Asad was standing behind the camera. Above his head, he was holding a strip of white card with letters neatly stencilled in black ink. Porter glanced at it. ‘My name is Katie Dartmouth,’ it said. ‘I am scared. Very scared. I don’t want to die. These are not bad men, and their cause is a just one. They just want British soldiers off their land. So I appeal to the British people, go out of your homes, demand that your government brings your soldiers home. Please. Because if you don’t, I will die, and my blood will be on all of your hands.’

Christ, thought Porter. They can’t make her read that. Can they?

‘Read it,’ repeated Hassad.

Katie rolled her eyes towards the card. She was struggling to focus. Porter watched as her bruised and swollen eyeballs screwed up, trying to get a fix on the words. Slowly, from the expression on her face, he guessed that she was starting to make sense of the rows of black stencilling.

‘Fu …’ she stuttered.

The words still wouldn’t come.

Hassad took a step sideways. He grabbed the jug in the corner, filled a tin cup, and took two steps towards Katie. She flinched. Grabbing hold of her chin with his left hand, he pushed the water to her lips with his right. She drank quickly, drawing down the liquid in two fierce gulps. ‘Now speak,’ said Hassad.

‘Fuck you,’ spat Katie.

Although his face remained as impassive as lump of rock, Porter was smiling inside. That’s the spirit, girl, he told himself. Show the bastards what you’re made of.

Hassad took a moment to compose himself.

‘Fuck you,’ spat Katie again. ‘You can kill me if you want to, but I’m not reading that shit for you.’

Hassad looked at Nasri. ‘Deal with her,’ he said curtly.

Nasri vanished from the room, but within an instant he’d returned. In his right hand he was holding a long stretch of hosepipe. ‘You want to read?’ said Hassad, turning menacingly back towards Katie.

‘Fuck you.’

Nasri took two steps forward then paused. He raised his right hand high in the air, and flicked the hose so that it was hanging over the side of his back. For a moment he just held the pose, giving Katie a moment to look straight at him. The dread was already evident in her eyes: she knew the pain that was about to be inflicted on her, and she was scared witless. Her lips were shaking, and it looked as if a trickle of urine was dribbling down her leg. Nasri tensed his muscles. He was a thin but strong man, and his biceps were like cannonballs: round and as hard as steel. An unimaginable strength was about to be transferred into the lash. ‘No,’ muttered Katie, the words so weak they were barely audible. ‘Please no …’

Nasri started to raise his arm. In the still, dank silence of the room, you could hear the plastic start to cut through the fetid air. Porter lunged forwards. He moved with an agility that surprised even him. Crashing through the five metres of space that separated them, he collided hard into Nasri’s ribs, knocking him off balance. The hose was already travelling through the air, but its flight had changed. It cracked viciously, but was hitting only thin air. Porter pummelled one fist, then another, into Nasri’s ribcage. The man had the strength of an armoured vehicle: putting your fist into his muscles was like slamming your hand into the skin of a tank. He rolled with the first punch, but the second hit a nerve, sending him crashing to the floor, a cry of pain escaping from his lips. Porter fell on top of him, bringing his knee up sharply as he did so, so that it crashed hard into Nasri’s chin, sending his neck snapping back. Porter could feel a surge of adrenalin running through his bloodstream as the blows hit home: I’ve built up so much anger towards these bastards since I’ve been here, he reflected, that it is good to finally get some of it out of my system.