‘I told you to watch your language, you murdering fuck.’

The words struck hard. It was not the first time the guard had used them, but it seemed to be the first time Mansour had heard them. They combined with the lightning bolts of pain still shooting through his wrist and arm to test whatever self-control he had left.

As he looked upon the other man’s reddened, bloated face and listened to the torrent of abuse, Mansour felt something stir.

He felt his fire return.

‘That’s what’s wrong with you lot, Abdul.’ With the sound of the van’s engine quietened, the guard resumed his barrage of abuse. ‘You come to this country and do whatever the hell you want, don’t ya? It starts with disrespect to us what let you in. And it ends with you blowing up women and kids on planes. Why? All because you ain’t got the balls to fight a proper war.’

Mansour said nothing.

The guard’s words tailed off as the sound of heavy machinery shook the van. He climbed to his feet.

‘Home time, Abdul. We’re here.’

Again, Mansour said nothing.

The first gate had opened. A mechanised steel barrier that slowly slid aside, to allow the few vehicles permitted inside the prison to come and go.

Only once the sound had stopped did Mansour feel the van pull forward. He could not tell how far, but when the same sound started again – this time to his rear – he assumed that they were now inside.

‘Not long now, Abdul,’ the guard said. ‘Nearly time to meet up with all yer dirty Muhammad mates inside, eh?’

Mansour did not reply. Instead his gaze remained fixed on his battered wrists. Finally shaken out of the shock that had seemed to paralyse him, he could finally comprehend what lay ahead.

Inner Belmarsh.

It was the term Michael Devlin had used. When Mansour had first heard the words, they meant nothing. How could they? But now he knew more, and so now they sounded daunting.

The van moved to a final stop.

‘Yer home, Abdul. Last place you’ll ever be.’

The guard smiled and rubbed his eyes as the van’s thick, steel back door opened and outside light filled the space.

Mansour stayed silent.

‘Get him out, Bob.’

The order came from the now open back door. The gangway between the cells was not wide enough for two officers and a prisoner, making it a one-man job.

Mansour’s guard moved immediately.

‘You ready to meet your pals, Abdul?’ he asked as he moved into the few available inches of Mansour’s cell. His voice was low now, enough that only he and his prisoner could hear. ‘They’ll be waiting for ya, I’ll bet. So you can all celebrate what a murdering little fuck you are.’

He leaned forward, roughly shoving his shoulder into Mansour’s nose.

He unlocked the left-hand restraint from the bench and slowly put it onto his own right wrist. As he did so he twisted and turned the cuffs.