His journey back to the UK after the Tunisian mission had been a convoluted one. The trip took several days, but the route was well tested and allowed him to come and go without the risk of capture. On his return to the flat he prayed, unpacked, and ate a meal. That done, he stood at the window and looked out as the daylight faded. He caught sight of himself in the glass and moved closer to the window in order to banish his reflection. Lights blazed at the heart of the capital and he could imagine the night unfolding. It was a tableau that played out each evening, but he doubted the scenes were much different in Paris or New York or Sydney. The same type of people doing the same type of things. Alcohol and drugs leading to sex and violence. It was, he thought, a debasement of what it meant to be human. A dismal waste.

In front of his face the glass blurred and distorted as his breath misted the pane. He brushed the window with the tips of his fingers and wiped the mist clear. Peering out again, he saw not the bright lights of London, but a tiny settlement on the border between Saudi Arabia and Iraq. A small concrete dwelling surrounded by a number of billowing tents. A young boy running errands for his parents.

He is twelve years old. Not nearly twelve, not twelve and a bit, but twelve exactly. Nothing is planned for the day of his birth – his father explains to him the celebration of anniversaries and birthdays is the way of disbelievers. Still, his mother has given thanks to God and asked that Taher should live long and be humble. Taher has given thanks too and when, in the late afternoon, his mother asks him to tend to the goats in the paddock, instead of moaning he nods and goes out the back to collect some fodder.