Safa sits up too fast and grips the bed with a wave of dizziness that sweeps through then eases away. She takes deep breaths. Inhaling through her nose that feels wet like it needs blowing. She wipes it with the length of her thumb. It comes away smeared with blood, which she squints at in confusion. She must have been hit hard during that last fight. That thought makes her look up and round again for cameras. She can’t see any but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching. Whoever they are. This feels professional. It feels too well put together to be the terrorists. If she’d woken up chained in a shit-covered room on top of a filthy mattress she might have accepted it, but this is too good. Must be the police then, or one of the other agencies. They think she had a part in it. That’s a good thing. Stay calm and let the investigation run. She’s clean. She knows she is.

Ben gets up and immediately sits back down from the wave of dizziness moving through his head. His vision darkens until he feels like he will black out. He takes short, shallow breaths until it passes, but it leaves a crushing pain in the back of his skull. Something hot drips on to his hands resting on his lap. He looks down to see a thick drop of blood on his knuckles. Another drop lands, making him realise it’s coming from his nose. He looks round for tissues but even that motion makes him feel sick. Like his head is struggling to catch up with his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, tilts his head back a bit and rises gently to his feet, giving his blood pressure a chance to catch up. How long has he been unconscious for? Would they put an unconscious prisoner in a room on his own? What if he swallowed his tongue or drowned from his own nosebleed? He knows they have different laws for terrorism, but this is England, not America. He looks round for a camera or dome but sees nothing other than the bare concrete walls and bare concrete ceiling. No mirrors and nowhere for a concealed camera to be situated.

He staggers towards the door, feeling pain in his head with every step. It’s warm, muggy and close. He knocks on the door and waits for a prison officer to open it, and when nothing happens, he knocks louder. Still no response, so he bangs the side of his fist, listening to the dull echo sound on the other side.

‘Hello?’ he calls out with a hoarse voice, wincing from the pain in his throat. ‘Can I have some water please?’ This is bad. You can’t leave an unconscious prisoner on their own without medical care or water.

‘Hey.’ He bangs again louder and longer. ‘I wasn’t one of them . . . check the CCTV . . .’