The sweat pouring, the blood pumping, the exhaustion that you pass through to the reserve energy supply that you did not know was inside you, and then beyond that secret fuel tank to the real exhaustion where the sickness is in your stomach and your muscles are twitching with the build-up of lactic acid and your eyes sting with sweat, the place where you are not aware of the music, not aware of time passing, not aware of anyone watching. The red leather of my heavy eighteen-ounce Lonsdale gloves shining with sweat.

The buzzer sounded.

‘Time,’ Fred said. ‘Good. You’ll sleep well tonight.’

I grinned at my trainer. It was true.

Everyone else had gone home now.

But Nesha was busy picking up towels.

‘Is he thieving?’ Fred said.

‘I think he might be clearing up,’ I said.

Fred nodded, impressed.

‘What’s his story?’

I told him. All of it. The whole tragic mess. From saying goodbye to his sister in Belgrade to living in a dead car in the East End.

Nesha Novak had his arms full of sweaty towels.

He stared at us.

‘He’s not afraid of hard work, is he?’ Fred said.

21

The uniforms were doing something wrong.

They had been touring the language schools with the photographs of Rabia Demir in the company of the man who called himself Zlatko Draganov, but they were coming back with nothing.

So we tried it my way.

‘There are hundreds of English language schools in this city,’ I told Billy Greene as we weaved our way through the early morning crowds on Oxford Street. ‘Some of them are fully accredited places of education. And some of them are fronts for visa scams.’

‘You really think she’ll show up at a language school?’ Billy said.

I shrugged.

‘If not for her language skills, then maybe for her visa. If she is registered with a language school, it’s easier for her to get a student visa. Let’s try this place.’

There was an open doorway between an old denim store and a new coffee shop. A young man – early twenties, Somalian or that neighbourhood – was leaning against the wall next to it, a stack of glossy leaflets in his hand, half-heartedly offering them to the indifferent crowds. I held out my hand and he stirred, sort of sliding up the wall, and warily gave me a leaflet.

Oxbridge International Language School

Learn English with the elite.

Low low prices!

Help with accommodation, work permits and visas.

Excellence guaranteed!

The border of the leaflet was adorned with the flags of twenty nations. I nodded to Billy and we went up the stairs.