Vee probably does. There will be consequences from this day, for sure, pain and exhaustion, and maybe another section of her brain dying from the sheer effort of being here. But right now – and what does it matter if it is the tumour talking? – the thought of her flat is as appealing as the thought of her grave.

Before she can say anything, though, it begins.

There’s a sharp spike of sound; a cry, a shout. She swings her body around, bringing the camera to her eye, an ingrained habit. There’s some sort of argument between a woman holding a placard and a police officer. Vee takes a photograph, another, moving closer and closer.

The police officer sees them and walks over. ‘Were you taking photographs of me?’

‘Yes,’ Vee says. She reaches into her pocket for the lens cap and pushes it back into place.

‘Can I ask why?’

‘I don’t believe there’s any reason why I shouldn’t.’

‘Are you a journalist?’

‘No.’

‘She used to be,’ Erica says, ‘and a bloody good one.’

‘Could you show me, please?’

‘I can’t,’ Vee says, ‘it’s a film camera.’

‘And why should she?’ Erica chips in. ‘She’s within her rights to take photographs.’

Vee smiles at Erica; it’s good to see fire in her, to know it’s there.

And Erica takes the smile and uses it as fuel, as some sort of encouragement. ‘Fucking police,’ she says to Vee, as though the officer can’t hear them. ‘Fucking typical entitled men who think they can harass women. Bastards.’ Vee has never heard her swear. She’s never seen her spoiling for a fight, either.

On the other side of Trafalgar Square there’s the sound of something breaking, a different kind of fury in the shouts; the chants have got ragged, moved to outraged yelling. It’s as though the air has got sharper and dropped five degrees in the space of two breaths. A collective tensing of muscles runs through the crowd, police and protestors both.

Vee knows what this means.

To her left, the camera crews are paying attention again, focusing on the confrontations that are breaking out here and there. They will soon expand, she knows: the riot police will move in, and the protesters will get angrier, and there will be no chance of going home quietly.

The officer looks Erica up and down. ‘Could I search your bag, please, madam?’

‘Why do you want to search my bag?’ She sticks out her chin, her lip. Vee can see what is about to happen. She removes the lens cap from her camera, raises it to her eye.

8 March 2018

8 March 2018

Hampton, four hours later