The taxi slowed and they took the exit to the International School. When they’d first come to see the school five months ago, Mum had gone on about how wonderful it was to be outside the city, surrounded by farms that grew olives and grapevines. She had even said that maybe, later on, they could buy a small farm in this area and she could keep a donkey. She’d always wanted a donkey and a farm would be close enough for Zafir to walk to school. Pops had looked at Zafir and winked. It had been good to see Mum happy, but they both knew this was just another one of her crazy ideas.

As they approached the school they joined the long queue of cars and buses. Finally, they were waved through the boom gate by two security guards dressed in khaki uniforms, guns slung over their shoulders. The school was surrounded by a high concrete wall and a long driveway ran between neat gardens to the reception area – but that was only for visitors and students with more important parents. Abu Moussa took the right-hand lane to the spot where most of the students got dropped off.

For the first couple of weeks, Zafir had dreaded getting out of the taxi. Mum had thought it would be easy for him to settle in because the school was part of the same international school group that he’d gone to in Dubai, but she was wrong. It was just luck he’d made even one friend, and that was only because of an Apple sticker on his bag that he’d forgotten was there. Rami, who had the locker alongside his, had seen the sticker and whispered the first of the many secrets Rami seemed to have: he was actually related to one of the founders of Apple, Steve Jobs, because his mother was from the Jandali tribe in Homs and so was the man who was Steve Jobs’s real father. Zafir had to agree that was impressive.

‘I will be here to pick you up at four, inshala, if God wills, Zafir,’ said Abu Moussa as they pulled up.

‘Okay. Ma’a salaama, goodbye,’ said Zafir as he dragged his bag out of the back seat.

‘You’re late. I was beginning to think you’d gone back to Dubai.’

Zafir turned and saw Rami, his face round as the moon and split by his wide grin.

‘I wish,’ said Zafir. Immediately the cheerful look disappeared and Zafir felt guilty. It wasn’t just that Rami was Zafir’s only friend – Zafir was Rami’s only friend too.

Zafir had noticed that other students avoided Rami and he’d heard some calling him an Ibn al Homar, son of a donkey. Zafir didn’t like to ask too many questions because he knew that Rami’s family life wasn’t that happy either: his mother was always busy with his younger brothers and sisters; his stepfather, who was a naqib, captain, in the military sometimes beat him; and his real dad was dead.

Zafir and Rami fist bumped. Rami insisted they do this whenever they met because it was something Americans did and he was crazy about anything to do with the USA. He was excited Zafir had been to the States even though Zafir had only been eight years old. They’d visited friends of Mum and Pops, Aunty Leila and Uncle Vahid, who had immigrated to Chicago. From the way everyone talked about America, Zafir had thought it was going to be much better than Dubai. But it wasn’t. The air was smoky and the people were unfriendly and stared at them like they were weird because Aunty Leila wore her headscarf. It didn’t matter what Zafir said though. Rami still wanted to live in America one day.

‘I need to ask you something,’ said Zafir. ‘In the locker room.’

Rami lifted one eyebrow. That was the code Rami had told Zafir to use if he wanted to ask a question about anything to do with Syrian politics. Rami had said you had to be careful what you talked about because even innocent words could be made to sound guilty, and everyone here spied on everyone else. Rami like to spy on his own stepfather. Sometimes he got caught and came to school with bruises.

Neither of them spoke as they threaded their way between groups of students – girls who were giggling and whispering and boys who were jostling each other – towards the boys’ locker room.

As Zafir pushed open the door he was nearly hit by a flying pencil. The cousins Murshid and Mustafa and their gang were having a mock spear fight with pencils. Zafir used to do things like that with his friends in Dubai.

‘Maawaa’ez, goats,’ Rami whispered in Zafir’s ear, although there was no chance of anyone overhearing them with boys yelling, metal doors clanging shut and bags being thumped onto the tiled floor.

The locker room was so noisy it was the best place to tell secrets.

‘Okay, spill,’ said Rami as he pushed his bag into the locker.

‘Who are the shabiha?’

Rami swung around, eyebrows raised.

‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? The walls have ears.’

Before Zafir could say a word the door behind them burst open.

‘Bas, enough!’

There was sudden silence in the room as Mr Omar, the sports coach, strode in. Had he been listening? Zafir felt his skin prickle. Could Mr Omar be a spy? Would he tell someone that he’d heard Zafir asking about the shabiha?

Then Zafir realised Mr Omar was looking at the boys throwing the pencils.

‘Is this the way for gentlemen to act?’

No one spoke.

‘Who started it?’

Everyone stood silently, heads down, avoiding Mr Omar’s stare and each other’s.

‘If you don’t tell me, you will all be on detention.’

Zafir saw Mustafa look over.

‘It was him,’ Mustafa said, pointing at Rami.

‘Is this true, Al-Atassi?’ asked Mr Omar, even though he looked as if he didn’t believe it.

Rami nodded. ‘Yes, sayidi, sir.’

‘Okay, if you insist. Report to me after school. You can do extra swimming training.’

‘But it wasn’t him!’ Zafir burst out. He hated seeing his friend being picked on for no reason.

‘Would you tell me who it was then, Haddad?’

Zafir felt the eyes of all the boys on him and he saw Rami shake his head.

‘I don’t know,’ Zafir mumbled. That was the problem. He didn’t know what it was, but it was like there was something about Rami that no one was telling him.

‘Do you also want detention, Haddad?’ Mr Omar asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and strode out of the locker room.

None of Murshid’s gang looked at Rami, not even to say thanks for getting them off the hook. Zafir heard Mustafa jeer, ‘Ibn al Homar.’

Zafir turned to Rami, who shrugged.

‘Murshid and Mustafa are Alawi, the same religion as the president and they’re distantly related to him so it’s best to do as they say. It’s not a big deal. I was going to stay back for swimming anyway.’ Rami grinned and pulled out his maths book. ‘Now about this maths problem.’

‘What maths—?’

‘Let me explain,’ said Rami. He took out a pencil. ‘You see Sh1 equals T equals R, but it’s an equation that is negative because it’s outside all the rules.’ On a page of his book he wrote:

Shabiha = gang of Thugs = dirty work for the government Regime.

‘So you see it’s one of those problems that no one is able to solve and if you try, it will beat you like it beats everyone. But why do you want to know about it?’ He passed the book to Zafir, who wrote:

I saw a dead man on the way to school. Abu Moussa said the shabiha did it.

Rami’s eyes widened and his eyebrows disappeared under his fringe of dark hair. He quickly turned the page so the words were hidden.

‘Why would they do this?’ Zafir asked. The noise level had risen and it was easy to talk without being overheard.

‘There are a number of possible answers to the problem. Let me show you,’ said Rami as he began to write.

1. He owed them money

2. He criticised the government

3. They felt like killing someone and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time

‘But how can … ?’

Zafir wanted to ask how they got away with it but Rami shook his head and wrote:

Erase it from your memory.

Then he repeated Abu Moussa’s words:

Ahsan lak, it is better for you.

Rami ripped out the page. ‘The bell will go in a minute. I’ve just got to use the bathroom,’ he said in a louder voice than normal. Then he hissed, ‘Keep watch.’

Zafir stood at the door. Even over the sound of the running water he could hear Rami ripping the page into small pieces. After the toilet flushed Rami came out empty-handed, grinning. Rami seemed to enjoy acting like he was a secret agent but Zafir was worried. He glanced behind him as they walked off down the corridor. It wasn’t the first time since he’d arrived in Syria that he felt as if there were eyes watching everything he did. But there was only the photo of President Bashar al-Assad on the end wall.

Shortly afterwards Zafir stood among the students facing a larger version of the same photo in the assembly hall and chanted the national anthem. As they pledged their allegiance to the president and the party he led, Zafir wondered how the president didn’t know about what the shabiha did to his people. If he knew, he’d stop it for sure because he was the Lion of Syria, the father of his people.