I went looking for him and found him sitting in the reception room, opposite the huge photograph of the Guide. He pulled an ashtray close to him, tapped his cigarette twice on its rim, exhaled and said, 'How are you, Champ?'

Then Mama walked in with a tea tray.

Any minute now, I thought, our house will be filled with men from the Revolutionary Committee, turning everything upside down, and I am not to tell of the papers and books we burned. I remembered the book, Democracy Now, that I had hidden beneath my pillow, and my skin itched with panic.

We sipped our tea in silence. I wondered how long we would have to wait. What if the person who had called had got the wrong number and so hung up before speaking? After all, that's what I would do, hang up without saying a word. Then Moosa looked at his watch and said, 'I must go.' Mama sighed and nodded in the way people do to say, 'Of course you must.' Her hands were still trembling slightly.

'Do you need anything?'

'Why do you ask,' she said harshly, 'didn't you just say you have to go? Well, if you truly must go then go,' and left the room.

Moosa sighed and went after her.

I sat for a while looking up at the huge picture of the Guide. It was impossible to ignore, so big it took over the room. The piano looked small in comparison. How long will we have to keep it there, I wondered. Then the urgent thought returned that I must find a better hiding place for Baba's book than beneath my pillow.

I went to my room, closed the door behind me, took the book out and lay with it beneath the bed. There were no photographs or drawings in it, just stacks and stacks of word-lines. When I flipped through the pages all I could see were blocks of black print, separated by the occasional white space. I remembered Nasser, how once he tried to teach me to type on his typewriter. I was slow, and he was impatient. On the first page someone had written something, a dedication: 'To my eternal friend and comrade, Faraj Bu Suleiman el-Dewani. With my undying loyalty, Rashid.' It was a gift from Ustath Rashid to Baba. I didn't like seeing my name there. Why wasn't he content with just Faraj el-Dewani? Above my head the mattress bulged through the gaps between the wood beams of the bed. I got out, lifted the mattress and hid the book beneath it. This way, I thought, even if Mama came to change the sheets she wouldn't find it.

I climbed up to the roof and looked down on Ustath Rashid, Auntie Salma and Kareem's house, their curtains drawn and still, the garden silent and empty. There were days when the two houses seemed as one. Ustath Rashid would be with Baba in his study, Mama with Auntie Salma in her kitchen, and Kareem and I in the street, silently calmed by the knowledge that our fathers were brothers, our mothers sisters.

I went out to the street and found Kareem standing alone, throwing a blade into the dirt.

'Where have you been?' he said, and I immediately felt guilty. I had withdrawn from him ever since his father had been arrested, I was sure he had noticed.

The sun was shining brightly above us, but my teeth were chattering.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

I nodded and suddenly felt myself close to tears. A place in my chest ached as if something sharp was pressing into it. I felt an infinite longing for nothing specific, as if a void in my soul was announcing itself. My throat tightened and I thought if Kareem put a hand on my shoulder I would explode. He might then think I was a crybaby, a girl, so I bit on my teeth and nodded again.

'Do you want to play My Land, Your Land?' he said.

This was the first time in a week, since his father had been taken, that Kareem had wanted to play. So although I wasn't in the mood I took his blade and drew as wide a circle as I could round myself. My shadow was directly beneath me, it was noon. I divided the circle into two equal halves, his land and my land, and gave him the knife handle first. He was still observing my drawing, and even though his face was serious it was approving. We stood outside the circle and began. My Land, Your Land was our favourite game; Kareem and I played it often because all it required was two players, a good blade and the dirt beneath us.

Kareem was good at most games and it was always easy losing to him, not only because he was older but more because he would never show that he enjoyed his victory. In fact, on winning, a look of regret often cast itself on his face. Although I was much younger than Kareem, he always treated me as an equal. Even if there was always the acknowledgement on my part of the three years that separated us: I sought his advice, and when there was a dispute between him and any of the other boys I always took his side.

His first throw was bad, the knife fell flat on its side. Mine was good, the blade left a clear mark on Kareem's half of the circle that meant most of his land had become mine. That determined the first game, and luck stayed with me for the next two. I beat Kareem three games in a row. This had never happened before. Never before had I been so confident in my throws; before the knife left my hand I was certain of success. The tightness in my throat had eased and tears were the furthest thing from my mind.

Osama, Masoud and Ali joined us.

'You let a boy beat you?' Masoud said. This was made worse because Ali usually repeated what his brother said. 'You let a boy beat you,' he echoed.

Then Osama too teased him, saying, 'Serves you right for befriending a child.'

'I am not a child.'

'Of course you are,' Kareem said, with an irritation that made the betrayal harsher. 'He seemed grumpy, so I let him win,' he told them.

'You're a liar,' I heard myself say.

'Who are you calling a liar?'

'Losing three games in a row is shameful, but to lie about it and say you let me win, well, that's just not right. No surprise there, I suppose,' I said, feeling a dark, unstoppable force gain momentum.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Come on, Kareem,' I said, looking at the boys and letting a smile escape me. 'Everybody knows about your father.'

'What about my father?' he demanded, taking a step towards me.

I studied my fingers. 'People are talking.' If I could have pulled those words back I would have, but they were out and I had committed myself.

'And what are they saying?' he said through gritted teeth. His narrowed eyes fixed on me, they were impossible to ignore.

'Everybody knows your father is a tr-'

Kareem leaped on me. His weight threw me to the ground. He didn't punch, we didn't roll on the ground, he just kept squeezing his arms round me. I remember thinking: what if I wasn't going to say 'traitor', Kareem; what if I was going to say another word that started with the same two letters? You would have leaped on your friend for nothing then. Osama pulled him off me. Kareem's face was so red he might have been crying. Only a few minutes before it was I who had feared crying in front of him. Masoud pulled me up and dusted my back, slapping it a little too hard. I thought, perhaps in his house, with his fat and certain mother, his powerful and well-connected father, such firmness was always necessary. I noticed then that in one hand Kareem was clutching the knife. He could have stabbed me. He still loves me, I thought. We are still friends.

'He's younger than you,' Osama said. 'You can't fight him.' It was the only time I was thankful for Osama's strength. 'If you want to beat him, beat him in My Land, Your Land.' Then matter-of-factly he added, 'It's the only way.'

Sensing Kareem's hesitation, I said, 'I dare you.'

'Go on,' Masoud and Ali urged him.

'I don't feel like it,' he said, his voice low and trembling now.