It began to rain and Elyas went to get the car, leaving Ahad waiting with Jia. The silence was uncomfortable. She took her phone from her pocket and began flicking through emails, more out of habit than obligation. This was how it had been for months, her not speaking, him pretending it was OK. But today would be different. Ahad had decided it so. ‘Why did you hate your father?’ he asked.

Jia looked up from her phone. ‘What makes you think I hated him?’

‘Because I hated you too.’

She put her phone down. That she was important enough in his life to be hated, that his feelings towards her despite her absence were so strong, surprised her.

‘I get it now, though,’ he said.

‘Get what?’ She looked straight at him, into his face and the eyes that had once belonged to her brother.

‘That you had your reasons,’ he said. ‘I’m not like everyone else. But I am like you, and you’re like your dad. Other people don’t see the world like we do. We’re different.’

‘That’s a lot of introspection,’ said Jia.

Ahad shrugged. For a sixteen-year-old he was articulate in a way that most teenagers were not. Jia could see that private schooling had paid for itself.

‘I know you blame everyone for your brother’s death, including my dad. The thing is, he’s still hung up on you.’

He stopped, seeing her reaction. His words had removed her mask and behind it stood a woman who did not know she was loved. He took something from his back pocket and handed it to her. She found herself holding a single photo-booth picture. Black and white, curled at the corner, it was of her and Elyas pulling faces at the lens. There was a date on the back, the year slightly smudged, the words ‘Leeds Festival’ still readable. Looking at it reminded her that she had once been full of life and love and trust. But she only understood that now that she wasn’t.

‘I found it when we were packing. He keeps it with his passport, won’t travel without it.’ Ahad took the photograph back from Jia. ‘You think that because he wants you and ignores all the chaos that goes with you, he’s weak. That being cold and distant somehow makes you strong. But you need him to keep feeling something. Anything. Look, I know you’ve been sleeping with him. I know you come to our place late at night. I keep finding your fucking stuff. And I don’t care, OK? Just don’t hurt my dad. He deserves better than that.’