‘I had this moment where I suddenly became aware that I was eating flesh. Obviously, I can’t tell my father. He’d bring me chicken and say, “This is not meat!”’ Their laughter airbrushed the edges of the past, and everything softened, the way the borders of old friends melt into each other.

‘Is he a relative?’ asked Elyas, pointing at Bazigh Khan. ‘He looks too hard a man to henna his hair.’

Jia laughed again. ‘He is. You don’t remember him?’ Elyas shook his head. ‘I don’t think you would like him,’ she whispered, leaning forward.

‘Why? Who is he?’

‘I never told you the story about my uncle?’

‘No, tell me now.’

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Sometimes you ask for the truth when you don’t really want it.’

Elyas raised his eyebrows, and mouthed: ‘Me?’

‘OK, listen up…’ she said.

Elyas nodded, moving closer in anticipation, his eyes down ready for the story that was about to unfold. But she didn’t speak, and when he looked up at her face, he could tell she was lost deep in thought. He followed her gaze and realised she was staring at three men who were making their way towards them across the marquee, their strong strides swallowing up the ground beneath them.

CHAPTER 12

Elyas held out his hand to each of them in turn.

‘You remember my cousins?’ said Jia. ‘Brothers Idris and Nadeem, and Malik.’ The men were immaculately dressed, their suits perfectly cut and stitched to accommodate their broad shoulders. They had the kind of golden skin tone that comes with money and Mediterranean holidays. One of them had a Turkish beard, of the type favoured by jihadis and hipsters. Nowadays who can tell the difference? thought Elyas, feeling a little shabby in his off-the-peg attire.

‘So, what’s the deal with you two? Aren’t you divorced?’ one of them asked.

‘They’re still direct,’ Elyas said to Jia.

She smiled at her cousins in that way women do when men step out of line. ‘Elyas was just asking about Bazigh Khan,’ she said to the eldest of the three, Idris.

‘Stories made up to scare children,’ said Malik. He was the youngest of the men, and the one with the beard.

‘If you’re looking for a news story, you won’t find it here,’ said Idris, his tone cold. He was the kind of man who favoured silence over small talk. Although his jawline was square, his cheeks rounded when he smiled, which wasn’t often. His eyes had the potential to tear strips off men. Elyas remembered Jia referring to him as a ‘hellhound’. Seeing him now, he understood why. ‘If I’m ever in trouble, call Idris,’ Jia had said. ‘He’ll drag me back from hell if he has to.’ It had been a strange conversation, as were most conversations that featured his wife’s family.