew everything about rabbits. Partly that was why he was called "Bunny." It was also because he was white, and helped the teachers. A gem: easily fooled.

A new text message from Frank tinkled on her phone. "im an astronomer with a big telescope and i see an angel"

What?

"r u mad why???" she replied to Patasa.

"hes perfect 4 u"

"u have him" Was this a practical joke?

Her mother appeared in the doorway with a black dressing gown wrapped round her slim figure. Pushing a hank of brunette hair from her wan face, she looked at Lorelei as though uncertain of what to say. There were days when Lorelei only saw her mother as a sleeping form in the main bedroom. The sleep of the dead.

"What are you doing up?" Lorelei slouched over the kitchen table with a spoonful of cereal held mid-air. Milk droplets fell into the bowl. Her ponytail reached halfway down a navy blue tracksuit top. White ear bud wires dangled over her shoulders, plugged into the Nokia on the table. Her skin was slightly tan, even in the London autumn; with her pale gold hair, it made Lorelei look like a human palomino.

Her mother's eyes narrowed.

"Good morning to you, too." Her voice had an Eastern European accent even after fifteen years in London. She said she came from Bosnia, but Lorelei was no longer sure what was true about her mother.

She claimed to be a cocktail waitress at one of the London gentlemen's clubs, the social venues for the rich, famous or powerful. Yet she didn't have a uniform, and what waitress was driven to and from work by a minder who swore in Albanian plodding down the stairwell? And how is it such a beautiful waitress never had a boyfriend? At least, not since Lorelei's father. But these were not questions she could ask.

"tell frank u gave him the wrong no. ill text back like im in a gang bruv" she wrote.

Most nights after school she spent alone in the flat. Lorelei was fourteen, and for many years now her mother thought her old enough to prepare meals. "When I was ten," she would say, "I first have to find food. Then cook it." Lorelei usually read until she could no longer stay awake. Mostly she liked solving maths problems. Not that she could ever tell anyone at the Lyme Road Community School. In any case, what else could she do? She had no TV or computer. Her mother said she hadn't needed such things when a child. Not while out searching for food. "You would not believe what I go through when your age. School, it is only hope." And Lorelei dared not go outside at night. Not on Farm Estate.

Glancing at her tinkling phone, she read another text from Patasa. "i told him yr no was really mr urquharts"

Lorelei tried hard not to smile.

Several times after school she had searched through her mother's personal items, boredom getting the better of her sense of guilt, but had never found anything other than clothes and cheap accessories. There were no photos, no letters, no keepsakes. Nothing from her past.

At least, not until last week.

Half asleep she had heard the murmuring of her mother's minder then, afterwards, a furtive scratching on the other side of the bedroom wall. The following day, she found a false panel in her mother's wardrobe. Prising it away, she felt she had violated a taboo. Pressed behind the loose-fitting plywood were three passports and some letters.

One of the passports had expired. A dark-blue British passport with a black and white photo of her mother where she looked about fifteen. The birth year, 1977, made her mother thirty-three years old. In that passport, Tatiana Osmanovich was her name, and her birthplace Goražde in Bosnia and Herzegovina. This was the mother Lorelei had always known.

Another dark blue passport was from the Republic of Croatia. It had a recent photo of her mother, but with the identity of Jadranka Suljić, born in Vukovar, Croatia, in 1982. If this was her mother's identity, it meant twenty-eight was her true age, not thirty-three.

A crisp, maroon British passport was Lorelei's, with her birthplace listed as London. She remembered her mother taking her photo with her phone several months ago. Now Lorelei understood all the fuss. Her face, full of anger, appeared blurred under the plastic laminate.

After a glance at the Jadranka Suljić birth date, she calculated she must have been born when her mother was fourteen, and conceived at thirteen.

Lorelei removed the top envelope from the sheaf of letters. Addressed to Jadranka Suljić and sent to a London post office box, it was from Croatia, but she couldn't understand the handwriting let alone the language. Secreting away the hand-scrawled pages, she stuffed the empty envelope back under the rubber band.

"Why am I awake so early?" said her mother, standing in the doorway. "Because today we must talk about important thing."

"Frank Allen, consider yourself in detention for a month." Lorelei texted, thumbs moving rapidly.

Her mother shivered with the cold and Lorelei wished she would sit down. She noted the tremor in her mother's hands.

"What thing?" Lorelei worried that her mother had discovered her letter was missing.

"About future."

"What do you mean?" Lorelei's tone was defiant despite her confusion.

"We must leave England."

Lorelei shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her mother exhaled with frustration. "I ask you, is this nice country for us? Do we live in good area? Are people good people?" Her voice rose, but Lorelei knew it was not yet near the danger level.

"Tell me the real reason."

Her mother paused. "Valon makes problem."

She had only one memory of her father: a roaring blonde giant in the kitchen smashing everything within reach, kicking her mother as she lay unconscious on the floor, his blue eyes ablaze under a heavy brow. Her mother still feared him, even with a restraining order in force.

After that incident Lorelei had refused to speak for six months. "Tell me, what problem?"

Her mother shrugged. "We must leave."

"What problem?"

"I do not know! Just problem!" Her fingers were held like claws at her sides.

"You haven't even told me where we would go. I'm not going anywhere." Lorelei's phone tinkled again, yet she barely heard it.

"My brother in Dubrovnik. Croatia."

Her mother's voice was clear and confident, but everything else about her suggested she was terrified: the tremor in her hands, her breathing, the tense poise of her body in the doorway. Is that how she survived, Lorelei wondered, her expression always calm, no matter what?

"Some village with horse carts? Where you come from?"

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Dubrovnik is beautiful city, with beautiful sea and much sunshine. There is much culture."

"So tell me, what problem?"

"Is complicated."

"Mum, I'm old enough now."

"Go to school. I will tell, but not now."

"Go to school? You just said you want me to leave England. Somewhere they don't even speak English. I'm not going anywhere."

"Valon is making problem! It is enough! Safe at school!"

"I don't know why I was born. I don't know why I am living. Or, why we live in this place. At least tell me why you want to go to Croatia!"

"What you want to know?" Her mother shouted.

"Why did he hurt you when I was little?" Lorelei's phone tinkled a reminder.

Her mother relaxed for an instant, long enough for Lorelei to appreciate she may say something more.

"Tell me what's going on or I'm not going anywhere."

"Because... when you were born I always say you were Valon's daughter." Her hand shook as she moved it from the doorframe.

"And?" Lorelei dropped the spoon into her cereal and stared open-mouthed.

"I say to protect you. Many years afterwards, he goes to doctor because his wife is not pregnant and the doctor say he cannot be father."

"He's not my father? Who's my father then?"

"You are mine. That is important thing."

"Who?"

"Businessman. German or Swedish, I think. Swedish."

"You think?"

"I think."

"What? Who is Valon then, if he's not my father?"

"It is complicated."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me. You'll have to drag me. Literally."

She blinked slowly and sat beside Lorelei. Now Lorelei would have preferred her to remain standing. Something about her beautiful mother repelled her, but she could barely acknowledge it to herself, let alone explain it. The tremor in her hands. How did she serve drinks?

Lorelei clicked her phone to see who had texted her. It was Frank.

"detention? we doing lines together?"

What the?

"We fly to Dubrovnik in only one week. I tell you before then. Please, I promise. We must not be here when he comes."

"What? He's coming here?"

"People say to me he is looking for you."

"For me? Looking for me? Me?"

"Looking. Like hunting. Is hunting for you."

Lorelei was aghast. "Hunting" was a strange word to use. "You mean like, 'trying to catch me'?"

"Yes. Catch you."

"And you want me to go to school? I'm not going out there."

"At school you are safe. Safer in street. Everywhere, cameras."

"Let's just go. Another city. Sleep in the street. Just leave."

"Sleep in street? I have done this. Never, never again. You do not know."

The idea of Valon searching for her made Lorelei nauseous. Especially as he was no longer her father. "In a week?"

"Tuesday, we fly to Dubrovnik."

"Six days?" Lorelei considered her reluctance to leave London: her closest friends were other Trauma Therapy students and, aside from their sessions together, her South London school day often bordered on nightmarish. Beautiful and cultured, her mother had said of Dubrovnik.

"I try for sooner, for today, but no seats. I have asked for holiday. I stay here with you."

"I'm not going to Dubrovnik. Not until you tell me everything. Do you want me to lie on the floor at the airport?"

Her mother exhaled in annoyance. "Everything?" Her face was calm, but her shaking hands had formed fists. "What else you want to know?"

"Who are you? How about that?"

Her mother gripped Lorelei's unresponsive hand. "Do not ask me. Please, you will wish I not tell you. I know this."

"I'm not going."

"You must never tell anyone!"

"Yes! Yes! Tell me!"

Her mother stared across at the threadbare living room furniture. "Before Communism and Yugoslavia, my father's family was like aristocrat in Croatia. Austrian. Then everything taken away. We have nothing. When communism is ended, Yugoslavia break up again. Serbians want more territory and drop one million bombs on Vukovar. I was small child, nine years. My brother eleven. Serbs surround city and we stay in bomb shelter for two months. Above is boom, boom, and city become just bricks."

Lorelei watched her mother blinking back tears. After several deep breaths, she continued.

"After city falls, Serbs shoot my father. He is doctor in hospital. Thirty thousand Croats must leave Vukovar. My mother raped many times by soldiers. We escape to Bosnia where there is no war. It is winter and we sleep on road or in barn or in field. Croatian people in Bosnia give us water, but cannot feed everyone. It is very cold. If old, die. If baby, die."

Lorelei's mother stopped, her eyes blurring with tears, pleading. "I cannot tell more."

Her phone tinkled and Lorelei repressed an urge to throw it at the wall.

"More."

"You will not want to hear."

"I want to hear."

"Please, do not ask me this." Her cheek twitched under her eye. "Please."

"I'm tired of not knowing!" Lorelei felt heartless, but this was the closest she had come to finding out about her mother. At least she was sure now her mother was the Jadranka Suljić in the Croatian passport, and had given birth to Lorelei at fourteen years of age. She also knew how tough her mother could be. Despite her petite looks and shaking hands, what contest of wills her mother did not win through charm or emotional manoeuvring, she could win in a stand-up fight. Except with Valon. Then, she turned to water.

"Before Dubrovnik, I will tell."

A phone reminder tinkled.

"I said I'm not going to Dubrovnik. Not unless you tell me everything, now."

"I am too tired. I must sleep. Please, I cannot."

"Just tell me what happened in Bosnia. Tell me."

Her mother slumped. "In Bosnia. In Bosnia. My mother has family in Dubrovnik and we try to go there. It was big mistake. Because Serbia make war in Bosnia too. When fighting starts again, my mother goes mad. First she talks to herself. After she is raped she sits in road, not moving. Serb militia laugh and beat her. When she does not move, they hit on head with gun and she is dead. Serbs angry that my brother and me, we see. We run across field and they shoot at us like rabbits. We left my mother just on road."

Her mother cried into her hands. Then, voice quavering, she continued. "In Bosnia everywhere is killing and people leaving homes. Thousands leaving and we go with them. But there is no food. Sometimes we dig vegetable from field. Eat rubbish. On tenth birthday I am shivering in snow! Near Sarajevo we beg for food and are caught. We go to place like war orphanage. Everyone hope UN will save us. We stay two months. Then Serbs surround Sarajevo to kill Muslims and Croatians. Many men are killed. They put into concentration camp. Women and girls, many they rape. I am sold to Albanian man, Valon. He buy girls and sell to brothels. I am sex slave."

Her mother had been right: she hadn't wanted to hear it.

With tears streaming down her face, her mother wiped her nose on the back of a shaking hand. "No more. No more."

"A slave?" Lorelei said. "You come home every day. How can you be a slave?"

With reddened eyes, she faced Lorelei. "I have you. They think there is no escape. After court order, Valon sold me to others for profit."

"Is that why you have an Albanian minder?"

Her mother tried to control her weeping. "You think I walk here alone at night?"

No. Walking around Farm Estate alone at night: that would be mental.

"And now he's hunting me?"

"This I have heard. Please, we are safe in Dubrovnik."

Lorelei did not want to hear any more. Glancing at the time on her phone, she fought back a sense of despair. She wanted to kill Valon. Or, find someone who would kill him. "If Valon doesn't own you, why does he want me?"

Her mother wept, shaking her head.

Lorelei stood. She felt a deep need to get away from her mother. "I have to go to school."

"Tell no-one what I tell you. Very important. Tell no-one." After hugging Lorelei, she retreated back into her bedroom. Lorelei saw the double bed covered in a hand-embroidered throw and, remembering the parcel it came in, wondered whether it had come from Dubrovnik.

She glanced at the message waiting on her phone.

"detention with u? who do i have to kill?" It was Bunny.

# Chapter 3: Parathas

Jahangir watched his sister Patasa shake chocolate pellets the same size as rabbit excrement into an off-white ceramic bowl. After pouring in full-fat milk, she shovelled them into her mouth with a large spoon. The cartoon character on the cereal packet he thought he saw on television as a small child. Was it a rabbit? He was still studying the cereal packet when his mother slid a plate of freshly made parathas onto the antique-effect pine table. Pan-fried in ghee barely a minute ago it was probably the best bread on the planet at that moment. Hot to the touch, they tore like cotton wool, revealing a steaming pale interior.

"I made them just for you, my boy," his mother said.

Jahangir felt disappointed he wouldn't be able to try the chocolate pellets. Though, he didn't think he could enjoy eating anything that morning, not after his interrogation at the airport last night. He watched his sister, wondering whether she would say something to him. Instead, she spoke with their mother.

"Jahangir might want to watch TV. He probably hasn't even seen a TV in years. Did you check with him before you decided to eat in here?" Patasa asked, but couldn't properly follow up this promising line of approach because her phone beeped.

Jahangir watched as she gazed into her lap, smiling to herself after reading what was on the screen. Abandoning her food, she began entering text with both thumbs.

Admiring the dexterity of her typing, Jahangir burned to know what could have been so amusing. He wondered how you went about getting a phone. Maybe, if he gave his mother his uncle's money she would buy him one. Or, most of the money. His mother appeared not to have noticed Patasa's texting expertise and might have hit her across the head if she wasn't busy pouring tea. Instead, she screamed, "Put that thing away!"

"All right. All right. Keep your shirt on." Patasa rolled her eyes.

Jahangir saw his mother wasn't wearing a Western shirt but a dark brown kurta. The words, he realised, were similar: "shirt" and kurta. There was also the English word "skirt". He would have liked to discover what the connections were between these words, but it was likely a mystery, like gravity, that no-one knew much about for certain.

"I will smash it! It is evil!" His mother lunged for Patasa's phone, leaning over the wooden table yet wasn't quite able to reach it.

"You will not! I need it for my safety. It not safe around here, yeh?"

Jahangir wondered how a mobile phone could keep you safe. Could you call someone if you were mugged? The mugger would likely have stolen your phone, so you couldn't call the police afterwards. Could you use it as a weapon? Possibly, but there were far better weapons. The weapon the mugger had, for example.

He helped himself to another warm paratha, washing down a mouthful with sweet, black tea. His mother would know that this was the same breakfast he had eaten for most of the two years he had been in Mohmand Agency, but these parathas were better than the one's made on Bazir's farm. The flour in England was white and soft. In the mountains, Bazir's two wives and their daughters ground the wheat between two large stone disks, rotating the one on top with an upright handle, which sometimes left a trace of fine sand in the wholemeal flour. Only when mountain climbing with his uncle, or hunting, had he eaten a different breakfast: old army rations cooked on an antique paraffin stove.

"Do you even understand anything I say?" Patasa asked him, slurping chocolate-coloured milk from the edge of her spoon. "I mean, you're a proper foreigner now, aren't you?"

The verbal tennis match across the kitchen table, his mother speaking in Pakhto and his sister in London-English, he found hard to follow. Especially who was scoring the points.

"That much, eh? So much for talking," she said to her mother.

"Speak in Pakhto then."

"Our cousin Arman sends his regards." Jahangir made this up for the sake of conversation, but it was consistent with his cover story that he had been living with Uncle Mahwand. Arman would have asked after Patasa.

"What! Arman who? Arman? I'm not marrying him! I don't care what deal our recently-departed father cooked up. I never agreed. What does he even look like?"

Jahangir attempted monkey gestures with his arms.

"What! No, what is this? No! It's not happening."

"Uncle Mahwand and his other sons would be very disappointed to hear you say that," his mother said, the threat implicit in her words, although Jahangir wondered how serious she was, as she couldn't quite conceal her glee at having Patasa on the back foot over her arranged marriage.

For the Pakhtun, sexual crimes, called tor or black sins, were an issue of blood and honour, and definitely no laughing matter. Adultery, not fulfilling a marriage contract, elopement: people died. If Patasa didn't marry Arman, Jahangir knew that it was his father's duty to kill her. Or, his duty even.

Patasa stared at one then the other. Jahangir and his mother burst into laughter.

"You! You'll both pay for that. This Arman thing is real. It's like a sword hanging over me. I didn't agree. Listen! He will come over here and treat me like one of his goats. I'll be made to eat hay. That is not something to laugh about. I am not a hay-eater."

Patasa's phone beeped. She gazed into her lap. Jahangir saw she was smiling again, though instantly reverted to an expression of seriousness as she glanced up.

"Marriage. Who needs it? It's just trouble, innit? Why me anyway? Who did you arrange for Jahangir to marry? Eh? Why is it always me?"

"We didn't have enough money for Jahangir. They all know we live over here. So they want the moon and the stars for a girl who looks like a mule and can't write her own name."

"You. You married me to a male version of the same thing. Don't deny it. You've put my head in a noose. A halter."

"What do you care as long as you can watch TV and text your friends? We can add it to the nikkah contract. Must have unrestricted access to television."

"No. No. Cancel everything. Give back their money. My father seems to have a lot these days. It's not going ahead. I'll get a passport. I can live anywhere in Europe. You'll never find me. I'll be lost to you."

"Arman is dead," his mother said. "He was bitten by a snake five years ago. I didn't bother telling you because I thought you'd find out when we visited and we could have chosen another brother for you. One you liked. But, we didn't get to visit, may Janan rest in peace."

"You knew about this, Jahangir? Why say he sends his regards? He's dead and no-one tells me. You must have known about this. You were there for two years. It wasn't funny, bruv. That joke was as flat as our mother's pancakes. I don't want to say I'm glad Arman is dead. But, I'm glad this wedding thing is off. You can't marry off a five-year-old. I've been worrying about this. For a decade, yeh? Not even sleeping, yeh?"

"You worry about anything?" Jahangir's mother might have spat had she been in a mountain compound.

"This is not funny. Not funny. I'm going to watch some TV. Just for a while. To recuperate, yeh?" Patasa rose and, after reading another text on her phone, carried her cup of tea into the sitting room where Jahangir had spent the night on the couch.

"The airport lady said we have to send Jahangir to school," his mother shouted after her. "You have to take him." Jahangir saw happiness in her expression. Thanks to him, his mother had won. This time.

The airport lady was the Child Protection Officer the translator had mentioned. She walked in just as the intelligence officer had Jahangir's arm up his back and was trying to fasten handcuffs. A large white woman, wearing a plain civilian dress rather than a uniform, she was stouter even than most men. Without any make-up, she looked like the old women Jahangir was used to seeing in Mohmand Agency, those no longer subject to strict purdah, although she had no scarf covering her collar-length grey hair. Later, when he got a better look at her, Jahangir thought she radiated a certain strength of character. The man in the grey suit had backed off.

"Who the hell are you?" he had said.

"Jahangir's Child Protection Officer."

"Technically, you're not needed," said the younger woman dressed in grey.

"No? Fourteen years old. I don't see his mother here, do you? For the record, I contacted his mother. It wasn't easy. Through a neighbour. Old local authority records - don't even ask. That's why I'm late. So, what do we have here? A child having his arm twisted up his back and no responsible adult present. Fighting terrorism, is it? I'm sure you have lots of evidence. What? Don't tell me you haven't?"

"How did you even get in here?" The young woman stared at the large woman.

"Called up your Director. Got me through the door, anyway. Responsible adult."

"I don't believe you. How would you get her number?"

"Not bad, eh? It was her home phone number too. That took a few calls. Short version is a friend of a friend went to school with her. Not the sort of thing you forget when you hear it at a party. Anyway, she was helping her daughter with her homework. I just pointed out how there's been quite a few fuck-ups by you people, and the Press are starting to sit up. I didn't say 'fuck-ups'. But Control Orders gone bad, sexing-up evidence and, given Jahangir has post-traumatic stress disorder... You ordered a psychiatric evaluation, right? Before twisting his arm up his back?"

"What are you talking about?"

"His mother was telling me about it. Some event in Pakistan when he was a child. Do you have CCTV in here? Can't see the camera, but that's OK, I saw everything. A child screaming having his arm twisted. Just a small kid with PTSD. No evidence. Shouldn't a lawyer be in here already? You've cautioned him, right?"

The man and woman glanced at each other.

"Listen, the Americans want to speak to him." The man raised his voice; a display of aggression to make her back down. Jahangir sensed she was enjoying herself.

"His clothing has residues of ingredients used to make explosives. Don't you think that's suspicious?" The woman in grey rounded on the older woman, her pretty face a mask of hostile pleasantry.

The older woman feigned shock. "So he's been in the mountains in Pakistan. The so-called most dangerous place on Earth. Someone fires a gun next to him. Now tell me, does he have a weapon or bomb?" The Child Protection Officer gestured at Jahangir's kurta and partag. "I read the flight details. He's just been through three airports, you'd think someone would have found it by now."

"That's not the point."

"It is the point. There's no actual risk here. And I take it there's no evidence that a flesh and blood judge would actually think was evidence? That this fourteen-year-old is a terrorist? Usual procedure is to release him. So, how about it?"

The man's mobile sounded and, after reading the screen, he showed the message to the woman. "You know, you're absolutely right. There's no risk at the present," he said and smiled.

"Take him," the woman added.

Jahangir could tell the Child Protection Officer was suspicious about the change in tone, even disappointed there wasn't going to be more of a fight. The old woman shrugged and without farewell, led him out.

"Stay in London," she said to Jahangir. "They'll be watching you around the clock. You understand?"

He nodded and followed the Child Protection Officer out into the airport concourse. He could not help but smile as they passed into the public area.

"Don't imagine it's over, Jahangir." The big woman had noticed his relief. "The police will take it up from here. Expect them. If you're involved with anything, get uninvolved very quickly. You hear me? I want you at school, tomorrow, you understand?"

They crossed the bitumen road and entered the low-ceiling concrete car park crammed with expensive cars that gleamed with astonishing colour. The traffic frenzy reminded him of Bazir's beehives, when he had helped remove the combs of honey.

Jahangir hadn't realised Arman had died. When he glanced up, his mother was staring at him.

"Tell me about my brother and his family." His mother sipped her tea and he noticed for the first time how young she was. As a small child he'd always thought of her as much older, but he saw she was still a young woman. Jahangir had only stayed with Uncle Mahwand for a few days but he didn't think much could have changed since then. Unless other cousins had died that he didn't know about.

"They're all well. We built a new house."

"Who for?"

Jahangir shrugged. "I'm not sure."

His mother's eyes narrowed. "Someone must have got married. Why else would he build a house? Which one has he married off?"

Jahangir stumbled over his words. "He didn't say why he wanted a new house."

His mother watched him, and Jahangir could sense that she was putting his lack of knowledge down to PTSD symptoms. Several years earlier he had only had a vague sense of what was happening around him. Now, he wanted to tell her he was better, much better, although it was probably best she believed he was still sick. At least as far as questions about Uncle Mahwand were concerned.

"You like the parathas?"

Jahangir nodded and tore off another piece of the still-warm bread.

"There was no news of your brother, Janan?"

Yes, terrible news. Janan had died in a Hellfire missile explosion. "No. No news."

"My poor boy, Janan. My poor boy. What can have happened to him?"

Jahangir watched as his mother began sobbing. Not wearing a headscarf whilst inside with family, she searched instead for a tissue to dab her eyes. Under the table, he retrieved the money he had taken from his uncle. Deftly he kept back a couple of the notes, just in case. The rest he pushed across the wooden table, a thick fold of mainly £20 notes. His mother gazed at him wide-eyed. It succeeded in distracting her.

"What's that?"

"Uncle Mahwand paid me for helping with his house."

"He did not. He doesn't have that much money."

Jahangir stared at the cash. The story had fooled the officers at the airports, the experts. Just not his mother.

"Tell the truth, where did you get this money?"

"I told you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You haven't been selling yourself, have you?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I know what you boys get up to."

"What? No. If you were a man, I would have to kill you for saying such a thing."

"Oh, stop it, this is London."

"It makes no difference. You must never say such a thing again. I want an apology." Jahangir was angry. This wasn't going the way he had hoped. Except, he did feel guilty he was asking for an apology for his mother's reaction to his lie. But what a thing to say to your own son. The village prostitute.

"There's always boys who have done it for a bit of spare..."

"No!"

"OK, tell me, where did you get all that money?" She counted it off, £415, marvelling at the windfall.

"You can write to Uncle Mahwand and ask him whether I'm telling the truth." That would hold her off for a while. Letters to Khyber Pakhtunkhwa in Pakistan took forever.

"I'll get Patasa to text the neighbours. They have a phone."

That was a surprise. His mother could contact Uncle Mahwand via his neighbours? In any case, it brought the conversation around to where he had been hoping it would end up. "Can you buy me a phone?"

"A phone? Never. It's enough to have one in the house. Mahwand's whole village only has one. What would you do with it? You don't even know anyone to call. Ask Patasa to text for you if you need to."

"It's for protection."

"You? You can just run. Who could catch you? The criminals here are the most unhealthy people in the world. Cigarettes, beer, drugs, TV, take-away food. One look at you and they wouldn't bother. Chasing you would kill them."

At least she was no longer suggesting he was the village prostitute. His Uncle Khoshal told him about one village where all the young single men had gonorrhoea and were blaming it on the tea they were drinking. A visiting Western health worker tried explaining that it was transmitted sexually, and had asked to treat the women prostitutes in the village. She was very nearly killed. Luckily, the Pakhtun don't kill women, except for tor sin. And excepting too, the Tehreek-e-Taliban, who kill anyone. "Women prostitutes in the village!" his uncle had laughed. "What an outrage!"

"Would you like some more food?"

He nodded. "Could I try a bowl of those things Patasa was eating?"

"No!"

Jahangir tore at another paratha.

"You'll have to wear those clothes to school. They look fairly clean. Who cleaned them?" His mother was eyeing his only set of clothes, those he had arrived in last night. In Peshawar, Atal's wife had washed his clothes before he caught his flight, but even so the white cotton was beginning to look soiled.

"Someone."

"Typical. I still have some of your father's clothes. They're a little big. I don't think anyone would notice."

Jahangir shook his head. On his first day at a Western school he should at least wear his own clothes. Patasa wore a traditional hijab but with a Western top and jeans. He wondered whether his mother would buy him some Western clothes. After asking for a mobile phone, he suspected not. It would be like at the airport, when he was almost the only person wearing traditional clothing; he already felt too conspicuous.

# Chapter 4: Lorelei's Bounty

Clusters of students made their way amongst the tower blocks towards Lyme Road School. Children of every colour, every denomination: with English the new lingua franca. Those who kept themselves apart either adhered to a militant religion or had a particular gang affiliation, or couldn't speak English. Everyone living in Farm Estate knew each other, at least by sight. Strangers stood out.

Lorelei scanned the street for any sign of her former father, Valon, but was no longer certain what he looked like.

A seagull flew against the distant skyline. She imagined a mathematical formula predicting where it would be in five seconds. For an absolute position, she factored the Earth's rotation of 0.465 kilometres per second into the equation. Plus, the earth's orbit around the sun at 29.7 kilometres per second, and the sun's own 250 million-year rotation around the Milky Way galaxy, moving at 220 kilometres per second. Then, the Milky Way itself was moving at 630 kilometres per second towards the Shapely Supercluster. And the universe itself was expanding at Hubble's Constant, at around 73 kilometres per second. Yet, from a relative position, the seagull had hardly moved at all. Lorelei found the emotionless structure of mathematics beautiful.

Ethnic food stores, takeaways and charity shops lined the main thoroughfare of Lyme Road. Adorning the windows of vacant premises were posters of bands and stand-up comedians due to appear in pubs. Graffiti tags left no wall blank, and cars of every hue zoomed by. Grime covered everything. Nothing had been built with aesthetic sensibility, except maybe the tiny protective housings of high-tech security cameras; the glossy black domes attached to lampposts and building corners. It was strange to think that people in some far-off building were watching her on a TV screen. One of her teachers had said that they were for her protection, but no-one ever came to help. Not here. So how could her mother think she would be safer on the street?

Lorelei's phone tinkled as another text came through.

"frank doesn't believe ur mr urqhart" It was Patasa.

"uv created a monster" Lorelei was tempted to confide in Patasa about Valon and what her mother had said, but she didn't think she could bring herself to speak about it. Not even at the Trauma Therapy group later, where everyone shared their personal horror stories. Her mother had told her not to tell anyone.

A buzzer sounded when she entered the newsagent, loud enough for someone to hear even from the outhouse behind the shop. The Sikh at the counter glanced up from under a neatly-wrapped turban, his thick beard and moustache disguising a half smile. He placed a Bounty chocolate bar on the counter. It was Lorelei's morning ritual.

She had had other rituals: never looking at her reflection, reciting prime numbers, counting red cars, making secret signs with her hands behind her back. She had hoped they would keep her safe; now she understood they merely stopped her from thinking. "When you're not thinking, you're not thinking bad things, right?" Mrs Brown suggested that she replace all her rituals with eating her favourite chocolate bar. "Then it's impossible to have bad thoughts, right?"

Lorelei passed the Sikh her coins. She wondered what the long, dark hair wrapped under his turban would look like when unravelled down to his waist. They rarely spoke, communicating instead with faint nods and smiles.

The door buzzer sounded and three youths sauntered in. Tall and dressed in black, they wore black beanies covered by hoods. Thick silver chains gleamed against dark skin and black cotton. Chests out and arms swaying, their voices were on high volume. They blocked the exit, trapping Lorelei.

They were in her class at school, and from the Estate. Without a figure of sufficient authority nearby, they pestered any girl relentlessly. If she was attractive the gang would demand sexual favours, and only half in jest; if not, they would taunt her about the different ways they would refuse sex. Part of a massive gang on Farm Estate, they spoke gang lingo with a London-Caribbean accent. Yet, of the three standing before her, only Jonathan was from Jamaica. Ologo was from Nigeria, and Mustafa from Pakistan. Except for teachers, few would use these names. Instead, they were known by their gang tags: Young Retz, Batter and Silva.

"I tol' ... you she come in here." Ologo's speech was almost childish, as though he were a spoilt and, in some way, damaged child.

"Mr Shopkeeper, how much two handfuls of dis sket's tits," Jonathan said.

"Exactly what do you want to buy?" The Sikh shopkeeper's face was expressionless.

"We here wit our friend." Mustafa indicated Lorelei, his chin raised in arrogance. "You got a problem wit that?"

"Lorelei! Come here," Jonathan said. "Suck me."

"Show the man... how much... you our friend."

Struggling to reach the shop door, Lorelei's phone tinkled, but if she got it out they would take it. Jonathan grabbed her by her arm. His fingers hurt her skin. She clenched her teeth.

"You suckin' me now or later, bitch."

She attempted to pull away, but Young Retz was strong for a fourteen-year-old.

Lorelei half hoped the Sikh shopkeeper might intervene, although if he did he would likely get stabbed. If not today, another time.

"An... you're doin' me next," Ologo said, in his childish voice.

"Nah, I'm next," Mustafa's smile showed even, white teeth.

"Now, now, lads," said the Sikh.

"Mind your business... business-man... or you goin'... out of business," Ologo said.

The door buzzer rang, and their attention turned to a slim man with short red hair. In his early twenties, he wore a heavy brown leather coat over faded jeans and a silk shirt printed with a floral motif.

"Well, well," he said. "What do we have here? Some youngers trying out their charm?"

"You're gonna get stuck, Ginger-Bread Man," Mustafa said.

"What you got for me?" said Jonathan. "And it better be paper wit zeroes on it."

"Show... what you got in your pocket... or I show you... what I got in mine," Ologo said.

The red-headed man put his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "Whoa, we might even know the same people. No need for bad blood."

"Yeh, we know your mudda, Ginger. Many de time," Jonathan said.

"My dog know your mudda," said Mustafa. "An your wasteman farver."

"Maybe you know Retz," he replied, dropping his hands. "We work together sometimes. I'm in the music business."

"Retz? Yeh? Dis here Young Retz." Mustafa pointed at Jonathan. "You better not be slewin."

"Text Retz and ask him about merking Peeko." The man appeared to enjoy being held up by the Lyme Road Warrior youngs.

"You Peeko?" Jonathan said, his voice tinged with respect. "Yeh? I heard a you."

"Maybe you know my studio, Hurt Town Sound. I mix all the grime Retz spits."

"You Peeko? Cuz... wot you doin' in... dis little shop? You... a star." Ologo's face bloomed with a smile.

"Buying a newspaper. Then I saw this lady."

"She a sket in our class," Jonathan said.

"Look after her." Peeko smiled at Lorelei. "It's not every day you see someone as pretty as her, is it?"

"The bitch peng," Mustafa said.

"We spit grime," Jonathan said. "Want to hear platinum?"

"Come over to Hurt Town. If it's good, who knows?"

"We come on de weekend?" Jonathan's pearl-like teeth were arrayed in a wide grin.

"Sure."

"Oh, das... nang!" Ologo said.

Peeko picked up a newspaper and handed some coins to the Sikh. Lorelei examined his face as he turned: it was pale with a well-shaped jaw and a straight nose. His eyes glittered a green she had seen once before: sunlight in clear, clean seawater.

Her phone tinkled a reminder.

"Drop by on Saturday," Peeko said. "But treat her well." Peeko nodded at Lorelei and left.

The gangstas slapped each other's hands.

"Hurt Town Sound!"

"Hurt Town Sound, cuz!"

"We be famous, yeh!"

Lorelei slipped out of the shop not far behind Peeko. Clasping her Bounty, she walked as fast as she could without breaking into a run, not wanting to be around when the rapture wore off. Usually she would be halfway through the chocolate bar, but she felt nauseous. She slipped the crushed packet into her school bag and read the text on her phone.

"sorry for my texts mr urquhart. im in love with a girl"

Would Frank ever stop?

A tiny pebble bounced on the footpath with a click like static electricity, bringing her back to the filth of Lyme Road.

Ahead, Peeko sat in a black convertible that looked like a spaceship. Adorning the gleaming body and chrome wheel hubs were logos of a rearing horse, black on yellow. Lorelei wondered how such a car should be parked alongside the vehicles of Lyme Road, with their sun-faded colours and dented, scraped bodywork. The roof cover was off despite the chill autumn air, and Peeko had spread the newspaper over the steering wheel. In the passenger seat was a brute with a pale, shaven head. Tattoos extended down beneath his floral silk shirt. He wore an old overcoat of black leather, and Lorelei saw that his forehead had crumpled into a frown, glaring at the three boys who had emerged hooting from the Sikh's newsagent. His face reminded her of Frank, the boy in her class texting her - a Frankenstein-version. Is that how Frank would look in a few years?

# Chapter 5: Chaucer

"Everyone! Stop what you're doing. This is Jahangir Halimzai." Mrs Alder's hand hovered over his shoulder.

The eyes of the herd gazed at Jahangir. The grey light from the Victorian windows illuminated their dark faces. He sensed their hostility; it waned as their interest faded. Many of the students wore clothing from Africa or Asia, combined with Western jeans and jewellery: a pastiche of brightly-coloured cultural references. There were even a few girls wearing the chadri he was familiar with from Mohmand Agency - although black rather than lavender. Not girls he could talk to, and probably not Pakhtun. None of the boys in the class wore traditional clothing.

With a ruby-coloured fingernail, Mrs Alder pointed to an empty chair. She had Indian features, Jahangir decided, with an African kink to her hair. His uncle had once said London was the racial melting pot of the world.

A group of boys were dressed in black: jeans, puffa jackets or hoodies, and black woollen beanies. Their snow-white trainers and silver chains blazed in contrast. Various music players and mobile phones lay scattered across the wood-effect desktops. No one wore a uniform here, not even the three white students in the class. Walking to school, his sister had explained that it was a community college, specialising in helping students with social problems.

"Uniforms in Lyme Road?" Patasa had said. "Cut to the chase. It a prison outreach program. We have a uniform, it have arrows on it."

At the desk Mrs Alder pointed to, sat a large white boy.

"You're with Frank Allen," she said. "He's been assigned your school buddy."

Allen was a first name, was it not? Jahangir knew about surnames, although he didn't really have one. Halimzai, the one he used, was just his clan name, adopted for the benefit of Westerners.

Frank Allen's hair was mouse-brown, and his cheeks freckled under his amber eyes. For Jahangir, his colouring was exotic, like finding an unusual bird in a pet stall at one of the markets in Peshawar. His uncle told him that most of the white people in England were descendants of Vikings. Or their slaves.

Jahangir had blue eyes with dark skin and hair, but this was not unusual in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. In all his years, he couldn't remember having sat beside a white person before, not even on the flights to Peshawar and back. Before Pakistan he had lived in London, but his father had enrolled him in an Islamic school.

Lyme Road School was not far from his mother's apartment, in an area of South London just as run down as the cities Jahangir had seen in Pakistan. Homeless drunks begged on the street and garbage littered the verges. Concrete render slaked off the sides of buildings. Even so, some of the students in his class looked wealthy. The boys dressed in black each had big watches, like the one worn by the intelligence officer. Their clothes were emblazoned with brand names he had never seen before. His own off-white kurta, partag, and patkay were the opposite in too many ways to list. And these boys were big: a few almost two metres high.

The different styles of clothing fascinated Jahangir. Frank's faded jeans and scuffed old trainers were stretched out under the desk. A white girl further back was wearing a tracksuit, with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore no makeup or jewellery, unlike the girls with faces uncovered under a hijab and the Indian girls with long dark plaits. A small white boy sitting on his own wore an unravelling pullover and cords so threadbare they looked like rags.

At the market at Ghalanai, he once tried on a baseball cap. His uncle had said cultural values from America had invaded the world. "You saw a baseball cap in a Western music video, and now you want to imitate it. You will need a strong mind, Jahangir, otherwise you will always do the bidding of the powerful." The Taliban had closed down the video shops where Jahangir once stole glimpses of both Hollywood and Bollywood.

While Mrs Alder attempted to get a projector to communicate with her laptop, Frank scrutinised a notepad. There were small freckles on his pale fingers, and Jahangir couldn't understand the handwriting. His uncle once said, "White people are valuable. Kill a white person and the mountains swarm with the military. Kill one of us, and expect vengeance only from the family."

That was after an explosion that had devastated the stalls at the far end of Mian Mandi market in Ghalanai. The head of the suicide bomber had flown several hundred metres into the air, landing on the road before them like a grisly cannon ball. It had been a boy similar in age to his brother Janan; his face had been obliterated and hair burned away. People screamed and ran either toward the explosion or away. He remembered his uncle's serenity, as though nothing had happened, and that had helped calm Jahangir. The Tehreek-e-Taliban had targeted a stall selling Western music and videos. "Both the Americans and the Taliban kill us as though we were flies," his uncle said.

The overhead projector flickered blue up onto the whiteboard at the front of the class, then blinked off again.

"Almost," Mrs Alder said.

Explosions, either bombs deployed by the Taliban, or missiles fired from American drones, occurred every few days in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. On the way to Mohmand Agency, his uncle and he had visited a village in Khyber Agency. Uncle Khoshal's army friend there lived in a small house set into the hillside, wedged in amongst many similar dwellings. The meal had been a feast, and afterwards the men exchanged stories about their time with the Special Services Group. Sometime after midnight there was an explosion that shook the ground.

An American missile had destroyed several homes in the village. In the following weeks, the Pakistani newspapers claimed several prominent foreign Taliban leaders had been killed, but everyone in the village knew the victims were civilians. Jahangir and his uncle had helped the villagers clear the wreckage, surrounded by wailing women and children. Human remains formed a paste in the burnt rubble, and it was impossible to sort out what belonged to which corpse. In the end, the parts they found were shared out among the graves.

"Aha!" Mrs Alder smiled as her computer screen mirrored onto the whiteboard. "Now, I want to show you some poetry from a different age." She tapped on her laptop computer and a few lines of text appeared. They were strange words and Jahangir watched the students around him reading, seeing their confusion. Mrs Alder read aloud.

Up spryngen speres twenty foot on highte;

Out goon the swerdes as the silver brighte.

The helmes they tohewen and toshrede,

Out brest the blood, with stierne stremes rede,

'What the fuck is that?' exclaimed a large African boy dressed in black, laughing in disbelief. His teeth were as white as pearls and his face almost as pretty as a girl's. His friends laughed with him. Murmurs of puzzlement rippled around the classroom.

"Good question, Jonathan, but poor choice of vocabulary," said Mrs Alder. "What is it? It's English. Can you decipher any part of it?"

Jahangir made out the words "twenty," "foot," "silver" and "blood."

An African girl in the next row placed a folded note onto Jahangir's desk. Her dark face was expressionless under her cornrow hair, as if she hadn't noticed he was sitting there.

In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, there were no girls at school in Taliban-controlled areas. The hair-dressing salons had been closed and women covered their faces in public. Under strict purdah they rarely went out at all.

Jahangir noticed two Pakistani or Indian boys amongst the group dressed in black and, from their glares, realised the note had been passed from them. He saw the number "20", but could not decipher more. Frank read the slip of torn paper and shook his head at them, as though to say "No". The two boys stared back. Jahangir noted their black beanies and the silver chains gleaming around their necks.

Amidst the laughter and confusion about the poetry, the blonde girl with the tracksuit spoke up. "It's something about spears and swords and blood. A fight in ancient times."

"Yes, Lorelei," Mrs Alder said. "A gruesome, bloody fight."

The boys in the class examined the passage again, squinting as they searched the words for violence.

Jahangir scrutinised the paper note. "£20 hot head," he thought he could make out from the scrawl. "Hot head," because of his patkay headscarf. The fakir clothing had always been his disguise, his way of blending into the population, but not here.

The Pakistani boys wanted £20.

Once, sitting on a ledge in the mountains, a thousand metres above a roaring river, his uncle had told him, "When Hindu slaves were marched into Afghanistan to be sold across the Ottoman world, the journey through the mountains often killed them. The words 'Hindu Kush' mean 'the killer of Hindus'." For the past week they had been climbing sheer ice walls using crampons and ice-picks, to travel along ridges of hardened snow that overhung the valleys. "Insha'Allah, we will not have to come this high again. But if we ever have to escape, few will follow us here." Shivering, Jahangir had understood all too well how the Hindus had died.

"It's a story of two men fighting over the love of a woman." Mrs Alder glanced at several of the girls in the class. "Each man had one hundred soldiers. The winner would marry the girl."

"It Shakespeare, yeh?" an Indian girl asked.

"It looks German," a Muslim girl said from behind a black niqab.

"Very good, but it's English and much earlier than Shakespeare. Let's go through it." Mrs Alder clicked a button on her computer and extra lines slipped in between those shown on the first slide. She read the poetry with the interpretations.

Up spryngen speres twenty foot on highte;

Up spring spears twenty foot high

Out goon the swerdes as the silver brighte.

Out go the swords as bright as silver.

The helmes they tohewen and toshrede,

The helmets they hewed and shredded

Out brest the blood, with stierne stremes rede

Out burst the blood, in dire streams of red.

"The words are very much like English, just not spelt like today. In fact English spelling was not standardised until the first English dictionary was compiled in 1755. Over two hundred and fifty years ago. Does anyone know when Shakespeare was alive?" Mrs Alder gazed around the class.

"Five hundred years ago?" an Indian girl ventured from the back of the class.

Jahangir noticed her peacock-green top and long braid of glossy black hair.

"Very close, Niyati. Shakespeare was born in 1554 and died in 1616. That's almost four hundred years ago. But this poem was written in the late 1300s." Mrs Alder pointed at the words on the screen. "Over six hundred years ago. Has anyone heard of Geoffrey Chaucer?"

There was no response from the class.

"He was captured during the Hundred Years War with France and held hostage. He knew about battle, but his real genius was writing. In those days, writing was usually either in French or in Latin, but Chaucer's writing was an early form of the English we speak today. Tell me, why would writing back then be French or Latin?"

"The Romans spoke Latin," Frank said.

"They did. And the Romans invaded England almost two thousand years ago, and the original Celts fled or were subdued. But, that's not the reason Latin was spoken. Early in the fifth century the Roman army left and, over the next few centuries, Anglo-Saxons pushed the remaining Britons right out of England. Then the Danes invaded, introducing many words of their language. At this time, Roman Catholic missionaries travelled to England, and they spoke Latin, as they had back when Rome ruled the Western world. That's where all our Latin words come from. The church."

"What about the French language?" asked Lorelei, the white girl.

"The English were writing in French because someone else had invaded England. Does anyone know who?"

"Was it... da French?" Ologo, one of the boys wearing a beanie answered, and there was chuckling around the class.

"The Normans," Mrs Alder said. "The Normans spoke French and had adopted French manners, but they were originally Vikings, or Norsemen, just like the inhabitants of England, the Anglo-Saxons and Danes. Chaucer wrote in a language that was neither French or Latin or Anglo-Saxon or Old Norse, but a mixture of all of them. Which is where our English comes from. What else can you tell me about the writing? Does it rhyme?"

There was a low hum of assent from the class.

One of the large African boys in black clothing began making music with his mouth, stopping Mrs Alder as she was about to speak. It sounded like a drum beating, and his friends began humming a tune. Jahangir hadn't heard singing like this before.

"Excuse me, Jonathan!" Mrs Alder said. "Save that for break time! Jonathan!"

If Mrs Alder had been teaching in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa district, the Tehreek-e-Taliban would have killed her, Jahangir thought. He watched anger rising in her face.

One of the Pakistani boys dressed in black began singing, except it wasn't singing, it was the speaking-singing called "rap" that Jahangir had seen on music videos from America. Several students in the class were laughing, but Jahangir noticed that many of their classmates showed no emotion at all. He recognised their passivity; he had seen it in the faces of civilians wherever the Tehreek-e-Taliban was in control. He had adopted the same expression many times.

Cruisin in Gaza, we rollin deep,

De soggy feds, dey never make bleep.

Shopkeeper, teacher, hidin dey head,

Our soljas marchin, you might get dead.

Black is de colour no camera can find,

Wit mash and clips, we crossin your line.

Wallads all run, when we trespass,

See your skettels, sellin dey arse.

Bullets rainin lead on your head,

Don't call no ambulance, dey all dead.

Jahangir couldn't make sense of the words, but the music was mesmerising: the rhythm of the rapping and the harmonies of humming, together with the pretend drumming of their mouths. Most of the class pretended to not hear the singing. Frank studied his notebook.

"SHUT UP!" Mrs Alder screamed, and the boys stopped. After the initial shock, they laughed so hard that a few dropped to the floor. Several of the gang tried to speak, and their failure to form words triggered even more hilarity.

"De bitch scare me to death," Jonathan wheezed.

A siren sounded and the students began gathering their possessions. Jahangir looked at Frank in confusion, wondering whether it was a security alarm. Or the police.

"The lesson is finished," Frank said. "You have to go to a special class now. I'll take you."

The students began herding towards the door. An African boy, he noticed, walked on two prosthetic legs. The Pakistani who had passed Jahangir the note whispered, "Twenty," and made a sign of firing a pistol.

Passing Mrs Alder, the gang in black began singing. She watched them leave with lips pressed tight.

Students of all sizes, colours and costumes jostled in the corridor. Some wore tribal clothing, others religious, some the styles of social subcultures. Such noise Jahangir found disconcerting, after the silence of the mountains. The black-clad gang stalked ahead and stopped to frisk an overweight boy against the lockers; his eyes rolled as though a goat being milked. Trailing Frank through the students heading for their next classes, Jahangir touched his shoulder.

Turning, Frank's facial expression asked, "What?"

"What is 'buddy'?"

"Like a friend. You know 'friend'? Just follow me."

Jahangir thought it strange that he should be assigned a friend by the school. Usually in life you had to find your own, although, Frank said he was only "like a friend."

"Follow where?"

"You have to see the school counsellor."

Before they could get very far, Jonathan grabbed Frank by his checked shirt. The other gangstas stood beside him.

"Where you runnin' to Bunny?"

"Get lost Jonathan." Frank tried to shake himself free.

"Your big bruv can't help you here," Jonathan said. "He come to Lyme Road he get filled wit lead."

"How der BNP these days, Bunny?" one of the Pakistani boys asked.

Jahangir was intrigued by their wealth; maybe he could have afforded such clothing using his uncle's money, if he hadn't given it to his mother. He recalled Uncle Khoshal's admonishment to be strong: "These trinkets are used to take everything from you. Keep your money, just like the natives should have kept their land."

"My brother's not in the BNP."

"Automatic membership, init? Your face your ticket."

"What do you want, Jonathan?"

"You call me Young Retz, or lose teef."

"Whatever. I haven't got anything."

"Your phone, Milkybar Kid." Jonathan tugged at the front of Frank's shirt.

Jahangir stepped forward and gripped Jonathan's hand in both of his.

"What the fuck you doin', Hot-head," Jonathan laughed.

Jerking his hands forward and to the outside, Jahangir forced Jonathan down onto one knee. Jonathan's friends jumped forward punching, but Jahangir stepped back into a fighting stance, blocking the blows they sent his way. The gangstas pulled out knives and surrounded Jahangir.

"Stop!" Frank yelled. "We give in." Jahangir, though, kept a fighting stance. "Are you mad?" Frank asked him. "What are you doing?"

"You fucking dead, Hot-head." Jonathan shook his hand. "You fucking walking dead."

"And I want my twenny before you dead," said the Pakistani boy. He lunged at Jahangir's leg with his knife but stopped short of stabbing him.

"We bing bang ya... so be sure you got it on ya," an African boy said. "Carry a coffin everywhere, or we leave you inna gutter... You too... have a choice in life."

Jahangir maintained his boxing stance, dodging the taunts of their blades while the gangstas laughed. They could kill him easily, he knew, but what else could he do?

"Jahangir! Stop!" Frank shouted.

"Here come Mr Wright. We shank you, Hot-Head. Now or later. No rush." The Pakistani was a Sindh, from Karachi or Hyderabad, Jahangir thought. With a magician's sleight of hand, the knife vanished into the gangsta's hoodie pocket.

"Bunny," Jonathan said, "you a dead Bunny. Thank your friend."

The five gangsta youngers swaggered ahead, hoods pulled over black beanies and their studded belts adorning black jeans worn too low.

"You idiot!" Frank shook splayed hands at the sides of his head. "You got us killed! We'll have to sneak out somehow. We are so dead!"

"They can't hurt." Jahangir was puzzled that his new school buddy should be so angry after he had defended him.

"Didn't you hear them? They're going to skeng us."

"No catch us."

"What? They just have to wait at the school gates. There's no other way out. Maybe we can pay them. You have any money?"

Jahangir recalled his uncle's money. "After school, meet near toilets. Yes? OK?"

"Wait at the toilets? You better have money or we are so dead." Frank checked his watch; it was a black digital similar to those sold in Mian Mandi market. "Come on. You have to see Mr Hornby."

# Chapter 6: The Translator

Lorelei waited for Mrs Alder outside the classroom, standing behind the doorjamb to avoid the rush of students.

The student hubbub was incomprehensible, with its different accents and languages. A tugboat in the sea of humanity, Frank Allen strode past with the new Arab kid in tow. Frank flashed a microsecond grin. There was a faint, blonde fuzz covering his upper lip, she saw, invisible at more than a metre away.

In the corridor, the Lyme Road Warriors loomed over Andrew Patel, quietly intimidating him until he emptied his pockets. Taxing the weak: Mr Urquhart said it was the common denominator of all civilisations in history. Lorelei remembered because he used the mathematical term "denominator".

Wading chest-deep through students, came the Headmaster, Mr Wright. Two metres tall with a good jaw and thinning hair, he had hands that might once have used heavy tools. A desk-worker paunch bulged from the lapels of a smoke-blue suit; Lorelei's mother had told her that any man with a large stomach drank far too much beer. Odours of perspiration and aftershave lingered in his wake.

"How did that go?" Lorelei heard Mr Wright ask Mrs Alder.

Mrs Alder was the substitute for another teacher on maternity leave. "Does anyone check them for weapons? It's not like we don't know what's happening on the streets."

"This is what we do, Susan. Support deprived and damaged children. Weapon searches would destroy any trust."

"Trust? They laugh at us. They have us all terrified, especially the other students."

"Listen, Susan, we've signed up to this program. That includes you. Tell me what happened."

"Oh. They took over the class with their rapping. I lost control."

"Did you put anyone in detention?"

"The siren went and they trooped off. I was caught off balance."

"I want you to take some detention classes in the evenings. It will make you familiar with the process and expose you to the persistent troublemakers."

Mrs Alder's shoulders slumped.

Lorelei wasn't sympathetic. As difficult as Mrs Alder might find some of her students in the classroom, she didn't have to deal with them on the Estate. Walk past them and you might be raped.

She stepped back into the niche beside the door as Mr Wright walked out; a sidelong flicker of his eyes registered her presence. She watched Mrs Alder retrieve her handbag, take a tissue and dab at her eyes. Then, holding a folder over her chest, she made to leave.

"Mrs Alder, you said an interpreter would look at my letter?"

"Yes, yes. He brought it in to speak to you about it."

What? Lorelei had been told she would receive a written translation. The translator must know it's not her letter and with her lie exposed, her mother might be informed. Was there an excuse that would let her cancel the whole thing?

"He's waiting," Mrs Alder said.

Lorelei followed her to the staff room where, during breaks, so many terrifying figures of authority would congregate. Glimpsing inside, the teachers appeared morose. A chubby man with very straight, light brown hair emerged. He had dimples.

Turning to Mrs Alder, he said, "We'll use a meeting room over here, all right?" He led Lorelei into a small room furnished with a table and chairs.

"You wanted to know what's in this letter?"

Lorelei didn't answer, but waited for what would come next.

"To start off, it is not your letter. I'm not meant to tell you anything about it. But tell me why you want to know what's in it and maybe I'll tell you a little."

"It's my letter. My nickname is Jadranka." Lorelei remembered her mother's name from her Croatian passport.

"And you own a nice apartment in Dubrovnik?" The translator smiled. "Come, come. I can ask you questions from the letter and you won't know the answers. Even your surname is different. What's your second name again?"

"It's my mother's letter. She wants us to leave London and I just want to know what's going on."

"I see. Then I think you already know most of what's in this letter. The letter writer is a relation, I think, from the name, and he tells Jadranka that he will pick you both up from the airport. He says he bought her a lovely flat near the sea wall in Dubrovnik. The weather is beautiful, and the cafes are full of rich Germans, and life is wonderful. That's about it. If your mother has an apartment there, you are very lucky."

"You've been to Dubrovnik?" she asked. Lorelei's phone tinkled. Glancing down she read a message from Patasa: "wheretf ru???"

"Well...I tried to go there once during the war," said the translator, "but the Croats repelled us. I must admit that I shelled those beautiful medieval roofs. And they say it's the most beautiful city in the world. I'm Serbian, you see. Don't look so shocked. Didn't you know we are the same people, just divided by the religions and cultures of different invaders? How else could I read your mother's letter?"

"My mother said the Serbs..." Lorelei began.

"Now, now, don't start, we're as bad as each other, don't you worry. Croatia was pro-Nazi in World War Two, and as well as wiping out Jews and Gypsies, they also did their best to exterminate all the Serbs they could find. We Serbians fought against the Nazis. Very bravely too. Everyone hated the Croatians after that, I promise you."

Lorelei shrugged. She wasn't strong on history.

"Then there was communism, which joined us all back up into Yugoslavia. But, after that broke down, each country wanted to take more than their share. Did you know the Croats and Serbs had planned to divide Bosnia? It wasn't just us Serbians invading everyone. No, no, we reacted to all their land-grabbing."

"We were one country once? Before all that?"

"We are all Slavs. Plus the Bulgarians, the Macedonians, the Montenegrins, the Slovenians, Poles, and more. Four hundred million of us, altogether."

"You and I are both Slavs?"

"Yes! Divided in the fourth century by the split between Roman Catholicism and the Orthodox Christianity of Byzantium. Then, again in the fourteenth century with the Ottoman invasion. Plus, we've been invaded by the Hungarians, Venetians, Austrians, and the colonial powers all poking their noses everywhere looking for money."

Too much history, Lorelei decided.

"Did you know that the English word 'slave' comes from 'Slav'? Via Rome and Latin. But in our language, 'Slav' means 'renowned'?"

"We were slaves?" Lorelei recalled her mother describing herself as a sex-slave.

"No, but our countries have seen more wars than anywhere. We share a history worse than any imaginable. Did you know that when the Ottomans became weak, we were the gateway for the West to pillage them, and that's how World War One started? When the Austrians invaded Serbia, it would have given them a direct path to plunder Turkey, and the other powers wouldn't stand for it. And they wanted to divide up the Austro-Hungarian Empire too, but that's another story."

Lorelei was still not convinced about the Serbians, not after hearing her mother's account of Vukovar. "One million bombs," she had said.

"Give your mother her letter back and enjoy your new life in Dubrovnik. One last thing. It's illegal to read other people's letters. Unless you are the government. Don't do it again." The translator winked at her and stood up. "Goodbye, Jadranka. Let's not be enemies."

Lorelei slipped the letter into her tracksuit pocket. Her phone tinkled and she glanced at the text.

"in detention, ill be your slave"

There was that word again.

She passed class windows displaying the progress inside: teachers in didactic postures and students in varying states of boredom.

Passing the school library, the librarian stepped out and called to her.

"Lorelei! Wait! Mr Childers would like to speak to you about your book loans."

Lorelei froze.

"It's all right, dear, you haven't done anything wrong. Just that they're all higher mathematics, like that calculus book you borrowed. Maths is his thing, you see. He wants to talk to you about it. There's an advanced mathematics group, you see. Nothing to worry about, darling."

"It was all a mistake," Lorelei said breathlessly. "I thought the books would help with my homework, but I don't understand any of it. I've brought this one back." Lorelei wrestled it out of her satchel.

"Oh, I see."

Further along the corridor, Lorelei entered an office door.

In a room filled with bookshelves, a small circle of students sat on plastic chairs, and one of the school psychologists, Mrs Brown, held court. Lorelei knew the students in her group well: three were African, three from Iraq and one from Pakistan, and the last a white boy.

Mrs Brown was English but of African descent, and her well-shaped face with purplish lips was beautiful. Lorelei admired especially her perfect dark-chocolate skin. Over a lace-trimmed, white blouse she was wearing a flame-orange business jacket with a matching skirt. Her frizzy hair was gathered on top of her head in a tie-dyed silk scarf. The colours matched her temperament, fiery, although with her group Mrs Brown was warm and kind. Many Africans wore gold, but Mrs Brown wore silver, or was it white gold? Maybe platinum? Lorelei knew the platinum atom had one less proton than gold: seventy-eight protons and electrons.

Lorelei smiled at her friends. Patasa was patting a chair she had reserved.

When Patasa was twelve, the Taliban had attacked her family and kidnapped her brother. They hoped he was still alive in Pakistan.

One of the African girls had emigrated in a crowded boat from her home in Sierra Leone. Another passenger had murdered her father for their water.

The other African girl had been enslaved in Southern Sudan, after soldiers from the north murdered her parents. Afterwards, she was sent to work in London in a Sudanese home. She was raped by the men in the family and only escaped by climbing out of a top floor window.

The boy from Liberia, a former child soldier, had two prosthetic legs, the result of a landmine. He admitted to having killed people when he was as young as ten, and would have killed many more if had he not been ordered to cross a minefield to clear a path.

Two Iraqis, a brother and sister, lost their family when Western troops attacked their village in pursuit of insurgents.

Another Iraqi girl had survived a suicide bomb attack in Baghdad, and was badly scarred down one side of her face.

His mother's boyfriend had tortured the white boy, Ainslie, when he was just a toddler. A few weeks ago he showed them the cigarette burn scars on his back, and Lorelei had cried.

Mrs Brown told them that the mind played tricks on people who suffered trauma. "Often we will accept the authority of whoever is the most violent, and blame ourselves for the negative outcome of that violence, not the perpetrator. This is our evolutionary heritage. Sometimes PTSD symptoms arise when we subconsciously blame ourselves for the damage others have done to us."

It was probably true, Lorelei considered, for it was hard to consciously hate Valon. And, should she not hate the Serbians too? She searched her heart, but felt nothing.

Mrs Brown had counselled them individually over the years using a technique she called "prolonged exposure", developed to help soldiers returning from wars. In their one-to-one sessions, Mrs Brown had asked Lorelei to talk about the time when her father had attacked her mother. At first it had made her panic, but after going over the events and remembering them, eventually she could talk calmly. Mrs Brown taught her anxiety control exercises too, which involved repeating phrases, slow breathing and strenuous exercises while holding Mrs Brown's hands. When Lorelei had improved sufficiently, Mrs Brown organised a visit to meet big men from a local gymnasium, which had been terrifying. The hypertrophied muscles stopped her dead, and when they lifted the very heavy weights, roaring and stomping about, her jaw clamped shut and she could barely stop herself from fleeing. Yet, as Mrs Brown had predicted, she eventually became accustomed to them.

Now, Lorelei's treatment was described as "maintenance". The group talked about their feelings and after played with the white rabbits in the science department. At the moment the rabbits had "kittens", baby white rabbits with pink eyes and soft, floppy ears. Lorelei could cup one in the palm of her hand. The science teacher, Professor Ash, made sure they often had babies to play with, and Frank helped clean out the cages. Bunny loved rabbits even more than the Trauma Therapy students.

"Has anyone something to share?" Mrs Brown asked after Lorelei was seated.

"Oh, only my husband has died," Patasa said. "He's been dead five years and I didn't even know. I suppose that's why I haven't been sleeping with him."

"What do you mean, Patasa?" Mrs Brown asked.

"Well, it seems to happen in a lot of countries these days. Your parents marry you off when you're a little kid. It's a bit of a money earner, on the side. Tax free, innit? Breed some daughters and sell 'em. Rich blokes can buy up to four. Buy in bulk and get a discount, is not out of the question."

"You weren't married at a Registry, I take it?"

"No, we couldn't do the main bit, because he was dead. Not functioning properly downstairs. Think we have to pay the money back?"

"Technically, he was not your husband. Probably 'your fiance' is the right word in English," Mrs Brown said. "I don't know about the payment."

"If a nikkah was signed in the masjid and the mahr had been paid," the girl from Sudan said, "he is husband and the money is not given back. It is the property of the wife."

"The wife? It's my money? No-one gave me squat. You can look at my bank balance. Probably negative, innit. So the bank owns me now. Do I have to marry a merchant banker? No need to twist my arm, yeh."

"Your father will have the money," the Sudanese girl said. "Many migrants have sold a daughter or a sister in this way to pay to come to England."

Mrs Brown appeared concerned. "Perhaps you should speak about it with your mother, Patasa. Lorelei, we have already gone around the circle," said Mrs Brown. "Is there anything happening with you that you can share?"

Lorelei decided it must be Mrs Brown's face that had a magic effect on the pupils: the serenity of her expression, the frankness of her eyes, or the happiness hovering at the corners of her mouth.

"I might be leaving London," said Lorelei.

"What? Since when?" Patasa, beside her, was astonished. "You can't leave me, bitch! I a widow!"

"To meet your husband?" one of the Iraqi girls asked Lorelei.

"Leaving with your mother?" Mrs Brown asked. "Where to? And how long will you go for?"

"My mum wants to live in Croatia. But I may not go, I can't decide."

"Why would you ever want to leave London?" the Sudanese girl asked.

"Trust me, you do not want to leave this shit-hole," Patasa said.

"I can understand a bit of Croat, but I can't speak it properly," said Lorelei.

"Does the group think Lorelei is strong enough to open her wings and fly away to start a new life?" Mrs Brown smiled at them.

They all nodded, although Patasa appeared less enthusiastic.

"It's better than London?" Patasa said. "You couldn't make me go back to where we came from. They'd have to put me in chains, inside a cage on a slave wagon thing. Same thing anyway. Women are treated like donkeys."

"I've heard Dubrovnik is beautiful," Lorelei said. Patasa's words, "slave wagon", lingered in her ears.

"Yes, Dubrovnik is lovely," said Mrs Brown. "I went there several years ago with my husband. It's a World Heritage City with huge, ancient walls, right on the sea, and you can walk on them. You can't drive cars in the city. It has stone streets worn smooth from centuries of people walking about. And it's filled with cafes and galleries and museums. Just lovely."

"Are the people nice?"

"As far as I could tell, yes they were. It seemed every day there was a musical performance or something fun going on."

"It's hard to just leave everything."

"I never would go back to Sudan," the Sudanese girl said. "There's too much hatred. Different clans who hate each other, as well as Muslims against Christians, Sunnis hating Shias. Everyone killing the other."

"All the Christians had to run from Iraq," the Iraqi boy said. "And now that they're gone, it's Sunnis and Shias killing each other. And Western soldiers killing both of them."

"Same here," Patasa said. "Taliban killin everyone. They'll blow up a marketplace full of Pakhtuns and say it's a massive blow against the West. The only time we're Western is when the Taliban blow us up. The rest of the time Americans fire missiles into people's homes. You ever see the The Young Ones on Youtube? When the missile gets fired into the kitchen? Welcome to FATA."

"Back in Liberia they killin because you're wrong tribe, or with the government. They like the killin too much," the boy with prosthetic legs told the group. He had a wheeze in his voice. "Use the machete. Chop up the mama and baby." Two walking canes were propped on either side of his chair. "De man like to chop, chop."

Patasa nodded in agreement. "Taliban make videos of cutting off a Westerner's head, and put them up on the Internet. American drone controllers and the Taliban, they're all killin and cheering. Meanwhile we're all crying, yeh."

"And in Iraq. To kill is to be a man. So many boys want to be men. So much killing," said the Iraqi boy who had been orphaned after Western troops open-fired on his parents' house.

"There was a terrible war between Croatia and Serbia in the mid 90s," Mrs Brown said. "Including acts of genocide, but they seem to have gotten over the worst of it. Parts of Dubrovnik are like the Berlin museum, where sections of the walls have been left with their damage just to remind people of the madness."

"The forest return. No people, no villages, just trees," said the boy from Liberia.

"No wonder we in this group are mad. The world is mad," Patasa said.

"But nature can heal most things," Mrs Brown said.

"Even us," said one of the girls from Iraq. Her niqab almost covering the scarring around one of her eyes.

"Especially us," Mrs Brown said. "With enough time and care. Was your family caught up in the war, Lorelei?"

She nodded, but there was no way she was going to relate what her mother had told her earlier that morning.

Mrs Brown had explained once that sometimes children blamed their parents rather than hating an instigator of abuse. "We're very much herd animals. Your mother couldn't protect you from the violence, so your instincts tell you she has less worth in the herd."

The war was not her mother's fault, Lorelei told herself, recalling how her mother's hands always shook.

There was a knock, and one of the administration staff looked in.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Brown, may I speak to you for a moment?"

A citrus-based perfume wafted into the air as Mrs Brown went to the doorway. After the administrator whispered to her, Mrs Brown began running along the corridor, high heels clacking furiously and shouting, "I'll murder him! I'll murder him!" The students in the therapy group glanced at each other with curiosity. Someone was in deep trouble.

"You hear what it about?" the boy from Liberia asked.

The Iraqi students near the door shook their heads. "Let's go see the rabbits," said one.

After helping the African boy onto his feet, they made their way to the Science Department.

"Baby rabbits!" they chanted softly. "Baby rabbits!"

# Chapter 7: A Close Shave

"Here's Mr Hornsby's office," said Frank. "I'll wait for you after school. You got us into this, you get us out. Otherwise we'll get stabbed up." He opened a wood-effect office door.

"Who these people?" Jahangir asked, peering through the doorway.

A man with a grey goatee and frameless spectacles sat behind a desk. Against the wall were two men in grey suits. The Pakhto translator from the airport was also there; Jahangir noted her deep pink headscarf and black eyes.

"That's Mr Hornby there," Frank whispered, pointing to the man behind the desk. "He's the psychologist. Those other two look like Feds. Is that your Mum there?"

Jahangir shook his head. "Feds?" He wondered what they were.

"After school, outside the toilets," Frank said, and walked away.

Mr Hornsby beckoned to him. "Come in! Jahangir, come in!"

Three years before, his mother would take him to a hospital where a psychologist made him make special eye movements while viewing photos. The pictures showed people the Taliban had murdered, and the aftermath of a suicide bomb that killed fifteen elders of a jirga, a senior Pakhtun council. The treatment had made no difference: he was frightened walking down the street, he couldn't look people in the face, and crowds of any sort made him claustrophobic. At the Islamic School he attended before returning to Pakistan with his uncle, he'd failed to understand let alone read much of Qur'an. He spent his days mutely enduring the exhortations and punishments of the robed teachers.

Then Uncle Khoshal had visited Jahangir's father after retiring from the Pakistan Army. He told Jahangir stories about his time with Pakistan's Special Services Group. In the 1980s, Uncle Khoshal had led mujahedeen raids across the Hindu Kush to attack the Russians in Afghanistan; he had hidden in mountain crevices as the world erupted in fire all around them and still had distorted hearing. Afterwards he had been loaned to the Sri Lankans, to train their troops in counter-insurgency techniques and keep the Tamil Tigers in check.

Mr Hornby waved at him again to enter.

Rather than speaking to the psychologist, who beamed a "welcome" smile at him, Jahangir turned to the translator. "Who are they?" he asked, but she did not reply.

"Jahangir, I am Mr Hornby, one of the school counsellors. Please sit here in front of me."

"Did you understand that?" the translator asked him.

"He's Mr Hornby," Jahangir replied in Pakhto. "And I can sit down."

Eventually, Jahangir's parents allowed Uncle Khoshal to home-teach him. An engineering graduate from Birmingham, his uncle started the day reading aloud from a textbook, but he was always side-tracked by the myriad of interconnecting stories of his life. Each tale he told he embroidered with his vast arcane knowledge. Sometimes they fixed things in the apartment; impossible things, such as the washing machine when the drum stopped turning. Uncle Khoshal explained how all the electricity moved through the different colour-coded wires and activated the machinery. Then they made their own electricity using magnets and copper wire to make a light shine. Jahangir listened in awe, until a trickle of happiness soon became a stream and then a river.

"You seem to be communicating well with our translator." Mr Hornby leant into the desk, hands gently clasped before him. "But you must instead talk to us. These two men are from Scotland Yard, from Anti-Terrorism Command, Detective Elderberry and Detective Smithick." Mr Hornby gestured at each in turn. "Our Principal, Mr Wright, has agreed that they may question you in my presence. I am merely here to ensure you do not become overanxious. So, over to you, detectives."

The men gazed at Jahangir. The taller one, Detective Elderberry, was pale with brown hair. Detective Smithick had a red flush to his solid face and grey, unblinking eyes. Both had sour expressions, as though they were still smarting from having spent the last hour being insulted.

"Jahangir," Detective Elderberry began, "we were passed the details of your psychological condition. And, after an initial discussion with your Headmaster, Mr Wright, we thought it best to conduct the questioning with your counsellor here, to monitor how you cope. I would encourage you to co-operate. You should understand that we do have the power to arrest you formally under the Terrorism Act 2006, and question you at Scotland Yard should that become necessary."

"But I already told the people at the airport everything I know," Jahangir said in Pakhto, and the translator passed it on.

"Do you not need a Child Protection Officer or his mother?" the translator asked in English.

"Excuse me," Detective Elderberry addressed the translator, "you are here for one reason alone. To translate. Not ask questions."

"It's just that, at the airport..."

"I think you'll find that under the Terrorism Act 2006, we can do whatever we damn-well like," Detective Smithwick said.

"Miss... Miss, I'm sorry I didn't catch your name." Mr Hornby gave the police officers a placating glance. "I am a child psychologist, and am considered a responsible adult in such circumstances. In any case, to allay your fears, this is very much an informal meeting."

"What did he say?" Jahangir asked.

"Not much." The translator appeared annoyed.

"So you already told the airport people everything?" asked Smithwick. "Have you ever been in a hospital, Jahangir? Funny how no-one ever reads notes, isn't it? You have to tell your story over and over, first to the nurse, then to one doctor, then to the next one, then the specialist. We're the same." One of Smithick's hands rested on top the stomach bulging under his white shirt, a condition, Jahangir suspected with cross-cultural disdain, brought on by drinking beer.

"And, at the same time, I can evaluate how your PTSD is coming along." With a pleasant smile, Mr Hornby held out a large plastic clip. Reaching for Jahangir's hand, he placed it on his index finger.

"What is this?" Jahangir examined the clip and the translator passed on his query.

"It's a heart rate monitor. It will let me know if you become too stressed to continue. From the speed of your pulse, you see. If the detectives' questions cause you anxiety, I can ask them to stop the interview."

The detectives glanced at each other. "Good idea," said Smithwick.

"For your safety, Jahangir," Elderberry said, with a nod.

"If my heartbeat gets too high, you will stop the questions?" Jahangir asked. The small screen on the machine registered his pulse at seventy-five beats per minute. He didn't know what his normal heart rate was, and wondered whether Mr Hornby did. How much would it have to increase by? It already felt very fast. He calculated that breathing quickly might make it faster still.

"Indeed," Mr Hornby said. "That's why I'm here, to ensure you're safe."

"Do you think all this is true?" Jahangir asked the interpreter.

She shrugged. "Who knows?" Her lipstick was a deep crimson under a beak-like nose.

"Where are you from?" Jahangir asked her.

"Peshawar."

"Jahangir, remember to speak to us," Mr Hornby said.

"Mr Hornby," Elderberry said, "could you tell us something about Jahangir's psychological history?"

"Because of privacy, I can't give you details about his condition, other than he suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. However, I believe the events that led to his condition are a matter of public record. Jahangir, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you were travelling in Pakistan with your father, mother, brother and sister. You stayed at a guesthouse on the way to your family home."

A madrassa, a religious school, Jahangir recalled. Such places took in travellers.

Mr Hornby glanced up and watched Jahangir carefully, then examined the red digits on the heart-rate monitor. Jahangir was disappointed to see they still showed seventy-five beats per minute.

"The Taliban raided the guesthouse where you were staying, killing several people. Is that correct?" Mr Hornby asked.

He had awoken to an explosion of gunfire right outside their door. People were screaming that someone had been shot in the foyer. Jahangir heard a man crying out that he was bleeding. Someone was ordering the guests of the madrassa to remain in their rooms and each would be visited in turn. He heard the woman next door pleading "No, no, no!" and her child crying. The madrassa windows were barred against burglars and so it was impossible to escape. His father tried to fortify the door by putting a chest of drawers against it. After the attackers failed to open the door, they fired several shots which passed right through the wood. His father shouted that he would open the door and Tehreek-e-Taliban irregulars, wearing black robes and black patkay turbans, entered with AK-47s. The squad leader pulled out a long knife and held it before his father.

"Choose one child who will serve Allah or they will all die."

"I don't know what you mean." Jahangir's father was aghast and his mother fell to the floor.

"Choose one to become shaheed. Which one is it to be? Quickly."

"You can't ask me to do that," his father pleaded.

Jahangir's mother was wailing and her tearful face almost unrecognisable. His sister Patasa had crawled under the bed. His older brother, Janan, stood weeping. Jahangir did not understand what the men were asking of his father, only that it must be awful.

"Then choose which is your favourite. Maybe we will let you keep him. Point to your favourite, or I kill them all. Choose now! You have run out of time."

Jahangir's father was much older than his wife; eventually he raised a wrinkled hand and pointed to Jahangir's older brother Janan.

"This is the one we will take," the squad leader said, gripping the terrified Janan by the shoulder. "You have offered your favourite to serve Allah."

Jahangir's father buried his face in his hands as Janan implored his captors to leave him be, his words almost incomprehensible. His mother tried to stop them, but was knocked to the floor by a Taliban fighter. Jahangir stood in the centre of the room watching the turmoil around him, paralysed by what was happening. The Taliban kidnapped four boys that night, driving them away in a white pickup and firing into the air.

Hoping that Janan would be found, they stayed two weeks at the madrassa. Enquiries were sent out to all the towns and villages in the region but otherwise the Pakistani military were powerless in the mountains. They returned to England without him.

A psychologist treated Jahangir and Patasa, while his mother became ever more withdrawn, consoling herself in her religion, and his father would explode over the slightest issue. Too anxiety-stricken even to speak, Jahangir had suffered the rebuke of his schoolmasters in silence.

"Yes, the Taliban raided the guesthouse," Jahangir confirmed. His pulse rate had climbed to ninety. "Is that high enough to stop?" he asked via the interpreter.

"You're doing very well," Mr Hornby told him, guessing his question and answering before the interpreter could speak, "considering we're discussing such difficult times."

Then Detective Elderberry spoke. "Your uncle's remains were discovered in a house used by the Taliban to train suicide bombers. We believe your brother was a suicide bomber there."

Jahangir's heart rate climbed further.

"Through your brother and uncle, you have a connection with suicide bombers in Pakistan," Smithwick said, "and we need to know exactly what that connection is. Border Control found explosives residues on your clothing. It seems that whatever you were doing in Pakistan for two years didn't involve dressing up as Little Bo Peep. Although, come to think of it..." Smithwick gestured at Jahangir's clothing.

"I was building a house with my uncle. My mother's brother."

Jahangir recalled his mother's greeting last night, embracing him at the door of the three-bedroom council flat, first in tears, then laughing and clapping to see how he had grown.

"May Allah be merciful! You have become a man!"

Patasa had rushed into the hallway, amazed that he was home, and joined in the hug. The stout woman from the airport who had driven him home, seeing them so happy, gave his mother instructions about sending Jahangir to school and bade them farewell.

"Where is father?" he had asked.

His mother had explained that his father was now living in a different house; his effects were in Jahangir's bedroom. As they made up the couch, Patasa whispered that their father had bought a second wife for £10,000. The bride was sixteen years old and from a Halimzai village in Mohmand Agency. Jahangir was not surprised; after all, his mother had been only fourteen when she had married his father, who was then in his early fifties. Now his father was not far off seventy. Such things weren't uncommon in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

"The Pakistan military tell us," said Detective Smithwick, "that your Uncle Khoshal, your father's brother, has been in contact with members of the Taliban ever since he fought with the mujahedeen during the Russian invasion, and so naturally they have had him under surveillance. They say you were seen in his company."

"It may have been my brother." Jahangir saw that the heart-rate monitor had reached one hundred and he felt a pounding in his throat. "You said my uncle and brother were connected."

"The Pakistan military are questioning your Uncle Mahwand. They say we will soon know the truth. If you know what I mean."

"My uncle is being tortured?" Jahangir demanded with fury, and at his outburst the heart-rate monitor surged to one hundred and ten beats per minute.

"Not by us. Your fellow countrymen, I'm afraid." Smithwick's thick fingers were interlaced over his large midriff. "I understand they can be quite brutal. Of course, if you play ball, we could contact them and it might go easier."

Jahangir knew that the military interrogators would most likely be Urdu-speaking Punjabis, with a Pakhtun there to translate, and so they were not quite his fellow countrymen, although it would be a waste of breath to argue with descendants of the Westerners who redrew the Afghan national boundaries.

"There is also the possibility that you will be extradited, to Pakistan or America, possibly even another country, for questioning," Detective Elderberry said. "In the meantime, we will be seeking a Control Order to monitor your movements. That would mean you are only allowed to go to school and nowhere else. And your house will be fitted with surveillance equipment."

"Judging from feedback so far, you won't enjoy this," Smithwick said.

Jahangir's uncle had explained that the police used certain basic tricks to persuade a weak person to confess. A simple lie about the welfare of loved ones or an imaginary trade-off for one's own safety: these were often enough when the subject was under duress. Time spent alone in a cell would usually make a person, when released, more than usually willing to co-operate, simply because humans are a herd species. If gentle tactics did not work, then the torture would begin. It could involve sensory deprivation over long periods, physical beatings, electric shocks, a plastic bag over the head, submersion under water, exposure to the elements, depriving someone of sleep or food or water, all accompanied by relentless questioning and hostility. Eventually the subject's resistance is broken. "Almost everyone breaks in the end," his uncle had said. His tone suggested he spoke from experience.

Jahangir knew too that the Pakistan military had no formal legal clout in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. It is unlikely the Malik, the intermediary between the Pakhtun tribes and the Pakistani government's Political Agent, would ever have handed his Uncle Mahwand over to the military. He had been kidnapped.

Outright lying was a standard police trick, his Uncle Khoshal had forewarned him: was his Uncle Mahwand really in custody?

His uncle's often-repeated advice was to deny everything. "I was building a house with my Uncle Mahwand."

"In that case, we have no choice but to take you to the station for further questioning," Smithwick said.

"Is he fit enough to be questioned, Mr Hornby?" Elderberry asked.

They were all looking at the heart-rate monitor, the display now showing one hundred and fifteen.

"If Jahangir was suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I am truly amazed by his recovery." Mr Hornby was tapping his pen on his notepad. "That someone with severe symptoms barely three years ago is now such a strong and robust individual is extraordinary. True, he shows a little anxiety, but then again so would anyone during police questioning. Entirely natural. Yes, in my view Jahangir is fit enough to be questioned at Scotland Yard. In comparison to an interrogation in Pakistan, I'm sure it is a very safe environment."

"Well, then. Come with us, Jahangir." The policemen signalled for Jahangir to stand.

Then an African woman burst through the door, holding a mobile phone to her ear; ringlets of her hair shook as she spoke. "Yes, they're about to lead him away. Two policemen." She thrust the phone at Detective Elderberry. Jahangir saw that her long fingernails were painted crimson. "Here! My husband wants to speak to you. He's a human rights lawyer. You might want to hear what he has to say. Better now than later in front of a judge."

Elderberry took the mobile phone from her chocolate-coloured hand and stared at the opposite wall in concentration. Smithwick watched, his expression souring, as though he could read bad news in his partner's expression.

"I can't believe you agreed to this," the woman hissed at Mr Hornby. "My husband and I will look at every possible way to have the school hauled up over this, and I don't hold much hope for your professional reputation, Miles. Whatever happened to putting child welfare first?"

"It wasn't a consultation, Tilda. Mr Wright simply agreed that I should accompany Jahangir while the police questioned him on an informal, voluntary basis. I used a heart-rate monitor to assess whether he was coping. All entirely legal."

"You allowed a Trauma Therapy student to be interviewed by two policemen? Voluntarily? I take it you have the written agreement of the student's parents, because you'll need it in court. And then used a basic heart-rate monitor as a lie detector? Are you insane?" The woman tore the clip from Jahangir's finger and slammed it onto the desk.

"For Christ's sake, Tilda! Wake up! It's terrorism! Innocent people are dying. If it was a lie detector, then you should have seen the spikes! These policemen are trying to save lives and it sounds like this boy could be a suicide bomber. These are special times, and special times require special rules."

"What rules? There's no rules anymore! And I don't see any explosives strapped to his midriff."

"This was an informal police interview," Mr Hornby said. "I was simply observing."

"And did you just now give them your go-ahead to take away a boy with PTSD for interrogation at Scotland Yard? If there is any emotional damage they will simply point the finger at us because you allowed it. You're a fool Miles, an utter fool."

"Excuse me, Miss, but we do have reasonable grounds. There is a distinct possibility," Detective Smithwick said, "that he was in the immediate vicinity when a senior US military adviser was assassinated."

"A distinct possibility he was in the vicinity? I think a court would want to see more compelling evidence. But you haven't formally arrested him, have you? You're too sneaky for that, aren't you? You'll tell the judge 'it was all purely voluntary'. So, make a formal arrest or leave."

Detective Elderberry had paled listening to the human rights lawyer. "You win. This time," he said, and passed the phone back. "Mr Hornby, thank you for your help. We will wait for further information to come through from Pakistan, but if there's evidence to suggest that Jahangir was not with his mother's uncle for those two years, we will certainly place Jahangir under a Control Order. In the meantime, Jahangir, don't leave London."

"Come," said the woman to Jahangir.

As he followed her out of the room, he glanced back at the translator and shrugged, mainly because she hadn't translated anything and Jahangir had no idea what was happening. Another woman saved him, he realised, walking along the school corridor. What would the Taliban make of it?

Most likely they'd shoot her too.

# Chapter 8: Kittens

In the Science Department annex, Frank handed out baby rabbits to the Trauma Therapy group. Reaching into a hutch, he passed a white rabbit kitten to Lorelei. It sat hunched on tiny footpads. A small aluminium clip was attached to the left ear of both the mother rabbits and their kittens, stamped with a letter and number. Lorelei stroked its fur with a finger; playing with the animals was part of the therapy.

"If you wanted, you could hold an even bigger bunny," Frank said, smiling.

Lorelei cupped the kitten in her hands. Its eyes barely open, it searched her fingers for a mother's nipple. She gently turned the baby rabbit on its back, which caused it to fall asleep. The boy from the Liberia, Nouhou, encouraged his kitten to make small hops on a desk.

Lorelei thought her kitten's ears were made of impossibly soft velvet. Who could even make this stuff? No wonder ancient peoples pondered about a supreme maker. The kitten was so light she might have been holding a small, warm cloud. Nuzzling its back, the white fur tickled her nose.

"I like them this small," she replied.

Lorelei recalled the tattooed passenger sitting in red-haired Peeko's car earlier that morning, and again saw the resemblance to Frank. She remembered the swish of Peeko's long leather coat in the shop and how he'd dealt so easily with Jonathan and his gang.

Her mobile rang and she noticed Frank holding his phone and smiling. So much for the Mr Urquhart ruse.

"I'm going to name mine 'Cloud Nine'," she said to Patasa.

Frank set about cleaning the cages, sweeping out droppings and refreshing the plastic water bottles.

"Mine's called 'Cotton Wool'," said Farrah, the Iraqi girl without the scarred face.

"That's what mine used to be called. Now it's 'Make-up Wipe'," said Patasa, rubbing the kitten against her cheek.

"'Snowflake'," said Jamail, the Iraqi girl's brother.

"Remember their tag numbers, otherwise how will you know which is which?" Frank asked. "They're identical."

"They'll know our voices when we call them," Lorelei said.

He shrugged. "I guess it won't matter which one comes to you."

"Do you have an older brother, Frank?" Lorelei asked. "A musician, maybe?"

"He's not a musician." Frank replaced the soiled newspaper and wood chips in a hutch.

"Shaved head, tattoos."

He nodded. "Could be. Where'd you see him?"

"Sitting in a car in Lyme Road."

"He's hired muscle."

"He was with a musician. Or a producer. From Hurt City Sounds."

"Maybe. I don't know." Frank began cleaning another hutch.

"Do you get paid for this?" Lorelei asked.

"I wish." The hutches were blue plastic with metal bars. "Look how the mother's nest has her fur in it. I have to be careful not to disturb that."

"Why do you do it?"

"I like it."

"Cleaning up poo?"

"Looking after things. I compost this out the back and put it on the Science Department's vegetable garden. It gets turned back into the carrots and lettuce that the rabbits eat."

"What are you doing with that poo? Don't touch it!"

"This isn't poo. It's the mum's cecotropes." Frank showed her the droppings. "Special poo from the mother that the babies eat." He picked the clumps of fecal matter from his fingers and placed them inside the hutch.

"What?"

"That's how the babies start eating. The cecotropes have the right bacteria in them. And the kittens like them so much they eat them straight from the mother's behind. Like yoghurt bars for baby rabbits."

"There's something to be said for strong silent types."

"Then we should go and see a movie someday." Frank gazed at her through his long fringe, holding a dustpan filled with soiled wood shavings.

"Someday," she said. Frank would soon look like his brother, although likely more human and less monster.

"Sunday's fine for me."

Lorelei took her rabbit kitten to a desk top, feeling Frank's light brown eyes watching her.

"Would you take mine back, Frank?" said Ainslie, the white boy in their group. Lorelei noted the desperation in his voice, and the shadow of relief that passed across his face when Frank took the kitten.

"All right, Ainslie?" Frank asked.

"I've got a rabbit at home. Can I donate it to the school?"

"I'll ask Professor Ash. Just one?"

"It's lonely. Since the other one died."

"I'll ask him."

Lorelei wondered why Ainslie hadn't wanted to hold a rabbit, and whether it had anything to do with the cigarette burns on his back. She remembered Mrs Brown had said that when children suffer abuse, they sometimes adopt the same behaviour towards animals, and later their own children. The cycle of abuse can continue for generations, and to break the cycle, you had to recognise the symptoms. The worst symptom was if it became fun to hurt something or someone. If that happened, you were meant to speak to Mrs Brown.

The students put the kittens into a big group on one table, where they snuggled each other and plodded around, or slept if they were turned onto their backs.

Mrs Brown walked into the room with the new boy, Jahangir. His traditional clothing contrasted starkly with his sun-darkened skin. His eyes were weirdly blue, Lorelei thought; the blue of the sea near the horizon. His brunette hair fell to his shoulders from beneath the turban thing on his head.

"Everyone," Mrs Brown said, "I want to you to meet a new member of our group: Jahangir. Did I pronounce your name right?" Jahangir didn't reply. "He's from Pakistan."

"He's my bruv. Just ignore him." Patasa then spoke to him in Pakhto.

"Why hasn't he been here with you before?" Mrs Brown was examining Jahangir's outlandish appearance with interest.

"He's been in the mountains helping our uncle build a new house. Plus some goat pens. Places to store women."

"Patasa, I'm sure that's not true. Is it?"

"What country was he in?" Ainslie asked.

"Would you like to hold a rabbit, Jahangir?" Mrs Brown said.

Patasa and Jahangir communicated back and forth and Patasa's tone became impatient.

"Pakistan," Patasa told Ainslie. "Next time listen."

"What's the matter?" Mrs Brown asked.

"He said, he had to kill hundreds of hares in the mountains so he doesn't want to play with a rabbit. Especially these weird-looking ones. He wants to know if they're even safe, with the tag on the ear. He thinks they might have something wrong with them."

Several of the students snickered; Lorelei noted Ainslie was nodding in agreement.

"That's a good start Jahangir, being honest about your feelings. You can join in later if you want to, but it's all right if you don't."

"Mrs Brown," Ainslie said, "is it OK if I don't play with them either? It doesn't feel... right."

"Of course it is, Ainslie. We'll have to think of some other fun things for you to do."

The therapy group began handing rabbit kittens to Frank to place back in the hutches. The two African girls were holding a large mother rabbit each. Frank matched the mothers with their kittens by the numbers stamped on the ear clips.

"A mother rabbit can tell which are her babies from the smell," Frank said. "They can adopt new babies too, but they'll get tired of adopting lots of new ones."

Lorelei noticed that Patasa and Jahangir were locked in conversation. Her brother had picked up one of the rabbit kittens after all, and was examining it as they spoke. It felt strange, hearing their foreign words there in the science room. It was not that different to her mother speaking Albanian to her minder, or the other students speaking in their first languages. Maybe it was just that Patasa was her best friend. Then she noticed Patasa was on the verge of tears.

"What's the matter?" Lorelei asked.

"Nothing. It's my brother. He's really in trouble."

"What? What happened?"

Patasa shook her head. "I have to go. If anyone asks, say I had to help my mum."

Lorelei nodded as Patasa wiped her eyes on her hijab and left the room.

"Did you know we are the original aliens?" Frank asked, holding a docile rabbit kitten against his cheek.

"It hasn't been in my science homework so far," Lorelei said. Frank was prone to saying bizarre things. "You think we come from outer space?"

"It must be how animals see us." He touched his nose against the pink nose of a kitten. "You know, hairless and pale, with weirdly big heads. We get out of flying machines and kill everything with powerful weapons. Killing and harvesting everything."

"I suppose so." Somehow Lorelei didn't think aliens would be as gentle as Frank was with the kitten.

"It's like we created the aliens in our own image. Here we have the rabbits tagged and in cages, just as if they were captured in a spaceship and being transported to some weird civilisation. For tests."

Maybe for the rabbits, Lorelei considered, we're like gods.

# Chapter 9: The Great Escape

The Lyme Road Warriors lounged against the school gates, waiting for Frank and Jahangir as they had threatened to do. The gang scanned the crowd like lions surveying a herd; all senses fine-tuned to discover weakness. Further on, the students fanned out into Lyme Road.

Concealed amongst the exodus, Jahangir heard classmates exchanging barbs. Others were locked in deep conversation with a friend, while a hunched few walked in some private storm.

He wasn't sure exactly what violence the black-clad gang would mete out, but Frank said he didn't want to be "skenged", whatever that was. Jahangir thought he could outrun them over a longer distance, but guessed Frank was quite tubby under his loose clothing and would almost certainly be skenged.

The gangsta tagged Young Retz scowled at a group of Muslim girls. Their robes billowed in the chill breeze. He returned to teasing a boy from a nearby primary school, who was boasting of his proficiency with a Glock pistol.

"Seventeen shot in de clip. Yeh. All to de head. I draw faster dan de cowboy."

"Banger," Jonathan said, "you shootin people from your Mum's window again?"

"Not wit bullets."

"You ever... fire dat at... a person?" asked Ologo in a childish voice.

"Mostly in de mirror. Sometime out de window."

"Pistole test flight you off a balcony," said a Pakistani boy named Mohammed. "You be like a fly in a school uniform."

"Better pack a parachute ... in your school backpack," Ologo said.

"Banger could use handkerchief," Mohammed said.

Jahangir thought an older member of the Lyme Road Warriors, Pistole, must have entrusted the weapon to him: if Banger was caught and didn't tell, no-one went to jail.

The group of Islamic girls passed through the gates and headed towards Lyme Road's shabby retail zone. Jahangir and Frank trailed them, each disguised under a borrowed abaya and niqab. Patasa had slipped out and brought the robes back to school. As boys mature later, Jahangir and Frank were no bigger than the girls ahead, although if the Lyme Road Warriors had looked closely, they would have noticed Jahangir's blue eyes peering through the slit in the niqab, or Frank's large trainers at the bottom of the abaya.

"You!" Jonathan shouted at Jahangir. "Stop!"

"Keep walking," Frank whispered. "Don't stop!"

"All new girls... must report!" Ologo said.

"Get over hair!" Jonathan launched himself off the fence and stood before them. "Bitches! I said, get hair!"

Frank and Jahangir stopped, not daring to look at him.

"When you get hair, new bitches?"

Heads bowed, Jahangir and Frank stared at the asphalt.

"Dis one hasn't even got tits," Jonathan told his gang, his hand grabbing Jahangir by the clothing on his chest. "Go. I said, go! I see you in a few years, yeh?"

Frank ran and Jahangir tried to catch up.

"Look at dem go... dey love you so!" Ologo laughed.

"Bitches don't ever obey, unless they fear de man," Jonathan said.

Jahangir had underestimated his friend's ability to sprint. No-one chased them, but Jahangir kept up all the same. Frank didn't stop until the Jamaican takeaway, and gasped stooped-over, hands on knees. Jahangir noticed that the inside of the shop was a wonderful pale green. The specials board advertised a single dish scrawled in barely decipherable chalk: "Salt Lime Cod." Jahangir only understood the word "salt".

"We can't do this... every day, can we? Damn, I thought you had... money," Frank wheezed. He patted his chest. "I thought he was going to grab the hamburger fat. Anyway, I live just over there." Frank gestured southeast of the Farm Estate towers. "Which way are you going?"

Jahangir nodded toward the west.

"Let's meet tomorrow morning. Say quarter to nine. I'll have to think of a way out of this. But until I do, we'll have to sneak in and out. Ask your sister if we can keep using the disguise."

Frank trudged away, the abaya blowing against his legs, and Jahangir continued along Lyme Road. The running had caught him up to Patasa and together they made their way between the looming blocks of Farm Estate.

Each tower was twenty-storeys high. Iridescent, spray-painted murals and tags jostled for predominance on the lower walls of the five buildings. Many pictures were arresting, even astonishing, with their bright, hard-line designs. A few depicted hooded figures with exaggerated weapons silhouetted against psychedelic backgrounds. Some pictures were of fantasy monsters, others photo-realist portraits. One showed cartoon caricatures of deceased residents floating up the tower block wall holding balloons. The people who painted them knew how to mountain-climb, Jahangir thought, glancing up the sheer walls.

The sun peeked between the clouds and the tall towers cast great shadows onto each other, as though leaning on a neighbour. It illuminated the colour-palette of cars parked between the buildings. At each stairwell huddled groups of residents: young men wearing black hoodies, mothers with children at their sides, even a few old men gesticulating with walking sticks. None glanced at two Islamic girls making their way home from school; the black robes and headgear were familiar to every resident.

"Exactly why did Father leave?" Jahangir spoke in Pakhto.

"You know how messed up we were." Patasa answered in English, but reiterated in Pakhto when Jahangir became confused. "One night he came home and said he was getting married again. That's what they do out there, innit? Like the boss goat. Lots of girl goats. He bought a new wife from Mohmand Agency. Hadn't even seen her. She sixteen, you know. I was surprised, but then not so surprised, yeh? Mum was always at the mosque. Prayers instead of 'ooh ahh' comin from the bedroom, yeh? But Mum was going to dead em if that girl stepped inna house. We haven't seen him since. So much for the four-wife rule."

"Have you met her?"

"What? She come near me, bitch is dead. This a tough area. Not like your Mohmand Agency."

"She was sold by her father or brother."

"Then maybe I should kill them. It's all the blokes, innit? Sellin off daughters. Happens to the best of us."

Jahangir smiled. "You're a kaffir."

"Kaffir or goat, kaffir or goat? Tough career choice, right, bruv? I wear this hoodie hijab so Mum don't batter me, but when I get away from this constant threat of murder, it's coming off. I'm having nothing to do with them. They'd just put me in a pen and feed me hay."

"Some things are good."

"Yeh? Like what?" Patasa asked. "We go out to Mohmand Agency to find our roots, all our wonderful traditions. And what the fuck happens? What did the West ever do to me that was as evil as what those fuckers did? Nada, bruv, nada. Did you even know my own parents sold me? And I hear we went out there to get me a new owner because the last one died. Double the money, yeh? None of which I ever see."

Jahangir was about to say he'd never had to dress up as his sister to escape a gang, but recalled that the inspiration had come from the disguise the Tehreek-e-Taliban often used: strapping explosives onto a shaheed under a chadri. And there were criminal gangs in Kyber Pahktunkhwa too. But mostly they wore military uniforms.

And what were the good things about the Pakhtun? His uncle had told him that the Pakhtun were warriors who once slaughtered tens of thousands of invading British troops. "We were like a wall of stone, the British said about us." Exacting vengeance was a fundamental principle of Pakhtunwali, the Pakhtun code of honour. This could be a good thing or a bad thing. A whole village could be caught up in bloodshed against their neighbours that began with an imagined slight decades before. Jahangir knew his uncle had planned their escape carefully because the families, clans, and the Taliban itself, each would want revenge. On the other hand, the principle of vengeance ensured mutual respect and politeness, which no police force ever did.

"We were avenged," Jahangir told his sister.

"What? You killed them?" Patasa sounded impressed.

"It's complicated."

"Yeh? Like how?"

"The madrassa was destroyed by a Hellfire. Everyone in it died."

His sister walked in silence, and then said, "So it was the Americans who avenged us. The West. The kaffirs."

"The missile killed Janan and Uncle Khoshal. And the imam and his students. And some women and children."

"Where were you?"

"With Uncle Mahwand."

"Then how do you know so much?"

"Some of it was in the newspaper. Other parts, people told me."

"That's not vengeance. I'm not sure it's even justice, bruv. It was extermination. So, now you taking on the US army?"

"There are other things to worry about."

"That, I can see. Now that you're dressed as a woman, you'll have to learn how to live like one of us Pakhtun. Can't go to school in case everyone finds out we're smarter than most men. I should dress up as a man, so people will think it's OK that you're even outside the house."

Jahangir had to acknowledge the contrast with the West was stark. His uncle had explained that the purdah of the Pakhtun was far stricter than anything prescribed by the Qur'an. "In the Qur'an women are equal to men and free," Uncle Khoshal had said. "The Pakhtun have a very strict purdah because it was necessary to survive in the distant past. We excelled at raiding, kidnapping, and taking tolls from caravans. And it wasn't just foreigners we preyed on. Why else would our women be confined behind ten-foot high walls? They aren't there to keep out leopards. The fundamentalists are shocked by the freedom of women in the West but, in the short time since getting that freedom, Western women have achieved extraordinary things. Yet our men still cannot be trusted with women. That is why we have purdah."

Jahangir's family lived just outside Farm Estate, in a street lined with dilapidated Victorian terraces. The houses had all been divided into several flats, and acquired by the local Council. They had a first-floor flat, and were house proud of the baroque Victorian ceiling rose and cornices in the old main living room. Their fireplace had been blocked off, but the surround was still there, topped with a pink-granite mantel. In the flats around them were families from Iraq, Iran and Somalia. All Islamic, they all communicated in a rudimentary Arabic. Observing the long robes of the neighbouring women, Jahangir wondered whether their ancestors had been caravan robbers too.

Patasa unlocked the front door to the stairwell, where Jahangir removed the abaya and niqab he was wearing.

"Could I keep them for tomorrow?"

"What? You want underwear as well?"

He rolled his eyes.

"How're you going to handle the LRW?"

"Frank said he'd think of something."

"They're nutters who kill people. No-one speaks out 'cause they dead snitches. When the Feds catch them, they don't mind doing time. Frank's plan better have lots of zeroes."

Jahangir didn't think either Frank or he would have enough money to placate the gang, judging from their expensive clothing.

"No money, bruv? Then you better go hide up in the mountains again. Wait a minute, there's no mountains in England. Or, maybe just the one. You could ask for directions."

Climbing the stairs and unlocking the door to the apartment, they found their mother in tears. Her dark brown hair tied in a bun was visible because a head covering is not necessary when with mahram, the close family. She wore no makeup, and her green eyes were edged with pink.

"What's the matter, Mum?" Patasa asked.

"My brother Mahwand went out to work in the fields and never came home. His wife thinks he was kidnapped by the Afridis in the next valley."

The police had told the truth, Jahangir realised. The military do have Uncle Mahwand. If he talked during torture, Jahangir would be handed over to the Americans. That is, if the LRW hadn't skenged him first. He knew what his uncle would say: Pakhtunwali honour was the only way. He felt the symptoms of his old anxiety returning, and his limbs tingled with a nameless fear.

# Chapter 10: Kahve

"where r u" Lorelei texted Patasa.

"looking 4 my mental bruv"

"why"

"in disguise. can't tell which one he is"

"disguise?!?"

"tell you tonight x"

Veiled girls spoke in Middle Eastern languages as they made their way to their bus stop, or the tube station, or into Lyme Road Estate. Some had faces covered by niqabs while others wore the full chadri. A few refused to speak English if Lorelei was nearby and had said they didn't like blonde white girls. She should be a kaffir slave, a robed girl once told her. Mathematics didn't care what colour she was, or what religion. It didn't even care that her father was a Swedish paedophile. Even so, walking with them might have provided safety in numbers.

Jonathan and his gang lounged at the school entrance, adorned in gang regalia. Mentally, Lorelei prepared to fend them off, to ignore the insults and keep walking. When Jonathan merely nodded, relief shimmered through her.

Ologo had a much smaller boy in a headlock, who cried out in an unusually loud voice, "Batter! I come for you, bruv."

"His Mum might smoke ya," Jonathan said.

"My Glock smoke you," the boy squealed.

The LRW boys laughed and punched his arms.

Ahead were two girls Lorelei didn't recognise. Hidden under niqabs the group looked like multi-coloured Christian nuns; some even waddled like penguins. Did Christian nuns get their costumes from the Islamic women the Crusaders saw? Mr Urquhart said there were old women in the remote mountains of Portugal who hoed tiny fields dressed in black, their heads hidden under long shawls.

Jonathan molested one of the two girls and they ran. Lorelei realised that one was Patasa's brother in his disguise and the other was - Frank!

Peeko's promise to listen to Jonathan's rap music had kept her safe. Everyone else, the school and the police, were powerless against the LRW. Even though almost everyone knew they were responsible for several Estate murders.

In the retail sprawl along Lyme Road, she noticed Peeko sitting on the low fender of his black sports car, waiting for her. There was little hope he would let her walk by without speaking. Trying her best not to look at him, somehow their eyes met and at that precise moment he said, "You're that girl in the shop this morning. Could you give me directions?" There was no way she could pretend she hadn't heard him, even with dance music blaring in her ear buds.

Lorelei glanced around, seeking out Frank's brother, but he wasn't there. "Where're you going?" She took out one ear bud.

"First, introductions," he said. "I'm Peeko."

"Lorelei."

"A pretty name. Where does it come from?"

Lorelei knew where it came from. It was clear he didn't want directions, and she began to walk.

"I'm trying to find a cafe called 'Kahve'."

Longreach Street. "Just around the corner. Over there."

"I couldn't see it. Could you take me?"

Glancing about for people she might know, she was unsure what to say.

"Look at all these security cameras. What can happen?" Peeko said, smiling.

It was true about the cameras.

"And maybe you owe me one from this morning. Show me the cafe, and we'll call it square."

Lorelei couldn't detect any malevolence in his expression; quite the opposite: he appeared trustworthy. Nothing could happen walking around the corner, could it?

"I've heard they sell the best baklava in London. Have you tried it, you being a local? An article in Time Out raves about it, and I thought to myself, 'You only live once, so I'll go down to Lyme Road, come what may'."

She strived to detect something suspicious about him.

"And to walk there with the most beautiful girl in London," he said. His eyes were the colour of green sapphires. "What a lovely day that would be."

His fine nose and strong jaw made him appear essentially decent, even honest and, here in Lyme Road, that had to be wrong. Yet, there could be no harm leading him into Longreach Street; she was almost going that way anyway. And, as he said, they would be even.

Lorelei nodded.

Hefting himself off the gleaming black fender, Peeko revealed the car's logo, a prancing black horse on a field of yellow. They walked on a pavement stained an earthy grey-brown, and the rustle of his long leather coat was swallowed by cars rushing homeward.

He held out his elbow for her to hold. "Old world courtesy?"

She shook her head.

"I'm all for the modern ways, too. Did you know that we're walking on the wrong sides? I should be on the side closest to the road, in case a horse cart splashes mud all over us. At the moment, you would be the one who caught it. But I suppose that's equality."

Lorelei thought instead it would enable her to escape through the traffic as best she might.

Students binged in the takeaway shops. Afterwards they would waddle home and baulk at mother's cooking, which might be goat stewed in palm oil with crushed peanuts, or hot-lime dried fish cooked in coconut milk, or even a searing vindaloo served with chapattis. A frozen supermarket dinner usually awaited Lorelei. Tonight her mother would be at home.

"I hope those guys weren't giving you too much stick. Some of them have hidden talent. Hidden under the violence. The culture. Trouble is, it will be another ten years before they grow out of it. If they come over on Saturday, I'll give them a good talking to. Have you heard their rap?"

Lorelei nodded.

"Any good?"

She shrugged, as though to say, "Maybe. Sometimes."

At the corner of Longreach a red double-decker bus turned, a bare hand-span from their faces, with the conductor gripping a chrome pole in the open back entrance. Several African boys outside a shop called out to him, and he shouted a reply.

"Are you musical, Lorelei?"

She shook her head.

"Some people aren't. Some people are good at sport. Others are good at business. Me, I'm better at music than business. That's why I sign these kids."

"Do you play instruments?" Lorelei asked, wondering if he played in a band.

"My Dad wanted me to be a concert violinist. His ticket to respectability. He likes opera. But I rebelled. You know how it goes. I took up the guitar at fifteen and started writing songs and busking. Now I sell songs and introduce new bands to record companies."

"You're not a popstar yourself?"

Peeko pointed to his head. "Red hair. Discrimination. But there's a downside to being a star. You play the same hit song over and over until you wish someone in the audience would shoot you and let you rest in peace. Except your record company would love it too much. More sales. I let someone else churn them out every weekend."

Lorelei was impressed. "How many songs have you written?"

"Too many," he laughed. "But only a few have made money. To write a good song, you have to write three or four songs that all join up. With a different melody for the verse and chorus, but also lots of hooks, and those can be another voice, a guitar or bass, or a mixture of all different instruments. Then you need a catchy rhythm. All joined up into one beautiful song. Lyrics is where rappers earn their keep."

Longreach Road was lined with fresh bread shops, takeaways and grocers that reflected the diverse local population. Several hundred metres further along was Kahve, a Turkish cafe. Young professional culture-addicts and traditional Turks sat side-by-side on small tables in the street, chatting over tiny ceramic cups of coffee flavoured with cardamom, nutmeg or cinnamon.

"You really haven't been here before? Come and try the baklava. One taste and you might even become a regular."

The bare-wood exterior was alluring. She followed Peeko through oak-framed glass doors and onto the polished floorboards inside. The interior was beautiful; the ambience soothing. An open kitchen was visible behind a timber counter. Plump Turkish women, flour-powdered and wrapped with multi-coloured headscarves, were making baklava. Lorelei watched them roll superfine dough. Modular ceramic lamps hung low over tables and chairs sourced from some inexorably shrinking rainforest.

"With rap music," Peeko said, the musk tones of his aftershave wafting across the table, "you can have a fairly ordinary verse over a mesmerising riff. The rappers have the words, and the producer puts their vocals through a compressor. Then creates the riff, adds distorting effects, like gunshots, and delays on notes. Other voices. That's my specialty."

"You prefer rap music?"

"It's what the market wants. It can be good. It depends on how creative and fresh it is. Who are your favourite musicians?"

"Um... Jessie J, Adele. Some others. Who do you like?"

"You'll laugh. Mozart, Schubert, Richard Strauss, Bacharach, Drake, Coldplay." Peeko smiled. "Almost anyone with song-writing genius."

"The Beatles?" Lorelei knew her mother liked the Beatles.

"And The Stones. Both were great in their time. You drink coffee?"

Lorelei shook her head.

"Hot chocolate or a soft-drink? Lemonade?"

"Lemonade."

Peeko spoke to the woman at the counter. Lorelei thought the colour of his leather coat matched the wood. His short red hair was startling, even in the dim light. He placed a ceramic plate piled with baklava before her. A waitress brought his Turkish coffee, and a heavy glass of hand-pressed, cloudy lemonade for Lorelei. She could barely believe how good it tasted.

"Turkish lemons. Can you taste the difference?" Peeko said. "Our challenge is to decide what's the best baklava in the pile." He sniffed at his tiny cup of coffee. "Ground pistachios and cardamom. You like pistachios? Try that baklava with the crunched up green nuts on top."

Lorelei bit into the syrup-sodden pastry; the residue stuck to her fingers. She'd noticed baklava in the supermarket, but never tasted any. These were divine. Two dusty women in the kitchen spread a sheet of yufka using long thin rolling pins. Another was mixing a viscous liquid in a stainless steel bowl. Lorelei couldn't understand what they were saying; joking in Turkish, she supposed.

"One of my bands is rehearsing a new song right now. Occasionally I go along to see how they're getting on. But I've been talking non-stop about me. How about you? What's your favourite subject at school?"

"Maths." Lorelei recalled the Trauma Therapy group and playing with the white rabbits but decided to say nothing about it. "I could let you hold a much bigger bunny," Frank had said.

"Try these ones." Peeko pointed at another baklava. "Almonds, hazelnuts and cinnamon. I was hopeless at maths. I should have been good at schoolwork, I suppose, but you know what it's like. If you don't have street cred, you're dead."

That was true.

"I made music at home. Didn't tell anyone. An old Apple with Cakewalk and a Digibox. That was when almost no-one was digital. Tell me, what do you do when you're not at school?"

Peeko had a warm smile, although it might have been the contrast with his normal expression, which could be quite intimidating. The look you developed to survive anywhere within a mile of Lyme Road; a jaded humourlessness, always looking for the catch.

"My Mum works late, and we don't have TV. I do maths problems. Can't do them at school."

"No way." Peeko's expression was conspiratorial. "When I went to your school, the music room had a few broken old instruments in a cupboard, and the teacher would tell us about time signatures. And after all the violin exams, I knew more than she did about music. The old bat's probably still there."

"You went to Lyme Road? Maybe you should come along and teach music."

Peeko smiled. "Give you all a lesson on how to write an anthem. But I can't promise everyone a record contract."

"The teachers are afraid of the LRW. You're not."

"The youngz?" Peeko waved the idea away.

"They think they might get stabbed, so we end up learning nothing."

Peeko sipped his coffee. "You do well in exams?"

"Not too well, if you know what I mean." At that moment, she realised Peeko was contemplating her beauty, the looks that excited the LRW boys. Lorelei chose another piece of baklava. Glancing up, she saw he had regained his hard edge.

"Maybe the music will keep them busy," he said.

Most Lyme Road students were from the Farm Estate tower blocks; each molded by a culture that lauded sub-intelligence and violence. The girls in Lorelei's Religion Studies class had said that under Sharia law the gangstas would have had their hands cut off, been publicly whipped and likely have been stoned to death.

With a passing cloud, the light from the cedar-slat blinds dimmed and the remaining pieces of baklava lost their appeal. It was as though the pastry could only be fresh for half an hour.

"My new band is rehearsing at the Emporium. They're actually quite good."

"Emporium?"

"That old pub on the South Road? With the windows painted black?"

She nodded. "What are they called?"

"Terror Vector."

"What?"

Peeko smiled. "A 'terror vector' is how a crowd moves after panic sets in. Terrorists study them to maximise damage. If they were setting off several bombs, the first one will attract a lot of attention, the second will kill the bystanders, and another may go off in A&E. Security forces study terror vectors to manage crowds, say when evacuating people from a building or even a city. They have to prevent stampedes, which cause deaths. I've written some good songs for them. How about we stop by the Emporium for half an hour, then I drop you home?"

Lorelei thought about it. She had never seen a live band before. Not a rock band. It was still the afternoon and Peeko was definitely a proper musician; the LRW knew who he was. Most importantly, as long as she didn't stay long, her mother would never find out.

"You'll like their music. I wrote it."

She shook her head. Too risky.

"No problem. Well, thanks for showing me the way here." Peeko stood up, thanking the staff out loud, something she would never have had the confidence to do. The Turkish women smiled and waved.

On Longreach Road, Peeko's immaculate clothing appeared absurdly expensive, making Lorelei feel underdressed in her tracksuit and trainers. Further along, Lorelei saw that a crowd of LRW had gathered, including some of the older members. They crowded around their leader Botship, infamous for the number of teardrops tattooed onto his cheeks.

"You sure you won't let me drop you home?" Peeko asked.

"OK." Now it seemed the safest option.

On the way to his car, Peeko hailed Retz from across the road. She recognised Jonathan, Ologo, Mohammed and Mustafa standing at the periphery.

Pedestrians turned as she passed in Peeko's open-top car. It was a Ferrari she read on the logo, a car most people only ever glimpsed on TV. For all the hype, Lorelei didn't like the wind in her hair.

Located a few miles to the east, she didn't often see the Emporium; its flaking faux-marble pillars and worn gilded finish were an echo from Victorian times. Lorelei had always imagined the windows were blackened because it was unoccupied, but there was a billboard outside listing upcoming events and Terror Vector was listed to play on Saturday night. Peeko explained that it was a disco and club for many years, before becoming so decrepit it was fit only for new bands and mosh-pits of underage drinkers.

Inside, Lorelei noted the surfaces and fixtures, dilapidated as though the hallway itself had been a terror vector for the past century. They entered the main hall through a set of matt-black doors, its floor sticky from beer spill. The walls and high ceiling were also matt-black, as was the industrial-strength exhaust venting. Small, bright lights lit the stage where a band plinked at instruments. Without proper lighting and dressed in street clothes, the musicians appeared duller and smaller than she thought they should.

"Peeko!" one of the band called out. "Just in time, dude."

"Play the new one," Peeko said, and grinned at Lorelei.

The band launched into an indie pop song. Multi-vocal harmonies decorated a soulful melody; intertwined adornments came from the lead guitar and bass. An acoustic guitar and short sharp drumming provided the rhythm. It was a song about losing something old and finding something new, where the new thing reminded you of the old, and maybe you even chose the new because it looked like the old. Especially when it comes to love.

Lorelei had never been in love, as much as she was curious to experience its mysterious power. She thought the song extraordinarily beautiful and nodded with the music, drawn in by the contrasting guitar riffs and vocals.

Peeko ran forward and climbed onto the stage. Taking a spare guitar, he accompanied them, and gave the song still more depth, more appeal.

Alone on wooden floorboards that had borne a million scuffling shoes in ever-changing styles, she too wanted to climb onto the stage. Not so much because she had been abandoned, but more she wanted to participate. She drifted closer, and when the song finished with a final "chang", Peeko leapt down before her.

"What do you think?"

"Amazing! Really amazing!" It was something she would love to be part of, but knew there was no way she could contribute. She was a fourteen-year-old from a housing estate who'd never touched a musical instrument.

"They're great, aren't they?"

Peeko shouted to the band: "Remember, I said I'd get you something special?"

They gave a small cheer.

"Peeko always delivers! Backstage!"

The band left their instruments and filed off, disappearing behind the black backdrop.

"Come too," Peeko said to Lorelei softly. "I have a reward for them. It'll only take a few minutes and afterwards we'll get you home."

She followed him through a grime-dark door, and along an ancient corridor of peeling paint, to a room where the band members sprawled on threadbare armchairs and beanbags leaking polystyrene beads. The small window was so filthy it might have been whitewashed.

Am I their reward? Lorelei worried, and yet she continued forward.

Peeko knelt before a laminated coffee table in the centre of the room, gesturing for Lorelei to sit on a beanbag beside him. From his jacket he pulled a plastic bag filled with a crumbly grey powder and lowered it before them. The band stared as though it were a rare and precious cargo, mesmerised by the contents.

"Totally evil," the longhaired lead singer declared. A soul patch of dark whiskers under his lower lip relieved his pale face. "You've come through big time, Peek."

"Where the hell did you score?" the lead guitarist asked, his blonde hair swept up into a Mohican and close cropped at the sides. He had dagger-shaped sideburns and, above a hairline moustache, silver rings in the flanges of his nose.

One of the guitarists picked up an acoustic guitar and began strumming a blues riff, peppering the music with exaggerated note bends and the thud of fingers against the guitar body.

"There's a drought on. But you get this," the drummer said, his muscular arms tattooed. His pockmarked face was offset by small, round spectacles tinted pink.

"A friend of mine makes sure I lack for nothing. And this is special. So pure it couldn't hurt a baby." Peeko's smile curled with self-satisfaction. "Unless you overindulge."

"Always wanted to try it," the lead singer said.

"Bring it on," said the guitarist with the Mohican.

"Let's do it."

Retrieving a biro, Peeko pulled out the ink tube and passed the hollow pen to the lead singer. Then he fashioned furrows into a sheet of tinfoil and spooned a little of the grey powder into each. Tilting the foil downward, he held a lighter beneath it, and the powder melted and bubbled forward. The lead singer leant forward and sucked the vapour through the pen.

"Hold it in," Peeko said.

Lorelei watched with both horror and fascination. He gasped; his eyes boggled as though he had inhaled something lethal and death had taken him by surprise. The very portals of an afterlife shone in his face.

"Too, too perfect." He sagged back into the armchair whispering to himself as though reciting some obscure poem.

Peeko treated the band to the drug, the rush astonishing each in turn. When he had finished sedating them, he faced Lorelei.

"It's a reward for working so hard. I'm going to have a little too. Would you like to try some? It is very special."

"Is it addictive?"

"Not if you only have it once. That's the secret." Peeko passed her the pen.

She was surprised at how little misgiving she felt as she took the tube and held it over the already blackened tinfoil. She remembered something her mother had once said about lemmings, but the thought evaporated as she felt the pen in her mouth.

"Breathe out first, then breathe in as it boils."

Inhaling, she thought that maybe this wasn't a good idea, but then a barrage of pure happiness hit her like a truck smashing her down on the street. The collision had left her spirit standing there in the road, ecstatic, while her limp body flopped lifeless and heavy on the verge, as though she had separated from a physical anchor that had only ever caused her pain. On the beanbag she gasped in short breaths. Unable to speak, she watched as Peeko slipped the bag of powder into his coat pocket. Scrunching the tinfoil into a ball, he stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. Trapped on the beanbag, with each limb weighing a ton, it dawned on her that Peeko hadn't used any himself.

"Good, isn't it? Come on, I've got to take you home."

Lorelei didn't really care about home as he lifted her into his arms, and she felt a wash of love pass through her, feeling her beating heart so close to his body, or was it just the pulse in her neck? Her mother would see her like this, but nothing mattered anymore. She could almost smell the hard muscle of his shoulder pressing into her face, and she half-laughed because she had dribbled over his coat.

"Almost there. Almost there." Peeko left the band somewhere back in the maze of dark corridors, and carried her into a bar room. The large men there were grinning, almost as though they had been expecting her.

At the front, she recognised Frank's brother, but couldn't look at the other men. With a roar of delight they congratulated Peeko. He slumped her into an ancient armchair, the green leather so worn it was suede in places, and her tracksuit-clad limbs spilt over its fat arms. The tattooed white men gathered round as though to examine a prize, and right before her stood a much older man. Radiating authority, his head and jaw were large and his face as webbed as a map. With silver hair cropped short as though he was once in the military, he bristled with malevolence.

Despite her crippling confusion she recognised her former father, Valon. Even as panic exploded within her, it was suppressed beneath a wave of euphoria.

"Lorelei! My Lorelei!" he whispered. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

# Chapter 11: Uzi Nine Millimetre

From Meadow Tower, a slim figure watched the Oast House Tower opposite. The Lyme Road Warriors lounged on the railings of the second floor balcony there, clothed in black and adorned with silver chains. Hidden beneath a niqab, the robed Muslim was just another shadow on the brown brick walls of Farm Estate.

Disguised in his sister's clothes, Jahangir had watched the LRW over the past hour. Voices of the louder drug-dealers were audible over the drone of cars, the occasional alarm and distant sirens, although Jahangir did not understand the Tower-Block-Jamaican slang. He'd spent countless nights in the mountains stalking goats, but here he didn't have a proper weapon to conclude the hunt. While he thought he knew where one might be, getting it would be impossible.

Of the five dealers on the balcony, three were tall and muscular and in their late teens. Jonathan and Ologo were the smaller members and spat rap to pass time. All wore black puffas and jeans, black beanies, silver chains and driven-snow trainers. On the ground floor, a sixth gangsta vetted people taking the stairs; his hand appeared be on a weapon in his pocket. If he didn't know someone, he stopped them. In the past hour, Jahangir had watched as two interlopers were punched until they made off.

Jahangir had left the flat at just after eleven o'clock. His mother and sister didn't stir as he slipped on the clothes he had used to avoid the LRW at the school gates. Coiling the bathroom clothesline, he slipped it into his partag trousers. His uncle had counselled him to take rope everywhere. "What is it for? Too many things to name!" From the kitchen he took one of his mother's knives.

It hadn't taken long to find the gangstas in the Farm Estate, and had heard them long before he saw them. He watched as customers made their way up the stairs: poverty-stricken "wastemen" and brightly-dressed modern-day rakes; provocatively-attired prostitutes and downbeat mothers; teenagers from various subcultures and even a damaged pre-teen. Most appeared to live on Farm Estate, although a few customers drove into the car park then vanished again with their dose of happiness. Payment was taken at the second floor landing; the drugs were supplied from an apartment further along.

Jahangir remembered his uncle's explanation of how the Taliban became popular in many districts across Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

"They cannot be corrupted. No bribes or pay-offs. This is their signature. 'Taliban' means 'student' in Pakhto. Decades ago in Kandahar, a local military commander kidnapped two girls to be his sex slaves. Mullah Omar gathered his religious students together and attacked the military base, freeing the girls and leaving the commander hanging from a tank gun barrel. After the American invasion, the Taliban fled into the mountains of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. There they killed all the bandits and drug traffickers, and this made them very popular.

"The problem is the Taliban followers. Once they start, they can't stop killing. And their interpretation of the Qur'an is extreme to justify all the killing. The murder of Shiites and government officials, the suicide bombs destroying innocent Muslims, the murder of women teachers and those who refuse the seclusion of purdah. Most imams consider these killings haram."

A small boy in an oversized black hoodie darted from the Oasthouse Tower stairwell and ran across the car park. A gangsta called out, "Quickly Banger, yeh!" and the boy increased his pace. Jahangir thought he must have been hidden in the stairwell, as he hadn't noticed him.

The boy summoned the lift below and soon after entered an apartment on the next floor above. Jahangir climbed the stairs and waited in the shadows. A minute later the apartment door opened and, when the boy came running back, he almost collided into Jahangir, stunned that a Muslim girl should be before him armed with a knife.

The boy reached for a pistol tucked into his jeans, but Jahangir pressed the kitchen knife into his ribs to the point of drawing blood. Banger gave in. Jahangir tugged the pistol out of the boy's black jeans, cocked it and pressed the barrel into his chest.

"If shout, I shoot," Jahangir whispered. His voice hadn't yet broken, but he tried to make it even higher, like a girl's.

"Fuck you."

"Life be very short."

With the barrel crown pressed against the boy's head, Jahangir walked him to the stairwell landing and tied and gagged him. In the boy's pocket he discovered a plastic bag crammed with sachets of grey powder, but no ammunition. Wiping his prints from the bag and dropping it, he coiled what remained of the clothesline and tucked it into his partag pocket.

In Mohmand Agency, his uncle's friend Bazir had let him use several pistols. Some Bazir had collected during the Russian occupation of Afghanistan. Many were replicas, handmade in a workshop near Peshawar. Jahangir had fired a Glock 17 copy in Mohmand Agency; the pistol in his pocket was lighter as it had many polymer components that the Peshawar gunsmiths replicated in metal. "Remember, if you rush you will miss," his uncle had said, "and what is a bullet worth if it saves your life?"

Ejecting the magazine, Jahangir counted nine rounds. With one in the chamber he had ten shots. Uncle Khoshal, quoting one of his favourite Pakhto writers, said a pistol was the best present you can give a Pakhtun. Here, now, in the Meadow Tower, it was a gift from above.

"If you not quiet, I come back. Short life."

The boy wriggled in a half-hearted protest, pride getting the better of good sense, but Jahangir judged he wouldn't make enough noise to cause a problem.

Descending the stairs, Jahangir stayed within the patchwork of shadows beneath the tower blocks.

"Banger! Where that crazy younger?"

Jahangir heard one of the gangstas say something about Banger's addict mother singing him nursery rhymes and there was laughter.

Most of the cars in the car park were in the final phases of inbuilt obsolescence. Rubbish of every imaginable type littered the ground: discarded clothing, kitchen appliances, food packaging from several takeaway outlets, supermarket plastic bags, and even blood-filled syringes. Most of it had been thrown down from the balconies.

Reaching into a pocket for the banknotes he'd kept back from his mother, Jahangir flashed them at the stairwell entrance. Under a hoodie, the whites of the guard's eyes fixed on him. A heavy silver neck chain gleamed yellow under the bug-filled light in the stairwell. Just like the guard standing before him, Jahangir's right hand was on the pistol in his pocket.

"What you want, bitch?" The tall gangsta appeared surprised by the appearance of an Islamic girl.

"Banger! Where de fuck are you?" An impatient voice cried from above.

"Hashish," Jahangir said.

"Hash?" The large teenager glanced at the money and waved Jahangir up the stairwell. "Only de weed."

He calmed his breathing as his uncle had taught him, counting three breaths in, and two out, to slow his heart rate. "Anxiety will make your hands jerky, and less accurate." Climbing to the second floor, five LRW drug dealers were waiting to take his money. Graffiti tags covered the walls: six-foot-high fonts in brilliant reds and greens and highlighted with silver. It was in an almost illegible yet beautiful writing, notating the names of the gangsta residents. At the base of the colourful letters were spray-painted black silhouettes of gangstas holding military-style weapons.

"Da fuck, a Muslim bitch?" said one of the larger gangstas. Below the heavy silver chain around his neck, the butt of a pistol showed from a studded belt.

"Hashish," Jahangir spoke in a high pitch, "for uncle. Sick."

"Uncle's sick!" Jonathan said. "Fucking take him to a doctor, stupid bitch!"

"De weed, it... a medicine, yeh." Ologo was nodding at the thought. "I use it for... everyting."

"Since when do Muslim girls go out in de night to score?" said one of the larger gangstas.

"This a fact, innit." Ologo leered at Jahangir's robes, his suspicion showing in a snarl. "Muslim girls never... out on dey own."

"Which block you live in?" Jonathan asked. "Answer, bitch, or I smack you."

"Hashish," Jahangir extended his handful of banknotes.

A door further along the balcony opened and a fierce-eyed whore stomped out, walking unsteadily.

Jahangir slipped out the Glock.

"The fucking hot-head!" Jonathan said, more to himself than anyone else.

Jahangir shot two of the large men in the chest, one after the other as they stood frozen with indecision. The third large gangsta he shot as he fumbled for a weapon tucked into the back of his jeans. Jonathan, he shot in the side of the head when the boy lurched forward to grab at Jahangir's weapon. He shot Ologo in the forehead where he stood, punching numbers into his mobile phone. His body flipped backwards over the railings and fell to the car park.

Five rounds left.

The crack whore froze in her pumps.

Jahangir's ears rang. It didn't matter about the shells: his fingerprints weren't on them. They might even have the boy's prints on them.

In a matter of minutes, he knew, the police would arrive. The sentry was racing up the stairs; Jahangir leant over the edge of the stairwell and shot him in the face as he looked up from below.

Four rounds left.

The woman further along the balcony had dropped to the floor, cringing on the walkway, unable to go forward, unable to go back.

"I am avenged," he whispered in Pakhtun over Jonathan's body. Jahangir began to check their pockets, hoping to find more ammunition.

An apartment door slammed open and a man appeared armed with some type of rifle. Jahangir tripped backwards and fell into the stairwell, sliding down the concrete steps as a deafening hail of sub-machine gunfire and ricocheting bullets ensued. Spent shells, streaming from the side of the sub-machine gun, plinked off the brickwork and sprayed back out over the car park. A few casings still rolled after the shooting stopped.

He leapt up the steps as an enormous man raced back into the apartment. The hail of bullets had blasted away chunks of the brickwork, and Jahangir guessed that the gangsta had emptied his clip in one go. Many of rounds had hit the balcony ceiling. The woman was curled into a tight ball on the concrete walkway, amazingly unharmed. Jahangir shot the man in the middle of his back just as he reached the doorway. The big man writhed, his arms and legs curling backwards, and gasped in short sad wails. Jahangir realised it was death overtaking life, and didn't waste another bullet.

Three rounds left.

He was in two minds about whether to enter the apartment. His uncle had explained that, like the drones over the mountains in Pakistan, police helicopters cruised over all the major cities around the world. If he were sighted in a thermal scope it would be difficult to escape. The police, too, would use sniffer dogs to track him. In his favour, they would at first assume that the carnage was a gang fight, and not search for a Muslim girl. Even so, he had to get away quickly.

And there might be other gangstas inside.

He picked up the time-ravaged Uzi submachine gun the twitching gunman had dropped. This was worth keeping, he thought, although it needed ammunition. There was no-one in the living room of the apartment, but scattered across the kitchen table were plastic bags of powders, pills and bags of marijuana, together with an electronic set of scales. In the main bedroom, a white woman tried to hide with two children behind a double bed. They began screaming, but Jahangir was listening instead to the police sirens.

"Where are bullets?" He aimed the Glock at the woman and noted the gore speckling his pistol hand.

"Fuck you, Muslim bitch! Fuck you!" she began shouting.

Afraid for her children, she might risk everything and attack him. He fired a shot into the concrete render above her head, the ricochet passing harmlessly through the bed. The children renewed their shrieking but it quietened her.

Two rounds.

"Tell me and I not hurt."

"Bottom drawer! Bottom drawer! Take it, you fuck!"

The children howled into her body, the sound barely muffled.

Jahangir found a black carry-all bag filled with bundles of cash, the chrome zipper left open when the gangsta had retrieved the Uzi. Hefting it out, he realised the ammunition was beneath the paper bills. Amongst the banknotes he found several boxes of nine millimetre rounds together with spare clips. The nine millimetre rounds would also fire in the Glock. If the big gangsta had bothered to take even one extra clip, he might have caught Jahangir in the stairwell.

The sirens were closer now.

Dropping the Uzi into the holdall, he slung it over his shoulder. With the Glock at the ready he returned to the balcony. There was no time to reload, he had to run. The large man was still, his death-throes complete. The whore on the balcony had vanished. If the police arrived, he wasn't sure he would make it out of the stairwell.

Below, the armed response team finally arrived, their headlights on Ologo's body in the car park. The inhabitants of the surrounding apartments were coming out for the spectacle. Jahangir hoped they had watched the police cars, and did not notice an Islamic girl loaded with loot moving along the balcony. In the stairwell, he peered through the window grillwork. There were no police in the rear car park, and out front the police were only just getting out of their cars, weapons at the ready.

Climbing up onto the grill of the window, Jahangir squeezed the carry-all into the gap above the ironwork and punched it through. Forcing himself through the same gap, he jammed his head through sideways. His ears bled, rasped by the surface of the bricks.

Looping the clothesline through the grill so that he had a double line, he abseiled down the outside of the building. Leaning backwards, in one hand he held the cord that extended up from between his legs, while his other hand kept the tension on the cord slung over his shoulder. He felt the give in the cord and, in a moment of panic, readied himself to drop. It only stretched and he began to walk backwards down the brick wall. At three metres above the concrete, the doubled line came to an end, and holding one end of the doubled clothesline, he jumped, hitting the ground with bent legs and rolling forward onto one shoulder. The cord slowed his fall, but he jarred his knees and ankles.

Coiling the clothesline once more, he slung the holdall over his shoulder. Jogging as fast as he could under its weight, he kept to the shadows. Then he heard a helicopter. It was high up and certainly searching for life. He had to hope that a thermal scope was not already tracking him.

He began to sprint.

Two streets away from his house, he crouched beside a car, on the point of vomiting. Knowing that the metal car would cover him from a thermal scope, he waited for his breathing to calm. He couldn't go home, not yet, in case dogs tracked him. From here at least, he could shoot the dogs and had a small chance of escape.

The sirens on the Estate had stopped and the policemen would soon be finding the bodies. Jahangir calculated that the police dogs may be fooled by his jump from the stairwell grill and follow his scent over to the boy tied up with clothesline. When his breathing was under control, he crawled under the car, the high carriage of the urban four-wheel drive allowing him to wriggle out of his sister's robes. Folding them inside-out to contain any blood residue, he stuffed them into the bag. Reloading the clip from the Glock 17, he snapped it back inside the grip.

Seventeen shots.

The police helicopter hovered over the tower blocks, skimming the flat roofs and searching for life.

Jahangir knew he would have to wait until morning before the helicopter returned to base. The rough road was cold through the material of his clothes, yet for the moment the cold was welcome. After tripping backwards in the stairwell, his back hurt as though a car had run him over. The cold wasn't unlike hunting in the mountains, he reflected, where he would overheat tracking a goat up a cliff, then shiver once he stopped moving. What a fantastic prize he had taken, he thought.

The helicopter sounded as though it was directly above him. He waited, Glock ready on his chest in case he had to shoot. Where he might run to next, he wasn't sure. After a few minutes the sound of the rotating blades moved away.

* * *

In the faint morning light, as the birds on the power lines greeted the world, and residents gradually emerged from their houses, Jahangir slid out from beneath the four-wheel drive vehicle. His bruised back ached but he tugged out the heavy bag and slung it over a shoulder.

Back at his mother's flat, he stuffed his clothes into the washing machine with a lot of detergent, but didn't switch it on in case he woke his mother or sister. Instead, he fetched a chair from the kitchen and gently pushed the holdall up through the loft hatch. Clambering up in his underwear, he smiled at how heavy the bag was, filled with weapons, ammunition and money. He lugged it across the rafters, as the morning light eked in under the slates. He removed some of the insulation behind the disused chimneystack and moulded the holdall into the space. The fibreglass dust prickled his hands and feet.

After studying the washing machine for several minutes, he selected the "Dirty Cottons" cycle. Now they would wake. The previous night, his mother had given him some old clothing belonging to his father. He collected the light blue, oversized items and stepped into the bathroom.

Scrubbing his skin under the shower, the spray went cold whenever the washing machine diverted hot water. The change of temperature on his bruised back felt wonderful, although his uncle had said cold was best for injuries. It had had plenty of cold lying on the road.

In Mohmand Agency, a bucket dumped over his head was how he washed outside Bazir's compound amongst the trees. Only the women used warm water, and they bathed inside the walls. His uncle told him how the police could detect traces of explosives, or blood on skin and clothing, and so, after any killing, everything must be carefully washed. Even so, at Heathrow they still found residues.

The water was hot again and streamed burning onto his skin. The gore on his hand was now a pink tinge in the water at his feet. His uncle would have been proud; according to the ancient code of Pakhtunwali, this was honour.

# Chapter 12: The Tattoo

Lorelei woke in the dark, a stiff bed sheet caressing her cheek. She understood she must rise, but lay still, listening. The silence of the room told her she was alone.

Where was she?

Flashes of last night came back: smoking the grey powder with Peeko, being dumped before the man she once thought of as her father, and enduring the taunts of his cronies. They had congratulated him as though she were a hunting trophy. All except Valon wore long leather coats and pointed shoes. Intricate tattoos showed at the open collars of floral silk shirts. She had drifted into wakefulness as her father had taken her to the car park in his arms. London streetlights flashed overhead as his car cruised into the night; sprawled across the backseat, euphoria had crippled her. Then, Valon had carried her into an elevator.

At school she had heard countless lectures on how drugs were dangerous, but no-one had warned her about this.

Lorelei was afraid to get out of the strange bed. Why would her father want to capture her? It didn't bear thinking about. Creeping out from under the bedclothes, still dressed in her navy blue tracksuit, she didn't feel as though she had been molested. Patting her pockets, her phone was missing. Her eyes strained at the dull shapes in the room. There was a dresser with a mirror, a wardrobe, and an en suite bathroom. But where was she?

Pulling aside a thick curtain, the blue sky was painfully bright. Far below, the morning traffic raced like multi-coloured ants. Between the City buildings, she saw the rotund tower everyone knew as the Gherkin, its emerald-green glass dulled by the haze. More distant still were St Paul's Cathedral and The Eye. Splayed on the double-glazed window, her hands felt the susurration of the City.

Lorelei had never been in a hotel room, although from what she had heard, this must be one. The furniture was built from orange-hued wood, streaked with a faint, thick grain. The powder-blue carpet was so thick it might have been cotton wool. A ceramic light shaped like a conch shell hung from the ceiling. The whorl of holes allowing light photons to escape reminded her of Young's experiment for wave-particle duality. There was a colourful painting of a plump horse on the wall above the bed; heavy Expressionist brush textures culture-clashed with the antique wooden frame.

The bedcover was as heavy as any tapestry. Searching under the king-sized bed, she realised her school satchel was missing. There had been a library book on geometry inside it; a maths problem might have given her comfort. She had nothing with her but the clothes she wore.

Opening the wardrobe, Lorelei was taken aback by a rainbow of designer-label dresses, jackets and blouses.

Taking out a blue dress, then an orange one, she saw they were all her size. Beautiful clothes, Lorelei thought, gauging the fabric between a thumb and forefinger, far better than anything she or her mother had ever worn. At the base of the wardrobe were shoes: high-heeled black shoes, tan calfskin boots, flat-soled slip-ons and even brand-name trainers. Every item appeared new. Glancing inside one of the trainers, she saw it too was her size. In a drawer of the dresser, she found underwear made of hand-stitched silk; she held a pair of knickers as light as a feather.

If another girl had had this room, she must have had the same shape as Lorelei. The question of who the clothes belonged to made her hands shake, just as her mother's shook.

The bathroom was one big shower, with a glass partition to protect the sink area from spray. It had a white marble floor and walls, with the drainage hidden at the edges. Her fingers followed the veins of grey in the pale stone, the cold slab violated only by the gleaming showerhead and taps. She had never heard of a bathroom constructed entirely of stone sheets.

Lorelei approached the heavy wooden door to the room, the only exit.

Turning the brass handle, she pulled. It wasn't locked. Through the gap Lorelei saw a corridor laid with navy-blue carpet flecked with yellow. There was no noise outside, so she opened the door further. A man in an armchair gazed at her from bloodshot, grey eyes. A newspaper covered his lap and a mug of coffee sat on the armrest. Lorelei noted his silk floral shirt and the tattooing at the base of his throat. His louche demeanour and tightly curled hair belonged elsewhere, maybe even near where Lorelei came from.

Braving his stare, Lorelei stepped into the hotel corridor.

"And just where might you be going, my little Miss?" There was a hint of incredulity in his voice. "Your morning stroll?"

From his accent, Lorelei sensed he came from somewhere awful. A slab of muscle moved between the lapels of his street-worn leather jacket, but it was his fearlessness that intimidated her. With a movement of his finger, he directed her back into the room.

Retreating and closing the door, she wedged her body against it, wishing it had a lock. Her jaw had clenched. But he did not follow her.

Through the window, she observed the sprawling city below, wondering whether she might wave for help. At this height, she knew, she had the same chance of being noticed by passengers in a Skybus heading for Heathrow. Lorelei had only the bland pattern on the wallpaper to occupy her. Tears trickled down her cheeks remembering her mother's warnings about Valon.

Beyond the blue sky was space, so immense that the light from its furthest reaches had taken billions of years to arrive here. Filled mostly with something only known as Dark Energy, the galaxies, stars and planets, the black holes, the supernova and gas clouds, formed only 4.9 per cent of the universe. The rest is largely unexplained. In the Lambda Cold Dark Matter model, the lambda is a "cosmological constant" first proposed by Albert Einstein, and accounts for 68.3 per cent of the universe. It is the Dark Energy of empty space. A further 26.8 per cent is Dark Matter, whatever that may be, but Lorelei had read that cosmologists could see its gravity bending starlight.

Now it was unlikely Lorelei would ever have the opportunity to understand Dark Matter. She re-examined the exquite clothing; uniforms of her new prison hung in a neat row. Maybe a nametag would show another girl's name. The brand names she knew through the conversations of other girls at school, or the advertising on billboards, or from the glossy magazines in waiting room. Her mother said sporting brand names was almost as stupid as having a tattoo. She recalled a story her mother told her many years ago as they examined a fashion magazine in a dentist's surgery.

"After the Ottomans invaded Constantinople," her mother had whispered to her in Serbo-Croat, which she used when Lorelei was younger, "they soon invaded many of their neighbours and ruled each one through a Wazir. Each Wazir had tax collectors, and these tax collectors were very wealthy men, because they would keep a portion of the taxes collected. The more money a tax collector squeezed out of the people, the more he could keep for himself. The Wazir too, took a share before sending the money to Constantinople. The Ottomans demanded much gold from the conquered kaffirs, and so the Wazir would execute any tax collector not extorting sufficient gold. These tax collectors were very cruel men. Anyone withholding taxes would be skinned alive and hung up for everyone to see. You think I am making it up? This all really happened.

"The Ottomans had many slaves, and there were slave markets selling people from all parts of the world. Or they were the children of slaves, whose masters would take them from their parents and sell them like kittens. The story my grandmother told me was about Zamira, the youngest daughter of an Albanian slave named Dardan. Her father was a bookkeeper for Mehmet, a very cruel tax collector. Dardan though was a natural merchant and had a talent for turning one hundred kurush coins into one thousand. Muslim rulers disdained making money through business, preferring to conquer and tax weaker peoples, so Mehmet allowed Zamira's father to trade pottery and silks with the Venetians across the Adriatic Sea. Mehmet became an exceptionally wealthy man, and Dardan was considered the most valuable slave in all of Albania.

"One day, a sailor told Dardan of a plot to kill his master the tax-collector and asked him to join their group. Instead, Dardan informed Mehmet. The conspirators were all captured and their entire families executed out to second cousins. This was often done to serve as an example to the conquered people.

"As a reward, Mehmet told Dardan that all of his children would be freed but Dardan, who was making him so wealthy, would remain a slave. So , Zamira no longer had to work as a housemaid, but she was still poor and lived with her father.

"One day, as Zamira was playing in the street, she saw children clothed in colourful silks with silver embroidery and buttons. Without a care they ran through the town, and such laughter had not been heard for many years. Mehmet the tax collector thought if someone was happy they must have money. On the right hand of each visitor she saw a tattoo of a sword. She tried speaking to them, but they would only laugh and run away. Zamira decided she wanted a tattoo just like those children had, for she was sure that then they would speak to her.

"There was a Greek in the town rumoured to tattoo Christian sailors, for such pictures are haram for Muslims. She spoke to him, but he shouted at her to go away. To tempt him, Zamira decided to steal a bolt of silk from Mehmet's stores, which she could enter easily. She showed the tattooist the beautiful material, which was worth a small fortune in those days. Greed got the better of him and he gave her exactly the same tattoo as the children had.

"It was very painful, yet as soon as it was done she searched out the strange children. They were running and laughing on the harbour dock as sailors loaded up huge wooden ships for a voyage.

"'I have one of your tattoos,' Zamira said, 'so now perhaps you will talk to me.'

"The children were astonished and asked her how it was she had one of their marks on her hand, and she explained how she had admired the design so much, she had the tattooist make one for her. The children laughed and said it was the brand put on all of the Wazir's slaves, and as children of slaves, they too had their hands tattooed. It used to be burnt onto the hand, but a tattoo was thought a better mark of the kaffir.

"The Wazir, they explained, was visiting the tax collectors all along the coast and executing those who had not sent enough gold. While Zamira was considering her folly, a large man with the same sword tattoo on his hand told the children to board the ship as it was time to go. She tried to get away, but he grabbed her arm and said, 'No time for games little one. All of you on board.' Zamira tried to explain that she was a freed slave, but the man just laughed and carried her into the hold, and she was never seen again."

Her mother had many stupid stories about the old world. Lorelei closed the wardrobe door on the beautiful clothing and went to stare at the City.

# Chapter 13: Colonialism Hurts

On Lyme Road, Jahangir expected a cordon of uniforms seeking a girl wearing a black niqab and abaya; instead he wore his father's light-blue kurta and the same white patkay headscarf as yesterday. The material billowed in the cold breeze.

A girl wearing an abaya and niqab turned to confront him. Jahangir jumped.

"Why aren't you wearing your disguise?" Frank asked from beneath the robes.

"Who fights in morning?" Jahangir scanned the street for the police.

Frank's tawny eyes stared at him. "Wait here." He crossed Lyme Road and darted into the front yard of a terrace house. Jogging back, Frank tried to push Patasa's clothing into Jahangir's arms.

Paranoid about being seen holding women's Islamic clothing, he stepped away. "Put in bag for tonight."

"Where's yours?" Frank nodded at the absence of a school satchel on Jahangir's back.

"Sister has." Jahangir didn't believe they would have any more trouble from the gang, but couldn't tell Frank.

After Frank stuffed the robes away, they walked along Lyme Road. Strands of Frank's collar-length hair fluttered in the breeze.

"You would not believe what happened last night," Frank said.

Jahangir waited to hear what Frank had heard about the shootings.

"I was on this pet forum. I go there and ask people about looking after rabbits and stuff. Do you know what I'm talking about? You know, on-line forums?"

Jahangir nodded, but really had no idea.

"Well, some person comes on from the 'Animal Liberation Army'. An army for liberating animals, can you believe it? Then PM'd me and told me how they blow up laboratories and farms. First he said they were going to blow up my house, stick pipes in me and poison me with radiation like I did to the rabbits. They'd looked me up on Facebook and knew everything about me."

Jahangir wondered whether it was a police van he could see pulling up outside the school.

"Blimey, that took a while to sort out. You know the rabbits we play with in the science department? This person told me, as soon as they're big enough, Professor Ash sells them to his friends in a research laboratory. Our rabbits have been bred to get cancer easily, and they use them to try out all their cures."

"You say this man will kill you?" Jahangir saw another large white van parking up ahead.

"I don't know. But I have to tool up. Ask Jonathan to lend me a leng. Like that would happen."

Students were converging on Lyme Road as though the faithful commanded from a minaret for Jumu'ah prayers. It was no different to yesterday, when he had walked to school with Patasa, except Jahangir was wearing his father's clothes. It was a good sign that Frank hadn't noticed them.

"I told him I didn't know anything about it," Frank continued. "I said I didn't believe him about the rabbits so he gave me the name of the research laboratory to check out. Today I'm going to talk with Professor Ash. What if the Trauma Therapy students found out their rabbits are sent away to be tortured?" More of Frank's hair was blowing in the breeze.

"Someone hurt rabbits?" Jahangir asked.

Frank stopped walking and turned to him. "Yeh! Scientists hurt lots of them! I looked his group up on the Internet. It's not like the Animal Liberation Front, which is non-violent. The Animal Liberation Army is violent. Anyone can stop animal testing and claim it was an action of the Animal Liberation Front, as long as it's non-violent. That's their rules. The Animal Liberation Army is the same, but you have to be violent. And you can be a member of either one whenever you want, even without telling anyone. It's really brilliant."

Jahangir didn't follow, but hadn't tried particularly hard. The police were his main concern.

"Damn! There's the LRW!" Frank pointed at two boys in black clothes up ahead. "Only Mustafa and Mohammed. One each, dude."

Jahangir had imagined he'd shot them all. A small boy ran across the road and joined them. It was the one he had tied up with his mother's washing line. The three gangstas wrapped arms around each other.

"Whoa! Gay! What's happening here?" Frank said quietly.

"The fuck you looking at?" Mustafa said, a beanie low on his forehead. The LRW broke off from their hug.

"We got unfinished business wit you," Mohammed growled. "You better fuck off into school. An quick." A silver chain shone on the black of Mohammed's hoodie.

"What's up, guys?" Frank's voice was filled with curiosity.

"Dead bunnies don't talk." Mustafa's face was concealed by the hood of a puffa jacket. Jahangir noticed how white his trainers were.

"Your life in countdown," Mohammed said, making a pistol gesture at Frank.

"Spooky speakin' to the dead, innit?" the boy Banger said.

"Look at the Hot-Head. What that you wearin? The shroud of fucking Turin?" Mustafa asked.

Jahangir knew it was a matter of time before the whole school realised he was wearing his father's clothes.

"Two ghosts." Banger's voice was precocious. "One white, and one brown."

"Just asking." Frank stepped around them on the footpath. "Since you're crying in the middle of the street."

"Fuck-the-fuck-off, pussy." Mohammed pushed Frank.

"Come." Jahangir held Frank's shoulder and urged him towards the school. He didn't want a confrontation here, not with those white vans outside the school. What if the police found Patasa's outfit in Frank's bag?

"That's right Bunny, you hop away. Bunnies have a short life," Mustafa said.

"We dead you, Rabbit," said Banger, making an impression of having buck-teeth and pronating his hands as though front paws.

The white vans came into view, crammed along the bus lane outside the tall school gates. Jahangir searched for "police" logos; instead several different signs adorned the vehicles. In the street, the headmaster argued with several grown-ups.

"It's the TV!" Frank pointed at a journalist being filmed by a cameraman. Jahangir could see people inside the vans monitoring machines with blinking lights.

"It's a satellite dish!" Frank said.

"You are not permitted to speak to the children and you cannot enter the school grounds!" the Headmaster shouted over the questions the press fired at him.

"How many Muslim girls are enrolled at the school?"

"Are they all present?"

"Has there been a flare up between the two communities?"

"What the hell's going on?" Frank stared opened-mouthed at the media pack.

Teachers ushered students through the school entrance, although Jahangir saw pupils coyly answering questions through the fence. The Headmaster bellowed at them to keep moving. Dressed in the clothing of their national cultures or social sub-cultures, they milled in excitement at the possibility of appearing on TV.

Then there was a fight. Urged on by friends, a Nigerian girl tried to punch an Iranian girl.

"Quick!" shouted one of the reporters outside the fence. From the perimeter, a barrage of photographic apparatus was aimed at several hostile groups of girls. Teachers moved swiftly to intervene, ordering them inside.

"Jahangir! Jahangir!" Patasa called, out of breath. His sister caught up just as he and Frank entered the school corridor. When Jahangir had left the apartment, Patasa and his mother were still in nightgowns watching the news about the estate murders.

"Oi, I need to speak with you," said Patasa, mostly in Pakhto.

"What about?" Jahangir stopped.

Frank waited, scrutinising them.

"The important question of the day is: why did I wake up to the sound of a washing machine? This has bovvered me, bruv. And, at some insane early time in the morning, I should add. Then I stumble out of bed and find the clothes I lent you hanging on the washing line, right next to your own clothes. Geezers don't wash anything."

"I cannot wash my clothes?"

Patasa glared at him. "But not your patkay? It wouldn't fit under my niqab, eh?"

"I like my patkay."

"But it didn't need a wash?" Patasa held the linen tail of his headscarf. "You could've worn a pakul for a day. Father left a mountain of them. Open a cupboard door and they fall out all over you, yeh?"

"Yes, I could have worn a pakul."

"You could have worn a big stack of 'em. Now, tell me if I'm wrong here, fam, but I think you washed dem clothes because you been ghosting gangstas. The news said an Islamic girl killed seven drug dealers. You had my abaya and niqab. And yesterday you said they had a beef with you."

"Maybe it was Frank? He has your clothes in his bag." Jahangir shrugged and turned to walk away.

"His aren't on a washing line."

"Maybe his Mum washed them last night."

"She in bed with cancer, bruv. Where did you get a gun already? And, here's the important question: who will step up and protect us girls when the LRW takes vengeance on Muslim women?"

"How many of the gang are left?" The Lyme Road Warriors were no longer a threat.

"Bruv, hundreds are left. What, you didn't know? You thought it was just a few drug dealers you'd give some Taliban justice? They're going to come swarming out of that estate like ants. And if that's not enough, gangstas will pour out of estates all across London. Gangbangers from people's worst nightmares come to life, staggering around like zombies smashing up the town. Then there's the hangers-on and well-wisher-types. Thousands. And they'll be hunting me down, because you were wearing my shit."

"I'll protect you."

"Bruv, it like back home. They'll kill anyone. Any Islam girl. It don't matter."

Jahangir shook his head to rid himself of the thought. This was England, wasn't it?

"Patasa, do you know why the TV reporters are out there?" Frank asked, seemingly bemused by their heated exchange.

"You been reading those schoolbooks again, Frank? There was a mass-murder on the Estate. Seven LRW deaded."

"A mass murder?" said Frank. "Oh. Well, let's go. We'll be late for History."

Jahangir followed Frank, glad to escape his sister. The classrooms brimmed with pupils and the teachers geared up to begin another day. The two LRW boys entered from a side door ahead and Jahangir and Frank traipsed after them, entering the classroom as though they had arrived together.

A bearded teacher observed them through rimless glasses, his longish mouse-brown hair swept over his forehead. Leather patches reinforced the elbows of his ancient tweed jacket and he wore brown brogues. To Jahangir he was the archetypal Englishman. Except he didn't have a walking stick made from a crooked tree.

"If you would take your seats, gentlemen." Mr Urquhart's eyes, magnified by his glasses, were in a permanent state of wonder.

Mr Urquhart called out the class register. Frank nudged Jahangir and showed him his phone. He had typed: "mr urquhart, i missed you last night". Pressing "send", Frank turned around, and then appeared puzzled. Glancing at two girls behind, he asked, "Where's Lorelei?"

Mr Urquhart called out Jonathan's name and Mustafa replied,

"Young Retz and Batter dead. Rest in peace."

"R.I.P. yeh," said Mohammed.

"Is that true, Mustafa?" Mr Urquhart's eyes widened even further. "I heard at the teachers' meeting this morning some students were involved in the murders at the Farm Estate. I hadn't imagined they would have been from this class."

"Muslim pussy deaded dem like she a Bond girl in a burqa. Shoots seven soldiers an one wit an Uzi. Escapes a swarm of Feds like she smoke. One minute she run down the stairs, next she in Gaza."

"That's very sad news, Mustafa. Truly dreadful. Oh, everyone, listen! Before I forget, I have another most unwelcome announcement. Lorelei is missing. Her mother is at the school and says she did not return home last night. Naturally she's very upset, and if anyone has any information about where Lorelei might be, please either tell me or the Headmaster, and we will pass it on."

Frank nodded at Jahangir as though to say, "So that's why."

The pupils whispered to each other, ascertaining whether anyone had heard anything more about the shootings or about Lorelei. Jahangir could feel himself wishing them to be quiet.

"Mr Urquhart, maybe Lorelei was shot last night, yeh?"

"I hope not, Rachel. All will be revealed in time, I'm sure."

Rachel was of South East Asian appearance, Jahangir considered, but spoke English like a Londoner. She wore a tiny diamond stud in the flange of her nose, Indian-style.

"Just our soljas. No white bitch," Mohammed said.

"I'm just sayin', the two events could be connected, yeh?" Rachel wore jeans and a tight, black-and-white striped top. Silver rings and bangles adorned her fingers and wrists.

"Lorelei wouldn't run away from home, would she?" Frank asked an Indian girl at the table next to him. The girl wore English clothing and makeup, but her jewellery was bright 22-carat gold instead of the duller Western 18-carat metal. "Does she have a boyfriend, Aisha?"

"She not interested in boys, yeh? Can't blame er really. But you can't never tell. Maybe she groomed by a tall dark stranger on Facebook." Her accent was also English, Jahangir noted.

"Was she on Facebook? I could never find her," Frank said.

Aisha smiled. "I never tried," she said, "but isn't everyone?"

"She's a science geek," an African girl next to Aisha said. "But no computer at home, and her phone's too old for the Internet. She's not on Facebook. And no boyfriend." The girl had a strong African accent and Jahangir recognised her from the Trauma Therapy group when he had handled the rabbit kittens.

It was the blonde girl from the Trauma Therapy group who was missing, Jahangir realised, the information all connecting. Jahangir listened as Mustafa and Mohammed answered questions posed by students around them.

"Our young Banger was there. Bitch held knife to his throat, then teefed Pistole's leng, an tied Banger up. But he got up on his knees and watched the whole ting. Bitch smoked Pistole, Freedem, Hedz, Bench, Young Retz and Batter. After that, she holed Retz outside his pad, after Retz rinse out an Uzi at her. She in Yemen now, but you keep lookout for any Muslim bitch with blue eyes. Banger look in her face and see blue eyes. Lot of bruvs want to speak to her."

"Oh my god, Lorelei has blue eyes," Rachel said. "If she was wearing the headgear, she'd look like a blue-eyed Muslim."

Jahangir stared at the history book opened before him.

"Lorelei take out seven LRW soljas?" Mohammed's nose wrinkled in disbelief.

"We speak to that bitch and she better have an alibi." Mustafa spoke as though he was the new leader of the LRW youngs. "You see Lorelei, you tell LRW, yeh?"

"Thank you Mustafa. That's quite enough." Mr Urquhart appeared unhappy at the implicit threat of violence. "Class, I know some truly dreadful events have occurred, but we must progress with our learning. Today, as promised, we are going to talk about colonialism. First, what is it?"

Mr Urquhart glanced around at the class. Many were still talking among themselves, mostly about the possibility of getting in front of a TV camera.

Jahangir's uncle had told him about colonialism in Afghanistan. Yet, even if Jahangir was able to speak out, he wasn't sure he could precisely define the term, other than refer to a lingering hatred of the English for what had been done in the past.

"It was slavery, wasn't it?" An African boy, wearing a multi-coloured branded sports tracksuit and a Yankees baseball cap, spoke from the back of the class. He wasn't a gang-member, Jahangir thought, as his clothes were not black, and not new. Jahangir recalled again the baseball cap he'd seen in the Ghalanai market.

"Slavery!" Mr Urquhart's face lit up. "Slavery was one of the practices associated with colonialism. The enslavement of local populations. Or the movement of indentured people into colonised areas to work. Which is why there are Indians in East Africa and in far away places such as Fiji."

"Is it like a colony of penguins?" Frank asked.

"A little like a colony of penguins. Although colonialism is usually understood as one power invading a militarily weaker people, imposing their culture and political organisation and living amongst the subdued population."

Still blank faces.

"For example, the exploitation of the New World by European countries between the 15th and 20th centuries. India, Pakistan, Nigeria, Kenya, South Africa, America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand: these were all British colonies, to name a few. In some cases, the local populations were exterminated, if they were on land the colonists wanted."

"But that's all finished now, right?" Rachel said.

Mr Urquhart's eyes widened. "It has simply changed shape. We are now experiencing economic colonialism by powerful companies, backed up by the Western military. Sometimes it's called globalisation."

The students said nothing and Jahangir wondered whether, like him, they didn't understand what the teacher was saying.

"Making a subject people work for low wages is a common feature. Belgium colonised the Congo, working millions to death in plantations at the beginning of the twentieth century. Even before then, the slave-raiding of the previous centuries took upwards of fifteen million people from Africa. The French colonised much of Western Africa and also forced the indigenous people to work in plantations. Does anyone else know of another practice of colonialism?"

"Theft?" Frank said.

"Spanish conquistadors went to South America with a mission to steal Aztec gold, and killed hundreds of thousands of Native Americans in their rampage. In India and elsewhere, some very famous jewels were stolen, such as the Koh-I-Noor, now set into the British Queen's crown. And of course vast amounts of land and resources were taken. Any other features of colonialism?"

Jahangir was waiting for the teacher to say something about what had happened in Afghanistan.

"How about drug-dealing?" Mr Urquhart asked the class.

"What?" said Mustafa. "Dey sell crack?"

"Nothing so modern as that. In China there were two Opium Wars. The British began smuggling opium they grew on Indian plantations into China, but when the Chinese authorities put a stop to this, the British bombed their cities until the Chinese agreed to let the British, the French and the Americans sell opium."

Jahangir was working up the courage to say something about the Durand Line when a beautiful woman entered the room. She appeared before them almost like an angel, dark-haired, with pale skin and blue eyes.

The Headmaster stood behind in the hallway glaring at Mr Urquhart. The beautiful woman captivated everyone in the class, even the LRW. Mr Urquhart had a particularly wide-eyed expression.

Jahangir had only seen such beauty on billboards and occasionally, when he lived with his father, on Western television, but nothing had prepared him for the effect of seeing such a woman up close. In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, except for the very young or the very old, women lived in purdah. Whenever they left the compound they would dress in a head-to-foot chadri. It was for the promise of houris like this woman in Jannah that boys agree to become the shaheed. Jahangir felt a sensation in his heart like crushed glass, its pain rivalling the sorrow he had felt for his uncle. He'd never felt anything like it, but immediately understood what it was.

"Can I help you?" Mr Urquhart's voice was relatively timid compared to his usual eloquence.

Her eyes conveyed desolation in a face ethereally beautiful without makeup. Her feminine figure was barely hidden beneath a lavender pullover and jeans; Jahangir marvelled at how her magic held him. Everyone in the classroom, he realised, was spellbound.

"You are Lorelei's class friends, no? I ask you to help me find daughter. She is in danger. I know this. If you hear anything, you must tell, please. It is to save life."

Once or twice, Lorelei's mother gazed directly at him. Jahangir decided that he must be the one to bring Lorelei back. The beautiful woman turned to the whiteboard, her shape unspeakably attractive. Picking up a green marker pen and, with her hand shaking, she wrote her name and address in childish capitals.

"Please help me."

Jahangir noticed Frank copying the address into his notepad, and suspected he had a competitor for this woman's affections. He was shocked at how potently jealousy aroused his hatred; he would be the one to bring her back.

"We have to find her," Frank whispered.

He nodded, shamed by the realisation that his friend was only interested in helping Lorelei.

"Please help Lorelei. Thank you. Very much," Lorelei's mother said.

He watched her depart, shaken by the effect she had upon him. Were Pakhtun women, each so carefully hidden under a chadri, as mesmerising as Lorelei's mother? He recalled the pretty faces he had known before they had been covered in robes, many bound by marriage contracts since their early years.

"A girl's guardian signs the marriage contract." His uncle had explained nikkah to him one blazing afternoon in the shade of Bazir's hujra. "It must be with the consent of the bride, but her silence can be considered consent. And if she is very young, what she thinks doesn't matter."

A siren rang over the P.A. system. The class gathered their possessions and stood.

"For the next lesson, everyone read chapter twenty about colonialism," Mr Urquhart shouted over the pandemonium. "Do a bit of searching about colonialism on the Internet as well. It's surprising what's sometimes left out of the textbooks."

"Lorelei told me she saw my brother," Frank whispered to Jahangir. "If he was around, he's gotta be involved. Or he'll know something." A flush of pink had risen on his neck.

Frank could help Jahangir save Lorelei; afterwards her mother would be Jahangir's friend. Closing his eyes, he tried to rid himself of the fantasy.

Students, grasping books, mobile phones and pencil cases, pressed for the corridor doorway talking about whether the Estate murders might be connected with Lorelei's disappearance.

"Lorelei has blue eyes, and her blonde hair could've been covered up under a niqab," Rachel told a group of girls. "All of a sudden, yeh, she's missing."

Then Frank halted. Holding Jahangir's arm, he whispered, "You have blue eyes and yesterday you were wearing your sister's outfit. Then, this morning, you no longer have your disguise, and they're dead."

Jahangir gazed at Frank. He was a true Western child. Jahangir doubted Frank could kill anyone in cold blood.

A shrewdness appeared in Frank's face. "It was you, wasn't it? Surely there had to be another way? And how do I know you won't suddenly kill me? Like, I'm a witness, aren't I?"

To be a witness: that is the other meaning of shaheed. "You sell drugs to mothers and children?" Jahangir whispered.

Frank said nothing.

"You steal things and kill innocent people? You threaten to kill me?"

"But there had to be another way."

"What other way?"

"I don't know but now Lorelei's getting the blame. And if she gets killed, it's your fault."

"Mr Urquhart! A word please!" The Headmaster had returned from escorting Lorelei's mother along the corridor. Looming tall over the history teacher, he lowered his voice but it was voluble enough for Jahangir to hear.

"I couldn't help but catch the last part of your class. Rather insensitive, don't you think? The police tell me we're now sitting on a powder keg of inter-racial warfare and you're doing your best to light the fuse. That aside, we have discussed your political views once already and agreed you will refrain from your meandering lectures."

"I understand your point, Headmaster, but it's all purely factual, I assure you. Verifiable facts."

"I do hope so, Mr Urquhart. Facts from the approved text. No less, no more. The disciplinary process, as you know, is a severe bore for everyone involved."

"Come on, you have English remedial." Frank led Jahangir into the corridor, his expression still troubled.

"Jahangir! Just wait one moment!" the Headmaster called out. "I came all this way to get you. There are two gentlemen who wish to see you. Come with me, please."

Jahangir followed him to a door by the teachers' staff room. There, he saw the detectives from yesterday, together with the same Pakhto translator, the same hijab of hot-pink silk pinned over her hair and draped around her neck. They waited in an anteroom before the Headmaster's office, where a secretary typed before a flat-screen computer. Jahangir noted the large, glass-fronted cabinets filled with sporting trophies and, through a further doorway, the Headmaster's vast desk covered in papers.

Detective Elderberry gripped Jahangir's hand as though to shake it, but instead clipped a handcuff onto it. Twisting his arm behind his back, he cuffed Jahangir's other wrist.

"Just one moment," the Headmaster said. "What the hell is going on here? You said you wished to have a word with him."

"Jahangir, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder," said Elderberry. Both detectives had a look of satisfaction on their clean-shaven faces. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence."

Detective Smithick said to the Headmaster, "We'll be having a word with him at the station, won't we?"

"Murder? Not the events last night, surely?"

"I'm afraid we can't discuss the charge with you," Detective Smithick said, the flecks in his hair highlighted by the grey of his suit.

"He's suffering from a psychological condition, I hope you realise. You can't just put him into a prison cell."

"I can and I will," Detective Elderberry said. "This is a formal arrest for a very serious crime."

The translator spoke to Jahangir, relaying the rights the detective had read out, and explained that they would be going to a police station for questioning. Jahangir found himself paying more attention to her hot-pink hijab. He wondered what Mrs Osmanovich would look like wearing one.

The detectives seized Jahangir under his cuffed arms and frogmarched him out. The Headmaster trailed them, fretting.

"Jahangir, I hope this dreadful accusation proves false. Let me know if there is anything we can do." He rubbed a forehead wet with perspiration.

Turning to the Headmaster, Jahangir said, "Tell Mrs Brown."

From the expression on the Headmaster's face, Jahangir suspected he would tell no-one anything. Halting and about-facing, the Headmaster re-entered his office.

Out in the hallway Frank was half-hidden behind a corner of lockers. He stared wide-eyed as the detectives dragged Jahangir by.

His patkay hanging lopsidedly, Jahangir smiled, hoping that his friend would not tell anyone anything either.

# Chapter 14: Breakfast

Lorelei awoke as someone entered. At first she thought it was the guard in the hallway, wanting to bother her. Instead, Valon towered over the bed.

Last night she hadn't properly taken in his features, when even the challenge of consciousness had proven difficult. His head and jaw were well-formed in an overdeveloped way, and his hazel eyes had an intensity. Despite Mrs Brown's work to accustom her to giant men, his proximity choked off Lorelei's ability to think.

Pivoting a chair on one leg, he planted himself on its upholstered seat.

She was reminded of the propaganda sculptures of Nazi warriors and Soviet Union workers, who had clashed like Titans in World War Two. Valon was a living statue of the times, dressed a pink polo top and beige trousers, and wafting aftershave.

"Lorelei, as your father, I must warn you never to take drugs again."

What? "A father wouldn't have paid Peeko to trap me." Her voice was breathless, but it had come out. Mrs Brown would be proud.

"You doubt I am your father?"

"Mum told me you can't have children."

"But I have children. Daniel, or Peeko as he is called, is your half-brother. You look like your grandmother, my mother. I have a photo I can show you. She had blonde hair, that's where you and I both get it. Though now mine is white. Why would your mother tell you such lies?"

"I only know about the night you put her in hospital."

"I loved your mother very deeply."

"She was a sex slave! That is not love." Lorelei drew the bedcovers over her legs.

"Then you don't understand love. You have only seen television love. Love is about possession. An instinct to possess another person close to madness: a madness that may cause you to kill a rival, or even your lover, just to deprive that rival. You have heard of a crime of passion, of course? In some countries it is still treated leniently under the law. In more primitive societies, it is expected of you. Women are exactly the same. When they love a man, do they not scratch out the eyes of any rival?"

Lorelei couldn't think of an answer.

"Your mother could never forgive me for what had happened to her in Bosnia. I presume you have heard about that. Her fate brought her to me. Fate gave you to us. She may say she was my slave, but I was her slave. I did whatever she asked. Anything she asked for, I bought. I was her fool, and people laughed. When I asked her to marry me, she told me she would rather die. Then the madness took over and I hurt her." He pointed a thick forefinger at his temple.

"You trapped me like an animal. Does a father do that?" Her voice had returned, and for a moment she even heard the same confident disdain she had for her mother. Yet, under Valon's glare her defiance ebbed.

"An animal? Do you watch nature documentaries, Lorelei? I'm always surprised by how much I learn. After all, we are animals too. And the animals are so beautiful. Especially leopards. Which is my favourite animal. Not so long ago I watched a program about moving a leopard to a nature reserve. To save it, you understand? It was living near a village and killing the cows and eventually someone would have shot it. You cannot approach a leopard and explain this, can you? You cannot walk over and say, 'Follow me, for your own good'. Can you imagine a Pied Piper with a following of leopards? No, they had to hunt her almost as if they had planned to kill her. After they tranquillised her, she woke up in her new home. It took time to adjust, as it would for anyone who woke up in a different home. After a while, maybe she would realise that it was not so bad after all."

Her father had a fine nose that had been bent slightly to one side. She saw too that he had a number of scars on his forehead, cheek and chin.

"No-one could force the leopard to stay in the nature reserve. She might even find her way back, where the local people will kill her. But the documentary makers and all the viewers hope she will enjoy the nature reserve and have a better life. In the same way, Lorelei, I brought you here. I have taken the liberty of buying you some clothes so you will feel at home." He gestured at the wardrobe. "But you can buy others that suit you. This afternoon even. But why don't you change and join me for breakfast in the kitchen? Let's say in twenty minutes." Her father checked a gold wristwatch. Then, pushing off from his knees, he left.

Playing along with this father-daughter fantasy, Lorelei calculated, was the best strategy. Her fear of the guard outside her room had not diminished, and the conversation with her father hadn't been reassuring. Why, instead of drugging her, could not Peeko have simply asked her to meet Valon? Was kidnapping the only method her father could conceive of for meeting an estranged daughter?

Sulking on the bed would not get her home. Refusing to speak to him would not remove the guard outside her door. Valon had said she could go shopping that afternoon and, if it were true, that would be the time to escape.

Lorelei rifled through the wardrobe and tried to imagine what he would enjoy seeing her wear. On the bed she laid a navy Chanel dress and a light cashmere cardigan of lemon yellow with bangle sleeves; then exchanged her trainers for Jimmy Choo black slip-ons. She had never seen such beautiful clothes before.

After a shower in the marble bathroom, she put on some of the hand-sewn silk lingerie she'd discovered in the drawer, dressed, and tried the brass doorknob to her room. The curly-headed guard had vanished, along with the armchair where he'd read the paper. Down the hallway she heard a clattering of plates and the chatter of a TV news channel.

At the breakfast table was an Arab in brilliant white robes, his headscarf fastened with what looked like a rope of red silk. Except for a thick, dark moustache, he was otherwise clean-shaven; his black eyes smiled in a young and handsome face. Beside him sat Peeko, his fox-coloured hair lit by the floor-to-ceiling window. Lorelei joined them at a glass-topped table that was as much a work of art as furniture. On the far wall was a flat screen showing the morning news.

"Lorelei! May I introduce my friend, Prince Abdallah?" said Valon. The Arab stood and bowed slightly. "No need to introduce Daniel, your brother. Would you like a boiled egg? We're all having eggs with soldiers."

Nodding a subdued greeting to her, Peeko went back to reading an Internet tablet.

"Your father is introducing me to the pleasures of English cooking." Prince Abdallah's jaw, she saw, had a pleasing curve and a dimpled chin. "I told him I understood it to be awful. He assures me it is not. True English cooking. Nothing imported. For example, the coffee he is making is sourced from closer to my own home."

"And on top of everything," Valon said, "English cooking is as easy as boiling an egg. Whatever it is: roast, fry or boil it, then put it on a plate, and there you are. Honest, simple flavours."

Lorelei remembered the women making baklava at Kahve and glanced at Peeko. A smile arose in his green eyes; amusement perhaps at how he had tricked her. He wore a different shirt, still silk and with a dense floral pattern, under the same three-quarter length coat he had on yesterday.

"Thank you," she said, but felt far from hungry. Valon, she saw, was pleased by her acceptance.

"Abdallah is studying here in London. I met him at the mosque." Valon gestured with a handful of ivory eggs. "We Albanians, you realise, are mostly Islamic. I was brought up with Islam, so I go to the masjid for Friday prayers. Something to do with getting older, you understand. I met Abdallah there as he was trying to put on my shoes."

Abdallah chuckled. "In fact, Valon was admiring my bespoke shoes and asked me where I'd had them made. Then he brought out his and they were identical. Except a different size of course."

"You can imagine the confusion, Prince Abdallah making off in my size-fourteen shoes." Valon cut toast into multiple strips and transferred them to a large porcelain plate.

"And now Valon is teaching me how to boil an egg. I suppose it is an apt punishment. It could have been much worse, say if the imam had caught me stealing your father's shoes."

Lorelei smiled politely. Something about Prince Abdallah was incongruous: his perfect English and flawless Arabic appearance. She had not expected that such an intelligent and amusing person would wear long flowing robes.

Valon placed the boiled eggs into the eggcups on the table, his massive hand unaffected by the heat.

"My father, the alchemist working over his burner." Peeko pushed the tablet to one side.

"Cooking up my dragon eggs. And here are the soldiers." Valon lowered the plate of sliced toast before them. "Now, don't forget salt. I prefer freshly ground rock salt, but sea salt is also good. English cooking uses a lot of salt: during cooking and afterwards. Don't forget that, Abdallah."

"I am very proud that I'll be able to cook an authentic English meal."

"And with your business degree," Peeko said, "you could open a chain of restaurants."

"I could introduce my people once more to the English yolk."

Valon smiled, but Peeko was gazing into the tablet, a teaspoon poised over his unopened egg.

"Watch, this is how you do it." Valon tapped the end of his egg with the edge of a teaspoon and sliced off its top. After pushing a sliver of toast into the soft yolk, he lifted it to his mouth.

"Only the clever English could have thought of something like this."

"Listen to them," Peeko said to Lorelei, "they're so pampered that eating a boiled egg is a rarity."

"There is so much to be said for the simple old ways," Valon said.

"And to repay you for this wonderful cooking lesson, I have a proposal." Abdallah's white teeth flashed. "Why don't you come to Dubai for the horseracing this weekend? All of you. You are welcome as my guests."

"Muslims horseracing?" Peeko asked.

"Didn't you know? We don't bet, of course. My uncle has a stable of racehorses and he has flown two of them to Dubai in his jumbo jet. The finest horse will be ridden this weekend by an English jockey. We have always loved our horses, as I am sure you know."

Peeko gave Lorelei a blank expression that barely disguised his amusement.

"I would be honoured," Valon said. "What a wonderful invitation, Abdallah! Will you both come too?"

"Me? I wouldn't miss it for anything," Peeko said. "Let me look it up. Here's the race." Lorelei saw a webpage on his tablet showing the horseracing in Dubai.

"And Lorelei? Will you come too?" Valon asked her.

"Thank you," she said, her face a mask of calm.

"Then it's settled," Abdallah said. "We'll fly out tomorrow night. I'll get my assistant to send tickets over. First class, of course. You all have passports?"

They turned to Lorelei.

First class? Lorelei was surprised at her desire to experience such luxury. She didn't know anyone who went overseas for holidays, let alone to see an uncle's horse in a race. Her passport was hidden in her mother's wardrobe. To retrieve it she would have to go home. Once there, she would be safe. And next week she was going to Dubrovnik where she would be safer still.

She nodded.

"Wonderful!" Abdallah said. "I'll need passport numbers and dates of birth to book the flights. We fly tomorrow!"

"Lorelei, Daniel will take you shopping and afterwards you can fetch your passport. It will be a wonderful family outing, thanks to you Abdallah. But! Let us finish these eggs before the soldiers get cold."

"Daniel is not enjoying his," Abdallah said. "I imagine you must regularly overindulge in such delicacies?"

"Oh, I'm watching the news."

"You will have to forgive Daniel. A friend of his died last night in the shootings. One of his musicians."

Lorelei gazed up at the screen. There had been carnage at Farm Estate last night and the journalists were describing it as religious terrorism. The police sought a small Muslim woman, her identity hidden under black robes. CCTV footage was replayed in slow motion, showing the killer on a tower block balcony executing several gang members in turn. Lorelei recognised all those shot dead. The journalist's voiceover explained how the Muslim woman had then survived a hail of gunfire from a sub-machine gun, before killing a black man believed to be a drug lord. The CCTV footage showed the robed woman coming out of his flat, a black holdall over one shoulder.

Lorelei didn't feel anything for her dead classmates.

"The terrorist was lost from view at this point," the journalist said, "vanishing into thin air after entering the stairwell. Police believe she squeezed through a narrow grill and jumped to the ground." The camera showed the drop of seven metres or so. "Police dogs led investigators into the streets to the west of the Estate and to a nearby school in Lyme Road where the trail ended. The woman was not found at the school."

The drug dealer Retz, Lorelei had seen before; everyone on the Estate knew him.

"My condolences," Abdallah said. "This may sound insensitive, but it is something that always puzzled me. As a Christian, are you now obliged to turn the other cheek?"

"A Christian turn the other cheek?" Valon plunged a soldier headfirst into the depths of his egg. "Who in history has ever turned the other cheek? And those who say we should are a few men who wear dresses and refuse to fight, who invoke the protection of God if they're ever threatened."

"Valon, your words are those of an apostate," Abdallah chided across the glass table.

"I was thinking of the Christian priests."

"They too are men of the Book."

The older man gave a polite smile. "More coffee anyone?"

"I won't be turning any cheek," Peeko said. "I lost not only a friend, but an investment. I lost money. Someone is going to pay."

"Now that sounds like a proper man speaking." Valon poured coffee into the cups proffered by Peeko and Abdallah. Lorelei declined.

"Islam too is a religion of peace," Abdallah said, his smile almost gone. "Yet it is also a body of law. Justice rarely asks us not to right wrongs, or not avenge crimes. Quite the opposite. We must take all steps necessary to avenge wrongdoing, otherwise the wrongdoers would act with impunity, and the wrongs against us would multiply. This applies to individuals and whole nations. Was the drug lord your friend?"

Through the glass top, Lorelei gazed at the wood grain of the table legs. Costumed in a Chanel dress and Jimmy Choo shoes she felt she was in a play but hadn't seen the script. Only she was acting, Lorelei understood, and her role consisted of pretending not to be frightened.

"It's what the police say of any black man shot on an estate," Peeko said. "It must be over drugs. Although terrorism is now the favoured explanation. He didn't need to sell drugs, he sells a lot of songs. That black bag I have seen before. It didn't hold drugs, it had cash and weapons in it. How that girl could even carry it, I don't know."

"I wonder who she was?" Abdallah cast his head at an angle and smiled. "In any case, a man should be allowed weapons to defend himself. I'm not so sure about a woman."

"Well said, Abdallah." Valon stacked the plates before him, his coffee aloft in his spare hand. "I completely agree. A man should be able to defend himself."

"Sis," Peeko said, "I'll take you home and you can get your passport."

"You do not live here?" Abdallah asked Lorelei, his mouth smiling, but his eyes unsettling.

"I thought you realised," Valon said. "No, she lives with her mother on the Estate where those shootings happened."

Valon carried the plates to the kitchen bench and Lorelei noticed the polished black granite had a haze of aquamarine running through it. Sunlight from the tall window deepened the creases in Valon's tanned face and irradiated his silver hair.

"Lorelei, it was wonderful to meet you at last," Abdallah said. "Your father has told me so much about you. Allah willing we will meet again tomorrow."

"But before you go home you must go shopping." Valon produced a thick roll of cash. Peeling off reddish bank notes amounting to several thousand pounds, he pressed them into Lorelei's hand. "You'll want some things for the weekend. The races are filled with the world's most fashionable people, many of them billionaires. And before you go, you must understand you can always stay here. This is now your home."

Following Peeko to the front door, she gazed at the watercolour landscapes on the pastel print wallpaper. It was much how Lorelei imagined an office might look. In the lift well sat the man she thought must be Frank's brother. His shaved head and tattoos were intimidating, although exactly why she could not have put into words. Like the guard outside her room earlier that morning, he had a newspaper spread over his lap and she glimpsed tanned breasts on the opened page. Frank's brother's shirt had a subdued floral pattern. A long black leather jacket lay on the floor beside him, the matt black handle of a pistol in its folds. She wondered how many guards her father kept in the penthouse apartment.

"'Right, Crash?" Peeko pressed the down button to summon the lift.

"All OK, Peek. You want the sports?"

Their clipped words contrasted with the amiable conversation between Valon and Abdallah at breakfast. Lorelei watched the lift numbers alter.

"Later."

Inside the lift, Peeko stared at the chrome doors. When their eyes met fleetingly, his expression was hard.

The lift was almost on the ground floor when he spoke. "Father thought I shouldn't have drugged you. I thought you would enjoy it, but that's not something I could tell him."

"I would have had a heart-attack otherwise."

"It's true, he's one scary geezer."

"Now you are too. I never knew I had a brother."

"Different mothers, but, yeah. We're siblings, Sis."

Siblings. Lorelei repeated the word in her mind: she'd heard it before. Brother and sister. But didn't believe it. "Brothers are supposed to protect sisters."

"You were safe."

"You tricked me."

"I said I was taking you home. Are we having our first brother-sister fight?" Peeko's guard was down again.

The lift doors opened into a well-lit, cold car park. Luxury cars were on parade in numbered car spaces. It might have been an automobile museum except that the cars were nosed into the parking bays. She recognised the dark blue Rolls Royce her father had driven last night.

Lorelei shivered. The cover on Peeko's black sports car was up, thankfully. "I've never seen a car like this before."

Peeko beamed as his attention shifted onto his pride and joy. "A Ferrari F430."

"So, this is what a Ferrari looks like. What is this place anyway?"

"Here? It's Pa's house. But it's commercial property all the way up to the nineteenth floor. Tenants paying millions. Insurance, real estate, a personnel agency, a couple of brokers. It's a goldmine. The top brass all keep their cars down here.

"Do you live here too?"

"Sometimes. That room you slept in, that's yours. You can stay there whenever you want. Mine's next door. Which reminds me, I got you an entry card." Peeko handed her a photo ID: her eyes were barely open and she appeared to be drooling from one corner of her mouth.

"You photographed me?" Lorelei said, unsure whether to retain such a startling photo.

"It'll get you into the building." Peeko started the car, the roar of the exhaust echoing.

At the exit, Peeko slotted in his ID card. A uniformed guard in the booth checked his face against a computer screen and the toll bar lifted. Driving up a ramp into daylight, they were confronted by the grime of the East End.

"Are you taking me home?"

"Let's go shopping first. Pa gave you some money to buy clothes. Then we get your passport. The last thing you want to do is upset Pa."

Contemplating Valon's attempt to enter her life, Lorelei's anxiety surfaced. Yet, any effort to block him out would end in catastrophe.

"If you're good to him, he'll be good to you," Peeko said, glancing away from the road.

"And if I'm not?"

"Don't even think about it. Don't even think about it."

"Maybe a new track suit."

Peeko smirked. "Abdallah needs your passport to buy the tickets. I'll give it back to you at the airport. OK?"

She didn't bother explaining that her Mum wouldn't let her go, or even let her near the passports, or that she herself didn't want to go; in case it interfered with the simple goal of getting home. Even so, she was prepared to hand over her passport if it meant buying breathing space from her father.

She nodded to herself. If that's what must be done.

# Chapter 15: The Cell

In the police car, Jahangir's mother screamed obscenities. Beside her, Detective Smithwick tried to keep his eyes on the road. Beating the dashboard for emphasis, Smithwick's mother was a donkey, a goat and a cow, and his father, a pig, a mongoose and a snake. Jahangir, alongside Detective Elderberry in the backseat, watched the reflection of a burger packet in the windscreen. It moved with each blow. She must have asked Allah to give her strength.

"If you interfere with my driving, you're history," Smithwick warned her.

From behind, Elderberry watched with blazing eyes. "If she doesn't stop, I'll put her out of the car. Tell her."

"What is the point of all this noise?" Jahangir demanded in Pakhto. "They say they will leave you in the street."

"Why do you not curse your enemies? Our enemies? You say these people are torturing my brother and you sit as meek as a rabbit? Are you a man?"

Jahangir stared at the blur of the road.

His mother stopped raging, unleashing only sporadic curses at the retail sprawl. Smithwick grimaced whenever her impatience got the better of her. It was just as well she was speaking in Pakhto, he considered.

"Tell your mother this is her last warning. I'll put her out if she doesn't behave," Elderberry said. "We can always use someone from a voluntary organisation as your witness."

"No understand English," Jahangir said.

Elderberry may have detected a hint of satisfaction in Jahangir's voice, and Jahangir in turn understood that he would be made to suffer for the antics of his mother. He feigned sleep, cushioning his head on his patkay, and tried to not listen to his mother. He was heading for prison and might be tortured elsewhere in the world. The most important thing was not to panic.

Earlier at the apartment, she had pounded the detectives with her fists, until Smithwick pinioned her against a wall. Handcuffed in the doorway, Jahangir nodded at the inquisitive neighbours.

"You can accompany us as Jahangir's guardian only if you behave yourself," Elderberry had said. "Otherwise we'll leave you here."

"Why? Why? Why you take my son?" she had demanded.

"He's been arrested for murder," Elderberry said.

"What is this they say?" she asked Jahangir.

"Arrested for murder," Jahangir replied in Pakhto.

"Murder!"

"Murder."

"Who? At school?"

"No, not at school. It's the police. It's nothing. Stop making a fuss."

Concerned they would search the apartment, Jahangir thought the quickest way to get to the station was to co-operate. Even so, Smithwick wandered through the house, examining various decorations and, noticing the loft hatch, took a chair from the kitchen.

"Get out from house!" Jahangir's mother shrieked in English.

"You're taller," Smithwick said to Elderberry.

"What you look for?" Jahangir's mother demanded from Smithwick.

"Just routine."

"Who murder?"

"A US soldier in Pakistan."

"This not possible."

It was more than possible, Jahangir knew. The Hellfire missile explosion that killed his uncle had showed as bright green bloom in his nightvison scope. Scanning the wreckage for survivors, Jahangir watched as the Pakistani military took up defensive positions. A tiny ridge of green light suggested a baseball cap and he took the shot. The sonic boom of his gunshot had disguised his location, and the troops fired indiscriminately into the dark mountainside. He gasped at the ferocity of the response. Thousands of rounds ricocheted on the rocky scree.

Elderberry was significantly more lithe than Smithwick, but couldn't do more than poke his shoulders through the loft hatch and shine a torch. After the detective stepped down and replaced his suit jacket, Jahangir noticed how his face had reddened. He regretted having brought the holdall home, but it had been the fulfilment of an archetypal Pakhtun dream, seizing treasure and weapons from an enemy. The Taliban did it to the Americans: intercepting supply lorries heading for Afghanistan across the mountains, emptying them and blowing them up. His uncle had said that the Pakhtun's ancestors were the tribes that controlled the passes between Afghanistan and India, and that they were descendants of the army of Alexander the Great.

"Get in forensics." Elderberry brushed cobwebs and dust from his trousers. They left, ushering Jahangir's furious mother before them.

Through the car window, Jahangir glimpsed the passing grime of Lyme Road. He recalled the stories Uncle Khoshal had told him about Pakhtun imprisoned by the British colonialists: leaders, writers and thinkers. Even the leader of the Red Shirts, a non-violent resistance movement inspired by Mahatma Ghandi. Serving time in prison, his uncle had said, was one of the hardest tests of Pakhtunwali. Yet, adhering to the code of honour always risked death, as it demanded blood for the slightest insult. "It is said," his uncle told him, "that if you are a master of Pakhtunwali, you can travel safely from one end of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa to the other. But everyone knows it is impossible. Someone would insult you to test you. That is why a Pakhtun always carries his rifle."

Pressing a touch screen, Smithwick spoke. "Approaching the Lyme Road Station with suspect and mother." Jahangir saw the spoken words auto-typing in English as though by magic across another screen.

In the Lyme Road police station, an old man ordered him to stand before a desk. His uniform was decorated with many bars and coloured patches. Jahangir thought his face looked like the boxer who had once come to Bazir's village with the storytellers. For a fee he would teach you, and offered double or nothing if you could beat him in a match. He appeared very old and many took him up. This policeman had the same pleasant smile of the boxer who had destroyed all-comers with his fists. The desk sergeant searched his clothing, but found nothing.

The same interpreter whom Jahangir had spoken to at the school was waiting for them. She greeted them in Pakhto. His mother cursed her as a traitor to her people, demeaning herself worse than a prostitute working for the police. The translator explained that she was not Pakhtun, but a Punjabi from near Peshawar, and as a simple translator did not think she had betrayed anyone. Jahangir waited as his mother shouted and waved her arms.

"Tell her she'll be excluded if she makes another sound." Elderberry was more than angry, Jahangir considered, he was incensed. "And I mean one more sound. She's here now, but I would like to try pretend she's not."

"Good luck with that," Smithwick said.

They followed the detectives along a corridor and into an interview room; his mother mollified after the translator explained what had been said. The walls were pale cream and lit by a fluorescent tube. The sole window was mirror-glass.

Inside the room, Smithwick's bulk seemed greater than outside, as though his power over Jahangir increased his size too. He directed Jahangir to a plastic chair and, still handcuffed, Jahangir obeyed. Feigning innocence, it wouldn't do to resist every instruction. Yet, his uncle had explained that when interrogated he should pretend to be angry about the injustice of his incarceration. "All policemen know that the guilty often accept their questioning as a normal course of events, whereas an innocent man will be outraged." His mother was angry enough for both of them; because she thought he was innocent, Jahangir realised.

"We have something to show you." Smithwick's broad face beamed.

"Your uncle on holiday in Pakistan," Elderberry said.

The translator explained and, while Jahangir understood well enough, it was important to continue the pretence of not understanding any English. "Remember," his uncle had told him, "if you don't speak there will be less evidence."

"You might change your mind about co-operating once you see what we have to show you." Elderberry walked out, closing the door behind him.

Unaccountably, his mother began wailing.

"Sit and be quiet," Jahangir instructed. "You are a witness."

"A witness? To what?"

"To any crimes the police commit. Do you want them to throw you out because you are too noisy? What use will you be then? Just sit and listen."

With a frown she began watching Smithwick carefully.

After the translator explained what Jahangir had said, Smithwick cocked his head to one side and smiled. "I think you'll find we're very well covered by the provisions of the Terrorism Act, whatever we do to you."

"The police are the same all over the world," his uncle had said. "They may get people to be a false witness, or write a confession and forge your signature, but it is important never to say anything. Never sign anything, for they will write extra pages in front of the page you have signed. Even if you tell them the truth before they torture you, they will break you anyway so that they can be sure you are telling the truth. Just hold out for as long as you can. And how do you do that? You have to want to die. Don't listen to the voices that whisper in your mind that you must live. In truth, it is better to die than be broken."

"Wait until you see your uncle in the video. Singing like a canary." Smithwick leant back and stretched his arms over his head. "And the song is all about you, my little friend."

Elderberry returned with a laptop computer. "Your Uncle Mahwand was questioned by the military in Pakistan. This footage was sent to us by our American allies. They're very interested in speaking with you, Jahangir."

The video began, showing his uncle in traditional clothing, with his grey partag and kurta dishevelled and stained. His customary pakul cap was missing, revealing a bald crown. The long, dark beard he wore had greyed since Jahangir last saw him. Flanked by soldiers, Uncle Mahwand read from a page in a voice rendered small by the computer speaker. Jahangir's mother began weeping.

"I am being treated well and I make this confession of my own free will. Khoshal visited me two years ago with my nephew Jahangir. He was planning to rescue Jahangir's brother Janan from the Tehreek-e-Taliban. Janan had been kidnapped to be indoctrinated as a shaheed suicide bomber. Khoshal did not know where the boy was being held, but offered a large reward to find out. He wanted revenge, and Jahangir was there to assist. They went into the mountains to do some sort of military training. Khoshal was in the Pakistani Army and has friends who were old mujahedeen. After they found Janaan, Khoshal was killed by a drone strike. My nephew Jahangir then fired upon the troops who were attempting to help survivors and killed one of them."

The video ended, a frame of his uncle's face frozen on the screen.

Uncle Mahwand would not have known that Khoshal had been killed by a drone, Jahangir realised, or about him shooting the soldier. Jahangir hadn't told anyone about it. So who wrote the confession Uncle Mahwand had read? There were no bruises on his uncle's face, but there would be marks under his kurta. Burn marks. "Sometimes interrogators threatened to execute family members," Uncle Khoshal had explained to Jahangir. Possibly that is what they had done to Uncle Mahwand.

"Jahangir, our families too face death at some time," Uncle Khoshal told him. "No-one escapes death and if your family are shot, it is one of the easiest ways to go. Being frightened will ensure you and your family are the slaves of your torturers. Remember that freedom is far more important than life. Not just for you, but for everyone."

"You lied to me yesterday about never having any weapons training!" Smithwick shouted. "When we hand you over, they'll find out everything! One way or another!"

"My son is fourteen," Jahangir's mother said. "Surely they cannot torture him? No!"

Detective Elderberry tapped a pen on the wood-effect tabletop. "I don't see how your son can avoid extradition. After seeing that confession, I now formally charge you with terrorism and murder, Jahangir, and you cannot go home. Today is the end of your life, my lad."

"Tell them what you know!" Jahangir's mother pleaded with him. "Tell them!"

"I don't know anything. Uncle Mahwand was kidnapped by the military and told them whatever they wanted to hear. He was tortured. Otherwise he wouldn't have spoken to them."

"Do you deny what your Uncle Mahwand has said?" Smithwick asked.

"I was with my Uncle Mahwand the whole time," Jahangir insisted.

"Come on, you can't expect us to believe that," Smithwick said.

"When I get a lawyer, you can speak to him about it," said Jahangir. "There is nothing else I can say." That was his uncle's advice too: ask for a lawyer.

"All in good time. For now I'll put you in a cell to consider your position," Elderberry said. "We'll leave you there for a few days as a taster for the rest of your life."

"A few days? Why not a few weeks? Soon you'll be singing to the Pakistani military in a cell alongside your uncle," Smithwick said. "A family duet."

"You people are evil!" his mother shrieked at the policemen in Pakhto. "Evil!"

"You can always go back to your own country if you don't like it," Smithwick retorted, after the translator had explained what she had said. "I'm sure you would have a much, much better life there." He rolled his eyes.

"Mrs Halimzai, you may go home, but Jahangir must stay here." Elderberry interlinked his fingers on the table. "We'll take him to a cell now. If you don't want to go home, you can always take a seat in reception."

"Go to the school and speak to Mrs Brown," Jahangir told his mother in Pakhto. "Her husband is a lawyer. Patasa will help you. Go, I will be all right." He spoke kindly as she cried into an edge of her headscarf, the deep purple of the material almost black with tears. "Get the address for this police station and give it to Mrs Brown."

She hurled insults at the policemen and left.

"Well, well, well, Jahangir. You are truly fucked." Smithwick smiled happily. "We'll keep your tea-towel in case you decide to hang yourself in your cell. Wouldn't want that, would we? Not before you squeak. No shoelaces I notice."

"This way, Jahangir." Detective Elderberry beckoned, with the laptop tucked under his arm. "Don't make this any harder for yourself. And I promise you, it will be very hard."

Smithwick pointed a fat finger at the door. "That way to your new life."

Jahangir followed along a corridor checked with black-and-white linoleum squares. The walls and ceilings were off-white like the interrogation room, and similarly lit by fluorescent tubes. Passing several doorways, he felt trapped in a labyrinth. In the side rooms there were uniformed officers talking to civilians - men, mothers, boys: some frightened, some defiant, some withdrawn. Their lives had run aground.

Passing through a heavy white door to the cellblock, Jahangir stepped onto a concrete floor. A row of grey doors was each secured with an old-fashioned iron bolt. Situated outside the main building, it was cold. Jahangir faced a cell with a basic toilet, sink and bed. Smithwick pushed Jahangir from behind. Inside, the walls were etched with initials, dates and graffiti inscribed by previous occupants.

"Enjoy," Smithwick said, bolting the heavy door.

# Chapter 16: The Broadcast

Lorelei stood in Barn Tower car park. The brand names on the shopping bags she held jostled for visibility. The navy dress she had worn for her father hugged her figure and she worried what her mother would say. She felt tainted.

Peeko locked his car with a beep and jangled the keys into his leather coat.

Across the car park, someone called out. A white guy dressed like someone from school, in jeans and a hoodie. When he jogged over, Lorelei saw he was older. He waved to someone further away, and tried to corner her. Lorelei expected the man to brandish a knife and grab the shopping bags.

Peeko faced him.

Under the hood, his pale face was flushed. "Did you see the shootings last night, or have you heard anything?" He retrieved his phone to record their words.

"If you're smart, you won't ask questions. Not around here." Peeko placed a hand on his chest. "Don't follow us up. Stairs can be very dangerous."

The man remained behind as Peeko and Lorelei continued up to the apartment.

"I loathe the Press," Peeko said, puffing, on the second landing.

In a cafe earlier, he had handed Lorelei her phone with an apologetic grin. It was crammed with unread texts; most were from her mother and the Trauma Therapy group. Patasa warned her that several students thought Lorelei had murdered the LRW drug dealers. Peeko had shaken his head in disbelief. In a group text, she explained that she had stayed with her father overnight and was on a bonanza shopping expedition with her newfound brother. To her mother, she said only that she would be home soon.

Lorelei's flat was three floors up. Her mother had always made her take the stairs because she was terrified of being trapped in a lift. "Do this every day, you will never be fat," she would say. It was the only regular exercise either of them did. In PE at school, Lorelei was surprised what a difference it made. She wondered whether Peeko was admiring her figure as he followed her. If he were from the Estate, he would have said something crude by now.

Drink cans, cigarette butts and sweets wrappers littered the lower levels of the stairwell. Graffiti tags covered almost every inch of the brickwork and a decade of spit and spilt takeaways had stained each step. Higher up, the masonry appeared new by comparison.

"I'm a musician. Exercise is bad for me," Peeko said.

Through the grill on the landing, Lorelei saw African mothers in black mourning with news teams surrounding them. White vans topped with satellite dishes formed a wagon circle in the car park.

"That's where the reporter came from." Lorelei indicated the media frenzy.

"They get a bonus if someone cries on camera."

Her mother swung the front door open even before Lorelei could knock, a carving knife in one hand.

"Whoa, Lorelei's mother!" Peeko raised his palms. "Listen first, stab later!"

"Mum! Nothing happened! Why are you always such a nutter!"

"Is this pimp? Paedophile? I will kill!" She held the point of the kitchen knife just under Peeko's chin. He should be frightened, Lorelei thought, but wasn't.

"None of the above."

"He's my half-brother! Another thing you didn't tell me about."

"This is joke? Brother? What is this lie?"

Lorelei sensed her mother was borderline mad.

"Apparently it's true," Peeko said. "But I'd like to hear what you have to say. Or you can stab me out here. The choice is yours."

As far as Lorelei could tell, Peeko never carried a weapon, but fought instead with well-chosen words. It was his calm expression, she considered, that brought people around. Her mother faltered, no longer sure what to do.

"Not out here front of the news cameras, Mum." Lorelei pointed out the media scrum at the foot of Oast House Tower. Turning her mother by the shoulders, she pushed her inside.

The knife she held in the air like a teacher's whiteboard pointer. "How can you stay away and not tell me? Is not right. Something happen. And what is dress? What is this?" The knife pointed once more at Peeko.

Lorelei recalled Peeko dumping her in front of her father, then her imprisonment in the bedroom. She flushed with humiliation. Her mother was peering into her eyes, fathoming the truth. "Mum! Nothing happened!"

"Something happen. Explain why you do not come home." She wore a plain, white blouse, open to her cleavage, but no make-up.

"My father wanted to speak to me. I stayed at his penthouse last night. He gave me this dress." If her mother ever discovered Peeko had given her heroin, not even his most charming smile would save him. Lorelei visualised the kitchen floor and walls covered in blood.

"He let you come home after?" Lorelei's mother asked.

"Yes."

"And gave her more money to buy clothes." Peeko gestured at the shopping bags.

"He is not father. To him you are like a piece of meat he can sell. I know him."

This description didn't fit with what Lorelei remembered of her father over breakfast. After so many years, could he not have changed for the better?

"He just wants occasional visiting rights," Peeko said. "He's her father."

"Who are you?" She pointed the knife once more at Peeko. Her hand shook, although Lorelei knew she would not waver if she decided to act.

"I told you, Mum. This is my brother. We have the same Dad."

"You have DNA test? No, you have not had DNA test. I know you have not. What is your name?"

"Daniel Markaj."

Her mother's face softened with an expression of amusement. "And who was your mother?"

"Deidre Shannon."

She lowered the knife. "I remember your father with red hair. He was rock star. Deidre love him. Maybe she had you on purpose. Ah! How else?"

Peeko was unmoved. "A little birdie told me that you gave my Mum the drugs that killed her."

"Ne! Not true! But you want revenge? Just try."

"It was a risk in her line of work. I can live with it. I have so far."

"Someone kills mother and you live with it? Who would want you as son?" She spat the words at him. "This proves Valon was not father. He would not rest. Your father was English rock star."

"So I should take revenge?"

"Of course! But on me? I never take drugs and never gave any person drugs. Only weak-minded take drugs. It is slavery. Who do you know gives heroin to women?"

Lorelei blushed, but her mother was not watching and Peeko's expression was unfaltering.

"You don't take drugs?" Peeko asked. "Look at how you live. In a Council shit-hole." He opened a kitchen cupboard. His leather coat brushed past Lorelei's mother and the knife, and he opened the refrigerator. "There's nothing! No tea, no coffee. No soft drink. You have some milk. And an apple." He scoffed and surveyed the adjoining sitting room. "Not even a TV. So, if not drugs, where does all the money go?"

"All those things we do not need. Like smoking. Sweets. Soft drinks. Alcohol. Useless things. They take away money."

"So, if it's not going into your arm, where's all the money?"

"Is my business."

"You're a smackhead and you killed my mother."

Her mother was outraged.

"She doesn't take drugs," Lorelei said. "In this place, I would know. She wouldn't part with the money, for a start."

"Deidre die in my arms. I think you remember, yes. I kill my best friend? Who would say this? Think. Who would say to control you? Because one day you want revenge."

Peeko pursed his lips. "Maybe. She couldn't buy that shit. Likely someone gave it to her. Who could get it uncut?" Peeko stared at the table as he spoke, almost speaking to himself. "No ordinary smackhead."

"Your mother had plan to leave Valon. To live with me. Then Lorelei would have been sister, yes. But Deidre does not have court order. That is why I am not dead. I get court order."

Recalling Valon's massive hands and the terror of his nearness in the penthouse bedroom, Lorelei wondered about her father's explanation of his assault on her mother, that he was in love and had lost his mind.

"If he'd wanted you dead, you would be dead." Peeko splayed his fingers on the pine table top.

"He told me he went mad after you rejected him." Lorelei leant against the kitchen sink.

Her mother pointed the knife at Peeko. "You hear what this one says? Yes, we live in shit-hole! All because of Valon. I should have killed him when I had chance. I had brainwashing and could not do. But now, yes. I do. For what he has done to my life. Your life."

"He saved you from the streets of Sarajevo during the war," Peeko said. "You were starving on the street."

Her mother looked like she would spit. "He buys me from orphanage. Five young girls and some boys. All go to brothels. In Europe."

Lorelei watched Peeko's face as he absorbed this information.

"To me, he is my father."

"A father who is not really father, who kills mother. He will have plans for you too, don't worry." She turned and slipped the knife into a drawer.

Peeko's expression was grim.

"You are the son of my friend, Deidre," she said. "That is enough. Sit. We will have a glass of water."

Peeko sat at the kitchen table with Lorelei beside him. "No juice?" he asked with a wry look.

"What for? Tap water is wonderful. And you keep your freedom."

"She hates everything." Lorelei gestured at her shopping bags. "'Perfume is rubbish. Why not have a shower instead?' she tells me. This is the first time ever I've had nice clothes."

"Let me see." Her mother extended her hand for one of the shopping bags. Slipping out an item wrapped in tissue, she held up a dark blue tracksuit jacket and bottoms. Lorelei knew her mother would disapprove once she uncovered the glitter-enhanced brand name that adorned the length of the trouser leg and, sure enough, she laughed and shook her head. From the other bag she retrieved top-brand trainers. "You are mad. You pay this money for a name on leg? Let me look. Yes! Made in China. Shoes in Turkey. Like everything else. You pay for nothing. For words that mean less than air. It is mind control to make you give money."

"It's what everyone has, Mum. Why do we have to live in your orphanage?"

Peeko covered his thigh with one edge of his coat. Lorelei noticed red curly hair peeping over the throat of his floral-patterned shirt. "Back to my mother. When she died, why didn't you look after me?" he asked.

"Your mother rings me on phone but does not speak. When I go to her flat the door is locked and you do not answer. I ask neighbour with spare key. When we look in flat, Deidre is on floor with overdose. I see you there. Why didn't you open door?"

"It was me who rang you. I didn't open the door because I was worried she'd go to prison. I was eight."

She nodded. "I call ambulance and it takes her away. At hospital they say aunt looks after you. I think you OK."

"Some whore Valon found. Later he told me he was my father and I moved in with him."

"If I had known, I would help, yes. But Daniel, now I must ask something. You are son of my friend. You must never see Lorelei. To protect from your world."

"You are asking me never to see my sister again?" He shook his head. "That's too much."

"Get DNA test. If Valon is father, we talk." Her mother's pale eyes sparkled in the afternoon light, and her dark hair shone, framing her face. Lorelei knew how persuasive her mother could be; it was how she survived.

"If Lorelei is my sister, this is too much to ask. If she is not, then you have no right to ask this of me."

"I have right of mother."

Peeko nodded. "Then I'll go."

Not long after he left, Lorelei's anxiety resurfaced. Breathless and withdrawn, her mother held Lorelei in her arms. At least she was home and Peeko had not asked for her passport; the news about his mother had distracted him.

"It is not finished. Do not trust Valon or this Daniel. I know these people. They say one thing and something else happen. How does he catch you?"

"Peeko said he would show me his rock band, and Valon was waiting for me."

"Lorelei! Never trust! Never again!"

"I want to go to Dubrovnik."

"Good! Good! We are safe with my brother, I promise."

There was a knocking on the door and Lorelei feared Peeko had returned for the passport.

Checking through the peephole, her mother said, "It is boy from your school. I remember." Lorelei was about to warn her not to let anyone in, but in the doorway stood Frank in old jeans and a checked shirt.

"Lorelei! You're back. Mrs Osmanovich, you said to come see you if any of us found out where Lorelei might be. I didn't know she'd already come home."

The downside of not including Frank in her group text, Lorelei thought.

"Come in, come in," said Lorelei's mother. "You are school friend of Lorelei's? Very good."

Frank appeared embarrassed as he sat at the kitchen table. The pale autumn light illuminated their faces. Patches of perspiration had darkened Frank's shirt across his back and under his armpits. "Mrs Osmanovich, I'm Frank Allen."

"I am called Tatiana. Do you want water?"

"Yeah, sure. Sorry for coming over, but I thought I found out something that might help us find Lorelei. Glad you're back OK."

Lorelei stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"That is very kind. What did you find?" her mother asked, as friendly as Lorelei was hostile.

"Well," Frank glanced at Lorelei, "when you asked whether I had a brother yesterday, I thought if he was anywhere near you then something bad was probably happening. So, after the police took away Jahangir, I went home and waited for my brother to go out. He caught a bus way over past the City and I followed him on my bike. I got fairly sweaty, so I hope I don't smell too bad. Maybe not yet, anyway." He sniffed at his underarms. "My brother went inside this big office block and stayed there. After a while, I came here, because I figured that Lorelei must be in there and I shouldn't waste any time waiting for him to come back out."

"Patasa's brother? Jahangir was taken away by the police?" Lorelei wondered why Patasa hadn't texted her about it. Did she not know?

"I thought it must have been because of the shootings. He's a Muslim and everything. But afterwards the police came in and spoke to all the Muslim girls and searched the lockers, and the dogs sniffed everyone, so I'm not sure why they took Jahangir away."

"Patasa said some people say I did it," Lorelei said.

"Ah, yeh."

"Me? How can they even think that?"

Frank waved it away. "No-one really believes it. No-one who's not a complete idiot, anyway."

"You went to this office block?" her mother asked Lorelei. "Where Frank goes?"

Lorelei nodded. "Sounds like the same place. Dad's apartment was at the top."

"Lorelei stayed with father last night, but had forgotten to tell me," her mother explained to Frank.

"Did you see my brother inside?"

"He works for him," Lorelei said.

"Oh. What does my brother do? He never says anything."

"I think he's a bodyguard."

"Do not follow brother's footsteps," Lorelei's mother said. "He is gangster like Valon."

"Gangster?" Frank tilted his head to one side, as though disappointed. "My dad was a gangster. He's been in prison since I was little. My mum says he'll die there."

"He was a bad man?"

Frank nodded. "He's nice to talk to. In prison, at least."

Lorelei's phone tinkled and she glanced at it under the table. It was from a number she did not recognise. "if u want 2 come to dubai, give me passport on way 2 school 2morrow. P". Peeko not only took her photo last night, he got her phone number.

Hearing noises on the landing outside, the three of them gazed at the doorway. Then there was a knock.

Lorelei's mother stood and peered through the peephole. "It is little schoolboy." She opened the door and Banger stood there in his primary school uniform.

Before Lorelei could shout, four black men stormed in, each wearing the LRW strip of black puffas and beanies offset by silver chains and white trainers. Silva and Westral from school, and Banger, followed them in. The seven gangstas crowded them.

The men held pistols. Lorelei dropped her phone in fright.

"What are you doing? Why are you here?" Lorelei's mother shrieked.

"Stand back or we dead you, bitch. Now for payback."

"Wait!" Frank said. "It wasn't her. It wasn't her!"

Lorelei's mind flashed with an imagined future: scenes of Peeko, Dubrovnik and her mother, and she realised how much she wanted to live.

"Den tell me who the fuck it was?"

At the edge of the sunglasses above the black bandanas, there were tattoos of teardrops on the gangstas' cheeks.

"You think Lorelei was Muslim girl who kills everyone?" her mother asked. "Lorelei was with father all night. He is Valon Markaj. You can ask him. This boy's brother saw her." She gestured toward Frank.

"Bunny's bro? That white supremacist prick?" Westral said.

"Maybe Valon sent his daughter to dead us niggers." The leader of the larger men pushed his pistol against Lorelei's forehead. Underneath his bandanna, she recognised Botship, the LRW boss.

Lorelei stopped breathing.

Her mother shrieked; a gangsta grabbed her by an arm and jammed his pistol into her chest.

"Valon, de Midas of South London, yeh? An you live here?" another asked, looking about the kitchen.

"He has gang with machine guns. Why send daughter to kill?" Tears streamed down her cheeks. "What father would do such a thing?"

"Our cuz here saw Muslim bitch with blue eyes. Everyone say it this girl with a niqab. Was it her, Banger?"

"Put a tea-towel over her head and I see." The young boy stood in the doorway, his arms folded upon his school uniform; his severe expression barely concealed his pride in deciding Lorelei's fate.

Shoving his pistol back into his jeans, Botship took a tea-towel from a rail and draped it over Lorelei's blonde hair. Her life depended on this little boy she had seen around the Estate. Her jaw was clenched tight and wouldn't open. Time slowed down as the boy contemplated her.

"Put another over her mouth." Banger's eyes narrowed.

Botship wrapped a further tea-towel around her head, adjusting it to sit on the bridge of her nose, so that only her eyes were visible. Beside her, she heard the gangsta's erratic breathing, the sound of a human predator. Indigo prison tattoos of dots and faces decorated the backs of his dark hands and his heavy silver chain shone. Breathing through her clenched-shut jaw and the tea-towel over her nose, she stared first at Westral then at Silva. They were waiting to see blood. Everyone in the room listened for Banger's judgement.

"She too white. Bitch last night was Arab. Brown face, with dark blue eyes. Not light blue like dis white bitch."

"Can't be many of dem. We find her."

"Put out de word, any Muslim bitch hiding behind sunglasses be deaded."

"You a lucky bitch," Botship said, teardrop tattoos extending outside the edge of his sunglasses. "The word is you did it no doubt. You better stay in."

"For your own safety, yeh," Westral said.

"She was with her father!" Tears streamed down her mother's face. "There are witnesses."

Frank put his hand on Lorelei's shoulder. "Are you OK?"

"Charlie Brown witnesses, dey all fake, yeh. Just like you, old bitch," said Westral.

There were footsteps on the balcony outside and the gangstas pointed their weapons at the doorway. For an instant, Lorelei hoped Peeko and his crew had arrived although, if the two sides began shooting, everyone would die. Instead, media cameramen stormed the doorway hefting cameras on their shoulders, jostling for the better position. Reporters with fur-covered microphones began crowing questions, until everyone noticed the gangstas had pistols and retreated.

"It the fuckin TV, cuz."

"LRW famous."

The gang members followed the reporters out onto the balcony, their arm movements exaggerating the weight of the weapons and making US gangsta-style hand-signals with their free hands. Under threat of fire, the cameramen kept filming.

Lorelei tried breathing every five seconds or so, to slow her heart rate. With their flashing chains and pistols tucked into the front of dark jeans, they reminded her of the jungle warlords the Congolese boy had described to the Trauma Therapy group. Except, these were lords over a concrete jungle. She tried instead to think of a Fibonacci sequence, but the stream of numbers based around the Golden Ratio were scattered by fear.

Lorelei's mother slammed the front door shut and chained it. Through the window they heard Botship addressing the press, talking through his bandana into a microphone.

"We not gonna lie down after the slaughter of our fam. Since 9/11, the Warriors friends of de Muslim, but now, that all finished. De Muslim bitch killed our soljas was jihad-trained. What girl deads seven soljas wit no training? Dis no drug heist. It execution. She controlled by a mosque and until that mosque hand her over, yeh, we at war. We bring Afghanistan to Gaza, and we hunt down de Taliban here and dead 'em. We put her in our Guantanamo. Waterboard her, electrocute her, set de dogs on her. We stick the electric baton up her. She gonna be a naked slave in a cell wit de hood over her head for ten years. After, we put her on trial and shoot that bitch. Before den she will tell us who is to blame in de mosque. Al Qaeda, be warned! We at war!"

The tea-towels still adorned Lorelei's head as she heard the declaration.

Frank squeezed her shoulder trying to get a response. "You OK, Lorelei?"

Her mother ripped off the tea-towels, revealing Lorelei's clenched jaw and tear-filled eyes.

She couldn't hear their words. She would go to her father; his guards would protect her. Peeko would fetch her so that she could sleep in her room in the penthouse.

"We've got to get Mrs Brown. This is an emergency," Frank shouted, his hazel eyes wide open.

Outside, Frank pushed through the pistol-toting gang and the crowd of microphone-wielding reporters, oblivious to their shoves and complaints.

# Chapter 17: Lets Make a Deal

Lying on the cell bed, Jahangir studied the runic names of former inmates scratched into the walls. Large spider-web patterns had been etched into all four corners of the ceiling. He wondered how the artist had reached so high.

In the mountains of Mohmand Agency, he had heard talk of Guantanamo Bay prison, of innocents and teenagers imprisoned there without trial, and about rendition flights that transported prisoners to distant lands to be tortured. The Uzbek secret police boiled people alive. Once he had asked his uncle, "If the West is as evil as everyone says, why do so many Muslims want to live there?" Sitting in Bazir's hujra, his uncle had replied, "The trap is baited well."

Jahangir wondered how he would react when he was tortured.

He heard someone outside at the door. The hinges groaned and Jahangir stared at the silhouette of Detective Elderberry.

"Someone wants to speak to you."

"Lawyer?" Jahangir wondered whether Mrs Brown's husband had agreed to help him.

Elderberry said nothing. Instead he led Jahangir back through the police station corridors. He hoped the Americans weren't waiting to take him away. They passed a room where a young Islamic woman was crying alone. Jahangir thought she might be Iraqi; there were many Iraqi refugees in the UK after the invasion for oil. He recalled a newspaper photo of one refugee, a child with all four limbs amputated after a Western missile strike.

Elderberry's shoes squeaked on the black-and-white linoleum tiles. Opening the door to an interrogation room, Jahangir faced a bearded man dressed in a pakul, partag and kurta. A trim, greying beard framed his sallow face. Jahangir was almost certain he was Pakhtun.

"Lawyer?" Jahangir asked Detective Elderberry, for there was a remote possibility that Mrs Brown's husband was Pakhtun.

"Your lawyer will come later." Elderberry moved a finger in a circular fashion. "Later."

The bearded man raised a palm to gain the detective's attention. "It is imperative that no-one hears what we say. No recordings, microphones. Nothing. And if I find out..."

Elderberry nodded and closed the door, leaving Jahangir alone with the stranger.

"As-salaamu' alaykum. Hello, Jahangir. Please sit," he said in Pakhto. "Surprised to see me? I have a few more surprises for you. Pleasant surprises, I hope. For one, I knew your Uncle Khoshal, may his soul rest in peace."

Jahangir wondered how that could be possible.

"We were at Birmingham University together and, both being Pakhtun, instantly became best friends. The Pakistani Army sponsored his engineering studies, I recall, and so afterwards he went back to Pakistan to help fight the Russians. Like you I am of the Halimzai clan, originally from Khyber Agency. My family were in business there. Mostly smuggling, if I am allowed to admit such a thing. My father first came to England in the early '80s to arrange weapon sales to the mujahedeen. Later I saw your uncle on a visit to the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. It was through him we did quite a bit of business, you see. Khoshal became quite a wealthy man. Then, last week, I heard he died. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Shahzar. I am here because the government is very concerned about what is happening in London. The police don't like my being here, because they know I can offer you full immunity from prosecution. Did you know it was really me who had you freed at the airport?

"Anyway, I think I can guess what happened in Pakistan. A Hellfire blew up the house your brother was in, together with your uncle. If I were hidden on the mountainside and it was my uncle killed, I would have taken a shot at the American too. Any Pakhtun worth his salt would have, but I trust you won't tell anyone I said such a thing. I understand it was a very good shot, Jahangir. Your uncle must have trained you well." Shahzar smiled behind his thick moustache and beard. "Am I right?"

He knew everything. Was it this man who had written the confession his Uncle Mahwand read out? The compound in the mountains had been the house of a Taliban imam, Nur Darwesh, who had been indoctrinating shaheed suicide bombers. Jahangir recalled his uncle helping him set up the Dagunov rifle on the mountainside overlooking the madrassa. "Any men run out of the house, or any men come from the madrassa, shoot them. Leave the children. Even if they're armed. One might be your brother."

Squinting through the green haze of his nightvision riflescope, Jahangir had watched his uncle scale the compound wall, shoot several barking dogs and charge into the main building. After a gunshot, Jahangir had worried that his uncle had been hit. After several more shots, people ran from the house screaming. Through his scope he saw they were women and children. From a building opposite, ten boys armed with Kalashnikovs emerged and, urged on by three older men, had surrounded the house. Jahangir halted one of the men. The loud report of the Dragunov confused them long enough for Jahangir to shoot the second man. The boys hit the ground. As far as he could tell, the third man had run away. Jahangir fired a warning shot to keep them down.

A fourth man appeared but, as Jahangir prepared to shoot, he realised it was his uncle. One of the boys stood up. Maybe it had been Janan.

When the Hellfire missile exploded, Jahangir shut his eyes.

The explosion had thundered like a lightning strike and a wave of heat rushed over him. The fire flash burned green in Bazir's light-sensitive scope; when the bloom began to subside, he saw smoking roof beams and tile shards scattered outward from the point of impact. The US military drones attacked at night when the target was at home. When a lot of people are at home.

Three armoured vehicles drew up to the periphery of the burning debris. A squad of military personnel bundled out, posting snipers and infantry outwards while others began searching the smoking wreckage with torches. Camera flashes bloomed in Jahangir's nightvision scope. One of the men standing by the vehicles wore a baseball cap; he back-flipped with the force of the bullet from Jahangir's rifle. The infantry guards rushed forward onto the mountainside, firing their weapons.

Terrified by the thermal imaging capability of the drones overhead, Jahangir spent several days in a rock crevice, rationing his water. Once or twice he heard something moving nearby, but it may have been goats. After his water bottle ran dry, he walked through the night and all the next day to reach Bazir's farm.

"Between you and me," Shahzar continued in the police interrogation room, "I don't think they can prove anything without a confession. On the other hand, when the Americans get hold of you, they'll snap you like a twig and free you when you're of no more use. That sort of misery would last your whole life. What I can offer you instead is immunity, and the Americans never get to touch you."

"What is it you want?" Jahangir stared at this man who claimed to be his uncle's best friend. Anything that sounded so good must be bait.

"If I am not incorrect, Khoshal, you and I have been on the same side. Your uncle wanted to take out the madrassa brainwashing those poor children, and that's what we wanted too. Of course, your uncle would have spared the women and children. The Tehreek-e-Taliban have lost their way and, unfortunately, the Americans have an equally heavy-handed approach.

"We need someone to do something similar to what Khoshal did, but in London. There's a small mosque near Lyme Road where we need eyes. We have reason to believe children there are being groomed for suicide missions here.

"I won't lie to you. It will be dangerous. We've tried to put people in before. One was warned off, luckily, but another vanished. But a young boy with your background might just fly under the radar. There is a strong wahabi influence in there. Our last source suggested a following of the Qutbiyyah or similar. He was the one who disappeared and his last message to me was that the mosque was acquiring a shaheed bomber."

"'A young boy' like me." Jahangir echoed Shahzar's words, referring to some Pakhtun men's predilection for boys. It did not by any means exclude the clergy and Jahangir had heard it was the same in the Christian church.

"I mean," Shahzar explained, "that a youngster won't seem suspicious. With your background, they will probably try to recruit you to their cause. They may see you as a potential martyr. A shaheed. Which in itself will be dangerous, it's true, but I don't think you'll fall for the indoctrination. And, as you are so young, they won't suspect that you're keeping an eye on them."

"You want me to become a shaheed?"

"To pretend. Jahangir, London is about to tear itself apart. The Estate gangs are planning to attack mosques and the faithful will defend them to the death. On top of that, all over the country there have been attacks on Muslim women. We need to find this Muslim girl who killed those gangsters and stop the violence. I think it almost certain she comes from this mosque, or someone there will know who she is. If it is in fact a 'she'. We both know how the militants don't hesitate to dress as a woman."

"Why not stop the gangstas?" Jahangir considered that if he had not been threatened first with extortion and, later, murder, there would not have been any Estate killings, but he could not admit this to Shahzar.

"What a true Pakhtun would say. But, you know how feuds go. They can last for decades, with people on each side killing each other for no more reason than they belong to this or that group. Imagine if millions began fighting each other in all the major cities. It might push the country into a state of emergency. We capture the killer, put her on trial, and that's the end of that. Find out who she is and who's controlling her."

Jahangir recollected his uncle's warnings about the police and intelligence services. On the other hand, this man Shahzar was Halimzai and knew his uncle. That counted for something. "My uncle told me that the one thing I must never do was to trust the police. No matter how much I thought it would work out for the good or how much I trusted the person. Never. How can you guarantee what you say is true?"

"At least you are considering my proposal." Shahzar stroked his beard. "What would you want as a guarantee on top of my word?"

Jahangir had no idea. "My lawyer is coming. We could ask him."

"We could, but then that is one more person who would know. We certainly do not want these policemen to know any of the details. If knowledge of this spread more widely, it goes without saying, you would be executed."

"I need a guarantee."

"I understand Khoshal's caution in these matters..." Shahzar gazed at the ceiling in thought. "When is your lawyer due to arrive?"

"The policeman said soon."

"I'll go see. I am hoping this will work out well for you, Jahangir. Your uncle was dear to me, may his soul rest in peace."

Shahzar closed the interrogation room door and left Jahangir alone. "We cooperate because it is our instinct to be part of a group," his Uncle Khoshal had explained. "If you are excluded, your mind makes you submissive as a strategy to be accepted once more. You must guard against this." That's why he was left alone in a cell earlier, Jahangir realised.

Would his uncle have said accepting such a deal was an attempt to "re-join the group"? He wanted to ask his lawyer whether the threat of the Americans extraditing him was real. Shahzar himself had said, if he did not admit to shooting the American in Pakistan, there was nothing that could tie him to it. Even so, the Americans' torturers would not spare him. What they did to break a man like Uncle Mahwand, he could not imagine.

Two years ago, Uncle Khoshal and he had visited Mahwand in Mohmand Agency. He was a mountain of a man. His huge beard reached halfway down his barrel chest. It would have been difficult to believe that anything could have cowered him. That he would inform on his own family was unthinkable. Judging from his own PTSD symptoms, Jahangir understood what Shahzar meant when he said, "That sort of misery would last your entire life." His uncle would be a broken man, forever shamed.

When the interrogation room door next opened, standing behind Shahzar was a tall, well-dressed African man. Accompanying them was the same police translator he had spoken to before, wearing her pink veil but otherwise dressed in Western clothing. Jahangir assumed the tall black man must be Mrs Brown's husband, the lawyer. Below a high, square forehead, he had a frank and firm gaze.

"Jahangir? I'm Hercule Brown, Tilda Brown's husband. I believe you asked for me to represent you."

The translator explained what he had said, and Jahangir replied, "Thank you, Mr Brown."

Then Shahzar asked Jahangir, "Would you mind if I translated instead? One less person."

Jahangir nodded.

"You know he works for MI5?" Hercule asked Jahangir through the translator.

"He is Halimzai," Jahangir said.

"I need a confidential discussion with my client and I'm not sure I can trust you as a translator. You being on the other side of the fence."

"Well, she is working for the police too, even though she was sourced from an independent agency. It is possible I can fill you in better than anyone. If you're not satisfied afterwards, we can arrange for another translator."

"Well, if that's what Jahangir wants." Hercule Brown glanced apologetically at the translator as she stood, her hot-pink silk hijab swishing in annoyance.

"Allow me to start from the beginning," Shahzar said after she left. "Several weeks ago, a small madrassa in the mountains of Mohmand Agency was hit by a Hellfire missile."

Hercule put up his hand. "A madrassa? Mohmand Agency? I think I know what a Hellfire missile is, but if you'd explain the rest, I'd appreciate it."

Shahzar smiled. "A madrassa is a religious school. They can also function as guesthouses for travellers. As you may know, Muslims are required to be especially hospitable to travellers, because of the hajj. You know, the pilgrimage to Mecca we're all expected to do once in a lifetime. Mohmand Agency is like a county, but on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. It is part of a region that was taken from the Afghanis by the British, and afterwards became part of Pakistan. It is now one of a number of semi-autonomous states, sometimes called 'The Tribal Areas'. We are Afghanis, but we were never given the option to re-join Afghanistan when Britain relinquished colonial rule, because that would have taken the Hindu Kush region out of British influence.

"Anyway, to continue: after the missile strike, a team of the Pakistani Special Services Group had been waiting to capture any survivors. Accompanying them, was a US military adviser. He was shot by a sniper, but the shooter was never found. Amongst the body parts identified after the explosion, Pakistani intelligence identified Jahangir's uncle Khoshal. Jahangir and Khoshal were known to be travelling together, and so it is thought that Jahangir was the sniper. Up until now the view amongst the intelligence community was that Khoshal and Jahangir were defending the madrassa. Now we believe they were there instead to rescue his nephew who had been kidnapped by the Taliban."

"What has Jahangir said?"

He could see his lawyer was assessing the cultural connection with Shahzar, yet Jahangir didn't think Hercule Brown could ever properly appreciate the clan ties between them. The Halimzai were like extended family.

"He claims he was staying with his mother's brother hundreds of miles away."

"Is that a confirmed alibi?"

"I am afraid not. The Pakistani military detained the uncle and have secured a confession from him. His seizure was probably illegal, as Mohmand Agency is an autonomous region, and there was no crime committed near a public road, which might have given the Pakistanis jurisdiction. Nonetheless, the uncle was videoed stating that Jahangir was not with him and that he believes Khoshal had been training the boy to avenge his brother."

"Avenge? You said it was a rescue of his brother."

"Either. Both. For a Pakhtun, vengeance is required."

"Pakhtun?"

"It's what we call ourselves. You may have heard us called 'Pashtun' or 'Pathan' perhaps? We are the main ethnic group in Afghanistan."

Hercule nodded. "I've heard the terms."

"Let me take a step back. After the Western invasion of Afghanistan, Taliban refugees fled into our mountains and, over time, the Pakistani Pakhtun formed several Taliban groups. They use terror to dominate the local people, killing anyone who disagrees with them. The usual practices. These Taliban have kidnapped many teenagers and, after indoctrinating them, use them as shaheed."

"Shaheed?"

"Martyrs. Suicide bombers."

"I see. Does Jahangir know about his uncle's confession?"

"He's seen it. I understand he's still maintaining he was at Mahwand's and that his uncle's confession was extracted under torture."

Jahanagir nodded, catching the drift of what was being said in English.

"Was his uncle tortured?"

Shahzar shrugged. "The Pakistan military are certainly not saying he was tortured. But I would imagine so, based on my experience of counterterrorism outfits."

"How did you get the video?"

"The Americans sent a copy. They want to interrogate Jahangir. I believe an extradition process is already underway."

"I see."

"You could fight extradition, of course," Shahzar said, "but you realise the US doesn't need hard evidence like we need to extradite from them, just reasonable suspicion. And while you might argue in court that the confession is not admissible as evidence, I think the US have a different standard as to what constitutes torture. They also have different laws surrounding the treatment of so-called terrorists. And once the Americans have Jahangir in custody, who could be sure what would happen?"

Hercule's expression was grave. "There's no hard evidence that Jahangir did anything, but I take your point. What are you offering?"

"Immunity."

"In exchange for?"

"We want him to be our eyes in a masjid near where he lives."

"Masjid?"

"A mosque. A small mosque that has attracted a lot of funding from wealthy individuals in the Gulf."

"And Jahangir agrees to this?"

"That's what we are here to discuss." Shahzar smoothed his moustache. "Jahangir, I think, would like to work something out, but he doesn't trust the police."

"Or you?"

Shahzar smiled. "But I am Halimzai Pakhtun and I knew his uncle Khoshal when we were younger. Jahangir knows that as a Pakhtun my word is my life."

"So, immunity for a crime Jahangir didn't commit?" Hercule gazed at Jahangir as he said this.

"May I say something?" Jahangir said in Pakhtun.

"Is that really a good idea?" Hercule said, after Shahzar translated. "If you say something make sure it's not an admission of any sort."

Jahangir nodded. "It is possible for the police to make up any charge they want and to lie in court. My uncle explained this much to me, and many people have told me such stories. Plus, immunity will not be enough. The police only have to release my name and I, or my family, could be killed. So they would always have this power over me. I am against suicide bombing. It is the murder of innocents, and my brother was also innocent. Because of this I might agree to spy on those who would arrange such abominations. But I do not trust what would happen afterwards."

Shahzar appeared happy with this. "Have you read the Qur'an, Jahangir, on suicide?"

He hadn't, although the truth was Jahangir found reading anything difficult. Instead, he would listen whenever his uncle recited from the newspaper. He remembered Uncle Khoshal reading out that the cleric Sarfraz Naeemi had been murdered by a suicide bomber in Lahore. Four bystanders were also killed. Shaking his large head, his uncle had said, "Islam has been hijacked by terrorists." Jahangir knew of other instances of imams being murdered, as reported in the Peshawar Whadat and the Pakistan News.

"So, you cannot quote me relevant verses?" Shahzar smiled.

"My uncle could."

"Wonderful Khoshal, he was a polymath."

"Just what are you two talking about?" Hercule asked, not understanding the Pakhto conversation.

"We became side-tracked into memories about his Uncle Khoshal."

"What we need is a simple contract," Hercule said. "Something that sets out expectations on both sides. Jahangir needs confidence that the deal is time limited, that secrecy will be absolute, that he'll be compensated if he suffers injury or death, and has immunity from any attempt to prosecute or extradite him. But let's hear in more precise terms what MI5 wants."

"It's straightforward what we want," Shahzar said. "To find the killer as soon as possible. London is about to erupt. The gangs are using Twitter to attack mosques and the Islamic community are equally prepared to defend themselves. Women in Islamic clothing are being assaulted in the street in all the major cities. A racial and religious riot might well spread across the country. This masjid is close to the Lyme Road Estate, and the only one where we don't have eyes. I'm sure I don't need to stress how important this is to both our communities."

"It sounds incredibly dangerous. Are you sure you can do this, Jahangir?"

Jahangir nodded.

"The imam is Egyptian, but he is likely to trust Jahangir if it is known that his brother Janan was a suicide bomber. We'll have an emergency team nearby in case there's a problem."

"What sort of emergency team?"

"A special ops group in the building opposite."

"What will Jahangir do once he gets inside?" Hercule's forehead creased into a frown.

"He just goes there to pray. We hope they will welcome him with open arms and, as the pressure from the black community mounts, they will trust him with information. The only problem that might occur is if, somehow, Pakistan's ISI have passed information about Jahangir to the Taliban."

"Pakistan's ISI?"

"Their Inter-Service Intelligence agency. Certain people within it have sympathies with Afghanistan's Taliban, from the days when they themselves worked with the mujahedeen. They also appease the Pakistani Taliban to head-off any talk of the Tribal Areas re-joining Afghanistan."

"And you're saying these people could alert the mosque here about Jahangir?"

"On the whole it is very unlikely."

"But possible. Are you happy with this?" Hercule asked Jahangir.

The riot about to happen was because of his Pakhtunwali killings on Farm Estate, and Jahangir felt that he should take the blame. Yet, to confess to the police would smack of weakness. He knew what his uncle would have said: the gang members had threatened him with murder. It would have been foolish to wait until they attacked before dealing with them, but now they were attacking women and mosques. He gave his assent.

Hercule took out a piece of paper and began writing. "We can agree exact wording later, and I'll top and tail it with some standard clauses. In principle, this is what I think: he receives full immunity for prosecution for any crimes he may have committed before tonight, in perpetuity."

"That's far too broad."

"So far, I don't know of all the crimes you or the Americans might level at my client resulting from the torture of his relatives, which may or may not be true, so it has to be a catch-all clause."

Shahzar tapped the table with a finger.

"Further, he requires a guarantee that no other country will be able to extradite him, that is to say, the UK government will refuse to allow his extradition anywhere. He requires further immunity from prosecution for any crime committed while undertaking duties on your behalf, and he is only required to work for one month collecting intelligence at the mosque. Extension is by written mutual agreement of both parties."

"One month?"

"You said your need was to contain this riot?"

"Longer would be better."

"As I said, extension by mutual agreement. He requires a guarantee of secrecy, where any leak not directly caused by Jahangir himself will entitle him to round-the-clock security and compensation of five million pounds. Should he receive any permanent incapacity or die as a result of the engagement his next of kin will be entitled to five million pounds."

Shahzar's eyes widened. "That would be the deal of the century. You have to remember that the Americans are about to extradite Jahangir and life there would not be pleasant for him."

"Come on." Hercule's gaze was unflinching. "Her Majesty's government hands over a fourteen-year old for the Americans to torture based on the confessions of an uncle who was tortured. I don't think so."

"These are special times. I think you may be surprised what this government will do to appease the Americans. But, I don't have time to argue. Whether I can get the five million is doubtful, but with this riot brewing it seems I must try."

"Five million is cheap for what you want him to do. And, signed by the Minister."

"The Minister? At this time of night?"

"We should just accept your signature? The truth is, Shahzar, I have no idea who you are. I dare say no-one in this building does. And you are probably prohibited from telling me. The Minister, everyone knows. He puts his name on this and we have a deal."

Shahzar gave the lawyer a diplomatic smile. "I can ask."

Jahangir observed the paleness of Hercule's palms. It was the same for the Pakhtun men who spent their lives working the land, tending flocks or hunting. Jahangir's own hands were dark. When Shahzar translated what Hercule had written down into Pakhtun, Jahangir tried to look serious. That part of his brain that had wanted to live was celebrating, although the half concerned with honour remained troubled. Whether the deal was accorded with Pakhtunwali, Jahangir couldn't be sure.

"I'll need an hour to draft it on my laptop. Is there a room I can use?" Hercule's lean body was distinctly athletic under his crumpled suit, his shoulder muscles bunching as he leant forward.

"This one is secure."

"You should try to get some sleep," Hercule said to Jahangir. Retrieving a sleek black phone, he held it to his ear.

Shahzar stood, clearly relieved, although Jahangir detected a tiredness in his bearded face. Shahzar's family had married into Hindu blood, Jahangir thought, observing his features. Or maybe Tajik? His name was Persian.

"Come," he said to Jahangir in Pakhto. "You should be at home again before morning, Insha'Allah. You can sleep in your cell until your lawyer is finished. Then we find the girl."

# Chapter 18: Knight in White Satin

Her hands enveloped in her mother's, Lorelei listened to her whisper of being safe in Dubrovnik. Yet, fifteen years ago the city had been shelled, so how safe could it be? The Serbian interpreter at school had said there had been war criminals on both sides. True, Mrs Brown said Dubrovnik was now filled with tourists and cafes, and the mediaeval buildings had been repaired. Yet, her flight wasn't until Tuesday and today was Thursday.

Until then, she would only be safe if surrounded by her father's retinue. There were uniformed guards at the entrances to his building. The only protection on Farm Estate was the front door. She remembered Peeko's scorn at the apartment and the lack of groceries. They were surviving on war rations because her mother was still trying to get to Dubrovnik.

Kissing Lorelei's head, her mother whispered, "It is over. Come lie down on your bed. Stand. I will help you."

It had been nearly an hour since Botship's gangstas had pushed their way through the reporters and vanished back into the Estate. Lorelei still could not move.

A knock on the door made Lorelei flinch.

"It's me," Frank said, his voice muffled. "I've brought Mrs Brown."

Her mother opened the door and the distant sounds of people shouting, car horns and police sirens assailed Lorelei. Mrs Brown slipped off a cashmere coat, revealing her flame-orange jacket. Frank, in his checked shirt, seemed impervious to the weather. He must have Viking blood, just like her. Even so, Lorelei shivered from the cold air that accompanied them inside.

"You poor thing." With a hand on Lorelei's cheek, Mrs Brown gazed into her eyes. "You will be all right. Say it with me, 'I'll be all right'. The sooner you get with the program the sooner you'll feel better. 'I'll be all right'. Say it with me. 'I'll be all right'."

Lorelei mouthed the words too softly to be heard. She listened to Frank whispering about what was happening on the streets.

"The gangs are all on Twitter. They're smashing everything. Looting shops. Burning cars. We were lucky to get here." Frank showed pictures on his mobile.

"Please, you must stay until safe," Lorelei's mother said. "It is very brave to come, thank you."

"No taxis. We ran like hell all the way." Frank scrolled through the online posts. Lorelei glimpsed the mayhem on the small screen.

Mrs Brown was still repeating softly, "I'll be all right," and Lorelei echoed her words.

"Mrs Osmanovich, do you have a hot water bottle?" Mrs Brown asked.

"But of course." Lorelei's mother went to her bedroom and returned with a cloth-covered bladder. She put a pot of water on the stove. "Please, I am Tatiana. How is my daughter?"

"Call me Tilda. She needs somewhere quiet and safe to recover."

"Not here? Is somewhere else safe?"

"I suppose we'll have to wait it out. We'll keep doing the exercises together until it's time for her to sleep. Breathe smoothly Lorelei. Smoothly."

Lorelei mouthed the words, "I'll be all right." In her state of mind, no comfort from mathematics was possible. Only the program would help. Over the years Lorelei had worked through Mrs Brown's exercises for reducing anxiety and she knew the positive mantra would eventually calm her. The repetition of words, any words, distracted her mind from what had happened.

Her mother passed her the hot water bottle and Lorelei hugged it to her chest. "I'll be all right. I'll be all right," she repeated. Mrs Brown massaged her shoulders.

"You'll be all right."

"I'll be all right."

"Let's try the exercises. First, water on the face."

Lorelei put the hot water bottle on the table and from the kitchen sink splashed cold water onto her face to slow her heartbeat. Wiping her face and hands on a towel, she clasped Mrs Brown's chocolate-coloured hands, holding them at shoulder height. Pushing against her resistance, they moved their clasped hands up and down, then backwards and forwards.

"We'll be all right together," Mrs Brown said.

"We'll be all right together," echoed Lorelei.

Mrs Brown lowered into a squat and Lorelei followed, holding the position for several seconds, and rising up again. They repeated this until the muscles in Lorelei's legs began to burn. They started resistance exercises for the upper body, all the while repeating the mantra. Mrs Brown's expression was happy, and Lorelei mirrored her serenity. Mrs Brown once explained that to control physical pain the brain released endorphins, and the exercises also tricked the mind to believe that it was fighting or running away from danger.

When their arms became tired, Mrs Brown began squatting again, until Lorelei found the pain almost unendurable.

"How do you feel?"

Lorelei nodded. Her heart thudded in her chest. "Better. Much better."

"Put more cold water onto your face. Then let's sit down and eat some chocolate."

"Chocolate?" Lorelei's mother's voice had an edge of suspicion. From her respectful tone, Lorelei understood that Mrs Brown impressed her mother. "Does chocolate help? I can buy, chocolate."

Lorelei couldn't believe what she had just heard. She hadn't dared to tell her mother about her Bounty ritual.

"A little charge of pleasure can help lift our mood," said Mrs Brown. "The secret is not to have too much. Then you just feel sick."

Physically and mentally exhausted, Lorelei chewed the dark confection Mrs Brown passed her from a crumpled foil wrapper. A bitter-sweet taste filled her mouth.

"Feeling better?"

Lorelei nodded. The hot water bottle heated her lap, its warmth wonderful.

With a trembling hand, Lorelei's mother reached out as though she wanted to hold her daughter. Lorelei was glad she didn't actually touch her.

She watched Frank inspecting a freckled hand splayed on the tabletop. It had been kind of him to bring Mrs Brown to her, Lorelei considered. Outside, sirens wailed: police, fire, ambulance and car alarms. Lorelei couldn't distinguish between them.

"I doubt school will open tomorrow." Mrs Brown examined a newsfeed on her mobile phone. "The police are warning everyone to keep inside."

"Well, the good thing is that no-one suspects Lorelei anymore," Frank said. "You're safe, now that Banger said it wasn't you."

"There's a small crowd of protesters outside the Lyme Road mosque. The police are holding them off." The small screen lit Mrs Brown's face.

The evening encroached so gradually that Lorelei only then noticed it was almost dark. "Mum, the lights," she said, although it occurred to her having the lights off might be safer.

"Of course." Her mother was effortlessly graceful. Maybe because she was so beautiful people's attention focused on that rather than what she was doing, like a sleight-of-hand illusion. Lorelei understood her mother used her looks to mesmerise the people around her; an act put on for her customers, making her irresistible. To everyone except her daughter.

"If you have some cards, we could play," Frank said. "Pass the time."

"Don't have any," said Lorelei. "Mum doesn't do frivolous."

Her mother's eyes flashed. "It is possible to talk to each other."

"The art of conversation. Almost a lost art." Mrs Brown put away her phone and smiled. Her teeth were very white; Lorelei thought it partly because of the contrast with her dark skin, but Africans generally had really good teeth. Frank's uneven, antique ivories were what the Americans, often with bleached enamel, called "English teeth". She remembered a French teacher telling the class that buckteeth were called dents a l'anglaise. Her own were a pale cream, straight and even. Swedish paedophile teeth.

Mrs Brown's phone rang, and as she listened the mobile was hidden amongst her dark ringlets. After whispering a reply, she slipped the phone into her jacket pocket.

Lorelei checked her own phone, wondering whether Peeko had sent her a message. Instead, she saw Patasa had replied to Lorelei's text explaining that she had spent the night at her father's penthouse: "ur dad? when i see mine, i bang im wit his walking stick"

"Frank, you must say something funny." Lorelei's mother's hands shook.

"Me? Do you know what they calling the Muslim girl who shot up the Estate yesterday? On Twitter? The 'gangbanger'."

"Is that a joke?" Mrs Brown asked.

"It's for real."

"I not understand," Lorelei's mother said.

"Bang, bang, bang." Frank imitated firing a pistol with his fingers. "Gangbanger."

They called him Bunny because he was easily duped although, as far as Lorelei could tell, Frank was never fooled by anyone. He co-operated with teachers, enjoyed schoolwork, and ignored the pervasive gangsta values, precisely because he wasn't taken in. People said his clothes were from charity shops and called him a "scrub". Lorelei was a scrub too. Yet Bunny couldn't protect her: he couldn't protect anyone, not even himself. A single person couldn't stop the gangstas on Farm Estate.

The riot outside sounded closer. There was talking on the landing; brash young men who spoke a carefully-cultivated gangsta lingo. They banged at the front door.

"White ho! Miss Taken Identity. Let us see your white face."

"Show your face out here, ho, or we kick down de door."

"We strapped up. Open or pay de price."

The thumping on the door became a determined attempt to batter it down. Lorelei glanced at the others, each of them subdued. There were no shots and, after several attempts to kick down the door, the group tired.

"Tag de door, so everyone know she here. Miss Taken Identity."

"Miss T."

"Yeh. MisT. M-i-s-T."

"Wid a 'q' she 'mystique'."

"An wid an 'o' she 'moist'." There was laughter.

Lorelei heard the shaking of ball bearings inside metal cans. For the next half an hour, they listened as graffiti was sprayed outside the flat.

"MisT, you dead our bruvs, we dead you, bitch."

"It doesn't make any sense!" Frank whispered. "They're even saying it's a mistaken identity."

"Pistole, Freedem, Hedz, Batter, Bench, R.I.P. Retz and Young Retz, R.I.P. You pay."

"We dead you. Justice. Yeh."

"We come back. Look you inna eye and see de truth."

The voices faded as the youths walked back to the lift well. Lorelei felt nauseous, but it was not the same as earlier in the day, when Botship was on the verge of executing her. These were younger boys and would mete out violence with fists or knives, but couldn't afford the pistols she saw stuffed into the older gangstas' jeans. Right or wrong, they would kill her for the rep.

On her phone, her thumbs working automatically, she wrote: "pick me up 2am outside flat."

# Chapter 19: Civilisation Here has Stopped

Dawn revealed the ruin of Lyme Road. Detectives Elderberry and Smithwick whistled at the burnt-out shops, still water-sodden after the fire brigade had doused the flames. Remnants of looted goods littered the footpath, mingled into a jigsaw of cardboard packaging and broken glass. The only shops that had withstood the battering had roll-down metal shutters, a precaution installed after previous riots. A police line cordoned off the ruined shops, with much of the yellow-and-black tape already ripped away. Jahangir had seen similar devastation in Peshawar, where bombs had left a carpet of glass shards extending out into the street. At least here there was no aftermath of torsos and limbs.

"It's happening all over London," Elderberry said.

Smithwick shook his head. "Just shoot the fuckers."

"That's how it started." Elderberry sounded weary, the long shift having taken its toll.

"Shoot more of them."

"It may even come to pass. Word from on high is, we let it happen. Then ask for weapons."

"Permanently?"

Elderberry nodded.

In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa there were shootings, bombings, kidnappings, clan rivalries and vendettas. It didn't stop life from going on. Every man who could afford to carried a rifle, and would respond immediately to any insult or threat. It didn't matter exactly who was killed, as long as someone from the rival family or village paid the blood price. That was Pakhtunwali justice and exacting it was the test of every man's bravery.

The Hellfire missiles didn't care who got killed either.

"You can tell they're kids. They love it when someone else cleans up after them." Smithwick shook his head. "I just solved the mystery of why all vandals are kids."

"Luckily, this time they're angry at the Muslims. Not us."

"Same old same old. It's their local shops they're smashing up."

"One thing's for sure," Elderberry said, turning to speak to Jahangir, "your school won't be open. Sleep in. Civilisation here has stopped."

After the car pulled up, Jahangir stepped out without any farewell and walked away.

"You know Monopoly?" Hercule had asked earlier at the station. "You guys play Monopoly in Mohmand Agency? No? Your deal with MI5 is what's known as a 'get out of jail free card'. You can't be charged for any crime or misdemeanour in your past, or for any committed in the course of your duties at the mosque. And your uncle goes free. For that, you have to go to that mosque for a month. Less, if you find out who is behind the killings on Lyme Road Estate and give the police enough evidence to prosecute. Remember, one month. Everyday it's open. You must try gaining the confidence of the key people and report to Shahzar by telephone daily. He will give you a mobile phone to use. Remember, any breach and the contract is void. As proof, you should keep a log of your visits and send me a copy. As proof. Do you understand?"

Shahzar had translated and Jahangir nodded.

Inspecting the signature of the Minister on the contract before him, he could make no sense of the swirls. Then he saw the names printed below the signatures. There was his name, so he scrawled his signature in childish handwriting above it. The Minister's printed name had a series of letters coming after it, all of which were as meaningless as the contract above it.

Climbing the stairs to his mother's apartment, he remembered the moment when Shahzar had informed Elderberry and Smithwick that Jahangir would not be charged. Their faces looked as though they had eaten donkey droppings.

"You arsehole. You're letting him off because he's one of you!" Smithwick pointed out the similar clothing the two Pakhtuns wore. "Or is it, you're one of them?"

"If you want to take it up the line, that's fine," said Shahzar. "Just don't be surprised at what comes back down. In the meantime, if you would drive Jahangir home."

Sunlight flooded into the living room of his mother's flat. Listening for any noise from the bedrooms, Jahangir clambered into the loft and retrieved the hold-all. On the couch, he filled three forty-round magazines for the Uzi submachine gun, pushing the smooth brass casings one after the other into the spring-loaded metal shaft. After refilling the magazine for the Glock pistol, there were still two unopened boxes of ammunition left. He packed the weaponry into the school satchel Patasa gave him. The hold-all had only money in it and Jahangir wondered where to hide it all. After his deal with Shahzar, the police would probably not bother searching the flat. Even so, he lifted the couch and opened a seam, then stuffed the folded bills into its base. Fetching his mother's sewing kit from the kitchen, he repaired the upholstery with matching cotton.

Rolling up the empty hold-all and flattening the empty ammunition boxes, he left the flat. Walking through the wreckage of Lyme Road, he covered his face with the end of his patkay to avoid being caught on CCTV. Going behind the shops he stuffed the hold-all into an industrial bin. The ammunition boxes, he tore into pieces and inserted into a black rubbish bag. There was so much debris in the streets there was little chance his contribution would be noticed.

When his mother arose and discovered Jahangir sitting at the kitchen table, she hugged him into her dressing-gown, admonishing him for not waking her sooner. Patasa trotted into the kitchen, saying her mother had told her he was going to Guantanamo Bay. Patasa kissed him on the head. It was the first time a girl had kissed him. Best first kiss ever would be Mrs Osmanovich.

Over breakfast, Jahangir repeated only what Shahzar had told the two detectives; that there was no hard evidence for detaining him and he was free to go. His mother and sister spoke of the riot.

"It not safe in the streets for us Muslim girls. We used to get frisked for fun. Now we're frisked for bombs." Patasa was drinking tea, holding the mug in both hands, the heat warming her. "It's like we're the wrong clan and they'll pop any of us. Bruv, you remember you said you'd step up? You're well up against it."

"Patasa! He gets home and the police take him away the next day! Now you want him to stop the riot?"

"Stop the riot? It's like that tsunami. You see it coming, you run. That, or crowd surfing is your best hope."

Jahangir found it unusual to be sitting alongside two women without headscarves, after having spent two years living in Bazir's hujra; it was permissible because Jahangir's immediate family were mahram.

"The police said the school would not open today."

"No chance, bruv. It would be an effing..." Patasa clicked her mobile on and waited for connection. "Closed." Her eyes showed surprise at the photos that had been posted online. "Look at eet. Lot of hangovers dis morning, yeh?"

Jahangir examined the angry faces. He saw a picture of a woman's bruised and bloody face, her black robes torn, and recalled the sobbing Muslim woman he had seen at the police station.

"I told you, bruv."

"What do you mean?" Jahangir's mother asked.

"A Muslim girl shot the gangstas, so dey come to get us. And Jahangir he de Man, say he protect us." Patasa's scorn was evident.

"They won't come up here," his mother said. "Will they?"

"Every ting is closed." Patasa was surveying more photos. "Even Lyme Road near the shops. People tweeting which shops they want to rob today. Over breakfast."

"Can you talk to Frank?" Jahangir asked. "On your phone?"

"Bunny? What you want?"

"To meet him."

"To boast about your achievements?"

"He can help me with homework."

"You mean to get your stories straight, yeh? Where then?"

"Ask him where. Also I want to pray." Jahangir addressed the last point to his mother, who appeared uncertain about venturing out, Friday or not.

Patasa frowned. "You want to go to the mosque today? Those Feds bang your head too hard? It surrounded by a thousand wavey bruvs with lengs. Like some old movie. Zulu maybe."

Jahangir shrugged. "It's Jumu'ah."

"You going to stop them in your baggy trousers and patkay?"

Recalling what Hercule had told him about his contract, he didn't think he had any choice but go to the masjid. Friday prayers, salat al-jumu'ah, would be the very time Shahzar would want him there, especially with the mosque now under threat. "I can take a taxi."

"Yes, I must pray also. We can take a taxi together," his mother said.

"Neither of you nutcases is going anywhere," Patasa said. "Or I call in the white coats."

"Allah will protect us," his mother said.

"Ask Frank if we can meet up before prayers."

"No taxis out," said Patasa, rolling her eyes and typing on her phone. "In riots they get rolled over and burnt, yeh?"

Jahangir remembered his uncle telling him about mobile phones. "If you want the Americans to know everything about you, then buy a phone. When the phone is on, they can locate it. They can send in a Hellfire missile and that's that. They read everything you text, know everywhere you go and listen to everything. They have massive computers in warehouses that analyse and store every word that the whole world is saying."

Shahzar had given him a phone, and made him memorise his number for reporting in. If the people at the masjid asked him to hand it over, that was OK, Shahzar had said. "They won't find anything unusual." When he called, if everything was OK, he had to say "Allahu akbar". Otherwise, Shahzar would know he was in trouble. The problem was, Jahangir didn't really know how to use a phone and he dared not let his mother see he had one. He hoped Frank might give him instructions.

"Frank's at Lorelei's place! Cheeky boy! He says she came home but disappeared again in the middle of the night. Ah! So that's why she's offline. He says, do you remember her address?"

Jahangir nodded. There he would see Mrs Osmanovich and maybe talk to her - possibly smell her perfume. He recalled her standing in the classroom, so beautiful but so very sad. "I'll be back in time to go to the mosque."

"Wait, wait, wait. Go into the Estate now? They dead you on sight!" Patasa's frown returned. "Anyone think FATA dangerous, they should take a stroll in Farm Estate."

"I have only just got you back from the Americans! The rioters will tear you limb from limb!" his mother said.

"It is too early for fighting. Everyone is asleep."

"Why go out at all? What's all the rush?" Patasa asked.

They were both staring at him.

"Homework," Jahangir said. "School is closed. I'll be back for salat al-jumu'ah. Even the police think nothing will happen until later on."

"Be very careful! Any sign of trouble, you come right back!" his mother said.

In the front room, he slipped the heavy school satchel over one shoulder and closed the door.

The rows of London plane trees had carpeted the streets with plate-sized brown leaves. Jahangir saw a few African or Caribbean people on their way to work, regular people going about their lives, while their jubilant children remained at home with a TV for a babysitter. In the momentary meeting of eyes he knew they understood who he was in his traditional clothes, as much as he understood who they were. Jahangir feared the police, not these people.

It was quiet on Farm Estate with the rioters tucked away in bed. A whole row of cars had burned last night, the fire leaping from one vehicle to the next. Broken and unwanted loot, plastic cling-film and polystyrene packaging, had been strewn like Christmas wrapping paper between the tall towers. Examining the building signs, Jahangir soon found Barn Tower. After climbing the stairs, he counted the doors to apartment nine and was impressed by a mural covering the wall in iridescent pink, cyan and silver. Blue paint remained on his knuckles after he knocked. It was fresh paint.

"It is Jahangir," he called.

The door opened and he saw Frank's tired expression. Further behind, Mrs Osmanovich appeared terrified.

"Didn't anyone beat you up or chase you?" Frank inspected Jahangir's clothing. Checking the balcony, he stepped out to examine the mural. "They've been spraying all night. Lorelei vanished again. Hope she's OK."

"What does it say?" Jahangir couldn't make sense of the distorted letters.

"'MisT'. See the 'M', the 'I', yeh? It comes from 'Mistaken Identity'. One of the gangsta bosses tagged her yesterday. When they came over to kill her. She was this close," Frank made a tiny gap between thumb and forefinger, "to getting shot. I was waiting for her brains to come out. Then that kid Banger said it wasn't her."

From the doorway, Jahangir nodded a greeting to Mrs Osmanovich, her face pale with fright and her hair, which was so perfect yesterday, like a village broom. Jahangir had never seen anyone so beautiful.

"Tell me!" she said. "Have you heard anything about Lorelei?"

He shook his head. He found speaking English difficult enough, let alone to someone like her.

Frank led Jahangir inside and closed the door. "Yesterday I followed my brother to this big office block. I think it's the gang headquarters. Mrs Osmanovich thinks it might be too. Could you help me rescue her?"

"Better to go later. Later all police here. For riot."

"But you'll help me?" Frank asked.

Mrs Osmanovich held her forehead as though nursing a headache. "You cannot go. Valon will kill you. Sit! Sit, please! It very dangerous. These Estate people frighten Lorelei. This is why she runs away." Her hands trembled.

"So she went back to her father," Frank said, "because she thought she'd be safe there. Who knows, maybe she is, for the moment."

"No, no. You do not know. Valon is not father. Safe today, is possible, but not long."

"Who is he then?" Frank asked.

"Very bad man."

"Phone her." Jahangir pulled out his phone, not entirely sure how it could be accomplished, but he hoped he could watch Frank and learn.

"Everyone's tried ringing, texting. Nothing."

"Call police?" Jahangir asked.

"Not police. Valon will kill if call police. Some police are paid by Valon."

Jahangir understood all too well what happened to informers. The Taliban executed anyone who informed the authorities, or worked for them in any capacity, just like prisoners killed so-called "snitches".

"Well, I called 'Missing Persons'," Frank said, "but there's lots of missing teenagers with the riot going on." Frank drummed his fingers on the table. "They said someone has to stay here in case she returns or they call back."

His last words were almost drowned out by a banging on the door.

"Delivery!"

"What?" Frank got up and looked through the peephole. "Shit, it's my brother Crash!" Frank hissed and stepped back from the fire door. "I told you he was in on this."

"Delivery for Tatiana Osmanovich!"

"You never said you worked for the Post Office, Carlin!" Frank shouted.

"Tatiana," Peeko called from outside, "it's me, Daniel. I have news about Lorelei."

"Don't open the door," said Frank.

With a skittish walk, Mrs Osmanovich opened it. Peeko and Frank's brother wore their uniform of long leather jackets, floral shirts and pointed shoes.

"Where is Lorelei?" Mrs Osmanovich shrieked.

"Relax. Nothing has happened to her. I'll tell you inside." Peeko moved forward to enter.

"Not inside."

He smiled. "Then I have nothing more to say."

Mrs Osmanovich conceded with an expression of dread. She left the door open behind her, as though witnesses from Farm Estate might save her from Valon's gang.

"Well, well, well, who do we have here?" Peeko asked. "Crash, this is your little brother Frank, isn't it?"

"Bro." Crash's thick arms were folded over his chest, encased in black leather.

Jahangir noticed a pistol grip protruding from the belt of Crash's jeans. Mrs Osmanovich retreated further back into the apartment, one hand rubbing her temple, and her mouth a snarl. Under the table, Jahangir undid the top of his backpack. With his thumb he slipped the switch on the Uzi from "S" to "A", safety to full automatic.

"Who's your friend, Frank?" Peeko asked. "He doesn't look like he comes from around here. New in the country?"

Jahangir remained calm as Peeko frowned in bemusement at his father's light blue kurta and his patkay, the swathe of white cotton twisted around his head.

"He's my school buddy," Frank said.

Peeko smiled. "We won't keep you. We've just come over to pick up Lorelei's passport. She said it was hidden in your wardrobe."

"No!" Mrs Osmanovich screeched.

"Come on. One way or another, I'm taking that passport."

Jahangir pulled the Uzi out of his backpack and stood. Peeko made to step in front of the gun. With a squeeze of his trigger finger, Jahangir put around ten rounds out the open doorway and into a wall on the Tower opposite. The bullets had travelled barely a foot from each of the men, and they were visibly shocked by how close they had come to death. The noise was deafening and the spent shells had ejected noisily into the living room. Jahangir pointed the weapon at Frank's brother, waiting for him to try to retrieve his pistol from his belt.

"Not shoot out door!" Mrs Osmanovich hissed. "Not shoot out door! Kill them!"

"Not my brother. Not my brother," Frank said.

Jahangir nodded his head to one side, indicating that Peeko and Crash should leave.

"Tsk, tsk, Tatiana. Valon will be very angry," Peeko said, his confidence shaken, and moved towards the door. "I hope he doesn't take it out on Lorelei."

Mrs Osmanovich put both hands to her face and whimpered. "Please! No!"

"Go!" Jahangir aimed at Peeko. "Count to three. One..."

"No need for blood on the magic carpet. We're going."

"Later, Bro." Crash appeared unconcerned by the Uzi, but made no attempt to retrieve his pistol. "Nice shooting, friend."

"We may be back," Peeko said as he disappeared from the doorway. "Maybe even Valon will drop by."

"They will be back! Kill them! Quickly!"

Jahangir followed them outside, watching until they descended the stairs. Returning, he lifted the backpack onto the table and retrieved the Glock pistol.

Mrs Osmanovich sobbed in her misery. "My Lorelei! They want passport! You see!"

"If you give it to them she's gone for good," said Frank, breathless from the confrontation.

Jahangir passed the Glock to Frank, who scrutinised it as if it were a first-rate toy.

"You know how to use?" Jahangir asked.

"Me?" Frank said. "Nope."

Jahangir glanced at Mrs Osmanovich, who shook her head. Then she half-raised her hand from the table, signalling that she too wanted to hold it. Had she had the Glock earlier, Jahangir considered, the two white gangsters would already be dead. Maybe even her too in the return fire. These people love guns as much as Pakhtuns.

Jahangir showed them how to slide back the cover to check the chamber for a live round, cock the gun ready for firing, then to remove and load the magazine. After a number of demonstrations, Frank slid back the cover on his own, checked the chamber and removed the bullet there, ejected the magazine and replaced it, cocked the slide forward and pretended to fire at the front door. Jahangir made him go over the process several times. When it was her turn, Mrs Osmanovich's hands shook.

Her sadness made the centre of his chest ache.

"Now you must show how to text," Jahangir told Frank. Retrieving his mobile phone from his pocket he pushed it across the table between Frank and Mrs Osmanovich.

Frank picked up the sleek, black phone. "It sort of looks like an iPhone but there's no apps or anything." Frank was pressing the touch screen symbols to see what was loaded on it. "Is this from Pakistan? Seriously, get a new one."

The phone Shahzar had given him might pass an examination by experts, but not a teenager, Jahangir realised. Then it rang with a musical triad of chimes, and the surprise caused Frank to instinctively pass it to Jahangir, who was too wary to take it. Frank pushed the phone on him and, when Jahangir held the chiming and vibrating object, Frank pointed to the button that he had to press to answer the call. After some fumbling, the ring tone halted and Jahangir held it to his ear.

"Asalaam alaykum."

"Wa 'alaykum aalaam," Shahzar answered. "Allahu akbar."

"Allahu akbar."

"So, everything is OK?" Shahzar said in Pakhto. "Can you talk?"

"Yes."

"I heard gunfire."

"You can hear through this phone?"

"For your safety, Jahangir."

Jahangir paused. "There were gangsters fighting outside."

"In the Farm Estate? A woman was saying "Kill them." Who was she talking to?"

"One of the gangsters. I did not understand."

"Who is Frank? I heard that name too."

"He is a friend."

"Does he live there?"

"No. It's a friend's house." Jahangir didn't want Frank to become involved, but it would be difficult now that Shahzar had heard his name.

"A school friend then?"

"I met him in the street."

"In the street?"

"He helped me."

"Who is Lorelei?"

"She has gone missing."

"Should I send the police?"

"It might make it worse."

"I heard the name Valon."

"The gangsters mentioned someone called Valon. I didn't understand what they were saying, but he is not here."

"Valon Markaj? If it is this Valon, he is a regular at the Lyme Road masjid and is under suspicion. If the girl is involved with Valon, she is almost certainly in trouble. But today we have other priorities. Are you going to the masjid?"

"Yes, with my mother."

"Find out anything you can about Valon."

"Yes."

"Does anyone there have firearms?"

"Only the gangstas. They were shooting outside."

"As you say. Remember our priorities."

The phone line went dead and, examining the screen, Jahangir concluded Shahzar must have hung up. If Shahzar could hear everything, it was likely he guessed what had been going on. He might even have heard the Glock magazine repeatedly being clicked into place and the sliding back of the cover. It was the weapon he had used to eliminate those five gangstas two nights ago, and he could not let the police find it. Yet, he couldn't leave Frank and Mrs Osmanovich unarmed in case those gangsters returned.

He watched Mrs Osmanovich snap the magazine into the Glock with trembling hands, her pretty mouth alternating between a happy and sad expression. Her beauty flooded into Jahangir like light. Beside her, Frank waited for another practice.

Without a word to Frank or Mrs Osmanovich, each now politely vying over who should hold the Glock, Jahangir gathered the spent nine millimetre shells from the living room floor and left.

# Chapter 20: False Papers

Lorelei licked crisp flakes of pastry from her lips. She'd never eaten a warm, fresh croissant before. Valon had made hot chocolate in a porcelain cups that were translucent in the morning sunlight. In the reception area, Valon spoke on his phone, the conversation too quiet for Lorelei to understand, although the tone was fierce. Through the floor-to-ceiling window she surveyed the City skyscape.

Aftermath photos of Lyme Road adorned the pink-orange pages of a newspaper. On the flat-screen, a journalist for Al Jazeera announced that police were anticipating more trouble that evening. London had experienced such riots before, the journalist continued, but never before had the Muslim community been targeted.

Lorelei wondered whether there was a mathematics of riots, which could predict where and when, and for how long, they would occur. An equation with multiple inputs: levels of crime, housing density, quality of policing, numbers of police, mean level of education, ethnic diversity, social services, age distribution and wealth. An incident expressed as a number, weighted for its potential as a trigger, could then be fed into the model.

"What do you say to those who approve of an extremist Islamic element in London taking justice into its own hands and executing drug dealers?" the journalist asked a police spokeswoman.

"There is no foundation for such a view. We are talking about one incident. There is no pattern. Had it been an extremist group, we would have expected an acknowledgement. The only items stolen were weapons and cash. Once again, there's absolutely no reason for these riots. It was a gang-world robbery, nothing more. The targeting of women in Islamic clothing must stop immediately."

"But you have to admit, the Taliban in other countries does execute criminals based on Sharia law. Are the drug dealers and violent robbers of London not right to fear Islamic extremism? Are the extremists not simply acting where the police have failed?"

"All sorts of things happen in other parts of the world, but, as always, it's different here. Many Islamic militants see the black, inner city poor as potential converts, and some of these so-called gangstas were sympathetic with the 9-11 and 7-7 outrages. This was not an attack by a religious extremist."

"What are the Islamic leaders saying about the current events?"

"They categorically deny any involvement."

"It's all a lot of nonsense," Valon said, startling her. "The mosques condoning attacks on our black brothers. Unfortunately, it seems you may not be able to come with us to Dubai this weekend. I'm so disappointed. Your mother didn't want to give Daniel your passport. He didn't push it, of course. But you are welcome to stay here while we are away. You will be very safe."

Lorelei understood now what his anger had been about. Her phone buzzed once more and she considered responding to her mother's barrage of texts, but decided against it: she wasn't going to return to the Council Estate flat. Not with that "MisT" tag spray-painted over the front door. By now, every gangsta on the Estate wanted to look her in the eye and gauge whether she was the Islamic girl dubbed the "Gangbanger".

"Of course, if you still want to come to Dubai there might be a way. Certainly, there would be a degree of messing about, but I don't need to tell you how much Daniel and I want you to be with us as a family."

If she didn't go home, Lorelei realised she would be in the penthouse alone all weekend. Despite what had happened at the Emporium, she felt safest with Peeko; that's why she had texted him to fetch her.

"How much trouble would it be?" Her mother had been adamant that Valon wasn't related to her. Or Peeko. Yet he considered Valon his father, and there was a strong relationship between them. Lorelei didn't know who her father was, and didn't want to know.

"It's a little bit tricky. You probably know I have contacts with various sorts of people. I am ashamed to say it, but some of the people I know make fake passports. They sell them to people who need to leave the country, or sometimes even to those who want to get in. I know such people from the old days. You understand."

Lorelei nodded. If anyone was still blaming her for the riot, she wanted to be out of London. How long before the media came looking for her? Before the newspapers published a picture of her with the title "Gangbanger"? She would go to Dubai for the weekend, and afterwards Dubrovnik with her mother, and never go back to Farm Estate.

"What would happen if they caught me?"

"What could they do? Send you back to your own country? Immigration might have an angry word, but you are only fourteen. They can't put you in prison, can they? You could say you got it from a man in a pub, which is what everyone says. They may tell you off for going into a pub."

Lorelei smiled.

"And so, with your permission, I will ask my acquaintances whether they might do me this favour for old time's sake. The quality of their work is exceptional. You wouldn't have to worry about anything going wrong. And you won't have to lie about going into a pub.

"But now we must think about where to go for lunch. I have a few restaurants in mind. Do you like seafood? I only ask, because one specialises in seafood. No, I see from your face you don't. But that is no matter, for I am sure that you like steak, and there is one that prides itself on its Argentinian steak. Cooked on a barbeque until medium rare. Never more, never less, or the cooks and waiters will complain. Yes, I see from your eyes that you don't mind steak. And the sauces they make that accompany the meat are truly magnificent. So good that I cannot even tell what they are made of, or even how they could be made. That sort of food I personally find quite intriguing."

"Is it far away?" Lorelei was practicing speaking to Valon. It didn't matter whether the restaurant was near or far. More important was to be comfortable speaking with him. Words, any words, had to come out of her mouth.

"No, not at all, and in the opposite direction to the riots. There would be no danger." The sound of the front door opening reached them. "That must be Daniel."

Peeko's coat swished against his faded jeans as he walked into the kitchen. Happiness shone from his face.

"Hello, Daniel. I understand you had no luck convincing Lorelei's mother of our good intentions." This time there was no white-hot anger in Valon's voice.

"She'll come to like me, eventually."

"Lorelei and I think we should try another possibility." Valon raised an eyebrow at Lorelei, checking that it was still the case. "We could arrange a counterfeit passport, just for the weekend, and that way we can still have a wonderful time at the races with Abdallah."

Peeko smiled, his green eyes bright in the sunlight. "Good thinking, Father."

"Let me speak to my contacts to make sure it's possible. We mustn't count our chickens before they hatch." Valon walked along the corridor with its pale ochre and blue-iris wallpaper toward a room in the far corner of the building. Lorelei imagined plush bedroom furnishings and floor-to-ceiling windows.

"How are you this morning?" Peeko said. "You slept well?"

She nodded.

At two a.m., Peeko had been waiting outside her mother's flat, just as she had asked. Lorelei had gone to bed fully clothed and, after her phone alarm pipped in her ear buds, she rose quietly so as not to wake anyone. Opening the front door had taken all the courage she could muster. There, Peeko leant on the balcony railing, arms folded. Without talking they descended the stairs to the car park. The streets were nearly deserted, despite the earlier rioting, and Peeko accelerated noisily after each intersection, the wind cold in the open-top car. Valon's penthouse, when they arrived, was warm; the Farm Estate apartment was only ever warm in summer.

"You've had breakfast?" Peeko asked, interrupting her thoughts. He nodded at her mug of hot chocolate and the flakes of croissant on the plate.

"Dad is talking about lunch. I don't think I could eat anything."

Peeko appeared amused. "He likes to be called 'Father'. Not that he would tell you that."

"Posher?"

"He goes to the opera and likes proper English."

Lorelei understood opera as comical old-fashioned singing with little merit, and wondered if Peeko was implying Valon was pretentious.

"I go with him sometimes," Peeko said. "Most of the music I first heard from operas was in TV advertisements when I was little. Now I go to the opera and hear TV advertising jingles."

"Maybe I should go and see one?"

"Maybe you should." Peeko's orange hair held the sunlight streaming in through the window. Despite his ability to keep emotion out of his expression, she thought she read a hint of sympathy.

"Why does anyone go to the opera?"

"To be mesmerised. Same with TV. In ancient times it was an open fire. Everyone sat around staring into it. When our distant ancestors were still insects, it was the moon. But did you know you can mesmerise people with a smile?"

She didn't even have to smile. She knew the effect of her beauty on the boys at school, and even older men whose gaze turned from the road and fixed upon her as they drove by. The sour looks of women. Overall, she was happy to see a reflection in the mirror that pleased her, rather than filling her with the dismay that made other girls moan in the school toilets. That was why Frank was in love with her. It was why she feared that one day she would be raped. And everyone knew the girls the LRW had raped. The teachers, parents, police, surveillance cameras, and politicians - all were too useless, too frightened or too lazy to do anything. Afterwards they put the victims into a Trauma Therapy group.

"Is that what you do?" Lorelei watched Peeko's face and saw one corner of his mouth rise, inadvertently showing his pride in his ability to influence people.

"If you smiled as often as me, who would be the more mesmerising?" Peeko asked.

It would end in disaster: overwrought boys assaulting her in public, and jealous girls wanting to scratch her face.

"I could show you how to use your smile. You need a face for different sorts of people, and a face for different situations. And you have to practice those faces in a mirror. It might sound bizarre, but that's what actors do all the time. They go to extremes. Like being able to cry. Some women can do crying on demand."

The last thing Lorelei wanted to do, ever, was cry.

She caught sight of Valon's white hair as he returned from the bedroom. He had changed into a heavy brown suit, pale pink shirt and brogues.

"I suggested to Lorelei we should have lunch at Rare Breed, for the steaks," Valon said. "Unfortunately, it will have to be a slightly late lunch as I am going to the mosque for salat al-jumu'ah first, to see some old acquaintances who will arrange a passport for Lorelei. Daniel could you take Lorelei's picture and send it to me? I'll meet you both at Rare Breed."

"We'll see you at lunch," said Peeko. "Now, what is your face for father?" he asked after they heard the front door close. "Personally, I think it should be happy but mild. Never show any disappointment or calculation or sadness. People sometimes take sadness to somehow be their fault and so find it disagreeable. And usually it doesn't get you much sympathy from anyone except your mother."

"Not my mother," Lorelei said.

"So true. Now, if I read your thoughts correctly from your expression," Peeko said, his eyes narrowing, "the answer is, you don't have a face for father. To get his trust, your face and mannerisms have to tell him that you enjoy him being around, and you respect him and value him. Even if you don't really know him, you can make your face say all of that. And, like in the movies, it's more effective without words. Using just your expressions.

"But we now need to practice your 'portrait photo' face." Peeko held up his phone and took a shot. On the screen, Lorelei looked bewildered. "Let's try again."

In the next photo she blinked. Peeko raised an eyebrow and smiled.

In the next she looked like a deer staring into headlights.

"Dear, oh dear."

Showing her the camera screen, Peeko howled in derision and leant away in a paroxysm of laughter; an invitation, Lorelei realised, to physically attack and bond with him.

Instead she sat still, unsure what to do.

"Well." Peeko was breathless. "You do need to practice your faces. Let's try again."

# Chapter 21: Jumu'ah

The driver asked Jahangir's mother to repeat the name of the mosque. He nodded only after she said it with an accent he could understand. The white stubble on his pasty jowls caught the light as the black-cab pulled out into the traffic.

"Wait," Jahangir said in Pakhto, "We have to go to the Lyme Road masjid."

"Why? Come to my one."

"I can't go there," Jahangir said. His mother had travelled alone to a mosque without the permission of her husband, not wearing a full chadri, and with a driver who was not mahram or close family. In Pakistan, the Taliban would have beaten her. As his mother had told him, this was London.

"I can't go the Lyme Road masjid. They don't let in women." Her eyes flashed.

"When did they decide that?"

"It's all changed. All this new Arab money. They've got money for everything except a separate area for women. Technically, we are allowed in, they say. They can't stop us according to the teachings of the Qur'an. So they said we could worship in what used to be a broom cupboard."

Through a window hazed with urban grime, Jahangir surveyed the battered shops. He tried to remember ever seeing a broom cupboard at the mosque. "I have to go to Lyme Road mosque."

"Why?"

"My uncle asked me to see an old friend of his."

"Khoshal?"

"A dead man's wish," Jahangir said.

"So you did see him before he died."

Jahangir examined the people they passed, looking for rioters, feeling his mother watching him.

"How will you get home?" she asked.

"Taxi."

"And you want to see your father. He'll be there, won't he?"

Jahangir shrugged.

She banged on the glass partition separating them from the driver.

"Take my son to Lyme Road mosque," she said in English. "Then take me to... first place."

"There's no need to hit the partition, I can hear you." The taxi driver's voice came though a speaker.

Jahangir read the various signs pasted on the glass divide: a no-smoking warning, a photo identity of the driver that looked like a bloated, drunken mug-shot, and advertisements for things he would never buy. The partition was evidence that London was not as civilised as many people in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa would like to think.

His mother was wearing an indigo hijab so dark it was almost black; its sheen caught what light London's skies offered. The indigo material came from the Sahara, and its creased folds covered her head, mouth and nose. The Pakhtun preference was for the full chadri, but she wore a long, fawn-coloured kurta that revealed her youthful shape. This was London.

Back in the apartment, Patasa had been watching daytime television under a duvet. With a grunt she'd rebuffed her mother's exhortations to go to Friday prayers. "She has become Westernised!" his mother lamented. "A TV zombie!" Holding Jahangir by his white kurta, she had made him remove his patkay and doff a white pakul cap, one his father had left behind. He smiled as she mothered him; after two years of training with his uncle, it was a novelty.

"Women shouldn't go to the masjid," Patasa said. "They should pray at home."

"That's not what is written."

"Lots of imams are saying, Muuum. You know better than demmm?"

Jahangir saw his mother's shoulders slump.

The terrace houses flashed past. On her lap, her soft hands rested upon a handbag made of tired, black leather, its creases revealing a grey-brown substrate. Her knees poked forward, covered by the hem of her kurta, her calves in matching tights.

"Why did father leave?" Jahangir asked.

"He married a young girl! I won't have them in the house."

Even though Islam allowed additional wives, his uncle had said the women didn't like it. "Patasa told me he paid a lot of money. For the bride price."

"So I heard from friends of her family. But your father doesn't have a job. Then he buys a girl from one of his friend's sons in Peshawar. For ten thousand! He always did like them young."

Jahangir understood the bitterness in her voice. "How did he get so much money?" He thought of the drug dealer's cash hidden in the couch, and the idea of buying a wife arose in his mind even as he immediately dismissed it. Was Mrs Osmanovich a Muslim? She didn't wear a hijab. He stared out the window.

"How else? For Janan."

"The Taliban gave him money for Janan?"

She shrugged. "Maybe he told them he would give them trouble. I thought you would know. You were out there. She flew out to some family here and her father signed the nikkah in the mosque. When your father tried to bring her home, I said I would stab them. I went to the police but they told me if he hasn't formally registered the marriage, it doesn't count as bigamy. A nikkah marriage doesn't count."

Jahangir thought there would be no chance of his father causing trouble for the Taliban. More likely it would be the other way around. Who could tell when some madman would shoot or stab you in the name of Allah?

"Has Patasa spoken to him since then?"

"Of course not!"

In Khyber Pakhtunkhwa it was perfectly normal to have more than one wife. Even so, the man would have to be rich. An Islamic wedding, his uncle had explained to him, is a financial contract. It is not valid without some form of payment, and the payment is meant to go to the bride, but it almost never did. Usually the bride's father or brother got it, depending on who was selling her.

"It is your choice whether you go and see your father," his mother said, "but if I mean anything to you, you will cut him off for what he did to us. Imagine trying to bring a young girl into our flat. She's barely older than Patasa!"

"How did he get so much money? You should ask people."

"You ask him at the masjid."

Then Jahangir remembered that Shahzar was listening via the mobile phone he had been given.

Driving stop-start, they approached a small building that looked more like a community centre than a mosque. Jahangir worried he would be late.

In Pakistan he had attended Salat al-jumu'ah prayers every week with his uncle, except when away climbing in the mountains. There they did not pray at all. Jahangir had questioned his uncle about this, for surely they should also make salah prayers five times every day and especially pray on Fridays, even if on the mountain? It had bothered him that they were not as devoutly religious as they had been back in the villages.

Hoarfrost filled a dark beard protruding from the hood of his uncle's waterproof. "Jahangir, it is time to tell you something important."

In the commandos, his uncle specialised in mountain warfare. In the 1980s he spent years in the Hindu Kush with the mujahedeen, fighting Soviet troops in Afghanistan, and still had an easy familiarity with being a hair's-breadth from a thousand-metre fall.

Jahangir felt the blood pumping up through his neck as he stuffed the tips of goatskin gloves into icy crevices. The high altitude had transformed his breathing into painful gasps. Twenty metres below, Uncle Khoshal leant out over pure, empty nothingness, suspended by an ancient climbing rope, and compared Jahangir's thin legs to those of a mountain goat. White teeth blazing beneath his thick dark moustache, he sang a traditional song, all of which Jahangir took as a bad sign that they would climb much further up the frozen mountainside.

They stopped when the ice softened in the afternoon sun. Pitching a two-man tent on a ridge beside a cornice, they lay in army-issue goose-down sleeping bags. The guy ropes were secured to ice screws. Powdered soup, tapped out of a foil packet into an aluminium pot, simmered on a tiny solid-fuel stove. Jahangir had asked his uncle why he carried so much water and didn't just melt snow; he explained that snow melted away to very little water. "We would have to carry a very big pot and lots of fuel just to quench our thirst."

The view across the mountains was a wonderland of jagged ice peaks Jahangir would never forget. His uncle said the weather would be mild enough to spend the night on the mountain, and in any case said they could abseil down quickly enough should it turn.

"When you fell today, I bet you were frightened."

Falling to the "friend" wedged into the rock face had meant a fall of four metres, enough to bruise Jahangir's arm and shoulder. Dangling nearly a thousand metres over the valley had been so overwhelming he could barely reach out and pull himself back onto the mountain face.

Below, his uncle secured the safety rope and climbed, whistling all the while. Helpless, Jahangir was witness to the hostile beauty of the mountain range, the cold silence of an ethereal sky that domed over the rocky valleys. It was the beauty of death, Jahangir thought, clinging to the rock face, the cold biting through his fur gloves. Perspiration had soaked through his clothing, and the bitter wind chilled him. Reaching out, his uncle secured Jahangir's harness to a friend with a karabiner. "This is what 'friends' are for." Uncle Khoshal hooted at his joke.

After the water boiled, his uncle handed Jahangir a mug of the salty soup, his brow furrowed. "Let's try a mental experiment. Just as an experiment, OK?"

Jahangir nodded.

"Think to yourself, 'There is no god'."

Shocked, Jahangir did not try, but the words echoed inside him, and to his core, his very being, he could feel such a statement was wrong, without even knowing quite why.

"Just as an experiment. Say it to yourself as though you were preparing to accept it as true. 'There is no god.' Of course, you don't have to go all the way. Allah will welcome you back."

With the plastic mug of soup warming his hands through his gloves, Jahangir did as he was told, and the fear within him drowned all thought. He felt defiled, and to alleviate the wrong in his mind, he repeated to himself, "Allahu akbar."

His uncle laughed through his beard. "I bet you thought nothing could be more frightening than your fall today? Did you feel that fear inside your head? A Hindu will feel exactly the same way if they tell themselves their gods do not exist. Buddhists too. Christians. Papua New Guineans who worship headhunting spirits feel the same way when the kaffir missionaries tell them their idols are false. It's a fear put into you during your childhood, like a terror of snakes or spiders. This is why the religions of the world teach children and not adults. And when they have you, they have your money too. And as the detectives will tell you, always follow the money."

Jahangir wondered how this could be true; were the holy men of the world's religions no different to the medicine men who wandered through the mountains of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, selling their fake cures and foretelling the future? Was it really a giant fraud?

"This is why you and I must pray in the villages," his uncle had said. "We do not want them to kill us." Uncle Khoshal sipped the army-ration soup with a bitter smile. "And we need to mingle with these people, because amongst them we will find who took your brother."

In the taxi beside his mother, Jahangir scanned the people in the streets. Small groups of youths in gangsta clothes were walking in the direction of the masjid. Jahangir wondered how the faithful would retaliate. Last night, while they were waiting for Hercule to check through the contract, Shahzar had told him about a priest who travelled around Europe buying timers for IRA bombs. "This is why we keep an eye on religions."

When the taxi slowed to a stop outside the Lyme Road masjid, Jahangir noticed teenagers waiting there, the pack instinct running strong. They shouted abuse, but there were too few to cause alarm.

"Maybe all that money was compensation," Jahangir's mother said. "Poor Janan blew up something important, and they paid your father a reward." Opening her eyes wide, she put her hand to her forehead to stop herself from weeping. "What has happened, has happened. I can't change that. Insha'Allah."

Jahangir didn't think the Taliban paid rewards. Martyrs were given seventy-two virgins in paradise. His uncle had said there was no reward in the military either. "If you do something brave, or die, they give you a tiny bit of metal with a ribbon. Napoleon manufactured thousands of medals, and his army took over Europe."

Watching TV in a hotel room in Ghalanai, they witnessed video of a teenage boy beheading a Pakistani government official. Bound and gagged, the victim knelt in submission. The executioner, disguised under a black patkay, might have been Janan.

Shouting again through the glass divide, his mother reminded the taxi driver that he had to wait for her. She would go to a liberal mosque. Retrieving her purse from the dilapidated leather bag, her hands appeared as smooth as a girl's. She was only thirty years old, Jahangir calculated, for all her mothering ways. She handed him several pound coins.

"For the sadaqah."

Jahangir felt a surge of love for her, remembering the rolls of banknotes hidden in the couch. Then she was outside beckoning him to follow her to the entrance where two men were standing guard. It was a converted community hall with no indication that it was a mosque other than a sign in Arabic on a notice board. The azan began as they approached, the words Alluha akbar wailing through a small speaker. It would be a while yet before the imam mounted the minbar for prayers. Jahangir and his mother ignored the insults shouted by the gangstas. None were older than sixteen: there was no school today.

"Asalaam alaykum," he said to the men.

"Wa 'alaykum aalaam." Jahangir shook their hands.

"This is my son Jahangir," his mother said, and the men nodded.

"I remember you from several years ago. With your father. But you have grown. Soon, your beard will come and you will be a man."

"Welcome back to our masjid," the taller man said in Arabic, gesturing for Jahangir to enter. Jahangir's mother nodded goodbye and walked back to the waiting taxi, jeered once more by the youths.

He slipped off his sandals and pushed them into a shoe rack that extended right across a wall and was already half-filled with all manner of shoes. Taking off his pakul, he shoved it into a pocket, then entered into a room where there was a long communal trough. Several men were washing themselves further along.

"Asalaam alaykum." As the youngest, Jahangir spoke first.

"Wa 'alaykum aalaam."

They were large men, and he wondered whether these were fighters called in to help protect the mosque.

To begin the ritual of wadu washing, he whispered a bismillah under his breath, "In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful," then washed his hands three times. Cupping his hands under the flowing tap water, he rinsed out his mouth three times, rubbing his teeth with his fingers each time. Three times he cleaned his nostrils, snorting water in and out of each with a finger pressed against the opposing nostril. After, he bathed his face three times and washed each arm up to the elbow. He wiped his wet hands over his hair, and cleaned his ears with a finger in each, rubbing behind them with his thumbs, and after wiped his neck: always three times. Lifting his bare feet one at a time into the sink, he washed them, poking in between the toes with a finger. Replacing his pakul, and standing upright and facing the Qiblah in Mecca, he raised his hands to the side of his head and recited the shahadah.

"There is no god but God, Muhammad is the messenger of God. There is no god but God, Muhammad is the messenger of God."

The others were watching, but he did not return their looks as he completed wadu.

Jahangir struggled with the knowledge that the shahadah must be recited with absolute sincerity. Ever since he had climbed the mountains, he had found it difficult to set aside his uncle's words of doubt.

Jahangir replaced his pakul and went further inside. One of the men performing wadu at the masjid entrance had followed him.

"Wait," the man said in Arabic, and two Arabs approached. Their black bisht robes and white keffiyeh head scarves, each bound with a black agal, confirmed that they were from the Gulf. All the men had large, wide moustaches and clean-shaven chins.

"While you are welcome, we do not know you. Would you mind if we searched your pockets?"

"If you do not wish to be searched, you are of course free to leave," said the other with a polite smile.

"Nothing funny," Jahangir said in jilted Arabic.

"In regards to that, you can trust us absolutely."

Jahangir showed him his phone, the money his mother had given him and his house key. "That is all I have."

One of the men in black patted down his kurta and was satisfied. A man with streaks of grey in his moustache took the phone and examined it. Jahangir wondered whether it would pass scrutiny after Frank had dismissed it as "rubbish". He himself did not know enough about mobile phones to judge, but he assumed MI5 would not have given him a phone that was easily detected as a bugging device.

"It looks expensive."

"My mother gave it to me after I returned from Pakistan."

"When did you come back?"

"Tuesday. I was in Mohmand Agency for two years. With my uncle."

The older man seemed pleased by this. "I thought you were Pakhtun. Your cap. There is a man here who is also Pakhtun; he nodded across the hall to a man attired almost exactly as a Taliban warrior, with a black patkay headscarf, long dark hair and a beard. Only an AK47 was missing. "I'm sure he would like to meet you."

Jahangir followed the older man from the Gulf to greet his countryman. It was entirely possible that while Jahangir was Pakistani, the man he was going to meet could be from Afghanistan; the Pakhtuns had been divided by the British.

Jahangir's uncle told him that the Pakhtun had massacred sixteen thousand of General Elphinstone's invading army, including troops, wives and servants, with many vanishing into slavery. The British response to the massacre had been to raze Kabul and several other cities to the ground.

"Asalaam alaykum, I am Jahangir Halimzai."

"Wa 'alaykum aalaam," the man replied, and they shook hands.

"He says he returned from Mohmand Agency two days ago," said the Arab with the salt-and-pepper moustache.

"Ah, I am Pason Rehman from North Waziristan, Utmanzai clan. Though I was in Mohmand Agency myself only a few months ago. We probably passed each other at some point. Where were you staying?"

"With my Uncle Mahwand near Ghalanai."

"I was studying in a madrassa high up in the mountains under a very holy man, Imam Nur Darwesh. Have you heard of him?"

Jahangir knew who he was.

Bazir, in whose hujra Jahangir and his uncle slept, had discovered a man in a neighbouring town who communicated with the Taliban. Riding donkeys, Jahangir and Khoshal went to stay at the town guesthouse. His uncle's plan was to pretend to know people in the Tehreek-e-Taliban, and perhaps get information about where Janan was held captive. Jahangir recalled how his uncle tried coaxing the man, a truck driver, offering him money for information. His face wizened and teeth awry, the man refused all approaches. He moved blackmarket timber and smuggled weapons; he did not need money.

Later that night Uncle Khoshal had said, "Wait here. If anyone asks for me, say I'm asleep and not well. Let no-one in. Don't go out." With one of Bazir's imitation Glocks on the table, Jahangir waited for his uncle to return. In the early hours of the morning, his uncle unlocked the door and told Jahangir to pack his things. There were flecks of blood on his clothing. His uncle knew exactly where Janan was held.

The imam, Nur Darwesh, collected boys at his madrassa to prepare them for their eventual destruction in a shaheed suicide mission. Taliban irregulars sometimes kidnapped children, exactly as Jahangir's brother, Janan, had been taken. They lured in orphans, or promised a destitute family to feed and educate a child. The children were often displaced, either by military interventions of the Pakistan Army, US drone attacks on villages, or the casualty-aftermath of Taliban suicide bombings.

Boys were bought from people-traders who collected and sold orphans in war-torn Afghanistan; the American-British invasion had destroyed many families. After intense religious indoctrination, many were eager to enter jannah, paradise, after detonating a bomb strapped to their chest; there was much to seek vengeance over. The face is tilted forward, his uncle had explained, to avoid identification afterwards. "And the head can travel a hundred metres, landing like a cannonball."

"Imam Nur Darwesh? I think I may have heard of him," Jahangir said to Pason Rehman. "High up in the mountains? I never went there."

"An American missile killed him and his family, and many of his students, just two weeks ago, may their souls rest in peace."

"You were fortunate not to be there, Insha'Allah."

"I am sad not to have been among them. I would much rather be enjoying the delights of paradise with my imam," Pason Rehman said.

"Look at them," Uncle Khoshal had said, pointing out a group of Taliban-trained youths sitting near the village market. "What have they got? No property, no prospect of money. They can't buy a wife. But if you tell them they can have much, much more than this in paradise and seventy-two virgins to lie with, they will fight to the death for you."

"Why were you not there during the attack?" Jahangir asked Pason Rehman.

He stared at Jahangir. "I sense you have intelligence but also courage to ask such questions so bluntly. We can always use people who have intelligence and courage. Will you use that courage to serve Allah?"

"I am here."

"Will you fight the kaffirs who wish to destroy the masjid?"

Jahangir knew that Shahzar would surely insist that he did. "I will do anything to protect the masjid."

Pason Rehman nodded, clearly satisfied by Jahangir's resolute tone. "But are you willing to die for Islam?"

"I am willing to die an honourable death."

Pason Rehman's expression became sceptical.

"You mean Pakhtunwali?"

Jahangir assented with a nod.

Pason Rehman's face showed his disappointment. Jahangir watched him stroke his dark beard with thick, tanned fingers. He had an inner calm, a grace that people would naturally trust, yet Jahangir could never trust someone who had asked him to become a shaheed. Not after what had happened to Janan.

"Stay then. After prayers we will prepare for the kaffirs' attack."

"I will return this afternoon." Jahangir still had to help Frank find Lorelei. "It's too early for an attack. There are only school children outside."

Pason Rehman nodded and turned away.

Glancing about the congregation, Jahangir sought his father but he was not to be seen. He spotted more Arabs, more at least than expected, and understood from their robes that they were wealthy. Several Pakistanis were discussing the Gulf visitors in Urdu, pointing out that one of the Arabs was distantly related to royalty. Another said he was probably not a true prince, but even so was incredibly rich. All oil wealth, of course. One other added that he had heard that whenever the "prince" was in London he occupied the penthouse of a hotel belonging to a relative. The first Pakistani asked which hotel.

"The Golden Horn."

Jahangir remembered his uncle telling him that the Golden Horn was not a horn, but a body of water splitting Istanbul into two.

The imam passed through the congregation and went to the minbar just as the call to prayers, a recording relayed through the P.A. system, came to a close. The true believers faced the Qiblah in Mecca. Swathed in loose robes, the old imam stepped forward, hunched from years of reading the Qur'an and Hadiths. The devoted formed ranks behind him in orderly lines an arm's distance apart, and followed the imam into a bow. He began the prayer, the words of the dua, half-spoken, half-sung.

Jahangir admired the singing voice of the imam, and recited the words of the prayers he knew so well. Bending at the waist, then on his knees and finally touching his head on the ground, Jahangir remembered his uncle's mocking words telling him how, when in this position, he was really in supplication to a foreign conqueror.

"Watch when we go to prayers today," his uncle once said in Ghalanai, walking through the dusty streets of the town. "Watch them bowing prostrate behind the imam up at the front. It is the same in all religions. It's what conquering armies make the survivors do. The very word 'islam' in Arabic means 'submission'. How is it they have done this to us?" Uncle Khoshal laughed.

After the dua prayers, the imam addressed the congregation. Each man was there to protect the masjid in the event of trouble from the rioting kaffirs. The imam spoke through a microphone, although in truth his deep voice would have carried across the hall without amplification. Occasionally referring to notes on a podium, he emphasized key points by stabbing his forefinger into the air. His greying beard was thick and robust, signifying a manliness Jahangir knew was admired in an imam almost as much as a good voice. Even so, Jahangir found his mind wandering.

One morning before the sun had risen, Jahangir and Uncle Khoshal roped up harness-to-harness in the dark, with a coil of excess rope over one shoulder. In the darkness they strained up a steep ridge of ice and snow. Hour after hour, every step was an agony and the cold bit at Jahangir's face. The crampons strapped underneath his boots crunched and scraped on the crust of ice covering the cornice. As the sun rose they reached the summit, loose snow billowing in the wind. Standing on a rock crag at the highest point, he took in the beauty of the world. The sun in the east and the moon fading in the pale blue of the west, two heavenly rulers, male and female, presided over a fairy-tale castle of desolate mountain tops.

Jahangir stood, exhilarated by the scenery. His uncle said: "If you could not get over your fear, you would never have made it here."

The imam raised his hands, capturing everyone's attention. Beginning his sermon, he gazed from one face to the next. He spoke slowly in Arabic, and Jahangir understood most of what he said, although he knew that normally this part of the sermon would be in the local language.

"So often we hear the outrage of Western governments and their media outlets that Islamic communities should resort to what they call 'suicide bombing'. Never asking the question why such a desperate measure is considered necessary, they instead point to the undeniable fact that suicide is forbidden by the Prophet, may he rest in peace. Westernised imams echo the voices of the kaffir. Of course Western governments say such actions should be stopped. It disrupts their economies, and economic activity means wealth. Mammon is their god. One need only examine the past century to know that Western governments care nothing for civilian lives.

"But let us consider Western wealth. The kaffirs would fill the minds of our young with pollution so they may take their money. Whether fast food, entertainment or cigarettes, pornography, alcohol and drugs, cosmetics and gadgets - all manner of things that are harmful or not needed. To make us buy their goods, and to labour in their sweatshops, these vast companies would eliminate our culture, our religion and our communities. This is what the Western kaffirs principally want from us: the mindless consumption of their useless items. In exchange, they will take everything we own. While preaching freedom, they practice slavery around the globe.

"While farming opium was banned under the Taliban in Afghanistan, heroin production now is at record levels with the compliance of the West, whose financial institutions and criminals reap enormous profits from such trade."

Jahangir perked up at the mention of Afghanistan.

"But let us consider the legality of the shaheed bomber. The Qur'an does not forbid the suicide military mission, where the mujahedeen may attack a host many times their number, in the full knowledge they will die. They are the shaheed. At the birth of Islam, how else was it Islam swept away the armies of the world? Islam is founded on jihad. The shaheed are the weapon our enemies do not have. It is because we are each prepared to die that Islam remains strong.

"One who truly commits suicide is seeking to avoid a painful fate. The shaheed instead avoids nothing. He embraces his fate as a mujahedeen.

"The Western media protest that our shaheed target civilians. Most of the citizens in the West do not know American drone attacks have killed many families in Pakistan, in Palestine and in Yemen. Even when they find out, they do not care. These missiles target religious leaders and others who resist the Western invaders, but they do not care if they kill innocents in the process.

"Westerners have never spared the innocent in their own wars. None of them seem to think there is anything intrinsically wrong with the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or the many cities fire-bombed by both sides in World War Two. The world wars killed millions of innocents. Millions of children, too, were sent by Western nations to their deaths as soldiers in the trenches of World War One. Of course, they say it was perfectly moral.

"But it is not Western civilians who we target. It is the systems of occupation and enslavement of the West that are run by civilians, exactly the same as it is civilians who are the vanguard of the Israeli invasion of Palestine, the settlers who have stolen almost everything from the Palestinians. And it is not the Western military that decides to put puppet dictators into less powerful nations all over the world, so that they may despoil them of their resources. It is Western civilians who make these decisions, and it is the Western public who vote such people into power.

"The Islamic shaheed seek to destroy financial, military and transport systems, and the commercial centres, where they peddle their filth, or embassies that undermine and spy on their hosts. The shaheed target these godless jahiliyya governments. It is not civilians in their homes, but the Western systems of control that are targeted. As the Qur'an allows, if unbeliever hostages are amongst the enemy, we may attack if the need is great enough. What is at stake here is the one true religion of Islam.

"Do not be fooled by the stated desires of Western governments, which for centuries have said they are bringing benefits to the poorer countries of the world.

"During the Crusades they said they were bringing Christianity to areas controlled by Islam. But rather than the peace demanded by the prophet Christ, they brought murder, rapine and theft on an enormous scale.

"In colonial times they claimed to be bringing Christianity and the light of Western civilisation. Instead, they brought genocide and oppression on an unbelievable level, introducing social hierarchies based entirely on race. Can anything be more shameful than the genocide of Native Americans by the Europeans, or the Opium Wars? Or the many massacres of innocents in their oppressed colonies?

"Over the last fifty years, the West has proclaimed it is bringing freedom and democracy to the countries it dominates, but mostly it has only brought murderous dictators installed by military coups. Puppets who do the bidding of the West, who let kaffir companies strip both the earth and the populations of their wealth, until these countries are so indebted there is no chance whatsoever of financial redemption. Some of these dictators have tortured hundreds of thousands of their civilian populations to death, often mere workers who dared ask for a fair wage. The mass graves of these unfortunates are even today being unearthed in several countries in South America, the so-called 'backyard' of the US.

"We must ask, how can we stand up to these invaders and with what weapons?

"True believers, we must fight with the only weapon we have that can cower the West, our shaheed."

The imam turned in the direction of the Qiblah and once more began to recite the dua prayers. Jahangir followed the abasement of the congregation as they bowed and kneeled. The imam then turned to address the congregation for the second part of his sermon.

"Islam is the purest form of government, and we here are the small beginnings of the enlightened conversion of this country. Eventually all countries will be converted until there is just one Islamic authority, governing the world with peace and justice. Before we reach that blessed state of harmony, many hard wars must be fought. Today is just one of the many battles ahead.

"We do not seek to fight our black brothers. We noted their jubilation when our shaheed brothers were successful in destroying American and British targets a few years back. They are a fertile ground to plant the seed of Islam. None of us had anything to do with the shootings a few days ago. We have made this clear to their community over the past few hours. However, the elders of the community have admitted to having little control over what the youth are doing in the streets.

"We must defend our mosque to the death. Islam is here to stay. You must all be prepared to give your life should the rioters attempt to destroy our mosque, but do not kill them unnecessarily. We are here and will stay until Islam is victorious. True believers do not run.

"Ameen."

There was rumble of approval at these words. The imam said a few more prayers, mentioning the four caliphs, Fatima, and family of the Prophet, and then led the congregation in the prostration of the rakat. Afterwards, the strict lines of worship began to break up and each man spoke with his neighbour, glancing about to see who was there that they might know. Jahangir smiled and nodded, but did not join in any of the conversations. He wondered instead whether he could ever give his life for Islam, and he thought not. He might have done, had his uncle not undermined his belief, and this soured his self-understanding.

The imam spoke again. "Now it is time, while you are all here, to witness the marriage of Abd'Allah ibn Da'ud al Badawi. He is to marry Lorelei, daughter of Valon Markaj. Both of these men, many of you will know, are loyal supporters of our community." The imam searched the faces before him to assure himself that the two parties were close by and ready. "There you are Prince Abdallah. Valon, come forward."

Abdallah made his way to the front, with Valon behind clutching a sheaf of papers. In his wake were two men in suits, their white caps decorated with lacework patterns. Jahangir wondered which country they came from. At a small table to one side, the imam took the papers from Valon and gestured at the two men. "Are these men your witnesses?"

"They are business associates I have had the pleasure to know for many years." Valon Markaj had a similar lace cap covering his silver hair.

"Asalaam alaykum," the men said.

"Wa 'alaykum aalaam," the imam replied, shaking hands with each man. "These are your names on the nikkah? Yes? Let us begin."

The imam said several duas and then recited the sunna khutba, the marriage sermon, quoting from the Qur'an and then several hadiths on the institution of marriage. As the formalities progressed, Jahangir remembered that Shahzar was interested in Valon Markaj, but a marriage was not very important. He wondered whether he could slip away, to help Frank find Lorelei, but so many worshippers had stayed to watch the marriage of the prince and he was trapped among them.

"Valon, you are the wali," said the imam, "and you have here a birth certificate of your daughter Lorelei. Do you give consent for your daughter to be married to Prince Abd'Allah ibn Da'ud al Badawi for a mahr payment of two million pounds?"

"Yes, I consent to her marriage."

There were whisperings across the hall from people who did not believe what they had heard. Jahangir too was stunned by the amount of the mahr. He knew there was no maximum amount for such payments, but that was the highest bride price he'd ever heard of.

"Prince Abd'Allah ibn Da'ud al Badawi," said the imam, "do you consent to marrying Lorelei, daughter of Valon for a payment of two million pounds?"

"I accept her in my marriage."

Then Jahangir realised that the Lorelei whom the imam was marrying to the prince was the same Lorelei from his class. Of course! Valon was her father, the man Shahzar said he should watch. Only several metres away, he examined Valon more closely, noting his large frame and close-cropped hair below the white, embroidered cap. Prince Abdallah, despite his handsome features, was somewhat portly. The snow-white cleanliness of his robes and glistening black agal headband, let alone the extraordinary bride price paid, led Jahangir to conclude he was the oil-rich Arab the Urdu-speakers had described.

"This mahr has been paid?"

"Yes," Valon said.

"Paid to my friend with pleasure," Abdallah said, his teeth flashing white in contrast to his dark, well-groomed moustache.

"May Allah bless you and have His blessing descend upon you and unite you in goodness," the imam said, then went on to recite several more duas.

"When is the walima celebration?" the imam asked. "I hope the troubles here will not delay the festivities."

"I shouldn't think so," Abdallah said. "We fly out to Dubai tonight and my uncle will put on a feast over the weekend."

The imam appeared impressed, and if his smile contained the barest hint of envy, it was suppressed. "I hope you both will be very happy."

"I am sure we will, Imam."

One of the guards Jahangir had seen stationed at the entrance made his way to the front and spoke to the imam.

The imam raised his hands for attention. "Now let us talk about preparations. There doesn't seem to be any serious trouble outside at the moment. A few police cars are parked further down the street. If you wish to go home to eat, then do so, but the defenders of the faith should return as soon as possible."

At these words, the crowd began moving towards the exit. Jahangir contemplated speaking to Valon, but had no idea what he might say. In any case, he had to get back to Farm Estate and help find Lorelei. Heading for the front door, Jahangir turned when Pason Rehman touched his shoulder.

"We will see you later this afternoon?"

"You will. On my honour."

# Chapter 22: Doing Lunch

Lorelei stumbled from the sports car shaking with laughter. Peeko had asked whether there was a poverty Barbie doll, one that came in a dark blue tracksuit. "With a set of tiny ear buds and a frown. Hair worn in a tight ponytail, possibly held by an unbreakable, titanium hair-tie. No makeup. Disgusting trainers."

Peeko nodded toward the Rare Breed restaurant and they made their way across the road. Lorelei described a series of action man toys dressed in a long leather coat and floral silk shirt. "They each come with a different sports car."

Knightsbridge had been exhilarating. The passing world had goggled at her in Peeko's car. The shops had doormen and scented interiors designed to snare customers. Had she worn her poverty-Barbie tracksuit, she would have been stopped dead at the entrance. Instead, they treated her like a celebrity.

Two of her shopping bags were paper with twisted handles that felt waxed; another was made of psychedelic-patterned plastic. The last was extra large and labelled with stark hand-painted Japanese characters. It contained a hand-printed silk veil to cover her head in Dubai. The pattern Peeko chose for her was not unlike one of his shirts. The other bags had sandals with gold lame straps, new underwear, and two light dresses that went well below the knee. Peeko also made her buy a plain gold necklace adorned with a huge green-black pearl from Tahiti, because, he said, he knew she liked it. "You have lots of money left. What are you saving it for?"

At the car, he had helped her pack the shopping into an aluminium hand-luggage case, and reminded her that she could pick up perfume and toiletries at the airport. He said the five-star hotel in Dubai would have a hairdresser. Lorelei had never been to one before; her mother cut her hair in a straight line across her back.

In the restaurant, the smell of chargrilled steak made Lorelei hungry. The decor in Rare Breed was Argentinian ranch dining room, and the ambience music slide-guitar country and blues. Behind a thick wooden bench top sat an immense barbeque grill tended by chefs in white aprons and cowboy hats. A steel exhaust vent, quietly humming overhead, was the most modern-looking part of the restaurant. The floor, serving bench and tables were silk-smooth, reclaimed oak. Corrugated iron walls, barred with rough-hewn wood, were decorated with antique farming implements. Fastened to heavy overhead beams were lassos, coiled leather whips, bridles, horseshoes, longhorn skulls and a few primitive ploughs. A row of antique metal tractor seats served as stools along the serving bench where a couple in business attire sipped at globes of Argentinian red wine.

The meet-and-greet hostess, a smiling brunette of exceptional beauty, wore a black kerchief and miniskirt, calf-high, snakeskin cowboy boots, and a blue checked shirt.

Lorelei gazed at the paraphernalia on the walls, its cultural loading almost letting her believe she was in the archetypal ranch house. The tablecloth linen felt as thick as paperboard. The cutlery was hand-forged; the eating ends were polished bright steel, while the handles were dark and rough-hammered, bent to fit the hand. Lorelei had never imagined such places were possible, where decor and gastronomy merged with theatre.

"This is what money does to you," Peeko said. "Everything must be entertainment." He shook out the stiff serviette and placed it across his lap. "But even the poorest of us will watch TV all day rather than just experience life as it is, plain and unadorned."

"Plain and unadorned. That's how my mother wants me to live."

"How do you entertain yourself in your cell?"

"Maths books."

Peeko laughed. "How can you read mathematics? You can read novels or history, maybe, but mathematics?"

"I read about methods. Do the problems. Like people do Sudoku."

"Why not just do Sudoku?"

Lorelei shrugged.

"So, you're a secret maths genius."

Lorelei glanced at the table. "More, I like learning about it."

"What mathematics have you read about recently?"

"Milnor's Hairiness Conjecture."

"What?" Peeko's white teeth flashed.

"It's about the 'hairiness' of the Mandelbrot set."

"Hairy? What, like a cat?"

"There is a cat in mathematics. It's called Schrodinger's cat. But no-one knows whether it's alive or dead. But really it's both at the same time."

"Is that mathematics? Where's the numbers?"

"They're there too."

"And you like numbers."

"Especially numbers."

"Are you one of those maths geniuses? Oh, you are? Tell me, what's, ah, 2-9-4-6-2-8-5, times 8-2-7-4-4?"

Lorelei understood he didn't really expect an answer; it was the satisfaction of overturning that expectation that made her reply. "Two hundred and forty-three billion, seven hundred and eighty-seven million, four hundred and six thousand, and forty."

"You just made that up."

Lorelei saw his uncertainty.

"It's not true, is it?" he said.

"No."

"For a second I thought..." Peeko scrutinised her. "It's the right answer. Your face is telling me it's the right answer."

She smiled at his ability to read her. "How can you be sure?"

"What was the answer again?"

"Two hundred and forty-three billion, seven hundred and eighty-seven million, four hundred and six thousand, and forty."

"That's something very special."

"What's to say I didn't just make it up?"

"I meant how you can even say the same number twice."

"It's the right answer. That's how."

"I can't even remember the question."

"Two million, nine hundred and forty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty-five, times eighty-two thousand, seven hundred and forty-four." Lorelei enunciated the denominations.

"That's your ticket out of Farm Estate."

Lorelei shook her head, her lips pressed together. "I'm only telling you because you're my brother. A brother who can be trusted with secrets. And because annoyingly you just see the truth in my face."

"Look at my face now and tell me what I'm thinking."

"You're sad."

Her mother had taken her to Brighton beach one summer. They both became sunburnt lying on towels spread over the shingle. Everyone, it seemed to her, was running about in brightly coloured underwear, as were they. Her mother explained that it was swimwear. The surface of the water appeared blue, but close up it was green; the same green as Peeko's eyes.

"Or?" Peeko asked.

"I can't tell."

Pointing at his face, he said, "It is saying, 'Yes, you can trust me with your secrets'. It's not sadness, it's seriousness."

"It didn't say any of that to me." After the night before last, Lorelei wondered whether she could ever really trust him: what wouldn't he do for Valon? Again Peeko was reading her face, and she tried to suppress her emotions. He appeared amused by the non-verbal rebuff.

"You can trust me. I've decided I like having a sister."

A waiter, wearing a cowboy hat, Western-check shirt and python boots, gave them menus and asked if they would like drinks. His fine Latino features impressed Lorelei: narrow hips and wide shoulders. The smell of the barbequing meat made her salivate. Peeko was observing her, she realised, and once more shut down her feelings.

To the waiter, he said, "Let's have two mojitos. I bet they're special here."

"I can vouch for them." With a nod, the waiter headed for the bar.

"Your face must be constant and right for the situation," Peeko said, glancing at his phone. "Father will be here soon. Remember, you like being around him, and you're happy about going to Dubai. You don't have to say it, just let it show. Can you do that?"

Lorelei tried to hide her concern about the strange drink Peeko had ordered. She wondered how she could appear to like being around Valon and be happy about going to Dubai, when neither was completely true.

Peeko laughed. "At least you're trying. Let's look at the menus."

"Porterhouse, rump, fillet, T-bone? What are these?"

"Just different cuts from the beast. They all taste good. Just pick one you like the sound of. The sauces look good."

"Can I have anything on here?" Lorelei angled the menu to see more options.

"You can. It's all on Father. But don't choose the most or the least expensive. The most expensive implies a lack of respect. The cheapest suggests you don't trust him."

"Can I choose nothing?"

Peeko shook his head. "Ordering nothing wouldn't make a good impression. It would imply you're not happy, or there's something wrong with you. Better to order something and just taste a little. Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm OK." The prospect of Valon arriving at any moment had negated the positive effect of the BBQ aroma.

"You'll survive. I've been through worse."

Lorelei caught a moment of introspection in Peeko's face. "What are you thinking of now?" she asked.

"My childhood. It was interesting, as you probably guessed from what your mother said. But I wanted to ask you, was she telling the truth about my mother and father?"

"If it hurts, it's the truth."

"Never lies?"

"Never spares anyone. Doesn't do friends."

"Oh, she has friends all right. Friends in very high places."

"That's all... her work, isn't it?"

Peeko tilted his head back. "People fall in love with her. Father told me some stories."

But she doesn't love any of them, Lorelei thought.

Following Peeko's gaze, Lorelei saw Valon making his way towards them. She put on her best smile.

"Hello! Hello!" he said, his Albanian accent undiminished even after years of transforming himself into a cultured Englishman.

Two heavyset men in dark suits had followed him inside. Lorelei caught an instant of suspicion in Peeko's expression before he stood to shake their hands. Lorelei copied him.

"My children, these are old friends of mine. We grew up in Albania together. Drittan and Milot, I think you know my son Daniel, and this is my lovely daughter Lorelei."

Each of them shook her childlike hand in a massive paw, but neither spoke. Perhaps they could not speak English, she considered, although Valon had used English. Both looked her up and down, and she was relieved she was wearing one of the long dresses bought for Dubai. They slipped off their suit coats and she saw that they were even bigger than her father. Milot's shaven cranium was bony and smallish, almost a caricature of the criminal skull, which might have been amusing if he were not capable of crushing her like a beetle. His hands were enormous, and his eyes bright under a heavy brow. Drittan was much older and had dark, close-cropped hair. Lorelei wondered whether they might have been soldiers in the Balkan War, but she didn't know how directly Albania had been involved. The largeness of these men caused her jaw to set.

Lorelei caught another flash of concern in Peeko's eyes while he recounted their shopping trip to his father. Valon appeared in charge of the Albanian men, and she had the impression that their politeness depended on him being present. Their hands were decorated with a variety of gold rings and tattoos, and their shoulders bulged under the thin cotton fabric of business shirts, much like the muscles of the bodybuilders Mrs Brown had taken her to meet. Lorelei's smile foundered.

"We didn't forget to buy a head scarf either," Peeko said. "I don't think I have met your friends before, Father. You are business associates?"

"Yes," Drittan said in a heavy accent. "Your father has told us much about you."

"My business associates?" Valon said. "I grew up with Drittan and Milot. We played in the village square as boys. We are as brothers."

Another waiter brought the drinks Peeko had ordered, and Lorelei tried the sweet and fragrant mojito. The Albanians, Valon included, ordered sparkling water.

"After we met at the masjid today, I asked them along to lunch. I hope you don't mind? They have been driving me around London in an armoured limousine. A most impressive vehicle. You must see the inside after lunch. It's like a hotel suite, but with wheels." Valon grinned at Lorelei.

"Your friends are always welcome," Peeko said. "What do you do for a living, Drittan?"

"Personal security," he replied. "Popstars, VIPs. We provide bodyguards and transport."

"Have you protected anyone famous recently?"

"Recently, only industrialists," Drittan said.

"Pharmaceuticals," Milot added, with a nod at Valon.

Valon smiled. "As I said, it was a chance encounter in the masjid and it seemed a good opportunity to catch up."

"It will be interesting to hear about the good old days back in Albania," Peeko said.

Valon laughed defensively. "Yes, but not today. My daughter, Lorelei, I was telling you, is coming with us to the airport," he addressed Drittan.

"Your friends are coming to the airport too?" Peeko asked. "Are they coming to Dubai?"

"No, no. But when I told them we were flying out today, they said they would be delighted to drive us, and with the riots going on it seemed sensible. What a car they have! Bulletproof!"

The waiter came for their orders, and Lorelei ordered a porterhouse not having any idea what it might be.

"And what do you do?" Milot asked Peeko.

"I produce music. I write a little myself."

"Music?" Drittan repeated. "Is it good money?"

"It's a bet, like anything."

"A bet that has paid off?"

"It's starting to. I have a few bands."

"And what do you do?" Milot asked Lorelei.

She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth refused to lift, as though she were trying to appear happy in the clutches of a predator. His question was asked merely out of politeness, she understood; none of them cared what she did. "I'm a student."

Drittan nodded. "My daughter is at university. In America."

"Is she really?" Valon said. "You never told me. Lorelei is still in secondary school."

Something in Drittan's eyes puzzled Lorelei, some shrewdness of calculation, a heartlessness she couldn't fathom. Her ability to keep the "face" that Peeko had suggested waned; even a neutral face was difficult to maintain as she glanced from one man to the other. Peeko behaved as though he was perfectly at home, although she sensed he too found the Albanians oppressive.

"What is she studying, if you don't mind me asking?" Valon asked.

"Business at Columbia."

"A very good institution, I have heard." Valon nodded in approval.

"When will she finish?" Peeko asked, after sipping his mojito. Behind him one of the chefs was shouting at a waiter in Spanish. Lorelei examined the cutlery, trying to be distracted by the quirks of the hand-forged steel.

"A couple of years," Drittan said.

"And then the family business?"

Drittan nodded. "Not providing security herself, but marketing, sales, accounting. The business side."

"What does it involve, providing security?" Peeko asked.

"Taking a bullet if necessary."

"Once you realise that it is you who is going to be killed, then the job is a lot more simple," Milot added.

"You suspect everything and everyone," Drittan said. "And you don't let your client try anything stupid."

"Because you're the one who gets shot." Milot poked a massive forefinger into the table.

With charm radiating from him, Peeko said, "Does knowing how to assassinate people give you more insight into how to protect people?"

Drittan and Milot froze.

"In theory," Valon said, frowning at Peeko. "But surely you would need to ask someone with such experience?"

Drittan shrugged off a moment of confusion, taking Valon's lead. "I would imagine it would. But who could say for certain?"

Milot shook his head slowly and glanced at Valon.

"My friends, my son did not mean any offence. I'm sure it was an innocent question."

"I assure you, no offence intended," Peeko said. "But it's not every day I speak to people in such circles, who might know the answers. What other businesses have you been in over the years? Could I ask you about kidnapping children to work in brothels? You might even remember Lorelei's mother. Tatiana, they call her. But she must have been quite young back then."

Drittan's grey eyes goggled before becoming a hard stare. "Like your father, we are respectable businessmen now."

Milot began fingering his steak knife, twirling it between fat fingers with an unusual dexterity.

"Please Daniel, remember your manners," Valon said, his tone curt. "Drittan and Milot will be taking us to the airport. Why are you insulting them?"

"Innocent questions, Father, I promise." Peeko's face showed conciliation.

"Lorelei, you will be happy to hear that Drittan was able to get a perfectly legal passport through his connections by saying the old one had been lost. It was ready in the blink of an eye. We don't know how bad the riots might become tonight, so it was an excellent coincidence that I should meet them both today. You never know, but we might run into unexpected trouble."

"I have already arranged parking," Peeko said with enthusiasm, "so Lorelei and I will take my car and meet you there."

Valon stared at Peeko. "I might be being overcautious by travelling with my friends, but one can never be too careful. I insist you reconsider. For Lorelei's safety, she must travel with me."

Peeko's face was beaming with happiness, yet Lorelei sensed an underlying tension. It occurred to her that it might be one of these men who escorted her mother home from work at night, swearing in Albanian along the balcony to the stairwell. In fact, it was Milot, she decided, remembering the voice.

"As I said, Lorelei and I will take the Ferrari."

Drittan laughed, as though he had finally understood a joke. "Are you suggesting we would harm one of Valon's own children? He is our blood."

Milot put down the steak knife and stared at Peeko with as pleasant an expression as he could fashion on his heavy features. "There is only one explanation. You must have a hidden weapon to speak like that."

"A bazooka," said Drittan.

"Now, gentlemen!" Valon said. "It is important we stay focused. Onto more important matters, here come those marvellous steaks."

Cooked to medium-rare, a preference the staff almost forced on their diners, the steaks sat on thin porcelain plates. Lorelei recoiled at the oozing blood, but forced herself to cut the pink meat and stab a piece of flesh. She was surprised by how pleasant it tasted. The others were devouring their meals, cutlery hacking away at the flesh.

"It's everything I had expected," Valon said. "There's no point even touching the vegetables, the meat is everything."

"Do you remember the roast ox from our village feasts?" Drittan asked.

"Oh, I had almost forgotten, but now that you've reminded me, it all floods back. What a pleasant memory. So much roasted meat, cooked to perfection. Until the belly could take no more. For a teenage boy, there isn't a better feeling."

Drittan grinned at Peeko. "I remember your father's reconciliation feast. Even when we were boys, he was a legend. The other families in the mountains were terrified of him."

"Now, now, don't bring up all those old stories. Much is better left unsaid."

"Twelve," Milot said. "Only twelve, he kills three grown men. All of them had rifles and he has a knife! After that, he becomes a legend."

Drittan spoke sharply in Albanian and Milot appeared abashed.

"It was complicated." Valon waved away Drittan's anger. He smiled at Lorelei, as though to reassure her. "Those days were different. A different culture. You see, one of the men had tried to steal my sister, and in Albania, with the kanun and hakmarrja law, you had to take revenge, there was no other way. You were owed blood and that is the unwritten code for all Albanians. If you didn't stand up, it was the end."

"He climbed their kulla at night, all alone, broke into the roof," said Drittan. "Lazy idiots hadn't rendered the walls for centuries."

"Killed them in their sleep." Milot spoke with a mouthful of bloody meat.

"What exactly is a kulla?" Peeko said.

"Every family clan has a fortified tower." Valon appeared abashed by the statements of his friends. "One town might even have ten kulla towers. It is essential for the family to go into it when there is a blood feud, because the offended party can kill anyone, not just kill the person who caused the wrong."

"For the first twenty-four hours," Milot said, still chewing. "Afterwards, only the person who gave offence."

"That is if they know the kanun. Only old men know all the rules, so you have to watch out."

"True," Milot said. "Or leave the country, like me."

Peeko nodded. "It's a little bit like that in South London. You only have to look at the wrong person sideways and they kill you."

"Here? There's no honour here. Unless I am wrong, they don't mind if you insult their sisters," Valon said. "In Albania, it means death."

Peeko pursed his lips. "Some do, some don't."

Most don't, thought Lorelei, at least not that she could tell. The girls she knew were under siege from boys in the gangs and no-one ever stood up for them.

"Because their sisters are all crack whores," Milot said.

"Not all of them, I'm sure," Valon responded gallantly and smiled at Lorelei.

"Lorelei, you're a very pretty girl," Drittan said. "If you wanted, you could come and work for us." Lorelei thought there were too many creases on his face when he smiled, creases in the wrong places. "You would be an asset to our business. And you could make a lot of money."

"Your mother certainly enjoys the work," said Milot. "Maybe you could work together?"

Drittan and Milot grinned. So, her mother did work for these men. Valon made a diplomatic grin, although Lorelei noticed that Peeko could not hide his sense of affront.

Milot shook his bony head at Peeko. "Did that hurt?"

"You see," Drittan said, gesturing at Peeko, "Your sister. You do nothing."

Peeko half-smiled through a lingering grimace. "Revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Bah, words. A waste of breath."

"Gentlemen! There is a lady present!" Valon said. "Let's finish up and get to the airport. There could be all sorts of delays, you know what Heathrow can be like. They try to surprise you, unpleasantly. Now, Peeko, for my daughter's safety, I must insist that she accompanies me. The car is bulletproof and I won't have any harm come to her."

"Over my dead body," Peeko said, as though he had made a joke. "She goes with me."

"That sounded like a suggestion," Milot said.

"What are you saying exactly?" Drittan asked. "We are not professionals?"

Valon put up a hand to pacify the two Albanians. "Not here, gentlemen. Witnesses, cameras. I see this will have to be sorted out another time. But now it is very important that we get to the airport. Very important." Valon signalled the waiter.

After paying the bill from a roll of banknotes, Valon ushered them into the street, gently taking hold of Lorelei's arm. Drittan and Milot flanked her. Trapped amongst such large men, she stopped breathing and her knees nearly gave.

"I really must insist." Valon smiled at Peeko.

With his right hand, Peeko reached behind his jeans under his leather coat, grasping a weapon hidden in the back of his trousers.

"No, I insist. I told you I've arranged long-term parking. She comes with me or we fucking die here."

"You would do this here in the street?" Milot asked in mock amazement.

"Lorelei, follow me." Peeko's expression had the hardness of the people she knew from Farm Estate. It was as if he had revealed his true self, a terrifying person living under a veneer of civility. Lorelei stepped towards Peeko, breaking from her father's grip.

"He hasn't got anything," Milot said, although Lorelei could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"Try, and you'll find out." Peeko sounded the feral South Londoner he once was.

"Gentlemen, there are CCTV cameras everywhere and I want to fly to Dubai this afternoon, not go to prison. It appears my son is determined. So, we will have to take the chance that Lorelei will be sufficiently safe on the way to the airport. Come, we will resolve this some other way. What matters now is that we reach the airport." Valon looked at his watch with a pained expression.

"We will resolve this. Count on it." Milot strained at some invisible leash, ready to attack if given the word, while Drittan appeared unable to believe that anyone would dare cross him so openly.

"Yes, yes," Valon said. "We will see you at the airport, Daniel. But it is very important we are not late. Abdallah will be terribly affronted. Quickly. Go."

Lorelei turned back and saw the Albanians remonstrating. Holding her hand, Peeko led her along the grimy street lined with takeaways, laundrettes, and bric-a-brac shops. Further down, a mini-supermarket had muscled in amongst the local traders to begin their ultimate ruin.

"Thank you," she said. "I didn't want to go with them."

"You definitely didn't want to go with them."

"You really have a gun?"

"No. But they couldn't take that risk. I may have to get one now."

Starting the Ferrari, Peeko used the accelerator and brakes aggressively to weave through to the M4 and outstrip all other traffic en route to Heathrow. Lorelei wondered whether it was the effect of his adrenalin. Maybe he was considering his revenge on Drittan; Peeko said he needed a gun.

"Who are they really?" Lorelei asked, thinking of her mother. "The Albanian friends." The car roof was up, protecting them from the cold wind, but her voice was swamped by the high-pitched whine of the engine.

"I'm surprised father still has anything to do with them. Another nasty gang pretending to be legit. When I pushed them, you saw how they reacted."

"He used them to make my passport."

Peeko shook his head. "It sounded too easy. Something else is going on. If we weren't going to Dubai I'd lose them and lay low for a month. Just to be safe."

"Let's not go." She panicked at the thought of travelling with her father, and would rather wait until Tuesday and go to Croatia. Then she remembered what Valon had said about her real passport, that they reported it lost.

"Going to Dubai is the best way of getting father back onside," Peeko said. "For the moment, we need him."

# Chapter 23: The Bike Ride

Walking home from the masjid, Jahangir saw gangstas lounging on a brick wall ahead. They wore black like the LRW, but had yellow bandanas tied across their faces under yellow baseball caps: twenty-five teenagers on the lookout for Islamic-style clothing.

"Der one."

"Ho! It a ghost. Or a boy wearing curtains. Hey! Come here a minit."

The gangstas fanned out across the road. Running was pointless, as the bigger youths would have easily caught him. Turning into the front yard of a terrace house, Jahangir climbed hand-over-hand up a drainpipe to the roof.

"Hey! Monkey-man!"

"I can do that."

"You? You can't climb out of bed."

"We skeng you tea-towel boy. When you come down." One gangsta lifted a paver from the garden and hurled it at Jahangir, hitting him on the back. The others retrieved pavers, but he was already too high.

Two floors up, the PVC brackets flexed as Jahangir swung one leg sideways into the rainwater gulley and eased his body onto the slate tiles.

"Now where he go to?"

"What go up, gotta come down."

"I get him." A small gangsta tried to follow Jahangir up the rain pipe.

Jahangir saw smiling eyes under the peak of a yellow cap. The lower part of the boy's face was covered with a yellow bandana, with a kitchen knife clenched between his teeth. After a few seconds the gangsta slipped down again.

Jahangir crossed over the peak of the roof to the back of the terrace. An elderly white couple were gardening below, but the yard next door was empty. After descending a downpipe, he scaled the fence to the rear neighbour's garden. He climbed the drainpipe of that house too, clambered over the roof, and shinned down another pipe into the next street.

In the stairwell of his mother's flat, he retrieved Shahzar's phone and called the number he had memorised. It was true he had wanted a phone, just not one like this.

"You heard everything, so I don't need to tell you anything," he said in Pakhto, after greeting Shahzar.

"Because of the noise it wasn't easy to follow. You might have to explain. Have you ever seen Pason Rehman before?"

"No."

"Do you know who he is?"

"One of the people from that madrassa in Mohmand Agency. He must die." Jahangir waited to hear how Shahzar would respond to that.

"That may be so, but leave him to us. What was Valon doing?"

"Selling Lorelei to an Arab prince."

"Selling? He was marrying her off." Shahzar sounded amused.

"Same thing."

"Not quite."

"What about if it's not his daughter?"

"I think I heard the imam saying he had seen the birth certificate."

"Her mother said he's not the father."

"If he has a birth certificate with his name on it, he hasn't done anything wrong. This is how marriage happens in our culture."

"They don't have her consent."

"Do you know that for certain?"

It didn't seem possible that Lorelei would agree to marry such a man, yet he knew that, in many Islamic communities, consent was a formality.

"In any case, it is a distraction," Shahzar said. "Pason Rehman is planning an explosion. He is our first priority. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"If Pason Rehman tries to recruit you again, let him. Go back later and be nice."

"Do you swear I will have revenge for Janan?"

"He and Nur Darwesh were the primary targets when the drone killed your uncle. Pason Rehman's fate is sealed, but let my people take him. He will have information we can use."

Jahangir wondered how Shahzar would get that information; the same methods the Americans no doubt would like to use on him.

Patasa didn't look away from the TV as Jahangir entered. His mother cooked Kabuli pulao in the kitchen, frying lamb, ginger and garlic. After browning the meat, she poured in simmering stock.

"Did you meet your friend?" she asked.

"Who?"

"You said you had to give a message to someone from Khoshal."

Jahangir thought of Pason Rehman. Like a Westerner's picture of Jesus, he had long brown hair and blue eyes. Not that you saw any such pictures in Pakistan. Islam frowned on pictures of both humans and animals because of fears of idolatry. Yet, the Prophet did not foresee photography and so there is no explicit ban in the Qur'an. "Because it's unlikely anyone will worship a photograph of a god," his uncle had said with a chuckle.

"Uncle Khoshal's friend wasn't there."

"What about your father, did you see him?"

"He wasn't there either."

"I wonder where he is these days. Patasa told me you said Janan is dead. Is it true?"

Jahangir nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me? His mother?"

"I couldn't." He remembered the years of sorrow after Janan had been kidnapped by the Tehreek-e-Taliban.

"An American missile? We'll have to arrange a funeral." Tears brimmed onto her cheeks.

Jahangir only felt a lingering sadness at the memory of his brother being taken. It would have been easy to let it go, but his uncle had impressed on him that that is how injustice is perpetuated. "It is everyone's duty to seek revenge."

He watched her blending the chatni, an accompaniment made from pomegranate seeds, mint, coriander, a raw onion, honey and a few green chillies. The noise drowned out the TV from the living room. When the paste was smooth, she offered Jahangir a teaspoon of it.

He knew his mother was cooking traditional food just for him. "I have to go out again. To meet a friend for a few minutes."

"Again? How can you have a friend, you just got back from Pakistan?"

"Better one than none."

"Don't tell me this is you making money again?"

"I told you to never say such things!"

"Well, what about this lunch I'm making?"

"I'll be back soon. Let me take a sandwich. I'm hungry."

Jahangir set out two slices of bread and his mother passed him a jar of honey. "I'll take it with me. Can I wrap it up? I've got to go."

"Why the rush?" Jahangir's mother opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of plastic wrap.

"Not that one." Jahangir instead took the roll of foil.

"What difference does it make?"

"The taste."

"The taste? What are you talking about?"

Jahangir took the foil-wrapped sandwich into the living room and collected his satchel. Engrossed by the TV, Patasa did not notice him unwrap the sandwiches and cover Shahzar's mobile phone in the foil.

"Could you text Frank for me?" he asked his sister, tapping her arm and speaking in Pakhto. "Tell him to meet me at the big road that crosses Lyme Road south of the shops."

"Two Trees Street? Why there, bruv?"

"Not so many people."

Patasa yawned and typed the message. After a few minutes, the phone played some music and she tugged it out of her pocket again. "He says OK."

"Tell him not to bring the Austrian friend."

"Huh? There's not even a person here who's Austrian. They've all got too much money. Like the Swiss. They only live in banks."

Jahangir heaved the satchel with the Uzi and clips in it over his shoulder.

"Blimey, bruv, what have you got in that?"

"School books."

"Books? Like you're going to study during a riot. Yeh." Patasa's phone played the music of an incoming text. "He says he doesn't know anyone who's Austrian. I told you, bruv."

"Tell him to leave Mr Glock behind."

"Mr Glock? Today you should take Mr Glock with you, trust me. Especially going out in dem clothes. Where you going? Oi! Lisssen to me!"

In Two Trees Street, Jahangir saw Frank waiting on a fence.

"You leave gun with Mrs Osmanovich?"

Frank nodded and rose. "She's been ringing all her friends but no-one will help her. None of them want to cross Valon, whoever he is. I didn't tell her where the building was in case she went there with your Austrian friend."

"We help her now."

"Now?" Frank blanched.

"First, we find clothes."

"Clothes?" Frank followed Jahangir along Lyme Road. "Clothes?"

Ahead was the same gang that had chased Jahangir over the rooftops. Picking up whatever they could - rubbish bins, the wooden stakes ripped from front fences, a shopping trolley - they pounded on the Sikh's store. It made a lot of noise, but barely a dent in the metal shutter.

"Hey!" Jahangir shouted at them.

"Holy shit!" Frank said. "Gold Tops! What are you doing?"

When the Gold Tops saw Jahangir they stopped the attack on the Sikh's shop.

Turning and running, Jahangir pointed to the lane behind the shops. "In here."

"But it's a dead end! A dead end!" Frank pleaded in an unhappy whine.

The Gold Tops hooted as they took up the chase. Jahangir and Frank hid behind a green plastic waste bin. Frank gasped as Jahangir retrieved the Uzi. Seconds later the gang were at the entrance, swaggering and jeering.

"Curtain boy, it curtain time! Where you hidin?"

"Maybe he in a bin already, yeh?"

"We count to ten then find you."

After they passed, Jahangir stepped out with the Uzi.

"What you got there?" The largest gangsta spoke through the yellow cloth covering his mouth. "A fucking toy?"

"Replica, yeh?" another said.

The gangstas had knives out but, with a realistic-looking Uzi pointed at them, they did not attack. Jahangir waited to see whether any would draw pistols. If any did, they would die.

"Take off clothes," Jahangir said.

"What the fuck?" said the largest youth. "That thing a replica."

Jahangir fired a short burst into a rubbish bin, riddling it with holes.

"You won't shoot."

Jahangir pointed it at the gangsta who spoke.

"Wait!" Frank said, waving a supplicatory hand. "Do what he says. Trust me, he will shoot. Just do it."

"Take off clothes."

"Fuck you," the boy said. "I'm not taking off my kit."

"I count to ten."

"You're going to shoot them all?" Frank asked.

"If they not give clothes. One!"

"So I'll be an accomplice to mass murder? What a day."

"Two!"

The boys undressed, but a few refused on principle. Jahangir glared at one then the other until they too began stripping. Still, the leader refused to move.

"Three!"

"Underpants too?" Frank asked Jahangir.

"No underpants."

"No underpants!" Frank said, reassuring the large youth, who grimaced and grudgingly began stripping down to t-shirts and boxers.

"The fuck you say before?" moaned several of the already-naked boys.

"Get clothes that fit," Jahangir said to Frank.

Frank rummaged through the clothes. "Finally! I get to steal trainers!"

"We come back and skeng you good Charlie Brown."

"Maybe I should ask my friend to shoot you," Frank replied.

With a flash of his hand Jahangir changed clips in the Uzi, his dexterity with the weapon astonishing them. ""Good idea. No witnesses."

One of the smaller boys began sobbing.

"It's all right. We're not going to shoot you." Frank calmed the boy. "Are we?" Frank glanced at Jahangir.

"Any come back, I shoot. You have clothes?"

"Almost. What size trainers do you want?"

"Four two," Jahangir said.

Frank sought out trainers roughly the right size. Jahangir, placing the Uzi on a bin lid, tried them on; none of the gangstas were bold enough to try rushing him. He stuffed their original clothing into his satchel.

"You dead already," said the boy in his boxers.

"What if I burn all these clothes? Make you all run home naked?" Frank gestured at the pile of clothing.

"Fuck you."

Arrayed as gangstas, Frank and Jahangir jogged from the lane behind the shops. Behind them, naked Gold Tops were squabbling over the caps, hoodies and trainers strewn across the bitumen. Converging on the retail strip were the Lyme Road Warriors, most of them large men dressed in black. Jahangir and Frank turned in the other direction.

"Lucky you're not wearing your normal clothes," Frank said.

"Lucky for them, yes? Now find Lorelei."

They ran along Lyme Road. Puffing, Frank turned to Jahangir. "This will sound weird, but if you were Lorelei, do you think you would like me?"

Frank's words were broken up and Jahangir wasn't quite sure what he meant.

"My Dad told me prison was like a competition to see who could be the biggest arsehole. Just like our school. But he admires people who stick to their principles. Not people who follow. So I stick to my principles, but Lorelei doesn't get it. It makes me think maybe I should become a sort of tough dude. With that Glock, maybe."

It was about Lorelei. "She has husband."

"Husband?" Frank's freckles had vanished into the pink of his face. "Husband? Did you say 'husband'?"

"I heard at mosque."

"She can't have a husband. She's like fourteen."

"She married in mosque today. Valon her father. He is Muslim. Two million pounds. He sells her."

"She was at a mosque and you didn't even tell me?"

"Lorelei not at mosque. She does not have to be there."

"Married and not there? That sounds pretty weird. No offence or anything."

"Maybe she with husband now."

A cloud crossed Frank's face. "We may as well give up. You say she's married?"

"If Valon is not father, he cannot sell Lorelei."

"Would that mean the marriage is not legal?" Frank brightened. "What if she's already with this husband? We'll never find her."

"He lives in Golden Horn Hotel."

Stopping before a dilapidated terrace house, Frank bent over and gasped for breath. "It's years since I ran that far. Come in." Frank inserted a key into a front door slaking blue paint. The lime-coloured glass door panels had an antique floral design, and the brass knob was green with verdigris.

Jahangir noted the faded wallpaper, an accrual of dust on every surface, and a carpet worn to threads. Unwashed dishes littered the kitchen and, through a back window, he saw a concreted yard.

"Hope my brother's not in." Listening in the cold silence, Frank shook his head. "No music. What did you say the name of this hotel was?" His forefinger hovered over his mobile phone.

"Golden Horn. I heard in mosque."

"Here it is." Frank showed him a map on the screen with a small orange circle pulsing in the middle, and Jahangir wondered whether his phone could do such things. "It's me, Mum. Going out again," Frank shouted up the staircase. "She's sick. Lung cancer. Still smokes. Can't stop." He wheeled out a bicycle leaning against the partition wall. In the street he said, "You'll have to sit on the handlebars."

Encumbered by the heavy satchel, it took Jahangir several attempts to jump backwards onto the handlebars. Frank wobbled as they started out, but they soon looked like two Gold Top gangstas roaming the streets. Youths of all ethnic persuasions were headed for the Lyme Road mosque. Many if not all were armed in some way, whether a knife or a lump of wood, although none had pistols on show. Jahangir didn't think they would attack the mosque until dark. Who attacks God in broad daylight?

At London Bridge, Frank checked the map on his phone, his face bright red. Dodging through cars and around double-decker buses, they came to the heart of the City. Almost every man wore a suit. Under long coats, the women wore skirts and blouses. His uncle had said bankers stole from the world, barely giving a cut to the governments of the lands they plundered. Jahangir stared up at the immense buildings and thought it must be true.

"It's about another mile," Frank wheezed beneath his Gold Top bandana.

Into the City they rode, under towers of gleaming glass, weaving amongst the well-heeled pedestrians. Noticing the cameras on the corners of buildings, Jahangir told Frank to enter the narrow streets between the centuries-old stone buildings; the old City hidden behind the façade of the main road.

"It has to be here somewhere." Frank puzzled over his phone.

Then Jahangir noticed a sign on an ornate terracotta Victorian townhouse: "The Golden Horn." Its windowsills and lintels were black from decades of car exhaust, and the coal burnt before modern home heating. "There. Golden Horn."

In the afternoon chill, steam rose off his friend's body. Frank panted and wiped the sweat from his face onto the sleeve of the black hoodie.

"How do we know which room he's in?"

"Penthouse."

"You heard that too?" Frank gazed at the rooftop. "But they're not going to let us in there dressed like this. Shouldn't we go and get some clothes off these banker types? With your Uzi?"

Jahangir imagined Frank in an oversized suit stolen from a banker. "Too big, no?"

"Now what? Ask for Lorelei at reception? I haven't been in a hotel before." Frank followed Jahangir.

Pushing on the antique brass handles of the glass doors, Jahangir stepped onto the chequered ceramic tiles. In the dim foyer ahead there was no-one at reception. Clanking through the doors, Frank wheeled his bike in, in case it was stolen outside, he said, leaning it against a picturesque, tiled wall.

Jahangir put a finger against the bandana covering his mouth as they continued to the lift well. In the elevator, Jahangir pushed the button for floor five while Frank flapped his arms like a bird to let heat escape from his armpits.

Frank pointed to the keyhole beside the button. "It needs a key."

The lift doors closed, yet remained on the ground floor. "We get key from reception." Jahangir poked at the keyhole with a finger.

"Get serious. They won't give it to us."

"They will give."

Then the lift began moving upward.

"Oh, shit, what did you do?"

"Someone push button." Jahangir pulled off his satchel and lifted out the Uzi.

"It might not stop at five!"

"Can hide it behind back."

"What about when someone gets in?"

Jahangir glanced at Frank's Gold Top outfit.

"OK, they won't get in," said Frank. "But why do you need that thing out?"

"Be ready."

"What for?" The floor indictor passed the third floor. "Quick! Hide it!" Frank said. "Hide it!"

Jahangir switched the Uzi to automatic.

Frank began pushing buttons randomly, but the lift kept ascending.

When the doors opened at the penthouse level, four men in dark suits stood waiting. Seeing two gangstas with an Uzi, they scrabbled for the pistols holstered inside their suit coats.

Jahangir sprayed the men with bullets, back and forth. Only one of the men got a shot off, hitting a wall a metre away from Frank. Three of them lay still, while the fourth struggled toward the lift on his belly, gasping for air. Jahangir flipped the safety to repeat and put a bullet into the heads of the unconscious men. Pointing the Uzi at the man crawling, Jahangir said to Frank,

"You want shoot?"

Hands covering his ears, Frank gazed at the carnage, at the faces of the men with shredded torsos and the pools of blood beneath each. His eyes filled with tears. It was clear he couldn't speak.

"Maybe next time." Jahangir fired a shot into the last man's head. Swinging the backpack onto the crook of his elbow, he fished for a spare clip. "If alive, even a little bit alive, they kill you."

With the Uzi at the ready, Jahangir checked the other rooms. In the main bedroom, two more men lay dead on the mattress. One, he saw, was the oil prince from the masjid. The other he had never seen before. Returning to the carnage at the front door, he watched Frank wipe his face on the sleeve of his black hoodie, pushing the bandana down to uncover his mouth.

"Is one of these the husband?" Frank asked.

Jahangir shook his head. "In bedroom." Jahangir picked up one of the cleaner pistols lying on the floor and rotated it in the air. "This is good gun. Heckler and Koch USP. Nine millimetre. Big silencer." Squeezing the weapon into his satchel, he recalled how his uncle's friend Bazir owned a USP, seized from an Australian soldier near Kandahar. Bazir had exchanged one of his daughters for it, marrying her to a clan member in Paktia across the border. Picking up another USP, he handed it to Frank. "You have this. See safety switch?" Jahangir pointed to the switch at the back of the gun. "Check magazine." Jahangir pointed to the release near the USP trigger.

While Frank struggled with the magazine, Jahangir searched the dead mens' pockets, retrieving several clips.

"I'll shoot the sofa." Frank said, after successfully checking the magazine and chamber and reassembled the pistol.

"Careful! Not step in blood."

Glancing down at the gore-splattered floor, Frank took several small steps backward. Jahangir waited as Frank took aim at the leather couch and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

"Safety."

"I thought I did that." After more fiddling, Frank aimed the pistol once more and fired. There was a soft crack; the ricochet from the wall into the parquet floor made a double sound. "First time I ever fired a gun."

"Come see bedroom."

"Is Lorelei in there?"

Jahangir led Frank through the kitchen to the doorway of the main bedroom. Prince Adballah's teenage-lover had an almost womanly complexion, smooth and olive. A gunshot had torn a hole in Abdallah's temple and thrown him onto his side. Blood had splattered up the wall where another bullet had travelled through the roof of his lover's mouth. A small pistol lay on the bed in the lover's hand.

"Holy shit! What happened here?"

"Those men make look like suicide."

"Really? So, which one is the husband?"

"There is husband." Jahangir pointed at Abdallah's grey and lifeless face. Trickles of blood had dried across his forehead, and the pillow under the exit wound was crimson.

"But he's in bed with a geezer!"

Jahangir shrugged. "Also in West, no?"

"But, not if he just got married!"

"No?"

"Well, I don't know."

"We go. Police come soon."

After they negotiated a way through the blood on the parquet floor, Jahangir pressed the lift button, his finger covered by the sleeve of his Gold Top black hoodie.

"So, they murdered Lorelei's husband, then made it look like a suicide pact?" said Frank, still uncertain.

"No bodyguard at masjid. Why bodyguard here? Why so many? All very good gun."

"Do you think he and Lorelei...? I guess not. He was in bed with a bloke." Frank looked at his feet.

"Lorelei not here. We must find. Let me have gun."

Frank gave up the USP. "Maybe she's still in the office block with Valon?"

Jahangir released the magazine, refilled it, and shoved the pistol into his satchel, which was so heavy he worried that the straps might break when he swung it onto his back. He then adjusted Frank's bandana to better cover his face.

When the lift reached the ground floor, Jahangir wiped the floor buttons with his sleeve.

A middle-aged receptionist sat engrossed with his computer. He paid them scant attention, and Jahangir realised that the shots that killed Abdallah and his boyfriend, and the sound of Jahangir's un-moderated Uzi, must not have travelled down five floors. Only when Frank began wheeling his bike towards the entrance did the receptionist examine them.

"Don't bring bike in here."

Jahangir thought he was North African, from Libya or Algeria.

"Too many boys." He shook his head, his expression unhappy. "Too young. No more you come here."

Disguised in their gangsta clothing they walked outside without responding. Jahangir leapt onto the handlebars and Frank pedalled along the narrow lane in the direction of Valon's building.

"Boyfriend let in men," Jahangir said.

"How do you know?"

"How else?"

"What about the CCTV? Won't that hotel have CCTV of us in the foyer?"

"Gold Tops in big trouble."

"But the Gold Tops have seen us."

"Will they talk to police?"

"Snitch?" Frank shook his head. "No." After another mile of cycling, Frank reached Valon's office block. "They're in there." Frank's words staggered out in gasps.

"Which floor?"

"I don't know. Somewhere."

Behind the glass facade at the entrance sat several uniformed guards. If Jahangir shot his way through, an alarm would almost certainly be triggered.

"Hard to get inside."

"My brother went in through another entrance. At the back."

Walking around the building, Jahangir saw an underground car park with a guardhouse.

Sneaking under the boom gate, they made their way to the elevator shaft at the rear of the car park. Just like at the Golden Horn, the top floor was by key access only. All the levels had business names, except for the penthouse and the fifth floor. With his sleeve edge, Jahangir pushed the button for the fifth floor.

"It's going to be on the top floor, isn't it? So what will we do on the fifth floor?"

"Stairs."

"Why not somewhere nearer the top?"

"People on other floors."

"Climb fifteen floors? I just rode a bike for twenty miles. Or ten. Maybe five. A really long way. You don't care, do you?"

On the vacant fifth floor a horizontal bar opened the fire exit, but they could not return after it closed again.

"Shit," Frank said, looking up the stair well. "How are we going to get inside on the twentieth floor?"

Jahangir made a hand sign of a pistol and began trotting upward. Frank moaned, breathing heavily through the bandana. It didn't seem a long way up to Jahangir, but Frank was a deep pink and the tips of his hair had pointed with perspiration. He waited some time for Frank at the penthouse level, until his friend arrived almost too breathless to speak. Jahangir slipped two spare magazines into his hoodie pocket and handed one of the pistols to Frank.

"Is this how you do it?" Frank gasped, holding the USP in his sweaty hands. He flipped the safety and cocked the weapon. Jahangir nodded and did the same to his pistol.

The fire door exit opened just as he was going to shoot the lock. Standing there was Frank's brother, Crash, holding a mug of coffee in one hand.

"Carlin!" Frank said.

"Thought it was you under all that gear."

"How'd you know we were here?"

"Easy." Crash glanced up at a tiny CCTV camera in the top corner of the stairway, then turned and walked inside. Jahangir and Frank followed, their weapons at the ready. Jahangir noticed a Glock pistol tucked into the back of Crash's jeans.

"Interesting costumes. Borrow them?" Crash sat down in the chair before the lifts. Jahangir noted the tattoos at the neckline of his silk shirt and a dark leather coat folded on the ground. His mottled-tan eyes were similar to Frank's.

"We want to take Lorelei home," Frank said, stuffing the USP into his black jeans and pulling down the gold bandana to reveal his face.

"Difficult. Her father's taken her on a holiday to Dubai."

"Dubai? Jahangir said she's been married to some Arab bloke."

"Married? She's too young, isn't she?" Crash glanced at Jahangir, clearly not phased by the USP pointing at him.

"I see nikkah wedding at mosque."

"Ah, a Muslim wedding. To who? Do you remember?"

"Abdallah. Oil prince."

Crash nodded. "I know him."

"But now he's dead," Frank said.

"Is that right, little bro?"

"We went to his hotel to find Lorelei," Frank said, "but when we got there, there were these hench geezers who'd already shot him making it look like a suicide, so we killed them all, and now we've come here to get Lorelei."

"Slow down. They killed Abdallah?"

"No marriage, if dead," Jahangir said.

"Wait. Start from the beginning."

"We went to the Golden Horn, right?" Frank said. "The receptionist wasn't there, so we just got into the lift and it took us straight up. Then, when the lift opened, there were these big guys. They had these guns." Frank tapped the USP pistol tucked in his jeans. "I thought they were his bodyguards, but Jahangir says they were the ones who killed them."

"Them?"

"The husband and his boyfriend naked in bed together."

"I see. I'm impressed, bro. Let me see." Crash took out a handkerchief and held out his hand and Frank reluctantly offered up his pistol. Jahangir was concerned that it might be a trick, but Crash appeared unperturbed by Jahangir's vigilance. "Nice piece of kit. I didn't think Abdallah had any bodyguards. In fact, I'm sure of it." He passed the pistol back to Frank, and Jahangir lowered the muzzle of his pistol. "If he needed muscle he asked us. OK, what then?"

"Jahangir shot them with his machine gun."

"Machine gun?"

"Uzi," Jahangir said.

"It's in the backpack," Frank said.

"I see. You've used an automatic before?"

"AK-47."

"A terrorist, huh?"

"Terrorist? Jahangir? Oh, shit. What a day." Frank eyes widened.

"How else would he be trained in all these weapons?"

Jahangir shook his head. "Taliban kill brother. Training for revenge."

Crash half-smiled. "Valon's always talking about revenge. He's a mad Muslim as well."

"Valon was paid two million pounds for Lorelei." Frank stood on one leg then the other, as though, after all the exertions of the day, he needed to sit down.

"What do you mean two million?" Crash asked.

"Payment for bride," Jahangir said.

"Is that normal?"

"Five, ten thousand."

"Then Abdallah dies," Crash said. "You know, I think I can guess who those blokes were. Did they look ex-military?"

"Sort of. Really short hair," said Frank.

"Albanians. I'll ring Peeko." Crash sipped his coffee.

"Hey, that's the cup I made for Dad," Frank said. A hand-painted word 'Dad' decorated the mug.

"I can bring it home if you want."

"No, it's OK."

"You know that Peeko says Lorelei might be his sister?" Crash said.

"Really?" Frank brightened at this. "Shouldn't we keep all this a secret? The less people who know, the better? Not call him?"

Crash's impassive face was lit by intelligent eyes. "Maybe. But you only killed four of them. And if they're the people I think they are, there's more. How long before they find out someone's mown down their comrades-in-arms? And if they find out it's you, you won't have to bother looking for them."

"We were wearing these outfits," Frank said, lifting the gold bandana up to cover his face again, as proof of their anonymity.

"I noticed. And I like the new trainers."

"We took them off a gang. Down in Lyme Road. Forced them to take off their clothes."

"And this gang got a look at you?"

Frank and Jahangir glanced at each other.

"And you think they won't tell a couple of carloads of armed Albanians everything they know? If they let you take their clothes, I'd say they're pretty moist." Crash gulped down the last of his coffee. "Peeko's a smart lad, he's our best bet." He nodded at them, then, as they remained silent, pulled a phone from his pocket.

"Peek... Heard an interesting tale... Valon married your sister off to the Prince for two million... In a mosque... But then the Prince was helped into Muslim heaven by four big blokes carrying some military-grade artillery... H&K USPs... They're dead... My brother and his school friend ... You heard right... The question is, what's our play? ... The trail is going to lead to us... Well, because afterwards my brother came here... Looking for the girl..."

Even from where they were standing, Frank and Jahangir could hear expletives through the receiver of the phone.

Crash smiled. "I'll wait to hear from you." He put the phone back in a pocket. "You want to come in and get a cold drink? You look shattered, Frank. You been exercising?"

"There's no-one in there?" Frank said.

"Well, Peeko and Valon are at the airport about to go to Dubai."

"OK, I'm knackered. You got any lemonade?"

Jahangir was less keen on lemonade but wanted to check that the penthouse was empty. Maybe Lorelei was still hidden inside. Following Crash inside, Jahangir knew he'd never been in a space so luxurious. In the kitchen, Jahangir took in the floor-to-ceiling view over London. Crash opened the refrigerator and went through the drink options. Gathering a couple of cans, he passed them to the boys. With the panorama of London stretching out before him, Jahangir put his USP on the table and opened the aluminium can. He noticed Frank was already guzzling his, dehydrated after riding his bike with Jahangir on the handlebars, then climbing fifteen floors of stairs. Jahangir remembered his uncle's warning about becoming habituated to useless and expensive Western products, but the sugary drink tasted like something made in heaven.

While they quenched their thirst, two men wearing long leather jackets appeared from behind, pistols in their hands. Jahangir and Frank could only watch as their weapons were taken.

"Your brother, Crash?" said an older man with curly dark hair. "He's got a wonderful pistol. Mind if I keep it, lad?"

"Oi! Get your own," Frank said, and his bravado impressed Jahangir.

A tall man with long blonde hair and an acne-scarred face inspected Jahangir's USP. "Can't have you shooting the place up with this, can we now?"

Like Crash, they had Glocks, but newer models than the one he had left with Mrs Osmanovich. Opening the satchel at his feet without getting shot would be impossible, so Jahangir continued to enjoy the cold drink. Insha'Allah. Maybe it would be his last.

"Lads," said the man with curly hair, "from what I heard over the intercom, you came here to rescue the girl. You know, when I think about it, this is even a bit like a castle. And Valon can be a bit of a tyrant. But there's a problem. She came here voluntarily. No-one was forcing her to stay. So if you'd shot us up and kidnapped the girl, who would she think are the bad guys?"

"Her mother wants her back." Frank burped after downing his drink too quickly.

"I'm sure she does," Crash said, "but it's a lot more complicated than we first thought, if you're right about this Muslim wedding. And what's puzzling me is that Valon's Albanian friends shot the groom."

"Friends?" Frank asked.

"Valon's Albanian too," said the blonde man. "Heavy dudes. Sex trade, assassinations, military-grade protection, drugs."

"And there's every chance they'll think it was us who mowed them down." Crash poured coffee and passed two mugs to his friends.

"Why's that?"

"When the police look at the CCTV, I'm guessing they'll see two gangstas walking straight from the murder scene to here. Or maybe you rode your bike?"

"Bike." Frank nodded. "Will the police tell them?"

"The police sell stories to newspapers," said the man with the long blonde hair. "And anyone else who pays. Not much is secret in a police station."

"After which, both the Albanians and the police will think it was us," Crash said.

"What they'll think is, you two were coming here to get paid." The older man sipped his coffee in one hand, while dangling the Glock in the other. Frank's USP was stuffed in the front of the man's trousers.

"It's trouble whichever way," Crash said.

"The easiest solution would be to give you to the Albanians," said the man with blonde hair. "But you're Crash's brother, and we can't give up your foreign friend without you. Too complicated."

"Lads, it seems we're in this together," said the older man.

"If we can save Lorelei, I'm in," Frank said. "What about you?"

Jahangir finished the last of his drink and put the can on the table. "Yes." What other answer was possible?

"Let's give the boys back their guns," Crash said softly, and Jahangir was relieved when the man with the blonde hair put his USP back on the table. It is not every day a Pakhtun gets his hands on such a weapon. "And we're going to have to get rid of those ugly Gold Top rags."

"Peeko might have some old clothes that'll fit them," said the man with blonde hair.

"We've got our own clothes in Jahangir's satchel," said Frank.

"Residues," the older man said. "Safer to burn everything. Peeko always said his old clothes were too expensive to throw out. Pass a bin bag, Crash."

"And, sorry, but your bike's going into a canal," Crash said, opening a kitchen drawer.

"That the murder weapon?" asked the blonde-haired man, seeing the Uzi muzzle in Jahangir's satchel. "It has to go."

Jahangir pulled out the Uzi and clothes from his satchel and put them into the bin bag, along with the spare Uzi magazines.

"I'm upset you didn't get one of these guns for me, Frank," Crash said.

"There's two more back at the Golden Horn. Only problem is the fifth floor in the elevator needs a key."

"I think the moment's passed."

Crash's phone rang. "Yeah... Maybe... I'll ask him." He smiled at Jahangir. "Just floating an idea here. Those terrorists ever teach you how to make explosives?"

Jahangir nodded. "What you want to destroy?"

"This apartment."

# Chapter 24: The Airport

At the airport cafe, Lorelei could hear the Albanians' fury but couldn't understand the conversation. It sounded as though they were angry with her too.

Peeko had walked into the crowd after his phone chimed. She saw his bright orange head inclined under a Departures LCD screen.

People flowed past the wood-effect table with trolleys and wheeled luggage, some with children trotting alongside. A plate of cinnamon swirls lay before her untouched. The white ceramic cups were heavy, unlike Valon's fine porcelain. Dritten took a call and, after shouting into the phone, shouted at Valon and Milot. Her father appeared to be protesting his innocence. Because she didn't know what else to do, Lorelei sipped her hot chocolate, its too-sweet viscosity nauseous.

Lorelei heard the swish of Peeko's leather jacket amongst the cramped tables. The glimmer of jewellery outlets behind him hindered her view of his taut expression. Amused yet hostile, she thought. He smiled strangely, as though sharing his thoughts with her. Lorelei had no idea what was going on.

"And who was that?" Valon asked Peeko.

"The studio wants to know what to do with Retz's back catalogue. We could make some proper money now he's dead, maybe move him from YouTube to DVD."

"I see." Valon grimaced. "Drittan has had some exceptionally bad news. I'm afraid our trip must be cancelled. Abdallah was found dead at his hotel. I can't begin to express my grief. Or my astonishment. I so enjoyed his company over the past two years and I really don't understand how it happened."

"Blimey! How did he die?" Peeko asked.

"The police are looking into it even as we speak. Drittan was told just now by a friend from the masjid. Of course, we must cancel our holiday," said Valon.

Lorelei felt sad for Abdallah. He had seemed a nice man. Yet, something else was wrong; Drittan and Milot shook their heads in anger, not sorrow.

"Well, that's that. I'll drive you home again," Peeko said to Lorelei.

"If you don't mind," Valon said, "I would like to spend some time with my daughter. You must agree it's only fair. After all, you two have been shopping together. Lorelei, what say I take you to my club, then a champagne dinner and afterwards an opera or the theatre? We'll have to see what's playing tonight. Of course, you'll need new clothes before we go."

Lorelei nodded, unable to refuse him. She tried to adopt the expression Peeko had coached her to use, of being happy in Valon's company, but the silent fury of Drittan and Milot made it impossible.

"I don't think so," Peeko said.

Drittan slammed his empty coffee cup into the saucer, alarming people on the surrounding tables. Again Milot twirled a butter knife through his fingers, as though a circus knife-thrower.

"You don't think so?" said Valon, hunched forward and holding a teaspoon tightly.

"You won't have time to go to the opera." Peeko had one ankle resting on a knee, his long leather coat draped over the other.

"Do I have something else planned?" Valon's jaw clenched.

"As all of us know, four of Drittan's men were gunned down in Abdallah's hotel room." Then Peeko smiled at Lorelei. "Except you."

"How is it you know this?" Drittan said.

"Didn't I tell you?" Milot shouted, frightening Lorelei. "Valon was the only one who knew. Now he says this! It is his men!" Milot pointed at Peeko.

"What are you suggesting? That I am behind it?" Valon's eyes flashed.

"My men? My men did what?" Peeko asked. "When forensics take a close look at your men's clothes, Abdallah's blood is going to be on at least one of them. And because they all work for you, well, the police will be looking for - guess who?"

"But you did this!" Milot exploded, gripping the butter knife before him.

Peeko smiled. "No, I didn't."

"You've set me up." Drittan's front teeth gritted.

"I swear to you, I had nothing to do with this." Valon had one hand in the air.

"You were the only one who knew!" Milot hissed.

"So, you don't have time," said Peeko, gazing at Valon, "for champagne."

"You will pay for this." Milot leered at Peeko from beneath his heavy brow.

"Just like you, I've been at Heathrow the whole time," said Peeko. "I've done nothing either."

"Take the girl and let's go," Drittan hissed.

"No, no. She stays here," Peeko said.

"Daniel! She will be with me, her father! I insist you give way here." Valon raised his voice. "She comes with me!"

Lorelei tried to focus on the table top. It amazed her how calm Peeko remained; it took all of her resolve not to crumple to the floor. Abdallah murdered at the orders of someone here? She wanted to flee, but how could she run with her legs so weak?

"I don't know how much you sold her for, but you're going to have to give Drittan a refund. Lorelei's staying with me."

Sold? Lorelei gazed at Peeko, yet didn't dare confront the others with even a glance.

"Daniel! Remember, you work for me! I won't ask twice!"

"Fire me."

"This is treachery! You know what this means!" Valon had stood and his booming voice stopped all conversation in the cafe.

Peeko smiled. "If I have to stand up and squeak 'help', I will. Would you want that? The police could do the murder investigation right here."

"You think you are safe, but you won't get away with this," Valon's teeth were barred as he spoke, almost as though he would have liked to have torn Peeko apart with them. "Someone will come. You won't even know. And it will be over."

"So we must go," Drittan said. "But afterwards, Peeko, you will see. You and yours." He glowered at Lorelei.

The Albanian men stood. Lorelei couldn't face their towering outrage and stared at the floor.

"Consider yourself no longer my son," Valon hissed.

"Just as Lorelei is no longer your daughter? Who would sell a daughter?"

"You will not have to wait long!" Valon's massive fists were clenched at his side. "I promise you. We Albanians do not forget such things!"

"Before you go, Valon," Peeko said, "I need to tell you something. In private."

"Tell me what?"

Drittan exploded in Albanian, and he and Milot and he and Milot strode off in a rage.

Valon glared at Peeko. "I will be lucky if they don't kill me too. What is it you want to say?"

"It was nice being your son. So I'm going to do you a favour."

"You are calling this a favour?"

"The police will blame you for killing Drittan's men."

"What? How?"

"I know exactly who killed his men."

"You?"

"No, not me. Who did it is not important. What is important is that afterwards they came to your penthouse looking for Lorelei. They left once we convinced them she wasn't there."

"One of Tatiana's friends did this? I don't believe it!"

"It doesn't matter. The police will collect all the CCTV and soon enough they'll follow the killers from Abdallah's hotel straight to your penthouse, so who are they going to think is behind it?"

"They might think it is your men." Valon had leant forward to gaze into Peeko's face. "I was here."

"And when the police find out you sold Lorelei to Abdallah for two million, what will they think then? What about if they find out you sold her to Drittan too? I assume that's what you've done, here. Your face is telling me this is true."

"No, no, you have it wrong!" Valon's expression became contrite. "Lorelei, I had to get Abdallah out of the way to save you. It is true I took his money, but I wouldn't have let him take you away from me. And it would have worked out perfectly, if Daniel hadn't ruined everything."

"Father, I'm not buying any of it." Peeko shook his head. "You let Drittan kill Abdallah to take her for himself. It got him out of the way and you made even more money. And now Lorelei's a widow with no husband. I bet you even let Drittan think she'd get some money from Abdallah's estate."

"That is fantasy. When the police investigate, Lorelei, they will find I acted in your interest. There is no evidence for any of what Daniel is saying. None whatsoever."

Lorelei nodded; the horror of what Peeko had said didn't allow her to speak.

"Finally, you knock off Drittan's men to take him out at the knees. And so you can sell Lorelei for a third time. At least, that's what Drittan and Milot now believe. And that's what they'll tell everyone. Maybe even Abdallah's family. Maybe the police too. After all, you were the only one who knew. And they need someone to blame."

"I had nothing to do with it!"

"Nothing? We all know how you and Drittan made your money. The Albanians, Abdallah's family, Tatiana's friends, even the police. Everyone knows."

"How could you do this to me? You are my son."

"You did it to yourself. Get on a plane. Go to Macedonia, then travel overland into Albania. Stay there."

"I'm not safe in Albania."

"Where are you safe?"

Lorelei detected both rage and confusion in Valon's face. "I will be back."

"Sure you will." Peeko stood, and took Lorelei's arm, helping her to her feet. With an ashen face, Valon turned to examine a departures screen. Hand-in-hand, Peeko and Lorelei threaded their way through the crowd.

"We'd better take the rail express to Paddington. Drittan and Milot will be in the car park. Well, you had a father for a few days. That's better than nothing."

"How much of that was true?" Lorelei stumbled forward, not used to shoes with heels. She was still trying to accept what Peeko had said about her being sold twice, and now a widow. How could that be? The thought that staggered her most was that her mother might have arranged the murder of Drittan's men.

"True? Who knows what's true?" Peeko led her through the tide of people making their way to Departures, down the packed escalators and onto the station platform. The train was filling with passengers and luggage.

Hand still gripped in Peeko's, Lorelei was grateful for the sense of security it gave her. He had saved her. But for how long? And for what? Stepping onto the Heathrow Express, the automatic doors closed behind her with a hiss.

# Chapter 25: Chemistry

The clock on the wall showed nearly eight o'clock. Peeko's crew faced Jahangir at Valon's kitchen table. Through the floor-to-ceiling window, London sparkled with lights, although only Jahangir appeared to have noticed that night had fallen.

Almost cross-eyed with concentration, Jahangir dripped homemade nitroglycerine into drink cans filled with ball bearings. Using an eyedropper to minimise splashing, he transferred a pale green solution from a glass jar into each can.

A spontaneous assembly line had formed. Crash filled empty drink cans with ball bearings and passed them to Jahangir. When a can had been given a fifth share of the nitroglycerine, Jahangir gave it to one of the other two men, Curly or Thor, to place in the penthouse apartment.

Frank had been forbidden to move. He stood with his hands in the pockets of a pair of Peeko's faded jeans. Jahangir was relieved Frank was on the other side of the kitchen; too large a splash from the eyedropper, or a fumbled can, and they were all dead.

Earlier, Thor had handed both boys a selection of Peeko's hand-me-downs: long leather jackets, jeans and silk shirts. Jahangir was gratified to have a pair of jeans he could wear to school. His traditional clothes were in a black bin bag by the front door, together with the Uzi. No-one would hear of disposing of the USP pistols and Jahangir had insisted on keeping all the nine millimetre ammunition.

Squeezing fluid from the eyedropper into a tilted can, he told himself to keep breathing. "Slow, steady breaths. It helps with the panic," Bazir had told him several months ago while dribbling nitroglycerine into a small pot of sawdust. He also told Jahangir that if a drop fell to the ground, it could create enough of an explosion to detonate all of the nitroglycerine in the room. Bazir's brother had lost his hands and was blind in one eye; he used his patkay to cover what remained of his face.

Jahangir poured a fifth share into each drink can of ball bearings. "Put at door in every room. If you drop, we die."

"You know that saying, 'to kick the bucket'?" Curly asked. "You think this is where it comes from? Making nitro?" Older, with brown, curly hair, he took the drink can with one hand underneath for safety.

"Nah, it was from people standing on buckets to put their head in a noose," Crash said.

"Old school." A strand of Thor's lank blonde hair covered one eye.

"Maybe your old school," Curly said.

That afternoon, Jahangir listed the ingredients needed, or rather Frank wrote down the household products Jahangir described, while Curly knew where to source them. The finalised list was divided between Peeko's crew.

  * Two litres each of hydrochloric and sulphuric acid drain cleaner, lots of small copper pipe fittings, and a soldering kit from a DIY store.
  * Nitrogen fertiliser from a garden centre. 
  * Several kilos of ball bearings from auto spare parts and bike shops. 
  * Peroxide hair dye, glycerine, an eyedropper and a thermometer from a chemist.
  * Baking powder, Christmas lights, distilled water and five bags of ice from a supermarket.
  * A firework from a newsagent.
  * Two pay-as-you-go mobile phones, paid for with cash under false names.

While the others went shopping, Jahangir and Frank gathered all the glassware they could find, emptying out various comfitures and cleaning the jars. Rifling through the bottom cupboards, Jahangir discovered a set of glass baking trays. He set the air-conditioning to ten degrees centigrade to cool the apartment. When Peeko's crew returned, they found the boys wearing over-sized pullovers taken from Valon's bedroom.

He should already be at the masjid, Jahangir realised, transferring nitroglycerine into the fourth can. If he failed to show, Shahzar may hand him over to the Americans. It had taken over three hours to synthesise the nitric acid and then nitrate the glycerol, but this production line was not one he could just leave.

When Crash tipped the ingredients onto the kitchen table, Jahangir stowed the sulphuric acid in the freezer.

"If explosive fall on floor, kill everyone," he said. "You go. Come back, maybe two hours."

No-one moved. Crash glared at Frank, who in turn stared at Jahangir, defiant.

It was pointless for any of them to stay. Either they wanted to share the risk, or had too much pride to seek their own safety. "Go. Stay alive," Jahangir said.

"That wouldn't be cricket, would it?" Curly said. "You getting blown up all on your own."

"I so fucking want to see this," Crash said. "But, Frank, go and get a coffee."

"What? This is educational. It's even a school day."

"Looks like no-one's going," Thor, the blonde-haired man, said with his crooked smile.

Jahangir shrugged and began. Insha'Allah. Every minute or so, he repeated to himself Bazir's mantra: "Breathe!"

"Break window," he told Crash, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling kitchen window. "For air."

"Like so?" Crash slid the window across to reveal a deck of rainforest wood with a long teak table and barbeque.

There was a strong breeze, which Jahangir noted with approval. Cold air, that was good.

Rolling up the sleeves of Valon's jumper and pulling on rubber dishwashing gloves, Jahangir synthesised the nitric acid using the hydrochloric acid, hydrogen peroxide, crushed nitrate fertilizer and the copper fittings. He explained that this part was not dangerous, other than inhaling the toxic fumes, or acid burns if the chemicals splashed, and the others gathered round. They watched what seemed a magic trick as the fertiliser and acid reacted, the dark green fumes bubbling up through the peroxide. Jahangir had set up a series of jars to process what he hoped would be a quarter of a litre of nitric acid.

It took an hour before the reactions were complete, after which he made an ice-bath, placing a glass baking dish on the ice slurry. Into it, he combined the nitric acid with three parts of sulphuric acid. He told Frank to watch the thermometer and warn him if the temperature rose above ten degrees Celsius. With the eyedropper, he added glycerine to the nitric mix, tilting the baking dish to spread it across the surface. When it had all been transferred, Jahangir stirred the liquids carefully, stopping every now and again to breathe. He had not felt any panic when he had worked under Bazir's tutelage but here, now, he marvelled at the subconscious part of his mind insisting he just put everything down and run.

"Frank. Put water into jar." Jahangir nodded at the distilled water on the table.

"So when do we all get vaporised?" asked Crash.

"Jahangir's not going to blow us up," Curly said. "He's a terrorist. He's done this before."

"After this I'm going to have different nightmares," Thor said.

"Or just more," Curly said.

"One mistake. We die." Jahangir wished they would be quiet. He needed calm to fight back his panic.

The glycerine nitrated into a cloudy fluid that retained a hint of lime from the copper. Jahangir drained it away from the top of the acids using the eyedropper, and injected it into the glass jar Frank had quarter-filled with distilled water. The milky fluid sank through the water and settled to the bottom. After the nitroglycerine had been syphoned from the acid bath, he smiled.

"Bags not doing the dishes," Frank said.

"You going to leave them for Mum again, eh?" Crash said.

"And when do you ever do them?"

"So we're finished?" Curly said.

"Soon." Jahangir noticed on the kitchen clock that it was after seven o'clock and went back to work.

The flat-screen TV in the kitchen had been switched off, and he wondered whether the riot had intensified to the point where mosques were being attacked. His instincts told him that shops would be the first targets, and then the mosques. Glancing across the dim skyline, he noticed two immense plumes of smoke rising on the southern horizon. If one of those bonfires was the Lyme Road mosque, Shahzar would allow the Americans to torture him

Thor followed his gaze outside. "This works out, tonight will be Janga Fawkes night."

Jahangir drained off the water from the top of the acid solution in the glass jar, leaving behind about one-fifth of a litre of the nitroglycerine. He topped up the ice bath and mixed up some baking soda with distilled water in another glass jar. With the eyedropper, he added the nitroglycerine to the bicarbonate solution. He rolled the jar in his hand, mixing the solution and neutralising any remaining acids. Frank groaned as it bubbled and fizzed, but Jahangir had worked through this reaction several times with Bazir.

"If I live," Frank said. "I'm going to become a chemist."

"Yeh, me too," said Thor.

Jahangir syphoned the nitroglycerine into a clean jar, then carried it carefully into the kitchen, one hand underneath. He asked Crash to bring over five empty drink cans and the packets of ball bearings.

Without Bazir guiding everything he did, he was terrified he would omit a crucial step. Yet his fear crystallised his memory, helping him picture exactly what he had to do.

"We not dead," Jahangir said.

"You've forgotten about the Albanians," Crash said.

Back when he had been waiting for the nitric acid to react with the copper fittings, Jahangir had taken one of the empty Uzi shells he had stashed in his satchel at Lorelei's mother's flat, and half-filled it with the black powder from the firework. Snipping off the tip of one of the Christmas lights, he clipped back the glass end to expose the light filament inside. Opening the pay-as-you-go phone, he soldered the two electrical wires from the Christmas light to the phone's vibrator connections, just as Bazir had shown him, and connected two more wires from the vibrator to the phone battery. It irritated him that he could recognise the chrome vibrator in a phone, but still couldn't text anyone. When the vibrator activated, it would also connect the full phone battery current to the Christmas light, igniting the black powder at the same time. Using some molten candle wax on his fingers, he sealed the Christmas light into the shell casing, creating an electrical detonator. When the phone vibrated and the black powder exploded, the shockwave from the wax-sealed shell casing would detonate the nitroglycerine.

At eight o'clock, Jahangir transferred the last of the nitroglycerine into the fifth drink can. Thor and Curly had placed the other four cans in the doorways to the main rooms.

"I see what you're doing," Curly said. "A chain reaction."

"You are a dangerous human being." Thor tilted his head in admiration.

"If it works," Crash said.

It will work, thought Jahangir. He taped the detonator phone to the last can, then, melting more candle wax, gently pressed the detonator shell casing into the drink can aperture and sealed it. Carrying this last can into Valon's bedroom, he draped a crumpled pink polo shirt over it. Using line-of-sight he checked that the explosion shockwave would detonate the other cans in turn.

"How will know when Albanians here?" Jahangir asked.

Thor held up his phone. "We'll see them on CCTV."

"Don't kill wrong people." Jahangir was now in two minds about the explosions. What if the bombs killed innocent people? Like the Americans and the Taliban did? That would be unacceptable. He had experienced the grief aftermath of too many bombs.

"We know them," said Crash.

"Wait, why do the Albanians want you again?" Frank asked.

"Want us?" Crash corrected, smiling at his brother. "Because of you, remember? By now, they think we killed those four blokes at Abdallah's place. You came here so, it's just a matter of time before they blame us."

"Oh, yeh." Frank's face dropped. "How many of them are there?"

"Maybe twelve, less the four you took out. Eight. But all packing submachine guns or USPs. All up, pretty dangerous."

The front door to the apartment opened and everyone started. Curly, Thor and Crash pulled out their Glocks.

The man with red hair and Lorelei entered. Jahangir recognised him from Mrs Osmanovitch's flat earlier in the day. Seeing his leather jacket, Jahangir became embarrassed that he was wearing Peeko's hand-me-down clothing.

"Peeko, whatever you do, don't kick any of those cans." Crash pointed at a can filled with ball bearings.

"Because I'll stain the carpet?"

"Bloodstain it, maybe." Thor showed a feline smile.

"Valon wouldn't be happy about that. Then again, we won't be seeing him again."

"Your own Dad?" Thor made a trigger movement with one finger.

"A long holiday overseas. For his health."

Jahangir saw Frank gazing doe-eyed at Lorelei. She stood just behind Peeko, pale and frightened, no longer wearing a tracksuit but a long dress. Her golden hair flowed over her shoulders. Her jaw had clenched and her pain showed in her face. Recalling how Mrs Osmanovich's hands had trembled when she had practised loading the Glock, Jahangir wondered what misery they had endured.

"We must leave." Jahangir wanted to get to the mosque.

"First things first. We need the Albanians here," Curly said.

Peeko retrieved his phone from his leather coat. "Leave that to me."

Leaning against the hallway wall, Lorelei's eyes began rolling unnaturally. Jahangir watched Frank's gaze flitting between Peeko and Lorelei.

"Hey, Drittan... Surprised to hear from me? I just wanted to say how sorry I am about today... I've changed my mind, you can have the girl."

Jahangir saw Peeko wink at Lorelei.

"Drop her off? ... I think you should come over in that big car, she'd like that. You and Milot, so we can all drink on a new friendship. No, I couldn't just hand her over to anyone... I'm guessing you paid a lot of money to Valon for her. How much was it, out of interest? ... Wow. Now I understand why you're so upset. Come over and she's yours. I'll send out for some Chinese... You'll bring some on the way? That's even better... Give me an hour and pick her up."

Jahangir glanced at Lorelei; she was drowning.

"He'll expect a trap," Curly said.

"We better get moving, they'll be here in half an hour at the latest," Crash said.

Peeko put his arm around Lorelei. "Sorry to use you as bait, Sis. They're coming for us all, and we need to sort them."

"One thing we forgot," Thor said. "How do we get them all to come inside?"

"Even if we leave the front door open, if we're not here, they might just send one bloke in," Crash said, "just to look around."

"They might just shout from outside."

"Put can at front door," Jahangir said.

Curly nodded. "Use the one from Lorelei's bedroom door."

"You must switch on phone. Set on vibrate." Jahangir felt nauseous. The intense concentration he had worked under all afternoon had left him exhausted.

Thor pinched his blonde-stubbled chin. "I meant to ask, what happens if that phone gets a random call, like a text from the telecom company?"

"Shit a brick," Curly said.

"Must be set to vibrate," Jahangir said. "I not know how to do."

Curly's phone beeped from an incoming text, and he switched it off.

"Fuck me," said Thor under his breath. "A new nightmare."

"Do we know what these phones are set to?" Crash asked.

"And when I change the setting it vibrates and kills us all." Curly stared at Jahangir. "Can you undo it all?"

"We don't have time." Peeko glanced at his watch.

"Wait, wait. I can sort it," said Frank. "Jahangir doesn't know about phones. None of you know about phones. Show me."

Jahangir watched as Frank examined the default settings on the second phone.

"It's easy. I go in here and tick the vibrate box, yeh? It doesn't vibrate, but it will when you ring it, but not text it. I'll do the other one."

"Show me. Do it again," said Crash, and Frank went through the phone menu with him. Crash nodded. "OK, I'll do it."

"I said, I'll do it!"

"No chance. Mum would kill me."

"Mum? You going to tell Mum?"

Curly broke the impasse. "Crash, you do the phone, then ring security and tell them to let in Drittan and his friends. Thor, take that bin bag. I'll put on some loud music and move the can. Frank, don't forget your bike on the way out. And, someone remind me to unlock the floor in the elevator. Everyone, try to think of something we've forgotten. Something's always forgotten."

"I'll get the building CCTV disk. That security guard will have his price," Peeko said.

Whatever is forgotten will be blasted into dust, Jahangir thought.

# Chapter 26: A Century of Filth

Lorelei squeezed out of the backseat and stepped onto the bitumen of the Emporium car park.

Frank and the new kid Jahangir followed her out of Curly's car, both wearing the floral silk shirts and long leather coats of Peeko's gang. Thor's car pulled up beside them, weirdly orange under the sodium lights.

She watched Frank standing with Peeko and Curly, rolling his shoulders back and forth in the oversized coat. Is that how it happened, how boys became men? And how do girls become women? How girls on the Estate made that transition wasn't worth thinking about.

Inside the Emporium, everyone spoke at once, except Lorelei, and the new kid who didn't really know English anyway; they had silence in common, she thought. She followed them through the corridors to the clubroom where, two nights before, she had been dumped before Valon. From an armchair she observed their excitement, but couldn't feel any herself. Peeko had used her as bait to lure in those frightening men, Drittan and Milot, though she wasn't sure for what. Whatever was going to happen, it would be soon.

At school, the new kid had been dressed in traditional costume. Wearing the gang's clothing, he didn't appear happy. Maybe they had that in common too.

Travelling back from Paddington with Peeko, the taxi driver had let them off at a side entrance to Victoria Station called "The Old Gatwick". As a precaution, they'd hurried across the bustling concourse and changed taxis out front. On the way to the apartment, Peeko explained what happened at the airport: Valon had sold her for two million to Abdallah, and then sold her to Drittan. That's why Abdallah had been killed.

"At Abdallah's hotel," Peeko said, "Crash's brother Frank and his terrorist friend shot up the Albanian crew who shot Abdallah. Now Drittan thinks Valon betrayed him, because he was the only one who knew. By default it means he'll kill us too."

"What will they do to me?"

"It's not worth thinking about, but don't worry, it's not going to happen."

"Will we need a gun?" she asked, wondering how Peeko's charm could forestall the Albanians.

"I have something special planned." Peeko's expression glowed. "You'll see."

Peeko was her only hope. "I meant to ask," she said, "why you don't have any tattoos? Like your friends."

"I hate needles. After my mother died."

Maybe that's why the band had smoked the heroin, Lorelei considered. Why she'd smoked it.

As though reading her mind, Peeko pressed a finger to his lips, nodding toward the taxi driver. Could the driver hear what passengers were saying?

Peeko's crew sat in ancient armchairs or leant against the dilapidated bar. She felt Frank's eyes upon her, seeking her out, wanting her. Curly was the guard Valon had put on her door yesterday morning. Crash, she knew as Frank's brother, but Thor she had never seen before. The layers of tattoos creeping up from their open-necked shirts struck her as sinister. They talked with Peeko like old school friends, and maybe that's what they were. Which of her friends would laugh with her in the years to come?

"Look at this," Thor pointed at the screen of his mobile phone and she recognised the interior of Valon's flat. "You remember those drink cans on the floor, Lorelei? The ones we told you not to kick?"

"Janga here set them up." Curly reached across and patted Jahangir on the shoulder.

"Little fuckin terrorist," Crash said. "I've half a mind to call MI5."

Everyone watched the tiny screen of Thor's phone except Jahangir, who had reclined into an armchair. He fidgeted, Lorelei noticed, as though time could not move quickly enough.

"There they are!"

"Where?"

Thor propped the phone against his beer glass so everyone could view the screen. Lorelei saw Jahangir close his eyes. They shouted as five armed men approached the penthouse door. Lorelei recognised Drittan and Milot, who carried pistols with long silencers. The others held submachine guns.

"You can delete this afterwards?" Peeko asked Thor.

"It's live, not saved. Nothing to do with the building."

"Look at those fucking weapons," Curly said. "Too bad we can't go back and salvage them."

"Look like P90's," said Thor.

On the phone screen, she watched Drittan send in the others to check the rooms.

Thor's leonine grin widened. "The big boss keeps safe outside."

"Janga? We good to go?" Curly asked. Jahangir might have been asleep except for his finger drumming on the armrest.

Something horrible was going to happen. Curly, Thor and Frank stared at Jahangir, waiting for his response.

"The right people?" Jahangir asked, his blue eyes revealing an anxiety that surprised Lorelei. That's why he's in the Trauma Group, she realised.

"It's them," Curly said. "No doubt."

Jahangir nodded and the CCTV image on Thor's screen suddenly flashed white. Everyone in the clubroom screamed in delight, except Jahangir who had shut his eyes. Lorelei shuddered: surely it was murder?

Huddled around Thor's phone, the men hooted at the image of Drittan dead on the floor. Flipping through the other CCTV images, each showed a scene of destruction and the other Albanians dead.

They danced without music. Frank laughed in a high-pitched giggle. Thor began roaring as though England were winning something on TV, while Curly and Crash sang a song about bubbles. Peeko shouted "Yes!" over and over.

"Good work, lads. Good work," Peeko said, as the celebration edged past fever pitch.

Lorelei had spent the day with two of the people she just saw die. A few of the CCTV cameras had been knocked askew yet the devastation was obvious, as were the bodies.

Curly opened the phone that had detonated the bombs and took out the SIM card.

"Where's Milot? I want to be sure that monster is finished," Peeko said to Thor.

"Nothing moving," Thor said. "Anywhere."

"That's a lot of Albanian blood on the carpet," Curly said.

"There. He's almost torn in half," Crash said, with an expression of distaste.

"Go back to that other one. The one with the holes," said Frank.

"OK, OK." Peeko became matter-of-fact, as if impatient for the next item of business.

The grime of the Emporium oppressed Lorelei, the century of filth visible in its wear and tear. The tattered wallpaper had ripped away, revealing layers from before the War years. The bar had worn away to beer-stained bare wood. Five men killed and the gang was cheering. All except Jahangir, the architect of the bombs, whose finger still tapped the arm of his chair. Peeko sat beside her, his arm snaking around her shoulders.

"They went there to kill us," he said. "And if they had found you there..." Peeko's clear eyes were unblinking.

If this was just another "face" she couldn't tell, although what he said was true. Without him, everything her mother had said would have come to pass. "I need to go home."

"You don't want to celebrate?"

"Mum." Lorelei held up her phone. The screen was filled with texts.

"Sure,." Peeko squeezed her shoulder. "The bad guys are gone. Tell her."

Lorelei recalled the LRW gang bursting into the apartment yesterday. "There's always more bad guys."

"I'll keep guard if your mum will let me in. If she doesn't want me there, maybe Curly? Maybe that Janga kid?"

"You don't have a gun."

"That's always the easy part."

"I'll tell her you're coming." That was the acid test: whether Peeko would keep her safe.

"Taking Lorelei home," Peeko announced, standing and adjusting his coat collar. "Great work guys. Especially you Janga. Gold star on your homework, you boys."

Lorelei saw Jahangir's chest rising and falling with apprehension.

"I go to mosque," he said.

"What?" Peeko asked.

"Tonight?" Curly said.

"A mosque? You're a powerful magnet for trouble, Janga," Crash said.

"Which mosque?" Peeko asked.

"You can't tell anyone about what we did tonight," said Thor. "No confession or any of that stuff. Frank, you too. No-one but us must ever know."

"Lyme Road mosque." Jahangir looked at the floor as he spoke.

"You must be mad," Curly said.

"Maybe you didn't understand that news report on the way over," Peeko said, "but every gang in London is there."

"Yes," Jahangir said.

"You know?" Peeko shrugged. "Well, you've got clothes that might get you through the crowd. I'll take you on the way to Lorelei's."

Lorelei typed into her phone, "back v soon with Daniel. be nice xx." Her mother would have to come to terms with Peeko and, after everything that happened tonight, maybe she would. Peeko shook his friends' hands in farewell. The jut of his jaw was strangely appealing; how is it that a slight permutation in curve could have such an effect? Geometrically quantified, she wondered whether there would be a range of values for shapes that fascinated girls.

Crash passed around bottles of beer, and the gang admired the pistol that Frank had pulled from his jeans.

"Is it good? I mean, it looks good." Frank opened the chamber and everyone ducked. "What? There's nothing in there."

There was laughing.

"Let's take a look." Crash hefted the pistol in his hand. "How much you want for it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Name a figure."

"Is it an auction?" Curly had adopted a mock-serious tone and let his beer rest on his thigh. "Highest offer wins."

"Whoa, count me in," Thor said.

"Highest bid wins. You OK with that?" Crash asked Frank.

"I guess so. What do they normally go for?"

"About a hundred quid," Curly said.

"More like two-fifty," Thor said.

"A thousand," Crash said.

"A thousand five."

"Five thousand."

"Ten," said Curly.

"I'm out," Crash said.

"Ouch," Thor shook his fingers as if they had been hit. "That's a lot of spon for a leng. Take it."

Curly hefted the gun. "Still have to do a bit of mopping up. Using their own guns would make it look internal. Spare clips?"

"Jahangir's got some. Hey, when do I get paid?"

"Well, I tell you what I'll do."

"No tricky deals. I need a new bike. You threw my old one into that canal."

Lorelei watched as Jahangir put a handful of clips and a box of nine millimetre ammunition on the ancient bar counter. "I go now," he said to Frank.

"OK. I'll see you at school. Wait, I'll meet you near the shops like last time. If school's open."

"Here's two hundred and an IOU for the rest," Curly said, turning to Frank with a handful of notes. The gang chuckled seeing Frank's face drop. Peeko whispered a few words to Curly, who then handed Peeko his car keys.

Lorelei felt Frank staring at her as she followed Peeko to the door. Walking alongside her, Jahangir looked exhausted.

In the car park, Peeko guided Lorelei to Curly's light blue Mustang. His arm around her shoulders made her relax.

From the front seat, Lorelei noticed it had a chrome air inlet built into the hood. Peeko smiled as he started the engine and listened to it growl. Glancing at Jahangir in the backseat, she saw his eyes had closed again. Strangely for a boy, he was disinterested in cars.

"If I crash it, I have to give him mine," he said. The tyres squealed as the car roared out of the Emporium car park, and Peeko pushed the car to its limits along the deserted streets.

It felt "right" sitting beside Peeko. On the radio, a DJ crooned about the next song, Wish You Were Here, but his words were obscured by the car engine noise. Lorelei caught phrases of the song: something about blue skies and a smile full of ale. A song from the past, it must be Radio Two.

Approaching Lyme Road the footpaths milled with people. Shops lining the main roads had been looted, especially those selling crisp white, brand-name trainers. Parked cars had their windscreens smashed in by baseball bats, bricks, even rubbish bins. Anything that could be lifted, torn off, and thrown, had been. The youths wore the unofficial uniforms of various groups: it wasn't only black gangs. As though conquerors of old sacking a city, the pure joy of destruction energised them.

Whenever Peeko touched the accelerator, the car exhaust blazed like an industrial claxon. He said he had to go fast to deter anyone trying to stop the car. The Mustang screeched to a stop and Peeko spun the car around, its wheels spinning in a drawn-out squeal. A hundred meters further along, the Lyme Road mosque was surrounded. Gangstas at the front were throwing bricks and rocks, smashing the mosque entrance. Several litterbins had been doused with petrol and set alight; orange flames licked at the streetlights. Lorelei feared the mosque might be set on fire.

"You still want to get out?" Peeko asked.

Jahangir cocked the USP. With a farewell nod, he stepped out into the street and strode towards the crowd, the pistol hidden in the folds of his leather coat. He threw a small ball of what looked like crushed foil into the gutter.

"That leng won't keep him safe," Peeko said, putting the car into gear and accelerating away. Lorelei saw the speedometer climb and wondered about the mathematical curve for the increase in speed, realising that there would be a distinct curve for each type of car. The formula would need to be adjusted for air pressure and windage. Weaving around drunken kids stumbling about on the road, the car blasted into the darkness. After a scant few seconds, the Mustang hit seventy miles per hour, after which Peeko changed down gears as traffic lights loomed. The noise of the exhaust was ear-splitting.

Lorelei wished Peeko would just drive out of London altogether, the two of them. She wanted to feel his hand in hers again, to give her a sign. Barely a minute later and they were at the Farm Estate towers. It was peaceful; everyone here knew each other and, in the main, there wasn't anything worth stealing.

"Maybe if they think it belongs to someone who lives here, they'll leave it alone," Peeko said, parking the car.

Lorelei kept silent. Nothing and no-one was safe here.

At the apartment, her mother flew into her arms. Hugging, mother and daughter were in tears. Lorelei felt a pistol tucked into the back of her mother's jeans and jerked backward. Her hand felt profaned.

"Your friend give to me. To protect."

"Who? Frank?"

"Arab boy."

Peeko halted on seeing the Glock, but Lorelei's mother ushered them in and closed the door.

"So, you bring her back."

"The Albanians are dead. The leftovers will be cleaned up later tonight. If they're even in London anymore."

"No!"

"Valon is probably in Ohrid airport by now. Drittan and Milot are dead."

"You have London?"

Peeko nodded. "Most of it."

"And what will happen now?" Lorelei's mother spoke tentatively.

"What would you like to happen?"

"We go to live in Dubrovnik."

"You can do that."

Lorelei's mother laughed. "This is such, such wonderful news!"

"But before you go to Dubrovnik, there's one thing you need to know."

She frowned. "And what is this?"

"Do you have a calculator? On your phone?"

"Of course."

"Show me." Peeko gestured for her to get it on her screen. "Lorelei, you ready to do this?"

"No." Her mathematical ability was secret, especially from her mother. She had trusted Peeko, and now he wanted to parade her about like a performing seal.

Peeko's expression had changed from one of triumph to one of sympathy; was she learning to see through him? No, he had seen through her.

"Your Mum needs to see this," he said. "You don't know it yet, but it's your ticket out of here."

"What you mean, 'ticket'?" Lorelei's mother said.

"Why hide it, Lorelei?" Peeko asked. "Do I hide my music?"

"What ticket? Tell me."

Lorelei rolled her eyes; her mother would not relent until she understood what Peeko meant by "ticket". She wanted only to go to bed, to try to sleep. Visual echoes of the Albanian's macerated bodies appeared behind her eyes. With Peeko here with her, sleep might just be possible.

"Type these numbers in. Ready? Four... two... four... three... one, times eight... five... six... nine. Don't say the answer. OK, Tatiana?" Peeko checked the phone screen.

"Wait, wait. Yes, yes. I have."

"I hope so, because I can't remember what I said. Lorelei?"

"363,591,239." Lorelei felt like she might cry.

Her mother's mouth fell open. "You do not tell me this? I kill you!"

# Chapter 27: The Masjid

The rioters hardly noticed Jahangir. Bricks, stones, rubbish bins and fence palings ramparted the front of the masjid and the windows were shattered. The mood of the crowd had intensified, readying itself to storm the building.

Those not there to posture, to parade their gang strip or carry off loot, wanted blood for blood. Several hundred mostly full-grown men, they wore black hoodies or puffas and brandished baseball bats, knives or metal bars. Many were disguised with bandanas. Jahangir noticed several pistols tucked into jeans. There were few white people and no women. The crowd might just turn on them too.

Further along Lyme Road, a few police officers stood beside patrol cars making no attempt to intervene: no kettling with riot shields, no horses, or teargas. As though they would not mind if the two sides fought.

If any suspected Jahangir was the Farm Estate killer, he knew he would be ripped limb-from-limb. The USP pistol cocked and inside Peeko's hand-me-down leather coat, he picked up a half-brick, his token to merge into the crowd. Stepping into the no man's land between the rioters and the mosque, he realised he also risked taking a bullet from within the building. At the front door, he hailed those inside.

"Asalaam alaykum."

One of the men he had met earlier in the day opened the door and bolted it behind Jahangir. Rocks and bottles pounded on the wood. The mob roared, and any individual words vanished in the barrage of sound.

Adjusting to the darkness, he counted a dozen large men guarding the door.

"Wa 'alaykum aalaam."

"This way," one said in Arabic. "Leave your shoes on."

The guards were not properly armed to hold off the crowd: one had a military-style truncheon, a few had iron bars, some kitchen knives. Jahangir wondered why none had firearms, then realised it was difficult to get such weapons in London. When the rioters stormed the building, these men were doomed. Shaheed.

In the main hall, Jahangir saw Pason Rehman, his black kurta hiding him in the shadows. He alone had an AK47 slung over one shoulder.

"You have come. What are these clothes?" Pason said in Pakhto.

"A disguise," said Jahangir.

Pason Rehman stroked his beard. "You are very late. Come and see. You will be pleasantly surprised."

In the main hall, seventy men listened to the imam lecture them on the need to defend Islam unto the death, reminding them that the Prophet, may peace be upon him, would welcome each into Jannah. His arms were raised and his voice loud.

"Are we going to wait for the jahili to come to us, the unbelieving kaffirs outside to overwhelm us and profane the holy house of Allah, may He be exalted? Do the police stop them? No, they are happy to see us destroyed. Do we not need to act in self-defence? Of course! We can only rely on the faithful!"

"What must we do, imam?" came a call from the congregation.

"How can we defeat the kaffirs? There are hundreds! Give the command and we will fight, but there is no prospect of victory."

"With this knife, I will kill five. Then they will run like cowards!" said another.

"Many of them also have knives," said the guard who had escorted Jahangir inside. "I have also seen pistols."

Jahangir glanced from face to face and saw the look of men confronting death.

"They kill each other like animals every day of the week. They won't be frightened of shooting us."

The blood of these men would be on his hands, Jahangir thought.

"But are the kaffirs prepared to die? When they see that we will fight to the death, they will run!" another shouted.

"Let us fight them. They will run!" another shouted.

Jahangir understood that giving himself up was the only chance that the mosque and its congregation would not be destroyed. Sooner or later the crowd outside would test the resolve of those inside. Yet, had he left it too late? Would either side believe him?

"Peace, brothers!" The imam raised his hands for silence. "We have another plan, another weapon."

"Brothers, we have a shaheed," Pason Rehman said. "The shaheed was to be deployed on another mission, but a message now to the jahiliyya Westerners is necessary. We will not be intimidated. We will annihilate this crowd of kaffirs outside our masjid. Then we will see how often they surround us, pelting us with missiles, and threatening the lives of the faithful."

Pason Rehman's words stunned everyone.

The imam called loudly to the far recess and a woman, no, a girl, wearing full chadri walked forward. Pason Rehman beamed as he ushered her into their midst.

"Allah be thanked that you have consented to assist us in our hour of need. You will live in Paradise forever."

Jahangir was horrified: a girl used as a bomb to destroy the rioters outside? Did they deserve this? Did she deserve this? When all this mayhem was his fault? True, the rioters had come to maim, murder and destroy. The rioters were not like the innocent passengers on a bus, the bystanders in a market, or workers in a building that the Tehreek-e-Taliban bombed. Though, in seeking vengeance, they were no different from the Pakhtun tribes; these rioters were demanding blood for blood, just as was expected in the Pakhtunwali code.

Jahangir believed in his heart he was right to have killed the drug dealers who had threatened to murder him, just as he had been right to create the bomb that destroyed the Albanian gang who had murdered Lorelei's husband. Yet, was it right to allow so many people to die now just to conceal his actions?

"Do not do this!" Jahangir shouted, as loudly as he could.

"What weakness is this?" Pason Rehman hissed.

"It is not an attack on Islam! They are demanding blood for blood! Why do they all deserve to die?"

"If it is not an attack on Islam, why are our windows smashed?" Pason Rehman raged, and Jahangir sensed how dangerous a foe he could be. "If it is not an attack, why is the crowd stoning us?"

"A Muslim girl killed several people from their community. Now you will send another to do the same. Who here has spoken to them? Who? Have you told them you had nothing to do with the killings?"

"We have talked enough." Pason Rehman's eyes had narrowed.

"Have you spoken to them?" Jahangir shouted. "Tell me who has spoken to them?"

"Silence!" said the imam. "We have done with speaking. Now is the time for action. All of you must do as you are instructed in the defence of Islam. Silence him!"

"You will kill this innocent girl and you have not spoken to them? This is murder."

"Apostate!" the imam roared, his finger pointing at Jahangir.

Jahangir was horrified, for the Sharia punishment for apostasy is death.

"Jahangir!" the girl shouted, her voice unnaturally loud. To the amazement of the men there, she began taking off her chadri, revealing her face and the belt of explosives attached to her midriff. Reeling from the surprise of her calling him by name, Jahangir saw the row of cans on her midriff; each, he knew, would be packed with ball bearings and sawdust soaked in nitroglycerin. He saw the wiring that would detonate a blast cap, wired to a hand-held button detonator made from a torch. It was simple, but one push of the button would kill everyone inside the mosque.

He knew too it was not a girl; it was his brother, Janan.

"Jahangir, we must destroy these jahil!"

As though resurrected from the dead, it was Janan who had been kidnapped by the Tehreek-e-Taliban two years before. In a flash of comprehension he understood it was Pason Rehman who had taken Janan to the mountain madrassa for indoctrination. It was Pason who should have been the target of his uncle's bullet, and the Hellfire missile that had instead killed his uncle. In one smooth motion Jahangir retrieved the USP from his pocket and fired a nine millimetre round into Pason Rehman. The man's astonishment vanished as he flipped backwards onto the floor.

Without pause, Jahangir followed up with another chest shot, the nine-millimetre bullet mashing Pason's left lung. His body twitched as his nervous system shut down. Barely two seconds had passed, but to Jahangir it felt ten times longer. He turned to the stunned imam and fired a bullet into his forehead, propelling the Egyptian backwards onto the crimson-patterned carpet of the mosque floor.

Next, Jahangir perceived he had fallen to his knees, barely conscious after having been hit over the head. He felt a numb pressure at the point of impact, but no pain. His arms had been gripped and his pistol taken from him.

"Behead him! Behead him!" The congregation roared in several languages, outraged at such an act of treachery.

Janan, his thumb on the torch switch detonator, roared. "I will detonate this! Leave him be or we all die!"

The men surrounding Jahangir were dumbfounded. Janan, holding the detonator aloft, pushed into their midst. "Go! You have ten seconds before we all die! One!... Two!"

"What are you doing? He has murdered the imam! He deserves death!"

"Three! He is my brother!... Four!"

Outraged by this double act of treachery, the men nevertheless feared the destructive power of the bomb the shaheed carried. One had Jahangir's pistol and was pointing it at Janan.

"Five... Shoot and you die!" Janan screamed at him. Others crowded around the man with the pistol, and held his arm down, wrenching it from his grip.

"You cannot escape," shouted another. "Where can you go? Give up!"

"Six!"

"You have murdered our imam!" one cried.

"You cannot hide! Sinners! We will come for you!" shouted another.

"Seven!"

"An insult to Islam! You are damned!"

"Eight!"

In a rush, the congregation fled into the recesses of the mosque, the rooms reserved for the imam. A few struggled to open the locked rear entrance door and, after failing there, turned to face Janan.

Janan gripped Jahangir's arm and helped him get to his feet. "Stay back," he screamed, "or this bomb will take down the entire masjid! Nine!"

Jahangir forced himself to move. A shard of pain knifed into the back of his skull. They hobbled to the front entrance and Janan, with one arm under Jahangir's armpit, opened the door to face the rioters. The crowd stood in silence after hearing the gunshots inside.

Seeing a suicide bomber strapped with explosives, they fled, lurching into those who had not grasped the situation. Panic swept through the crowd. After they were at a distance along the street, many stopped to see what would happen.

With the onset of pain came a nauseating dizziness and Jahangir worried that his skull had been cracked.

"Don't hurt them. Don't hurt them," he whispered.

Janan dropped the detonator from his hand. "Where can we go? I have no idea where we are."

"Help us," Jahangir said, hoping Shahzar would hear via the mobile phone and send someone to rescue them. "Help us."

The soft crack of a moderated rifle shot sounded, followed by a second. Jahangir felt as though he had been punched in his chest. Janan had fallen beside him. Then Jahangir crumpled to the concrete step beside his brother. His brother's eyes rolled in his head as he writhed on the brick-strewn concrete. Jahangir saw a tiny, bright-red bullet hole in the centre of Janan's chest.

A fit of coughing overcome Jahangir as his right lung filled with blood. People screamed. Belching blood over his chin, he considered that it was like swallowing water the wrong way. He lost consciousness.

# Chapter 28: Crying in your Sleep

"You were crying in your sleep."

Jahangir realised someone had spoken these words and his mind had factored the words into his dream.

Uncle Khoshal, Janan and he were enjoying a meal with Uncle Mahwand and his family in their compound. Younger cousins ran barefoot on the hard-packed earth, chasing Arman, the cousin who had died from snakebite many years before. Uncle Khoshal congratulated Jahangir for winning a gold-coloured, plastic medal at a school swimming race, although Jahangir knew he couldn't swim, and there were no schools. Janan's face, pale, as he remembered it from the masjid, smiled at him, filled with inner peace. Jahangir recalled the moment of victory, dripping water over the white swimming pool tiles, but at the same time felt a tortoise climbing over his foot under the table. No, someone was shaking his foot.

"Sometimes even laughing and crying together."

Eyelids parting, Jahangir saw his lawyer Hercule Brown and imagined he was back in the police station. The events of the past few days came together like pieces of a jigsaw. He saw tubes travelling from his arm to a machine with a digital display hanging beside his bed. Too tired to move, he could not investigate why his chest ached. Then he remembered being shot.

"Sorry to wake you, Jahangir, but we have serious items on the agenda. I'd like to stay longer, but it's been two days. Your mother and sister will be back soon, and we need a few words before I go."

Jahangir had no idea what Hercule Brown was talking about.

"Janan?" he asked. Perhaps there was a chance, although he remembered the small-bore bullet hole in the centre of his brother's chest.

Hercule shook his head.

Jahangir closed his eyes. When Janan had appeared in the masjid, it was as though Allah had given him back, until he realised Pason Rehman and the imam had saved Janan only to slaughter him. Like a goat kid in the summer, separated from its mother and bleating. The recollection of shooting the imam made him breathless, but he also felt a vague sense of satisfaction. What they did to Janan demanded blood. It was Pakhtunwali.

He remembered how Uncle Khoshal had explained it. "When a suicide bomber is killed, how does the family seek revenge? If you are a soldier in a just war, you will want retribution against your enemy for your losses. But who does the family kill in revenge when an innocent shaheed is blown up? And the families of the innocents killed at the marketplace or in the bus, where do they seek revenge? Surely, from those who strap the explosives to the bomber, those who direct him to the target. Those at the top pulling the strings." Sometimes the handlers sought permission from the family head: is that how his father had acquired his new bride?

"Who shot us? Gangstas?"

"Police marksmen. The police are now heroes, and everyone wants your head. Shahzar is trying to say our agreement isn't legal, and was just a trick to get you to co-operate. They know it has the Minister's signature on it and I've put the agreement somewhere safe in case you or I get hurt. I'd say that agreement is why they wanted you dead. Still want you dead, I assume. And that's why you and I need to talk."

The police killed his brother and tried to murder him. Jahangir understood what must be done.

"First things first. There's a lot happening at the government level. All those ministers want to get in front of a camera and take credit, especially the minister whose name is on your contract. Sending you to the Americans would be just their style: all the glory, no blood on their hands, and a pat from the poodle master. Is there anyone you trust who can keep a watch over you? Not your mum. She doesn't understand English and only knows people from her mosque. For some strange reason, all the mosque people want you dead too."

"Frank."

"Frank who? Who's Frank?"

"Mrs Brown. Tell her. Say Frank."

"Frank?"

The room began to fade as Jahangir drifted back into sleep, imagining Hercule was cooking him breakfast: Kalij pheasant eggs with sage picked from the rocky hills behind the hujra. The tortoise was still there, crawling on his foot, but he knew it wouldn't hurt him. Janan beamed a smile at Hercule.

* * *

Someone kissed him on the forehead and he awoke.

Mrs Osmanovich stood over him, as beautiful as an houri, her hair aglow with the soft light from the hospital window. His wish had come true. That the first woman, not including his mother or sister, to kiss him would be Mrs Osmanovitch. Something hurt deep in his chest, making the bullet wound ache. Frank, Lorelei, Peeko and his crew were also in the room. A tired-looking Hercule was standing near the door.

"Jangsta! You're alive!" Curly said.

"You saved my daughter!" Mrs Osmanovich said. "You very brave boy."

Thor pushed a massive, tattooed set of knuckles into the back of Jahangir's limp hand. "Meet your new bodyguard."

"And bodyguard number two," Crash said, leaning up against the wall. He raised a finger from crossed arms.

Lorelei smiled; blonde hair on her bare shoulders, she looked like a supermodel from TV, just like her mother.

"Sorry to hear about your brother, Jangsta." Peeko squeezed the arm without tubes.

"We're going on a holiday to Dubrovnik tomorrow," Lorelei said. "Frank's coming. If you were better, you could come too."

Lorelei sounded joyful. When Jahangir last saw her with Peeko outside the masjid she appeared crippled with anxiety. Now she wore a beautiful smile like her mother, who beamed at him too.

"Yes, you must come to Dubrovnik. You must." Mrs Osmanovich's face was a glimpse of paradise. "One day."

"You're a total hero at school," Frank said. "The LRW are spitting rap about you. You saved everyone and shot the imam. But almost everyone else in the country wants you hanged. Like you were public enemy number one, dude. Even my Mum says you're a terrorist. The hospital has police guards everywhere."

He killed an imam and was public enemy number one? Jahangir didn't know what to think about this news. He tried to speak, but the attempt made his chest hurt.

"Frank was a good call," Hercule said. "You guys know the score? No-one speaks to Jahangir unless I'm with him. Make sure you know all the nurses and doctors. Someone you don't know, call the head nurse down the corridor and make sure they vouch for them. If they don't know them, hold them and call me. No other visitors that aren't family."

"And the police guard outside?" Thor asked.

"Watch them like hawks."

"No problem," Crash said.

"If the police insist on speaking with him, record it all on your phone, and say loudly Jahangir wants his lawyer present. They try to touch him - you have to stop them. They could be imposters. Loud enough for all the medical staff to come rushing in. Witnesses are a wonderful thing to have in a courtroom. And video is even better."

"I might even enjoy this." Thor gave a feline smile.

"Curly and I'll do second shift," Peeko said.

"He's falling asleep again," Hercule said.

Jahangir heard his uncle calling below on the mountainside. "Goat legs are skinny and they can climb mountains. So can you!" It was a matter of time before he fell.

* * *

"Jahangir!" Mrs Osmanovitch stood on top of the mountain. His uncle looked away as she took Jahangir's face in her hands and kissed him like in the Hollywood movies.

"Baby bruv, the Feds shot you up. Bastards," Mrs Osmanovitch said, but it was with Patasa's voice.

Hearing his sister's voice brought him back to consciousness, and the beige interior of the hospital greeted him with its peculiar lifelessness. A PIC line bandaged into the crook of his arm was connected to a small, plastic pillow of pale liquid on a stand. A flow rate machine beeped every few seconds.

"Thank Allah you are alive!" His mother's tears augmented her voice. "The police have shot both of my sons. How do they get away with this? We came to England to escape from gunslingers. Janan was just a little boy! It wasn't his fault!" She wept into the edge of her headscarf.

Jahangir noted how she'd made herself look beautiful, so that he would be proud. Her dark hair was wrapped in peacock-green silk, the ends trailing down over an ochre kurta. A necklace of dark blue Afghani lapis lazuli was half-hidden beneath the scarf.

"They deaded Janan," said Patasa. "We get our bruv back, it's like a miracle, and then they puff him out. Poof. It's like, you win the rollover and someone burns the ticket?"

Everyone had wanted Janan dead except the people in this room. His father had probably sold Janan's life and UK passport to the Tehreek-e-Taliban, maybe even exchanged them for his new bride. The passport may have been specified in the nikkah contract. Someone's little sister; a girl who could barely write her own name. Someone else who didn't matter.

"Who dem gangstas on the door? Nang tats." Patasa pretended to flex the muscles of her arms before her. He could tell she'd been crying too. "The big one looks like Frank. Even the Fed out there is scared a dem. That boy waiting for his A-level results. I bet those gangstas could sell him bare Es. Who's that Fed gonna stop? Not even a leng to pop the bad man. They didn't give him one cause someone teef it from him. But welcome back from the dead, bruv. Tell me, you see any strange lights? What it like on the other side?"

"Arman said to say 'hello'," Jahangir said, his chest hurting with the words, referring to Patasa's dead spouse.

Patasa's face dropped.

Jahangir caught his mother's eye and they burst into laughter, although it hurt so much he yelped in agony and began hyperventilating.

His mother hit the orange "Attention" button and nurses came running down the linoleum corridor.

* * *

When Jahangir awoke next, the room was empty. Hercule and Shahzar were speaking in the doorway. Seeing his room reflected in the window and, behind that image, the dark shapes of the buildings opposite, he realised night had fallen. He had no idea what day it was and wondered whether his mother and Patasa were still in the hospital.

"My boy, you are awake," Shahzar said in Pakhto. "I heard you almost died laughing. That would have been most amusing."

"You killed Janan," Jahangir croaked.

"Now, now. That's not true. I give you my word as a Halimzai that I advised the tactical team not to shoot. I heard everything that happened, and told them that in my view Janan would not detonate the bomb. The surveillance video clearly showed that he had dropped the detonator, and I pointed this out. Unfortunately, the team leader thought it too great a risk, a confirmed suicide bomber with a bomb that could have killed so many people. They shot you for the same reason. If you saw your brother dead, you might have triggered the bomb yourself. It's not quite 'innocent until proven guilty', true, but we live in a changed world. I am very sorry about Janan. And about your wound, and so very glad to see you here alive. You more than anyone will appreciate when people strap bombs to themselves, innocents will die."

"I must kill this team leader."

Shahzar gave a humourless smile. "I cannot give you a name. It's an official secret, I'm sure you appreciate that. And I must warn you against taking blood revenge on another policeman instead. It would not be revenge on the same family or clan, so is it Pakhtunwali? I think it would not be honourable."

The people who pulled the strings at the top, Jahangir recalled. They must die.

"What is he saying?" Hercule asked Jahangir.

"He is sorry for Janan."

"Don't say anything until you talk to me first, OK?"

"He knows everything. He gave me special phone." Jahangir remembered discarding the tinfoil wrapping as he approached the masjid. Shahzar didn't know everything that happened, and nothing at all about the Albanians.

"A special phone? What? You bugged Jahangir? That wasn't in our agreement. My client didn't give formal consent. Did you even have a warrant to bug the mosque?"

Shahzar grinned. "No-one is happy, but it is just as well I have a recording of what happened. It proves his innocence, you see. Jahangir killed two terrorists. Of course, one was the imam, so quite a number of the Islamic community are baying for Jahangir's blood. I've taken the precaution of leaking the relevant parts of the transcript to the media, via people claiming to be witnesses. Just so the politicians don't get too swept up in the hysteria and become confused about which side they're on."

"I suppose your head is on the block too, Shahzar."

"Timing, I'm sure you understand, is everything. Sometimes it pays to leak the right information to anticipate the next move of your opponents."

"Opponents? Just who are we dealing with here?"

"Let's say, potential opponents. The newspapers. Islamic fundamentalists. The public. Politicians. There are even elements in the police hierarchy who would like to use this as a case for arming all policemen. And they all want to demonise Jahangir."

"When are you going to tell everyone Jahangir tried to save his brother, but the police shot them both? Two children."

"In point of fact, Janan saved Jahangir's life."

"Either way, both boys were innocent."

"Now, that's exactly what the police are concerned about at the moment. Someone thinking they're innocent. Too much information in the public domain all at once could be counterproductive. At this point in time, we should enjoy Jahangir's popularity in the black community. That's entirely due to me, by the way. Ride that crest for a while. Some are saying he's a hero who avenged the deaths on the Estate. Shooting the imam."

"Shahzar, I don't have time for any of this. Jahangir is innocent of any crime and I don't want the police drumming something up to whitewash the fact they shot an unarmed minor. We have a contract, remember. No prosecution for any crimes committed in the cause of undercover work."

"Jahangir innocent? You think so?"

"You're going to say he isn't?"

"First, about the contract. I wouldn't need to prosecute for crimes committed while undercover. There appears to be a series of other crimes I can choose from."

"That's news to me. Such as?"

Shahzar stroked his moustache. "For example, what exactly caused the explosion on the other side of London earlier that night? Very puzzling. You see, there's a trail that leads from Jahangir directly to that explosion."

Hercule stared hard at Shahzar. "I'll need to discuss that with my client before you question him."

Shahzar pursed his lips. "Before you do, let me tell you how it looks from my perspective. I could invoke the Anti-terrorism Act, in fact I don't think I even need to, it's quite obvious, I'm sure, that it has been invoked. By default. But that is not what I am really driving at here."

"Then get to the point."

"You might find a notepad helpful, as it gets complicated. Two boys who, on CCTV, look remarkably like Jahangir and his friend Frank, stole a set of gangsta clothes from a group of youths gathering for the riot. To intimidate them into handing over their clothes, an Uzi was fired into an industrial container. Watching the gang leave without certain items of clothing was quite amusing but, that aside, the important point was that our forensic team say it was the same Uzi used during the drug murders on the Farm Estate. They matched up the spent rounds, you see. Looking at more CCTV, we followed these same boys wearing their disguises to Frank Allen's home address, and then as they rode a bicycle right across London to a hotel called 'The Golden Horn'. While they were inside, four Albanians, who had only just finished murdering an oil billionaire from the Gulf, were themselves killed. Again, using the very same Uzi. Amazingly, this billionaire we suspected of funding the terrorist cell in the Lyme Road mosque. After that, the boys were tracked on CCTV riding a bike to Valon Markaj's penthouse, which was later blown up. As you will know from the news, at the time of the explosion it was full of Albanian human-traffickers. Quite an adventure, wouldn't you agree, Jahangir?"

"You can't be serious," Hercule frowned at Jahangir. "Is this all true, Jahangir?"

"If I wanted to I could get the Gold Tops into a police station and put you through an identity parade. I'm sure some of them would co-operate. Especially if we explained that we were identifying the two boys who made them strip naked and then, wearing their gang colours, are now attempting to frame them for the murder of almost an entire gang of Albanian traffickers."

"Don't say anything," Hercule said.

"In any case, that is how I'd set it up," said Shahzar. "I'd show them the hotel CCTV showing two Gold Tops entering the lift a few moments before the murder of the four Albanians, and exiting shortly afterwards. Then accuse them individually of murder. How long do you think it would take before they told me someone had stolen their clothing? And what if I showed them a mugshot of you, Jahangir?"

"Murder? Just what exactly are you saying here?" Hercule's brow wrinkled with anger. "What are you trying to pull? A bedside confession? Say absolutely nothing, Jahangir."

"I'll let you ask Jahangir all about it. True, the net gain to the community was, let us say, positive, even accounting for the riot damage, but Jahangir appears to have engaged in quite a deal of wrong-doing that falls outside our agreement. I know you thought you had negotiated a 'get out of jail free card', but I think your client was playing a different game.

"Jahangir, my boy, I assume your accomplice is the Frank Allen you spoke to earlier in the day? There seems to be only one Frank in your class at school, and he apparently was assigned as your 'school buddy'. On top of this, Frank has a brother who is a known associate of Valon Markaj, the owner of the penthouse that was destroyed. In fact, I think I saw him earlier standing guard for you. That's an interesting connection, don't you think?"

Shahzar smiled and sat in silence, apparently letting this information sink in.

"I'm swimming here, Shahzar. Put some ground under my feet. What exactly is it you want?"

"For a start, a confidentiality agreement."

"After you tell me our last contract wasn't even legal?"

"Let's call that last contract an understanding on paper, signed by the Minister, but not binding. One that you could pursue through the courts, true, but, who could say how successful you would be, given Jahangir's other activities make it somewhat irrelevant. Is a judge going to care about the contract, if it's true that the bombing of a penthouse full of Albanians was his doing? Jahangir, I'd value your considered opinion: how long do you think your friend Frank will withstand even mild questioning by the police? How many hours till he tells us everything he knows? Especially after he is identified by the Gold Tops as an accessory to murder?"

Jahangir felt as though the MI5 agent had spun a spider's web around his bandaged body.

"Let's cut to the chase here," Hercule said. "You would have arrested Jahangir already if that was your play. So, out with it. What's the bottom line?"

Shahzar's smile flickered under his thick beard. "Don't worry too much. I mean to offer you something concrete that benefits everyone, but we must have a firm understanding, although this time it must remain unwritten."

"If Jahangir burns you do too."

Shahzar twisted a finger in his beard. "Him more than me, I should think. A lot more. If the gang killings and explosion are pinned on Jahangir, especially after his trip to Pakistan, the papers will spin it as terrorism. The Minister does not want to be seen to have made a deal with a terrorist, which is how it will pan out if it goes to court. You may even find yourself rather unpopular, Hercule. I am proposing nothing more than common sense. Firstly, you must agree that our previous agreement remains secret. You can speak freely about what happened in the mosque, but Jahangir will have to explain to the Press how he was given the pistol inside the mosque. True, there is the coincidence that two of the same pistols were also found in the hotel room with the murdered prince, and more were recovered from the penthouse where the bomb detonated. But, miraculous coincidences do occur. From time to time, in the course of history."

"Anything else?"

"Under no circumstance could Jahangir admit to having had any terrorist training in Pakistan, or admit to any wrong-doing of any sort while in the UK. Plus, he must be a model citizen from now on. No shooting up drug-dealers or human-traffickers. No Pakhtunwali. And if necessary, he must pose for photographs and attend media events with Government ministers. For example, if he gets an invitation to Downing Street, he must go. If Buckingham Palace considers him for a medal or the like, he has to play along."

"Now that might be a hard call."

"It's extremely unlikely. If he's simply a boy who killed two terrorists and was accidently wounded when the police were taking a second shot at the suicide bomber, I am sure the public will rush to forgive him. The media might even come to love him, if the spin is right. The police won't, because they won't get their guns, but the Minister doesn't want them to be armed at present. Too much potential for screwing up. And, Jahangir, fame is to be avoided wherever possible. No speaking to the Press on your own. Not that you would, I'm sure."

"And all this would be a blow to the militant elements within the Islamic community," Hercule said.

"One of their own standing up to terrorism. Not something we often see."

"You going to provide protection afterwards?"

"My word, Hercule, he could protect me." Shahzar twirled the end of his moustache. "You may need some of it too, if this all goes belly up."

"I'll talk this agreement of yours over with Jahangir and get back to you."

Shahzar nodded. "I look forward to your complete agreement very shortly. In fact, I suggest we meet over coffee and discuss it. I'll wait in the cafeteria. They have those custard tarts I'm quite partial to."

"Whatever floats your boat, Shahzar."

"Oh, Jahangir, I probably shouldn't tell you this," Shahzar spoke in Pakhto, "but your uncle would be very proud." Departing, he nodded farewell at Peeko and Curly stationed in the corridor.

That Shahzar had so easily worked out what had happened filled Jahangir with despair. How long would it be before everyone knew the truth? He observed the frizz in Hercule's close-cut hair, and the whiteness of his shirt collar against skin that appeared to be made of dark chocolate. The skin was pale on his palms under his bony, hard knuckles. Hercule was so tall he almost seemed too far away whenever Jahangir spoke.

"MI5 are lucky to have Shahzar. He's about the sneakiest person I've ever dealt with, and I'm a lawyer. What did you think of his deal?" Hercule was thumbing the cuticle of a finger, smoothing some roughness he had discovered.

"He is in same clan. I trust."

Hercule nodded, his expression sceptical. "You would do well not to trust anyone, especially no-one in government, but we've no choice really. You shot all those drug dealers? Blew up those Albanians?"

Jahangir gazed at Hercule, recalling his uncle's insistence that he should not confess anything to anyone. "I try... to do good."

Hercule grimaced. "My sister died of a drug overdose on Farm Estate. Police did nothing." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Maybe it's better you don't say anything. 'Net positive', Shahzar said. Let's focus on that. Just don't upset him or the government. They own you now."

Drifting into unconsciousness, Uncle Khoshal spoke Hercule's last words. Jahangir recalled the hotel room where they had stayed after climbing in the mountains. He had asked Khoshal, "Uncle, do you deny what the imams say about the West? The consumerism, and the oil? The wars?" On the television were Punjabis driving an Indian car; a surreal advertisement showing a family negotiating dangerous terrain, yet so safe and happy in their new vehicle.

"Oh, it's perfectly true," Uncle Khoshal had said. "Colonialism never really stopped. They're still stealing whatever they can from whoever they can. Taking over countries. Selling baubles to idiots."

"Then why do you reject Islam? I don't understand. If what they say is true."

"You see that commercial on the TV? What they show is their Jannah, their paradise, and you can have some tiny part of it one day, if you work hard and obey everyone. It's just like if we're good Muslims: we can enjoy the benefits in the afterlife. It's always later. After the misery. Really it's just a way to enslave us, keep us all poor. At least in the West you choose your own Jannah. It's not always the same one. Some people even achieve it. A hollow fulfilment, true, but the point is, it's before you're dead. Before you're dead, you see?"

Then Jahangir was back outside Bazir's compound, the white-capped mountains a backdrop to the dun wheat fields in the valley. His brother Janan was laughing at him from a wicker bed in the hujra, his teeth white and blue eyes bright.

"Now you're the shaheed of the West!"

Yes, I am a witness.

--------

FINIS
