‘I just spoke to her. She’s having dinner with her cousin at Café de Khan. Didn’t seem to know any of this was happening.’

In the middle of town, Basharat Bashir began pulling down the shutters to his halal meat shop. Across the road, James Davis was doing the same for his butcher’s shop. ‘Didn’t expect this so soon. Did you hear owt?’ James said, his voice carrying across the road.

‘No,’ said Basharat. ‘I would have told you straight away if I had. Will you be OK getting home? You can come and stay at ours till it’s over if not.’

James lived on the other side of the city. To get home he would have to drive through Hanover. The last time the police had asked local businesses to shut up shop, his drive home had been blocked by rioters. He had no idea what was going to happen today. ‘We can’t go to yours – it’s right near where all the trouble was last time. Come with me, I know where we can go. I’ll call Julie and let her know. You give Shagufta a ring and tell her you’re with me.’

The two men finished closing up and got into James’s car. Basharat’s son Bilal had dropped him at work that morning before heading in to buy last-minute things for the new baby. Basharat prayed Bilal had got home before the trouble kicked off.

Jia entered the private room at the back of the restaurant. It had seen off the last of its lunchtime customers and was closing due to the streets protests; the staff were starting to leave. Sitting cross-legged on thick red carpets, as Pukhtuns had done for generations, Idris, Nadeem and Malik were waiting with the owner, Samad Khan. The men stood up as she entered. Idris stepped forward and pulled the runner from what looked like a small coffee table. Underneath was a large black trunk with a heavy padlock. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Nadeem pulled up the lid and let it rest on the floor. The men stepped back as Idris reached into the trunk.

He took out a pair of brown leather gloves and a mask for each of them.

Nadeem looked at him. ‘What the fuck is this?’ he said, holding up the rubber face he’d been given.

‘It was all they had at the pound shop,’ said Malik. ‘I thought it was kind of funny and appropriate, considering they’re homeboys.’

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Jia.

‘I’ll tell you what the problem is,’ replied Nadeem, pulling on the mask. ‘It’s bloody One Direction, that’s what! The masks are all of Zayn Malik!’

‘Actually, this one is Dynamo,’ said Malik, handing the rubber face to Jia.