We got back to Ruth and Jubrel’s a bit late. Alice was waiting to take Em home. They didn’t live far away, Emmanuel and Alice, two bus rides. But Alice said she liked to pick him up. I think my brother liked it too.

‘Come on then, Manny,’ Alice said. That’s what she called Emmanuel, Manny. Funny, right? People think my name is funny too. I get loads of nicknames, mostly from teachers. The French teacher always sings this song about purple rain that’s got something to do with my name. Miss Strong, my class teacher, sometimes says, ‘Farewell, sweet Prince.’ My friends mostly just call me Princey.

I grabbed my brother in a hug and said goodbye. I waved from the porch as Em got into Alice’s little green car.

The front door closed behind me and Ruth smiled, a small grin painted across her dark face. ‘You have a nice time?’ she asked.

Ruth had a strong Nigerian accent, not like Jubrel, who was from the same country as me and Em, the Democratic Republic of Congo. That’s why they decided I should live with the Milandus, because Jubrel knew all about where we’d come from. But maybe, I had begun to think, knowing where you’ve come from isn’t as important as knowing the journey you’ve been on. Luckily Jubrel was pretty good at understanding that too.

‘Yeah, it was good,’ I replied. ‘Not enough football though.’

Ruth laughed. She knew that I would play football every moment I could.

‘Dinner in about an hour, OK?’ she said.

I groaned, pressing my hands to my stomach.

Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘You boys are always hungry,’ she said with a smile, before promising to bring me ‘a little something’ before dinner.

As Ruth headed towards the kitchen I kicked off my shoes and threw my coat at the coat stand.

‘Pick them up, Princey,’ Ruth called.

I quickly picked up my shoes and placed them on the rack, not tidy, but in the right place at least. My coat had stayed, bundled on top of the stand, so I left it. I ran into the front room and flicked on the television. I crashed down onto my bean-bag.

Ruth and Jubrel had all the sports channels. It was brilliant – there was always football on. I watched some Italian teams playing, ‘an important match’, the commentator kept telling me. Both teams were good, and it was hard to choose who to support. In the end I went for the team in black-and-white stripes. They had the cooler kit.

I had only been watching for a few minutes when Ruth brought me peanut butter on toast, my favourite snack. She laughed and made a joke about me being ‘an obsessive-compulsive’. I think she meant I watched too much football and probably ate too much peanut butter.

It was only highlights, the football, so it didn’t last long. Neither did the toast. The plate lay abandoned at my feet when I flicked channels, and I found myself watching the news. Boring. I didn’t often pay attention to the news, not like my brother. He loved to know what was going on in the world.

On that afternoon, there was a famine in some country in Africa. Apparently the government wasn’t running the country properly or something. It looked really sad. The people were living in tents and the kids had flies all over them.

As you know, I lived in Africa once upon a time, but I don’t remember much. I just remember football, my school and the town near our house. I remember that it was hot.

I also remember my mum’s singing and my dad’s laughter; I used to hear those all the time. When I am halfway between being awake and asleep, when thoughts and daydreams have passed but real dreams have not begun, those are the sounds I hear, my father’s deep chuckle and my mother’s sing-song tones. Every night I hear them, and then fleeting memories play in my mind’s eye. I love those moments.

After the news report it went to the weather. I was just about to switch channels when the doorbell rang.

I leapt up and hurtled into the hall. Ruth’s favourite radio station was playing in the kitchen; I could just hear her humming along.

‘You got it, Prince?’ She called.

I replied with a ‘yeah’ as I turned the handle.

Facing me was a lady with white hair, as white as Alice’s, like a covering of frost. If you looked at her face she didn’t look old, but her hair made her look ancient. She was carrying a leather bag over her shoulder and she had an ID card pinned to her green cardigan. I recognised her.

When your parents aren’t around or you’re in trouble for some other reason, you have social workers. They’re people who make sure that you’re OK, a bit like all the aunties that some of my friends at school had. They dug around in your life, checked you weren’t in trouble, asked teachers about you, that kind of stuff. Part of me loved having the social workers. After all, they cared. Part of me hated it. After all, they weren’t my parents.

This lady was a social worker. Not my social worker, who was called Laura. But I had seen her talking to Laura when we had been at the offices.

‘Prince?’ The white-haired lady held her bag by the handle as she asked my name, the shoulder strap falling down.

‘Yeah,’ I said cautiously. She sounded worried. I don’t like it when adults are worried. When adults are worried you know something is up.

‘Are Mr and Mrs Milandu in?’

‘Er, Ruth is,’ I replied. ‘Hang on.’ I turned into the hallway. ‘Ruth,’ I yelled.

I could hear Ruth moving pans in the kitchen, the crashes as she rooted around in the cupboard and the clang as she found the one she needed and put it on the stove. I shouted again.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ she called back.

I turned back to the lady. ‘She’s coming,’ I said.

The lady smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.

‘Hello.’ Ruth surprised me. She walked very quietly in her fluffy slippers. She always said that she loved her home comforts.

‘Hello,’ the lady said, ‘I’m Janice Eaton, I’m from Social Services.’ As she said this, she brandished the ID card at Ruth. ‘Can I come inside and talk?’

‘Sure, sure,’ Ruth said. I could hear the note of concern in her voice in spite of her casual response. ‘Come on through to the kitchen.’ She turned to me. ‘Why don’t you watch a bit more telly?’

I remained standing in the hall as they closed the kitchen door.

I didn’t want to watch the television. I wanted to know what the lady had come to say. It was about me and Em. Something was wrong. Maybe we’d have to move again.

I stepped into the living room, then back into the hall. I hesitated there for a few minutes. Ruth’s radio was now off and the pans were silent. Softly muffled voices and sound of the kettle beginning to boil drifted to me from the gap under the door.

I edged forward. Jubrel had told me, ‘If the door is closed, it’s closed for a reason.’ But he wasn’t there right then. I crept all the way up to the door and stood listening. I could just hear them over the hissing steam.

‘All I can say for sure, right now, is what this woman is telling us,’ the social worker said as the kettle clicked off loudly.

What woman? I thought.

‘But you don’t know yet?’ Ruth said.

‘No, we don’t know, but her story seems to match the boys’.’

The boys, me and Em? My mind was whirring, my pulse racing.

They were quiet for a while after this. All I could hear was my heart-beat growing gradually louder, filling my throat and my ears.

Then Ruth broke the silence.

‘Well, we won’t tell Prince anything yet, but if you have found their mother . . .’

My heart beat pounded against my ribcage. I nearly threw up.