Kiama hops over. ‘My flip-flop broke. Where’s Mum?’

‘Oh, she needed something from the car.’ Her voice sounds empty and it feels like she’s not really here. ‘Give it to me,’ she says for a distraction. She focuses on trying to push the rubber thong back through the sole, but the hole’s been made too big. ‘This isn’t going to work. You need new ones.’

‘But these are my favourites. Nana got them for me. They make them in Brazil out of car tyres.’

‘I’ll get you another pair.’

‘When? Now? Cause I can’t walk like this,’ he demonstrates hopping around in a little circle.

She could do that, walk about the shops with Kiama and pretend as if nothing happened. Maybe eventually Emma would calm down and join them. Except Emma has the money, Yvonne hadn’t thought to bring a small handbag with her and earlier put her purse and phone in Emma’s bag. ‘Your mum has my money.’

‘Ah,’ Kiama shouts, ‘my trainers are in the car, let’s get them.’ He hops towards the escalators then stops to look back at her and waves. She takes his wrist to steady him as they step on then off, her anxiety growing as they push open the doors into the grey low-ceilinged car park.

‘I don’t remember where we parked,’ she says.

‘Mum always parks in the same place. Blue zone. This is annoying.’ He pulls off the other flip-flop and hands it to her. ‘I’ll wash my feet when I get home. Don’t tell Cynthia, she hates it when—’

A man shouts, he’s Kenyan but the words are English, something like, ‘Don’t try, don’t fight.’

It shocks Yvonne into stillness. Kiama pauses too and looks back at her. The man shouts again, this time she doesn’t catch the words. There’s another voice, different, and angrier, yelling. Yvonne grabs Kiama by the T-shirt and pulls him back. A bunch of keys falls on the floor, then there’s a scream, a woman. A shot is fired and Yvonne drops, pulling Kiama with her. Glass smashes. Another shot.

She can’t tell if it’s near or far, the acoustics of the space confuse her. On the ground in front there’s nothing unusual, concrete, wheels, a few stray pieces of litter.

An exit door opens and men in light green shirts run in. They’re uniformed? Security? Safety? They shout something in Swahili. An engine starts and the sound of the radio momentarily blares then shuts off. The car disappears leaving the smell of burnt rubber and Bonfire Night. Silence.

Kiama rises from the floor and Yvonne reaches out to grab him but his T-shirt slips through her fingers. For a moment she’s paralysed and muddled, cold and sweating, unable to get up.

She hears Kiama scream for his mum.