The plan had been for Mahnoosh to take Javeed to his first day of school while Martin opened the shop. The night before though, as Martin had been drifting off to sleep, Mahnoosh had turned and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘We can open late just once, can’t we?’ she’d said.

‘Yeah. That’s a good idea.’

As Martin shepherded him into the car, Javeed was as excited as he’d ever been. He’d been awake since five o’clock, checking and rechecking everything in his school bag, counting his coloured pencils as if they were action figures. The impending novelty had even – finally – eclipsed the prospect of his return to Zendegi.

‘I know both alphabets,’ he boasted, as Martin strapped him into the back seat. ‘Some kids don’t know anything.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t be too full of yourself,’ Martin warned him. ‘Maybe you’re luckier than some kids. Your job is to help them catch up, not to make them feel bad.’

‘They should feel bad,’ Javeed retorted.

Martin scowled. ‘Shaitan nasho!’

Mahnoosh approached the car. She whispered to Martin, ‘I just phoned Omar about you-know-what, and he said he’d keep two ghal’eha free for us.’

‘Great.’

Martin drove, blocking out Javeed’s chatter and focusing on the road, leaving it to Mahnoosh to engage with him. The school wasn’t much more than a kilometre away, and they planned to get into a routine of walking there, but today this would save them going back for the car.

It took them ten minutes to find a parking spot, but Martin wasn’t going to drop the two of them off and circle back to pick up Mahnoosh, not today. When they finally reached the gate, the bell was ringing. They walked with Javeed across the playground, to the lines of boys and girls already forming outside his classroom.

Mahnoosh bent down and embraced Javeed tightly.

‘Have you got everything, azizam?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘I’ll be back in a few hours. You wait for me here.’

‘Okay.’ Javeed squirmed a little, and she released him. Martin squatted down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Have fun. I’ll see you later.’

Javeed went to join the line. Standing beside Mahnoosh, Martin reached over and took her hand. They waited until the teacher appeared and marched the two lines into the classroom. Mahnoosh waved, but the teacher had instructed the children to keep their eyes straight ahead, so Javeed didn’t see her.

‘Are you okay?’ Martin asked her. The truth was he was feeling the tug of separation himself more keenly than he’d expected. For the first time in his life, Javeed would be going through something new without either of them beside him.

Mahnoosh scowled defensively. ‘Of course. Ah, we didn’t take a photo!’

‘Do it when you pick him up,’ Martin suggested. ‘That’ll be better, because he’ll have something to show you; he’ll probably be waving a big drawing.’

‘The butterfly maze, I expect.’ All the classes had been led into their rooms now, and the parents were drifting away across the playground.

Mahnoosh said, ‘I’ll drive you to the shop.’

‘Martin jan, are you awake?’

Martin opened his eyes. It was night-time; the unfamiliar room was lit by a lamp attached to the wall beside the bed. Omar was sitting on a chair, hunched towards him. Martin’s mouth was dry and his head felt heavy.

‘What?’ he replied stupidly.

‘You’re in hospital,’ Omar explained; it must have been the lamplight, but he looked impossibly haggard, as if he’d aged a decade since Martin had last seen him. ‘You had an accident.’

‘Really? I don’t remember.’ Visceral panic welled up in his chest. ‘Who else was in the car?’ Martin swung his legs towards the side of the bed, but the sheet was tucked in so far under the mattress that he couldn’t kick it free.

Omar reached out and restrained him. ‘Stay there, you’ve got a drip in your arm. I picked up Javeed from school. He’s at my home, he’s fine.’

‘Thank you.’ In the silence that followed Martin heard his own laboured breathing; the sound didn’t seem to belong to his body. ‘What about Mahnoosh?’

‘She was driving.’

‘Can I see her?’ Martin squinted at him, trying to read his face. ‘Get a wheelchair for me. We’ll go to the women’s wing.’

‘There was a truck,’ Omar said. ‘It went straight through the intersection.’

‘What does that mean?’

Omar’s hand was still resting on his shoulder. He lowered his gaze slightly. ‘She died straight away. Nobody could help her.’

‘No.’ Martin knew this was impossible; Omar wouldn’t lie to him knowingly, but the hospital bureaucrats could get anything wrong. ‘What if I was in the car alone? People just assume things. Did you ring the shop?’

‘Martin jan, I saw her,’ Omar confessed. ‘They didn’t know if you’d recover, and they needed someone to… say who she was.’

Martin felt his body shuddering; he struggled to keep control. ‘I’m sorry you had to do that.’

Omar made a dismissive gesture, muttering reflexively, ‘Khahesh mikonam.’ Don’t mention it.

‘You should go home,’ Martin pleaded. ‘It must be late.’

Omar didn’t argue. ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’

When Omar had left the room, Martin felt himself sobbing noiselessly. He closed his eyes and swam into the darkness of his skull, trying to catch up with her: looking for an afterimage of her face, a memory of her voice, any thread that he could follow. How could they have been torn apart when they’d been sitting just inches from each other?

He had touched her hand in the school yard, he remembered. He tried to grasp it more tightly, picturing the two of them together, trying to relive everything that had followed without being shaken free of her this time.

But the scene led nowhere, the blackness remained impenetrable. He didn’t even know the last words they’d exchanged.

In the morning, Martin asked to see Mahnoosh’s body. They removed his drip and catheter and an orderly took him in a wheelchair to the mortuary.

Her face was purple and swollen, barely recognisable; he gazed at it long enough to be sure that it was her, but he felt no urge to touch her, to speak to her, to hold her. This body was a kind of grisly portrait of the woman, captured at the scene of the crash; it proved that she’d been there as surely as a photograph, but that was all.

In the ward, a doctor came to see him. He’d had an operation to stem internal bleeding, and it appeared to have been successful, but rather than officially discharging him they were making special provisions for him to attend the funeral. ‘You need to bury your wife, Mr Seymour, then come back to us after two days.’

Omar came to pick him up. In the silent drive to his house, Martin struggled to prepare his words.

Javeed was waiting just inside the door. He flung his arms around Martin’s leg and pressed his face against his trousers.

Martin lowered himself gingerly to the floor and embraced his son. He held him for a few seconds, then forced himself to let go; if he clung on too long he knew he would not be able to hide the fact that he was the one seeking comfort.

They were alone; Omar had gone on into the house, giving them privacy. ‘Where were you?’ Javeed demanded.

‘I was in the hospital,’ Martin said. ‘I got hurt, in the car.’

‘But where did Mama go?’

‘Mama was in the car with me.’

‘Is she in the hospital?’

Martin didn’t answer that. ‘You know, sometimes if you get hurt, it can be like you’ve gone to sleep.’

Javeed nodded. ‘Total Knockout.’

‘That’s what happened to me. The truck hit the car, it was like a big punch. I was knocked out for a day.’

Javeed said nothing; in his games, no one was ever out cold for more than thirty seconds. ‘Mama got knocked out too,’ Martin persisted. ‘But she didn’t wake up.’