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honest – taking up most of the leg room, a copy of
The Sun
spread out over the table, elbows planted – but the baseball cap he was wearing gaveMaya an idea.
    â€˜Cool cap,’ she said to him.
    He looked at her as if she were mad.
    She smiled at him. ‘Give you a tenner for it.’
    Now he knew she was mad.
    â€˜Cost me more than that,’ he shot back.
    â€˜But it’s not new, is it?’
    He took if off and looked at it. ‘Nah.’ He stared at her. ‘What do ya want it for?’
    â€˜My boyfriend’s meeting me. I haven’t seen him for six months. I want to see if he recognises me with that cap on.’
    His face wrinkled. ‘Ten quid for a bit of a joke. You rich or somethin’?’
    She shrugged.
    He eyed her to see if the offer was still on. Maya gave him a nod.
    â€˜OK,’ he said. ‘Done.’
    He shoved the cap across the table and Maya reached for her purse.
    â€˜Are you from Leeds?’ she asked him.
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Do you know where Hyde Park is?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜How do I get there?’
    â€˜Number ninety-six bus.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    He took her money. The train was stopping. He stood up and watched her put on the cap. ‘You wanna stick all your hair under it,’ he said. Then he gave her a hard stare. ‘You’ll still look like a Paki, though, won’t you?’

Chapter Nine
    The number ninety-six double-decker shuddered past shabby shop fronts, graffitied walls and blowing litter. On board, the atmosphere was cheerful, with passengers exchanging loud greetings. It was a mixed bunch; in front of Maya a black guy in a Leeds football shirt was chatting to his grandson; over the aisle a group of women in bright dresses were speaking their own language, and when the bus stopped two women in full black robes and veils got on and walked past her. She didn’t feel out of place. The lad on the train who’d called her ‘Paki’ had given her confidence – she reckoned she blended in.
    Where to get off the bus was a problem, but when it passed a green-domed mosque and shops with Arabic writing above the windows, it didn’t takemuch brainpower to work out that this would be a good place to start her search. The bus slowed down and a group of five women dressed in dark clothing got up. Maya followed them. The women stood on the pavement talking, while Maya pretended to study the jewelled fruits on display at the Begum Fruit Emporium. When their chatter faded and it seemed as if they were going their separate ways, Maya plucked up courage and stepped forward.
    â€˜Excuse me. Could you tell me how to get to the Red Moon bookshop?’
    Five pairs of eyes stared at her. A woman with a wide, smooth forehead under a white headscarf said something in her own language to her friend. Her friend replied without taking her eyes off Maya. It was unnerving. Perhaps they didn’t understand her, and if they did, they’d probably never heard of the bookshop – most likely she was in the wrong area altogether. She was debating whether to walk away when one of the older women, her grey hair uncovered, turned to her.
    â€˜Why are you wanting the bookshop?’
    â€˜I . . . I . . . need some information,’ Maya said.
    â€˜What about? Her voice was so sharp and direct that Maya almost walked off, but just in time sheremembered the lines she’d rehearsed on the train.
    â€˜I’m a student,’ she said. ‘I’m writing a dissertation about the politicisation of young Muslims. I was told the Red Moon bookshop has lots of up-to-date stuff.’
    The woman’s harsh hawk-like face suddenly split into a smile. ‘The bookshop is very good,’ she said. ‘My nephew Khaled will help you.’
    Maya couldn’t believe it. She’d hit the jackpot first time. She stood amazed, as the the grey-haired woman gave her directions.
    â€˜Cross over