Paul Gilligan twitched the camera hidden in the satchel at his side. His hand was starting to ache; he’d been tailing this gang of what he hoped were hot-headed young Muslims for three hours and was beginning to lose faith they’d ever do anything newsworthy. Nor did he have any idea where he was. He’d never been to Leicester before – only driven up that morning when he heard there were white and Muslim vigilantes carrying weapons on the street. He’d found a gang of chavs first and got a few shots of badly concealed knives and piping, but when he sent them to Anna at the Beast she’d said she was getting the same stuff from everyone. It had been four days since he’d sold a picture.

He’d stuck with the chavs a little longer, with no joy. There’d been an exciting few minutes when they’d started throwing packets of bacon at a crowd of Muslims outside one of the mosques, but they’d legged it as soon as they heard sirens. And, for all their swagger, there seemed to be a high reluctance to actually use the weapons they were toting.

So he’d abandoned them and managed to find this lot: fourteen of them now that they’d picked up a few friends on their patrol. All of them under about twenty-five, with skullcaps and ragged beards; some of them in those Muslim pyjamas, others in jeans and shiny shirts. A few chain-smoking and swigging thin cans of energy drinks. They were quieter than the chavs but, unlike them, had also seemed to have some definite intent. So far all they’d done was lead him away from the shopping centre where he’d picked them up and into these anonymous terraced streets. He was beginning to think he should try to find the chavs again; maybe they’d get drunk.

But, as he wondered whether he’d even be able to find them again, the small mob slowed down, spreading into the road. Two young white women in short skirts and skimpy tops were coming hesitantly along the pavement towards them.

Paul stretched his fingers inside the satchel, rolled his knuckles and brought the digits back to their places on the camera. The girls were cheap. Hoop earrings, make-up, ponytails. Slags from the estates, on the way out somewhere.

The Muslims started jeering at them, and one of the girls wanted to go back. But the other girl, a greasy blonde, refused to turn around. She took her friend’s hand and marched towards them. The first few Muslims moved aside, leering at them. That was a picture. Paul lifted the camera and started rattling off near-identical shots: the cheap girls walking defiantly through the mob; the angry, taunting, lustful faces all around them.