She stomped upstairs to the shower. Ray followed.

‘Look, love, I know I’m not supposed to ask about work. But you haven’t seemed yourself this past week. I know it’s been batshit crazy, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?’

And for an instant, Gabriel wanted to tell him everything. About Abu Mujahid. About Tennant refusing to take her side. About whatever shit was coming next. She stared at him and listened to his heavy breathing after bounding up the stairs after her. But she couldn’t.

‘It’s just work, Ray, I’m fine,’ she lied.

DAY 9

Thursday

M1, Luton

‘Pack light,’ Abu Mujahid had told them, but even so, the Transit was cramped.

Abu Mujahid was in the passenger seat and Mirza was driving. In the back, Asad sat with Saleem and Muhid on the rucksacks and bags, using coats for cushions.

Last night they’d eaten together. Asad had volunteered to cook vegetables and spiced rice using a recipe his mother had taught him. It was one of the few Somali dishes he knew. They’d sat on the floor of the flat eating and listening to Abu Mujahid’s stories until midnight.

But this morning, conversation was muted and Asad felt queasy. Was it the swaying of the van, or the enormity of what they were about to do? Every minute they spent in the van, every mile they drove up the M1, felt like a step towards the invisible line he’d created in his head – the line that separated his old life and this new one. Once he crossed that line, he would never be able to go back.

A long canvas bag was wedged in one corner with a scrap of sacking thrown on top. Asad lifted the fabric – underneath was a set of number plates.

‘Put the radio on, Tanvir,’ said Saleem.

Mirza grunted and idly flicked round the van’s radio. ‘…these air strikes on innocent civilians by the UK and US government are a disgrace. No wonder Muslim communities feel like outsiders in the UK.’

Asad recognised the voice as the Shadow Home Secretary.

The interviewer came on: ‘What do you say to those who call you an apologist for Islamist terrorists—’

‘That’s a ludicrous accusation and doesn’t warrant a response,’ the Shadow Home Secretary interrupted.

‘—and who question your judgement? This weekend, for instance, you are standing on a platform with the extremist Ishmail Sherif, who repeatedly refuses to condemn terrorism and preaches that Sharia law is the only way to save Britain.’

‘Look, I’m proud we live in a diverse country with free speech, and I…’

They were turning into the services. ‘Turn it off now,’ said Abu Mujahid.

He waited until the van had stopped before turning around to Asad and the others in the back.

‘Be discreet, keep your heads down and go in separately,’ said Abu Mujahid.

‘Do you know Ishmail Sherif?’ asked Muhid.

Abu Mujahid smiled. ‘I do. We go back a long way. Sherif was the man who opened my eyes when I was a kid. I’ll tell you the story on the way up. But first grab some food and go to the loo. We’ve got another four hours.’