I grew up the son of an immigrant in inner city Birmingham – aged six, I wore a brand new parka to school and when I got home, it was entirely covered in spit. We lived near a football ground: on Saturdays, I wasn’t allowed out. Dad said don’t bother reporting it to the police, they don’t care. Access to justice, I learned, wasn’t available to everyone.
My parents wanted me to see Pakistan. When I was eight, they drove us there in a Ford Transit van. On the way back, my cousin, who was the same age as me, fell ill. She died in Belgium. My mother put her in my arms and I held her on the four-hour ferry to Dover. We arrived and I realised what had happened. There and then I decided nobody would die on my watch again.
