He fiddled with the screen and handed it over.

It was a video of a white, pasty-faced man in front of a Union Jack and symbols that meant nothing to Asad. ‘…it comes from one religion,’ the man on the screen said. ‘A death cult that would subjugate our women and daughters, and wipe out a millennium of our laws with the laws based on a cruel, medieval faith…’

Mirza snatched the phone back. He was shouting now. ‘This sick bastard does this – then he calls us a death cult?’

Asad, still dazed, still unable to process his emotions, nodded dumbly.

Mirza turned around as he walked off. ‘This is it, man. This is the moment. See you at the Group on Friday, yeah?’

Again, Asad nodded and walked away, lost in thought.

He knew Chilton Park. He’d been there when he was fourteen or fifteen when he was shipped off from Cardiff at the start of the summer holidays to spend three weeks with his cousins in Ealing. He could see the roller coaster train in his head, the restraints coming down, his own flailing arms desperately pushing the attacker away. What would he have done if he’d been stuck in the seat? An echo of his dad’s stern voice came into his head. ‘It’s not always about you, Omar, don’t take everything personally.’ It was his dad’s favourite phrase, dragged out whenever his father thought Asad was being ‘oversensitive’, as he called it.

But so often it was about him. Asad couldn’t see why other people – people like his parents – allowed insults, barbs and digs to pass without any comment. His parents seemed blind to the experiences they faced every day. They turned their cheeks to the bullies who tormented Asad at primary school, to the far-right leaders in Europe who declared war on Muslims, to the bigots in their own street who hadn’t spoken to them in decades because they were Somali. But why should he feel inferior? Why wasn’t he an equal even though he was born and raised in the UK?

And this latest attack at Chilton was personal for Asad. How could it not be? What if his own sister had been lying on the platform of that theme park, her body sliced up by this Nazi? What if he had been there – and had a chance to stop him? Would he have stepped up to defend his family, his brothers, his sisters? Of course he would. He needed to talk it over to sort out the chaos in his head, he needed some company, and he wished the Group was meeting tonight, not Friday. They would help him sift through his emotions and make sense of this.

He felt inadequate, he felt cold, and he felt tired.

He walked back to his room, but instead of heading for a shower, he flicked on the TV and sat in front of the rolling news, flicking between the BBC and Al Jazeera, and catching up on Ishmail Sherif’s speeches online, until long past midnight.