And being mugged wasn't the half of it. When she answered the door of her maisonette – a well-tended little seventies affair with window boxes on the ledges and hanging plants on either side of the door – she was squinting out through a black eye that wouldn't have looked out of place after a heavyweight title fight. The black was fading into a purple, its stain of yellow spreading well beyond the main lump. Amina almost winced when she saw it. 'The swellin's gone down a bi' now,' Mrs Atkinson said, spotting Amina's reaction. 'Me 'ead woz the size of a wa'ermelon las' week. I woz chewin' parace'amol like they was Smar'ies. If my son ever gets 'is 'ands on the little snots who done this, they'll wish they was never born, I tell yah. You Marie then?' 'My name's Amina, Amina Mir. I'm afraid Marie couldn't make it because of the alerts at the airport, but she asked me to come in her place. I'd very much like to hear your story, Mrs Atkinson.' 'Right then. Come on in. Kettle's on.' The house was comfortable in a worn, old-fashioned way that would have reminded half the adults in the country of their mother's place.
