He enjoyed his solitary runs, relishing the time to think and reflect. This reclusiveness was probably another reason Bev had called time on their relationship. He thought of her again: slim, pretty, with a big laugh and a big heart. He had enjoyed living with her and enjoyed the brief foray into normal life she gave him, but his fractured upbringing, nomadic military existence, and total commitment to the job had made things difficult. Could he ever completely trust anyone? Bev had got sick of the fact that something stopped Tom giving all of himself to her, so she left. The split had saddened him, he supposed, but a part of him felt like he should have been affected more than he was. A bigger part of him relished the comforting fact that he would continue relying on himself. He picked up his pace, feeling the burn in his legs and the tension dissipate as he pounded the streets.

*

Michael Adebayo pushed back his chair from the desk and stretched. It had been a long morning seeing clients at the busy office in Ilford. It was like a sausage factory, desperate immigrant after desperate immigrant, all with the same thing in mind: staying in the UK. Most of them were students who wanted to stay beyond their visa. Some were asylum seekers not yet granted, all with the same bullshit stories. He thought of his last client, a Pakistani with years of rejected applications-to-remain behind him. He almost laughed at what the wretch wanted to claim, even if it was at Adebayo’s suggestion. He was going to try to convince the authorities that he needed asylum as he was gay and would be killed in Pakistan as a result. This was despite the sham marriage application the same man had made and had had rejected just a few months before, claiming undying love for a Hungarian girl half his age. He laughed at the audacity of it, but he just took the money and, if applications failed, he couldn’t care less.

He stared out of his window onto Station Road. The sunlight streamed through the window as he watched the bustle below him. A grimy, poor area, but one he loved well enough.

He had been aged eight when he had come to the UK with his parents from a small village outside Lagos. His father was a natural businessman who had managed to set up a small chain of printing and photocopying shops that were moderately successful and afforded them a comfortable lifestyle. His parents were decent, God-fearing Christians who were not best pleased when he had converted to Islam at university. It was an easy conversion for Adebayo: most of his friends and associates were Muslims and, even just for business reasons, it had seemed the natural choice.