At the Gate he ate a box of pastel del nata and stared at the runway, the darkening sky, the lights of the aircraft as they lifted and soared. He slept the whole flight home.

*

Endland (sic) when he got there was an agony of strip lights reflected in linoleum and the long brutal sharp tongued quiz show of Immigration desk. Why was he home? they wanted to know. How long had he been in the Land of Lisboa? What had he seen there? Were the people there intelligent or kind? Were they plotting a massacre? Were they part of Austerity? What clothing and customs did they wear? Scarton answered quickly, not thinking about his answers properly and before he knew it he was flagged as a possible target, dragged out of line for some more detailed questions and placed in a room with 20 other black guys ‘strictly at random’.

The clock in the waiting room ticked double loud, the floor shone bright and ocean deep, the walls had pictures of celebrities from a previous era, dancing at a Product Launch, bowing kisses to a crowd, staring long, hard and deep into the lens of the camera and seeming to pity Scarton as he sat there, too tired to be properly nervous, too nervous to be properly tired.

Once he got past the Citizenship test Scartan wiped the spermicide out of his eyes, dressed swiftly and left the room without thinking to count the score. A pass was a pass.

Outside he got a taxi, declaring the name of the street and brutalist towerblock whereby he used to live. No problem, said the driver and off they went, the dude given to speeding up the car and bumping it into other cars as a signal they needed to get out of the way.

All along the motorway there stood the wicker effigies of various heroes and hoodlums as was celebrated in Endland (sic) at that time. There was the old Cromwell, his body in the chains, and there was the idiot Blair on his knees before the Jihadists, eyes bright burning and bulging, just before the last one cutted off his head. And there was a massive figure of the Wayne Rooney and Sheryl (?), and a half a modernist housing estate replicated from olden times all burning. And there was the graffiti saying BLOOD BLOCK and ORANGES, and there was the sound of the car, and the voice on the radio saying bad news, and all apologies.