Me and Grace played until Em interrupted us.

‘Well done, Prince,’ he said, looking over my shoulder at the smiling baby.

We both stared at the little bundle for a moment as I held her hand in mine.

‘Is Mum OK?’ I asked without turning round.

Em didn’t answer, but let out a sigh. ‘You got the money?’ he asked.

I nodded, still looking at Grace. We could hear through the thin window pane a gang of boys and girls, blaring mobile phones, shouts and laughter. Probably the same gang that gathered near the entrance to our flats most days. Em and I stayed away.

‘Would you go out and get some food, Prince?’

I turned around to look at my brother; concern was etched in his face.

‘No worries, Em,’ I replied.

I got chips and sausages from Oh My Cod. I laughed the first time I read that sign, while Em rolled his eyes and said, ‘That’s not funny.’ It still makes me smile though.

When I got back, the gang outside our flat had swelled. Now they sprawled across the pavement, sitting and leaning against everything available. Some of them were smoking, others clutched drinks in their hands.

I took a deep breath; I didn’t want trouble. But I needn’t have worried. As I approached, I could see that they were all listening intently to a short, white guy. He stood out for three reasons: he was the only one not wearing a hood or cap, he had bright ginger hair, and he wasn’t a teenager.

I stopped looking as I got closer. If you’re smart, you don’t look at anybody for too long around our way. Unless they’re talking to you – then you’d better listen up. I stopped looking, but I tried my best to hear what the ginger man was talking to the gang about.

‘What do you think life’s all about?’ he was saying. ‘Having as much fun as you can?’ I kept walking, but craned to hear more of the speech. ‘Making as much money? Do any of those things make you happy?’

I don’t know, I thought, as I entered the building and fell out of earshot. I had been sure they did, but now. . .

Before I put my key in the lock I could hear singing. My mum was singing again. She greeted me at the door with a kiss on the head and a hug. I smiled.

‘Thank you, my little Prince,’ she sang, her voice rising at the end of my name.

‘OK, Mum.’ I pulled away from the hug and hung my coat up.

A sing-song voice, a kiss, a hug and happiness had crept back in. Happiness tinged by worry, fear, confusion, but it was there all the same.

We ate our chips and sausages quietly, apart from the occasional verse of song from our mum. Em ate one-handed, Grace perched on his knee. She gurgled and grabbed at the colourful plastic tablecloth like a moth attracted to a flame.

Em and I went to our room after dinner.

‘So, what’s going on?’ I asked, kicking at the football that sat on our floor. If anything I was more confused than ever. Can you go from being sad to sing-song happy, just like that?

Em slumped down on his bunk as I started to do kick-ups. It’s much more difficult in a cramped bedroom and I enjoyed the challenge, you couldn’t let the ball touch any of the walls or furniture. You should try it sometime – don’t tell your parents I said that, though.

Em was silent for a while, watching me keep the ball in the air.

‘Come on, spit it…’ I nearly lost control of the ball, but some quick footwork and a long stretch kept it from colliding with the bunk-beds, ‘out.’

‘It’s Father,’ my brother finally said. ‘He’s in trouble . . .’

I let the ball drop to the floor.

‘He’s in Africa still, Tanzania, and he’s in trouble. He owes some men a lot of money.’

As the ball bounced under the bed, I suddenly knew what our happiness depended on.

‘We’ve got to get him, Em.’

My brother stared at me for a moment then nodded. ‘We’ve got to get him.’