‘I’m sorry, they must be at their shop. It’s only a few streets away.’

As the cab turns into the road he can see that the shop is shut. He gets out anyway and tries the door handle, peers through the glass, playing for time. He presses the buzzer once, twice, holding down his finger.

There’s no answer. The driver is watching him from the cab. He is trying to think of other local addresses when the tenant in the flat above the shop throws up the dirty sash and leans out into the street, filling the frame of the window. He is wearing white Panjabi pajama.

He steps back off the kerb and shouts up to the tenant, ‘I’m Mr Ahsan’s son.’

‘Syed?’ The man’s eyes widen. ‘Wait.’

He hears running down the stairs. The man opens the door, lets him in (‘Go upstairs. Go’) then goes out into the street and pays the cab.

Syed leaves his shoes at the top of the stairwell and enters the flat. He has not been in it since he was a child. A patchy carpet of worn rugs covers the floor, the lino cold against his stockinged feet, and two 1950s armchairs with wooden legs are set at angles to each other in the room. A half-wall of kitchen units divides the space into two rooms. He suddenly remembers being a small boy sleeping in the big bed the other side of the partition, while his mother cooked in the kitchenette, huge pans on a little stove. He remembers that there is a shower and toilet leading off the bedroom, and being washed by his mother in a plastic tub in the shower stall.

He hears the street door shut and the latch click, and the cab drive off, and the tenant comes up the stairs again.

The tenant kicks off his chappals and picks up the enamelled coffee pot on the stove, waving it aloft. ‘Do you want coffee? Would you prefer tea?’

Syed nods.

The tenant pauses for a moment, and then spoons coffee grounds into the pot. He rubs his hands. ‘It’s a bit cold in here, eh? Are you cold? Here, have a blanket. I can put the heating on.’

‘No… thank you.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Not since the plane.’

‘I can heat you some soup.’ He holds up a can in big hands. ‘Heinz Cream of Tomato.’

Syed nods. Holding the folded blanket to his chest, he watches the tenant rip the lid off the can, empty the contents into a tiny milk pan and fire up another gas ring.

The tenant lays a spoon and a plate of bread on a Formica card table patterned in the middle with scratches. He stirs the soup. The coffee pot bubbles and he pours black liquid into two toughened-glass cups.