Ali waited until Yazid had gone back to bed to make the phone call. He sat in the kitchen at the table, the cordless phone in hand, and sipped a cup of tea until the TV in their room started up with some film or other, and the creaking of the floorboards stopped.
Then he waited another ten minutes, to let Yazid get settled and sleepy, then dialled.
The phone rang out, so he tried her mobile, and when Violet answered, Ali was pained to realize he still found the background echo of hospitals familiar. “Mum,” he said, and she breathed his name. “I’ve made my decision.”
“You…have.”
“Yeah. I’m going to donate—”
“Oh, Ali, that’s—”
“—but there’s conditions.”
Violet went very quiet. For a moment, all Ali could hear was his mother’s breathing and the TV upstairs. Then, finally, she said: “Yo
