#

Waiting in the WHSmith next to the gents, Asad browsed through the papers. The front page of the Herald had a cartoon of the Prime Minister playing a violin while London went up in flames behind him with the headline For God’s Sake: It’s Time to Go. Pressure Builds on PM to Step Down was on the front of the Guardian.

‘Black bastard.’ Asad heard the words before he saw the man – a white man in a suit – pass behind him, and shove him in the back. The words were uttered under his breath, but Asad was in no doubt what he’d said. The white man turned and stared momentarily before walking out of the store. Asad started. The rage that had lain dormant for days erupted. He resolved to follow the white man out, tackle him, punch him to the ground – when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, ready to strike, and saw Abu Mujahid.

Abu Mujahid said quietly: ‘Not now.’

#

As they passed the road signs for Lancaster, the landscape either side of the motorway was still gentle, and the fields green and rolling. It was only when they turned off onto the A350 that the land began to rise in the distance. Gaps in the trees lining the dual carriageway revealed snatches of purple and grey mountains. They reminded Asad of the hills of the Brecons where he and his parents spent summer Sundays long ago. The fields changed too; there were grey drystone walls now, and flocks of sheep, some heavily pregnant.

The atmosphere inside the van had changed too. There was silence now. The closer they got to their destination, the more serious the mood. They drove up a bumpy track and stopped.

‘Stay in the van till I’ve got the keys,’ said Abu Mujahid. He stepped out, his open door sending a cold blast to the rear of the van. Asad heard muttered voices then Abu Mujahid returned.

‘We’re here. Pile out.’

They were parked on a gravel drive of a cottage, a battered yellow Volvo Estate was parked alongside them. Abu Mujahid was stood next to a silver-haired woman dressed in a green Barbour. Her face hardened momentarily as she took in the four passengers.

‘I’ll need a deposit. Cash,’ she said.

Abu Mujahid nodded and pulled out his wallet. She counted the notes and gave Asad, Mirza, Muhid and Saleem another hard stare.

‘You don’t look much like climbers. Do you have your own gear or are you hiring?’ she asked Abu Mujahid.

‘We’ve got our own in the van,’ said Abu Mujahid, speaking in a soft, almost flirtatious voice that Asad had never heard him use before. ‘Thank you so much – it looks fantastic.’

‘Call me if you need anything.’ She gave another nervous glance at the men before walking to her Volvo and driving off.

‘Climbing?’ Asad asked Abu Mujahid as they walked into the house.

‘It’s what we’re doing,’ he replied. ‘We’re a mountaineering club from London – students. We’re doing the Langdale Pikes and Helvellyn, if anyone asks. Get the stuff inside.’