‘I can.’ Taher pulled the trigger and something on the far side of the room shattered as the bullet hit it. Kadri shuddered and slumped over. Taher wrenched the gun free and crossed to the back of the living area where a corridor led to several small rooms. He ran to the first one to find Kadri’s brother staggering out in a daze, a pistol in his hand. Taher fired once and the man crumpled to the floor.

As Taher left the dwelling, Latif and Saabiq came out of the guest accommodation, woken by the gunshots.

‘Get your stuff,’ Taher said. He walked over to the brick building. There was a sliding metal door secured with two bolts. He slid the bolts and opened the door. In the darkness he could see nothing, but he could smell the urine and the shit and hear the low ululating.

‘You’re free to leave,’ he said. ‘Allez, allez.’

Taher strode away. Latif had found the keys to the minibus and was in the driver’s seat. Saabiq piled their kit into the rear. Taher climbed up and then turned back. The young girl stood a few steps away, a pale ghost under the starlight. For a moment, as she met his gaze, he wondered about her fate and what would become of her. A child could be changed by events, choose to take a certain path depending on circumstance. Left, right, straight ahead. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life, little one, he whispered to himself. Choose wisely.

He faced forward and tapped Latif on the shoulder.

‘Go,’ he said.

Chapter Four

It had been three months since Silva had last seen her. A quarter of a year. A fraction of the lifespan left for Silva. All of that remaining for her mother.

A Saturday in Tunisia. Carthage International Airport crowded with people, a seemingly never-ending column of tourists disgorging into the arrivals hall. As Silva walked out, she scanned the waiting crowd. Francisca da Silva stood among the taxi drivers, holding up her own piece of paper, the word BecBec scrawled on in marker pen. The pet name was from Silva’s childhood, from when she was just toddler and could only say her own name in a garbled approximation. Her mother smiled, her face framed by long dark hair just beginning to grey. Fine lines at the eyes and mouth. Lips adorned with a subtle shade of pink lipstick. As Silva approached she launched into French, matching the buzz of the language echoing all around.

‘Êtes-vous Mademoiselle BecBec?’

‘Mum.’ Silva blushed. Somehow, whatever the situation, her mother had the ability to make Silva laugh. ‘Stop it.’

‘You’re not BecBec or you’re no longer a mademoiselle? If it’s the latter then you might at least have invited me to the wedding.’