‘What you mean, a summons?’ He looked at Asif; there was something not right, a glint of fear in his eyes.

Before there was time for an answer, his friend pulled away. Two figures in dark hoodies ranged alongside, clamping his arms and forcing him across the road.

‘Hey, what the—’

‘Shut it, brother, I’m just the escort,’ snarled one, gagging his mouth with a black leather glove.

Sami turned his head and glimpsed Asif watching, the fear now tinged with regret. Did he hear his voice? ‘Sorry, man.’ Or did he just imagine it as his friend disappeared into the dawn gloom?

He was alone, outnumbered, unarmed, not even a knife. He thought of screaming. They saw it; the black-gloved fist slapped into his mouth. They pushed him into the windowless back of a small van; one leapt inside with him, the other locked the door. Imprisoned. Even if he overpowered his ‘escort’, there was no way out.

‘What’s this about, brother? I ain’t done nothing,’ he mumbled.

He heard the second man’s footsteps circle the van, a door slam, the engine fire up, a jerk of acceleration pitching him against the carcass of steel.

The escort – his jailer, more like – pointed to his pocket and beckoned with a finger to hand over what was in it.

‘What you want?’

The escort, staying silent, beckoned again. Sami feigned puzzlement. The response was a kick in the shin. Understanding, he handed over his mobile. He was allowed to keep his watch.

One hour gone.

It seemed unreal, a sick fantasy happening in a parallel universe. The silence became his oppressor, the unreality lifting like the misty dawn he imagined outside. He thought, rethought, re-rethought. What could they know about him? Sure, he’d talked stuff with the group – Ali, Farooq, Shay the glamour boy, Asif himself. They’d dreamed and schemed but it was never more than bravado. At least not from him. An ugly idea hit him – were any of them serious? Had they really meant it? Had he seemed to commit?

That night with the girl? There was some messing, sure… she was a bit young – but none of them actually did it with her. Nothing like some of the rumours he’d heard going around. After the foster mother complained, the police had them in but didn’t even caution them. He’d wanted to apologise to her but the others told him to leave it. Surely it couldn’t be that. If not, what else?

Three or so hours steady speed on flat roads – motorway, he assumed – then endless bends, falling and climbing, now the rattle of rutted lanes. Seated on the wheel-arch, he felt only the soreness in his behind and scraping in his bones. For the thousandth time he lifted an eye to the escort sitting opposite. For the thousandth time, there was no response.