‘Can I help you, sir?’ said a young assistant.

Nguyen held up his arms. ‘Small size?’ he asked, and the youngster smiled and helped him get it off. He flicked through the racks and pulled out a smaller size, pressed it up against Nguyen’s shoulders, nodded, and asked him to try it on. It fitted.

‘Trousers. Same style,’ said Nguyen, and the youngster found a pair of trousers made from the same soft material.

‘Anything else, sir?’ he said, and Nguyen nodded enthusiastically.

‘Oh yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Many things.’

He picked up a pair of binoculars, powerful and covered with thick, green rubber, and asked the assistant if it was OK to try them. The boy said yes, but went with him to the door and waited while Nguyen scanned up and down the crowded street.

‘I will take these,’ said Nguyen, handing them to the boy. He walked back into the shop. So many things to buy. ‘Bottles,’ he said.

‘Bottles?’ queried the boy.

‘Water-bottles,’ said Nguyen, pointing to a canteen, khaki-coloured with a green strap. It looked big enough to hold a quart. ‘Two of those. No, three.’

The boy piled up the purchases by a cash register, sensing that the customer was going to be here for some time. On the wall behind the cash register were a number of replica guns and rifles, dull metal and polished wood. They looked so real, Nguyen marvelled. How could such things be on sale in England? he wondered. Some of the guns he recognised, a Colt .45, a Ruger .22, an M9 9-millimetre semi-automatic. Suddenly he stopped, his heart pounding. It couldn’t be, could it? His eyes widened and he walked over to stand in front of an AK-47, a Kalashnikov automatic rifle, perfect in every detail with even its curved ammunition magazine in place. He reached up to touch it, to remind himself how it felt. At the last moment, just before his fingers touched the cold metal, he pulled back his hand and shook his head to clear away the memories.

‘Compass,’ he said, and the assistant took him over to a glass-topped counter. On a shelf underneath were a selection of compasses and map-reading equipment. Nguyen pointed at several and the boy took them out for him to examine. Nguyen chose one. ‘Knife,’ he said.

There were so many knives, more than he had ever seen in any one place. There were penknives with all sorts of gadgets attached – nail files, spanners, scissors, bottle-openers. There were throwing knives, useless ones like the skinhead had been playing with, but also serious, properly balanced heavy knives that could kill from twenty yards in the right hands. Nguyen held a pair of the heavy knives, feeling their balance and knowing they were perfect.

‘Can try?’ he asked the assistant.

‘Try?’

Nguyen showed him the knives. ‘Can I throw?’

‘Here?’ said the boy. ‘No, no. God, no.’ He looked confused.