Her initial excitement at joining the queue for Notorious had quickly given way to boredom and then frustration as the skies had begun to unleash a fine but persistent drizzle. But now, finally near the front of this interminable line, the listlessness in Zahra’s stomach was being pushed aside by the blossoming of nervous anticipation.

Jawad, dressed in a lumberjack jacket and black jeans, was at the front of their group with her mother and Jawad’s friend Imran. Zahra was at the back, next to her closest friend Maryam.

‘You nervous?’ Maryam asked softly.

‘Nah.’ That was a lie, of course. The bravado with which she’d agreed to come to the park on her school’s inset day was wearing thin, but she did not want to lose face in front of her brother and particularly not in front of his friend. She sneaked a glance at Imran laughing effortlessly with her brother, with his immaculate hair and black leather jacket. And those eyes, those scintillating eyes, that always seemed to ignite when she approached.

The roller coaster screeched to a stop. A man in an emerald sweatshirt kicked at a pedal at the back of the train, releasing the restraints which flipped over the passengers’ heads, letting them clamber out on the opposite side from the queue. As the line surged again, Imran, Jawad and her mother walked into the stalls, ready to get on the next train. Zahra’s cousins and Jawad’s friends filled the rest of the stalls, leaving no space for her or Maryam.

Zahra’s mother turned to face her. An effervescent woman, always quick to laugh, she seemed somehow even more radiant surrounded by her family and their friends.

‘Sorry, love,’ she mouthed, ‘you get the next ride, we’ll wait at the exit.’

Zahra nodded. That was fine. She didn’t want her mum – or Imran – on the same ride anyway. She wasn’t convinced her language would be appropriate for her mother, and she was terrified that Imran would see her being sick.

#

On the platform, Gareth Fletcher flattened his oily hair and gave a thumbs up to the woman in the control cabin. At her command, the eight cars rolled out of the platform to be yanked up the slope to the first drop. Fletcher slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket to rest his fingers around the metal that lay invitingly inside.

Notorious had two trains running at once and Fletcher had ten seconds before the other rolled into the station. A gust of pine disinfectant filled his nostrils and his gaze fell upon a splatter of vomit next to the rail which the cleaners had overlooked. It wasn’t worth reporting, but it irritated him. Why couldn’t people do their jobs properly? Lazy bastards. Lazy black bastards, he added to himself, like a reflex.

He glanced down the track as the other train began to creep into the station and he slid his hand into his pocket again. The train was seven seconds away. Maybe this was the time. Then, as he surveyed the queue, he spotted a middle-aged Asian woman with a group of seven or eight young men and teenage girls. His heart leapt. The men were full of bravado, laughing and pushing each other, showing off in front of the girls. He kept watching. Indian? Maybe Pakistani or Bangladeshi? From the head coverings on the woman and two girls, they were probably Muslims, he thought. Fletcher watched for a few moments, then glanced around the other passengers waiting to board. No little kiddies. That was good. No coppers. No squaddies. No heroes.