‘And that’s how it’s done,’ he said. ‘Help a bro out?’ He handed a small package to Aslam and gestured to let him know he was to do the same on the passenger side. Aslam tore open the brown paper of the package and tiny sealed plastic wallets fell all over him. ‘Easy. Easy,’ Atif said firmly.

Gathering himself and his goods, Aslam attempted to copy his friend’s fist to handshake move. It wasn’t as easy as it looked but the customer handed him a few carefully folded banknotes and seemed relieved to have his stash. They continued, driving and exchanging, until there was only one car left on the street.

As they approached the last car, Aslam realised he’d been holding his breath. He moved back into his seat, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back.

The next customer was dressed in a vest, shalwar and prayer hat. ‘You’re delivering early,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be at mosque praying Maghrib righ’ about now.’

‘Sorry, bro. It’s Akbar Khan’s daughter’s wedding. The Jirga wants to shut up shop early for the weekend. They don’t want’a bring no bad luck or owt,’ said Atif. A look of respect fell across the buyer’s face. He nodded in understanding and pulled away.

Aslam had heard stories surrounding Akbar Khan. He wanted to separate the myth from the reality. ‘How long the Jirga been running things?’ he said to Atif.

‘For time. They’re like the law lords of this city. You know how the twelve of ’em Supreme Court judges run Great Britain, keep everything, you know, running tight. In the same way the Jirga runs this city.’

‘But what exactly does Akbar Khan do?’

‘He owns this town, bro. He and the Jirga make sure the councillors do their jobs, the hookers do theirs and tossers like that dick back there don’t start gettin’ up in our faces and start another riot…’

Atif’s voice trailed off. Distracted, he slowed the Ferrari down to a crawl. Aslam caught sight of a group of pretty girls in the wing mirror. His friend rolled down the window, staring at the girls but addressing Aslam: ‘The Jirga and Akbar Khan run this city.’

Backcombed hair, bright red lips and teetering on heels, the girls had looked older from a distance. They were barely eighteen.

Atif carried on speaking as he reached out of the window: ‘They got their own rules, their own ways, not all people can function in a democracy, see. Tell me, Aslam, why would we groom white girls when we’ve got high-quality arse like this on our doorstep?’ He grabbed the rounded bottom of the girl closest to his car.

The girl calmly turned and looked at him as if he’d asked her for the time or directions or notes to a lecture…and then she spat on his car.