‘Where are we going now?’ asked Zafir. It was weird. So much was wrong, but at least Uncle Ghazi had come and found him. Zafir carefully wrapped the miracle egg in an old dishcloth that he’d found and put it inside his helmet for safekeeping. He had a giddy, almost high feeling, like now everything was going to be okay. He’d survived a bomb blast, Tetah was alive, Rosa would get better in hospital, Uncle Ghazi knew where Mum was and Pops was sure to get out of prison soon. Then everyone would be happy. Tetah would be sad about her house, but Mum and Pops would find a new house and she could come and live with them. Or, maybe they’d all go to Australia.

‘Are we going to Damascus?’ Zafir asked.

‘No. We’re not going to Damascus. Oh God! What am I going to do?’

Zafir looked up at Uncle Ghazi. He’d started walking in circles.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Zafir. His dream of their happy future was evaporating faster than steam.

Uncle Ghazi gave a short, hard laugh and there was a look on his face that Zafir had never seen before.

‘Look around you, Zafir, and you ask what’s wrong. Your grandmother’s house is rubble, there are tanks on the streets, people are being shot at, injured, murdered … and the world just sits on its hands and looks on. And now you’ve got nowhere to go and I promised …’ He stopped and squatted on the ground with his back to Zafir and put his hands over his face.

Zafir stared at Uncle Ghazi’s back. All the high feelings of a minute ago were gone. He felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff and that one more step, one more word, would send him hurtling down into a dark place. All the same he knew he had to ask. He took a deep breath.

‘Where’s Mum? She’s okay, isn’t she?’

‘She’s safer than we are right now,’ Uncle Ghazi answered but avoided telling Zafir where she was.

‘Where is she then?’

‘We don’t have time to talk now. We’ve got to get you out of here.’

‘But I want to know!’ Zafir was angry now. Uncle Ghazi was treating him like a kid. Why wouldn’t he tell him the truth?

‘Just leave it!’ Uncle Ghazi shouted at him. Zafir was stunned. Uncle Ghazi had never raised his voice before. Not even when Zafir was little and had been much more of a pest.

Uncle Ghazi took some deep breaths and then spoke in a calmer voice.

‘As I said before, we haven’t got time to talk now. We need to get back to the apartment where I’m staying without being shot at in the street.’ He glanced around as if a police truck might come up behind them.

‘Look, I found some of your things earlier.’ He pointed to a small pile and Zafir saw his schoolbag that still had his books in it, the solar cap, his sports gear, a toilet bag and his school identity card. There was also a small suitcase of clothes, but, best of all, Uncle Ghazi had found his trainers and his skateboard.

Zafir grabbed the board and examined it. It had a split along the deck, and underneath the trucks were all twisted and half the screws had come out. It was useless. Zafir felt a horrible scratchiness in his throat and a tear he couldn’t stop trickled down the side of his nose.

‘I’ll get you a new one,’ said Uncle Ghazi, putting his hand on Zafir’s shoulder. ‘A better one. When all this is over.’

Zafir sniffed and nodded. It wasn’t just the skateboard. He looked around and saw things as they were. It was hard to think of a time when it would all be over and impossible to believe anything would ever be the same again.

‘Come on,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘We’re going to have to go. Let’s hope there are some taxis around, because it’s too far for you to walk in your condition.’

‘I’m okay,’ said Zafir, but as he stood up the pain in his side grabbed at him. He grimaced but didn’t say anything. He had to be strong now.

Uncle Ghazi looked up at the sky. ‘It’s nearly salat el aser, afternoon prayer time. We must hurry.’

When Zafir looked at his watch he saw it was just after four o’clock. He was pleased his watch hadn’t stopped after all but it was still hard to believe he’d been buried for so many hours.

Uncle Ghazi picked up the suitcase and the bag. Although it hurt his ribs to carry it, Zafir couldn’t leave his skateboard behind.

Zafir saw that the house behind Tetah’s has also been hit and others nearby had shattered windows and broken balconies. Near al-Nouri mosque an old woman with her apron over her head stood at the entrance to her home. The front had been hit and the inside had been exposed to everyone like it were a doll’s house with its doors open. The woman was wailing for her husband but her cries were drowned out by the call to prayer.

Zafir and his uncle hurried around behind the mosque and up Bab Houd Street where some shops had dented shutters and others were blackened with smoke. They managed to catch a taxi there, but the driver shook his head when Uncle Ghazi asked him to go to Baba Amr, a poorer district to the west of the new city area.

‘It is dangerous there,’ the driver said.

‘Can you get us at least to Al Karama Street?’ asked Uncle Ghazi.

‘One thousand, five hundred pounds,’ said the taxi driver.

‘But that’s the price for tourists and it’s less than ten minutes’ drive from here,’ protested Uncle Ghazi.

The taxi driver gave a shrug. ‘These are difficult times and there are not so many taxis on the street.’

‘Okay,’ said Uncle Ghazi.

They drove through the back streets, avoiding Al-Korniche, the taxi swerving around all the corners. Zafir started to feel sick. He was glad to get out.

‘It’s maybe five minutes’ walk from here,’ said Uncle Ghazi after he had unrolled a wad of notes and paid the taxi driver. ‘Are you okay?’

Zafir nodded but nothing felt okay. All the shops had their shutters firmly closed and the streets were gloomy as the sun had dropped behind the buildings. The taxi’s tyres squealed as it took off.

‘Keep close to the buildings and as much out of sight as you can,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He set off at a fast pace. Zafir was gasping by the time they got to an apartment block with a tailor’s shop underneath called ‘Qik and Fast Sewing’. Around the side of the shop was a narrow lane littered with blue plastic bags and yellowed pages of old newspapers and other rubbish. The lane led to a door in the wall and behind that were concrete steps to the apartments above. They stopped on the second floor at apartment number seven.

‘I’ve been staying here in Homs with a friend since Friday,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘He and I are working together. We’re doing something that’s important, but it’s dangerous too.’

Zafir nodded. His ribs were hurting and his head was aching. He just wanted to sit down.

‘Anyway Zaf, you’ll have stay out here for a few minutes. I need to talk to my friend about you being here and why you have to stay with me until—’

Zafir didn’t want to make Uncle Ghazi mad again but he had to say what he’d been thinking about on the way.

‘Can’t I just go to Damascus and stay with Mum and her friend? If she’s still there.’ Uncle Ghazi didn’t answer straight away and Zafir went on quickly. ‘I can take the bus. I won’t be scared.’

‘I know you wouldn’t,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He put his arm around Zafir’s shoulder and gave him a quick hug. ‘You’ve been such a brave kid with everything that’s happened. But I can’t let you go by yourself and it’s not a good idea for me to go with you right now.’

As he spoke, strange sounds from inside the apartment distracted Zafir: a slapping and a squeaking and a thud.

What was going on in there?