‘They should love you, Jacov,’ she had protested. ‘You were an Olympic hero for Yugoslavia.’

He had shaken his head. ‘That only makes them hate me more. No, the Yugoslavia I loved is gone. We have to go too. Don’t worry, the arrangements will be made.’

Jacov was a taciturn man who wasn’t given to panic, so his words had resonated with her. He feared no one, but she could see he was terrified for his family.

Their home was in the high ground south-west of Sarajevo. The area would clearly become the focus of intense military activity as the opposing forces tried to gain an advantage. No one would be safe when the paramilitaries came, particularly the Roma and their children.

When the opposing forces clashed, as they surely would, Jacov had feared he wouldn’t be able to protect them, so he’d made his plans to get them all out safely… But before Jacov could do anything, they’d run out of time.

She shuddered at the memory of the day before, when the gang of Serbs had come to their home and tried to get Jacov to throw in his lot with them.

‘Join us, Jacov,’ the grinning leader had said. ‘Join us in ridding our country of the Bosniak scum and non-believers. Do that and we will forgive you for marrying a Roma bitch.’

Jacov had launched at the man, breaking his nose with a thunderous right hook. And after that… It had all happened so quickly after that. A rifle butt to the back of Jacov’s neck dropped him to the floor, and he was dragged outside. Aishe was left alone with the leader. He had looked her up and down and her stomach had churned, the silence in the room overpowering as she had realised what he intended.

He had approached her, fumbling with his trousers, a pistol in his free hand. As she shook her head, the crack of a gunshot from outside split the silence in two.

The memory welled up, threatening to overwhelm her, but she forced the horror down. Only now mattered, only right now and the chance she had, her one remaining chance, to get a future for little Tomo.

The arrangements made by Jacov had amounted to a scrap of paper with a name and telephone number scribbled on it. She’d made the call which had led them to a cab office in a grimy side street in downtown Sarajevo. Aishe and Tomo entered a tired and scruffy office where an elderly woman manned the desk.

Thick dust lay everywhere, and an ancient calendar of Sarajevo’s historic buildings hung askew on the wall. Peeling linoleum covered the sticky floor. The silence was only interrupted by a ticking clock which showed it was 3.49pm.

Aishe approached the desk. ‘I’ve been told to ask for Braslav.’

‘Who are you?’ The woman’s scorn was evident with every syllable.