‘It’s for people like us,’ Mirza had told him. ‘People who want to change the world for the better. For true Muslims.’

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The video ended and Mirza stood up. ‘Tomorrow we’ve got a chance to take action. Our brothers will be marching on Westminster and we must join them. But marching isn’t enough.’

Mirza paused to swoop his black hair back up against his forehead before his hypnotic voice continued.

‘There’s a war raging, brothers. They torture us, they detain us, they discriminate against us. And they insult the Prophet. And we do nothing. And their Home Secretary tells us to be calm. A man who supports the ban on the veil and who wants restrictions on migration from Muslim countries.

‘So we must show our love for Allah by following his command, establishing truth over falsehood, and upholding the forgotten obligation of jihad and defending our brothers and sisters. Don’t be afraid. Show your love by striking down those who want to destroy us.’

After the meeting, as the others were putting on coats, Mirza came over.

‘Bro – stay behind a second.’

Asad felt a flush of pride. ‘Course, Tanvir.’

When the others had shuffled out of the door, Mirza sat on the floor. Two members, Ahmed Muhid and Waheed Saleem, perched themselves on the edge of the sofa. Asad had known both men since fresher’s week and their faith seemed unassailable, their passion for jihad undimmed by uncertainty. Asad admired them, but found it easier to relate to Mirza.

‘I’ve been watching you, Omar,’ said Mirza. Asad twisted his fingers around his shirt cuff and said nothing.

‘You’re intelligent, you see things others don’t. But something ain’t right.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘You’ve got conflicts. Last week, when the others were saying what they’d do to protect themselves, you were quiet. Are you too scared for this fight?’

Asad felt Mirza’s dark eyes burning into him. He looked down at the threadbare carpet, avoiding the gaze of Saleem and Muhid.

‘You know I believe we need to fight,’ said Asad. He raised his face to Mirza’s, staring hard into his eyes. ‘But last week – the way some of the others were talking, it was like they were boasting. It wasn’t about the fight – it was about grandstanding, carrying knives to make them seem the big men. And that’s not what it should be about, man. Jihad isn’t about showing off.’

Mirza held his gaze. Asad felt himself getting hot. ‘So when is it right?’

‘To take up weapons?’ Asad asked.

Mirza nodded.

‘Like you said, man – for a higher purpose, a higher goal, a just cause,’ said Asad. ‘But for others. For our brothers and sisters. Not for some ego trip.’

Mirza stood and turned to the window. He yanked back the curtain an inch and peered out at the street. The yellow street light cast half his face into shadow as he talked to the glass.

‘There’s someone I want you to meet, all three of you to meet. He thinks like you do,’ said Mirza. ‘He’s done amazing things, brothers. He’s Sheikh Abu Mujahid al-Britani.’