I heard myself, too late. I thought of the terrible government adverts. I pushed the thought resolutely away.

‘Hadi Kattan? Are you serious? Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ James snapped. ‘Your imagination’s running away with you. He’s just a brilliant businessman. A wheeler and dealer maybe. Not a terrorist.’

‘But you don’t know anything about him, James,’ I said. ‘Just because you had a drink with him once and he asked you to shoot some birds, you think he’s your best mate. And you told him about bloody X, didn’t you? About Oxford? I mean, why would you do that?’

‘I didn’t.’ James looked at me like I was mad. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘He seemed to know about it.’

‘How could Kattan possibly know about Society X?’

‘He said something about blasphemy. He said something about – about you telling him stuff.’

‘Rubbish. Why in God’s name would I mention X? I was hoping he was going to give me money for the club. It’d be madness to tell him anything about our bloody sordid past.’

‘He insinuated it.’ I was sure Kattan had.

‘Well you’re wrong. And you’re playing with bloody fire again, Rose.’

‘Why? Look at it, J. Look at the facts. Henchmen, whispering, a politicised son who hasn’t shown up yet. A daughter who’s demonstrating for Islamic rights. And now her boyfriend is dead too. I mean, what else do you want?’ Stubbornly I stared at the unfurling road. ‘And why shouldn’t I do the research, if I want to?’

‘Because you agreed.’

‘I didn’t agree. Not really. I just said I’d give it a rest for a while. While the kids are small.’

‘They’re still small.’

‘Oh, you’ve noticed, have you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means, James –’ in for a penny, in for a pound – ‘that most of the time you hardly notice the kids, full stop.’

‘That’s bollocks.’

‘It isn’t bollocks, and you know it. You don’t notice any of us these days, you’re so caught up all the time.’

‘I’m making money for the family.’ This was his usual tactic. ‘I’m earning our keep.’

‘You’re not making money drinking into the small hours and never coming to bed. You’re not making money getting fucked and playing X-box with Liam, or snorting coke all night in London, pretending to make music with twatty popstars.’

‘I’m not. I don’t,’ he muttered. His tone changed; he looked just like one of the children when they knew they’d done something wrong. ‘Hardly ever.’

‘Oh, come on, J. You promised to knock it on the head when we came here, but it’s just got worse and worse. You’re even having the bloody nightmares again. And you’re arguing with Liam. Has he messed up again? You need to tell me. I can help.’