Thomas put down the cup and looked at Hogarth.

‘I’m not sure I can see the PM agreeing to that,’ he said.

‘It would soothe the anxieties of many of my members. And it would be an appropriate response to the inevitable Muslim backlash we’re going to see in the coming days.’

‘Let me consider your suggestion carefully,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘As I say, we do need to be working more closely. And sometimes country comes first, Lesley. I’m not sure that everyone in the government appreciates the existential threat Britain is facing.’

#

Hogarth and O’Brien walked away. Thomas watched them briefly, before turning and heading for the gents. Ghastly woman, he thought, although that O’Brien was a bit of a looker. Shame about the piercing, but still, shows a bit of spirit. But Hogarth? Beneath the friend-of-the-people facade, she was clearly bright. A phoney, yes, but an intelligent phoney. And a useful one. He washed his hands carefully and set off back to his office.

DAY 1

Wednesday Evening

University of Islington sports ground, North London

The shriek of the whistle brought the game to an end and Omar Asad said a silent prayer of thanks. His breathing was painful in the acidic night air and the stitch in his right side was like a jabbing needle. Asad grabbed his backpack, pulled out a black hoodie and said goodbye to the brothers.

He had left the university sports complex and was passing through the gate into the residential road leading to his hall of residence when he sensed someone running towards him. Tanvir Mirza was a couple of hundred metres behind, still on the pitch, waving.

Asad was surprised. Normally, in public, Mirza barely acknowledged Asad’s presence. He waited as Mirza jogged up and rested his hand on Asad’s damp shoulder as he caught his breath.

‘Omar, man, you got to see this.’ His deep-set eyes were fiery as he roughly shoved the phone in Asad’s hands.

Asad wiped a drop of sweat from the screen and read the headline: Six dead in theme park terror attack. He skimmed through the report with disbelief, struggling to absorb the enormity of what had happened. Mirza snatched the phone back. ‘It’s unbelievable, man. This kafir, he’s singled out the Muslims on this ride. A mother out with her family and their friends. Some were still kids. And no one held him back or pulled him off.’

Asad could feel the muddle of anger rising inside him. That rage was always with him, it was part of him, like an arm or foot. He couldn’t remember when he hadn’t felt rage, just out of reach, constantly fuelled by the injustices that filled his waking moments. Sometimes the rage was quiet, a background hum to his existence. Other times, like now, it rolled and steamed like the home-made jam on his parents’ stove at home, ready to rise up, to spit and to scald.

Mirza carried on. ‘The media’s making out like he’s a nutter. It’s double standards, man. If a brother hurts a kafir, then it’s Muslims this and Muslims that, but if it’s a white guy killing us, then he’s just a sicko, just a bit unstable. I’m so sick of it. Now look at this.’