Over the yells came the muffled sound of a megaphone. Blue smoke drifted through the bodies from a flare dropped to the pavement. Union Jacks, beer cans, baseball caps, white middle-aged faces contorted in rage, and the smell of urine where at least one had relieved themselves against the wall.

The yell ‘Murderers’ burst into Campbell’s ears. It had come from a young black man walking towards him, ten metres away, part of the main protest. He watched the man for a second before returning his gaze to the counterprotest.

The political chants merged into anti-Semitic football chants.

‘Wish they’d make their mind up who they hate. First the Muslims. Now the Jews. They’re all mentalists,’ muttered Skeffington.

#

Asad had lost sight of the University ISoc banner in the churning mass around him. He’d been on the street for two hours and his feet ached in his market-stall trainers.

He walked along the Regency streets of St James’s, home to gentleman’s tailors and exclusive hotels. The marchers made an unlikely contrast alongside these grand old Portland stone buildings which looked down on banners proclaiming Freedom for Palestine and Stand up to Racism.

There was a sweet waft of cannabis, and a sickly odour of vaping. A woman with a grey megaphone was chanting ‘Nazis out’ and a couple of dozen marchers were joining in. On the other side, a harassed white father was holding a screaming toddler while he tried to steer an empty pushchair with one hand.

Up ahead, the shouting was louder – and more aggressive. Something had changed and marchers had stopped on one side and were shouting at a group of mostly white men and women on the pavement. With a shocking clarity and growing rage deep in the pits of his body, Asad realised who they were.

‘This is free England, no to Sharia. This is free England, no to Sharia.’ The yell came from three women with dyed red, white and blue hair.

‘Murderers.’ The word left Asad’s lips before he’d had time to think what he was saying. Two men – almost certainly plain-clothes police – were in front of him. One was white, tall, moustached and lean; the other, black and stocky. Asad could see the shorter of the two eyeing him up before turning his gaze back to the far-right protesters.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

Four miles away, in the SO15 operations room in St Pancras, Gabriel watched the crowds on the video screens. Even through the filter of electronics, she sensed the anticipation.

The police operation for the march was being controlled by Gold Command four miles away in the cavernous special operations room near Lambeth Palace. Gabriel’s job was to watch and wait. Not today, she said to herself silently. Please not today.

Bose came over.

‘Ma’am, the NRF have put up a new video. On the screen now.’

At first, Gabriel assumed it was the same video as before, but quickly she noticed most of the crude edits had gone. Gabriel watched open-mouthed at Fletcher’s previously unseen faltering performance to camera.