software’s crap – full of errors and duplicates. I wouldn’t get too excited about it.’
16
16.30 local time
Turkish-Syrian border
Hakim was right. His eyes would adjust. Jamal had only gone a few hundred metres when he saw the group coming up the track. His first thought was to hide, but where? The mountainside was barren. He could flatten himself on the ground and hope they didn’t notice him. He pulled Hakim’s blanket closer round him. His hands felt as if they were on fire now, and starting to swell.
There was nothing to do but stay in plain sight. Not to react, but behave as if this was his hillside more than theirs. The group stopped when they saw him. Young men his age, with small packs on their backs and ski jackets, staring at him, mouths open. He must have looked strange to them wrapped in the blanket. He envied them their padded coats. Everything about them said new arrivals – even from this distance he could smell their deodorant. He was propelled back to his first days in Syria: how he was made to give up everything he had brought with him until there was nothing left of where he had come from; how he had blocked out all doubt, smothering it with zeal. There was a terrifying innocence about them, just as he must once have shown.
One turned to the others. ‘What do we do?’
They were speaking English.
‘Dunno. Keep going?’
They started to move towards him. One waved.
‘ Al salaam’ aleikum. We’re friends. Come to help.’
The others sniggered at their comrade’s attempt at a greeting. Jamal stared at their trainers – they had luminous streaks. One wore earbuds.
‘ Wa alaykom el salam ,’ Jamal replied.
‘Fuckin’ ’eck,’ said the one who had uttered the greeting. ‘How about that, then?’
They had distinct northern accents.
‘Don’t swear,’ someone hissed.
‘Have you come from the border?’
‘Wow, you English, then?’
‘Dutch.’ Jamal wasn’t taking any risks so close to freedom. ‘How far is the frontier?’
‘About a mile. You goin’ home?’
Jamal nodded.
Another piped up: ‘So you been fighting, then? How is it?’
How is it? How could he begin to answer that? They reminded him of how he was just five months ago, ready to sacrifice everything, convinced that the only true way was jihad. He wanted to tell them to turn round now, that everything they had heard from preachers or read or watched online was bollocks. That this wasn’t about religion or freedom fighting. It was all about tribal violence, corruption and extreme brutality against women. They were staring at him, waiting for an answer.
Jamal shrugged. ‘It’s hard.’
‘It’s hard back home. We’re not welcome no more.’
One of the others chipped in: ‘Yeah, right, bro. The shit happening to us in Britain, this is gonna be home for us now.’
They all nodded, as if that helped them believe in the decision they had made.
One more mile.
‘ Ma al salamah ,’ said one. Peace be with you. Some hope. Jamal walked on.
17
14.00
Home Secretary’s Office, Westminster
Henry stepped into the room. The PA had cleared the last bits and pieces from the previous occupant’s tenure. He noted that the glasses and the decanter had been removed. That was good. The new man was teetotal. All that was left of Sarah Garvey was her scent, which clung to the air. It would soon fade.
He smiled. Good riddance. He was glad she was gone. It amazed him that she had lasted so long. She seemed to pride herself on being a rebel, winding people up, making enemies of other cabinet members and the police. The Met commissioner loathed her, would go to any lengths not to be in the same room as her. No wonder the country was in such a state. And the way she spoke to the prime minister! He opened each drawer of her desk. Nothing incriminating, no secret documents, just unused stationery. He straightened a few items, closed the drawers and put the chair in its rightful place at the desk. Only then did he
16
16.30 local time
Turkish-Syrian border
Hakim was right. His eyes would adjust. Jamal had only gone a few hundred metres when he saw the group coming up the track. His first thought was to hide, but where? The mountainside was barren. He could flatten himself on the ground and hope they didn’t notice him. He pulled Hakim’s blanket closer round him. His hands felt as if they were on fire now, and starting to swell.
There was nothing to do but stay in plain sight. Not to react, but behave as if this was his hillside more than theirs. The group stopped when they saw him. Young men his age, with small packs on their backs and ski jackets, staring at him, mouths open. He must have looked strange to them wrapped in the blanket. He envied them their padded coats. Everything about them said new arrivals – even from this distance he could smell their deodorant. He was propelled back to his first days in Syria: how he was made to give up everything he had brought with him until there was nothing left of where he had come from; how he had blocked out all doubt, smothering it with zeal. There was a terrifying innocence about them, just as he must once have shown.
One turned to the others. ‘What do we do?’
They were speaking English.
‘Dunno. Keep going?’
They started to move towards him. One waved.
‘ Al salaam’ aleikum. We’re friends. Come to help.’
The others sniggered at their comrade’s attempt at a greeting. Jamal stared at their trainers – they had luminous streaks. One wore earbuds.
‘ Wa alaykom el salam ,’ Jamal replied.
‘Fuckin’ ’eck,’ said the one who had uttered the greeting. ‘How about that, then?’
They had distinct northern accents.
‘Don’t swear,’ someone hissed.
‘Have you come from the border?’
‘Wow, you English, then?’
‘Dutch.’ Jamal wasn’t taking any risks so close to freedom. ‘How far is the frontier?’
‘About a mile. You goin’ home?’
Jamal nodded.
Another piped up: ‘So you been fighting, then? How is it?’
How is it? How could he begin to answer that? They reminded him of how he was just five months ago, ready to sacrifice everything, convinced that the only true way was jihad. He wanted to tell them to turn round now, that everything they had heard from preachers or read or watched online was bollocks. That this wasn’t about religion or freedom fighting. It was all about tribal violence, corruption and extreme brutality against women. They were staring at him, waiting for an answer.
Jamal shrugged. ‘It’s hard.’
‘It’s hard back home. We’re not welcome no more.’
One of the others chipped in: ‘Yeah, right, bro. The shit happening to us in Britain, this is gonna be home for us now.’
They all nodded, as if that helped them believe in the decision they had made.
One more mile.
‘ Ma al salamah ,’ said one. Peace be with you. Some hope. Jamal walked on.
17
14.00
Home Secretary’s Office, Westminster
Henry stepped into the room. The PA had cleared the last bits and pieces from the previous occupant’s tenure. He noted that the glasses and the decanter had been removed. That was good. The new man was teetotal. All that was left of Sarah Garvey was her scent, which clung to the air. It would soon fade.
He smiled. Good riddance. He was glad she was gone. It amazed him that she had lasted so long. She seemed to pride herself on being a rebel, winding people up, making enemies of other cabinet members and the police. The Met commissioner loathed her, would go to any lengths not to be in the same room as her. No wonder the country was in such a state. And the way she spoke to the prime minister! He opened each drawer of her desk. Nothing incriminating, no secret documents, just unused stationery. He straightened a few items, closed the drawers and put the chair in its rightful place at the desk. Only then did he
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