They did not move until they had finished all the olives in the jar. Only the brine remained, wasted vinegar speckled green with bits of olive.

The bag of clothes was heavy and Kassim took the bus instead of walking. It did not take him long to get over the shock of Shushu. He had seen her type late at night in the kebab shop, women ravaged by dieting and trying too hard. He pitied them, as if they were ill or handicapped. It was the kind of pity that made them distant, far removed. If Kassim was given to irony he would have compared Dina’s Muslim mother to his own Western mother and laughed. His mother was conservative and sedate, prim and house-proud. But Kassim was not given to irony or despair. He believed that wrong could be made right, nothing was impossible and things could improve.

By the time he reached the kebab shop and put the clothes at the back with all the other donations, going to Syria, he had forgotten all about Shushu. The rice he cooked that night was a success. There were congratulations from Basheer. ‘You’ve done it, Kassim. Every grain of rice can’t stand the touch of its brother.’ They laughed and high fived.

The next day Dina took her father’s suits to the kebab shop. She got a lift in a friend’s car and chatted all the way proudly about Kassim, Syria and the clothes. The fact that her father’s clothes were going to the Syrian refugees gave his death a profoundness it hadn’t had before. In the kebab shop, Basheer was busy serving customers. It was the first time for Dina to say ‘Salamu alleikum’. The self-consciousness passed when Basheer replied. He saw the clothes she was carrying and said, ‘Thank you, this is a big help. Give them to Kassim, he’s in the back.’