‘Maybe in a few decades our people will have become equals in this country. But it’s unlikely. British courts speak of honour but they set up secret courts to judge us. They hold our sons without charge for years, they put our husbands in planes and send them to the US for crimes they say have been committed on British soil, all the while hiding the menfolk of Elizabeth and Mary and Katherine behind their skirts. In the West, justice and mercy is reserved for the light-skinned, the Christian-named.’

‘That is what you believe?’ Elyas said.

Jia’s eyes were dark like coal. ‘This much I know: if your name is Mohammed or Ali or Usman, you are a rapist or a terrorist, you’re a danger to society. You are guilty unless you can prove innocence,’ she said. ‘But those with power will find respect wherever they go. They are a law unto themselves. They belong to every country and to none. My father knew this and he was right.’

‘I respect your views,’ he said. He moved forward and took her hand. ‘I know you, Jia Khan,’ he said. ‘I know that whatever you do is for others. And I know that we are better together. Let me help you.’

Jia considered his words and knew that it was time to tell him the truth. Her eyes locked on to his. ‘There is a bitterness inside me. It comes over me slowly,’ she said. ‘And it makes me want to wipe the happiness right off their privileged faces. I watch people struggle, good people, kind people, struggling through life with bills and poor health and clever children born on the wrong side of the tracks. I pray to God to help us. I recite the Durood over and over, asking Him to help the people of Muhammad, but I cannot tell you who I am praying for any more. Who are these people? Are they the ones who stand in the mosque, who are wealthy enough to give alms to the poor? What about the women who sell their bodies to feed their babies? The men who get high to hide from the shame of their past mistakes? The sinners who pray in the cover of darkness and feed the poor their own blood and soul? All of us having to make sacrifices, over and over again. And sometimes the one you’d take a bullet for is the one holding the gun.’

Her eyes flashed. She let go of his hand and stood up.