She seemed reluctant, yet moved with him to the central area where Limo, even taller in huge black skates, loomed over a broad man much older than himself. The man had lank black hair plastered to his head, a dusty red hoodie and a rolled-up Metro in his fist. Both shouted at each other, Limo pointing in his face, the man gesticulating with his paper. Aaron couldn’t make out what was going on, caught between the thin girlfriend trying to pull the broad man away and Limo’s friends tugging in the opposite direction, the kid shrugging them off, shouting, ‘I didn’t touch you, though,’ louder each time.

In one swift moment the broad man’s face changed. Eyes narrowed, his face seeped red until he was spitting: ‘Who the fuck d’you think you, are, eh? Eh? Wait until mornin’, you’ll see, you lot’ll be sent back where you come from pronto, d’you hear me? This is my country. My country.’

Maybe he didn’t really mean it. Maybe it was only a counter-reaction to what the kid was saying, brought on by the vote and the intensity of the argument, but Limo stopped shouting as though he’d been slapped. His expression lost all animation, blanking until he regarded the man with no more interest than a frayed bootlace.

Christie tensed, Aaron felt it. The broad man turned on a scuffed heel, brushing past his confused girlfriend walking towards the marigold Amazon lockers on the northern end of the mall. He stopped and smashed his head against the metal, again and again, the sound of it like someone beating a tin drum. People screamed. Security guards ran over, trying to grab his arms, one pushed away by the man, falling and skidding across the polished floor on his arse. He got up and tried again with more of his mates and they were all pushed back even harder. The metal lockers banged, rocking steady time, growing dented, smeared red. Limo’s friends backed away, their expressions pale and sick.

And the kid stood there, focused on the man butting the lockers, a sneering half-smile twitching at his lips.