They broke him to the sound of the great clock tower. It was their little joke, a bespoke punishment, and now any bell tone deeper than low E causes him to vomit uncontrollably. He’s ruined good shoes and friendships by unhappy proximity to a church at noon. He hasn’t approached Westminster in months.

He is considered a reformed terrorist, and lives under a terrible constraint. For most people this would be an effective muzzle. But there is this about constraints: they fire the imagination.

De Card is walking down Bridge Street, a bomb in his briefcase, rubber plugs in his ears.