Manolis had heard stories about people being refused visas for not passing the character test. American rappers wanting to tour often made the news. Their colourful pasts inspired their lyrics, earned them street cred and sold millions of albums, but they also jeopardised visa claims. Being a member of a motorcycle club was similarly frowned upon. Cook’s circumstances were unusual and somewhat astonishing to Manolis. He wrestled with the idea that permanent residents were suddenly being removed for being of questionable character, even after they’d completed a prison sentence.

‘It’s a new power,’ Cook grumbled. ‘They amended an act of parliament. Never mind all the earlier acts that let me stay.’ A smile trembled at the side of his mouth. ‘Do you know, I’ve even heard about people who avoided prison time altogether after being deemed by a judge to have “good character” only to have a bureaucrat later disagree and have them locked up?’

Manolis raised an eyebrow. ‘Who told you that?’

Cook gestured over his shoulder at a dull-eyed Deacon.

‘One of those knuckle-dragging gorillas,’ he said, voice low. His smile broadened; he made a strange chuckle to himself. ‘The locals round here think I’m a complete joke. Here, Britain, have your convicts back! It’s so funny that they buy me beers at the pub in thanks for the laugh. I can’t blame them. If this situation wasn’t so real, and if this wasn’t me, it would be highly amusing.’

No one said anything for some time. Looking at Cook, Manolis thought his appeal to a girl from outback Australia was obvious. He was handsome and refined, and the antithesis of ordinary, familiar Joe Shrewsbury. Cook had an air of ‘other’ about him due to his British heritage. He was exotic. But then again, so was Omari.

Eventually, Manolis wiped the perspiration from his brow and said, ‘Did Molly ever think you were a joke?’

Cook’s hard blue eyes softened. ‘No,’ he said fondly. ‘She didn’t. Not once. She sympathised.’

‘I heard she was a kind woman,’ said Manolis.

‘She was. Even after she broke up with me, I can say that. She was genuinely concerned for me, how I would survive the centre; she knew I wasn’t a rotten apple. There’s no one at the detention centre who’s in for being a career criminal or murderer. Instead, you’ve got people with traffic offences or who had run-ins with the law a decade ago.’

Cook said he was trying to keep his head down, even more than he had in prison. He did not participate in strikes or riots and altogether steered clear of the gangs who ran the centre.

‘The gangs are ten times worse than prison,’ he said.

‘What kind of gangs?’ Manolis asked.

‘Just like prison, drawn along racial lines. But there’s religious lines in there too. People go slightly crazy when you throw different gods into the mix.’