Soon, we come to a stop, and Carl turns off the engine. He spins around in the driver’s seat, his face suddenly just inches above my own. He spits through his teeth as he talks.

‘If there’s anyone in my army that I don’t trust, it makes me very nervous. You see, it’s all about trust. I need to trust that you love your country. That you love it enough to do something about it. My brother here thinks you’re fine – that you’re one of us because of what happened to your dad. I want to believe that. But I’m not sure. See, I’ve been thinking. If that’d been my dad, I’d have been on a plane or boat straight away, getting a gun and taking the fight to the bastards that killed him. But not you. You wait a few years, getting on with your schoolwork like a coward. Which makes me doubt whether you really care at all. Whether your love is strong enough to do something about it.’

With this last, shouted line, Carl grabs my collar, lifting my head to his flashing teeth and showering me with saliva. I try not to flinch, but I can’t help it.

‘Alan. Hammer.’

Carl holds out his hand as Alan opens the glove box. A second later, a claw hammer is thrust under my nose, the smell of the metal sharp in my nostrils.

‘Just ahead of us there is a shop – a charity shop. It sells the donated goods of cowardly, British people to fund the lifestyles of the people who killed your dad. You will take this hammer, you will smash the front windows to shit, and then you will run to your left, straight down the road. There is a bus leaving the bus station in five minutes. Be on it. Alan, bus fare.’

A crumpled five-pound note joins the hammer.

‘Do this, and I believe in you. Don’t do this, and you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of this hammer. Vince, let him up.’

The back door opens and I tumble out onto the pavement, straight into a puddle of icy water. The hammer and the money are in my hand. I stand up, try to gather myself. I pocket the money. The hammer feels like dead weight.

The shop, as described, is opposite. Refugee Support is painted in bright yellow letters above a large window. Three mannequins – an adult and two children – fill the display which is trying to be festive, the mannequins dressed in Christmas jumpers and bobble hats.

I start walking. I turn to see Carl watching me through the front window. Alan, next to him, holds a mobile phone up and is watching me through its screen. Remembering the other videos, I’m thankful that my coat has a hood. I raise it.