‘I think it’s him, Eva,’ she said. Bose said nothing, a sign that she was not convinced.

‘Seriously. That’s his walk. That’s his build. And the description from the others… Jesus.’

She played it again. Each time she watched the murky image, she was edging closer and closer to certainty.

‘Ma’am, I think it’s interesting, and it’s something to follow up, which is why I showed you,’ said Bose. ‘But the chances of that being Abu Mujahid are pretty remote.’

Gabriel snapped. ‘Don’t you think I know what he looks like, Bose? He’s in here, remember.’ She tapped on her forehead. Bose looked hurt and Gabriel softened. ‘I’ve watched hundreds of hours of CCTV of him. And I tell you, that’s him. He’s back.’

#

University of Islington, North London

A constellation of flickering flames greeted Asad as he stepped through the archway into the quad, a reflection of the clear skies above his head. A hundred, maybe two hundred, candles were dotted around the square, most in glasses to protect them from gusts. They cast splashes of light on students huddling together for warmth, whispering and talking with subdued voices.

He’d come here straight from prayers to pay his respects to the brothers and sisters who had fallen just metres from where he and Mirza had been cowering, and the words shamed him now as he heard them in his head. He had done nothing. He had run like a child.

Asad stood, hands in his jacket pockets, next to the central fountain, the light playing on his face as he gazed down at the water trickling into the drains. He had brought a candle and he placed it next to the water, struggling in the biting wind to bring it to life with a disposable lighter. Sugary incense wafted through the cold night air, contrasting with the sour odour of burning plastic.

‘Brother.’ Mirza’s soft voice was in his ear. For a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined him, but Mirza was standing in the shadows next to him.

‘We did nothing. We were cowards, Tanvir.’ Asad’s voice trembled.

Mirza shushed him. ‘We protected ourselves. We stuck together. Don’t tear yourself apart over this, bro.’

Asad followed Mirza through a brick arch passage and into a car park shielded on three sides by buildings and on the fourth by iron railings, a gate and the porter’s hut.

‘Listen, Omar, we saw the real enemy yesterday – the British state. They shoot our brothers in cold blood overseas, and they allowed the Nazis to shoot and petrol bomb our brothers and sisters – and children – in London. They let them stab innocent people at a theme park. That’s the value this country puts on Muslims. Ishmail Sherif is right.’

His eyes were wide open as he sat on a low wall, hands rested palm down on his knees.

‘We can choose to do nothing, or we can take up arms and defend our brothers and sisters as a team. It’s us against them. This is a war, and we are God’s soldiers in this war.’ He wrenched his arm around and pulled out a copy of that morning’s Herald from his backpack.