Dad’s trying to talk down an irate customer who’s more wound up than a cuckoo clock. The old man’s ranting in Urdu about credit-card fraud. Like Dad would ever get involved in something like that no matter how bad business might be.

After a couple of days waiting, I finally see my chance to expose Zaman. While my dad’s distracted, I dart towards the back room.

A woman blocks my way.

‘Can you help me?’ she asks, looking me up and down, the corners of her lips dipping doubtfully.

‘Uh, not right now. But—’

‘Do you work here?’

‘Yes …’

‘Then it’s your job to help me.’ She adjusts her glasses. ‘Get me the ingredients for Nkontomire, please.’

I open my mouth to apologize and tell her I have literally no clue what that is, but I catch the look in her eye and realize going there is suicide. I gulp.

‘Er, you wanna sit down while I sort it for you?’ I ask, grabbing her a chair.

‘Now that’s a much better attitude!’ she says, dusting the seat with a hanky before sitting down. ‘And don’t take too long.’

After giving her an ingratiating smile, I dive into aisle three and whip out my phone. Thank God for Google. Nkontomire turns out to be spinach stew. I memorize the list of ingredients, grab a basket, and whip round the store like I’m on Supermarket Sweep, while the woman chuckles on her phone with a mate.

Spinach, plum tomatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, chilli … What the heck is egusi?

‘Yo, Yunus!’ I call. ‘We got egusi?’

He looks at me like I stuttered. ‘Eggs?’

‘No, deffo egusi.’

He shakes his head.

I glance in the direction of the customer, and she’s staring right back, nodding forbiddingly with the phone pressed to her ear.

Seeking refuge in aisle five, I check my trusty phone to see if egusi has an alias. ‘Melon seeds!’ I say triumphantly.

‘Don’t need them,’ the woman calls out.

I proudly present the basket of Nkontomire ingredients with a big smile. The lady points at the floor without missing a beat of her telephone conversation. Placing the basket at her feet, and making sure Dad’s still occupied, I shoot for the back room.

Dad’s office is small and messy, and the combined stink of cigarettes and Old Spice hangs in the air like smog. Stacked in front of me are four CCTV monitors with different views of the shop.

I spend the next ten minutes trying to figure out the system. Once I’ve got the hang of it, I’m away, searching for evidence of Zaman talking shit about my sister. Moments later, I stumble across something ten times worse.

‘No freaking way …’ I whisper.

I hit rewind. And again. A fourth viewing confirms it. Ilyas Mian has found his smoking gun.

Back on the shop floor, a massive queue has materialized, snaking round the aisles like a conga line. Dad’s looking stressed, and there’s no sign of Zaman or Yunus anywhere. I hop on a till, and between us, me and Dad clear the line.

‘Blimey!’ Dad says, mopping the sweat on his brow. ‘Lord knows where all them customers popped up from. Not that I’m complaining.’

My eyes give the place a sweep, making sure Zaman hasn’t returned as I psych myself up for the big reveal. ‘Er, Dad, can I show you something? It’s kinda urgent.’

He humours me with a smile as I pull out my phone.

‘This better not be some dirty video you downloaded off the interwebs …’ Dad falls silent as the video plays.

I study his face, watching his frown deepen when he realizes it’s footage from the shop’s CCTV, then switch to stark confusion. On the screen, Zaman saunters over to the till. He makes an almost cartoonish left-right sweep of his head, before hitting the button that opens the till and pulling out a bundle of twenties. Shocking, right? Well Zaman’s not done. He connects a small device to the credit-card reader. A red LED pulses like a heart-rate monitor. He looks nervous, then startled as he turns his head. ‘Be with you in a second!’ he calls to someone off camera. A green light comes on, and he quickly disconnects the device, making it disappear inside his coat.

Dad’s lips shrink to a thin line, his face becoming a midnight thunderstorm.

Zaman and Yunus come in laughing, polishing off the last few fries of their two-ninety-nine burger meals from the local chicken shop.

‘Oi, Zaman!’ Dad says, then makes a sound that’s halfway between a whistle and a whoosh as he heads to the back room.

Zaman looks up as Dad walks in. ‘Yes, boss. Just hanging my coat up—’

‘Nah, don’t bother,’ Dad says, grimacing.

You’d need to be dumb not to realize he means business.

Zaman and Yunus exchange dark glances. Zaman smiles ingratiatingly as he follows Dad over to his office. ‘Han-ji, uncle-ji.’

Two jis in one breath? Man smells trouble.

Licking excess salt off his oily fingers, Yunus accompanies them. A few seconds later, I follow at a safe distance. Dad settles into his boss chair, Zaman leaning over his shoulder, his face tinged blue in the glare of the incriminating CCTV footage. First, his eyes widen; then, his jaw muscles ripple. Finally he looks into Dad’s accusing face, his eyes all watery and apologetic.

‘Uncle-ji, I only took the money because I needed to borrow it. I was going to pay you back later,’ he says, shaking his head remorsefully.

In some parallel universe, violins are playing. In mine, it’s party music.

‘How many times?’ Dad asks.

Zaman swallows thickly, his lips twitching as if he’s trying to think of a number that doesn’t sound too bad. ‘Twice.’

Dad cackles. ‘Funny, cos I’ve been scratching my head for a while now wondering why the accounts don’t add up. Figured it was me, what with having failed my GCSEs and all, but you’ve clearly been pulling a fast one for months. And all those customers complaining about credit-card fraud too! You conned an old man whose wife recently died. You’re a nasty piece of work, Zaman Akhtar.’

‘Uncle-ji—’

‘Don’t call me that! Family don’t steal from family.’

Zaman glances up, and I duck out of sight fast. If he realizes I’m the one who showed Dad, I am so dead.

‘Why’d you do it?’ Dad asks, refusing to take silence for an answer.

His Adam’s apple bobs twice. ‘For Shaista. We’re getting married—’

Dad’s fist slams into Zaman’s belly so fast, I never even see it happen. All I hear is the sickening thwack and see Zaman’s eyes bulging.

‘My daughter’s never marrying a thieving kuta like you!’

Zaman clutches his stomach, gasping. ‘You’re lucky I want to marry Shaista. Who else is going to marry a pregnant girl?’

‘Dad, don’t!’ I yell as Dad grabs a broom, ready to bash Zaman’s brains out.

Then we all freeze.

Zaman has pulled out a seven-inch M9 bayonet from God knows where.

‘Come on!’ he says, waving Dad forwards. ‘Do you really think a fat old man like you can touch someone like me? I’ve got an army of Dingoes. What do you have?’ He points the blade at me, and my heart stops. ‘One son who’s a coward, and another who ditched his family for greed. Oh yeah – and one sweet, sweet daughter who worships my dick.’

Dad takes a swipe at Zaman’s head. Zaman parries the blow with the side of the blade, before swirling around and nicking the heel of Dad’s hand.

‘Yara, stop it!’ Yunus calls.

‘Or what?’ Zaman replies, now pointing the blade at Yunus.

The sound of a siren can be heard approaching.

‘You didn’t …’ Zaman says, looking unsure.

Yunus grins, even as a bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. ‘Are you sticking around to find out?’

Zaman points his blade at each of us in turn. Then as the sound of the siren rises to a scream, he darts off, vanishing out of the back door, crashing into the bins.

‘Dad, shall I call an ambulance?!’ I ask, panicking.

‘No, you numpty. Just get your ol’ man a plaster from the firstaid box.’

I hunt around for the green box. The sirens blare loudly, then rapidly recede, as the ambulance apparently drives on towards another emergency.

I gawp. ‘You didn’t call the police then?’

Yunus shakes his head.

‘Neither of you are mentioning a word of this to the missus, OK?’ Dad says, ripping open a plaster. ‘You let me handle it my way.’

That evening, Shaista sulks all night up in her bedroom. I overhear her phoning friend after friend, telling them how oppressed she is. She’s in denial about just how dangerous Zaman is. The rest of us sit around the table, picking at our dinner in an uncomfortable silence.

‘My own flesh and blood!’ Dad says, shaking his head. ‘My precious little princess!’

‘Give it a rest, Osman. She says she didn’t do anything,’ Amma says.

For the past five minutes, I’ve watched khichri migrate from one side of Mum’s plate to the other, one rice grain at a time. Poor Amma: all her kids turned out shit. She deserves better than us.

‘Yeah, well that’s all right then, innit?’ Dad says, pouring on the sarcasm. ‘She’s a real bastion of honour. A virtuous virgin.’

‘Oh for goodness sake! What do you want her to do? Take a pregnancy test?’

‘That’d be a start!’ Dad lashes out like a wounded bear.

‘Look, I know you’re hurt,’ Amma says, topping up our glasses with chilled water. ‘Allah gave us three children, but what you have to remember is that they’re on loan. You do your best, then you let go. Do you want to lose her as well as Amir?’

Unable to listen to this, I carry my plate through to the kitchen and stick it in the dishwasher. From as early as I can remember, whenever Amma and Dad have argued, I’ve ended up with this large rock in my belly, mashing up my guts, making me feel sick. It’s been happening so much lately, the rock’s upgraded to a boulder.

I traipse up the stairs, reminding myself that I did what had to be done. How was I supposed to know Zaman was going to throw Shaista under a bus to save his own skin?

‘You!’ Shais stops me on the upper landing, smudged make-up transforming her into The Crow. ‘I’ll never forgive you. From the day you were born, you’ve been hell-bent on destroying everything I love.’

‘Shais, it weren’t like that!’ I protest. ‘Zaman’s been nicking money.’

Her eyeliner dribbles like engine oil down her cheeks. ‘It’s not Zamz’s fault Dad didn’t pay him enough. Do you even know where the money went?’

I shake my head.

‘To ME. He’s been wooing his lady with gifts. And since I’m Dad’s daughter, technically it wasn’t even stealing.’

‘I know you love him, but he’s bad news …’

Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Amir had the right idea, pissing off to America. I’m going to run away too, then I’ll never have to deal with you Love Nazis again!’

The door slams in my face. I stare at its blank surface until my own eyes start to prickle. Shais is hard work, and sometimes I can’t stand her, but I’d be lost if she left.

I make my way downstairs, where Amma and Dad are still rowing.

The sound of the phone makes me jump. I make a rush for it, but Dad beats me to it.

‘Yes?’ he barks down the receiver. Then his face drops, and he swears under his breath. ‘Are you sure? OK, OK. Be there in five.’

‘Dad, what’s up?’ I ask.

He looks at me, his eyes pools of worry as Amma creeps into the hall.

‘Osman?’ she says.

Dad shakes his head, pinching the flesh between his eyebrows. ‘There’s been a petrol attack on the shop.’

‘Oh my God!’ Amma says, a hand fluttering to her mouth.

‘Nothing like that,’ he quickly reassures her. ‘Thank God Yunus was looking out of his window, nosy bugger. Says he saw a bunch of hoodies gathering, so he raised the alarm before they could do any real damage. The police and fire service have it under control.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ Amma asks. ‘We’ve never hurt anyone …’

‘It was Zaman!’ I blurt.

My parents look at me, astounded, before Dad shakes his head. ‘They’re saying it was racially motivated. Little fascists sprayed slurs on the roller shutters, di’nt they?’

Amma stares into the distance – her eyes look haunted. ‘Amir leaves us, Ilyas gets suspended, Shaista gets involved with a bad boy, and … now this …’ Amma blinks, dabbing at her eyes with her dupatta. ‘I think God might be trying to tell us something.’

‘What, by visiting us with the Ten Plagues? Don’t be daft!’ Dad scoffs.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Amma says, steeling herself.

‘Me too,’ I grab both our coats off the hooks.

‘Nah. You lot stay here and keep an eye on Shaista.’ Dad’s eyes rise to the darkness at the top of the stairs. ‘Make sure she doesn’t do a runner with her fancy man. I’ll sort this.’