He pushed himself out of the stream of bodies, flailing an arm to break through the crowd. He came to a stop on a slight rise. From here he could see the heads of thousands of people walking, stumbling, running towards him from the direction of the stadium to his right. There were no uniformed police nearby. There might be spotters hidden in the crowd. But they had nothing to see. Just a black kid in an England shirt taking a break. He clutched the bag more tightly to his stomach, feeling the hardness of the rifle barrel pushing against his ribs.

A middle-aged woman flung herself out of the spectators and came to rest, panting, sweating, florid and scared alongside Asad. ‘Jack,’ she screamed out. Her voice was lost in the hubbub of voices and the rumble of helicopters. ‘Jack.’

She clutched at Asad. ‘My boy – I’ve lost him. He’s only ten. Jack! Jack!’

She climbed up onto the wire-mesh gate. ‘Jack!’ Her cries were pitiful. ‘Jack.’

Then the tone changed from desperation to urgency. ‘There he is. Jack – over here.’ She pointed and Asad saw in the gaps between faces a terrified little white boy in an England shirt turning towards the voice. He was just five metres away, but he was being swept down the avenue, away from his mother.

Asad, still clutching the bag, forced himself into the crowd and reached out, grabbing the boy’s arm, dragging him back to the safe space by the gates.

His mother screamed. ‘Jack. Thank God, you’re safe.’ She hugged him. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Asad dumbly shrugged, as if to say it was nothing. She held her son’s hand tightly and Asad watched them dive back into the torrent.

Asad’s breathing was slow, his heart calm. He thought of Mirza’s blood, dribbling down his frightened and vulnerable throat. And of the day he had hidden from the gunman in London on that peace march, the day he had run away rather than stand up for his brothers and sisters. And Lesley Hogarth and her desire to crush Muslims in Britain. And he thought of the Chilton Park attack, of the video he’d been shown again and again of the murder of his innocent brothers and sisters. What he was about to do was justice. It was right. It was not sinful. It was a necessary fight in the war against Christian Western oppression.

He reached into the bag. The plastic was warm, but the metal was cold under his hand. He pulled out the rifle and held it to one side, its barrel pointing to the ground.

And he thought of Jack. Ten-year-old Jack, frightened and alone in the crowd. And of his helping arm, pulling Jack from safety and restoring him to his mother’s arms.

#

Sulaiman Khan’s arms were aching with the weight of his son, but he didn’t dare put him down. His heart was pounding after the encounter with the skinheads and he wanted him safe.