The surge of rage she had felt when she’d collected Benyamin began to flow again, bringing images flashing through her mind: Ben’s tyre-marked body, young children with heroin pouches in their intestines and Nowak’s smug face. It didn’t consume her, it didn’t overwhelm, it renewed her. It coursed through her veins, spreading to her extremities, making her feel powerful. She formed a fist with her right hand, before letting her fingers fall loose. ‘Sabar and salaat,’ her father had said. Patience and prayer. The time for both was done.

‘We will make them pay,’ she whispered, her voice ice cold. ‘I am going to do this,’ she said. ‘And you’re going to help me. There will be no more corner-shop crime. There will be a new Jirga, and it will be run the way I say.’

Benyamin had been a few streets away when the explosion happened, Sakina in his car once again. She’d unbuttoned her burqa, and the scent of her perfume filled the car. He was pleased. She’d liked his gift. ‘The usual?’ she said. He nodded. His face was red but the tension in his head was beginning to subside.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Just try and relax.’

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The deliciousness of drifting into sleep swept over him as her hand moved down his arm. And that’s when the blast happened, reverberating through the car and all around. Sakina gasped. ‘What the hell was that?’ But suddenly, Benyamin couldn’t breathe. His airways constricted, the oxygen trapped and unable to pass into his lungs. His chest felt tight, his stomach heavy. He reached up to his throat; he was frightened and fighting to breathe.

Sakina rooted around in the glove compartment and pulled something out. She reached over. ‘Breathe into this,’ she said, giving him a brown paper bag. He put his face to the bag and began to take deep breaths. As the panic attack subsided, he leaned back in his seat and checked his phone. There was a message. ‘It’s an explosion on Durban Street,’ he said. ‘Jia is there. She’s fine.’

‘You don’t have to help,’ said Sakina. ‘They don’t know you’re nearby.’

Shame flooded through Benyamin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for being like this.’

He was grateful for her presence, but conflicted. He’d never needed anyone before, and now, when he did, it was a prostitute. They’d been doing this for weeks. Him coming here, just to sleep. Her watching over him, soothing him.

His family thought he was collecting the milk money. Jia had suggested it might be good for him to keep a hand in the business as he recovered. But what did Jia know? She wasn’t the one having the nightmares. She wasn’t waking up in a cold sweat, or being triggered into panic mode by the flash of car headlights.