‘It’s Abu Moussa!’ Zafir was the first to arrive at the door, closely followed by Ustaaz Farook, who was faster on his feet than he looked. Pops was just a step behind him.

‘Sayidi, sir, please, you must help. It’s my son, my second boy, Mohammed.’

‘What’s happened?’ Pops asked. He opened the gate and Abu Moussa almost fell inside. It was only then that they saw his gown was covered with a reddish brown stain.

‘My God, that is blood,’ said Ustaaz Farook. ‘Are you injured?’

Zafir was staring at the blood. Where had it all come from?

‘Sayidi, bismillah, in the name of Allah, I implore you. My son has been shot.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Pops.

‘Here.’ Abu Moussa pointed to the back seat of the taxi.

‘Good God in heaven,’ said Pops as he looked through the back window of the taxi. ‘He needs to get to a hospital. Now.’

Zafir peered into the taxi before anyone could stop him. Lying along the back seat was a young man with his eyes closed. He was holding a red towel to his stomach. Then Zafir realised it wasn’t a red towel. It was a blood-soaked towel.

Zafir felt his own stomach turn over. His knees buckled and he had to lean against the car so he didn’t fall.

‘He needs to be operated on immediately,’ said Pops.

‘One has heard they are arresting anyone who enters a hospital with gunshot wounds,’ said Ustaaz Farook.

‘My son will die if you do not help us,’ said Abu Moussa. ‘He is married and has three babies. Bismillah, sayidi. Only you can help us.’

‘Come back inside,’ said Tetah. She’d come out with Mum to see what was happening. Neither Zafir nor Pops moved.

‘Paul, you cannot get involved. He’s obviously been at the protests. It’s not our business.’

Now that they were outside the thick walls of the old house they could hear the popping sounds of gunshots and sirens wailing – the Red Crescent ambulances picking up those who had been wounded in this Friday’s protests.

‘Ya Allah, oh God!’ Mum clutched Pops’s arm.

‘Paulie, my son, I beg you, do not get involved,’ said Tetah, using the name she’d called him as a child, as if to coax him to her way of thinking.

‘Please, doctor. You have a son. You understand why I beg of you to save my son.’

Zafir knew what Pops would do. He was a doctor after all.

‘Of course I will do what I can,’ said Pops. ‘But we must go to the hospital. Dr Bassell will not like it but we must operate.’

‘Shukran, sayidi. Shukran. May Allah bless you for your kindness.’

‘We must hurry,’ said Pops. He quickly kissed Mum and Tetah and passed his hand over Zafir’s head in blessing. ‘I’ll call from the hospital when I can.’ He turned to Ustaaz Farook and shook his hand. ‘I will go much happier knowing you are here like a guardian angel for my family.’

‘Paulie, my son, please if you care at all for your mother then do not do this.’ Tetah’s face was white. She tried to clutch at Pops’s sleeve and he had to loosen her fingers to get away. He put her hands into Mum’s hands.

‘I must go,’ he said, turning towards the taxi to go, but Abu Moussa suddenly fell into a heap on the ground.

‘It’s shock,’ said Pops as he examined him. ‘Zafir, get a blanket. We must keep him warm. And get a fresh towel too.’

Zafir raced into the house and upstairs. He dragged the blanket off his bed and grabbed a fresh towel. By the time he got to the car Pops and Ustaaz Farook had got Abu Moussa into the front seat. He was conscious but unable to drive.

‘I’ll have to drive,’ said Pops. ‘But, Zafir, I will need your help. You must hold this towel tight against the patient’s stomach wound to stop more loss of blood.’

Tetah started sobbing then, and Mum’s face went white too, but Zafir knew he had to help. When he sat down in the back seat of the taxi, Abu Moussa’s son moaned. His face was an unnatural blue-grey. His eyes flickered open and then closed again as Pops swapped the blood-soaked towel for the fresh one. Inside the car, blood mixed with the sour smell of sweat and fear. Zafir nearly gagged as he pulled the door closed. He put his hand on the fresh towel, which was already beginning to soak up the blood. He’d never known blood was so bright.

Pops shoved the car into reverse and they sped backwards, the engine whining. They raced through the streets towards the hospital where Pops worked. Zafir tried to press the towel just hard enough so that it would stop the flow of blood but wouldn’t hurt Mohammed.

By the time they got to the hospital Abu Moussa had recovered and helped Pops to get Mohammed out of the car.

‘We did not know he was taking part in the protests,’ said Abu Moussa, as they entered the hospital. ‘His friends brought him home or he would have died in the street.’

‘It was a good thing you brought him to me,’ said Pops. ‘Now, Zafir, stay with Abu Moussa and make sure he keeps warm.’

Pops turned and gave orders to the staff to get the theatre ready for an emergency operation.

He was pulling on his grey surgical scrubs when another doctor appeared. Dr Bassell. He was puffing and there was perspiration on his round, bald head. A crumb was stuck in his neat black moustache.

‘Good evening, Dr Haddad. What’s going on? I was having my dinner when I was informed you’re about to perform an emergency operation in theatre. It can’t be done. There are proper procedures to be carried out.’

‘Ah, Dr Bassell, good evening. Everything’s fine. Please go back to your dinner. I’ve prepped the man. Our anaesthetist, Dr Al Qubair, is standing by and the nurses are ready. I just need to scrub and I can get on with it.’

‘But what is this emergency?’ asked Dr Bassell. His face was going red and his voice was raised. ‘Is it a gunshot wound?’

Pops didn’t reply. He scrubbed his hands and pulled on his gloves.

Dr Bassell’s cheeks were puffing out like he was about to explode. ‘We’ve been ordered to let the authorities know if anyone comes in with a gunshot wound as it’s likely that they’ve been involved in illegal activity in the streets.’

‘I have no time to argue with you or the man will die,’ said Pops coldly. ‘We can discuss this matter afterwards.’

‘If he is a traitor to the homeland then he deserves to die,’ shouted Dr Bassell as Pops headed for the operating theatre.

It had been such a long day. Zafir only realised he’d fallen asleep in the chair at the hospital when Pops shook him by the shoulder. He was still dressed in his grey pants and loose top.

Abu Moussa, who had also fallen asleep beside Zafir, jumped up and then fell straight down on his knees in front of Pops.

‘Please, sayidi, sir, tell me …’

Pops ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Your son will live. By great luck, the bullet did not sever the spinal cord.’

‘Allah Akbar, God is great! Can I see him?’

‘Yes. Come this way.’

Pops made them scrub their hands and then led them both into a ward where there were half a dozen beds – some with screens around them.

Mohammed had woken up and although he still looked pale, even against the white sheets and pillow, he was alive.

‘Are you a madman?’ asked Abu Moussa. ‘Why did you join those protests? You could have been killed.’

‘Many were killed,’ said Mohammed. ‘The bullets were hammering down on us like iron rain.’

‘Alhamdulillah, praise God, that you are alive after such an experience,’ said Abu Moussa. He kissed his son’s hand and then turned and kissed Pops’s hands too.

Zafir stepped backwards. Just in case Abu Moussa wanted to kiss his hands as well. He felt glad that Mohammed was okay. He grinned at Pops and Pops grinned back.

But it was at that moment that everything went wrong.

A loud clattering sound was followed by running footsteps. Suddenly, six Mukhabarat security forces men wearing black uniforms ran through the swinging doors into the room. They carried guns and looked ready to shoot. Dr Bassell strode in behind them.

‘Where is the traitor?’ yelled one of the men. Before Pops had the chance to say a word, Dr Bassell spoke.

‘There he is,’ said Dr Bassell. He pointed to Mohammed who was too weak to even sit up.

‘Arrest him,’ yelled the man who was giving the orders.

‘You cannot do that,’ said Pops. ‘This man has just had a major operation. He needs to recover.’

‘He can recover in a prison cell.’ The leader of the security forces nodded to his men to take Mohammed.

‘I cannot let you do this,’ said Pops. He stood by the bed with his arms wide to protect Mohammed.

‘Arrest this doctor also,’ screamed the man. ‘If he has operated on this traitor then he is a traitor too.’

‘Zafir, go!’ Pops said calmly. ‘Abu Moussa, please take him home. Now.’

Later Zafir couldn’t remember anything about the drive back to Tetah’s house. Pops would have said Zafir was in shock, but he couldn’t speak, not even when Mum asked him where Pops was or when Tetah wouldn’t stop screaming after Abu Moussa told them what had happened.

Zafir felt so tired. He wanted to sleep but when he closed his eyes all he could see was the image of Pops standing by Mohammed’s bed, arms wide, as the security forces moved towards him with their guns pointed at his heart.