In a message sent out on social media, Za Flow, real name Hamza Hassan, called Campbell his ‘warrior queen’, commenting ‘She helped me find my voice and work out who I was supposed to be. She was a beautiful and talented lady with this amazing strong soul who always had something to say about the injustices of the world and fought the good fight for the little guys.’

‘Fucking hell.’ He wanted to throw Gemma’s tablet across the room. ‘That’s even worse. That’s – what are they saying there? That I didn’t have no political sensibility until I met a nice older white lady, who showed me how to do it? Impoverished background? Strict Muslim upbringing? My mum’s a fucking chemist! And what’s this ‘considerate of mainstream opinion’ shit? They calling me a fucking, whatsit, Uncle Tom, innit? They basically saying I’m a Paki Uncle Tom?’

Gemma’s face was crestfallen.

‘I thought you’d be pleased. It’s a serious newspaper, taking your politics seriously. “The voice of a disenfranchised generation”, they said. I mean, baby, that’s gold. And, well, you kind of gave him that one.’

‘I did what?’

She flinched. She actually flinched in the bed. I need to get out of here, he thought.

‘You said it yourself. Clio helped you find your voice.’

‘Fuck it, man. I didn’t mean like that.’

‘Read it again, babe. They’re taking her more seriously because of you. Not the other way around. And all these people are going to start listening to her music because of you. We’ve done a beautiful thing for her.’

We, we, we.

‘I need to get some space, Gem. This is all too much now. Don’t – just give me some time, aight?’

Half an hour later he was back at Calvin’s, the sofa ready to crash on.

♠

Homerton, 2011

Usual shit autumn weather. Clio had gone up north for her mum’s birthday, had texted to say she was staying an extra couple of days, which was weird because usually she couldn’t get out of Scotland fast enough. He and Gemma had fallen out of a club and into her bed, which had happened quite a bit over the past year, but the lack of Clio and the rain battering the windows meant he had no incentive to leave. They’d spent a whole weekend entangled, only getting up to pee or answer the door to the pizza-delivery guy, her flatmates giggling or tutting outside because they knew who he was, and he’d left the flat with her on Monday morning, kissed her before she descended the steps to the Tube like every other couple on the street, powered himself towards Homerton on the strength of a promise to tell Clio everything and make a fresh start, by sweet, glossy visions of the future life he could have – should have – with young, beautiful, positive Gemma at his side.