The writer left the stage on the opposite side, a fanfare of stomps and cheers heralding him off, and Clio was standing beside him again, guitar strapped across her, staring straight ahead. He knew better than to disturb her right before she went on, even just to give her a thumbs-up. The MC or host or whatever you called someone at a rally was talking too close to the microphone, sound booming everywhere.

‘Well, wasn’t that something, folks? I think it’s a testament to how serious this issue is that we’re getting this calibre of speaker out. We’re sending a message – Mr Blair, your warmongering American friends are NOT WELCOME here!’

More cheers.

‘And now, let’s keep that spirit going, my friends! I’m delighted to announce a very special guest indeed, a surprise addition to the bill. We can’t quite believe we’ve got her, so let’s have some music. People got to rise up! Put your hands together for Clio Campbell!’

She couldn’t have inherited a more receptive crowd. Clio stood centre stage, silent and half-smiling as the stage hand plugged her guitar to the amp. She was wearing purple-toned leather cowboy boots and a dress too thin for the weather, shivered visibly as she reached for the mic stand.

‘Afternoon, Edinburgh.’

A few well-mannered helloes.

‘Yeah, that seems about right. Let me tell you something. I was there, when we marched in London. Over a million people in the streets. It wasn’t anything like this. People were there because they were angry. Now, I know it’s raining today, but I was in that march earlier, and I wasn’t really picking up on that much anger from you.’

Stick to the songs, Neil was thinking, trying to push the words through the air to her. Just sing. You’re not so good at this.

‘And do you know what, Edinburgh, you should be angry. Not just about a warmongering oil baron who happens to be the most powerful man in the world getting a fancy tea with the Queen on your taxes, but because you’re all being taken for fools. Every day. And you just don’t seem to care, do you? Even those of you here today, you’re not doing much about it. You’re really not making very much noise. Can you make some noise, Edinburgh?’

‘Fuck off!’ shouted a young male voice. Laughter.

‘No I will not. I will not fuck off. Don’t you – I’ve been actually doing something with my time to make a difference, not just tiptoeing along a wee march on the local high street. Don’t you talk to me like that. You don’t get to—’

She stopped, pulled back for a second, her lips moving and nothing coming out.

‘Anyway, here’s a song. You probably know it. It’s called “Rise Up”.’