‘Bshufak bukra, see you tomorrow,’ Zafir said to Abu Moussa. He clambered out of the taxi, dragging his schoolbag that was heavy with books. Abu Moussa raised a hand in farewell. Neither of them had spoken about what they’d seen in the morning. The old taxi driver had chatted the whole trip about his grown-up sons, while Zafir had tried to work out exactly where it had happened.

The taxi pulled out from the kerb onto the road that ran in front of the ten-storey apartment building where Zafir lived. The sun was setting and the muezzin in the masjid, mosque, across the road had begun the call to prayer. Zafir glanced at his watch. It was nearly a quarter to five and getting colder by the minute. He ran quickly up the steps to the glass door that led into the foyer and pressed the numbers into the security pad. It was good to get out of the wind but all the marble on the floor and walls meant it was freezing inside. In a far corner he saw Shams, the security man, on his mat making salat, his gun leaning against the wall as he said his prayers. Zafir looked away. Mum didn’t make him say his prayers five times a day because she and Pops didn’t either but they both said that it was important to show respect for others’ beliefs.

Their apartment was on the seventh floor and there was only one slow lift. If it wasn’t waiting on the ground level, Zafir found it faster to go up the fire-escape steps. He did it so often that he was hardly out of breath when he got to the seventh floor and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. He paused before putting his key in the door of the apartment. What would he say when Mum asked him about his day? Abu Moussa and Rami had both said to forget about it but Mum could always tell when he was worried.

‘It’s me,’ he called out as he entered the chilly apartment. It was always cold when he got home because Mum hated lighting the soba, diesel-fuelled heater, which everyone in Syria used to keep their houses warm in winter.

‘Ana huna, I’m here.’ Mum’s voice came from down the hallway that led to her and Pops’s bedroom. Zafir knew he had to go and see her straight away because if he didn’t she’d know something was wrong, but then she’d look at him and she’d see something was wrong anyway. As he got to the bedroom door he saw her image reflected in the oval mirror that hung above the dressing table. She was sitting on the bed bundled up in ski gear with a blanket over her legs. She had reading glasses on, a book in her hand and a woollen cap pulled over her short dark hair. Everyone said she was beautiful, but to Zafir she was just Mum.

She didn’t look up from reading when he walked into the room but she patted the side of the bed. ‘Come. Sit. It’s cold, isn’t it?’

Zafir shrugged.

‘I didn’t want to try and start that kandisha, evil spirit, without your father here. Now, I just want to finish this chapter. It’s research for my novel.’

Mum was always going on about the novel that she was going to write now that she’d left her job in Dubai as a magazine editor. Zafir stood where he was. He wanted to tell her about the dead man – but should he?

Before he could make up his mind, Mum looked up and pulled her glasses off.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What happened?’ She opened her arms. ‘Come and tell me.’

Inside her hug, Zafir felt like he was five years old again, when Mum could fix everything with a kiss and a bandaid. He blurted out the whole story of what he’d seen and what Abu Moussa had said and what Rami had told him. Her arms went rigid around him.

‘This is exactly why things must change in this country,’ she said. Her voice was low but fierce. ‘It’s not right that these gangs have such power, but they are supported by this regime so no one stops them. The shabiha are even paid a militia wage by the government. It cannot go on. Something has to be done.’

Mum had never said anything like this to Zafir before. He pulled away from her arms and sat up, ashamed of acting like a baby.

‘What can we do?’ he asked.

She shook her head and patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry. Things will change. There are people out there who are starting to ask questions. They are young and brave and care about our country. Your Uncle Ghazi …’ She stopped. ‘By the time you’re a little older I believe life here in Syria will be different.’

‘What about Uncle Ghazi?’ asked Zafir. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed by the change in her voice or feel pleased that she had actually spoken to him like a grown-up – almost the same way she spoke to her younger brother. Uncle Ghazi was only ten years older than Zafir and he felt more like a brother than an uncle.

‘Oh, nothing. He rang today and he said to say hi. Now, go and change out of your school clothes and get into your tracksuit. I’d better get supper organised.’

Because Zafir’s room led out into the entryway hall he heard the apartment door open and thud closed. He and Rami were texting each other about their homework.

Gotta go. Pops home. Zafir pressed ‘send’ and put his phone down.

As he came out he saw Pops’s briefcase sitting by the door. Through the archway that led into the main room where they ate and watched television, he could see his father bending over the soba that he’d just lit. Zafir could smell the diesel and feel the warmth spreading outwards.

‘Hi, Pops,’ Zafir called. Pops stood up and turned around. His father was tall, but Zafir had been growing so much in the last few months that he was already up to Pops’s shoulders. Mum said Zafir would likely grow even taller than Pops if his large feet were any indication. Pops grinned and pushed his hand back through the light brown hair that was receding off his forehead. His eyes looked tired. But he was always tired when he came home from work.

‘Salaam, peace, Zafir. Have you finished your homework?’

‘Yeah. Ages ago.’

‘Good, good. Something smells delicious. Let’s sit. It has been a long day.’

Zafir knew he couldn’t tell Pops about what had happened today. Not just now.

Mum must have thought the same thing because when she came in with a tray of djaj aa riz, chicken and rice, she didn’t mention it either.

‘How was Dr Bassell today?’ Mum asked.

Pops shook his head. ‘As obstructive as ever,’ he said. ‘He seems to believe the job of an assistant is to disagree with every decision I make. Each day we have so many meetings over trivial matters that we don’t have enough time for any real training.’

‘He’s just jealous,’ said Mum. ‘If you hadn’t applied for the job he’d be the one running the hospital. They were lucky to get someone like you with international experience.’

Zafir had heard all this before. He was starving, even though he’d eaten two manouche with zatar, flatbread with spices and herbs, while he was doing his homework. He quickly heaped his plate with addaaj azrus that smelled of saffron and lemon.

‘News time,’ said Pops as he pressed the remote and flicked to the RTV news channel.

‘Ministry of Information brainwashing time, more like it,’ said Mum. She frowned. So did Pops but he didn’t say anything.

The news presenter was a woman. She wore a hijab, the veil tightly pinned around her head so her hair could not be seen, and sat at a large desk. Decorating the wall behind her was a Syrian flag and a portrait of the president. She never smiled and always presented every item of information with a blank face no matter whether the news was good or bad.

Would it be on the news? Zafir wondered.

The newsreader droned on. It was all about which heads of state or important people had sent messages to the president and what speeches he’d made and buildings he’d opened – the usual boring stuff. There was some news about other countries and then an item about how Kosai Khauli, Tetah’s favourite actor, was going to star in a new series. After this was the sports news and the weather but nothing about a man being murdered and dumped on a main road in Homs.

Zafir looked over at Mum. She shrugged and glanced towards Pops.

‘What?’ asked Pops, looking from one to the other.

Neither of them answered.

‘Did something happen at school today that you haven’t told me about?’

‘No.’ Zafir shook his head. Was this the right time? What if it started another one of Mum and Pops’s arguments that always seemed to be about the government because Mum said it was corrupt and Pops said it was strong.

‘Zafir saw a terrible incident on the way to school today.’ Mum sounded cross. ‘A man was thrown out of a car onto the ring-road right in front of him. It must have been those shabiha and, of course, they will get away with it.’ She didn’t let Pops interrupt. ‘How can you support a regime that allows this to happen in front of innocent people – our son?’

Pops frowned. ‘Of course I don’t agree with some of the methods,’ he said. ‘But in this country, where there are so many sectarian differences, we need a strong government and a strong man in charge. Do you want this country to be destroyed by religious fanaticism?’

Zafir stopped listening. If only he hadn’t seen it. If only they were back in Dubai where they had all been happy. He hadn’t realised how good life had been then – there was always something fun to do and they’d all had lots of friends. If only Giddo and Siti were still alive and everything was the way it used to be. A wave of homesickness washed over him.

He suddenly felt a long way from Dubai, with its modern towers of glass that rose up from the sand and looked out over a sea so glittering it hurt the eyes. Here, everything was dirty because of the black smoke from the oil refinery. It belched into the sky and dropped a greasy film over all the trees and buildings and, it seemed, even into people’s hearts.

Mum and Pops had never argued before they came here. Mum had said they’d be happy again because Syria was their true home and everything would be better but she was wrong. Everything here was worse. A lot worse.