I was kind of worn out myself – physically and mentally – but despite feeling drained and exhausted, there was a part of me that felt strangely buzzy and excited. It was an odd feeling, not unpleasant in itself, but somehow it just didn’t feel right to be excited about any of this. My mum and dad were dead, and there was a distinct possibility that all this stuff about Bashir and spies and terrorists was somehow connected to what had happened to them. And there was absolutely nothing exciting about that at all, not in a million years. Losing Mum and Dad had ripped out my heart. It was the worst thing in the world. How dare I feel anything other than emptiness and despair? How could I? How could I even think of anything else? It was hard to work it out. Too hard for me. I wiped my eyes and turned my attention to Grandad. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked me. I nodded. ‘You were telling me about Bashir,’ I reminded him.
