She decided to go for a drive. The Blackburn of Samir’s youth had, by all accounts, been a lively place attracting crowds of young people to once-famous nightclubs like The Cavendish – the ‘Cav’ – the entire top floor of a multi-storey car park where girls came down from the mills and danced around handbags dumped inside their circle while young men lounged against walls injecting pints of Thwaites beer for late-night courage. Later, the town had hosted nocturnal raves and no one seemed to mind too much. The clientele was solidly white; this place had also been a fertile breeding ground for the National Front.

Now the city centre was deserted – it was mid-week but hard to imagine what the attraction could be on any night. She drove past the occasional sad-looking pub with dimmed lights, and late-night stores with lonely faces slumped over motionless cash tills. On a whim, which she justified as a search for inspiration, she drove to Gent Street, parking a hundred yards down from Sami’s house. The porch light was on and the sitting-room curtains left a sufficient gap to know that someone was inside. She looked in the off-side wing mirror. A figure was approaching at a fast walk – it could be him. Of course, if he was doing the evening shift, he’d be returning home around now. It was too late to start the car and attract attention; she slid down in her seat and pulled her scarf over her face. The figure walked on past without a beat. She peered up as it crossed the road and continued along the pavement, not even casting a glance at Samir’s front door. She felt foolish, unable to conceive what enlightenment she had come in search of. Perhaps it was simply to check the reality of him; that he had lived through something that was not a fantasy.

Her phone buzzed. She recoiled, then forced herself to click on it.

Hope you’re enjoying it up North.

An unfamiliar number, no name.

She turned away, staring blankly through the window at the dark street, frightened. A few seconds later, the phone, still in her hand, shuddered. This time it was ringing. With a name.

‘Patrick!’

‘Hey, sorry, is it too late? You sound startled.’

‘No, no. It’s fine. I was just in the middle of something.’ She hoped he wasn’t smelling her fear. ‘It’s kind of late to ring.’

‘Yeah, sorry. Just wanted to be sure you’re OK.’

‘Of course I’m OK.’

‘I didn’t like leaving you.’

‘I’m a big girl, Patrick.’ She imagined the grin. ‘How was the football?’

She sensed him hesitating. ‘You know, Sara, I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this. It was cancelled. Could have stayed up North.’

‘Bad luck. But did you see him?’

‘Not even that, he remained with the enemy. Sorry, the nanny.’

‘What a waste.’