He tensed, prepared himself for another speech. You don’t like this? Try Egypt, or Libya, he felt like saying. If only they understood how lucky they were to be here. In a hundred other countries Bala would have been locked up and forgotten – or tortured.

‘And that lot who’ve attacked us all along, before this kicked off. They gonna be tagged? How long do we have to go on getting battered, shit through our letter-box, bricks in our windows before you do something about it?’

‘Look, Jana . . .’

She pursed her lips.

‘. . . I’m just trying to find my brother.’

‘Fuck your brother. He got Bala into this.’

Victimhood: he could have written a whole dissertation on it. It was like a plague that had crippled the community, breeding a toxic combination of self-pity and thwarted entitlement. Thank God he hadn’t got involved with her. Instead he had got away. But something about the way the light had gone from her eyes touched him. ‘You’ve changed.’

She glared at him, then gestured at the boarded-up windows round the front door. ‘It’s not me that’s changed. It’s out there that’s changed.’

Chapter 17

17

Doncaster

The house was Victorian, one of a terrace that seemed to go on for ever, winding up the hill. There was no sign of rioting in this part of town and, for that matter, no sign of any Muslim presence. A removal van was parked outside, its engine idling, the driver reading a paper propped on the steering-wheel. ‘War Zone Britain’ was the headline.

Sam pressed the entryphone. Above it there was a small security camera. He looked into it, trying to appear pleasant and unthreatening.

‘Yes?’ asked a metallic voice, through the speaker.

‘I’m here to see Leanne.’

Silence. He was about to press again when the door inched open. An elderly Asian man in a suit jacket that was too large for him peered out.

‘Is she here – Leanne?’

The old man continued to stare at him. ‘Wait.’

He shut the door.

It was raining hard. Sam started to feel foolish, his already battered morale ebbing away. Then the door opened again and a woman in her mid-twenties, pale but with large dark brown eyes, stood in front of him. Her face was attractive but unanimated, like an empty canvas waiting for someone to add the character.

‘Leanne?’

She didn’t answer, just waited for him to say something else.

‘I’m here about my brother – in Syria.’

She frowned. He guessed what she was thinking: that he didn’t look the part.

‘We’re from Bosnia originally.’

He couldn’t remember the last time he had owned up to this. He’d never raised it with Helen and she hadn’t asked. It sounded weird and out of context.