‘Right here, the Eastern DRC, is the epicentre of the worst conflict on earth since the Second World War, in terms of casualties. Around six million people have been killed in these parts since 1996, and many more displaced.’ Her eyes had that faraway look that I know so well; ever since we were little kids she’s worn that expression while reeling off the facts about whatever she was interested in at that point in time, whether it be dog breeds or table-tennis bats. I did what I’ve always done, which is smile and let the detail wash over me, as she talked about a Rwandan genocide which prompted mass immigration, disputes with neighbouring Uganda and Rwanda in the wake of it, endemic corruption and the proliferation (her words, not mine, though I got what they meant more or less) of armed militia fighting for power and natural resources in the absence of government control. ‘It’s not just soldiers and militants who’ve been killed and hurt. Everyday civilians, women, the elderly and so many kids. It barely makes the news back home for some reason, but recent history here has been a tragic mess. The doctors in this hospital must have seen some horrific injuries. Not to belittle what’s happened to Xander, but I imagine they’ll make short work of a broken leg, if that’s what it is.’

I would have felt awkward listening to this in front of Marcel. This ‘tragic mess’ was his country, but although we’d only been waiting ten minutes he’d already gone off, saying he was going to tell the nurse what Caleb had said about his father’s name. All three of us told him that wasn’t necessary, but he waved us away. It seemed almost as if he was worried that failure to do as Caleb had asked might cost him something.

27.

As expected, the X-ray confirmed that Xander’s leg was broken. He’d fractured his tibia, to be precise. It was a closed fracture, the doctor explained to us in the waiting room. When I asked her what that meant, Amelia butted in with, ‘More serious than a hairline fracture, yet not misaligned or worse still poking through the skin, but then we knew that. At least it’s unlikely to need surgery.’

The doctor had plump fingers with very pink cuticles. She did a little thumbs-up gesture and said, ‘Impressive!’

‘Thank you, but am I correct?’ said Amelia.

‘You are.’

It was a relief to hear they hadn’t whisked Xander off to surgery. When I broke my wrist falling off my bike I had to have it pinned. Not pleasant. Neither is a plaster cast though, and that’s what he was having fitted. When he emerged he was on crutches, his lower leg a solid orange boot.

‘Do you like it? I got to choose the colour,’ he said.

‘Very … cheerful,’ I replied.