Faadi Hassan sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the calendar that hung on his bedroom wall. It was something he did almost every day, always with the same thought: that time would pass and nothing would last forever. He pulled his school jumper over his head, disappearing for a moment within its itchy confines. If he could have stayed there all day, hidden from the rest of the world, he would have.

The following week was the half-term holiday. The thought of a week off would be enough to get him through that last day at school, just as every half-term he spent counting down the days until the next holiday. He heard a noise on the landing outside his room, then Jameel banging a fist on the bathroom door, telling Syed to get a move on and get out of there. Faadi reassessed his wish for the week to be over. At least at school he was free of his brothers.

He heaved his bag onto his shoulder and went out onto the landing. Jameel was standing outside the bathroom, drumming a slow, repetitive beat on the door.

‘Off to school, Fatty?’

Faadi winced. He hated the nickname his brothers had given him. The more he hated it, the more pleasure they took in calling him it, and try as he might, he couldn’t help but react every time he heard it. He had never been any good at hiding his feelings. If he was upset, tears would catch at the corners of his eyes no matter how hard he tried to fight them back. If he was happy, his face couldn’t help but show it; his thin lips would stretch into a surprisingly wide smile and there was a sparkle in his eyes that his mother never failed to miss.

He could just about remember how it felt to be happy, but the feeling was one that already seemed so distant.

‘What happened to your face?’ he asked his brother.

Jameel had a split lip. There was dried blood at the corner of his mouth and his left cheek was swollen and bruised. If he was ashamed of or embarrassed by his injuries there was no evidence of either.

‘Never you mind,’ he said, waving a hand in Faadi’s direction as though swatting away a fly. ‘You just run along like a good boy and enjoy your day at school.’

There was a click at the bathroom door as Syed undid the lock on the other side. He appeared in the doorway with a white towel wrapped around his waist and his bare chest still damp from the shower. Faadi felt his face flush at seeing his brother’s body; at the sight of the thick mass of dark hairs that covered his chest and the taut skin that clung to his narrow waist. He felt his arm move instinctively in front of him, concealing the bulk of his own stomach.

‘What are you staring at?’ Syed clicked his fingers, ushering Faadi away as though he were a disobedient dog. ‘Go on … get yourself to school.’

Faadi went downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother was loading clothes into the washing machine. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face into a ponytail that swept the length of her spine. From behind, she looked like a much younger woman, but her face had grown older in the past couple of years, with a collection of worry lines now revealing her age.

He spoke to her, but when she didn’t acknowledge him, he repeated his hello, wondering if she had heard him. Eventually she turned and looked at him, giving him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Then she stood and arched her back, placing a hand at the base of her spine and steadying herself against the kitchen unit. She had been crying. There had been a time when she had once hidden any tears she might have shed, but during those past few days it seemed she was now past caring who might be witness to them.

‘Are you okay?’

She nodded and ran the back of her hand hastily across each eye in turn. ‘No,’ she said. Tears followed, thick and fast; awkward for them both.

‘What’s happened now?’ Faadi asked. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t used to outbursts of feeling such as this and he stood fixed to the spot, unsettled by his mother’s sadness and not knowing what to do with his hands. He wasn’t very good with other people’s emotions. He never knew how to deal with his own.

His mother shook her head. ‘Never you mind. You just concentrate on school.’ She stepped towards him and ran a hand across his thick, short-cut hair. He never minded when she did this at home – if anything, there was something in the gesture that made him feel safe – but she would occasionally do it in public, when each time Faadi would feel his cheeks grow hot and wish the ground would swallow him up.

‘Mum …’ he began.

‘The shop,’ Mahira said, knowing that keeping anything from him was pointless. He was thirteen years old now; she couldn’t wrap him up and keep him safe forever, despite how much she wanted to. If he didn’t hear it from her, he would hear it from someone else. ‘There’s been a fire at the shop.’

Faadi pulled a face. ‘I don’t understand. When?’

‘During the night. Look … it’s nothing for you to worry about, okay?’

‘But what happened? Why didn’t you wake me up?’

His mother gave another sad smile. ‘What could you have done, eh? No point in us all being tired this morning, was there?’

‘Do Syed and Jameel know?’

Her face changed again, a darkness falling over her. ‘No, not yet. Please … don’t say anything to them. Let me do it.’

Faadi shifted the weight of his rucksack from one shoulder to the other. ‘You’re not going to be there today then?’

‘I’ve got to wait to hear from the police. I might be able to go there later today.’

‘Dad going with you?’

Mahira shrugged. ‘He may not be back from work today.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Faadi said hurriedly. ‘After school … if you’ve not already been.’

His mother smiled, and for the briefest moment there was light in her eyes. ‘You’re a good boy, Faadi, you know that? Don’t ever change.’ She looked away for a moment. ‘Go on,’ she said, returning her attention to the washing in an attempt to hide her sadness. ‘Get yourself off to school now.’

‘Promise you’ll call me to let me know,’ Faadi insisted.

Mahira looked back at him, her best smile fixed firmly in place. ‘I promise. Now go … you don’t want to be late.’