Muhid stood, groped inside his rucksack for his wallet, and left a ten-pound note on the table. He must die with no debts, not even for a meal he hadn’t touched.

Time to move. He stood and walked purposefully to the concrete anti-vehicle block he’d seen a dozen times on their practice runs using Google Street View. The block was intended to stop terrorists driving cars from the car park into the walkways. Today it would give him some shelter from the rear.

He placed the rucksack at his feet and faced the unbelievers. He couldn’t kneel here, that would stand out in this crowd of scum, but he could pray silently in his head.

He imagined the next few minutes. Standing there in the oncoming storm of people, letting loose bursts of bullets, spraying the advancing crowd, watching them fall like the British soldiers emerging from the trenches in the First World War.

That man – the fat man with the beard – he would go. And that woman in the miniskirt, flashing her flesh at everyone. And that woman with short hair. His aim would be true, his bullets would find the people who were not worthy. The rifle seemed lighter in Muhid’s hands now. He half-expected a scream or shout, but no one was looking at him, no one had noticed the functional slab of metal and plastic in his hands.

The advancing spectators were a hundred metres away now. Close enough. He slipped the catch to the automatic mode and looked up again.

And then he saw the lone policeman. A tall, red-haired man in blue shirt, bulletproof vest and navy trousers, moving towards him, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his face pale and puffy. The policeman was watching the faces – swinging his head from right to left. He hadn’t seen Muhid yet. A knot of poison solidified in Muhid’s stomach. This was the moment of choice – the moment of damnation, or the moment of martyrdom. He had a few seconds now. When they were fifty metres away, he would lift the weapon.

And then came the shout.

‘Drop the weapon.’ The policeman, now running towards him, his own rifle pointing at him.

This was it. This was the moment Muhid had been preparing for – not just for months, but for his entire life. This was the moment of crystal certainty, his test. And a test that he was going to pass.

He had to fight, not surrender. He moved quickly, determined to start firing before the policeman stopped him. He didn’t have time to aim properly. His eyes centred on an overweight man in an England shirt in the middle of the crowd as he lifted the weapon in front of his body. No time to lift the sights to eye level.

His finger touched the trigger, but before he could squeeze it to unleash death on these kafirs, he felt the kick in his stomach and he lost his balance. It was hot and wet, but there was no pain, not yet. Muhid’s feet were yanked out from under him and he fell sprawling onto the concrete.