His head cleared and he was aware that Skeffington was at his side.

‘Fucking hell,’ said Skeffington. ‘Thought you were going to wet yourself for a second there, cockney.’

#

Trafalgar Square, London

Not for the first time that morning, Zahra felt a flush of guilt. Her mother and Jawad had been buried less than twenty-four hours, and she should be at home with her father and her uncle, grieving, receiving visitors, not here. But the man from the mosque and the solicitor who had told the family not to trust the police had been adamant her place was here and she had been too numb to argue.

She had never seen so many people, such a wide expanse of faces and arms and banners. And the noise – a clamouring shouting, talking, singing. She wanted to crawl away somewhere and sleep. But she stayed and held Maryam’s hand in hers.

She stood on the platform, built from scaffolding poles and wooden planks, facing Ishmail Sherif as he addressed the crowd, microphone in one hand, the other hand waving and clutching at invisible nothings in the air. His voice rumbled from the speakers below her.

‘…and you are standing up to those who wish to murder Muslims, spread Islamophobia and drive our communities apart. Three days ago, Nazis murdered eight people, mostly Muslims, at Chilton Park. These victims of the far right included the brother and mother of this brave young woman…’ He pointed at Zahra but did not take his eyes off the crowd. ‘…who stands here, a testament to the brutality meted out time and again against our families, our loved ones, our faith. And just half a mile away, the police are allowing Nazis to stand on the street and hurl their foul abuse at us once again. Muslims are no longer safe anywhere. They bombed us in Syria, now they kill us in Britain. We must stand up. We must fight for our safety. Fight for our families.’

A wave of anger swept through Zahra’s body. She shouldn’t be here. She was a prop for Sherif to wave in front of the crowd, a freak show to be exploited, just like her mother and brother’s memories were being exploited. She desperately wanted to turn away and hide, to lock herself up, to be with her family. What remained of her family.

Sherif finished and she could leave. She turned to clamber down the steps and into the crowd. With luck, she would be home in fifty minutes.

#

Pall Mall, London

Asad put his phone away, too numb from the new NRF video to be angry. Around him, he sensed a change in the mood as people shared the news from social media.

A hand touched his shoulder. It was Mirza. His eyes were shining, his hair dishevelled.

‘Omar – you seen what the NRF have said?’ Asad nodded dumbly. Behind him, a father was struggling with a truculent toddler who refused to get into a buggy, her back arching and legs thrashing each time he tried to strap her in. Asad could see the metal lions that guarded Nelson’s Column above the father’s head. The speeches had already begun. It was an unimaginative list, thought Asad, who had seen the line-up on a poster promoting the march. The leader of the opposition, the Shadow Home Secretary, a couple of minor pop singers, the daughter of one of the victims of Chilton Park and Ishmail Sherif.