Logically, then, I should not be alive, because my dad died in a drowning accident in 1984 – long before my dad even met my mum.

Yet here I am, walking, living, breathing, aching from Macca’s stamping, sick with sadness and, for some reason, very, very hungry.

I’ve taken the back roads and have sort of come in a circle and I’m quite near Pye’s house. I go past a pub called The Foxhunters on the corner of DeSitter Road, which in my time is a Tesco Metro. Opposite there’s a corner-shop with a stall of fruit outside, and I’m now going to add to my crimes of breaking-and-entering by becoming a thief, because the ten-pound note that I have in the inside pocket of my backpack for emergencies has a totally different design and would arouse suspicion straight away.

The fruit’s easy. An apple and an orange go straight into my pockets, and inside the shop is almost easier. The shop stretches quite a way back from the front, and there are two rows of shelves running up the centre. One guy in a turban is manning the till, and another young guy is stacking shelves. I make sure I’m out of sight of both of them, and see what I can get on the shelves near me. It’s the dairy counter, so into my backpack go a pint of milk, a packet of cheese slices and a six-pack of yoghurts.

My heart is beating fast, and at any time I’m expecting to be stopped but no one comes near me. The shelf-stacker guy has come round the corner, so I pick up a pot of cream and examine it, then replace it before heading round the other aisle where I manage to put a packet of custard creams into my bag (careful … the packaging’s noisy) and I figure: milk, cheese, yoghurt, biscuits, an apple and an orange – it’s hardly a feast, but it might fill me up.

It’s when I’m nearly at the door that the young guy who was stacking the shelves steps in front of me and folds his arms.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Pye?”

I’m so stunned that I say nothing. He pulls the backpack from my shoulder and opens it roughly. The man with the turban is standing next to me now as well.

“Pye Chaudhury. What in the name of good God almighty has got into your head?” He’s not shouting, in fact he doesn’t seem angry, just really shocked.

“I was … I was …” I don’t really know what I’m going to say, but I feel I should say something. “I was … hungry?”

“Hungry? And you thought you would steal from me? How many times have I given you food, mm? How often have you sat in that back room and eaten dhal bhat with me and Tarun here, mm? Why, Pye, why?”

“I … I’m not Pye. I just look like him. My name’s Albert. Al.”

They both laugh at this, a cold, forced laugh.

Gently, but with a hard edge in his voice, the turban guy says, “How about we let your father decide whether you’re Pye or not?” and he strides over to the counter and picks up the phone.

I don’t understand the conversation because it’s all in Punjabi, yet at the same time I understand it completely for what else could he be saying:

“Byron? Yeah, Turban Guy here, hi. Listen, Byron, I’ve got Pye here and I’ve just caught him trying to steal a load of stuff from my shop, right under my nose … Yes, stealing, Byron. Tarun saw him, and the stuff’s in his bag. Oh, and he’s saying he’s not Pye he’s someone else … You’re coming round? Good, see you in a minute, my friend.”

He comes back round to face me. He bends down and puts his face very close and I can smell the cloves on his breath and the soap on his neck.

“Pye Chaudhury. Let me tell you this. Our families have been friends for many, many years and I’m going to let your father deal with this. But until he does, I have my own way of dealing with thieves like you.” He nods to Tarun, who is standing behind me, and grips me hard by the upper arms. Turban Guy’s hand draws back and he slaps me across my cheek with the full force of the large man he is. My head is jerked to one side with the strength of the blow and I hear whining in my ears. As if from a long distance, I hear Turban Guy’s voice:

“Don’t you ever, ever, ever steal from me again, you disgraceful little gaandu!” The pain in my face and the shock of the blow have stung my eyes with tears. Tarun is still gripping my arms and Turban Guy is pulling his arm back for another slap, when the bell on the shop door tinkles and in walks Grandpa Byron.

He takes one look at me and says, “That’s not Pye.”

I look defiantly at Turban Guy. “I told you. My names Al.”

“But Byron. He … surely … that’s Pye …”

Grandpa Byron smiles broadly at Turban Guy, interrupting him: “You telling me I don’t know my own son, Baru? His name’s Al. Singh. Just moved here, apparently. Father’s a Maratha Singh. You know them?”

And I look at Grandpa Byron, and I want to run to him, and hug him again, and breathe in his smell of beedis and incense, and watch MindGames with him and make hot sweet chai and tell him I’m sorry again and again and again until he believes me.

Only just then, the doorbell tinkles again, and a policeman opens the door: an old-fashioned-looking policeman, with a pointed helmet and a proper old uniform. He looks at the scene in front of him: Tarun gripping me by the arms, my face red from the slapping and two other men gathered around me. He pauses a moment, and Tarun slowly releases me.

“Evening Baru, evening Tarun,” says the policemen slowly, looking at me instead of at them with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Good evening, Glen,” they say in reply, together.

The policeman looks at Grandpa Byron. “Mr Chaudhury?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Your little girl told me you were here. I’d, er … I’d like you to step outside with me, please.”

He has a very serious expression on his face and I catch the two shop guys looking at each other.

“Is something wrong?” asks Grandpa Byron.

“Just, er, come with me if you don’t mind, sir.”

The policeman and Grandpa Byron go out the shop door and I know what he’s going to tell him, and I just can’t face Grandpa Byron and what’s about to happen, so I take my chance to push past them and run as fast as I can, clutching my backpack in my hand.

No one follows me.