‘What the fuck have you been saying?’ Derek Farmer grabbed Sam’s arm, swung him round and pulled him into an alcove. Sam tried to edge out of his grasp. He didn’t like being manhandled by anyone, let alone a large, sweaty, shouting man – and, above all, not this one.

‘Sorry? What d’you mean?’

‘“Give returnees support”? What? Welcome them at Gatwick with tea and bloody sympathy, and sorry it didn’t work out? You’ve gone way off piste, matey.’

‘It was a closed meeting. Chatham House rules. They said so.’

‘Chatham House – what century are you in? You’ll be all over the papers tomorrow, I guarantee it. The Mail Online’s already got it: Government’s Muslim Poster Boy Goes Rogue. You are going to be in so much shit you’ll need a fucking snorkel.’

Where was all the ‘Thanks for helping us out here, Sahim’ and ‘Marvellous to have you on board’? What had happened to change their attitude?

‘Then I resign.’

Farmer wagged a chubby finger under his nose. It smelt of old cigarettes. ‘No way, José. Not an option. We’ll end up looking like the total muppets we were for ever taking you on. Here’s what’s going to happen, sunshine. You’re going to do an interview with the Sun, and I’m going to give you the script, which you are going to stick to, word for bloody word.’

Sam attempted to breathe slowly. He thought he had spoken sensibly and moderately, and now he was being vilified by yet another faction. Or, to be more precise, the people he was meant to be working for. It had all started so well. And now everything – everything to do with his life in Britain – was turning to shit.

‘What if I refuse?’

‘We’ll comb through your history, your family, your uncles, your aunties, your girlfriends or boyfriends and pets until we find some dirt. And don’t tell me there isn’t any because there always is. We’ll go to town on you. We’ll make you so unemployable you won’t even be able to get work as a fucking cabbage picker with all the other immigrants.’

He held onto Sam’s arm with one hand while he gesticulated with the other. ‘Think about it. You think about the one thing you wouldn’t want the world to know about – and imagine it as a headline. A nice big one. Then imagine your mother reading it. We’ll ruin you.’

Sam didn’t have to think about it. He was trapped.

‘And not only will you be out of a job, you’ll have nowhere to live. And I don’t fancy you and your bird’s chances of finding any room at the inn with a name like yours right now.’ Farmer sighed and let go of his arm.