February 8

The empty Sunday high street was all his. A parade ground.

He walked down it slowly, hands behind his back, walking with a precious, mechanical slowness. A military man, you might think if you couldn’t hear him. A Sunday-strolling military man. Not a wealthy man. The grey tracksuit bottoms and light black coat not suitable for the still cold February weather; the black shoes scuffing through piles of stained slush.

A mad man. A Sunday strolling mad man, that’s what he was.

He was shouting at the top of his voice a garbled mix of Urdu and English, his small mouth, chewing up the hurried sentences. Every now and again a recognisable word: ‘shops!’, ‘England!’, ‘people!, ‘wrong!’ Just once, he unclasped his hands and swiped the top of his bald head, a brown cubeboid cut out of sharp corners.

Hands behind his back again, he walked down the high street, shouting without a pause, eyes fixed ahead, legs mechanical; a calm kind of lunacy.