‘The Easter Parade is to be cancelled,’ Tetah announced three days later. Mum looked up from her coffee.

Yes! Zafir couldn’t believe his luck.

‘It’s only right when the whole city is in mourning,’ said Mum. ‘But I believe that the parade is still going ahead inside the church. Presbytera Sophia told me when I saw her yesterday.’

‘I see,’ said Tetah. ‘What’s wrong, Zafir? You look as if you’ve won a prize but had it taken away from you.’

Mum looked over at Zafir. There was a guilty expression on her face. ‘I need to talk to you, Zafir,’ she said. ‘In my room.’

‘Of course it’s your decision,’ said Mum. They were sitting in the small bedroom that looked out over the courtyard. ‘We, that is Sophia and Petros, I mean Father Papadopoulos, and your father and I, all think that it would be such a wonderful symbol of unity in these troubled times to have a child from a different faith carrying a candle in the parade. And your father and I have been invited to be there as well. I must say I am feeling quite excited.’

What could Zafir say? Mum smiled when he nodded.

‘And I can’t wait to see Tetah’s face when she sees you as an altar boy.’

Everyone wore black on Great and Holy Friday. Even Ustaaz Farook wore a black tarboosh because it was, as Tetah said, the funeral day for Jesus Christ. She went to the morning and afternoon service but it was the evening service that Zafir was dreading.

‘Nothing feels right,’ said Mum as they left Tetah’s house for the five-minute walk through the narrow streets to the church. All the nearby shops had their shutters down. Even the small teashop across the road where the old men sat after going to the mosque or church was closed. ‘It’s too quiet.’

The only sounds were their own footsteps on the pavement. A screech of tyres broke the silence. They turned and Tetah made the sign of the cross because racing around the corner was a truck with a gun mounted on the back. The truck pulled up at the teahouse and four black-clothed Mukhabarat security forces men jumped out. One had a loudhailer and he called for Mr Saaba, who lived above the teashop, to come out.

‘Surely he hasn’t been part of the protests,’ said Tetah.

‘The security forces are rounding up anyone they believe has been involved in anti-government activities,’ said Ustaaz Farook. ‘A known activist may merely have been seen at the teahouse.’

Zafir shivered as the image of Uncle Ghazi getting beaten came into his head. Would they beat Mr Saaba too? He walked quickly: the last thing he wanted to see was another beating.

A small crowd milled around the square where the church stood. They murmured the special Great Friday greeting to each other, ‘The Light of God may be with your departed ones.’

‘I’ll take you to the sanctuary where you’ll get ready,’ said Pops, putting his hand on Zafir’s shoulder and guiding him into the church.

As they walked towards the wall of shining icons to the door called the Angel’s Gate, Zafir saw the epitaphio, funeral bier, for Christ in the middle of the church. Inside was the carved statue of Christ that usually hung on the cross. The statue was covered with flowers.

‘This brings back memories of being an altar boy on Great Friday myself,’ said Pops.

‘Do I have to do this?’ asked Zafir. He was still shaken up by what they’d seen on the way to church.

‘If it doesn’t feel right then don’t do it,’ said Pops. ‘I would normally be against this idea entirely, but I admire Petros Papadopoulos. He’s different from other clerics.’

Zafir stood at the Angel’s Gate for a minute and looked around. People in the church were quietly praying or bending to kiss the icons, yet in a street not far away Mr Saaba was probably being dragged out of his home. How could such terrible things be happening so close by when it felt safe and peaceful here? Being in the church reminded Zafir how he’d felt when he used to go to the masjid, mosque, with Giddo. How when he’d stepped into the musallah, prayer hall, it always felt different from the outside world. Zafir breathed in the musty air of the church. Tetah’s church was different to Giddo’s masjid because the church was dark and warm and had a golden glow to it from the icons. The masjid always felt cool and the blue and white tiles, which covered the floor and walls and even the high-domed roof, sparkled in the light of the crystal chandeliers. But like the calm of the masjid in bustling Dubai, this church felt like a still point in the middle of this swirling, dangerous city.

‘Okay,’ Zafir said. ‘I’ll do it.’ He pushed open the door and saw the room behind bustling with deacons helping priests into their black vestments. Zafir saw the twins, Georges and Alex, pulling on their long blue robes.

‘It’s good of you, Zafir, to help us in these troubled times,’ said Father Papadopoulos after he had blessed him. ‘Shukran, thank you.’

‘You are tall,’ said a deacon. He turned to the twins. ‘Find the largest gown and hurry, because it’s time to begin.’

When he had struggled into the gown, Zafir realised the twins had deliberately chosen one that was too small. It was tight under his arms and only came down to his shins.

‘It’ll have to do,’ said the deacon. ‘There’s no time to change. Here – carry this candle.’

Zafir heard the twins giggling as the deacon pushed open the door.

The parade went on forever. There was nowhere to walk except around and around the nave. In the limited space and with the large number of people, the parade became one continuous circle led by those in the band playing drums followed by those playing trumpets and tubas. Behind them, came Zafir and Georges and Alex, ahead of the epitaphio for the statue of the crucified Christ carried on the shoulders of four men. Three priests and the deacons walked behind the epitaphio and everyone else followed.

Zafir’s arms ached from carrying the huge brass candlestick and his head began to throb, but the beat from the brass band made him keep marching on. He could hear Tetah and other women sobbing. It was almost like a real funeral.

He saw Eleni with her mother. She looked sad as well but when she saw him looking at her she gave him a small wave and one of her wide grins. Being Easter weekend she’d told him that there was no chance of getting out for some skateboarding. Zafir still had a week’s holiday left so he hoped they could catch up on Tuesday or Wednesday. With Rami still away it was good to have someone else to talk to. His mind wandered to what new trick he could perfect in the next few days.

At last the ceremony was over. Zafir, the other altar boys, the deacons and priests filed through the doors into the sanctuary as people began to move out of the church.

‘May you and your family go in peace,’ said Father Papadopoulos in a special blessing to Zafir after he’d changed from the robe into his normal clothes.

‘May there be peace in the streets,’ one of the deacons said and he and Father Papadopoulos started talking about the sit-in and the protests and how worrying the whole situation was.

Zafir sighed. There was no getting away from Syria’s problems, even in the sanctuary of the church. He hurried out to find Mum, Pops, Tetah and Ustaaz Farook were waiting for him on the porch outside the church. Tetah’s eyes were red.

‘Our Zafir, he looked like an angel,’ she said as she drew in a large, sobbing breath. ‘Ah, it is all so sad. No matter I have attended more than fifty Great and Holy Friday ceremonies – it touches my heart worse each year. And to see my own grandson as an altar boy? I was so happy I could not stop weeping.’ She put her handkerchief to her eyes and wiped away more tears.

‘Yes,’ agreed Mum, touching Zafir’s shoulder. ‘But he was a head taller than the others. He is growing as we look at him these days.’ Then she did something Zafir had only see her do in private because it was not considered respectable out in the street. She leaned her head on Pops’s shoulder and took his hand. ‘Our son will very soon be a man.’

Back at Tetah’s house, Rosa was serving a light supper of samaka harra, spiced fish, when they heard the sound of clanging and rattling at the gate.

‘Who can that be?’ asked Tetah.

Zafir felt his heart thudding. Was it the shurta coming to drag one of them away? It was then they heard the cry for help. And Zafir recognised the voice.