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had taken to pushing pins into the tyres of any bike left there overnight as a way of registering displeasure. It was probably the little old lady who lived on the fourth floor. Her name was Mrs Wilkinson and no matter what the time of year she wrapped herself up in a tartan coat and a fur hat. On the rare occasions that she passed him on the stairs she glared at him with open hostility and once he was fairly sure that he’d heard her mutter ‘Paki bastard’. Chaudhry didn’t care; he was twenty-four and over the years he’d heard much worse. Besides, she was in her eighties, born in an era when Britannia truly did rule the waves. He put the bike down in front of the door and fumbled for his keys, but before he could open the lock the door opened. His flatmate, Malik, was standing there, his eyes blazing.
    ‘Where the hel have you been?’ said Malik.
    ‘Lectures,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Where do you think?’
    Malik stepped to the side and Chaudhry wheeled his bike inside. ‘I’ve been cal ing you al afternoon.’
    ‘Yeah, wel , I turn my mobile off in lectures,’ said Chaudhry, steering his bike through the narrow hal way. There was a smal balcony at the far end of their poky kitchen where they left their bikes.
    ‘You haven’t heard, have you? You’ve no idea what’s happened?’ Malik was bobbing from side to side like an excited toddler. His first name was Harveer but like many British-born Pakistanis he had adopted a nickname that was easier to remember and everyone other than his immediate family cal ed him Harvey. Chaudhry’s own true name was Manraj, which meant ‘the heart’s king’, but he’d been known as Raj ever since primary school.
    ‘Heard what?’ said Chaudhry, taking off his safety helmet and putting it on the kitchen table.
    ‘He’s dead,’ said Malik. ‘He’s fucking wel dead. The Sheik. The Americans have kil ed him. It’s been on the TV al day.’
    ‘No way!’ said Chaudhry. He took off his grey duffel coat and dropped it on to the back of a wooden chair.
    ‘Total bloody way,’ said Malik. ‘On every channel, pretty much.’
    Chaudhry hurried into their sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa in front of the TV. A blonde newsreader was on the screen. Behind her was a head-and-shoulders photograph of the man himself, his eyes blank, his straggly brown beard streaked with grey, a white skul cap on top of his head: the most hated man in the western world.
    ‘Navy Seals blew him away,’ said Malik. ‘Shot one of his wives and maybe one of his kids – they’re not sure.’
    Chaudhry shook his head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.
    ‘It’s on al the channels,’ said Malik. ‘Why would they say it if it wasn’t true?’
    ‘When?’
    ‘I don’t know. Today. Last night. But he’s dead, Raj. They bloody wel kil ed him.’
    ‘And it was at the house? The house in Abbottabad?’
    Malik nodded enthusiastical y. ‘They went in with helicopters. Stormed the compound.’
    Chaudhry stared at the television. His whole body was trembling and he clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. ‘That’s not what John said would happen. He said they’d take him out with a Predator. Shoot him from the sky. That’s what John said.’
    ‘Yeah, wel , John’s a British spook and it was the American military who kil ed him so maybe the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing.’ Malik’s eyes blazed with a fierce excitement. ‘You know what this means, Raj? We did it. You and me. We kil ed Bin Laden.’
    Chaudhry folded his arms to try to stop them trembling.
    ‘Don’t you get it, Raj? We’re bloody heroes.’
    Chaudhry turned and glared at his flatmate. ‘Are you crazy? Talk like this is going to get us kil ed.’
    ‘There’s only you and me here,’ said Malik. ‘What’s crawled up your arse and died?’
    ‘Have you any idea of the danger we’re in? What if anyone finds out it was us?’
    ‘How would they find out? On TV the Yanks are