Hamid saw her stand up, pick up the Johnny Walker and pour what was left of it down the drain. She poured it carefully so that not a single drop splashed on the sink where later the children’s bowls and bottles would wait to be washed.

The Boy from the Kebab Shop

The sign was on the door of the computer room.

MUSLIM STUDENTS’ SOCIETY

FUND RAISING FOR SYRIA TALK & DINNER

TIME: TONIGHT 6:00PM VENUE: CHAPLAINCY CENTRE

Dina went for the food. She arrived late and walked in as some people were leaving. Those who hadn’t yet left were finishing their dinner, eating curry and rice off paper plates with plastic spoons. Not everyone was sitting around a table; some were sitting on chairs with plates on their laps, some were sitting on the floor. A few children ran around, climbed on the chairs and jumped off. The majority of people in the room were young students, though there were some mature students and a few middle-aged. Many of the girls were wearing headscarves, some were wearing shalwar kameez – others like Dina wore the student outfit of jeans, sweatshirt and outrageous shoes. She joined the queue for the dinner. It was not a long queue.

Kassim scooped the lumpy, unpopular rice from a crate (which was actually a plastic box for storing toys), put it on a paper plate and said again, ‘We’ve run out of chapattis.’ With a soup ladle, he dished out curry from a huge pot. The last spoonfuls were thick with bits of chicken and pulverised potatoes. For the third time that evening, a student cut the queue and dumped his uneaten food in front of Kassim.

‘I can’t eat this rice.’ The student wore an Adidas sweatshirt and glasses, ‘It’s not cooked. Look at it, stuck in lumps …’

‘I’m sorry …’ Kassim scooped the last piece of cucumber from the salad bowl and gave the plate to the young boy who was standing in front of Dina in the queue. The boy gave him a five-pound note and Kassim stuffed it in a Flora margarine container that was full of coins and notes. The boy didn’t want any change.

‘Give me chapattis instead of the rice,’ said the student.

‘We’ve run out of chapattis.’

‘You’ve run out of chapattis, you’re running out of chicken, what sort of organising is this? Every single function we have, there’s something or other wrong with the food. You people can never get it right.’ He walked away, hungry and angry.

Kassim put rice on Dina’s plate. He stirred the ladle in the pot of curry searching for a piece of chicken. He said, ‘It’s mostly gravy now.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She noticed that he looked scruffy and clean at the same. Scruffy because of his beard and longish hair.

‘I’ve found a wing,’ he looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry there’s no salad left.’