Nadeem put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Steady on, Idris. It’s just a question.’

Elyas liked Nadeem. Of all Jia’s cousins he was the one he had warmed to most. He was an actor, a rare one, of the kind that made a lucrative living from his talent.

‘I’ll tell you about Bazigh Khan,’ Nadeem went on. ‘It happened a long time ago,’ he began, ‘when Bazigh Khan and Akbar Khan decided to go into business together. Pathans like snuff.’ He splayed his hand and tensed it to show Elyas the groove that appears on the back, near where the thumb meets the wrist. He raised it to his nose and inhaled. ‘But you couldn’t buy it here and so, seeing a gap in the market, the two men, they started selling it. Soon, they were doing well, really well, and that’s when things changed –’ Nadeem stopped abruptly, as if choking on the words. Jia gently laid her hand on his arm as if to steady him.

‘Then what happened?’ Elyas said softly.

‘Then what happened,’ said Jia, ‘is that the gang who controlled the estate where they lived came to see Bazigh Khan.’ As she spoke, her demeanour changed and her tone lowered, and something in her voice made him wish he hadn’t asked about Bazigh Khan. ‘Mica, the man who ran all the drugs in town, offered him a deal: Bazigh and my baba smuggle heroin into the country from the borders of Pakistan and in exchange their families get to live. Bazigh Khan refused.’ And then, suddenly, it was as if her voice drained of all emotion and she was reading from a book she’d read too many times. ‘So the men went to Bazigh Khan’s house. By the time he arrived home all that was left were the three tiny bodies of his children, and the remains of his wife, Liza. My father said his howls were heard across the valleys and hills that night. I still remember the fire engines and the faces of the two little boys, one three and one five, who survived. They were huddled in a corner together, their faces grubby with smoke. My father and his brother went to the police. Bazigh Khan begged them for help. They said the officer in charge whispered “Paki” to his colleague and told them to go home. It was the last time either man would ask anyone for anything again, and then they turned to the old ways for justice. The police had no trouble figuring out the fires in the white parts of town were arson. The men who had threatened Bazigh Khan died. Their families died. Their wives died. And their parents died. The places where the men had worked were destroyed. The places where the men drank were destroyed. The fires raged for three days.’