With my hands in my pockets, I meander into the shop after school.‘Aagaya munda, tere!’ One of Dad’s workers announces my arrival, signing an autograph in the air with cigarette smoke.

Dad tells him off for smoking inside, then turns to me. ‘I really hope you haven’t come asking for pocket money, because you’re getting zilch from me.’

I shake my head, gesturing with my hands still inside my jacket pockets. ‘Er, can we talk over there?’

Dad looks puzzled, but nods. Ever since Amma left, he’s given up shaving and grown a beard that looks like Rocket Raccoon’s butt glued to his face. Some of the regulars think Dad’s gone religious, which he likes to play up to, quoting sayings of the Prophet, which I think he made up. The truth is he’s lost without Amma. He leans against a shelf of dessert mixes, their colourful packets promising results that never happen in real life.

‘I thought about what you said,’ I begin. ‘I wanna start working for you now.’

‘What about school?’

‘Forget school,’ I say, unable to make eye contact.

His shaggy eyebrows rise. ‘You in trouble again?’

I shake my head. ‘All that studying and homework and exams – it’s just not me.’

‘Look, son, I appreciate the offer, but it’s against the law. Come back when you’re eighteen, then we’ll talk.’

‘But it’s doing my head in!’ I yell.

Dad’s workers give me some side eye.

‘You missing your mum?’

I look at Dad in surprise. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. His voice was softer than I’ve heard in a long time. Maybe Dad isn’t the Neanderthal he pretends to be. Maybe no one is. Only, it’s like trying to be cool: you do it cos you think other people expect it.

With a tiny shake of my head, I shrug. ‘Amma’s busy, innit?’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you skyping her.’ He takes a long drag on his e-cigarette, then registers my look of surprise. ‘Your old man’s trying to quit.’

‘Since when?’ Amma’s been trying to get the man to quit for time.

‘Since your Amma’s been gone,’ he admits, rubbing his forehead. ‘I was a chain-smoker when I met your mum. Fifteen bloody cancer sticks a day!’ He strokes his scalp, looking crestfallen. ‘Had hair on my head back then, instead of me shoulders. You was never short of a stick of gum whenever Foz was around, I can tell you! But gum will only take you so far.’ He takes another drag on his e-cig, then smiles. ‘I’m not marrying someone who smells like the backseat of a school bus!’ He smiles, recalling her words, tapping off non-existent ash. ‘God she was cute …’

‘Did you quit?’

‘Cold turkey,’ he confirms grimly. ‘Oh your Amma was worth it, mate. Prettiest Pakistani girl in all of London. Even the goras were begging her for the time of day. She never did understand all the attention. Not stuck up like the rest of them la-dee-da girls.’

‘You really love her, don’t you, Dad?’ I say.

His eyes narrow to ellipses, taking a longer puff. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me, mate. Then you lot came along and spoilt everything.’ He gives me a wink. ‘And your old man slipped back into old habits.’ He looks at the e-cig regretfully.

‘Say “Shava Shava”’ blares out from someone’s phone, startling us. One of Dad’s workers is performing the classic Bollywood dance, right there in the middle of the shop floor, busting out moves like a regular Amitabh Bachchan.

Dad chuckles and shakes his head. ‘What a knob.’

‘Dad, when you were a kid, did anyone ever bully you?’

‘Course they did, you numpty! Tell you what: prepared me for life, didn’t it? I got smart and starting hanging out with the goondas. We were right terrors – nicking stuff and smoking pot. And don’t you go spilling your guts to Amma about any of this!’

I shake my head, promising. ‘So you hung out with the rude boys for protection?’

For a moment his face darkens, then he sighs and slouches. ‘Sad truth is, you’re either a bully or you get bullied. And no one likes a grass.’

Real talk. I wish he wasn’t wrong, but I still want to hug him. But that’s not us – never has been. So I offer him a smile instead. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

He nods, taking another drag on his e-cigarette. ‘Any time, kid.’