John watched his old friend grappling with what he was learning. He had always admired Elyas’s drive. It was the kind of drive that required commitment, the kind that got you kicked in the teeth. Repeatedly. But that had never stopped Elyas. It had been evident the first time they met. They were at college and Elyas had just narrowly escaped a beating from a group of rival university students over a long since forgotten political discussion. John had dragged Elyas to the pub to escape. Once there, Elyas had ceremoniously suggested they write down their plans for the next ten years. John had thought it a bit weird but agreed. ‘The back of a stained beer mat is probably the best place for my plans,’ he’d told his new friend. Over the years, Elyas had crossed off every single one of his goals, and hung the mat in his study. John hadn’t. He now used his as a coaster on his desk ‘as a reminder that plans are for losers’, he told Elyas.

John was genuinely pleased for his friend and glad that success had not changed him. To Elyas, achievements were just road markers that allowed him to feel worthy. John knew this – and where his old friend’s demons lived. Elyas’s career trajectory had been inversely proportional to his personal life. John, on the other hand, had a job he liked and lived with the woman he loved, who loved him back. The equations of life were balanced.

‘Do you think Jia knows the full extent of her father’s criminal activities?’ John asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Elyas said. ‘They were close. But by the time she and I split up there was a lot of bad blood. I think it was more from her than from him.’ Jia would talk to Elyas about her father’s business from time to time, but only in general terms. She had never been comfortable on the subject.

They continued looking through the archives, separating out anything they thought useful.

‘This is from the night Bazigh Khan’s wife died,’ said John, handing Elyas a cutting. It was a photograph, black and white, of a young man being pressed against a wall by two policemen, his hands behind his back, his face turned to the camera, expressionless, emptied of feeling. It showed his children looking on, their faces bereft, one clutching a soft rabbit, Sanam Khan kneeling beside them, her dupatta wrapped around her head tight, her figure blurred as if she was moving when the camera clicked. Her husband was standing next to her, his eyes locked upon his brother. Elyas wanted to take the picture to Jia and ask her about it, but he knew it would be pointless.