‘Here you go, girls,’ Tomasz says. ‘Lemon Sherbets and Black Jacks.’ He places the two boxes on the glass counter and his smile warms the room. ‘Bet you haven’t had them before.’ He gives a friendly chuckle. Rips open a black and white packet and offers us a wrapped cube.

‘My Agnieszka loves the Black Jacks. Soft and chewy, she says, but they make your tongue go black.’ Mrs Feldman looks a little worried.

‘Chill, Mum. They’re only sweets. No-one’s going to die.’

‘Cheeky wretch.’

Sabbir’s face softens and he joins us at the counter. ‘Alright, mate,’ he says to Tomasz.

‘Thanks, Thomas,’ Jasmina says, and it makes me giggle, because she’s said his name wrong. I catch the way she avoids eye contact with him, and blushes when he speaks.

‘Thank you,’ I say and don’t even try to say his name. ‘What else shall I have?’ I wonder aloud. ‘I need to add up what it comes to. We could get some Aniseed Balls and share them?’

Jasmina isn’t listening. She’s pretending to count her sweets but I can see her, watching Tomasz Feldman out of the corner of her eye.

‘What about Gob Stoppers? Shall we get some of them?’ I elbow her. ‘Or some rhubarbrhubarbrhubarbrhu . . . ?’

She hasn’t realised I’ve stopped talking.

‘You’re dribbling,’ I whisper.

‘Am not.’ She elbows me, recovers her poise and smooths her hair.

‘I’m off now, Mum.’ Tomasz glides towards the door of the shop. ‘I said I’d pick Agnieszka up from Brownies.’ He sees us watching him. ‘Definitely the Aniseed Balls,’ he says and gives us a huge wink, and I honestly think I’m about to burst.

SATURDAY

SATURDAY

Maya, 7 a.m.

Maya, 7 a.m.

First thing the next morning, I grabbed a shower and steeled myself to check the media coverage of the arson. I hoped it would be reported responsibly but experience told me it was too good a click-bait opportunity to pass up.

From the lounge, I heard the soft burble of the television news. Dougie had stayed over, so I made a fresh cafetière of coffee and took it in with a couple of mugs. ‘On a scale of one to ten, with ten as perfectly hideous, where are we?’ I slid the tray onto the coffee table and sank onto the sofa next to him.

‘Eleven.’ He picked up the cafetière and began pouring.

‘Shit.’

‘I’ve screenshot them for you.’ He passed me his iPad.

The City Eye headline said: LOCALS FEAR COPY-CAT ARSON ATTACKS.

‘Tony couldn’t resist, could he?’ I swiped at the images on the screen. The broadsheets were benign. The Messenger had taken ethnicity as their angle: IMMIGRANTS’ SHOP BURNT TO THE GROUND IN RACIST ATTACK.

‘Scumbags.’ I took a swig of coffee. ‘What about the news channels?’

‘BBC News seems to be sticking to the facts.’