Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Praise
- About the Author
- Title Page
- Intoroduction
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EITHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- CLIMATE EMERGENCY
- Copyright
It’s on one of these circuits that I see Ahmed, on his own, in one of the IT labs in the technology block. He’s sitting at a computer, a screen of numbers in front of him, typing away at the keyboard. I watch him through the glass screen in the door for a few minutes, until he leans back in his chair, stretching.
He smiles as I walk in.
‘Josh! Not detention, surely?’
‘No, extra Biology. You?’
‘Coding club.’ He looks around the empty computer room. ‘Great turn out, as normal.’ He’s pretty good at sarcasm.
‘No teacher?’
‘Miss Fring left a few minutes ago. She says as long as I’m out when the caretakers come, she’s happy for me to carry on.’
‘Oh. What are you doing?’ I look at the screen, but nothing about it makes the smallest bit of sense.
‘Nothing really, just playing around. Check this out.’ Ahmed opens another browser tab, shows me a video of a football match. I don’t recognise the kits. ‘Al Ittihad,’ Ahmed explains. ‘In the red.’
The shots are mostly of the crowd, people waving flags, standing on concrete barriers and singing. Every now and then, a police officer or some military personnel with a baton, or a machine gun. The pitch is dusty, and I don’t get much sense of what’s going on. The camera only catches the celebrations for one of the goals.
When the video finishes, Ahmed rubs his eyes. ‘We won 2 – 1.’
‘Well done. Where are they – you – in the league now?’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, really. It’s just … well, that was the first football match in Aleppo for five years. Last time I went to that stadium was with my father.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. I put a hand on his shoulder.
After a few seconds, Ahmed shrugs me off, closes down the window, and the screen of numbers and code flashes up again. In the bottom corner is what looks like a chat box, but I don’t get a chance to read it before Ahmed shuts down the computer. I get a slight feeling that there’s something Ahmed doesn’t want me to know about. ‘Ready to go?’
‘I didn’t know you were into this stuff.’ I gesture at some computers in general.
‘Sometimes it’s useful.’
There’s a pause while I stand in the doorway, unsure of how to leave.
‘Hey, I think we go the same way home, right?’ Ahmed shrugs on his coat, picks up his bag.
‘Yeah, I think so.’