‘Zafir!’ Mum called out. ‘Time to get up.’

Zafir was awake already. He’d gone to bed thinking about how he wished everything could be different and the thoughts had disturbed his sleep. Today was Tuesday, training day, the day Zafir had to choose which side to be on. If he chose Murshid, he would be accepted by a new gang of friends. Or if he chose Rami, then from today he would be treated like the son of a traitor too. The worst thing was that ever since starting school in Homs he’d wanted to become friends with a gang like he’d had in Dubai, but that would mean he could no longer be friends with Rami. All night he’d tossed and turned and thought about what it would be like if he did go to training. Would he really be a wolf if he joined them? It was easy to say that he didn’t want to be one, but he didn’t want to be its prey either. He wished there was another choice.

‘Oh, this kandisha, evil spirit. I do hate it!’ Mum sounded as if she was about to cry.

Zafir could smell diesel fumes but there was also an acrid burning smell. He pushed the blankets back and ran across the freezing marble floor into the main room where he found Mum on her knees mopping up diesel that she’d spilt on the floor. She was in her dressing gown and her hair was messy. She looked up at Zafir.

‘I wish your father was here.’

‘Let me do it,’ Zafir said. ‘I’ve watched Pops plenty of times. I know what to do.’

‘Maybe we should leave it off,’ said Mum. ‘With all that dripping fuel it might blow up.’

‘It’s okay, I can start it,’ said Zafir. He peered into the bowl on top of the stove to see how much fuel was there. Then he carefully wiped around the bowl with a tissue to make sure there was no diesel that might accidentally catch on fire. He lit the tissue and dropped it into the chamber. At the same time he twisted the knob of the bowl to allow the slow drip of diesel that would keep the flame burning. It was tricky, but the stove flared and caught alight. As he stood back and felt the warmth creep outwards from the stove he felt pleased.

‘Alhamdulillah, praise God!’ said Mum. She looked up at the clock. ‘But you’d better get ready. Abu Moussa will be here shortly.’

‘Do I have to go to school today, Mum?’

As usual, she’d found out everything about Rami, Murshid and the football as soon as he’d got home from school last Thursday.

‘I’m proud of you,’ she said, patting his arm. ‘What happened to Rami’s father was a terrible injustice and Rami is also being treated unjustly. It’s only when people are brave enough to stand up to this bullying that anything will change.’

Zafir shrugged. ‘But Rami says it won’t change because the system is too strong. That’s why he wants to live with his father in America. Why did we come to Syria? Why didn’t we go to Australia or Canada?’

‘Because Syria is our homeland and one day, if we have courage, inshala, if God wills, we will also know freedom from oppression. But,’ she said, ‘I will tell you a small secret.’

‘Not more secrets.’ Zafir groaned.

‘This one is a good secret,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘Your father thinks that in Syria we are never going to agree about how the country is governed. He feels that we would all be happier in a new country and that he should apply for a work visa in Australia.’

‘Will we go to Sydney?’ asked Zafir. The future suddenly looked brighter.

Mum nodded. ‘Yes, now we have met the Papadopoulos family it would be good to go where we already have friends. But I believe that life here will be much better soon and we won’t want to leave. Besides, your father has a three-year contract so we will stay here for at least another two years.’

The future got shadowy again and the remote possibility of immigrating to Australia didn’t help today.

‘Do I really have to go to school?’ he asked again.

Mum frowned and he could see she was thinking about it. ‘I’ve got a good idea,’ she said and a smile spread across her face. ‘How do you feel about a day in Damascus?’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s less than a two-hour drive. Abu Moussa could take us and bring us back tonight. It will be a surprise for your father. I know he’s busy but we could go out for supper at that restaurant in the Sheraton and it’ll make up for him not being here on Mother’s Day. And I do need some more books, so we can go to Maysalun Street. It was my favourite street when I was at university. I’ll call Ghazi. We can have lunch with him if he isn’t too busy with lectures.’ She looked at Zafir. ‘What do you think?’

‘Good idea!’

Mum smiled. ‘I’ll call school and tell them you’re unwell.’

The road between Homs and Damascus wound through mountainous desert. It was mostly single lane. Abu Moussa spent a lot of time waving his fist at drivers of lorries carrying rocks who revved their engines hard but still couldn’t go any faster than crawling pace up the steeper parts of the road. Zafir soon got bored with the scenery. He closed his eyes to try to catch up on sleep. When he woke up they were already in the outskirts of Damascus, passing houses and apartment blocks topped with satellite dishes.

‘You’re awake,’ said Mum, smiling. ‘I’ve spoken to Ghazi and he’s at a coffee shop in Al-Hareeka Square in the Old City. I said we’d meet him there. We can walk through Maskuf market.’

Zafir nodded. It beat being at school and having to think about not turning up at football training or having to talk to Murshid. He’d worry about that tomorrow.

The road grew busy with yellow taxis, vans and buses. Among the pedestrians, who were mainly uniformed soldiers, women dressed in long coats and scarves and men wearing black leather jackets, were a pair of blonde-haired backpackers and a group of Japanese tourists trailing behind their guide taking photos.

They drove down a wide road lined with palm trees. Zafir could see water gushing up from the fountains of Sabaa Bahrat, Seven Fountains Square. Droplets caught in the sunlight and green grass surrounded the fountain. It was like an oasis of peace in the middle of the busy city. Zafir took out his phone and tried to capture the scene but the photo ended up blurred.

When Abu Moussa dropped them off near the end of Shari al-Thawra, Revolution Street, Zafir looked up at the massive portrait of the president that was spread across the old stone wall at the entrance to the market. The president was wearing a suit with a blue tie, as he was in all his photos. He was smiling and his wave seemed directed at Zafir.

‘Please meet us at the Sheraton Hotel at eight-thirty,’ said Mum to Abu Moussa as they got out of the taxi.

Abu Moussa nodded and smiled. ‘I will find a place to smoke a shisha for the afternoon.’

They walked through the market. Along both sides of the street were shops selling tablecloths, woollen shawls, carved wooden mirrors, brass trays, beaked coffee pots and so much more. There was hardly any room to move inside the tiny shops so the merchants sat outside and called to the passing crowds. ‘Come here for the best prices.’

They finally arrived at Al-Hareeka Square. The walkway between the shops was tiled with pink and grey stones and the bushes planted along the street were trimmed into small, neat mounds.

‘It’s busier here than usual,’ said Mum. Two young men stopped in front of them suddenly as one pulled out his phone. He checked it, then glanced around with a nervous look on his face before staring into the window of a shop that sold ladies’ coats. Zafir realised that a lot of people in the square didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Like the man in front of them, they were just looking in shop windows or standing on corners checking their phones. He saw a white bus parked down a side street with people sitting in it.

Something wasn’t right, and Zafir had a bad feeling that he was about to find out what it was – whether he liked it or not.