Until three days ago, when he received a call from Nasrene LeBrac. Had he seen Violette? He thought he’d misunderstood at first. Had Jamal seen his niece who lived with Nasrene and Christophe on the other side of the world? But according to Nasrene, some nameless man had phoned to tell them that Violette had spent the past seven days in Normandy. Jamal thought Nasrene had lost her mind because they all knew that Violette was on a hike in the Tasmanian wilderness. And then came the worst part. Violette was at the campsite outside Boulogne-sur-Mer where a bomb had gone off on a tour bus. Jamal headed out there, but the only way of getting through those police barricades was to prove he was a parent or guardian. He returned to his flat trying to think of a way.

Violette found him first, just before dawn on Sunday morning. He’d gone for an early run to clear his head and returned to find her on the front step of the gym below his flat. She was with a younger boy. Jamal hadn’t seen her since she was four years old. The Australian government had refused him a visa year after year, and no amount of Skype sessions and photographs could prepare him for seeing her in the flesh. She was dressed in skinny black jeans and a black Astro Boy singlet. She was all gorgeous serious eyes and a feral, thin-lipped mouth that promised a baring of teeth when required. She was his mother. Little Aziza, they had nicknamed her as a kid. She was the question on the lips of every member of Jamal’s extended family, from Le Havre to Alexandria to Beirut. Jamal’s response was always the same. ‘She’s safe in Australia with Nasrene and Christophe. Nothing can hurt her now.’

But there was a look in Violette’s eyes that told him those days were over. ‘We need to go inside,’ she said. She was carrying nothing with her, not even a backpack.

Wordlessly he took her hand, dropping his keys once. Twice. Until they were all three in the gym and Violette was clinging to him, both their arms shaking as they held each other.

‘I’m sorry,’ she cried. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Talk to me, Violette,’ he said, turning on the lights. ‘Nasrene and Christophe are out of their minds with worry. Why would you come all the way here without telling anyone? Without seeing me?’

She didn’t reply, just looked at the boy. A skinny kid in sunglasses and a hoodie, despite the time of the morning and the heat. A wannabe rapper’s version of incognito. Bloody annoying.

‘You were down at the campsite,’ she said. ‘You know how bad it was.’

How could he not? Five dead. More injured. Some badly. It’s what happened when you were the son of Louis Sarraf. You became obsessed with victims and numbers and how many people were affected. One dead man meant kids and a wife and parents and brothers and sisters and in-laws and nieces and nephews. Injured kids meant the same. A mother. Father. Two sets of grandparents. Say, seven aunts and uncles and at least fourteen cousins. Not to mention friends . . . Jamal had become a mathematician after his father blew up their lives. The figures he tallied based on twenty-three fatalities fucked with his head every time.