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‘Nadima!’ I went racing after her.

She charged through the kitchen, knocking over a stool and nearly falling over but she didn’t seem to even notice. She just lurched on blindly into the living room.

‘Nadima! Nad!’ I cried. But it was as if she couldn’t hear me. Panic-stricken, she looked around wildly as if she had no idea where she was.

‘Basement! Where is basement?’ she cried.

‘There isn’t a basement!’ I said.

Sobbing, she flung herself behind the sofa. The others had all rushed in behind me by now. Outside, the fireworks carried on their dazzling fizzing and flashing, booming and banging – but there was no one there to enjoy them.

Kara’s mum pushed forward, through the cluster of girls, trying to take control.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Who’s that behind the sofa?’

‘It’s Nadima,’ said Kara. ‘I think she’s frightened of fireworks.’

Everyone stood in a confused huddle, not knowing what to do.

Every time there was another BOOM or FLASH from the fireworks Nadima cried out in fear.

Kara’s mum leaned over the back of the sofa. ‘Nadima. It’s fine. There’s nothing to be frightened of. Fireworks can’t hurt you,’ she said.

Nadima didn’t answer. We could hear her sobbing hysterically.

‘She doesn’t speak much English,’ I said.

‘Should we call her parents?’ asked Kara’s stepdad.

‘They don’t speak English either,’ I said.

Kara’s mum and stepdad exchanged horrified looks while everyone else just stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do. Then Kara’s mum tried to pull the sofa away from the wall, but that set Nadima off screaming again.

‘Leave the sofa,’ I said, and I dropped to my knees and crawled in behind it to join Nadima. She was curled up with her hands over her head, crying and trembling.

‘Nad, it’s me. It’s me, Jaz,’ I said, and I put my arms round her. But she just kept on crying. She was shaking all over. So I just kept hugging her and repeating, ‘It’s OK. It’s safe. It’s OK.’ I made sure I said everything as simply as possible so she could understand.

She grabbed hold of me. ‘Is not OK. Is bombs. Is bullets. Everywhere. Is not OK.’

I concentrated on speaking calmly and clearly. ‘No. It’s not bombs. It’s not bullets. It’s fireworks. Only fireworks. No bombs, no bullets here. You’re safe.’

She clung to me and eventually, once the display had finally stopped, she calmed down. I helped her scramble out from behind the sofa.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Kara’s mum, her face full of concern.

Nadima nodded.

‘Why would she think it was bombs and bullets?’ Kara’s stepdad asked me in a shocked voice.

‘She’s from Syria. Her family only arrived a short while ago,’ I said.

Kara’s mum’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Kara! Why didn’t you tell me? We would never have had fireworks if we’d known,’ she exclaimed.

‘I didn’t know we were having fireworks!’ protested Kara. She looked close to tears.

Kara’s mum turned to me. ‘Does she want to go home?’ she asked.

I looked questioningly at Nadima. She shook her head. ‘No. Not home. Is late. Mum and Dad be scared. Not home.’ Then she looked at me pleadingly. ‘Your home? Please?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

Lily and Kara gathered up our overnight stuff and I phoned Mum to come and fetch us.

By the time we got home, Matt had blown up the air mattress and put it on the floor in my room for Nadima. She had her own quilt and pillow, from the sleepover, but I made her take my bed and I bunked down on the floor.

‘Please can have light on?’ she said.

‘OK,’ I said, switching the bedside lamp on. ‘All right?’

She nodded. Then she sat, leaning against the wall, with my quilt wrapped round her and started talking … and talking … and talking. She wanted to explain why the fireworks had panicked her.

‘Is like bombs. Bombs and guns. Flash and bang, flash and crack-crack-crack!’

And she began to tell me what it had been like, back home in Syria, living in the middle of a war. You know, the one we see every night on the news – from the safety of our living rooms. The one that’s hundreds of miles away from us so it doesn’t really bother us. The one that’s killed loads and loads of people – mums and dads, and brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles, and cousins and little kids and babies. The one we’ve stopped being shocked by. That one.

‘Is all time. Is every day. Every night,’ she said. ‘Boom, flash, BOOM. Screaming. Crying. BANG and then CRASH. Building fall down. People dead. Bang and flash and guns, crack-crack. People dead. No one safe. Building hit. Is glass, cut face, cut hands, cut eyes, can’t walk without cut feet. People dead.’

I began to understand how terrifying it was to be bombed and shot at, day after day after day, night after night. And to find your neighbours or your family had been crushed under their homes, or your teacher had been blown up by a bomb, or your friend had been shot dead. And all the time being terrified that it would be you next or your mum and dad. Or Rasha or little Sami.

‘Bombs come. We go to basement. We hide. Mum, Dad, Rasha and Sami and me. We curl up. Sami in middle. Wait for bombs to stop. All people from flats are in basement.

‘We cannot go out. Is not safe. But is no food. No water. My dad go. We beg him stay. We think he not come back.

‘Then crack-crack. Is guns. Is he OK? We not know! We wait. We wait. We hope.

‘Is men in street with guns. Shooting, shooting. And is no school. Bomb school. Bomb shop. Bomb hospital. Is nowhere safe.

She hugged her knees, tears streaming silently down her face.

I climbed onto the bed and pulled her into a hug.

‘You’re safe now,’ I told her. ‘You’re all safe now.’

She closed her eyes and more tears spilled out. She shook her head. ‘We safe. But Ishtar? Baby Amira? Jamal?’

I didn’t know what to say. I just sat with her until she finally stopped crying and drifted off to sleep. I think she was exhausted.