They sat awkwardly through the second half of the show. Elyas was glad the couple next to them had gone. He wasn’t in the mood to make polite conversation. When it was over, the three of them left the theatre in silence. Orange street lights studded the night sky, and there was a steady backdrop hum of traffic, punctuated only by the distant sound of the odd siren. They set off down the road to the curry house where he had parked his car. Jia was about to cross the street, her foot stepping out on to the tarmac, when she heard a screeching of tyres and felt her chest being crushed as a strong arm hit her full on, pushing her to the ground. She landed heavily, her handbag spilling its contents across the road, and there followed what sounded like a volley of fireworks, so loud that her eardrums felt as if they would burst. Time seemed to slow down and then speed up as people ran towards her and then past her to help someone else. Jia looked across to see a man on the ground, his body heavy and lifeless. Something was seeping into her clothes and on to her hands. She brought her fingers up to her face to see what it was, and was hit by the unmistakeable smell of iron. It was blood. Where was Elyas? She looked around frantically, her head cloudy, her eyes trying to focus on the body. From the angle at which he lay, she couldn’t tell who it was. Then she heard Elyas’s voice, followed by Ahad’s, and relief flooded over her.

The ringing in her ears had subsided by the time Elyas reluctantly left her on the doorstep of Pukhtun House. Everything that had happened since the shooting – the rush to get to safety, dropping Ahad off, the journey home – had gone by in a blur. As soon as Elyas had handed back the things he’d picked up off the road, she thanked him and said goodnight, stuffing them back into her handbag. She didn’t want him to stay. When she got in the house, she rummaged for her phone. Everything was covered in fine powder – her compact must have smashed when it fell to the ground. She brushed off the phone and dialled.

‘What happened? Was it Nowak?’ she said when Idris picked up.

‘No, not as far as we know. We can’t be sure yet who the target was, or if there even was one. The streets are turning rogue without a Khan. They’re trying to fill the void he left, fighting among themselves.’

‘And the man? The one who was shot?’

‘He’s dead. Shot by one of the men on the motorbike. He was just some guy who had stopped to buy milk on his way home from work. Wife, kids, steady job.’