The van driver looked at him in surprise. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Me?’ The man’s voice was high-pitched, cold and soft. ‘I’m no one.’ There was quiet, confident menace in his voice and the van driver was unsettled.

‘I’m not taking him.’ The van driver turned to Braithwaite. ‘I’m not paid to take him.’

‘Don’t worry yourself. I’ve made my own arrangements.’ And with that, he began to walk away from the lorry in the direction of the dual carriageway.

Braithwaite watched him go. She was happy to have got rid of the first part of her cargo and she needed to get off. She was due in Luton by ten and then was off on holiday to Florida for three weeks. By the time the white man had reached the top of the dual carriageway embankment, her lorry was already out of the park and he was out of her mind.

#

Abu Mujahid al-Britani waited until the lorry was out of sight before getting out a mobile phone from his pocket. He felt filthy and stiff, but at least the warmth was returning to his body. He brushed dust from his beard while waiting for his call to be picked up.

‘I’m here,’ he barked into the mobile, and listened for directions above the drone of cars. Without saying another word, he put away the phone, hitched his rucksack over one shoulder, briskly strode into the night.

DAY 2

Thursday

Bexleyheath, South East London

Fletcher woke just after 5am. He lifted his head and peeled his cheek off the leather sofa where he’d crawled to sleep just a few hours earlier. He blinked, puzzled at the gas fire, still on and framed by fake marble blocks.

Why had he woken? Had he heard a noise or had he been dreaming of the clanking of the roller coaster? Fletcher’s throat burned and his gut ached. He rubbed his eyes and found his way to the kitchen. The back door was locked, the window still shut. It was still dark, so he listened. Perhaps it was just his imagination, or maybe it had been a cat outside.

And now what? Pete would be back tomorrow night. Pete was sound enough, thought Fletcher, he hated the Muslims and the Jews and the gays. But would he turn in his mate for doing what they all secretly wanted to do? He knew he couldn’t risk it. Need to get out of London, he told himself, away from the cameras everywhere.

If he was going a long way, then he needed cash. He went up to Pete’s bedroom, wrenched open drawers and checked in the jackets in the wardrobes. He found a spare set of house keys, but no money. And none in the kitchen, or the cupboard under the stairs.

Back in the kitchen, he pulled down the blinds and turned on the portable TV. And there he was – his face, pale, surprised and fat, staring out of the screen. It was the picture from his ID card at Chilton. The TV picture moved to the roller coaster, then to a floodlit reporter at the gates of the park.