The air grumbles and sings under the weight of noise in it: there’s so much energy that Vee feels circled, surrounded, her steps easy. The rhythm of her pace next to Erica’s settles into a steady harmony. Vee feels her breath deepen, her spine straighten. She’s forgotten exactly how good it is to march: how important, how scary, how real. Her edges dissolve into the sound and light around her. She tastes petrol fumes, breathes in the shouted-out breaths of the women around her. ‘The women, u-ni-ted, will ne-ver be de-feat-ed.’ How long since she was in the midst of the sisterhood like this? When the chant starts again, she opens her throat and lets her voice join it.

The pain in her own head is there, all right, and it’s not nothing, but it’s as though it has moved to the other side of her skull, taken up by shouts and jeers, chants and drums, and is nothing to her anymore. Erica is next to her, silent but wide-eyed as they join the women making their way into Trafalgar Square. It’s time to yell and shout for justice and autonomy and the right to not be ogled, harassed, spoken down to, blackmailed or abused. She should be bellowing for every damn thing that should be hers by right, like the women around them. Vee reaches out an arm to touch Erica’s, smiles when the younger woman looks around and smiles back.

The police presence thickens as they approach the entrance to Trafalgar Square: horses in pairs, vans watching darkly from side streets, uniformed officers in clumps, alert, attentive groups. The world knows women can be dangerous. Vee’s smile spreads wider – her face is probably aching, but she can’t feel it, can’t feel anything. She sees how Erica glances at the police, then back to her, for reassurance. ‘We’re the ones with the power here,’ she shouts, close to Erica’s ear, ‘we don’t need what they have.’ She hopes she’s right.