He put the book down on his lap and leaned back and put his finger up his nose like he was digging around inside for something to say. He made a big popping sound in his nostril and folded his arms. ‘When God made Adam,’ and he put his careful voice on, ‘he wanted the angels to bow down and worship him. Iblis refused because he would bow down only to God.’ And he shrugged. ‘He could say he was the first good Muslim.’

‘But God doesn’t like him?’ I said.

‘Who’s Iblis?’ Manus said from the top bunk.

Connor was yawning across from my dad on the single bed with the covers up to his neck because he wanted everyone to get out and go to sleep – he’d been playing out all day with his friends on top of having gone to the pictures.

‘The devil,’ my dad said. ‘But there are lots of names for someone who can play tricks on you and let you down and change shape,’ he said.

‘He’s been around longer than people?’ I said, because I wanted Busola to hear I wasn’t old enough to be the devil.

‘That devil doesn’t exist,’ my dad said, which wasn’t what I was expecting. ‘It’s just misunderstanding.’

‘He does,’ Busola said.

‘There’s no devil going to walk in this room and turn on the light when you’re sleeping,’ he said, trying to listen to everyone.

‘I’m sleeping upstairs with Nana,’ she said.

‘There is a devil in the story, though,’ Manus said.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ said Connor, and we knew he meant get it over. It was Rumpelstiltskin. We didn’t want to tell my dad we already knew it, because reading at bedtime was part of the new way of looking after us they’d agreed with Nana.

My mum looked in for Busola. ‘Go up and say your prayers,’ she said. ‘Nana’s going to bed.’

‘Daddy says there’s no devil,’ Busola said.

‘Rumpelstiltskin is my name ... !’ my dad said, reading on and not waiting for any more trouble.

‘Why can’t the devil be a girl?’ I said.

‘What’s this?’ my mum asked.

‘Can I let Daddy finish the story?’ Busola said.

My mum gave us five minutes and left the room to listen outside on the landing. ‘Tell us the other story about the devil not being there,’ Manus said, ‘we know this one.’ My dad shrugged and said loudly, ‘Are you listening?’ And this was the story he told us.

The devil, he said, was a singer, he sings. He jumps up and down and dances. When he was up there in heaven he organised all the choirs. But when he was cast down to this world there was only silence.

‘Is that when Lucifer turns into Satan?’ Manus asked.