The ICO pressed hands against their ears. They did things with their fingers like sign language, but choppier. One kicked down the gate and then they all poured forward like blackcurrant juice from a tipped cup, down the garden, over the neighbouring fences, meeting and pushing against Mo’s back door until it gave with a loud crack, rushing into the house. And it was silent. So silent, Danny almost believed nothing had happened. They flooded inside until there was no trace of them but the movement of the upstairs white nets, the crash of a plate, a bark of pain, that fast language he couldn’t describe, and the cries of a child, probably Fahima. Danny waited. Shot a look at his brother, flat on his back, gaping. Listened for his parents’ voices. Nothing. Everything calm, outside and in. His fingers grew white, the curtain bunched between them.

Mo’s nets danced, stiff and random as silent wind chimes, and he was there, framed against the dark background of the bedroom. Danny saw the brightness of his eyes from where he watched. The boy’s head turned left, right, and he threw himself down, landing on the old coal shed with a shrill cry that made Danny draw in a sharp breath. He bounced up like a tennis ball, hit the garden path and ran towards the loose, broken gate. He was limping. He must have hurt himself. A man in black appeared at the window but there were none in any of the neighbouring gardens, or by the gate, or even on the bone-white central path. Mo didn’t slow despite his limp; he just ran, leaning on his right leg, grimacing, one hand flat on that thigh. Danny felt his nails sharp in his own palms, heard himself whisper ‘Go Mo. Go.’ By the time the other officers burst from the back door and ran down the alley it was as though he had willed it. Mo disappeared.

Danny let the curtain fall, ran to the pile of clothes at the end of their bed, squirming inside tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt, hoodie. He checked on his brother, who had rolled onto his chest, nappy raised high, face buried in pillow. He grabbed his orange paper-round bag and left. His parents’ door was shut tight, but Danny still tiptoed. He trotted downstairs as quickly as he could in the darkness, keeping to the edge of each step, wincing at every creak. On the ground floor he moved faster, along the passage into the kitchen, grabbing whatever he saw – apples, crisps, fruit bars, a pack of chocolate biscuits, a box of grapes, the last of the samosas – pushing them all inside his bag. In the passage, he stifled the tinkling chatter of keys as best he could, unlocking the front door with one hand on the bunch, the other doing the important work, entering and twisting, before he slid them down in his pocket and snaked into dawn.