The window of the Porsche slid down, and a lady with sunglasses beckoned him over. He wheeled his bike across, suddenly conscious that his hair was damp, and the rain already sliding down the back of his neck.

‘Hello James,’ the woman said, looking at him over her shades. ‘Do you remember me?’

He didn’t. She was an Asian lady his mother’s age, and she looked like a film star. Huge brown eyes lined with black, and wavy dark hair. Bollywood maybe. ‘Dunno,’ he replied.

‘I’m Rafiq’s aunt. I saw you at the school open day. I’ll give you a lift home if you like.’

James was confused. Rafiq, an Indian boy in his class, wasn’t a particular friend and had already cycled home. ‘Rafiq’s already gone. I saw him go.’

‘I know, I was a bit late getting here. Still, stopping you getting drenched will save it being a wasted journey.’ She pressed a button on the central console, and the Porsche’s hatchback lifted automatically. ‘Put your bike in carefully.’

Bewildered by the stroke of good fortune, James stowed his cycle gently on the piece of old carpet lain there across the folded-down back seat. The back closed itself. James carefully pulled open the shiny black passenger door and sat down in the front seat. The woman reached across him, to fasten his seatbelt. He could see a bit of her bra. Mauve and lacy. Her hair was almost in his face. It smelt of coconut or something. He had butterflies in his tummy, and he didn’t know why.

‘Can we go fast?’

The lady smiled back, showing perfect white teeth. Her breath smelled of mint. ‘Not on these roads, the police won’t be happy.’ She pulled away gently, heading in the wrong direction for his home. She glanced at him several times.

‘It’s that way,’ he said, pointing behind them.

She smiled at him again. ‘I’m going on the bypass. Then we can go fast. Okay?’

He stared and his throat had gone dry. ‘Brill.’ He couldn’t think that she would know him. He would have remembered seeing her. He would have to ask Rafiq tomorrow. ‘So are you Mrs Muktar?’

‘Something like that,’ she said. She passed him a Swizzels lolly on a stick. ‘Do you like these?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ He unwrapped the blackcurrant Fruity Pop, and took a tentative suck. His face crinkled, and he suppressed a yuck. ‘It tastes like cough medicine.’

‘Sorry, those are my medicated ones. Take this instead.’ She passed him an orange version. ‘Drop the other one in the plastic bag.’ She pointed to a clear Ziploc bag, in the central console. He opened the bag and dropped the vile sweet into it.

‘How often do you see your father?’

The boy looked surprised. ‘I’m in a single-parent family.’ It was his prepared explanation, used many, many times.

‘Do you know who your father is?’

He looked down in his lap and muttered, ‘It’s some bloke Mum fell for, years ago.’