Ustath Rashid hesitated, looked at the shadow, the shadow came closer, his head becoming bigger on the wall. Tears gathered in Ustath Rashid's eyes, he looked thirsty, his Adam's apple rose and fell, then he nodded. More names were read out, and Ustath Rashid continued nodding, sometimes before a name was even fully read. Then I heard Baba's name: 'Faraj el-Dewani?' It was strange to hear Baba's name on television. Ustath Rashid hesitated a little. He looked to one side, his stubble made a strange noise against his shirt collar. The voice reread the name, this time inserting 'Bu Suleiman' into Baba's name, which again, like when I had read it in the book Ustath Rashid had gifted Baba with his 'undying loyalty', made me feel implicated, dragged by my name into something I knew nothing about. Then Ustath Rashid spoke. He said, 'No.'

I ran to Mama, but found her asleep. I knelt beside her bed. 'Wake up, Baba's name is on television,' I whispered. Her cheek was resting on her hand, her lips distorted, her breath came and went in deep swings. She was over-perfumed. I felt the urge to slap the air beside her.

I returned to the television. The screen was covered now in a still photograph of pink flowers. This was the picture that meant the broadcast was temporarily interrupted. I heard it said that the Guide had a switch in his sitting room, beside his television set, so that whenever he saw something he didn't like he flicked the flowers on. I sat and watched the flowers, hoping Ustath Rashid would come back on. I wondered if Kareem was watching. I had seen such interrogations before broadcast on television. They are meant to show the nation the 'faces of the traitors'. Ustath Rashid said, 'No,' when Baba's name was mentioned. I knew that this was the opposite of betrayal.

I ran back to Mama. I put my nose beside her distorted lips and was certain that she had had some medicine before sleeping, maybe after I saw her draw the curtains and turn on the beside lamp, maybe before, maybe while Moosa was still here. Maybe he, too, was made to swear on her life not to tell a living soul? I felt anger blister my cheeks. Her medicine bottle was beside her. It was as big as a water bottle and had nothing written on it, the liquid inside it the colour of water. She had left it standing open on her bedside table. Without thinking I took it to the kitchen and began pouring it down the sink. I stopped to imagine what she would do when she found out. She could always go to Majdi the baker and buy another, I thought. I emptied it all.

At this point the doorbell rang. Whoever it was kept their finger on the bell. The continuous ringing didn't wake Mama; she didn't come running towards the door, anxious, saying, 'Coming, coming.' By the time I was halfway down the hallway I heard myself shout, 'Take your finger off the bell.' I was surprised by how quickly my order was obeyed. I looked through the peephole. It was Bahloul the beggar. His head, his long and knotted hair and beard, straining to hear. When I opened the door he hesitated, looked like he was almost going to leave.

'You haven't given me any money lately,' he said.

'Not now, Bahloul. Mama's asleep and Baba's on a business trip. Go away.'

'You are rude. You plant nothing for the hereafter. A kind word is a seed you'll find as a tree in the hereafter.'

I couldn't think of anything to say. A strange exhaustion came over me.

'Feed me,' he said.

I let him in. Bahloul had never been in our house before. When he was out of the sun, in our hallway, I smelled him and saw how dirty his jallabia was and how black his bare feet looked against the carpet. His toenails were like bird beaks or things made of wood. 'No,' I said and pushed him out. I was surprised by how easy it was to get rid of him, how willing he was to obey me. It made me feel guilty. So I said, pretending that it was my plan all along, 'Go around the house. I'll let you in through the kitchen.' When he didn't react, I added, 'It's better this way,' and closed the door in his face.

If one family refused to give Bahloul money he talked about them, said they were 'mean, greedy, short-sighted, they think Heaven is near,' and things like that. He told everyone that he was saving to buy a small fishing boat, but after he got the boat he continued to beg. Um Masoud said, 'Of course, it's easier to beg than work. The boat was an excuse, now he's got it – paid for out of our money – he'll find another reason to beg, the lazy cockroach.'

By the time I had reached the kitchen he was already standing at the door, his nose touching the glass, steam gathering below it. He must have run, happy for my kindness. I suddenly felt affection towards him. I let him in. I took out some bread, cheese, honey, and poured him a glass of milk. He ate slowly.

'There's a strange smell in here,' he said.

My skin itched. I remembered I had promised Mama not to let anyone in the house when she was ill. I silently mouthed the same prayer over and over, one I had heard Moosa say before: 'Concealer, conceal our faults.'

Bahloul saw my lips move. He screwed up one eye,

pointed his finger at me and said, 'I see you, I see you.' He peered around the room suspiciously. 'You haven't let the devil in, have you? When the devil enters he clings to everything.'

'Come on, Bahloul,' I said. 'Hurry up.'

'Give me some money.'

'I haven't got any money.'

'I get no help from you. How am I ever going to become a fisherman?'

'You have already got your boat.'

'You are short-sighted. You must do for the hereafter as you do for today. Fishing boats are expensive. Or don't tell me you've believed Um Masoud's rumours? They are lies, partly true of course. All lies have the truth in them somewhere, but still, thanks be to God, no lie is ever completely true, not really. I've got the boat, that's true. But I swear on the prophet's grave that it hasn't touched water yet. It's swimming on sand. I sleep in it. I have no money to buy nets. I need nets to trap the sea.' He took a sip of milk, the edge of his moustache turned white. 'Serious business, fishing.' Then his eyes fell on the medicine bottle I had just emptied. He slowly floated towards it, sniffed it, then stared at me. I grabbed his hand and begged him: 'Don't tell, please, please. Promise on your life that you'll never tell a living soul, ever.' He looked at me as if I was going to bite him. His hand, dark and flaked with dirt, as coarse as bark, began to tremble. I squeezed it and said, 'Promise.'

'Protect me from the devil,' he suddenly yelled towards the ceiling. I fell back. 'God!' he screamed like a horse and shot out to the garden. 'Protect me from the devil, keep him at bay.'

I ran after him. He ran around the house several times, like a trapped animal. I chased him. On one of his laps he noticed the garden gate as if for the first time, he thought of returning to it, but when he saw how close behind I was, he yelped and bypassed it. His jallabia filled like a balloon against his back. I dropped to the ground, breathless. When he appeared again and saw that I was now sitting in front of him, he yelped again, turned and shot in the opposite direction. I grabbed a handful of stones and hurled them at him. One pierced the balloon of his jallabia and made a deep satisfying thump on his back. He screamed like a horse or a monkey in the jungle. He wrapped his hands round his head, hunched over and hopped a few times. I found more stones and threw them at him. Every time I missed my anger hardened. Bahloul found the gate and escaped, screaming and running down Mulberry Street.

I had never frightened anyone so much before. I watched him run, reach the end of the street then turn right towards the sea, towards his home, his fishing boat in the sand. I was suddenly frightened by what he might do the next time we met. Perhaps then he will understand that there was nothing to fear, that I am the boy and he the man, I thought.