‘I know. Hopefully the change of air will put an end to the headaches,’ said Elyas, and then he watched as Ahad’s face turned suddenly pale. He grabbed a bucket, bringing it swiftly to his son’s mouth. The boy threw up violently, then tired and clammy, clutching his head, he leaned back on to the pillows, the exhaustion leaving him grey.

Elyas’s concern was evident across his face; he’d never been able to hide his feelings when it came to his son. ‘That settles it, I’m not leaving you like this,’ he said.

‘I’ll be fine. And I’ll catch you up the day after. I’m an adult now, I can do this.’ But his words did little to allay Elyas’s worry. Both of them were booked on the 11.10A.M. from King’s Cross out of London tomorrow, as Elyas was due to start his new job in the next few days. But Ahad came first. He always came first. He was also the reason Elyas had accepted the position.

‘Son, you’re only fifteen. You don’t want to be in any hurry to take on the responsibility of adulthood, trust me,’ Elyas said. He pulled the duvet up, tucking Ahad in, and then leaned in to kiss his head. Illness was the only time the boy allowed his father to look after him – it had a way of pushing people back to infancy. His father’s touch soothed him and the pain ebbed a little. So too did some of Elyas’s concerns. The migraines didn’t worry him so much as what might be underlying them. Elyas wondered what demons were yet to appear. He wished Jia could see how much of her was in their son. He knew she’d be proud of the man Ahad was becoming, despite the problems he’d been having at school and with the police. But she had made no effort to see him and, as yet, Elyas had no way to explain her absence.

He wiped the boy’s forehead and helped him to take a sip of water. Sometimes he worried he was trying too hard, but guilt and parenting seemed to go hand in hand, and he reminded himself that some things were beyond his control. He was doing the best he could.

Ahad finally asleep, he slipped quietly out of his bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief in the hallway. He paused to look at the row of pictures and awards that hung on the walls. The British Press Association’s ‘Foreign Reporter of the Year’ for five consecutive years, ‘Journalist of the Year’ for the Foreign Press Association, one of Time magazine’s ‘Most Influential People’. He was privileged. He had worked in television and film, doing the things he loved. And the offers were still there, but after the events of this week, he was looking forward to the simplicity of print.