Bala sucked on the spliff until it glowed back to life. He reached forward and scratched his ankle, where something was bulging inside his sock.

‘What’s that?’

‘You should know. Aren’t criminals your special subject?’

Bala pushed his sock down. An electronic tag. ‘Cos I’m such a danger to society. I’m on a TPIM. You’ll know what that is.’

Sam did: Terrorism and Prevention Investigation Measures had replaced Control Orders but did much the same, a blunt instrument to keep tabs on would-be terrorists.

‘Just cos of going to Syria, never mind I didn’t fire a single shot.’

The smoke was starting to get to him, irritating his eyes. Bala coughed heavily into the hand that held the spliff, then waved it at Sam. ‘You don’t get it, do you? They’ve declared war on us. How’re we gonna fight back?’

Sam said nothing. He let him rant on.

‘Even you, with your degree, you’re still a target. We’re all targets. Better make up your mind which side you’re on.’

Sam decided not to engage with this. He’d come about Karza. ‘The Army of Helpers – do they have anyone based in the UK?’

Bala gave him a withering look.

‘Okay then, whoever organized the van you drove there. Just somewhere I can start. Come on, man. Mum’s bloody desperate.’

Bala reached for a Biro and tore off a corner of the local paper, scribbled something and passed it to him. On it was the name ‘Leanne’ and an address on the other side of Doncaster. ‘They worked out of there.’

‘Leanne?’

‘It was her house. She was the co-ordinator. Your brother had a bit of a thing for her. Maybe she’ll know something.’

‘Any phone number or surname?’

But Bala was done. He turned back to Jeremy Kyle. The large, beanbag of a woman had dissolved into sobs and was being comforted by her similarly shaped supporters.

Sam exited the room and turned towards the front door, but Jana was there, the child still clutching her long skirt. Like him, she had gravitated away from the other Muslims at school. Once, Sam and she had even talked about taking off for London together, escaping the stranglehold of family life. He tried to think of something to say. ‘Last time I saw you, you were in hot pants.’

It sounded clumsy and out of place.

She looked at him blankly. ‘Then you’ve not seen me in a long time.’

He gestured at her clothes. ‘How come?’

She ignored the question. ‘You going to help him or what?’

‘Bala?’

‘You saw that thing on his leg.’

‘It’s up to the authorities. The TPIM expires after two years. He needs to stay out of trouble, though.’

‘Yeah, like he’s going to blow up a bus or something.’