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A young boy, about the age of my brother Salman, got stabbed further up the road. Things like that don’t normally happen around here.

I think of the Edgware Road as a place of beauty, a street flanked by restaurants and cafes, their calligraphy scrolling from one country to the next, music pouring from the doors; not somewhere associated either with violence or drugs.

At home, we talked about it a lot, partly because of how close it all felt. Salman was properly shaken. Even though he didn’t know the boy personally – Samuel-something, I think his name was – they both went to the same college. My other brother, Abdul, was touched by it too. He was back from Oxford for the holidays and doing shifts at Perfect Pizza, the one up the road, he’s been obsessed with since he was a teenager. He wasn’t working the night it happened, but the police still came by a few days later, asking questions. They wanted to know if he’d ever seen the group of boys involved. Apparently, they’d all been in the pizza place right before the stabbing. There was nothing he could tell the police – he had never seen them before. He brushed it off like it was nothing, but I could tell he didn’t like being dragged into it.

But it’s what Salman said afterwards that stuck with me. He said the boy’s death had left a hole – or maybe more like a vacuum – something that wouldn’t ever quite be filled again. He reckoned the college felt different now, like something had shifted permanently. And I know what he means. Even though I didn’t know the boy, I find myself thinking about him at odd moments – in the shower, walking home, scrolling aimlessly on my phone. There’s one more ghost here now, lingering in this place I call home.

“You’ve got the stuff?” The boy’s voice sounded hungry, but there was bite in it too. The door creaked open a little further, and Mariusz saw him properly: far too young, sweating, twitching, eyes flicking restlessly from side to side.

“Yes.”

“Well, hand it over. Quickly.” The boy shot another frantic glance along the corridor.

“Money first.”

A shaking hand passed an envelope to Mariusz. He handed over the package in return. No eye contact, no words, simply the sound of the door slamming shut. Before Mariusz had turned to go, he heard the chain scrape sharply across.

On the way down, a thought struck him with unsettling force: the boy could easily have been the same age as his brother, Dawid. At this very moment, Dawid was probably finishing his homework or scrolling on his phone, while their parents sat in front of the television in the small but comfortable house they had always owned in Żary. It was impossible to picture Dawid caught up in something so sordid, so fraught with danger, something illegal. The thought left Mariusz cold.

Mariusz can still recall how the guilt and unease had washed over him. As soon as he left the tower block, he crossed the road and walked straight into the nearest pub, a miserable-looking place called the Lord High Admiral. Apart from the curious glances from the locals, he remembers nothing of the pub itself – only the sharp, metallic burn of the vodka he downed at the bar, the way it scorched his throat and made him gag as he stepped back outside. That same nausea almost rises again now as he stands beneath the pool’s showers that morning. He had promised himself then that this would be the last time he would ever work for the brothers.

That evening, when he met Klajdi to hand over the envelope stuffed with money from the boy in the flat, Mariusz said nothing. But the problems began two days later.

“What’s this I hear about a murder?” Tony asks. “A poor kid, I’m told. Stabbed over drugs, up the road. Was he from round here?”

There is a pause. Time seems to tilt. A strange hush settles over the changing room. Everyone appears to have stopped what they are doing, as if momentarily suspended and lifted out of their mundane activities and routines. Even the hairdryers fall silent. Only the faint rustle of someone tugging a damp shirt over their head breaks the stillness for a moment — and then that too is gone. In the distance, there is the faint sound of splashing, though at this moment it sounds oddly unreal to Tony’s ears, almost as bizarre as the sight of the lone milk float he spotted earlier. He must be tired, he thinks.

It is, however, only the briefest of pauses, not even long enough for Tony to register that anything is wrong, let alone for Archie or anyone else to respond.

The next thing that happens is quite unexpected.

In one swift movement a large man Tony has never seen before flings his towel on the floor with a heavy bump. There is no mistaking the noise it makes. In three strides he is standing face to face with Tony. He is stark naked, fully exposed.

Tony can’t tell whether the moisture glistening on the man’s scalp is water from the shower or sweat. Possibly both. What is clear is the anger. The clenched fists. The taut muscles. The thick cords of vein standing out along his arms and neck. He is breathing hard, deliberately, each breath forced into place.

When he speaks, the effort to keep the emotion from his voice is clear. The words are quiet, measured – but they land with the force of a verdict. They change everything.

Leon says,

“That’s my son you’re talking about.”