‘Leave me alone,’ Shushu’s voice was tired, withdrawn. Kassim looked for Dina the next day at college and found her in the computer room. He sat on the swivel chair next to her and watched her as she worked. She was wearing glasses. He gave her the samosas he had made for her. Chicken and vegetable samosas in a greasy brown bag. Her gratitude and pleasure were the reward he wanted. She ate them straightaway even though there was a sign saying that no food or drink was allowed into the computer room.

‘I’m thinking of getting married,’ Kassim said to Basheer. Five o’clock was quiet in the kebab shop. Things picked up after six and got brisker. The busiest time was when the pubs closed at eleven. ‘That’s great,’ said Basheer. His eyes lit up as they did whenever he was deeply pleased.

‘Still at the early stages,’ said Kassim.

‘Inshallah the wife you choose will be good and calm like you, and a strong believer,’ he put his arm around Kassim.

‘Thanks Basheer.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve learnt a lot from you.’

Basheer shrugged and continued to hook alternate pieces of meat and green peppers onto a skewer.

Although Kassim regularly attended the converts’ class at the mosque and learnt a lot, it was the daily contact with Basheer that had made him live Islam. It was working with Basheer, day-in day-out, through the mundane and the significant that had made Islam a rhythmic reality, a feasible way of living. Kassim had not had a religious upbringing. His Moroccan father had given him a Muslim name, circumcised him at the age of eight months, and took him to the children’s mosque school only five times. After that, secular life had taken over. Kassim’s Scottish mother had no interest in religion and no Muslim friends. She was close to her large Aberdeenshire family and Kassim grew up with Christmas and Hogmanay. Most times he felt he was just like his cousins, though he was conscious of his weird name and his father who spoke English with a funny accent. Kassim grew up a confident, happy child. Yet sometimes an incident would occur or someone would behave in a way that would make him stop, stand still and think, ‘This canna be right.’ He would not dwell on it too much, though. It was not in his nature to brood. Instead, he would shrug the feeling off and continue. It was judo that awakened his dormant Muslim identity. Judo lessons that were held in the city, away from his suburban home. He took the bus into town and his mother and cousins thought that judo was just a teenage whim that would pass. But he made friends with some of the other boys in the class. Arab boys who recognised his name straightaway.