 
Blackspoon

Daniel Eagleton

1.

Somewhere over Germany, his mind turned against him. The pure, undiluted terror had kicked in hours ago, but he'd been expecting that, even as it came on like a bout of gastric flu, giving him the shakes and making him rush to the toilet to void his bowels. As he left the cubicle he passed one of the Danes, also looking decidedly pasty. Hung-over, probably. Not uncommon after the stopover in Cyprus. Now this Dane would have to deal with the stench Charlie had left behind. Would he complain to his mates about it? Perhaps Charlie's shit reeked of fear. He sat back down and while the other Movers laughed and joked and planned two weeks' leave with their girlfriends and families, Charlie did his best to appear calm. If anyone did notice his sweating, the way he was gripping the armrest, he wouldn't be able to blame it on the booze.

He hadn't touched a drop, not even on the beach yesterday.

He had to get a hold of himself.

Think of something.

Bit of airsickness, mate, that's all.

An airsick RAF man?

They'd still be laughing when they landed in England.

No, no. Fine, really. Bit nervous, that's all. Got five kilos of uncut heroin taped to my chest.

Probably best not to mention that.

The five kilos of smack concealed beneath his uniform.

Better to think about the money instead. The five grand already in his account, the other five waiting for him once he made it through customs. And he'd get through customs. They'd been over it a hundred times, him and Baker the Military Policeman. They'd even Skyped Geddis, the other copper, the one who'd be waiting for Charlie when he touched down and who'd personally make sure he wasn't picked out of the assembly and searched.

Every detail covered.

Geddis had said as much himself.

'For this to go well,' he'd shrugged, his face filling the computer screen, voice blaring through the headphones, 'it's in everyone's interests, right? You get caught, that's bad for all of us. But that's not gonna happen. I mean, think about it. You're gonna get your own, personal, police escort, son.'

But it was Baker who really sold it, during one of their many bonding sessions at the gym. Unable to drink during their tour, all anyone did when they weren't working was hit the gym. Baker was older than Charlie, and Charlie respected his casual approach to life in a war zone. Charlie also liked that Baker happily reinforced the reputation enjoyed by RAF Movers, who didn't just plan and execute the transportation of personnel and equipment by air, but were also known for their partying, their love of the ladies, and even, on occasion, their willingness to smuggle a little contraband.

'We control every aspect of that flight,' Baker had said. 'We walk you on, walk you off. Meanwhile, they're looking at your luggage, not you.'

He was right, of course. Charlie had been in and out of Brize countless times over the last seven years and he'd never once been searched. After a stint in Gibraltar, his mate Westy had to be gently reprimanded for failing to declare his knife and several rounds of live ammunition. And what about Andy 'Two-pints' Thompson? Everyone knew Two-pints had an M16 stashed in his room back on base.

Got it off a Marine, he said.

Never said how he got it past security, though.

The point being, Charlie had no weaponry about his person, and that, primarily, was what they'd be looking for. That's what he'd been telling himself. Only now that voice inside his head, the one that had been so sure this was going to work, had changed tempo. It was, in fact, no longer a voice. It was a huge, expansive noise, like the crashing of a jet airliner. This jet airliner. They were about to plummet to the ground, their bodies immolated and strewn across the first piece of dust-free pasture any of them had seen in months.

'Cup of coffee?' said the flight attendant, looming over Charlie with a fresh pot.

'Something I ate,' Charlie said, ungluing his lips.

The flight attendant, a thin, fresh-faced man, adopted a playful, concerned expression. 'You alright? You've gone a bit pale, there.'

Charlie coughed, sat up straight, the tape beneath his uniform squeaking.

'I'm fine. Some water would be great, though.'

'No problem,' the flight attendant said. He winked at Charlie. 'And don't worry. You made it. You'll be home in an hour.'

As they touched down the other servicemen and women cheered and applauded, a sound like static being blasted through a wall of broken speakers. Charlie was now sweating profusely, miming laughter, his head back, teeth bared. How wrong can you get? To think you can do something, only to discover you're not up for the challenge.

Don't just sit there, said the voice in his head, calling to him from somewhere far away, somewhere amid the whirlwind.

Get on your feet and make it happen.

He stood, pulled his pack from the overhead compartment. A series of simple, inculpable gestures. They taxied across the airfield, then waited for the cabin doors to open, his colleagues talking excitedly, busy with their own thoughts and feelings about what lay ahead. Charlie ignored the urge to vomit, told himself again how Geddis would be waiting. Geddis who was tall and ginger and therefore impossible to miss, and who had as much to lose as Charlie should anything go wrong.

He disembarked to congratulations from the captain and crew and descended onto the tarmac. It was dark, but he could still see the cloud cover that everyone had missed so much while under the glaring, Afghan sky. They were back at Brize, their home town. But it wasn't home any more. Charlie realised that now. He was an interloper, an enemy, and still a long way from any Safe Zone.

Double doors parted and he walked into the terminal, bright under the lights and unkept as always. They formed an orderly queue, passports at the ready. Outside came the familiar roar of a C-17 taking off, and at the desk, friendly but efficient, were the customs officials. Charlie became aware of his mates, a few metres behind him. He should acknowledge them. They knew him as a talker, a joker. Why the silence, they'd wonder. And why was he was having trouble standing like a normal person?

How did he normally stand?

What if he fell down?

He reached the desk, the official looking over his documents and waving him through. On the other side of a large partition security personnel awaited, ready to stop-search some of the men as they made their way to Baggage Claim. Charlie fell in behind four or five identical uniforms, feeling momentarily camouflaged but knowing this was an illusion. He snuck a glance over the shoulder of the guy in front. Up ahead, an MP had pulled someone aside and was asking him to unpack his rucksack and sports bag. The MP was not Geddis. Where was Geddis? Charlie could see Baggage Claim through another set of automatic doors, so close he might be able to make it unnoticed. He'd simply put his head down and saunter over there.

A second later Charlie saw him: tall, ginger, walking the length of the queue.

He stopped at Charlie's shoulder.

'If I can ask you to come with me, sir. Won't take a moment.'

Charlie looked at the floor.

Some mistake, surely.

Then Geddis ushered the man directly in front of Charlie to one side, saying, 'Just a formality. The rest of you on your way, now.'

For a moment, as the flow of traffic started up again, Charlie just stood there, his feet rooted to the floor, until finally, on pins and needles, he shuffled through the doors into the adjacent hall.

He'd made it, and as he waited for his luggage to arrive he began to mingle, parading up and down the conveyor belt, clapping his co-workers on the shoulder, reminding them there was some serious drinking to be done. He felt light-headed, unsubstantial, but in a good way. Finally, their bags began to trundle past and as they did so another MP appeared, this one with a small, excited dog at his feet.

Charlie's airways constricted, white pixels swarming at the edge of his vision.

The MP led the dog along the conveyor, the tiny canine sniffing each bag or pack as it passed, moving swiftly towards Charlie, who thought seriously about sprinting for the exit. Instead he put several men between himself and the mutt, which was looking for bombs or weapons but which probably wouldn't discriminate should he catch the whiff of an illegal substance.

Charlie walked to the other end of the conveyor.

The stink of it.

Narcotics and dread, spreading like sonar.

His luggage curled into view and he lurched forward, overextending, making a spectacle of himself as he reached for the handles. Then he turned, an awkward, stumbling pirouette, away from the dog which yapped, leapt, and was yanked back on course by its handler.

Don't run, Charlie told himself, his bags hanging off him as he hustled into Arrivals.

There was nobody waiting for him, but still the wives, kids and girlfriends searched his face to see if it was that of their loved one. A moment later, he was outside, into the freezing night air, where he disappeared among the hangars and buildings, taking the short cut back to his quarters.

His room seemed frozen in time, a different time, yet he'd only been away three months. It felt more like years. Back then, he'd packed up his stuff, ready to move into Claire's flat so he could spend more time with her before he shipped out. They were going to marry, get an RAF house, an Andrex puppy, until, one night, Charlie had sat in the local pub with his mates, having the same, work-related discussion they always had. But for once he hadn't found it reassuring. It was tired, old as the stone fireplace he found himself staring into. He went to the bar, where the landlord poured his usual without saying a word. That's when he knew for sure that nothing was going to change.

Ever.

Not unless he did something about it.

So he broke up with Claire.

It took a while, but in the end she was surprisingly stoical about it, as though she either didn't believe him or understood completely where he was coming from. He couldn't be sure. You had to hand it to her, though: she knew how to keep him guessing. He wanted to call her now; not to get back together, just to hear a friendly voice. He also wanted to rip the packets of heroin from his chest, to be free of them, even by a few feet.

So why the paralysis?

Geddis was due at any moment, and tomorrow Charlie would receive the rest of his money. Things couldn't have gone more smoothly.

He surveyed his room. Four years he'd been in here. When he'd first moved in it had been a step up. No more sharing with another lad, an en-suite bathroom (complete with black mould and an intermittently hot shower). Was that why he'd asked Claire to marry him? To get a house? He wondered what she'd say if she found out he'd carried drugs. (And not just any kind: the really bad kind.) No doubt she wouldn't approve. Not an easy thing to admit to, anyway: doing something morally questionable for money. Of course, he knew guys who killed for money, and who talked openly about how much they enjoyed it.

Yet carrying smack would be seen as worse.

He'd be a disgrace.

But what did they know?

What did anyone know?

He took home seventeen thousand a year. It wasn't enough, not any more. He knew he should have retrained, worked his way up the ranks, but somehow he'd lacked the necessary ambition. Easier to work, drink beer in the local with his mates.

Only now, suddenly, seven years had passed.

He sat down on the bed. Geddis would be here any minute. Perhaps Charlie should just ask him straight out: the drugs, how much were they worth?

More than ten grand?

Because, alone for the first time in months, it seemed so obvious.

He was being ripped off.

Without thinking, he began to throw random items of clothing into a bag. In the drawer next to the bed, his mobile and charger. He crossed the room and stepped into the hallway beyond. No one around, only the throb of dance music as the lads prepared for an almighty piss-up in their local. He moved quickly down the corridor, passing the communal bathroom, the sound of showers running. Outside, the cold was less of a shock this time, as though he'd acclimatised already. He heard voices, a couple of airmen approaching. He turned, walking the length of the building towards the car park where his second-hand Golf was waiting. Overhead, the steady drone of air traffic. He reached the Golf, had to remind himself he wasn't going AWOL in any official sense. He had two weeks' leave, starting tonight. He keyed the ignition, steered his way out of the car park, following the road to the front gates. Another security checkpoint, the MP there already leaning from his booth. Charlie flashed his ID and was through, pulling out onto the Carterton Road.

Don't floor it.

That was the trick now.

Nice and steady.

He was on the A40 when his mobile rang.

'Charlie?' said Geddis. 'I'm here. You gonna let me in, or what?'

'Yeah. About that. What I mean is, I need to talk to you about that.'

'What are you, driving? Tell me you haven't gone walkabout.'

'Well, actually,' Charlie said, having to clear his throat, 'what I'm thinking is, we meet up tomorrow. And we'll talk then. Because the way I see it, there's a few things we need to, you know, discuss. Anyway, it's late. I'll call you in the morning, alright?'

'Charlie, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I want you to think about what you're doing. About the implications of your actions, alright? Because you don't wanna do this, understand? Believe me. You do not wanna do this.'

'Alright,' Charlie said. 'I'll talk to you first thing, then, alright? All the best.'

He disconnected the call.

Outside his window the landscape was dark and foreign.

# 2

There was only one place he'd be welcome. His brother Jack had a flat in Hammersmith. Jack who wasn't really his brother, but whose parents had taken Charlie in when he was fourteen. Jack who, to Charlie, was even better than a real brother, judging from the way so many of Charlie's workmates seemed to genuinely dislike their own siblings. Meeting Jack had been the highlight of a camping holiday, way back in the summer of '05. For days, Charlie watched as Jack's mum and dad played football or swingball, or swam in the pool, spending quality time with their kids. So different from Charlie's own Ma, who was always in the pub with her new boyfriend, Royston. Even before Charlie introduced himself to Jack, and his younger sister Shira, he'd known they were meant to be together. All Charlie had to do was take the initiative, and, sure enough, less than two weeks later he stole enough of Royston's dole money to get a train, followed by a tube to Jack's house in Euston. Charlie had never been to London before. It didn't matter. He was there to stay, something Jack and Shira's parents understood instinctively, because it wasn't long before Charlie was living under their roof full-time.

'My brother from another mother,' Jack used to say, which Charlie found both thrilling and peculiar. Jack, he knew, wasn't like other fourteen-year-olds. He was clever, confident, drawing clear battle-lines between himself and the so-called 'adult' world.

These days, he was driving a van for UPS, part of a plan to sell weed along his route, until he discovered that his bosses tracked his every movement and he barely had time to make his legitimate deliveries, let along sell skunk or hash to his real customers. Still, never short of a money-making scheme, that was Jack; one of which was bound to pay off sooner or later.

It was after ten when Charlie parked in the forecourt beneath Jack's seventh-floor flat. Crowded around a moped was a gang of kids, the kind everyone assumed were up to no good. As he passed, they stopped talking and shouting, watching him as he walked to the front entrance, all too conspicuous in his combat fatigues and boots.

He rang the bell.

'Speak.'

'Hey. It's me. Charlie.'

'Fucking hell, dude. Come on up.'

A warm welcome. Charlie had needed that.

He took the lift up to 7, traversed the open-air walkway, found Jack waiting in the entrance to his place.

'Dude. You're back. And still in one piece. You are still in one piece, right?'

They hugged, Charlie thinking how skinny Jack had become. Sinewy, unlike Charlie, who'd bulked up during his tour. Then Jack, never one to miss a trick, prodded the front of his uniform.

'What's all this? Got a bulletproof vest on or something?'

'Something like that,' Charlie mumbled.

They went through to the tiny front room, where Jack's flatmate Aubrey was sitting in front of the flatscreen, spliff in hand.

'Sup, dude?' Aubrey said.

Jack and Aubrey had been flatmates for years, but Charlie could tell Aubrey didn't think much of him being in the military. But then Charlie didn't altogether approve of Aubrey either. He barely worked, yet he always seemed to have money. Family money, probably. Rich parents who gave it away. He also looked like an eighteenth-century highwayman, with his long hair and hoop earrings. Jack, on the other hand, dressed like the only bloke in London who knew ska was back in fashion: white vest, drainpipe trousers, a felt trilby covering a premature bald spot. Charlie wondered what they made of him. He shopped at Gap, had his hair cut every two weeks.

Did they laugh at him sometimes, behind his back?

'Sit down, sit down,' said Jack, gesturing to a grotty armchair.

'Actually,' Charlie said, 'I need a word. In private, if you don't mind.' Then to Aubrey, 'No offence.'

'None taken, man,' Aubrey shrugged. He made a show of sweeping his hair back. 'Loving the uniform, by the way.'

They went through to Jack's bedroom, so small it barely accommodated the double mattress, the old books Charlie knew Jack had read, cover to cover. Charlie wasn't trying to be dramatic, but, feeling safe for the first time in days, he stripped down to his waist and began to free the heroin from his body. Had circumstances been different, the look on Jack's face would have been priceless; the way he just stood there, his reaction caught in his throat as Charlie used a pair of scissors to slice through the tape, putting each packet down on the mattress until he was, at last, five kilos lighter.

'That's a relief,' he said, massaging the wrinkled, oxygen-starved skin under his arms.

Jack bent down to inspect the merchandise. 'Dude, is this what I think it is?'

Relieved, exhausted, Charlie gave him the full, unabridged version: Camp Bastion, meeting Baker at the gym, the flight back to England. By the time he'd finished Jack was sitting with his back against the wall, one of the packages in his hand, as though testing its weight, its reality.

'Fucking hell. I can't believe you actually did that.'

'I know, I know,' Charlie said. 'Funny thing is, though, it was easy. I mean, I almost shit my pants, but all in all? They knew what they were doing, those guys. But, hey, who took all the risk, right? Me, that's who.'

'Dude, you better be careful. I mean it. They catch you, you'll do time, you know that, right?'

'I'm aware of that, yeah.'

Jack shook his head. 'I still can't believe it. You of all people. So, bottom line. How much paper are we talking here?'

'Don't know, exactly,' Charlie said. 'A lot, though. Got to be.'

From under a stack of Q magazines, Jack produced an iPad. 'According to this, a kilo of smack is worth up to fifty grand depending on purity. And I'm assuming this is the good shit, right? Right from the source. So, yeah, split three ways? That's some serious cashish, dude.'

'Right,' Charlie muttered, pulling his T-shirt over his head. 'Because who took all the risk? Me, that's who.'

'So what's the plan?' Jack said, getting to his feet. 'Because I'm not being funny, but you can't leave it here while you try and find a buyer. That could take weeks. And who'd you know anyway, who'd take that kind of weight? I'd have to ask about.'

But Charlie had no intention of selling the drugs himself. For one thing, he wouldn't know how. For another, Geddis and Baker would actually kill him, instead of just threatening to, which was probably going to happen no matter what.

'They got a buyer,' Charlie said. 'Just got to make sure I don't get screwed over, that's all. But, think about it, who's got the stuff? Me, that's who. So we meet, sit down, come to an arrangement. Because nobody wants a fuss, do they? I mean, it stands to reason, right?'

'Course, dude, course,' Jack said. 'Got to stand your ground in life, know what I mean?'

They stashed the heroin behind Jack's old, pine wardrobe.

'Just for now,' he said. 'Can't have it here too long, though. Still can't believe you did that, either. I mean Aubrey, you expect that kind of thing from him. But you? No way, man. Didn't see that coming at all.' He checked the time on his iPhone. 'So, Mr-big-time-smuggler. Mr-big-time-player. Your first night back. What do you wanna do now?'

Somewhere at the core of his being Charlie experienced a surge of energy, equal parts strength and dizziness.

'Haven't had a drink in three months,' he said. 'What do you think I wanna do now?'

Less than forty-eight hours earlier he'd been on a beach in Cyprus, too paranoid to touch alcohol, while his mates threw back beer after beer. At first, his sobriety drew a few barbed comments, some unoriginal banter about his 'manhood', but it wasn't long before they were drunk enough to ignore him completely, plunging en masse into the surf or kicking a football around on the sand. He'd kept a book in his hands, a thriller about an ex-CIA agent named Jason Hawker, who was chasing a former KGB assassin around the globe in an attempt to prevent a nuclear holocaust. Until then, Charlie had been enjoying the narrative, the way Hawker was able to deal with pretty much any aspect of the case, from hand-to-hand combat to forensic analysis. The ladies loved him too, and who could blame them? His skill set was remarkable.

Charlie, in contrast, was riddled with anxiety. The packages were stashed in his hotel room, the same hotel that was occupied by nearly one hundred RAF and infantrymen. He could see the entrance from his spot on the beach, but watching people come and go did nothing for his peace of mind. Even the cab drivers looked like undercover cops. He stared down at his page. Hawker was about to bed another beauty, this one the wife of an Israeli arms dealer who was intent on selling uranium to the North Koreans. A harsh reminder that Charlie hadn't had sex in almost four months; and with nobody willing on the horizon, those months might easily stretch into years.

He looked from his page to the front steps of his hotel.

What would it take, he wondered.

To feel good again?

'Dude,' said Aubrey, addressing the man behind the counter in the Hair of the Dog off-licence. 'I come in here all the time. I can pay the rest later.'

The man shook his head. 'You pay now.'

'Where's the other guy? He knows me.'

'I got it,' Charlie announced, debit card in hand. 'You guys letting me crash, it's the least I can do.'

They picked up their spoils: beer, Scotch and Cola, two tubes of Pringles and a packet of blue Rizla.

Outside, Jack was waiting.

'What you can't get for twenty quid now,' Aubrey remarked.

'You know, they say,' Jack said to Charlie, 'under a puritanical, despotic regime people are forced to drink at home. So I ask you, who can afford to drink in a British pub these days?'

Back at the flat, Charlie sat in the armchair he always sat in when he came to visit Jack and Aubrey. He opened a can of Stella, knocked back a mouthful. It tasted the same as it always did: fizzy, foamy. Nothing special. Maybe he wasn't bothered about the drink any more, the need to get smashed all in his mind.

'How's that, eh?' Jack said, perched on the sofa next to him.

'Fucking amazing,' Charlie told him.

For the next hour Charlie nursed that can, while Jack and Aubrey drank two more each and Aubrey skinned up a baggy spliff. Soon, they were talking amongst themselves, about people and subjects entirely separate from Charlie, his life in the RAF. He only picked up a second can because it gave him something to do. That second Stella, though, went down with almost startling ease, and by the time he'd finished it he was sitting forward, because, suddenly, he remembered he'd recently been interviewed by the BBC.

'Just before I shipped out. They're doing this show, right, Inside Brize Norton? Anyway, they picked me to follow around all morning. My sergeant was shitting himself. Thought I was gonna make him look bad, like, crack a load of jokes or something. Funny thing is, though, can't remember a single thing I told them.'

'The BBC?' said Aubrey. 'Wow. They're like, an institution, man.'

'I know, right?' Charlie said. 'Hey, you gonna open that bottle, or what?'

After downing a large Scotch and Coke, served in a chipped mug, Charlie realised he in fact had many more, fascinating stories to relay. Like how, on his first day at Camp Bastion, he and his platoon had been out on the range, realigning the sights on their assault rifles, when a mortar round was fired in their direction. (Had it been in their direction? Did it matter? What mattered was Charlie had been there, running for cover, less than six hours after arriving on base.) Or the time he and his mate, Westy, had driven a couple of armoured vehicles around the compound without permission, sending jets of sand up into the air behind them as they cut between the tents and soft-skin hangars.

'What I don't get, though,' Aubrey said, 'is why we were even there? I mean, Iraq, that was about the oil, right? And about Blair being, you know, a total fucking pussy. But Afghanistan. Dude, I never really, like, understood it.'

'We were supposed to be helping them,' Charlie shrugged. 'And the Taliban are, like, a global threat, obviously.'

'Right. But that's it now, right?' said Jack. 'As in, it's all over.'

'Thirteen years and we've basically left them to it,' Charlie shrugged. 'As in, best of luck, lads.'

'Got to wonder,' Jack said. 'Like, what was it really about, you know?'

This was typical Jack, to whom everything was a conspiracy, or was, at the very least, in need of careful re-evaluation. Even when they were younger he'd had an innate ability to see the truth behind the lies people told, particularly those authority figures who would have him do their bidding. He dropped out of university in his first year, but even now spent time on campus, rallying the students to whatever cause needed their support that week. He was a member of UK Uncut and had been involved in sit-ins in high street banks that had to be broken up by the cops. His fearlessness, the way he was able to think for himself, had always impressed Charlie, who, nevertheless, often found himself playing devil's advocate. Because, surely, not everything could be a conspiracy. Before he'd shipped out, Jack had begun sending Charlie books and links to articles about the war, most of which Charlie hadn't bothered to read, at least not properly. They had, however, brought to his attention the total lack of political discussion amongst his colleagues. There was a job to do, and that was that. Then, when Charlie had been over there, Jack had sent him a link to a documentary called Zeitgeist. Charlie had enough time on his hands to watch this one, its general gist being that nothing or no one was to be trusted: religion, the bankers, the government. Nothing too revelatory there, but for days afterwards one image really stuck in his mind. The third tower. Now, unlike the makers of Zeitgeist, Charlie didn't believe that George Bush had bombed the World Trade Center in order to hasten his plans for global domination. Of course it was bin Laden. Of course it was. But still, why was it no one ever talked about the third tower? Charlie hadn't even heard about it, but there was the footage: a much smaller building, barely on fire at all, which then dropped to the ground in what looked remarkably like a controlled explosion.

'Look, it's simple,' Westy had said, when Charlie showed him the footage. 'The terrorists must have put a bomb in there before the planes hit, that's all.'

'Yeah, but this one went down hours later,' Charlie said. 'And you never hear about it. I mean, that's weird, right?'

'Well, obviously it wasn't the Yanks. I mean, you don't actually believe that bollocks, do you?'

Charlie poured another Famous Grouse into his tea-stained coffee mug. So what did he believe, then? What opinions or beliefs did he, Charlie Wetherspoon, honestly hold dear? He thought they probably had saved lives by being in Afghanistan, but, like Jack said, was that the real objective? And now, having left the Afghans to fend for themselves, Charlie couldn't help but wonder, what had been the point in the first place?

And what did any of it have to do with him anyway?

He'd gone there because he'd been paid to go, not because he cared passionately about the plight of that country.

'Dude,' Jack said, crouched by the DVD player. 'You've got to see this. It'll blow your mind, I'm telling you.'

'Oh, yeah?' said Charlie, suddenly too drunk to focus on the flatscreen. 'What's that, then?'

'It's called Shadows of Liberty. It's this documentary, right, about how the media, like, controls and basically brainwashes everyone into accepting certain points of view? You know, how we're all being manipulated, we just don't know it?'

'Right,' Charlie said. He drained the contents of his cup, reached again for the bottle. 'Sounds awesome.'

# 3

He awoke, his skull two sizes too small, his throat clenched. The hangover had been rampaging through his dreams, an angry Taliban warrior more goat than man. Outside a cave the mountains screamed, while inside Charlie floated from chamber to chamber, lost in an endless, suffocating maze.

He sat up, checked the clock on the DVD player. 7.02. On the sofa above him, Jack rasped and snorted, and it took a few seconds to remember why he wasn't asleep in his own bed.

Shira.

Something about her moving into a new flat, and taking Jack's room in the meantime, meaning she must be here now, yet Charlie had no memory of her coming in. Instead, he had the unsettling sense he'd lost several hours to the last of that Scotch, and, in particular, to the spliff he'd demanded Aubrey pass his way, claiming it'd have no effect on him whatsoever.

After that, nothing.

What had he said? Something about Shira, his sort of sister and (sort of) one-time lover? Probably not. Even drunk and stoned that was a secret he kept locked up tight. Because you don't fall for your best mate's little sister. Especially if she was (sort of) your little sister too.

He climbed to his feet. On the coffee table was the scorched, overflowing ashtray. How long did it take for weed to leave your system? Hours or weeks? He went into the kitchen, where he drank from the tap because there wasn't a clean glass or cup, only a stack of food-encrusted crockery. He was on his way back into the living room when the toilet flushed and Shira stepped from the bathroom in her knickers and vest top.

'Hello, stranger,' she said, pushing her long dark hair from her eyes.

She stepped forward and embraced him, apparently unconcerned that they were both in their underwear.

'I heard you made it back,' she said.

'Only just,' he said, trying to be funny, but realising that made it sound like he'd come close to death over there, when really he hadn't.

'It's good to see you,' she said, as they drew apart.

'You too.'

'It's early. You should go back to sleep.'

'Still on Afghan time,' he shrugged.

'Oh, yeah? Want some breakfast? We'll have to go and get it, though. There's never anything here.'

'Sounds good,' he said.

She disappeared into the bedroom, while he went to dig out his best pair of jeans. That he was hung-over didn't matter now. He had what all servicemen wanted when they returned home: a good woman willing to feed and comfort them. So what if Shira was kind of like a sibling? His love was no criminal or ungodly act. It was just something he could never, ever speak of, to her or anyone else.

So no big deal, then.

On the sofa her actual brother stirred, mumbling, 'What time is it?'

'Early,' Charlie whispered. 'I'd go back to sleep if I were you.'

They walked to Tesco, full of nine-to-fivers picking up crisps and sandwiches on their way to work. The mood was ugly, less jovial than the food courts at Camp Bastion, even if, in here, they weren't surrounded by scores of battle-hardened jihadists. Military personnel were also able to queue without creating an atmosphere charged with simmering, repressed angst, the threat of reprisals should anyone take longer than a few seconds to count out their change. Shira, though, seemed unaffected. She was like her brother that way, and totally unlike Charlie, who hated how aware he always was of the people around him, internally criticising his fellow shoppers for being old, slow or having small, unruly children.

It didn't help that Shira was talking about her boyfriend, Tim.

Tim?

Who was called Tim any more?

'You guys work in the same place, right?' Charlie said. 'And now you're getting shacked up? Wow. That's a lot of time with the same person. Morning, noon and night, when you think about it.'

'Tim's in a different department. He's in accounts.'

'Tim the accountant?'

'He's the advertising account manager.'

'So, remind me. What does your company do again? It's digital media, right?'

'That's right.'

'Right. So, what's that again?'

Shira smiled faintly. 'Same old Charlie. Always taking the piss.'

In front of them, a man in blue overalls was becoming more and more confounded by the self-service checkout.

'So how does it feel to be back?' Shira said.

'Ask me when we get outside,' Charlie muttered. 'It's like the Helmand Province in here.'

On returning to the flat, Charlie took charge of making breakfast. Over the last few years he'd become master of the twenty-minute meal, which basically meant a repertoire comprised of pasta, burgers and anything from the frozen food section. This morning he knocked together bacon, eggs and instant coffee. He liked playing house with Shira. He always had. The years he'd spent with her and her family in Euston were the happiest of his life. Then, when Charlie and Jack were sixteen, Shira fifteen, their father, Alan, gave up his teaching post and moved back to Scotland to write his long-delayed book of poetry.

His departure was as swift as it was unexpected.

'I'll phone as soon as I can,' he'd said, while his wife took refuge in the conservatory.

After that, Charlie was forced to watch the slow, unstoppable ripple effect Alan's leaving had created. His wife, Carol, threw herself into her work as a health visitor, in part, Charlie knew, because she had to earn enough to survive as a single parent. Shira threw herself into school and hating her father with the kind of passion reserved exclusively for teenage girls, while Jack retreated into drugs and political activism. He was increasingly absent from the family home, which was soon divided into two sections: upstairs for the kids, downstairs for mum, who had taken to sleeping in the living room. As a result, Charlie and Shira were spending more and more time together. She would complain about Alan, sometimes cry, and Charlie would hold and comfort her. One night, after sharing a bottle of wine, they kissed, but she stopped herself (and, by default, him) before things went too far. After that his sexual longing went into overdrive and now, looking back, he saw that the handjob she gave him one grey, Thursday afternoon when the house was empty was simply a way of placating him. He, naturally enough, assumed it signified the beginning of a loving relationship, but within weeks she was going out with Matt Buxton from Sixth Form, leaving Charlie feeling angry and confused. His own schoolwork suffered and right around the time he was failing most of his GCSEs he got a position stacking shelves in Asda.

It was then he decided that, given the choice, he'd rather be something else.

Something a touch more dynamic.

A fighter pilot, for instance.

His recruitment officer, however, had a better idea.

Mover.

It certainly had a ring to it, and, more importantly, it meant employment, travel. Escape. And the more people tried to talk him out of it, the more certain he was that he was doing the right thing.

Because who needed family when you had the military?

The training was tough, especially the first few weeks when they were brutalised by the officers and completely cut off from the outside world. But Charlie was okay with that. Even when he and the other recruits were allowed to make phone calls again, he didn't bother. He had a career, and that was all he needed. So why, after all these years, did he find himself reminiscing about a young Irish lad called Michael O'Dea? Michael, whom the officers called 'Mick'. Or 'thick'. Or 'you thick fucking Paddy cunt'. At the time, Charlie had been grateful that no such vitriol was being directed at him. He thought it proved he had made the grade, that he was cut out for this, when really all it meant was he was lucky enough not to be Irish.

Or Scouse.

Or a Geordie.

Stupid, though.

After all the tears, the beatings, Michael O'Dea was probably doing fine.

Living his life.

It was Charlie who wanted out.

'I was thinking,' he said to Shira, as they stood eating their breakfast in the kitchen. 'Dunno. I was thinking about maybe going to college.'

'Oh, yeah? You mean train to be an officer?'

'No, I mean, like, university. Here in London. Or somewhere else. Not really sure yet.'

'What, leave the RAF?'

'I was thinking about it, yeah.'

'Wow. Okay. So, what are you going to study?'

'Well, I'd have to do an access course, right? Or A levels. But, I was thinking I wanna know more about, you know, the world. About the way the world is run. I mean, really run. I wanna know what's really going on.'

Shira nodded. 'What, like sociology?'

'Maybe, yeah.'

'Or political science?'

'Maybe. Dunno. Sounds a bit boring, that one.'

'Thing about college is, you have to really like your course. And your tutors. Otherwise it's a waste of time. And money. Costs a bomb these days. You know that, right?'

'Yeah, I know,' Charlie told her. 'If I had the money, though. I can see it. I'd be a mature student, but I think I'd be alright with that.'

She reached out, touched his forearm, making his heart and loins flutter.

'I think that's great. I really do. I always thought, you put your mind to it, there's nothing you can't do. You just have to apply yourself, that's all.'

'Yeah,' he coughed. 'Course. I mean, why not, right?'

They fell silent, the space between them so infused with sexual tension Charlie excused himself, claiming to need the bathroom.

'Something I ate,' he told her.

After Shira left for work, Charlie stood in the kitchen, looking out at the cold, bloated sky, putting off the inevitable. He turned on his mobile. Sixteen missed calls. Number seventeen would be coming through soon, and with it the full extent of Geddis' fury. It was a curious sensation, to have deliberately antagonised another bloke, one who could easily dismantle Charlie in a fight. Would Geddis want a fight? To kill Charlie with his bare, well-trained hands? Probably, but most of all he was going to want his heroin back.

Charlie's iPhone rang.

'Morning,' Charlie said.

'You're out of your depth. Out of your fucking depth, you hear me?'

Charlie disconnected the call.

Geddis called back ten seconds later.

'Don't you hang up on me. Do that again, I swear to Christ...'

Charlie sighed, hung up again.

This time it took Geddis thirty seconds to call back.

'Alright, Charlie, alright. Just talk to me, okay? First off, have you got the stuff? At least tell me you've still got the stuff.'

'Course I have. Carried it all the way back from the war, didn't I?'

'Alright, good. Now listen, you give it back. You give it back because you know it's the right thing to do. So stop fucking about, tell me where you are and I'll come and get it. And we'll say no more about it, alright?'

'Okay, great. So, I just hand it over and everything's forgotten, is it? Gotta tell you, that's a relief, that is. A real load off.'

'We'll say no more about it.'

'Then what?'

'What do you mean, then what? You'll get your money. Like we agreed.'

'Meantime, you and Baker, what's your cut? You know, just out of interest. Roughly speaking.'

'What? What you talking about?'

'It's just, if I'm getting ten, I couldn't help wondering how much you lot are getting, that's all.'

'Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. What the fuck are you doing, mate?'

'I'll tell you what. I'll call you back in a bit and we'll talk then, alright?'

'Charlie? I swear to God, don't you hang up this fucking...'

Charlie hung up the phone.

# 4

Later that afternoon, he arranged to meet Geddis at The Live and Let Live in Fulham, a decrepit watering hole which Jack claimed to frequent, supposedly playing endless games of dominoes with its aged clientele. It seemed as good a place as any, full of witnesses, regardless of how drunk or unreliable. Jack insisted on coming along, as did Aubrey. Neither would be much use in a combat situation, but, again, the more people watching the better.

They took Jack's UPS van, parked across the street, feeling like they ought to synchronise watches.

'We should wait inside,' Aubrey said after a few minutes. 'Get a pint.'

'You're such an alky,' Jack said.

'Not me, man. I drink in moderation. All the time.'

'You drink like an Englishman and a Frenchman combined,' Jack told him. 'Wine with every meal and a good binge over the weekend.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'My granddad was French,' he told Charlie.

They sat in silence, until Jack said, 'We going in or what?'

'Just wait for me here, alright?' Charlie muttered, having to clench his fists to stop them from shaking. 'And be ready to leave in a hurry. Not that we'll have to leave in a hurry. It's fine. You never know, though.'

'We'll be here. Don't worry,' Jack said.

Charlie stepped from the van, walking casually towards the pub. In front of a newsagent, a young mother smoked and swore into a mobile. Just an average day in London. Not even Geddis would presume to shatter the peace, no matter how incensed he was.

Charlie went in through double doors, the interior many shades of brown.

Carpets, upholstery.

All of it brown.

Geddis nowhere to be seen.

Behind the bar, a thin man with a side parting and a well-trimmed moustache, talking football with two customers, their bald heads flushed, red faces swollen.

Not exactly the lunchtime throng Charlie had been hoping for.

Still, three onlookers was plenty.

He nodded at the bartender, ordered a pint, a packet of pork scatchings, then inhaled approvingly, as though having at long last found a spiritual home. The other men, perhaps finding this a touch presumptuous, entered a state of suspended animation, waiting until he'd moved down the bar before resuming their blow-by-blow dissection of some recent, local derby.

He took a seat next to the fruit machine, facing the entrance. He sipped his pint, his heart rate jacked, but unlike before, back at Brize, this time he felt a degree of control. This time he would dictate terms, because if the military had taught him anything, it was that fear could be channelled.

It could be turned to anger, power.

At the bar the two bald men drained their pints, before making a loud, elaborate show of leaving. 'Love to Mandy and the little uns, yeah?'

An unearthly quiet hung in their wake. Worse, Charlie now had only one witness present: the skinny, moustachioed bartender. He unloaded the dishwasher, began polishing glasses. But what if he left too, went out back or down to the cellar to change the barrel?

Charlie picked up his beer, approached the bar.

'Busy?' he asked, sitting down.

'Not really,' the bartender replied.

'No? Thought you'd have a few in for lunch, that's all.'

'We did, yeah. Three o' clock now.'

'Right, right.' Charlie drummed his fingers on the brown finish. 'Working tonight?'

The bartender was still formulating a reply when Richard Geddis walked in, tall and ginger, hands jammed in a fleece.

'Alright?' Charlie said, turning to greet him.

'Couldn't be better,' Geddis said, watery eyes sweeping. 'Yourself?'

He withdrew an arm, hooked it around Charlie's shoulder.

'Not too bad,' Charlie shrugged, as he was dragged from his barstool, shoved against a Guinness beer mat, with enough downward pressure his leg began to kick. A second after that, thick with saliva, he cried out, couldn't help himself.

'Shut your fucking mouth,' Geddis said.

'Whoa, whoa,' Charlie heard the bartender say. 'What the fuck?'

'It's alright,' Geddis said, as though addressing a crowded saloon. 'Police.'

Charlie realised he'd flashed his military ID.

Just like a real copper.

'You'll have to take it outside,' the bartender said.

'Come on, dickhead. Want a word with you.'

From there, Geddis adjusted his grip, pursuing a fracture at Charlie's elbow, which he tried to outrun, walking towards the entrance, rattling the glass as Geddis used his free hand to part the double doors. Then, outside, he pinned him against an Audi, cuffing his ear until it whined.

'Hand it over, right now, or I fucking bury you.'

It took another second to realise the car alarm wasn't part of the plan. Geddis eased back slightly, checking the street for witnesses as Charlie twisted, delivered a clean, if half-hearted shot to his ribcage, making him wince and laugh. A moment later Charlie was the other side of the wailing, flashing coupé.

'That's how you do business? Seriously?'

'Come here. Just wanna talk to you, that's all.'

'Yeah, right.'

'Don't make it worse than it already is.'

Geddis circled the car, Charlie inversing the action, still objective enough to feel foolish.

'The fuck's your problem?'

They completed a circuit, Charlie walking into the street as Jack drew up, imposing the full weight of his UPS van on the kerb opposite. 'That was quick,' he said, as Charlie climbed in, pulling the door closed behind him. He rolled the window down, then wished he hadn't bothered, Geddis' long fingers forcing their way inside.

'Leave it, alright?' Charlie said, hoisting the window back again. 'Just tell Baker I'll Skype him. Same time as usual.'

Geddis pointed at the tarmac, a forced old disco move. 'Last warning. Get over here, now.'

Charlie sighed. 'Alright,' he said to Jack. 'We're getting nowhere with this.'

Jack started the engine and they pulled away, Geddis running alongside, kicking, punching, spittle at the corners of his mouth.

'Where you going?' he kept asking.

Charlie stayed fixed on the wing mirror until they turned out, joining traffic, Aubrey hunkered down in the seat next to him, palm flat against his chest, either to still his beating heart or massage his lucky shark's tooth.

'Dude,' he said. 'What the fuck was all that about?'

For the next couple of days, Charlie tried to reach Baker in Afghanistan. No answer. Did he have any idea what was going on? He had a right to know. Also, Jack was becoming increasingly, annoyingly restless, worried that the five kilos of heroin would become a permanent fixture, gathering dust behind his wardrobe.

For his part, Charlie did his best to reassure him, told him he was overreacting.

'Oh, yeah?' Jack said. 'Didn't tell me you was ripping these guys off, though, did you?'

'Who says I'm ripping them off? If anything they're trying to rip me off.'

'Yeah, well, I don't think they see it that way, if you know what I mean?'

'Look, I was totally up front about it,' Charlie said. 'Don't have a go at me just because you were too mashed to listen properly.'

The truth was, they were all shaken up after their run-in with Geddis. Since then the reality of their (or rather Charlie's) situation had fully sunk in. Shira had noticed too, the strain in the air, although she hadn't said anything yet.

Charlie had to talk to Baker.

Then on Thursday afternoon, when Shira and Jack were at work and Aubrey was reading in the bath, Charlie got a text from Geddis.

Skype Baker. One hour.

For the next sixty minutes, Charlie paced around the flat, listening to Aubrey blow-dry his hair, strum Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here' on his guitar. Finally, Charlie sat down with his laptop. Baker answered immediately, his square features filling the screen, his tent and personal belongings in the background.

'Fucking Charlie Wetherspoon,' he said, shaking his dusty head.

'Alright, Baker? How's things?'

'Well, I'll be honest with you, Charlie-boy. I've been better. Had Geddis in my ear. The things he's been telling me about you.' Baker spread his palms. 'Can't be, I told him. No way. Not my old friend Charlie. Not after every-fucking-thing we went through to make sure he made it home safely. Must be some mistake, I said.'

'Not so much a mistake. More a slight change of plan.'

'This I've got to hear.'

'Simple really. I want a third. An even split. I want fifty grand.'

Baker threw his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he laughed like a maniac.

'Fifty grand? Where'd you get that from?'

'Hey, I've done my research. I've got the internet and everything.'

'Alright, Charlie-boy, alright. Now listen up and listen good. Because right now Geddis wants to do you some serious bodily harm. You do know that, don't you? He's very upset with you, my lad. Very upset.'

'Geddis is a fucking toolbox. That's why I'm talking to you.'

'What I'm saying is, be careful, alright? I mean it. He'll listen to me up to a point. After that you're on your own.'

'Just give me a number,' Charlie said.

'A number?'

'Look, I know how this works. No one wants any trouble. That'd be bad for everyone, am I right?'

'Yeah, well, like I say. Geddis might disagree with you on that one.'

'Whatever. I want fifty.'

Still smiling, Baker shook his head. 'Look, fifty's not gonna happen. But I'll tell you what, because I like you, I'll give you twenty.'

'Thirty.'

'Twenty-five. Final offer.'

'Fuck that. I want fifty. Or I sell it myself.'

'Whoa, whoa. What happened to thirty?'

'Done. Thirty it is.'

Baker sat back, extended his bottom lip. 'I knew you was a clever one, Charlie-boy. A right cocky little bastard. That's why I picked you. But I didn't see this coming. Got to admit.' He ran a hand over his patchy stubble. 'Alright. Thirty grand it is. Anything for a quiet life, eh?'

'And one other thing,' Charlie said.

'You must be joking.'

'The deal. When it happens. I want to be there.'

'Not an option. No way.'

'So what, I just give him the gear and hope for the best? Come on, you said it yourself. I'm too clever for that.'

Baker muttered something under his breath. This time he wasn't smiling. 'These are some serious people. Best you leave it to us. For your own sake.'

'Got to protect my investment, haven't I?' Charlie said. 'I mean, that's just good business. Common sense, really.'

'Listen, you'll get your money. I'll see to that myself, alright?'

'What can I say? Take it or leave it.'

'Alright,' Baker sighed. 'You wanna be a prick about it, fine. No skin off my nose. I'll talk to Geddis. He's not gonna like it, though.'

'See, I knew you'd see it my way. Good cop, bad cop, right?'

'I just want it stated, for the record, that I tried to talk you out of this particular course of action, but you were too busy being the big fucking man to listen.'

'I'm just looking out for my end, that's all.'

'Your funeral, big man. Your funeral.'

He disconnected the call, left Charlie to stare at the blank screen. Next door, Aubrey was strumming 'Hurt' by Johnny Cash. Alone in the front room, Charlie began to feel a creeping sense of unease. Cabin fever, probably. He decided to get some air, walking down to the corner shop, where he bought a sausage roll, a packet of crisps and a king size Mars bar. He sat on a bench in the forecourt beneath Jack and Aubrey's flat, feeding the sparrows, while the local kids revved the engine on their battered, communal moped.

It wouldn't be long until Charlie had outstayed his welcome, yet still no word from Geddis. If he hadn't called in a few days, Charlie would go back to Brize, hole up there. It wasn't unusual for men on leave to return to base early, girlfriend trouble being the most common cause. Charlie wished he had girlfriend trouble. Instead he had Aubrey trouble. Aubrey was working nights as a silver-service waiter, which meant he was always around during the day. He would smoke weed, and in between murdering a selection of classic rock songs, watch endless episodes of Family Guy. Charlie would take himself off to work out, but after pumping iron in the company of the Paras and the Marine Corps, the Virgin pay-as-you-go gym was a bit of a comedown, full of old people, women on their mobiles.

Was he ready for civilian life? He kept meaning to check out a few courses online, see if something caught his attention, but somehow he wasn't getting around to it.

On Thursday afternoon, after a lengthy cardio session, he returned to the flat to find Jack and Aubrey watching Apocalypse Now in the front room, a Foster's twelve-pack in the fridge.

'For a pacifist you like a good war film, don't you,' Charlie said, taking his usual spot in the armchair.

Jack said nothing.

'Let's go out,' Charlie went on. 'Go to the pub or something.'

In the light of the flatscreen, Jack and Aubrey were looking strange.

Pasty and boss-eyed.

'Fucking hell,' Charlie laughed. 'What have you two been smoking?'

Jack gurgled, bared his teeth. 'Just trying out the goods,' he said.

Aubrey made a sodden, hiccupping sound. Then Charlie saw the tinfoil on the coffee table. The blackened sheet, some kind of thin, makeshift trumpet.

'It's cool, man,' Jack said, rubbing his face. 'Just wanted to see what all the fuss is about, you know?'

'What? I'm supposed to be selling that.'

'Relax. Just smoked a bit, is all.'

After that, Jack and Aubrey didn't move or do anything in any way, either bored or fascinated by the staged combat dancing across the screen. Charlie began to fume quietly. The state of them, especially Jack, his existence more and more contained with each passing year. Went to work, came home, went to work again. On his day off he got up late, bought hash or weed from a connection on an estate less than two miles over, spent his nights drinking and skinning-up in his living room, and now he was smoking heroin in what seemed the most offhand way possible. True, he'd had a psychedelic phase a few years back, but at least that got him out of the flat, if only to go camping in Devon or mushroom picking in Newbury.

But smack?

Why take a substance so obviously addictive? Charlie couldn't understand it, was left feeling unsettled, almost nauseated, as though there were facets of Jack's personality he barely knew even after ten years of friendship.

On the floor next to the sofa, one of the bricks, no more than partially crumbled as far as Charlie could see. He stood over Jack and Aubrey a moment, silently communicating how wasted, out of shape they were, before returning the kilo to Jack's bedroom, stashing it behind the wardrobe only to come away with a light covering of dust on his palms and fingertips. 'Fuck's sake.' He rushed into the bathroom, washing his hands thoroughly with the only soap there was, a bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo.

Outside, he was greeted by Shira, back from a day doing whatever it was she did at her digital media company.

'Alright?' she said, unwrapping a scarf.

'Great. You?'

'Starving,' she said. 'Jack around?'

'Yeah, he's around. Watching classic cinema again. Wouldn't go in there if I was you.'

'What, again? He was watching that Clockwork Orange last time. You seen that one?'

'Not all of it.'

'I wouldn't bother. Hey, let's watch something later. No superheroes, though. I'm sick of bloody superheroes, aren't you?'

'Sounds good. Give it a couple of hours, we'll stick on a comedy, or something.'

'Alright,' Shira said, touching his shoulder. 'I'm glad you're here, Charlie. Nice to have somebody sensible about the place.'

He faked a laugh, then went back into the front room, watching the rest of Apocalypse Now, while Aubrey drifted in and out of consciousness and Jack took longer than the film's epic running time to roll a single, tiny reefer.

'Total visionary, this guy,' he mumbled, on more than one occasion.

# 5

Finally, a voicemail from Geddis; although never one for propriety, it was virtually impossible to decipher: a few muttered instructions, an address in Southwark where he and Charlie were supposed to rendezvous the next morning.

'Bring the gear and come alone.'

That night Charlie lay on the floor in a sleeping bag, the DVD player's twenty-four-hour readout a slow, excruciating countdown. In a pre-emptive move, he rose at five, drank a cup of tea in the semi-darkness of the kitchen. He zipped up his hoody, put the sports bag over his shoulder and took the lift down to the forecourt. As he climbed into the Golf, he thought of those soldiers from his time at Bastion, out on the dawn patrol, locked and loaded, ready to face a committed, dug-in enemy. No room for debate in a situation like that. Kill or be killed. Little wonder so many guys had come back bearing the psychological scars of seeing their friends torn to pieces by IEDs, sniper fire, the often overzealous Americans. During his own tour, what was happening on the front line was, frankly, somebody else's problem. He was an RAF man, and although unspoken, he and his mates knew what that meant.

They were a bit special.

No real grunt work for them.

He followed directions he'd jotted down on the back of an envelope, driving out of Hammersmith, through Knightsbridge, arriving in Southwark at a few minutes after six. The address Geddis had given him was on a main road in East Dulwich, over a launderette, its shutters down. Opposite was a pub, The Butcher's Hook & Cleaver. Charlie swung into its car park, killed the engine, watching the launderette in his wing mirror, every car or pedestrian a catastrophe in waiting. At seven-thirty, he went across to a deli, bought himself coffee and a pastry, hoping to ground himself with an injection of sugar and caffeine. Nobly, stupidly, he hadn't told anyone he was coming here. Not even Jack. Something about taking responsibility, a selfless act it was becoming increasingly difficult to champion.

Because what if there was no deal, only Geddis, waiting to retrieve his merchandise, exact his revenge, something Charlie knew he'd been longing for?

What was it Baker had said?

He's very upset with you, my lad.

At around eight, his iPhone rang.

'Where are you?' Geddis said, congestion in the background.

'I'm here, outside the place.'

'There's a bookie's, further along. Bring the stuff.'

Climbing from the Golf, Charlie walked the pavement, feeling that if anyone looked closely enough they'd see he had, once again, veered into another province, one where traditional boundaries no longer applied. He approached the betting shop, a Paddy Power, Geddis leaning against its green front, arms folded before him.

'Alright?' Charlie said.

Geddis nodded at the sports bag. 'That it?'

'Just so you know, I got friends know I'm here.'

'Good for you. Alright, give it here, I'll go get this sorted.'

'Fuck that, I'm coming with you. That's the whole point.'

A muscle in Geddis' jaw flexed. 'Try not to be a dick about it, alright? You don't know these lads, they don't know you. It's not how things are done.'

'I couldn't care less,' Charlie said, keeping the sports bag at his back. 'I give you this I'll never see you again.'

'You're gonna get your money. Like Baker told you, remember? So you won, didn't you? Said it yourself, no one wants any trouble.'

'Well, whatever. No one gets this bag until I get my money. Simple as that.'

Charlie could always sense when Geddis was parroting Baker's words, which sounded like sawdust clumping in his mouth. On this occasion, Baker's influence went one better, as though physically restraining his partner, who turned his face away, head convulsing on his long, acne-scarred neck.

'Alright. But you fuck up in there, you're on your own, got it?'

'Yeah, yeah. Got it.'

'And as a personal favour, just try and keep your mouth shut, alright?'

They were buzzed into a narrow, carpeted stairwell, the walls speckled with mould, the plaster split and yawning. Geddis went first, Charlie following him up to the first floor, the door there opened by a black guy in mirrored sunglasses, patterns etched into a tall, four-sided Afro. He raised his chin and they went through, the front room totally unfurnished, divided into equal parts by a ribbon of thin, fragrant smoke. Near the net curtain, another black guy, young and athletic, so impeccably attired he reminded Charlie of a Premiership football player. Then further in, two white guys, both in leather jackets and dark jeans, one of them tapping an unlit cigarette against its packaging.

'Alright, Fabien?' Geddis said to the football player. 'How's tricks?'

'Tricks is good, man, good,' Fabien said. 'Who's your boy?'

'This? This is Charlie. He's with me.'

'Another fly-boy, is it? Yeah, he looks it.'

'You're one to talk. This the whole gang, or what?'

'Don't worry about them,' Fabien said, nodding at the Caucasians. 'Quality control, mate.'

'I don't follow.'

'Got a problem our end. Means we gotta check the gear.'

'What d'you mean "check" it? Check it for what?'

'For purity. Just so we know what we're dealing with.'

'Purity?' Geddis said. 'This stuff's pure as the driven. Best in the country, same as always.'

'Like I say, there was an issue. Not saying it's you, man. We know it ain't you. Just gotta be thorough, you feel me? Make sure we know what's what.'

'It's fuckin' Glen,' said the other black guy. 'I'm tellin' you. Him and his woman, that Ayesha.'

Ignoring this, Fabien said to Geddis, 'Nothing personal, yeah?'

'All the same,' Geddis said. 'Feeling a little ambushed here, tell you the truth.'

'Should let me pay a visit to that fool,' the other black guy went on, genuine intent in his voice. 'Him and that Jamie Patton. Reckon they don't know nothin' about what happened to Tucker down at the studio. Lyin' to your face, bruv.'

Fabien angled his head. 'What did I say? We don't do nothing until we're sure.'

'Alright, look,' one of the white guys said, making his presence known. 'We ain't got all day. We're gonna check the merchandise, you'll be out of here in ten minutes. Think you can live with that?'

Geddis shrugged, looked at Charlie.

'Reckon that's fair enough.'

'The gear,' Geddis said. 'Give it to them, will you?'

Charlie opened the sports bag, handing the kilo packets to the smaller of the two white guys, who up close stank of yesterday's aftershave, his face sliding towards his collar, as though bereft of even the most basic motor functions. A moment later, he and his mate left the room, gone to the kitchen to test the gear, leaving Charlie and Geddis alone with Fabien and the other black guy, which somehow seemed like the worst possible outcome. What were they going to do, exchange pleasantries? It also occurred to Charlie that testing the heroin for purity might mean testing its weight too.

Probably did, thinking about it.

So now the real question: how much had Jack and Aubrey smoked?

'Where's Baker at?' Fabien's mate said. He lit what looked like a cigarillo, but instead sizzled with hydroponic skunkweed.

'Overseas,' Geddis said.

Fabien's mate nodded at Charlie. 'This his replacement, then, or what?'

'Donny,' Fabien said, exploring the opposite side of the room. 'Leave it, yeah?'

'What?' said Donny. 'Look at him, man. He's shakin'. Makin' me nervous, man.'

'Who, me?' Charlie said. 'I just don't like getting up this early, that's all. Thought you drug dealers worked at night.'

'Shut the fuck up,' Geddis muttered.

'Drug dealer?' said Donny. 'Who you callin' a drug dealer?'

Charlie fanned the fingers on his right hand. 'Must be in the wrong place, then. Because we got some quality drugs for sale.'

'Oh, yeah?' Donny aimed a set of gold dentures at Geddis. 'Maybe he's your replacement.'

'They gonna be much longer or what?' Geddis said.

'Chill,' Fabien said. 'Let them do their thing, yeah? Everyone goes home happy.'

An untenable silence followed, Charlie fighting the need to beat it into submission. He rocked back on his heels, pretty sure if he just let it happen he could locate a small patch of common ground, winning hearts and minds on the off chance one of those five packages didn't weigh in at the proper amount.

He voided a low, tuneless whistle, Geddis staring him down until he stopped.

After another acute interval, one of the white guys was back, leaning his lank hair around the door, saying, 'That's come in at ninety-four per cent. Meaning whoever's causing the problem, it ain't coming from here.'

'I could have told you that,' Geddis said, while Charlie tried to curb his no doubt obvious relief.

'Got to be systematic about it,' Fabien shrugged. 'It's either that or pure fucking madness, you feel me?'

'Yeah, well,' Geddis said. 'Now we've met your soaring industry standards, I'd like to get out of here. If that's alright with you.'

Fabien produced a late model Samsung, working the touchscreen, before holding it up for Geddis to inspect, looking for a second as though they were about to mark the occasion with a photograph.

'Like we said, yeah?'

Geddis nodded, produced his own mobile, holding it to his ear.

'Yeah, all good. Should be on its way to you now.'

He waited, disconnected the call, a smug and so exaggerated gesture.

'Right then, lads. Pleasure as always. Now, remind me, who goes out first? That us or you this time?'

'Go ahead, man. Gotta give the agent his keys back, anyway. Man's a stress-case in full effect, I'm telling you.'

They took the stairs, Geddis deliberately unresponsive, allowing the full extent of Charlie's ignorance to burrow its way under his skin and take root there. How stupid, to think actual currency would be exchanged, the kind nobody carried any more.

He stepped through the front door into a wash of daylight, Geddis already forging ahead, the traffic on the main road stalled and clamouring.

Further along, a dilapidated play area, no kids, just a few seasoned alcoholics huddled on a bench. Parked opposite, a Mitsubishi Shogun, Geddis directing his keys, immobilising the alarm. 'Get in,' he said. Then, sensing Charlie's reluctance, 'You wanna get paid or don't you?'

'Pay me now,' Charlie shrugged.

'Look, relax, alright? I got your money. I'm not gonna give it to you here, though, am I. Flash that sort of cash.'

'You're paying me in cash?'

'That's what you wanted, right?'

'Alright. But anything happens to me, I got people that'll know. And that's trouble you don't want.'

'So you keep saying. Look, just get in, alright? Get this over and done with.'

They pulled away, driving through East Dulwich, Charlie thirsting for more information, anything to dilute the prowling sense that all was not well.

'You know,' said Geddis, staring straight ahead. 'You remind me of my nephews, did I tell you that? Really, just straight-up remind me of those two.'

'Oh, yeah?'

'Yeah. It's my older sister, she's got two boys, both in their teens now. Husband's long gone so me and my brother, we do what we can, you know? But these kids. I mean, they've never wanted for anything, except maybe an old man, but that's pretty much par for the course these days, right? But what it's like, it's like nothing's ever good enough for them. Like, they've got to have it all, but they're lazy. Lazy as fuck, I'm telling you. So, alright, they'll just about do the basics, like cleaning their rooms or mowing the lawn or something, but you have to bribe them. Or threaten them, although my sister, she's soft when it comes to that. But left to their own devices, man, they'll just sit around playing computer games, filling their faces with this shit. Like, the shit they eat, seriously, I never seen nothing like it, but they go mental if they don't get it. Just fucking stroke out, right there in the shop, right in front of everyone. And after school, what-have-you, they don't even think about going out. Playing football or just, I dunno. What happened to riding your bike around the area, going to see your mates? When did that go out of fashion?'

It took Charlie a second to work out that, at this juncture, he was expected to respond.

'Right, yeah. Just lazy, right?'

'What fucking gets me is the entitlement. The rest I could live with, but it's the 'me-me-me' does my head in. Thing I can't work out, though, they haven't been spoiled. All of us, me, me sister, we've tried to teach them there's nothing comes for free in this life, but they look at you like you're, I dunno, like you're a fucking idiot or something. Like you don't know nothing.'

'What can you do?'

'Conditioning, that's the key.'

'Oh, yeah? How'd you mean?'

'Conditioning. Discipline, right? So two, three times a week, you put the little fuckers through their paces. Running, circuit training, fight training. Make them puke if you have to. So they learn: no such thing as a free ride.'

Charlie nodded, tried to laugh. 'What does their mum make of that? Glad of the rest, I'll bet.'

'Well, that's rule number one. No crying to mummy. No crying to mummy or there'll be fucking hell to pay.'

'Right, yeah,' Charlie said, his bowels loose and marshy suddenly.

They took a left, cruising along a quiet residential street, a luxury development at its far end. No through road; the Shogun drew to a standstill.

'Hey, see that on the back seat?' Geddis said. 'Pass it here, will you?'

Charlie reached over, handing Geddis a large House of Fraser shopping bag. He reached inside, and with a tight, replica smile withdrew a stack of banknotes. Fifties, a lot of fifties, strapped together with a rubber band, Geddis running his thumb across one corner, not to count what was there, but to make an impression, to say, You hear that? That's what real money sounds like.

'What was it you was after again? It was thirty, right?'

'That's right, yeah.'

Geddis nodded, put the cash back in the shopping bag. 'You ever been to this part of town before? Got a mate owns property along here. Course, there was a time you couldn't walk around here with this sort of cash on you. Wouldn't last five minutes. Like I say, been a lot of investment since then.'

He popped the driver's door.

'Just along here.'

After a few seconds of pointless hesitation, Charlie climbed out, went after him, walking between buildings, emerging onto the waterfront, the Thames before them, a cold, uninviting expanse. Charlie shivered, looking over the railing at an exposed stretch of riverbed, an assortment of ducks and coots nestled among the plastic shopping bags and empty cans, a lone, semi-deflated football.

'What's the crack, then?' he said.

'Dunno, maybe you can help me,' Geddis said, contemplating the bank opposite. 'Explain something to me. Like, where'd you get thirty grand from? Because you agreed to ten, remember?'

'Well, for one thing, who took all the risk? Me, that's who.'

'Yeah, but that's where you're wrong. That's you changing things to suit yourself, that's all that is. And, see, that's what I can't be putting up with.'

'Look, I've already been over this with Baker. And he agreed, thirty is fair.'

'You mean he gave in? Gave in to all your selfish, me-me-me fucking bullshit?'

'We just came to an arrangement, didn't we? Like, business. In the normal way.'

'Didn't come to an arrangement with me, though, did you?'

Charlie shrugged. 'I'm just looking out for my interests, that's all.'

'Course, I can compromise,' Geddis said, spearing his chest with a thumb. 'Course I can. So, tell you what, how about this? If you can take this thirty thousand off me, then it's yours. That way you've earned it, see? In my eyes.'

Shifting his weight onto his right leg, he held the shopping bag aloft, a point exactly midway between them.

'Go on. Take it.'

'What you doing? Come on, this is stupid.'

'You think you earned it? Fucking earn it, then, go on.'

'Just calm down, alright? Think about it. What's Baker gonna say about all this?'

'Baker's not here. He's overseas, remember?'

Charlie shook his head. 'You're a fucking dildo, you know that?'

'Fine. If that's the way you want it.'

In one, short movement, Geddis brought his arm around, flung the bag over the railing, Charlie agape as it sailed out and down, landing in the mud only a few feet from the water. Then as the shock mutated, turned to anger, Geddis drove his fist into Charlie's solar plexus, his lungs purged of oxygen, the towpath rising up to meet him, followed by a boot in the stomach for good measure.

But still, Baker's influence, Geddis holding back, a fraction of the damage he could've imposed had he been free to. He put his mouth to Charlie's ear. 'Conditioning, boy. You'll get the full fucking treatment next time. Count on it.'

Disorientated, gasping, Charlie thought about trying to crawl away, only to become aware of a second presence, a disembodied voice charged with outrage and common decency. Climbing to his feet, Charlie stumbled, almost fell, clinging to a jogger who had at that moment arrived on the scene and was, Charlie now realised, calling the police.

'Don't worry, I saw the bastard. Got a full description.'

'Don't bother,' Charlie told him, still bent double. 'I'm fine, really.'

He took some persuading, the jogger, but finally ran on, content he'd single-handedly thwarted a mugging. After that, Charlie limped along, each breath a claw hammer dragging at his ribcage. He found a jetty, a signpost wired to its latticework: No Unauthorised Access on the Pontoon. Climbing over, he walked the length of the quay, until, finally, he stepped down into the sludge. Immediately it was up to his shins, sucking his trainers from his feet as he pulled himself along, the House of Fraser shopping bag still twenty feet away. He got stuck, went to his knees, his jeans sopping, while on the water rowing crews, other small launches, skimmed past, pondering, perhaps, what would drive a man to take such drastic action. Wallet, mobile? Keys to a brand new Lexus? He drew level with the bag, and so pushed off, kept pushing until he reached it, managed to get hold of a corner and pull it free.

'You alright, there?' came a voice from above, another concerned citizen, this one walking an agitated terrier.

'Couldn't be better,' Charlie told him, wading towards the dock.

To celebrate, he took Jack, Shira and Aubrey for dinner at Carluccio's on South Bank. Because that's what money meant: the freedom to be absurdly generous. To begin with, he ordered two bottles of wine from the list, followed by a round of beers. Then, sitting at the head of the table, he found he was able to engage fully with his family, even Aubrey, who was soon stringing entire sentences together, revealing for the first time his plans to open his own Brooklyn-style coffee shop.

'Or Amsterdam, you know? Like, a place to hang. Food during the day, live music at night. Basically, you build it up over a few years, then sit back and watch the money roll in.'

'Dude, I'll be your in-house dealer,' Jack said. 'Just sit at the end of the bar, selling draw to your customers.'

'Nice, dude. Nice.'

Shira said nothing. Over the course of his visit, Charlie had come to realise that Jack's dealing amounted to little more than a poorly kept secret, poor because whenever he had more than two drinks in a row he forgot he wasn't supposed to be talking about it.

Charlie decided to change the subject. 'What about you?' he asked Shira. 'Plans for the future. You and what's-his-name, Tim, you gonna tie the knot or what?'

Shira's laugh made Charlie think he'd been too direct, even given away his true feelings.

'Don't know about that,' she said. 'I'm twenty-three years old, so no rush, you know?'

'Yeah, but Tim's, like, how old?' Jack said. 'Like, thirty, right?'

Charlie hacked into his wine. 'Thirty?'

'We want to travel,' Shira said. 'Maybe start our own business one day.'

'Well, better do it quick,' Jack shrugged. 'Before the revolution comes.'

Shira sighed, shook her head. 'What revolution's that, then? The Russell Brand revolution?'

'Take the piss if you want,' Jack said. 'The man's got a point. Soon the rich are gonna have to pay. All the corporate scum. It's gonna happen, you'll see. I mean, we can't go on like this, can we?'

'Yeah, but I'm not rich, am I?' Shira said.

'That's what I'm saying. If you was rich.' Jack waggled a finger. 'No special treatment just because you're my little sister.'

As usual, Charlie wished he knew more, not about Russell Brand but about what Jack called 'the obscene disparity between rich and poor'. A moment later, the waitress arrived with their appetisers, bringing the discussion to a halt as they divided up the garlic bread, the prosciutto, a serving of giant green olives.

Pouring more house white, Charlie thought that, were he a betting man, his money for a better tomorrow would lie with Shira and her accountant boyfriend.

Because a revolution, here in England?

Somehow he couldn't see it.

Same way he couldn't see his own destiny.

Not really.

Not if he was honest.

All his talk about university, yet he barely had a GCSE to his name. And even if he had what it took to understand politics or sociology, what if his mind went blank at the crucial moment? What if, after years of study, he failed his final exam?

'Hey, take it easy there,' Shira said, as he knocked back another mouthful.

'What? I'm celebrating.'

'That's the other thing. Celebrating what?'

Charlie stared at her, almost willing her to guess what he'd been up to, get it out in the open.

'Got a pay rise, didn't he?' Jack said, lifting his glass. 'And about time, too. I mean, working for the government, got to get paid, am I right?'

Shira smiled. 'That's great. But you're still leaving, right? Still going to uni?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Charlie said. 'I was looking at some courses online. Like, sociology, you know. That sort of thing.'

Before the rest of their food arrived, Charlie got up and went to the bathroom.

Working for the government?

Was that how people saw it?

It wasn't how he saw it.

Not that he'd given it much thought before now.

Later, after more wine and a pizza, Jack and Shira doing most of the talking, Charlie began to feel better about himself, his prospects. He then took great pride in paying the bill, even (or especially) as Shira protested. Out of the restaurant, they crossed the Thames towards the tube, laughing and talking, feeling untouchable and vivid. Back at the flat, Jack chose the music and Aubrey skinned up, passing it straight to Charlie, even though they all knew he shouldn't smoke weed. He was due back on base in a few days, subject to random drug tests. Unless, of course, it was a sneaky way to rid himself of the military once and for all. He took several long pulls, but instead of feeling inspired or relaxed, images of Geddis, Fabien and Donny blazed in his mind. He tried to sleep it off, closing his eyes, waiting for the others to run out of subjects to discuss, wishing more than anything he had a room of his own to escape to.

# 6

His return to work was unceremonious. Briefed by their sergeant, he and the other Movers were loading an aircraft bound for Gibraltar long before he had a chance to get his bearings. At first, he was quietly bemoaning the lack of sleep, the absence of a decent breakfast, but as the hours passed, the discipline, the mostly unexpressed camaraderie, combined with the simple pleasure of completing a meaningful task, meant he was thinking clearly for what felt like the first time in days.

It was, he realised, a question of priorities.

Also, that afternoon, as though awaiting his return, the BBC were due to shoot another episode of Inside Brize Norton. Charlie wasn't interviewed this time, but he was on camera simulating an airdrop of medical supplies, his duty sergeant yelling instructions as they pushed each load out the back of a low-flying Hercules. The rush was incredible (it always was) but having the director and sound guy cowering nearby (the cameraman, comparatively, unfazed) was an unexpected pleasure. It was almost as if, somewhere along the way, Charlie had forgotten how good he was at this. Him and his mates. And now he had nearly thirty grand stashed behind the vent in his room. He should, really, put it in the bank, but felt sure if he did the cashier would report him to the police. Maybe he'd put it in a few thousand at a time. It felt good having actual money, anyway, just another way of keeping things simple. Just like they did here on base. They took his rent and he never had to worry about bills or council tax (unlike Jack, who'd refuse to pay anything until threatened by the courts).

Overall?

Charlie was surprised at how glad he was to be back.

Good honest work.

Why had he been so down on it before?

He'd made a nice sum on the side, and he hadn't given up on college completely. He might do a night course, was definitely going to look into it. Meantime, he was going back down the pub with the lads, because after a fortnight of uncertainty, he was just glad to be somewhere he could call home.

It took another two weeks for the security of his routine to crumble, give way to boredom. They had, as Movers, become almost too good. Friendly, efficient, able to load and unload the aircraft with consummate professionalism, although Charlie still veered into distraction whenever his sergeant wasn't around. He worked best with Westy, the two of them developing a shorthand, knowing instinctively when they had to pick up the pace and when they could hang back, make things easy for themselves. They went for a pint most nights, the pub's blank familiarity, while soothing at first, soon a bitter reminder of the extent to which things stayed the same. Westy was no different. A great guy, but with a proclivity for exaggeration, particularly when it came to his sex life. Did he really think it credible that, the moment Charlie wasn't around, he suddenly became irresistible to women of every age, race and social background? To hear him tell it (something he did over and over again, each rendering more dramatic than the last), his weekends were spent enticing the entire female population of Oxfordshire one by one into his bedroom at his mum's house in Abingdon. He'd then be forced to let them down when, inevitably, they'd try to embroil him in a committed, loving relationship.

This Saturday night it'd been a hairdresser named Natalie.

Beautiful but possessive.

A scenario so familiar Charlie almost didn't notice when Westy segued into something new, opening a packet of crisps, saying, 'Fucking mental, that guy.'

'What guy?' Charlie said.

'Don't tell me you haven't heard?'

'Heard what?'

'About that guy. Couple of days ago. Got caught, didn't he?'

And that was it. Charlie knew. But of course knowing wasn't enough. He still had to ask, 'Got caught doing what?'

'Smuggling smack. On the flight in, Friday. Said he had it taped to his body. Silly bastard tried to make a run for it. Anyway, he's well fucked now.'

What Charlie experienced next was a sensation akin to vertigo, which was impossible, his feet planted firmly on the worn, beer-stained carpet.

'Where'd you hear that?'

'Heard it from Stormin' Mike Norman. You know, Mike in customs?'

'Oh, yeah? What happened, then?'

Westy shrugged. 'Called the fuzz, didn't they. I'll tell you what, they should give the fucker life. No parole, no nothing.'

Charlie got up slowly, climbing down from the great height that was his chair. He went to the bar, surrounded by the usual crowd of sad, middle-aged men. Only today they didn't seem so sad. Today, Charlie would gladly swap places with any one of them, inhabit a meaningless, event-free existence and never look back.

'Same again?' said the landlord, reaching for a pint glass.

Rather than rushing out to find Geddis or Baker (who was back from his tour) Charlie thought it best to act as though nothing was wrong. Stay calm and keep drinking. So what if someone had been caught smuggling heroin? What did that mean really? This was the question that careened around his mind, gathering speed until finally it exploded, sending unwanted answers hurtling in every direction. Somehow, Charlie had assumed only he, Baker and Geddis had brought drugs into Brize. Clearly, this was not the case. There were others, one of whom had been caught. And when this unknown soldier gave evidence, Baker and Geddis would face a court martial. Which was too bad for them, but where did that leave Charlie? He'd seen enough television to know either Baker or Geddis (probably Geddis) might get a reduced sentence were they to give up Charlie to the cops. Charlie and everyone else they'd coerced into carrying narcotics for them.

But how many was that?

And how had Charlie not realised he was part of something bigger?

A drugs ring.

How had that never occurred to him, even once?

Soon, he and Westy were joined by several other Movers, allowing for some real boozing to commence. Just keep smiling, talking. Don't contemplate the scandal, what his colleagues were going to think of him, or, most terrifying of all, what prison was going to be like. He got up, was supposed to be getting the round in, but found himself in the toilets instead, gripping the sink, watching the water run.

Got to do something.

Now.

On his way out he had to push past some of the guys, who, understandably, wanted to know where he was going in such a hurry. Charlie waved his iPhone, said something garbled about having to make a call. He stumbled into the road, walking, then running the half-mile back to base. He didn't have Baker's number, only Geddis', and he had no desire to talk to him, not if he could help it. What he did know was that most of the MPs lived on the service families' estate in the neighbouring village, and when they weren't on shift they could usually be found socialising in a bar/nightclub called Bogart's.

Arriving back at Brize, Charlie walked over to the Security Squadron, a boxy, granite building on the far side of the airfield. At the front desk a young, bored-looking corporal told Charlie that he hadn't seen Baker, but that Geddis had the night off and was probably somewhere throwing back a beer or twelve.

'Try the village. Or the bowling alley.' The corporal shrugged. 'Hear he likes his bowling.'

Charlie tried the alley, the fitness centre.

When there was still no trace, he drove into Carterton.

Bogart's was at the far end of the small strip, next door to a Jamie's Italian. Charlie parked outside, pushed the smoked glass doors, passing the fake palm tree out front. He paused next to the dirty white piano, ceiling fans turning overhead. Had it been a Saturday night, every barstool and booth, even the tiny dance floor, would be filled, taken up by that very particular type of soldier: one who policed his own kind. But tonight there was only a smattering of guys, one or two propping up the bar, plus a few more at the back wall, under a mirror designed to make the cavernous space seem twice its actual size. Charlie saw straight away that one of the men there was Geddis. Pretending not to have seen Charlie come in, he laughed, made a few exaggerated gestures.

Charlie took up a barstool, ordered a pint, and was two-thirds of the way through it when Geddis appeared at his shoulder.

'Same again,' he said to the barman, then, without turning to Charlie, 'Are you fucking thick, or what?'

'I have to talk to you.'

'You need to keep your mouth shut, is what you need to do. Now fuck off.'

'I'm serious.'

'You need to go home.'

'Where's Baker?' Charlie said.

'Baker's got enough problems without you wading in. Now go home before I get upset.'

'Just tell him to call me, alright?'

'This has got fuck all to do with you.'

'You know that for sure, do you?'

'Fuck yourself. You think you got problems? Because I'll tell you what, you come around here again you'll be shitting in a bag the next six months, understand?'

Geddis paid for his drink and was gone.

Charlie waited a few minutes, unsure what to do next. He downed his pint, thought about ordering another, before driving back to his room.

From there he phoned Jack, told him everything, one stumbling exhalation.

'Alright, look,' Jack said. 'No one knows anything yet, right?'

'Not yet, no.'

'And you've never met this guy? The one they caught?'

'Never even heard of him.'

'And what about these other dudes? These coppers? Think they'll mention you? Why would they, right?'

'Dunno. Get a reduced sentence?'

'Shit, yeah. They might give up everyone.'

'That's me fucked, then,' Charlie said.

'They might not, though.'

'Shit. This is bad. This is really bad. What the fuck was I thinking? Thought it was a one-off, you know? No biggie, right?'

'Dude, don't freak out. For one thing, they got no evidence. You sold the evidence, remember?'

'I did, yeah. That's a good point.'

'Right. So what can they prove? Nothing. So just hang in there. They got nothing on you, dude.'

Charlie disconnected the call.

Felt better.

Almost.

A proper assessment, that's what was needed. He had to speak to Baker, regardless of what Geddis said. First thing after work tomorrow.

Find Baker, get this sorted.

Charlie reached for the miniature beer fridge Claire had bought him for his twenty-fourth birthday. He knew exactly what was in there: three cans of Stella and a Diet Coke. He cracked a Stella. Maybe three wasn't going to be enough, not tonight.

Hours later, when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of the Taliban goat-warrior. They were in a cave, a different one this time, looking out over a sun-baked valley. The goat-man circled and crouched next to Charlie, who held an AK-47 in his hands. And from inside his rags the goat-man spoke, but when Charlie awoke just before dawn he remembered only one thing:

Your enemy knows the terrain better than you do.

And that the goat-man had laughed as he said this, his teeth gone, his tongue a shrivelled, poisoned dart.

# 7

After work the next day, Charlie drove into Carterton, to the service families' estate. He parked at the edge, walked the rest of the way, trying to guess which of the small, red-brick houses might be Baker's. Beyond the rows of identical double glazing, cows grazed and pylons marched single file into the distance. In the other direction, the village, where the MPs drank themselves stupid every chance they got. True, the Movers did the same most nights, but somehow Charlie expected Baker to be above all that.

More intelligent or dynamic.

Not living in a tiny two-up two-down in the middle of nowhere.

Charlie approached a guy washing a Vauxhall Nova.

'Baker?' said the guy, when Charlie asked. 'Down there on the left. Number 57.'

Charlie walked along, blackbirds cawing from the rooftops. In front of number 57 was a brand new Toyota 4x4. He walked up to Baker's front window, couldn't see anything through the net curtain, but could hear the flatscreen blaring. He tapped on the glass, lightly at first, then when no one answered, put some force behind it.

'What the fuck do you want?'

Charlie peered up to see Baker leaning from an upstairs window, unshaven, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

'I need to talk to you,' Charlie said.

'Don't wanna be seen talking to me, Charlie-boy. Best keep your distance.'

'Come on. Let me in, alright?'

'Do yourself a favour. Go home.'

'What, after I came all the way out here to check on my old buddy? My old compadre? Not my style.'

Baker closed the window, then seemed to get lost, opening the front door over a minute later, drunk. So drunk, in fact, that when he reached for the cigarette in his mouth he missed.

'You still here?'

Charlie pushed past him. 'We need to talk.'

They went through to the front room, empty lager cans running like an art installation over every surface and sill, the ambience thick with male angst, improvised ashtrays. Baker handed Charlie a warm can of Kronenbourg, before shuffling over to the armchair, muting the flatscreen.

'Fucking Charlie Wetherspoon. You don't wanna be seen around here. You wanna do yourself a favour. Go home.'

Charlie perched on the edge of the two-seater sofa. 'What can I say? Just a social call.'

'I'm serious, lad,' Baker went on. 'Because there's nothing here, see? No wife, no kid. Just me, waiting for what's coming. Because there's a real shitstorm brewing, I'll tell you that for fuck all.'

'I heard. Some other guy, coming in. What happened?'

Baker waved an arm, taking aim at some invisible swarm. 'We got shafted. That's what happened. That fucking kid. Freaked out. Basically gave himself up. I mean, we could've helped him. Could've done something for him. Apparently, he wasn't interested.' Baker cracked his can, took a long pull. 'So we're finished. And the icing on the cake? My wife left me. Did I tell you that? She fucked off to her mum's, who she fucking hates by the way. Took the kid, the fucking works. But that's what you get, Charlie-boy, for coming clean. Never come clean, mate, you want my advice.'

Charlie took a drink, had trouble swallowing. 'So, how many, you know...'

'How many what?'

'How many people you have working for you?'

'Never you mind. Less you know the better.'

'Just can't believe you never told me, that's all.'

'What's the matter?' Baker said. 'Not feeling special any more?'

'Whatever,' Charlie muttered. 'I'm just saying, this is bad, right? I mean, what happens now?'

'Well, that remains to be seen, don't it? Look, just sit tight, and for fuck's sake keep your mouth shut. And listen, I'll do what I can. Seriously. I'll do what I can to keep you out of it.'

'Thanks a million.'

'Yeah, well, what can I tell you? It's been a rough few days all round.'

The kid they'd caught was called James Ashby, a private with the Royal Highland Fusiliers. Back from a second tour of Afghanistan, he was now something of a celebrity, making the national news, who'd somehow sourced a photograph of him. Charlie had seen it on the BBC website, Ashby looking more like a murder victim than a hardened criminal. The article itself had been brief, saying only that Ashby had been charged, was awaiting trial, and that security at Brize had been stepped up accordingly. No mention of any accomplices or ringleaders. That would come later, when his lawyers mounted their defence and the authorities realised this wasn't some isolated incident.

Perhaps they'd grant Ashby immunity if he gave up everyone else.

As for Charlie, his biggest problem was Geddis, and possibly Baker, regardless of what he said about trying to leave Charlie out of it. Geddis would probably name names out of spite but, whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen soon, and when it did Charlie would have to find some way to limit his culpability.

Like turning himself in.

He'd go to his sergeant, tell him everything.

Aim squarely for preferential treatment.

Or, he could keep his mouth shut.

Tempting that, the path of least resistance.

If he was lucky, he might not be implicated at all.

Doing and saying nothing, however, proved a heavy burden. Barely able to sleep, his work suffered, something the other lads noticed, making supportive jokes at his expense. But if they could see something was wrong, his sergeant would too, and if confronted Charlie might break down and confess, ruin any chance he had of escaping unpunished.

Better to keep quiet, drink enough each evening he eventually passed out.

Work, booze, hope.

Only soon, he was not only tired but also perpetually hung-over, a routine so punishing he took to drinking beer his on lunch break, a couple of sly cans in the toilet, or back in his room, counting the minutes until they'd notice he was gone. Then, back on duty he'd be semi-drunk enough to make it through to the late afternoon, by which time he was visibly useless.

Still, it was a system of sorts.

After work, he'd phone Jack, but no matter how accurately they tried to predict an outcome, they were invariably left with an abundance of worrying and, for now, open-ended questions. The most Charlie could hope for was to remain obscure, out of focus. He was, after all, a supporting player, a patsy of sorts, coerced into breaking the law by Baker, his supposed friend and mentor.

'Cheer up,' said Westy, in the Junior Ranks' Mess, Thursday afternoon. 'Might never happen.'

Charlie had been staring down at his lasagne, which looked unreal, as manufactured as rubber or moulded plastic. He nodded, smiled at Westy, who was with two other members of the team, Barry Conlin and Matty Hobbs.

'So I was thinking,' Westy said, sitting down, attacking his burger. 'We need a proper night out. We'll hit a club, Oxford or Swindon. Really tie one on. What'd you reckon?'

'Swindon?' Charlie said. 'Not sure I'm ready for that much glitz and glamour, mate. Sorry.'

'Come on. Do you good.'

'Think I'll have a quiet one. Thanks all the same.'

'Suit yourself,' Westy said. 'Thought you might need cheering up, that's all.'

From there, Westy, Barry and Hobbsy talked amongst themselves, the usual chit-chat about work, women, Westy's outstanding success in that department. Not a word, Charlie couldn't help but notice, about James Ashby. Just a few days ago the base had been awash with the news, but since then it was as if a collective decision had been made not to discuss the matter any further. Ashby had done wrong, now he had to pay. Beyond that no one wanted to know because, ultimately, no one cared. It wasn't happening to them. They weren't the one locked a tiny, steel box waiting to be judged for a single moment's stupidity.

'Hey, you guys heard?'

A Catering and Hospitality Specialist named Craig had stopped by their table, lunch-tray in hand.

'Heard what?' Westy said, washing his beef down with Sprite.

'Some copper. Only went and killed himself last night. Out on the estate.'

'Fuck off. Really?'

The Catering and Hospitality Specialist retracted his chin, raised his brows. 'Serious. Blew his head off while his wife and kid were away on holiday or something. They found him this morning.'

He left the Movers to digest the news along with their cheap cafeteria food.

'Fucking coward's way out,' someone said.

As for Charlie, he failed to register much during the next few minutes, although he spoke at least once during that time frame, reciting some platitude or second-hand opinion with what he thought passed for real conviction. Waiting for a natural gap, so he could leave, and do so without revealing the full extent of his confusion. Then, when no such interlude presented itself, he stood, leaving his food, passing under the tall, insect-speckled windows, the exit much further away than he remembered.

'Oi! Employee of the month!' Westy called after him, his chin streaked with burger grease. 'Where you going? Still got twenty minutes left, you big weirdo.'

He risked disciplinary action, leaving the base midway through a work day. Neither did he have an excuse prepared. He just had to see for himself. Because, obviously, it was a coincidence. A chance to demonstrate that, no matter what someone like Jack said about everything in the universe being connected, sometimes life was just a series of unrelated episodes.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled onto the estate in Carterton, drove past the first set of houses, then slowly across the mouth of Baker's small, tarmac road.

The big reveal: absolutely nothing to see except the police car parked out front, like some wild beast waiting to pounce. Charlie accelerated, mounted the kerb opposite. So there was a police car. So what? What did that prove, except perhaps that, however unlikely they seemed, coincidences happened all the time. He put the Golf in reverse. Next to the police car, a black Mercedes van, gold lettering stencilled onto its side: Private Ambulance.

But what did that mean, really?

That last night Baker had cleaned his Glock 9mm service revolver, smoked a final cigarette, before putting the barrel of his weapon to his forehead (or was the roof of the mouth quicker, more effective?). Then, picturing the face of his only son (probably, although who could say for sure?), had pulled the trigger.

What could be easier?

Charlie sat watching the house, the police car and the private ambulance, the inevitability of it all mushrooming in his mind until any trace of denial had been obliterated.

Baker was dead.

He had abandoned Charlie, leaving him to face down whatever was coming next.

There's a real shitstorm brewing. I'll tell you that for fuck all.

Over the next few minutes, at the edges of Charlie's psyche, disbelief of a different kind began to advance, sweeping across the topography like a WMD. Charlie had seen Baker only three or four nights ago, and while drunk he hadn't seemed at all suicidal. In a way, he'd been an inspiration, a shining example of how a real man takes really, really bad news. You consume vast quantities of alcohol, before becoming resigned to your fate, no matter how horrible. It was also worth remembering that Baker had been in not one, but two wars (he'd served in Sierra Leone in '07), and as a military policeman, part of his remit was to handle a broad range of dysfunctional, potentially lethal young men.

So why would the prospect of prison drive him to kill himself?

It didn't make any sense.

Charlie started the car, heading back to base.

Found he could barely concentrate on the road.

Had Baker been murdered?

Was that it?

By Fabien and Donny?

Maybe, but the more Charlie thought about it, the more of a stretch it seemed, a couple of drug dealers from East Dulwich coming down to Oxfordshire to fake a suicide.

But if not them, then who?

And more to the point, was Charlie next?

He arrived back at Brize, hurried out onto the airfield, wondering why, with so much going on, he felt obliged to return to work even long enough to make his excuses.

'What time d'you call this?' his sergeant shouted, as he approached the Base Hangar.

'Sorry, sarge,' Charlie said, (fake?) tears traversing down one cheek. 'Just had some bad news. Death in the family. Got to get home, see my mum. Got to go now, really.'

His sergeant looked him squarely in the eye.

'Alright, Wetherspoon,' he sighed. 'Let's get you sorted, then.'

# 8

Charlie arrived at Jack's with a bottle of Johnnie Red, about twenty-nine thousand pounds in cash beneath a spare pair of jeans in his sports bag. Having spun a yarn about the death of Jack's father (which, as far as Charlie was concerned, might as well have been true), he was on official, compassionate leave.

One week, possibly longer.

'Aubrey's out,' Jack said, as they went through to the front room. 'Got a new missus. A vegetarian chef or something.'

Hard to believe that Aubrey had pulled, meanwhile Charlie lived the life of a Trappist monk.

'Great girl,' Jack went on. 'Bit pale, though.'

'Never mind about that,' Charlie said. 'Because you're not gonna fucking believe this.'

He poured them a drink each, sat in the armchair with his elbows on his knees, attempting to interpret what little information he had at his disposal. Baker's supposed suicide. Actually saying it out loud felt empowering, reinforced the belief that Baker hadn't killed himself at all, that with a career, a wife and kid, he simply wasn't the type.

'That's exactly the type,' Jack said. 'He probably had a mortgage or something.'

'No way he did it. No way.'

'What about these dudes you sold to?' Jack said.

'Dunno. A drug dealer, suppose he might shoot you, stab you, but he's not gonna make it look like you topped yourself, is he. They're not that creative.'

'Dude, did it ever cross your mind that this could be, like, the government?'

'Mate, this is serious, alright?'

'Don't be so naive. It's a fucking stone-cold classic. You think the military are gonna want it getting around, that, like, a bunch of soldiers are smuggling Class A drugs? Fuck no. So what do they do? I'll tell you what they do: they cover it up, blame it on one, lone nutjob. That guy they caught. Man, they've done it a million times.'

'Sounds pretty far-fetched to me.'

'Come on. What about Oswald, or what's-his-name? David Kelly. Biological weapons expert? The Iraq war? Because they killed that fucking guy, for sure.'

'Suppose it does reflect badly. On the military, sort of thing.'

'Take it from me,' Jack said. 'Those fuckers would do anything to stop something like this from going public. I mean, think about it. The press would have a field day.'

Charlie spent some money that night, getting the beers in, ordering one of everything at the local takeaway. He'd always wanted to live off old Chinese food, like someone too busy being successful to cook for themselves. They watched television until late, Jack sleeping in Aubrey's room because Aubrey was staying over at his new girlfriend's place. Still hard to credit, Aubrey's sudden success with the ladies. That they might prefer a lazy hippy to an RAF man had never really occurred to Charlie before.

Jack had said, 'There's no need to be competitive, right, because each of us has a 'type'. And when you get right down to it, it's more psychological than anything.'

So maybe that was it.

Maybe Charlie's psychology was at fault.

Defective somehow.

Which seemed a shame.

He'd be all things to all women if only they'd let him.

He awoke the next morning to voices raised. One voice in particular, and as if sensing he was now fully conscious she appeared in the doorway to the front room asking seemingly rhetorical questions like, 'How could anyone be so stupid?'

'Shira, calm down,' Jack said, behind her.

'Is he joking? Says you've been selling drugs, like, properly selling them. That you had heroin here, in the flat?'

'It sounds worse than it is,' said Charlie, sitting up, searching for his jeans while she leant on a hip, fishing for a response, one he had no intention of giving her.

He pulled his trainers on, picked up his bag and began looking around for his hoody.

'What are you doing?' she said.

'Just forget it, alright? Because I know how this is gonna go.' He looked at Jack, his face a frozen mask of diplomacy. 'She's gonna tell me to hand myself in, that'll be first. That's all I'll hear for days, until I do it. Because she will, she'll talk me into it sooner or later. And by the way, she's never gonna believe there's a cover-up going on. I mean, you can just forget about that. And then, right, then she's gonna think I'm a bad influence, which round here is fucking hilarious. So, if you think I'm gonna hang around, listening to that? No way, I'm fucking out of here.'

Shira shrugged. 'Fine. Leave, then.'

'I am leaving. What did I just say? Always got to have the last word. Well, not today, baby.'

'Hang on,' Jack said, palms raised. 'Let's not do anything hasty.'

'It's a bit late for that,' said Shira.

Charlie tried to meet her eye, had to look away, having seen what he'd been dreading most: her implacable shock, the wound created by his total, premeditated dishonesty. But more than that, behind that, an inadmissible thrill at the knowledge that some previously closeted transgression had been uncovered, dragged into the light to be poked and prodded, pored over.

'How could you be so stupid?' she repeated, quietly this time.

'Yeah, yeah,' he told her.

He walked from the flat, a bigger gesture than he'd intended, but he meant what he'd said: he couldn't handle Shira's disapproval.

'Dude, it's fine,' Jack said, following him out, his stripy dressing gown flapping like a cape. 'I'll talk to her, alright?'

'I don't think so. I'm a bad influence, remember?'

'Fucking hell, when did that happen?'

A gust of cold wind swept along the walkway, cigarette butts turning at their feet. 'Listen, sorry, alright?' Jack said, hopping up and down, pulling his gown tight. 'I shouldn't have said anything, but you know what she's like. She's like a lawyer or something.'

'It's alright. She's got a point, anyway. I shouldn't have brought this here in the first place. This is my problem, not yours.'

'Dude, where are you gonna go? Fuck's sake, man, I'll talk to her. Make her see sense.'

'Don't worry, seriously. Gonna lie low awhile. Got a shitload of cash so, you know, that's the main thing.'

'That is a shitload of cash.'

'There you go, see? Nothing to worry about.'

'Alright, but text me, alright? Let me know what's going on.'

Charlie nodded, couldn't find the words, and so took the lift down to the forecourt. Once there, he sat on the bench, waiting for either Shira or Jack to reappear, tell him that all was forgiven and he should come back inside. When that didn't happen, he climbed into the Golf, started the engine, and wiping one, possibly two stray tears away, pulled off the estate into West London.

The hangover arrived soon after, coming in waves. But hangovers were to be expected, even preferable sometimes to a day of boring reality. What mattered was the betrayal, the way Jack had violated an unspoken code, revealing privileged information to a parent or senior. Because, like it or not, Shira fell into that category.

All the people he loved.

Treating him unfairly.

In ways he would never.

And so the same thoughts went round and around, collapsing in on one another right before they cued themselves up and were off again. He tried playing music, but his CD collection suddenly seemed designed to either compound or satirise his situation. He opened all the windows, but the outside world threatened to climb in and manhandle him. London. What was so great, so glamorous about London? All the people seemed deranged, a city teeming with hostility and pollution. He saw a sign: Kilburn High Road. So he really was lost. He looked for other signs, hoping to find his way to, where? He didn't have a single destination in mind. He stopped late at a crossing, was jeered at by some schoolkids.

Rage.

It was instantaneous.

Behind him somebody leant on their horn, but instead of driving on he sat there, waiting as that one critique became a chorus and several pedestrians turned to see if there was an incident occurring.

'Fuck you,' he muttered, knuckles bloodless against the steering wheel.

Then when he did accelerate, he was only conscious of one thing: got to be somewhere else. He took several corners, had the sense he was driving into a labyrinth, a sequence of interconnected streets that went nowhere. He passed a woman pushing a kid in a buggy, saw her blanch at the roar of his engine.

He pulled over.

Got to calm down.

Opposite was a corner shop. He went in, bought a bottle of Bell's for eighteen pounds, took it back in the car, decanted some into the last of a Diet Coke.

Starting to decompress, see what a spectacle he'd become.

He threw the bottle onto the passenger seat.

'Excuse me,' he said, dropping his window to address a young woman, who, in trainers and leggings, may or may not have been out jogging. 'Any idea how I get to Soho?'

He'd only thought of Soho because it was famous and he remembered going there once as a teenager. He had to stop and ask directions again, but the pedestrians who didn't keep walking, although friendly enough, were difficult to understand. He pulled over for a burger and chips, the booze making him woozy. Soon he'd be too drunk to drive even. Maybe get some sleep in the back seat. Unless, wasn't there some law against that? And anyway, why sleep in your car when you've got nearly thirty grand in cash about your person?

Why not splurge?

So what if he'd probably never see that kind of money again?

He drove around West London for another hour, sizing up each borough as he went. He knew it was wrong, to like a neighbourhood because of its obvious wealth, but South Kensington was nice.

He decided to become a resident, just for a while.

He could afford it, so why not?

The Park International Hotel seemed a good bet. With its glass front and many flags it certainly looked the part. He turned into a side street, overpaid for parking and walked around to the entrance. At the top of carpeted stairs was an old-style doorman. Tailored from head to toe in classic burgundy, he was just as Charlie imagined he would be. Charlie wiped the sweat from his neck, acutely aware of his own ensemble: an old pair of Diesel jeans, his navy blue hoody and green Puma trainers. What was important to remember, to keep at the forefront of his mind, was all the money he had. He put a casual spring in his step, nodding at the guy, who pinched the brim of his hat, ushered him inside.

The lobby was a cool, marble expanse. Charlie walked up to the desk, told the man there he'd like a single room. The man didn't question Charlie's appearance, only wanted to know if he had a booking. He didn't, so the man checked his computer, told him he had a room available for one thousand, one hundred pounds a week.

'I'll take it,' Charlie said, because it was too late to turn back now.

'And how will you be paying for that, sir?'

'Cash.'

'Very good. However, a cash payment will require a cash deposit.'

'No problem,' Charlie said, thinking perhaps he should turn back, after all.

'Very good. That'll be five hundred pounds.'

'Great!'

'And I'll need sir's passport.'

'Right. Sorry, no passport. Driver's licence alright?'

Charlie handed him his licence, pulled a five-thousand-pound bundle from his bag. He was, he realised, being memorable, no matter that the hotel man didn't appear to be paying him any attention.

Deposit paid, he took the lift up to the fourteenth floor, walking the long corridor to his room. He let himself in, impressed with the key-card, the little light going from red to green. Now this was more like it. Flatscreen mounted on the wall, double bed, minibar. En-suite bathroom and panoramic view. By far the nicest place he'd ever been in.

He sat on the bed.

Watched TV for a while.

Maybe a movie later.

Next, he took a bath, slipped on a robe.

Ordered a BLT from room service.

'Put it on the bill,' he told them.

Then he got stuck into the minibar.

Around eight, he ordered up some porn.

When he'd finished, he did something he didn't usually do.

He kept watching.

Pretty disgusting, when you thought about it. No love, just people humping like animals, their faces contorting in a kaleidoscope of bright, thrusting cocks, big fake knockers and cavernous holes.

He tried to look away, but it was mesmerising.

Who were these people?

What were their lives like?

He passed out, woke up around midnight.

Had another drink to stave off the hangover.

No calls, no messages.

Where was everyone?

By two, it was obvious he wasn't going to sleep. He had to talk to someone. He thought about phoning Claire. They'd been engaged for six months before he broke it off, but she wouldn't approve of what he'd done. She'd pass judgement, just like Shira had, as though he were some problem to be dealt with.

An inconvenience.

That's all he was to them now.

So he called Geddis.

Because who else was there?

'Richard?' said a female voice. 'Is that you?'

'Sorry,' Charlie replied. 'Thought this was his phone.'

'Who is this?'

'I'm a friend. Looking for Geddis. Richard. He about?'

'He hasn't been here. Hasn't been here in days. He left his car, his clothes. He hasn't called, and it's not like him. It's not like him at all.'

'Right. Sorry, I didn't realise.'

'Look, if you do see him, or if you speak to him, will you do me a favour and tell him we're all really worried. That his mum and Frank are here and they're really worried too. And to call me. To call Tracey. Will you do that for me?'

'Yeah,' Charlie muttered. 'Course.'

'Thanks. I really appreciate that. Sorry, what's your name?'

'Bobby. My name's Bobby.'

'Thanks, Bobby. I'm sorry to be like this. I'm just really worried. Because he always calls, see? Wherever he is, whatever he's doing. And it's not like him. It's not like him at all.'

After he'd disconnected the call, Charlie sat, the flatscreen on mute.

Geddis gone.

But what did that mean?

That he was on the run, avoiding prosecution?

Or was it something else?

Something worse?

Did you ever think this could be a cover-up? The fucking government, dude.

Charlie opened his laptop, Googled David Kelly. Biological weapons expert. WMD dossier. Unauthorised discussion with a BBC journalist.

Found dead under very suspicious circumstances.

The verdict?

Suicide.

# 9

He wasn't able to get his thoughts in order until the following afternoon. He also discovered that, as a guest of the hotel, there was really no need to leave the premises. At his disposal was a restaurant, bar, pool. The flatscreen in his room. He had a well-done steak for lunch, and after a swim reclined under the glass roof, watching the water, while a waitress went to fetch him a Long Island Iced Tea. If only he could stay indefinitely, far from whatever was happening out in the world. Because something was happening alright. Geddis had vanished, either on purpose or at the behest of someone else. Baker was dead and James Ashby was awaiting trial, about to unleash a maelstrom of highly sensitive information. Again, Charlie wondered how many other servicemen and women were involved.

The authorities were probably investigating at this very moment.

Who knew what would come to light?

What they would try to cover up.

Ultimately, what he had to accept was that he wasn't going to escape unpunished. Before, he'd almost convinced himself he might get lucky. No longer. The conspiracy was too big, too far-reaching, and the truth was this was going to end badly for him. It was the only plausible outcome. He wasn't the hero in some Hollywood film, about to go on the run and clear his name.

He didn't have a name to clear.

He was guilty as charged.

The luxury of his current surroundings, however, made his predicament seem nebulous and unreal. What real money could buy. A decent lawyer, for instance, when he ended up in court. Or a bribe, should someone try to silence him permanently.

Geddis gone.

Baker dead.

Was it really possible they'd been murdered?

And if so, had anyone else even realised?

He sipped his cocktail, listening to a young Japanese couple play with their toddler in the shallow end. Only the sound of them cooing, splashing gently, the gurgling laughter of their offspring.

When he awoke, Charlie was alone.

And he had it.

What he had was a great story. So big the government were trying to stop it from ever going public. But Charlie had the inside scoop. He was a first-person account waiting to happen. He knew the players, had been involved at a grass-roots level.

What he had to do now was tell that story.

He had to make himself heard before it was too late.

He went upstairs to find they'd cleaned his room. A good start. Any mess might distract him from the job in hand. He pulled his laptop from his bag, decided to sit on the bed, propped up by as many pillows as possible. That way he'd be comfortable for the next few hours, by which time he ought to have written the first few chapters of his memoir. Maybe more. He opened a new, blank document. Just let it happen. The truth. He stared at the screen, flexed his fingers. Begin at the beginning. Don't over-think it. A good first line, though. That was important. Really draw the reader in.

Minutes passed.

He got up, got a drink from the minibar, which had been restocked in his absence.

Adjusted the blind, so as to get the light just right.

Sat down again, clicked on Amazon for inspiration: Frontline Hero: My War in Afghanistan. Afghan Heat: Our Boys Against The Taliban. Why We Lost: A General's Assessment of the War in Afghanistan.

Began to type.

The first few paragraphs came quickly, easily, even if he wasn't altogether sure why he was talking about his mother, about growing up in Maidstone (he never told anyone he originated from Kent, but he could always change it back to North London again later). Talked about how she used to throw parties for friends and neighbours and how, on those nights in particular, he was allowed to stay up late. How she would dance, singing along to her favourite songs until the whole room would join in and he would cover his ears, appalled by such unfettered, adult emotion.

Background story.

Setting the scene.

Turned out this writing thing was easy.

All you needed was a tale worth telling.

She'd left him on his own a lot, his mum, because his dad wasn't around and she worked long hours as a psychiatric nurse. But he hadn't minded. He would eat cereal straight from the box, watch DVDs. And when she returned she would be her usual, outgoing self. She'd play loud music, soak in the tub for hours.

Which did sort of raise the question: why hadn't he seen or spoken to her in years?

Or why, even before he'd moved out, she hadn't made him go to school, do his homework or stay away from those local kids everyone knew were from bad families? He'd thought it was great at the time. His mates did, too. They would come round, using his bedroom as a place to hide from the police or their teachers, as somewhere to stash their weed or finger their girlfriend.

Because they knew: no one was going to bother you at Charlie's place.

He reached the end of this third paragraph. It seemed as if it would require a superhuman effort to start a fourth.

He checked the word count.

548?

How was that possible!?

He'd been working for hours.

He went over what he'd written. Pretty good for a first attempt, even if, in retrospect, it was hard to pinpoint exactly what his childhood had to do with a government cover-up. He closed the computer. Seemed he'd have to get his story out there some other way. Writing it would take forever. Easier to contact the papers (like they did in films), give them a front-page exclusive to run. All he had to do was withhold his name. After that, his version of events, if well presented, could swing public opinion in his favour.

He walked to the window, looked out over South Kensington.

More than ever, he was sure he was going to be put away, but you often heard about convicts writing an autobiography from prison. They must have been in for years to get a whole book done, whereas Charlie hoped he'd be facing a few months at most. What he needed was for a professional to start right away.

And for once, he knew exactly who to turn to for help.

The writer he had in mind was the only real writer he'd ever been anywhere near. His name was Radford. In Afghanistan at the same time as Charlie, Radford was embedded with the Rifles Regiment, about whom he was writing an article for Vice magazine. And it certainly lent an extra thrill to proceedings, when a journalist would go out on patrol with the men, ready to document everything and anything that might take place. Word was Radford had handled himself well during the three or four firefights he'd been close to. He'd stayed calm and, crucially, hadn't got in the way. The men had respected that. What they liked most of all, however, was the idea that someone was interested in what was happening out there.

The personal cost.

Westy had pointed Radford out to Charlie one day when they were helping to load explosives onto a Bombardier Challenger bound for the Kunar Province. Radford was throwing a football around with some US Marines, kicking up dust on a patch of ground near the landing strip. Charlie hadn't said more than two words to an American during his entire stay at Bastion (the Yanks were known for a shoot-first, talk-later policy, unpopular among most of their foreign counterparts). The Marines always seemed especially psychotic, yet here was this Englishman, laughing and joking with them, and whom they apparently knew by name.

'Yo, Radford! Go long, you fucking limey.'

'Hey, Radford? Want something to write about? Write about me, man. I got stories that'll make your balls shrink, dude.'

They'd seen Radford again, a few weeks later, chatting with some of the nurses from the Air Hospital.

'Real man of the people,' Westy said, as they passed on their way back to their tent. 'Look at them. Loving it. Can't trust a journalist, though, can you? Print whatever they want. Make it up if they have to.'

Charlie knew that really Westy was jealous, because Radford wasn't talking to them, and because the BBC had chosen Charlie, not Westy, to be interviewed for Inside Brize Norton. It was just a shame Radford wasn't aware of Charlie's on-the-job media training.

That was the last he saw of Radford, but it stuck in Charlie's mind, the way he was able to transcend rank and nationality. At first, Charlie thought it was because, secretly, everyone wanted to be famous. Only now did he realise that, in fact, most people just wanted to be understood.

To believe their lives were worth something.

But few had a story as newsworthy as Charlie's. It was simply a question of contacting Radford so he could hear it too. Charlie began by going online and googling how to find a British journalist. This led him to a site called the Journalist Directory. To Charlie's surprise, Radford was on there. Charlie had only to leave a message, posing as someone who wanted to commission a piece from him. Something convincing, something Radford couldn't afford to turn down.

To begin, Charlie set up a new email account, calling himself William Holden (a name that, for some reason, sounded important). He then sent Radford a message on the Journalist Directory claiming to be a producer at the BBC.

We are planning a complete history of all the wars fought in Afghanistan, Charlie told him, trying to sound sufficiently confident or pompous. We will pay you well above the going rate for your work. We have heard that you are the best.

He sat back and waited. When nothing happened he went and had a sauna and a massage. Back in his room, still no word from Radford, so he had a few drinks, ordered a tuna-mayo sandwich from room service. Still nothing, so he watched a movie.

The last X-Men.

It really delivered.

Then, somewhere around ten, Radford replied.

Hi William. Sounds interesting. Can you forward more details?

Hi there, Charlie wrote. Sorry to be weird but I am not really a producer from the BBC. I am in the RAF and I have information about a drug-smuggling operation. I think it would make a great story. Again, sorry to be weird.

Radford's response came through a moment later.

That is by far the weirdest thing I've heard all week. However, story already all over the news. Think you've missed the boat on that one, my friend.

There is more to it than you think, Charlie told him. It is much bigger than people have realised. Also, the government are trying to cover it up.

Do you have proof? Radford said.

Yes, Charlie said.

Can we meet?

Yes.

Where and when?

At The Park International Hotel. Twelve tomorrow. In the bar.

This isn't a joke is it? Jean-Baptiste, is that you? Getting your own back for Somalia?

This is not Jean-Baptiste. This is real. Twelve tomorrow. Come alone.

Ok. How will I know you?

Don't worry. I will know you.

# 10

Anticipation drove Charlie to the bar early, where he ordered himself a beer and picked a table as far from the entrance and the attendant bar staff as possible. He was the only patron in the entire place. In one corner, Sky News with the volume down. It seemed appropriate, to have world events unfolding nearby, but not in any way that would detract from what Charlie had to say.

He felt calm, ready.

Just let the facts do the talking.

Unless, of course, he was about to incriminate himself in the most stupid way possible.

He drained his pint, sat watching the clock on the flatscreen inching its way towards midday.

Just stick to the plan.

Withhold his identity.

Tell his side of things.

At 12.03 Radford stepped gingerly through the double doors. Had he not been the only other customer Charlie might not have recognised him. Gone were the combat fatigues and Oakley sunglasses, replaced by a suit and tie, a pair of polished brogues.

He surveyed the lounge, saw Charlie and approached.

'Hi. Are you waiting for me?'

'Yeah. How's it going?'

'Good, good. Adam Radford.'

'Yeah, I know. Off somewhere nice?' Charlie said, nodding at Radford's charcoal blazer.

'Long story,' Radford said, sweeping a lock of thin blonde hair from his eyes. 'Or, well, not so long I suppose. I'm getting divorced. Well, actually I am divorced. Signed the papers this morning, if you can believe that.' He made an uncertain fist. 'Free at last, eh?'

Charlie had been expecting a rugged combat veteran. Instead, Radford was coming across like an emotionally vulnerable posh bloke.

Putting Charlie completely at ease.

'Best get the drinks in, then. If we're celebrating.'

'Right, yes,' Radford said. 'What are you having?'

'Lager,' Charlie shrugged.

He watched Radford cross the carpet towards the barman, return with two foaming pint glasses.

'Good idea,' Radford said, sitting opposite. 'After the day I've had.'

He downed a third, and Charlie was reminded that while Radford had been in Afghanistan rumours of his drinking had circulated. Something about a hidden cache, a few rogue Australians.

'So,' Radford said, dropping his chin. 'What do I call you?'

'Nothing,' Charlie said. 'I'm not gonna give you my name, am I?'

'No, no. And that's fine. Not a problem. I just mean for now. Something for me to call you. Anything at all. I just find it helps, is all. Unless you want to stick with "William Holden"? Which I love, by the way.'

'Call me Bobby.'

'Okay, Bobby. So, that was quite a claim you made over email last night. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're saying the man they caught smuggling heroin into Brize Norton a few weeks ago, you're saying he wasn't acting alone. That is what we're talking about, right?'

'Something like that, yeah,' Charlie said.

'Right, well, that's a pretty sizeable accusation. If it's true, I mean.'

'Oh, it's true alright. Don't worry about that. In fact, you probably wanna write this down, don't you?'

Radford smiled faintly. 'Maybe later. So, tell me. What makes you so sure there's more to this than we've already heard?'

It was the moment Charlie had been preparing for. To admit what he'd done to someone other than Jack. Even anonymously he'd known it wouldn't be easy. What he hadn't expected was to find himself short of breath, the admission lodged at the back of his throat.

'Okay, look,' Radford said, cutting the air with the edge of his palm. 'Completely my fault. Bull in the proverbial china shop, that's me. Just let me assure you that, right now, this is an informal chat, completely off the record. I'm just here to listen to what you've got to say. That's all.'

'Yeah, well, it sounds worse than it is,' Charlie muttered.

'What sounds worse than it is?'

'You know. Bringing in drugs and that. That's just the tip of the iceberg, though. There's been much worse than that going on.'

'So, you brought in drugs? That what you're saying? That's how you know that other soldier wasn't acting alone?'

'What I'm saying is, there were too many of us for anyone to be acting alone. If you know what I'm saying.'

'So there are others?'

'Yeah, course. Military police were running the whole thing. Who else was gonna have it sewn up like that? Couldn't be done otherwise.'

'I see. And have you any idea how long this was going on for?'

Charlie leant forward. 'Well, that's the question, right? That's what I've been asking myself. How long? How many? Because for all we know they were at it for years. For all we know.'

'But you couldn't say for sure?'

'Not for sure, no. Stands to reason, though.'

Radford bowed his lips. 'In theory, yes.'

'But all this, all this doesn't matter. Because this is nothing to what's been going on since. Since they caught that guy. Because Baker's dead. Geddis has gone AWOL. And what's that? Coincidence. I don't think so.'

'Sorry, who's dead?'

'Baker. Topped himself. That's what they're saying anyway.'

'Right. And who's Baker?'

'I told you, police. Set the whole thing up. Or, I dunno, suggested people carry the stuff for him. When they were over there.'

'In Afghanistan, you mean?'

'Yeah. Talked them into it. Not to blame it on a dead man, but it was totally his idea.'

Radford levelled his gaze. 'Well, that's the thing. Because, regardless, you do realise what this might mean for you, Bobby? Were I to report this story. It could lead to a police investigation. Although I can tell you right now, I would never give up a source.'

Charlie sat back, regret flowing through him like bad medicine.

'Look, I'm not stupid, alright? Not that stupid, anyway. That guy in prison, I mean, Geddis and Baker? Doesn't take a genius to work out that things aren't looking good for me. I just think people have a right to know what's been going on. Because, you got to admit, it's pretty mental. I mean, I can still hardly believe it myself.'

'It's quite something, yes. No denying that.'

A moment of silence threatened, so Charlie said, 'So, getting divorced. What happened there, then?'

Radford laughed, inspected the inside of his glass. 'Not quite sure myself yet. Tell you what, why don't I get us another round? I should like to hear more about, was it Baker...?'

'Baker and Geddis,' Charlie said.

'Yes. We'll toast my ex-wife, and you can tell me all about it. In your own words.'

'I can tell you about it in three words. Government cover-up, mate. What else?'

Radford laughed a second time, that same curious, strangulated chuckle.

'I should be so lucky,' he said, getting to his feet.

They drank into the afternoon, until Charlie had told Radford everything at least three or four times in great detail. With each passing beer, Radford's face would redden, while his stare intensified, as though silently assessing everything Charlie said. Charlie wondered if this were some covert, journalistic technique, because before long he was going around in circles, repeating himself just to fill the vacuum sitting opposite.

'So what I'm saying is,' he said, hoping to conclude, 'whatever's going on, there's definitely enough for a book, right?'

'A book?' Radford said.

'Yeah. I mean, come on. It's got it all. So I was thinking, I tell it, you write it, and, you know, we get it out there. So people know the truth.'

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves, alright? All we've got at the moment is lot of speculation.'

'What d'you mean, speculation?'

'Bobby, look,' Radford said. 'There's definitely a story here. No doubt about it. But all this stuff about a cover-up. I mean, come on. Because, I hate to say it, but it's far more likely Baker really did kill himself, and that Geddis is, you know, in the middle of a week-long bender or something. I mean, we've all been there, right? But what there is, this is great stuff. But we have to stick with the facts. Stuff we know for sure.'

Charlie did his best to repress a potent flash of irritation.

'Like what?'

'Well, for example, here you are, ready to swear blind that you carried drugs into Brize Norton, completely contradicting the official line that this guy Ashby acted alone. Now that's the kind of thing I can get printed. Kind of thing makes great copy. What we can't do is talk about a government cover-up. Not without hard evidence we can't.'

'Then we get hard evidence,' Charlie said. 'We, you know, investigate.'

Radford nodded. 'I can ask around, sure. Talk to my contacts in the military, but if I can't get at least two people, preferably more, on the record, it's not going to hold water. Because that's the thing, something like this, you'd have to be beyond certain.'

Charlie's frustration was suddenly too big, too raw to contain.

'Hang on,' he said, rearranging everything on the tabletop. 'I bring you an amazing story, a real-life conspiracy and what? You're not interested? Because I'll take it somewhere else. BBC. ITV. More than happy to, believe me.'

'Hey, hey,' Radford said, reaching across, taking hold of Charlie's forearm.

'Don't touch me. What you doing?'

'Sorry,' Radford stammered, pulling his hand away. 'Just calm down, okay?'

'I am calm. I'm just pissed off, alright? I could go to prison. And I'm too pretty for that.'

'Of course, I realise that.'

'You fucking better,' Charlie said. 'But, look, I get it, alright? You need proof or whatever, and as for the rest, I made a mistake, didn't I? Shouldn't have done what I did. But everyone makes mistakes, right? And this, this is bigger than that.'

'Right.' Radford shrugged, winced. 'It's just, you did voluntarily smuggle drugs into the country on a military flight. From the war in Afghanistan. Not the easiest one to sugar-coat, that.'

'I know what I did. Let them talk me into it, is what I did. Anyway, that's not the important bit. I mean, who cares about that if there's a real-life cover-up going on? That's what really matters. Because that's huge. I mean, come on.'

'Right, yes. I understand that. Only I'm not sure other people will, that's all. Sorry to say, but when it comes to stuff like this people can be pretty unforgiving.'

Charlie reached for his pint, wondering vaguely if it was number four or number five.

'But you can put that in the book. That I'm, you know, sorry and that. But carrying a bit of drugs, it's nothing compared to what, you know, the bankers and the politicians are getting up to, is it?'

'Like I say, I'm not sure people will see it that way,' Radford said.

'Why not?'

'I don't know. Because the world is an unfair place. Because the rules are different for people like you.'

'What d'you mean, people like me?'

'Never mind. Look, how about we get out of here? Come on, I'll buy you another. I know a great place, just around the corner.'

After Radford settled the bill, they walked into the lobby, the doorman waiting to show them out.

'Thanks,' Charlie said, shielding his eyes from a blast of drizzle-infused daylight. 'Here, what's your name, anyway?'

'Martin, sir,' the doorman said, nodding at them both.

'Nice to meet you, Martin. I'm Charlie.'

Charlie looked at Radford through gritted teeth.

'My mates call me Bobby, though.'

They walked towards Earls Court, Radford leading the charge, slaloming through human traffic while Charlie jockeyed for pole position. This Radford guy was alright, if a little unenthusiastic. He just needed convincing they had a book on their hands: bigger, more important than any article.

All Charlie had to do was prove there was a cover-up going on.

Find the right someone to talk to about it.

They turned onto the Old Brompton Road, arrived at a place called The Troubadour, heading straight through its cramped wooden interior, emerging into a small, brick enclosure out back.

'Fresh air,' Radford announced, taking up a table under a marquee of dead leaves. 'Fresh air while I drink. Don't fence me in, eh?'

'This is England,' Charlie said. 'We'll freeze our nuts off.'

'Then we shall warm our nuts with fine, single malt whisky.'

At a nearby table, some people were making a point of ignoring Radford, whose voice now verged on the bombastic.

He flagged a waitress, ordered two Peroni, Bushmills on ice.

'You a Dylan fan?'

'Not really,' Charlie said.

'He played here, you know. Sixty-eight, I think. How old are you, if you don't mind me asking? Old enough to drink, I hope. Old enough to get your legs blown off in some desert somewhere, that's for sure.'

'I'm twenty-four.'

'Christ, how is that even possible? I was forty last month. Had a birthday party with my wife and her friends, even though we're getting divorced. How sad is that? That must seem pretty sad to you, right? It was for my daughter's sake more than anything. I've got a three-year-old, Hayley. But you know, Charlie, as they brought in the cake and sang me "Happy Birthday", I just thought, what the fuck am I doing here? Why am I sitting around in London when I should be out there? I should be working, you know?'

'Right, yeah,' Charlie said.

'I mean, don't you miss it?'

'Miss what? The war?'

'Yes, the war. Come on, you had that experience. Who else can say that? No one else, that's who.'

'Yeah, well. I've got enough problems without going back there again.'

Radford swept his fringe from his eyes. 'I've got a reporter friend, a rather lovely French girl, actually. Anyway, she's just been over in Congo, doing some undercover work, exposing these Brits who are drilling for oil, endangering this National Park, these gorillas that live there. You know, that whole thing. Anyway, she invites me out there, and I would've gone, only I'm far too busy with my divorce, right? Anyway, cut a long story short, there's these film-makers over there too, these documentary guys, and they're making a film about the park, this pack of apes. Meanwhile, this friend of mine, Virginie, she's meeting with these corporate types and she's secretly recording them, getting it all down on tape. Then, you wouldn't believe it, but the military and the rebels only start going at it, and they're right there, right in the thick of it, getting it all on film. I mean, the footage is fantastic. And now the film, this documentary, they're going around the world, showing it at festivals, getting rave reviews, while I'm stuck here eating birthday cake, you know?'

'Right, yeah,' Charlie said.

'But, hey, I'm not complaining. Now I've got you, Charlie. Can I call you Charlie? I'd never give up a source, I told you that, right? But I reckon we've got a live one here. Reckon we're really on to something, this whole smuggling thing.'

'You mean the cover-up?'

'Yes, that too.'

'Okay, cool,' Charlie said, glad to have Radford back on topic.

It wasn't long, though, before Radford was talking about himself again: his divorce, his career. Charlie had always assumed that, at some point, maybe around thirty, people became adults, but all the adults he'd met lately didn't seem so different from anyone else in his life.

As in they weren't listening.

Not really.

'In the end,' Radford said, 'the most you can hope for is that you haven't messed them up on any long-term basis.'

'Sorry, who?'

'My daughter. In a way I wish I'd had a son. And not because of any, you know, outdated notion about having a duplicate of myself or anything like that, but when a woman's really, I don't know, dysfunctional, it just seems so much worse somehow. Like, for instance, how do you feel about women in the military? Because I know, in principle, it's a good idea, but often when I see them, I just can't help thinking, what the fuck are you doing here? I know it's wrong but, like I say, I just can't help it.'

'Hey, Radford,' Charlie said.

'Hmm?'

'You're gonna talk to Ashby, right? The one they arrested?'

'Yes, of course. I'm going to try anyway.' Radford leant forward. 'But the thing is, he might not want to talk to me. Or, later on, the case might be thrown out for lack of evidence. Or who knows what might happen? And if, just supposing, the case was thrown out, well, that might be good news for you. I mean, I'm potentially shooting myself in the foot here, but you see what I'm saying?'

'People have a right to know. Just keep my name out of it, alright?'

'Hmm, okay. But we still need someone else to go on the record. To confirm your story.'

'What, someone other than Ashby?'

'Exactly. You see, Charlie, in a situation like this we need to be careful. Really careful. We can't go round making accusations that, for instance, won't stand up in court.'

'Yeah, but who? Because until last week, I thought it was just me.'

'I hear you, but just have a think, okay?'

'Couldn't we ask around? Like, maybe you could go to Brize, pretend to be reporting, I dunno, something else.'

'Not sure that's really a possibility. For one thing, what would I be reporting, you know? I doubt they'd even let me in the front door. Whereas you, on the other hand...'

Charlie gripped his pint, shook his head. 'No way I'm going back there. No way. I got another week at least. Told them there was a death in the family.'

'Always a good one, that,' Radford nodded. 'Even if they don't believe you, what can they prove?'

'But you'll talk to Ashby?'

'Well, I understand he's on remand, which means I can put in a request, but it'll be up to him whether he wants to talk to me or not. If he doesn't we'll have to wait until the trial like everyone else.'

'But it's worth a try, right?'

'It's worth a try, yes.'

'Cool,' Charlie said. 'I just want people to understand. That, yeah, I made a mistake, but, weird thing is, even though I shouldn't have done what I did, it was mad over there. Just being there was, like, mad. So when they asked me, the way they put it. I dunno. It didn't seem that strange. Like I was doing them a favour. No big deal, you know? Anyway, I just wanted to get that across. For you to get that across. So people get where I'm coming from, even if they think I should be, you know, locked up, or whatever.'

'Of course. Look, this is your story, Charlie. Name or no name, you're the star of this story. Young kid, coerced by senior officers? You're the human angle.'

'Cool. Yeah, like the sound of that.'

Radford raised his empty glass. 'Although, think it's time the star of the story got the round in, don't you?'

'Leave it to me,' Charlie told him, getting up. 'Got cash to spare, I have. Got nearly thirty grand back at the hotel.'

'Hold on. Where did you get thirty thousand pounds from?'

'Made it selling what I brought back, didn't I?'

Radford gave his temples a vigorous massage. 'Christ. Well, I think it's probably best if we don't mention that. In fact, do me a favour, don't repeat that to anyone, okay?'

'Whatever you say,' Charlie shrugged. 'You're the writer.'

They left around closing time, stumbling back the way they came, Radford complaining at length about how, as a freelance reporter, he enjoyed none of the trappings that other, so-called 'real' journalists took for granted. He complained about being paid less, about never having an expense account or insurance. About being labelled reckless and foolhardy by his peers, while his editors secretly encouraged him to take risks, to bring back dispatches straight from the front line, the more blood-soaked the better.

'Bunch of gutless fucking hypocrites, the lot of them,' he muttered, as they reached The Park International Hotel.

'Well, this is me,' Charlie said, glad to be rid of Radford, at least for the time being.

'Right, right,' Radford muttered, looking around as though lost. 'Well, I'll be in touch. Speak to you soon, okay?'

Charlie watched as he drifted away, swallowed by the lights and shadows on Cromwell Road, gone to either hail a taxi or find some other nightspot where, with a bit of luck, they'd serve a man as conspicuously drunk as he was.

# 11

The next day, Charlie went down to the breakfast buffet and sat, bacon and pastries before him, contemplating everything that had been said the previous evening. To have made contact with Radford was a potential victory, albeit slightly undermined by all his talk about needing another source. Charlie was the source. Everyone else was either dead or disappeared, yet Radford had been strangely unmoved by that particular revelation. Charlie had also, under the influence, told Radford his first name. Hadn't meant to, it just sort of slipped out.

Which was disconcerting, to say the least.

He finished eating, wandered out into the lobby.

How to fill the day?

He had no idea.

He got talking to Martin the doorman, who said that an eminent scientist and atheist was staying at the hotel and, as a result, they were expecting protests from the Religious Right. Charlie found this surprising. He'd always thought the Religious Right was more of an American thing, and that English people, particularly Londoners, didn't really have time for God. Not so, according to Martin, well informed for a bloke who opened the same set of double doors day in day out. He then told several long stories about the other dignitaries who regularly stayed at The Park International Hotel, not a single one of whom Charlie had heard of.

It worried him, the gaps in his general knowledge.

History.

Geography.

Politics.

Perhaps he could learn something from Martin, but, in truth, he went on a bit, barely pausing for breath until, about twenty minutes later, Charlie made his excuses, overwhelmed by the onslaught. He went into the bar, got talking to the bartender, a young Brazilian who was delighted to be serving drinks at ten-thirty in the morning. Reversing the traditional drinker/bartender dynamic, Charlie began to ask questions about this guy's background, his situation. Information he was only too happy to divulge, talking happily about his love of all things British, the band he played bass in, his fiery Italian girlfriend.

'You've got a better life than mine,' Charlie muttered, tipping back the dregs of his beer.

Then realising it was his turn to disclose some personal information, he found he had little, almost nothing to say. Was he even in the RAF any more? He honestly didn't know. No girlfriend, a few vague plans about going to university. None of which explained why he was holidaying alone in a top, West London hotel.

'Just taking a bit of time out, you know.'

'That's cool,' the bartender said.

After a second pint, Charlie went back up to his room, passing a couple of chambermaids on the way. He tried to engage them in conversation, but their smiles had a frozen, startled quality, as though he were breaking some unwritten rule by trying to get to know them.

He watched TV for a while.

Had a carbonara for lunch.

In a few days his tenancy at the hotel would be over, and at one thousand, one hundred pounds a week (plus room service) he wasn't planning to extend his stay.

It was time to get proactive, prove there was something strange and unlawful going on, something far worse than anything Charlie had done. He made a call to Westy, who he knew would be on his lunch break. Nice to hear a friendly voice. They made small talk for a few minutes (Charlie had almost forgotten he'd told everyone about the sudden death of Jack's father), then got Westy to give him Andy 'Two-pints' Thompson's mobile number.

Two-pints.

A man who could get you things: weapons, DVDs and computer games, a fake ID. And while hardly a drug dealer, he was rumoured to have supplied steroids to those men desperate to get results down the gym. Maybe he knew something about Baker and Geddis' operation, because, like Radford had said, before they could prove there was a cover-up taking effect, they had to prove the existence of the smuggling ring.

It was early evening before Two-pints answered.

'Andy? It's Charlie. Charlie Wetherspoon.'

'Alright, Charlie? Long time no see,' Two-pints said. Then straight down to business. 'Something I can do for you?'

'There is something, yeah,' Charlie told him. 'Thing is, it's not really something I can talk about on the phone.'

'It's alright, I'm in the supply store. Have been all day. I'm all alone, mate, believe me.'

Charlie cleared his throat. 'Just wondering, really. You hear anything? About that guy coming in? Know the one I mean?'

'Heard something, yeah,' Two-pints said. 'Bit of a mess, by all accounts.'

'What about what he had on him? Heard about that, at all?'

'How d'you mean?'

'Just wondering, really. If you knew anything about that gear, that's all.'

'Right. So, hang on, what are we talking here? Talking about the hard stuff, right?'

'Something like that. Afghan White, I think they call it.'

'Fucking hell. That's the hard stuff, alright.'

'So what do you reckon?'

Two-pints went silent for a moment. 'Got a guy, as it happens. Reckon he can sort you out. Maybe. Course, we'd have to keep this quiet. Strictly between us, yeah?'

'What, you wanna sell me some?'

'Up to you, mate. Why you asking otherwise?'

'Yeah, yeah. I mean, yeah, course. But, listen, it's gotta be that gear they brought in from Bastion. And money's no object, alright? You can tell him I said that.'

'Leave it with me. I'll have a word, get back to you later. No promises, mind.'

Charlie disconnected the call, his hands shaking. He'd done it. He was conducting his own investigation: posing as a buyer, pursuing the facts. Wait until Radford heard about this. And Two-pints, talking that way on the phone, casual as anything.

Charlie could hardly believe it.

Maybe he should become a freelance journalist himself.

He lay back on the king-sized mattress.

Of course Two-pints knew about the heroin being brought into Brize Norton. Of course he did. The real question now was, what else did he know?

He got a call from Two-pints the next day, arranging to meet that afternoon outside a Tesco superstore near Winnersh. Two-pints asked how much of the Afghan White Charlie wanted and Charlie said two or three grams.

Just like that.

Like ordering a pizza.

'Alright,' Two-pints said. 'See you at four.'

'Hold up,' Charlie said. 'Your mate. The one with the gear. He's going to be there too, right?'

'Who, Ravi? Yeah, he'll be there. But don't worry. He's one of us.'

Bored of life at the hotel, Charlie set out early just to give himself something to do. He stopped for a cappuccino in Egham, then killed an hour shopping for non-essential items in the Tesco store. As he browsed their magazine rack it occurred to him he was on CCTV, and that the cameras probably covered the car park too.

Had Two-pints thought of that?

He didn't seem to mind talking openly about hard drugs on the telephone.

At ten to four, Charlie went back outside, moved the Golf as far from the supermarket's entrance as possible. He turned off his engine, waited.

And waited.

Over the next hour cars came and went, a seemingly endless supply of unremarkable citizens, Charlie examining their body language, wondering who was happy or sad, who loved their kids yet longed for the day when emancipation came, sweeping across all fronts (although primarily in the bedroom). Perhaps the man shuffling after his girlfriend was a base-jumping taxidermist with a gift for forgotten languages. Not that you'd know it to look at him, in his New Balance trainers and half-mast jeans.

Finally, a black Corsa pulled in, began to circle slowly, taking up a space about thirty metres away. Nothing remarkable about that until no one got out.

Do it, said the voice in Charlie's head, the one that was like a personal trainer or life coach. Because if you don't do something there will only be nothing.

Forever.

He climbed from the Golf, approached the Corsa as its door opened, a woman emerging, heaving a baby, an unbelievable amount of paraphernalia from the passenger seat.

His mobile rang.

'Over here,' said Two-pints.

'Where?'

'Here, look. The other way. That's it.'

This went on for several minutes, Two-pints guiding Charlie through the mass of stationary vehicles while describing his blue Astra in microscopic detail.

'All there are are blue fucking Astras,' Charlie told him.

'Alright, hang on,' Two-pints said, before shouting as discreetly as possible, 'Over here.'

Charlie saw his lumpy cranium raised above the rooftops.

'Couldn't you have done that earlier?'

'Got to be careful,' Two-pints said. 'CCTV all over.'

Charlie climbed in back. In front, Two-pints, and next to him an Asian guy in a crimson turban.

'Charlie, this is Ravi,' Two-pints said.

'Alright?' said Charlie.

Ravi nodded into the rear-view mirror, his solemn expression unchanged.

'Right.' Two-pints clasped his hands together. 'You wanted, what was it, two or three?'

'Two's plenty,' Charlie replied.

'Cool. Let's have a look.'

Two-pints reached into the glove box and pulled out a Tesco's shopping bag, began searching through it.

'So, this is the Afghan, right?' Charlie said to Ravi. 'The stuff that came in?'

Ravi raised his chin. 'This is the bomb. Don't worry.'

'Yeah, but the Afghan White. Like, specifically.'

'Yeah, yeah. That's it right there.'

Two-pints handed Charlie a couple of small, rectangular parcels wrapped in cling film. 'That's three hundred.'

'Right,' Charlie said, shoving the cling film and its contents into the pocket of his jeans. 'And this is the stuff that was coming off our planes? Just so I know.'

'That's high-grade gear,' Two-pints said. 'That's the best money can buy.'

'Yeah, but what I mean is, this came from Brize, right?'

'How do you mean?'

'Like we said before, remember? And, listen, while I've got you here, that copper, the one who killed himself? You heard about that, right?'

'Heard something, yeah,' Two-pints nodded. 'Nasty business.'

'Yeah, but why would he do that? I mean, think about it. Doesn't make any sense.'

'Who, that copper?'

'Exactly. I mean, there's no way.'

Two-pints shrugged. 'Probably depressed or something. I got an uncle what's depressed. Delivers flowers part-time, sits around the house all day. My cousins won't talk to him or nothing.'

'Yeah, but Military Police, they got people coming in, bringing the stuff in. Like that one they caught. I mean, it's no big secret, is what I'm saying. Practically common knowledge.'

'Hold up,' Two-pints said. 'So that guy, the one they picked up. You're saying the cops were running that guy? Shit, that actually makes perfect sense. Who else, right? Those crafty fuckers.'

'Yeah, but you already knew that, didn't you? Course you did.'

Two-pints shook his head. 'First I heard about it was when they busted him coming through. That's why we got to be extra, specially careful. Because you know what they say: loose lips sink ships.'

'What about you?' Charlie said to Ravi. 'You heard anything about it?'

'No mate, Ravi's not in the RAFF,' Two-pints laughed. 'He was in the service, though. What was it again, Ravi?'

'Army. Three years as a mechanic. Got me own place now, though. Like, repairs and that.'

'Two-pints, listen,' Charlie said, leaning forward. 'I know you know, alright? And see, the thing is, I need you to go on the record. Talk about what you know. But don't worry, you don't need to give your name. It's completely anonymous, that's the beauty, see? You'll be the second source, just leave the rest to me. But believe me when I tell you there are things that need to, you know, come to light. I mean, the shit that's been going on. Seriously, you wouldn't believe it. Which, to be honest, is sort of the problem. So, what we gotta do, we gotta prove that the shit that's been going on has really been going on, otherwise no one's gonna believe it. Like, ever. If you see what I mean?'

'Best get going, innit,' Ravi said.

'For the article,' Charlie went on. 'Or maybe the book. I mean, still got to talk him into that. But, anyway, what we do is, we talk about what we know. How they did it, who was involved. And like I say, you don't even have to give your name. That's the beauty.'

Two-pints frowned, half-smiled. 'You have a late night or something? Because you ain't making sense.'

'Come on. So, what? You seriously don't know nothing about it? Are you seriously telling me that?'

Two-pints raised his palms. 'Innocent of all charges, mate.'

'We gonna do this or what?' Ravi said, taking the wheel.

'Yeah, but this.' Charlie pulled the two grams of smack from his pocket, holding them aloft. 'This came off one of our planes, right? You just said that.'

'What d'you care where it came from?' Ravi said, into the mirror. 'Either buy or don't buy it. But if you are buying it, give us the money, man. I got places to be.'

'This is quality gear,' Two-pints said, nodding vigorously. 'Get the job done, trust me.'

Charlie blinked, cleared his throat. 'Two-pints, listen. This is our chance to go on the record. To tell people what's been going on at Brize. So people know the truth.'

Two-pints stared at Charlie, like suddenly he posed some kind of threat. 'What d'you mean by that?'

'Hey, who is this guy?' Ravi said, voice raised. 'Talking weird shit, man. Talking about police. Here, why you talking about police?'

'It's cool, it's cool,' Two-pints said. 'Listen, Charlie, you got the money, right? Just, we should probably shoot off.'

Charlie sighed, dropped his chest. 'Relax, alright? I got your money.'

'See, what'd I tell you?' Two-pints said.

Charlie handed him a roll of twenties to count.

'You wanna rest up,' Two-pints said, leafing through the cash. 'Take it easy, you know? Because this is quality gear, believe me. Best money can buy. But remember: loose lips sink ships, alright? Alright, Charlie?'

Charlie pushed the passenger door. 'Yeah, yeah. I got it.'

They pulled away, Charlie catching the end of something Ravi said.

'...fucking headcases, man. The lot of 'em.'

Charlie walked towards the Golf, looking up at a giant swell of pink, rolling clouds, then dropping his gaze slightly, where it met the dead-eyed stare of a CCTV camera.

'Fuck's sake,' he muttered, to nobody in particular.

He returned to his hotel room, added the two grams of heroin to his stash of drug money. Due to check out the next day, he now had nowhere to go and no source for Radford. He'd never felt like such a failure. For years he'd kept this exact sense of inadequacy at bay, beating it back with optimism, a great sense of humour, but now it had arrived it was like nothing he'd ever experienced.

An absolute, and totally defining, lack of achievement.

And what of Two-pints? His reputation around the base was that of a cheeky man-about-town, enough wherewithal to get you a little bit of this, a little bit of that.

But essentially harmless.

And certainly no smack dealer.

It made Charlie wonder, were people really that blind, or did they choose not to see? And what did that mean for him, long term? That no one would acknowledge what had happened?

What was still happening?

He called room service, had them bring up a bottle, two cans of Diet Cola. After a few cocktails, he called Radford, got his voicemail. Had a few more, tried him again. Got his voicemail again.

Where was he?

Was he deliberately not answering?

Perhaps he'd decided Charlie's story wasn't worth telling, after all.

Charlie kept calling, kept leaving messages, each one a little more heartfelt than the last. In less than twelve hours, he'd have to check out of the hotel, rendering himself homeless. He went into the bathroom, locked the door behind him and lay in the empty bath. Was singing 'Redemption Song' by Bob Marley, when, finally, Radford bothered to call him back.

'Charlie, hi. Everything okay?'

'Look, Mr Radford, I tried, alright? Tried to find another source. Didn't go as planned, tell you the truth. But I just wanted to say, I think there's still an article or maybe even a book here. I honestly do. I think we can still make this work, alright?'

'Of course we can make this work. I've just been out with my daughter all day. We were at the aquarium, then we went to the cinema. Then my ex was being a total bitch about money. Which, I have to say, is absurd, because she knows how much I earn. It's like selective amnesia or something. Drives you mad. Anyway, just try and calm down, alright?'

'So, you still wanna write it, then?'

'Yes, I still want to write it.'

'Right. Well, you should. Because people are gonna wanna know.'

'I couldn't agree more.'

Charlie felt like crying. Must've been the whisky on an empty stomach.

'Mr Radford, listen...'

'Look, call me Adam, alright? You make me feel a million years old when you call me "Mr".'

'Well, actually, I was just wondering. I was wondering if I could crash at yours a few nights? If you don't mind. Just on the sofa. Or the floor. Either really. If you don't mind.'

There was a brief, yet somehow protracted pause.

'The thing is...' Radford began.

'That's alright,' Charlie said. 'Got to get out of here tomorrow. But it's alright.'

'It's just, with my daughter. Also, I'm in a one-bed at the moment. Pretty tiny this place, and she's here twice a week now.'

'Yeah, yeah. I get it.'

There was another silence, of the more defeated variety.

'So where will you go, if you don't mind me asking?' Radford said.

'Not sure. Somewhere cheaper. Travelodge or something.'

Charlie couldn't be sure, but the next break in conversation sounded more hopeful somehow.

'Look. Hmm. No promises, but I've got a friend. Anyway, if you really need somewhere. He's at the family house, but, far as I know, they're not there. Except for the father, but he's basically on his last legs. Anyway, I know he lets people stay from time to time, this friend of mine, and there's plenty of room. Honestly, you should see the place. Just ridiculous, really. Anyway, what I mean is, I could ask. If you really need somewhere.'

'Dunno. Don't wanna put anyone out, you know?'

'No, I understand. But like I say, he's let other people stay in the past. He's basically semi-retired. Claims to have worked for MI6 at one time. Amongst other things. I mean, who knows, right? He's got a story or two, no doubt about that.'

'Dunno,' Charlie said again.

'Look, it's fine. I'll talk to him, alright? Run it up the flagpole, see what he says.'

'Alright,' Charlie shrugged. 'If you reckon he won't mind.'

'I'm sure he won't. If anything it's company he's after.'

'What's his name, this guy?'

'Angus. Angus Fothergill.'

'Not sending me off to Scotland, are you?'

'More Surrey way, actually. Proudest Scot south of the border, that's Angus.'

Charlie wasn't quite sure how to respond to this.

'Anyway, I'll make the arrangements, talk to you soon, okay?' Radford said, before hanging up the phone.

# 12

Radford called back as promised, said this Angus guy was happy to let Charlie crash for a while, on the condition Charlie was willing to help landscape his garden. Apparently, Angus had fired all the contractors already working on the job for, specifically, 'laziness and insubordination'. After giving it some thought, Charlie found he quite liked the idea of doing some good old-fashioned hard work, out in the countryside, miles away from anywhere. Unless, of course, this Angus bloke turned out to be some paedo or slave driver. He probably would be, but by now Charlie was running out of options.

It was Friday morning.

11.33 a.m.

Due to check out at twelve, he was, for the first time, looking at the list of prices taped to the inside of the minibar.

£6.50 for a Snickers?

£3.99 for a packet of dry-roasted peanuts!?

It was an outrage.

He wouldn't pay it.

Any of it.

He packed his sports bag, arranging his few items of clothing over the money and the drugs, took the lift to the lobby. Behind the front desk, his driving licence, the five hundred he'd put down as deposit. They'd probably use the licence to trace his whereabouts, but only if he went back to Brize Norton. And really, what difference did an unpaid hotel bill amount to anyway? He was already looking at gaol time. It was just a shame he wouldn't be able to say goodbye to the staff, like the bartenders or those chambermaids who no longer looked shy or panic-stricken whenever he struck up conversation.

He liked those guys.

Understood them somehow.

He stepped from the lift, walked casually across the lobby, being careful not to make eye contact with anyone there. As always, Martin the doorman got the door for him.

'Morning, young man,' Martin said, tipping his cap.

'Alright?' Charlie muttered, wishing he could thank Martin for his comradeship, no matter how brief. Would've told him that, even if most people thought he was a bit of a serf, Martin was in fact the heart and soul of The Park International Hotel. They were lucky to have him there, opening the doors, making everyone feel welcome.

'Back in a bit,' Charlie called over one shoulder, as he descended to street level.

'Right you are, sir.'

Head down, Charlie kept walking, hoping to leave his guilt far behind him.

The Golf was in a car park on Sloane Avenue. He paid the hundred pounds (no avoiding that charge) and got behind the wheel.

What was he doing?

He wasn't sure.

Putting his faith in Radford.

That was it.

He started the engine, drove an hour out of London down the A3, looking for a village called Dippenhall, somewhere near Farnham. Soon, he was following Google Maps through a series of tight, single lanes, the countryside lush and green. Classic, really. Almost enough to put him at ease.

Why not help landscape a garden?

By early afternoon he was cruising through Dippenhall village, keeping well below the 30mph speed limit. He'd been expecting something similar to Carterton, where he and everyone else at Brize spent a good deal of their free time either drinking, clubbing or shooting pool in the Ozone leisure park. Dippenhall, he now saw, was an entirely different prospect. No chip shops or chain pubs, but instead a Waitrose, a Sainsbury's and a Marks and Spencer's.

They had a florist.

An organic butcher.

A high-end funeral home.

All on the main strip, which he followed, passing a church, a deserted central green, before turning onto a linear, tree-lined road. Behind high walls and security gates, a succession of grand, detached houses, their names signposted out front: Avalon, The Gables.

Checked the name scribbled on hotel stationery.

Fairview.

He parked in front, pressed the intercom and stood, listening to cold silence, complete and pervasive.

'Hello?' said a voice, exploding through the speaker.

'Is that Angus?'

'He's gone out.'

'Oh,' Charlie said. 'Will he be back?'

'Yeah, course. He lives here.'

'Right. What time then, you reckon? I think I'm supposed to be doing some work for him.'

A bout of dead air followed.

'You Charlie?' said the voice, finally.

'Yeah. Here about the garden.'

The voice sighed, a thin crackle of white noise. 'Suppose you better come in, then.'

The gates parted, allowing Charlie up a gravel drive, the house so large it looked more like several, similarly designed homes all stuck together on one patch of land. He tried to recall the right historical name (Tudor? Victorian?), but whatever the epoch it more than fulfilled the brief: sheer brick walls, a gallery of dark, humourless windows set beneath four imposing chimney stacks.

He drew to a standstill.

Asked himself, What the fuck are you doing here, mate?

He was still pondering the question when the front door was pulled back and a young guy appeared, younger than Charlie, but huge, a jet black cowlick hiding one half of his face.

'Alright?' Charlie said, stepping from the car.

'Alright?' said the guy, fiddling with a roll-up. 'I'm Will. Angus says come in, he'll be back soon and you should make yourself at home in the meantime.'

Flush with the wrong kind of expectation, Charlie expelled a lungful of air.

'Okay, great,' he said, pulling his sports bag from the passenger seat.

He followed Will across a tiled entrance hall, along a carpeted hallway into a gigantic fitted kitchen. Will gestured vaguely towards a counter, a set of walnut barstools. Charlie guessed he was meant to sit, after which Will muttered something else incomprehensible, cranking out the words with repeated flicks of his shirtsleeve.

'Sorry, what's that?'

'I said, do you want a drink or something?'

'Yeah, go on, then,' shrugged Charlie. 'Thanks.'

Will went to a huge fridge, produced a two-litre bottle of Dr Pepper. Went to the cupboard and got two glasses. Difficult to make out, this Will guy. Couldn't speak properly, his hair still in his face, the rest of his massive frame swabbed in various ill-fitting items of dark clothing.

Emo or Goth?

Charlie had never officially met either, and so couldn't decide.

'Thanks,' he said, taking the Dr Pepper.

'Angus says he'll be back soon,' Will sighed, opening another cupboard, pulling out an enormous packet of crisps. 'Help yourself if you want,' he said, walking from the room. 'There's loads.'

Charlie sipped his Dr Pepper, wondering if 'help yourself' applied to beer or Scotch.

Minutes passed.

So many he wasn't quite sure what to do with them all.

He went to the window, looking out towards the horizon, set back behind a broad plot of wooded, grassy terrain. Much closer was the part of the garden Charlie would, presumably, be helping to landscape soon: a circular area, organised into different sections, a large pyramid of rocks and several wheelbarrows.

They even had a miniature JCB.

After a while, Will returned, took a tub of Ben and Jerry's from the freezer.

'Take whatever you like,' he said. 'Honestly. No one cares.'

Charlie was, by now, pretty famished, but he didn't feel comfortable eating a stranger's food, no matter what Will said.

After a further half hour, Charlie's patience reached its threshold, replaced by a keen sense of frustration: where was Angus? What was wrong with Will? And why wasn't he, Charlie, doing anything to alter or improve his situation?

He got up, went into the hallway, which he followed until he heard music.

Metal?

Maybe Thrash.

He pushed the door, walking into a room so big its ceiling had to be supported by a network of thick, wooden beams, a set of Wharfedale speakers pumping either side of a display case filled with painted ceramic plates. Spread across a leather sofa, Will was bellowing like an escaped lunatic, and it took several seconds before Charlie realised he was using a Bluetooth.

'...if she's in year ten she can't be sixteen, can she! He just lies! That's all he does! Remember Reading last year!? He just lies all the time!'

'Excuse me!?' Charlie shouted.

'Eh!?'

'Anything from Angus!?'

'What!?'

'I said, anything from Angus yet!?'

'How d'you mean!?'

'Angus. Is he going to be back soon!? Because if not I'll shoot off!'

Will muttered something inaudible, then screamed, 'JP? What!? No, just call me back, you knobber!' He killed the music. 'Look, he does this. Has a go at everyone else, but he's never around when you need him. He's just a dick, really.'

'Right. Well, maybe you could give him another call. See what he's up to?'

Will put his hands behind his head, a swathe of pale belly-fat spilling over the waistband of his jeans. 'Fine. But you can't rely on him. You just can't.'

While Will made the call, Charlie drifted back into the hallway. In that same moment, a small, pastel shape appeared at the foot of the stairs, then took the form of a young blonde woman ferrying soup and mashed potato.

'How's it going?' she said, her Aussie or Kiwi accent a wind chime on a secluded beach.

'Can't complain,' he said, holding a shrug in his shoulders.

'That's good,' she smiled, without bothering to slow or explain herself.

Somewhere behind him, Will shouted, 'Angus wants us to make a start in the garden. Wants to know if that's okay with you!?'

'Fine by me,' Charlie said, watching as the girl melted away, mesmerised by her image: the anarchy of that nose-ring, those perfectly crooked front teeth.

'God, why is he such a dick?' sighed Will, slumped in the doorway, exhausted already.

Charlie had never aspired to be rich (at least, not super-rich), but as he and Will stepped onto the patio outside, he experienced a profound yearning which he quickly identified as envy. To have all this. It was such an impossibility he'd unconsciously convinced himself it wasn't something he wanted. What would he do with so much land anyway? Like some of the outbuildings adjacent to the main house, he had to assume a large percentage of the grounds went unused by its owner.

Perhaps he just liked knowing it was there.

'He wants us to build a wall,' Will said, making a roll-up. 'See?'

On one side of the lawn was a large, sloping bank covered in velvety flowers and thick shrubs. At its base, a trench thirty feet in length, a pile of dark, purplish stones.

'Says he's put in the main bits or something, now we have to fill in the gaps?'

Will shrugged, nudging the turf with the toe of his Doc Marten, while Charlie went to investigate. Behind a cordon of string, a foundation of large, flat rocks, braced against the soil, and he could see how more, smaller stones could be stacked against them to create a wall, or wall-like effect.

Not that he knew much about it.

'Shouldn't we be, you know, supervised?' Will said.

'How hard can it be?' Charlie shrugged. 'We just fill in the gaps. Like your man said.'

Will lit his smoke. 'Dunno. Looks pretty complicated to me. What if it rains?'

Charlie clapped him on the shoulder, saw the fear flash in his eyes.

'Come on. What's the worst that could happen?'

As they filled the barrow, Charlie could sense Will's reluctance, see it dragging at his lips and brow. He kept stopping to check his phone or peer up at the clouds gathering overhead. This only encouraged Charlie to push on, running the boulders over to the trench, where he began picking them out, examining them for their size and shape and arranging them one on top of the other. He then found that by packing them with loose soil he could create enough support to hold them firmly in place.

'How high are we going?' he asked Will. 'High as the string?'

'How should I know?' Will muttered, brushing the dirt from his trouser leg. He then spent the next few minutes finding reasons not to get down on his hands and knees again.

'Fill the barrow, alright?' Charlie told him. 'I'm gonna press on here.'

'Just got to make a call, okay? Back in a minute.'

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, saw Will retreating towards the house.

A half hour later, Will still hadn't returned, but the longer Charlie worked the less anything beyond his limited sphere of industry seemed to matter. Soon, as the stones got heavier, the strain greater, visions of his future began to fall away, leaving him rooted entirely in the moment.

Determined to complete his mission.

He was ten or twelve feet along when he lifted his head just long enough to register that the air had thickened and was no longer circulating. Suddenly he could smell the vegetation, sweet and pungent. The rain came down soon after. It began in stocky beads, most of which seemed to miss him, before a full downpour got under way, drenching him and everything else in the garden in minutes. To keep going now, clearly it meant something else. It was unusual, masochistic even.

He did get that.

He just didn't care.

He was going to finish this wall.

Tremors of bass-heavy thunder reverberated across the sky, causing him to dig in, a steady rhythm of selecting and packing. He returned again and again to the pile of stones, heaving them two at a time into the wheelbarrow, his forearms and biceps sending conflicting signals to his brain.

Pleasure or pain?

Anger or serenity?

He lifted the barrow, overloaded this time, pushing it the length of the trench, the water swimming in his eyes.

Thunder ricocheted across the stratosphere.

Sheet music.

'Hey!'

He turned his neck, lost control of the barrow, its contents a muted avalanche. Over on the patio was a man using a newspaper to shield himself from the deluge. Charlie gave him a quick, instinctive wave.

'Alright?'

'What you doing, lad?' the man called, in a thick Highland brogue.

'Thought I'd crack on, you know.'

'You a fucking headcase, or what?' the man said, gesturing with his newspaper. 'Get inside. Come on. Catch your death out here.'

'Are you Angus?' Charlie said, his T-shirt plastered to his chest.

'Yes, yes. I am he. Now come on, will you?'

Charlie crossed the lawn, stepped up onto the patio.

'Charlie. Charlie Wetherspoon.'

'Yeah, yeah. Figured that. On you go now.'

On their way inside, Charlie thought he saw a figure at one of the downstairs windows, maybe the tiny blonde from earlier. He wondered how he must look to her.

He could probably guess, though.

'Daft bastard,' Angus said, directing him into the warmth of the kitchen beyond.

'Here, sit down, okay?' Angus said, as he walked from the room, leaving Charlie to drip onto the tiles, listen to the rain beat down outside. When he returned, Angus threw him a warm bath towel.

'Cup of tea you'll be needing, I reckon.'

'Got any beer?' Charlie asked, massaging his head dry.

'Well, I'll tell you,' Angus said, putting the kettle on. 'Got a cellar full of booze here, but no key. See, something you need to know about me. I'm a recovering alcoholic. And to get into that cellar I'd need a locksmith. So no, is the short answer. No beer. Cup of tea do you?'

'Cup of tea'd be great,' Charlie said.

'Good lad.'

Charlie watched as Angus made the brew. Tremendous confidence for a man both bald and hairy. Low centre of gravity too, his muscles inflated by hours of free weights, especially around the neck and shoulders.

'So, Charlie,' he said. 'Working in the rain. What's all that about, eh?'

'Dunno. Thought I might as well, you know, get on with it.'

'I see. Suppose you being a military man, that sort of discipline, that's your bread and butter, am I right?'

'Mr Radford, he told you about me, then?'

'Well, now, that's the thing about our mutual friend.' Angus handed Charlie his tea. 'Great guy but he's an alcoholic. Few drinks and he can't keep his mouth shut. So yeah, he pretty much spared no detail when it came to your very, shall we say, particular situation.'

'Right,' Charlie muttered.

'Hey, look,' Angus shrugged. 'I'm not one to judge. We've all done stupid things in our lives. Been around people we shouldn't have been around. Believe me, I know. Like, this one time I'm running this bar. Real shithole in Marseilles. No idea what I'm doing there, but I'm a drunk running a bar, so I'm in hog heaven, right? Anyway, I'm so far gone I barely notice I'm literally surrounded by the Corsican mafia. Bunch of fucking maniacs, in my place every night, and I'm acting like we're all best buddies, you know? I mean, these guys will kill you soon as look at you. But me? I'm acting like this is normal. Part of the routine. And now I'm sober seven months and I'm thinking, what the fuck was all that about, eh?'

'I know the feeling,' Charlie said.

'Don't beat yourself up about it. So you made a mistake, so what? These things happen. And don't flatter yourself. You're not the first smuggler in the world and you sure as shit won't be the last. Know your history. That's what I tell people. What about the British, running opium back in the eighteenth century?'

'Oh, yeah? That real, is it?'

'Bet your life.' Angus held his mug aloft. 'All so we can drink this stuff here. Puts it in perspective, does it not?'

Charlie wasn't sure what it did, except make him feel better about his own situation.

'Thing is, Radford says he's going to write my story, but he says he needs at least one other source. Only I don't think anyone else is gonna, you know, have a lot to say on the matter. If you know what I mean.'

Angus nodded. 'He's a good man, Radford, but a conservative man. People think he's a risk-taker because he's always dodging bullets in some war zone, but in other areas of his life he needs a certain amount of, shall we say, gentle persuasion. So, you got a story worth telling? Convince him to tell it. Because he might want a second, even a third source, but he doesn't necessarily need one. I mean, long as you get your point across, am I right?'

'Right.'

'Good lad.' Angus drained his mug. 'Right, then. We'll do a quick tour of the house, then you can get out of those wet things, okay?'

They began with the cinema room next door, a three-piece suite aimed at a screen ninety-six inches across. Next to that a dining room, a drawing room, each an airy mix of beige minimalism, smoked glass and more partially hidden, state-of-the-art technology.

'This place is something else,' Charlie said.

Angus shook his head sadly. 'The old man was in oil and gas. Rough translation? Been bleeding the earth dry for decades. Not that anyone wants to talk about it, of course.'

They took the stairs up to the landing.

'That's you in there,' Angus said, gesturing to one of many bedrooms. 'I'm in here, and down there, that's the old man. Best leave him be, though. My father, he's not been well. Series of strokes. Pretty much knocked him on his arse. Can't have been easy for him, either. You know, captain of industry, all that shite. Anyway, he's getting round-the-clock care. The whole nine yards. And, hey, maybe that's what it's all about. Work your whole life so you can get the fucking A1 treatment right at the end. Sounds pretty fucking daft to me, but what do I know, eh? Fuck all probably.'

'Yeah, think I saw, was it his nurse? Think I saw her earlier.'

'Who, Martina? Great girl. Come on, I'll introduce you.'

Charlie winced. 'That's alright.'

'No, no. She's one of the family now. Hey, Martina? Come and meet Charlie. He's been helping me in the garden. Martina, you there, lovely?'

Charlie rearranged his face, but the girl who appeared, frowning and squinting, was a different girl. A much, much larger girl, her blonde hair black at the roots, her chest making Charlie contemplate the word 'ample' in ways he hadn't before.

'Martina, this is Charlie.'

'Alright?' Charlie said.

Martina looked him up and down. 'You are crazy man, no? He is working in rain like a crazy man. I am watching. I am thinking, why he do this?'

'He's like you, Martina,' Angus said, throwing his arm around her and kissing her hair. 'He's not afraid of hard work. And how often can you say that, in this day and age?'

Martina narrowed her gaze, pouting. 'I don't know. I think maybe he is crazy.'

Then Angus did an impression of somebody Charlie didn't recognise. Somebody American. 'He's no crazier than the average asshole out there on the street.'

'I have work to do,' Martina said, still pouting, still looking at Charlie.

'Great girl,' Angus said again, when Martina had returned to the master bedroom. 'From Kosovo. Such a troubled history, but just the best fucking people, you know? Anyway, you can clean up through there. There's soap, fresh towels. I'd lock the door, though, if I were you. Martina, I don't know. Something about her being a nurse. She'll walk right in if you're not careful.'

'I'll keep that in mind,' Charlie said, a thin smile hanging from his lips.

# 13

That night he had dinner with Angus and Will at the counter in the kitchen, Angus doing most of the talking, while Will, downcast, arranged his pasta into smaller, untouched heaps. He then asked to be excused, which seemed formal and strange.

'I blame the parents myself,' Angus said, stacking the dishwasher. 'Wanted to send him to rehab for smoking weed, if you can believe that. So I told them, let me put him to work in the garden. Bit of proper graft, that'll set him straight. Got to lead by example, I says. Anyway, took a while, but I talked them round in the end.'

Later, they smoked a joint in the cinema room (Angus said it kept him off the whisky) and discovered a shared passion for action movies, watching two Jason Statham vehicles back to back, all while laughing like hyenas at Jason's attempts to do an American accent.

'Incredible physique, though,' Angus said, rubbing his bald head.

Charlie felt better than he had in a long time. Angus did set a good example. He'd lived a remarkably full life, completely on his own terms. He'd left school at sixteen (same as Charlie had), arguing with his father about his future, before absconding on what can only be described as a grand odyssey full of mad experience and low adventure. He'd lost years to drink and drugs, and talked candidly about his depression, his overarching need to self-destruct. He'd been with many beautiful women, unable to hang on to any of them for long, and had visited (and often lived) in practically every country in the world. He started on the oil rigs out in the North Sea, before moving to London to become part of the music industry, which he then left in disgust after Bob Geldof stole his idea for Live Aid. He'd run bars and clubs all over Europe, been a diving instructor in Thailand (where he'd almost married a local brothel owner), got caught up in a military coup in Sri Lanka, sold antiques in Cornwall, run a cinema on the Portobello Road, had dinner with Michael Caine, drinks with Richard Harris and sex with an actress famous enough that Charlie could at least pretend to have seen her in a film once.

All of which Angus disclosed over the remainder of the evening, during a three-mile run through the village the next morning, and as they worked in the garden that afternoon.

Around two-thirty, Will rolled a joint, which they smoked under the giant elm, wood pigeons flapping overhead.

'Right,' Angus said, passing the spliff to Charlie. 'Let's call it a day, okay? I've got family business to attend to. Speaking of which, Charlie, anyone calls asking for the old man, you come get me, got it?'

'Copy that,' Charlie said.

'Circling like vultures already,' Angus went on. 'It's not all money, money, money, lads. You'd do well to remember that.'

'It is if you haven't got any,' Will muttered, jabbing at his iPhone.

He followed Angus inside, leaving Charlie alone, looking around at the trees, the afternoon sky. Things could be a lot worse, he knew that much. In the distance a train rumbled past, inspiring a pleasant melancholy, soon dragged down by an undertow of mild to severe paranoia, instructing him to flee, although to where exactly he couldn't say.

Just relax.

Breathe.

No one knows you're here.

Further evidence that he was not, in his soul, a natural weed smoker, yet recently, whenever a joint was passed his way he had accepted it gratefully.

Which made no sense whatsoever.

He took a walk into the village, bought a four pack of Foster's, thinking a few, weak lagers would be less of an affront to Angus' teetotalism. He drank the first couple of cans in his room, surfing the net, ignoring a painting of a moon-faced woman, a small child suckling at her breast. He glanced at Facebook quickly, the usual assortment of people he barely knew, hawking glorified, keyhole versions of their lives.

No new messages on his wall.

No texts, calls or voicemail.

No nothing.

His best effort, watch another round of movies from Angus' comprehensive DVD collection. Maybe order a takeaway, enough for two, eat the whole thing in one sitting.

But first, an urge to inspect the garden.

He went downstairs, realised she was there a split second before she said, 'Yoo-hoo,' her voice carried on a thermal from beneath the giant elm.

'Alright?' she said.

Tiny, Australian, she was still in her scrubs.

'Good. You?'

'Oh, you know. Same old, same old.'

'Tell me about it,' he said, sauntering over, hands in pockets.

'You guys been hard at it?' she asked.

He shrugged, as if to say, nothing I'm not used to.

She stared at him a moment, seemed to make an appraisal. 'So you're Charlie, huh? Causing quite the stir around here, you are. "The mystery man".'

He flinched, had to laugh it off.

'Hey, what'd you make of Angus?' she said, exhaling thick plumes. 'Is he a trip or what? I mean, he'll talk your ear off for sure, but you know it's all bullshit, right? The stuff he comes out with? Well, if not, like, actual bullshit, then near enough. Like he worked in a place, he didn't actually run it? You know? Love him to death, though, don't you?'

'Yeah. I mean, only met him yesterday, so...'

'Oh, he's the nicest guy. Don't get me wrong. And he pays really well. His dad, Mr Fothergill? He's worth, like, a hundred million. Can you believe that? That's like, crazy. I mean, what do you even do with all that money? Take the rest of your life off, probably.'

Exhilarated, Charlie searched for an observation both spontaneous and insightful.

'That's a shitload of cash, alright.'

'I know, right?' The girl crushed her ciggy under her heel. 'Hey, we go down the pub some nights. You should come along. Maybe tomorrow night, if you're up for it. I'm Kayla, by the way.'

'Charlie,' Charlie said.

'I know that, doofus. Talk of the town, you are. Not that you can call this place a town. More the arse-end of nowhere.'

She ran, hopped up onto the patio.

'Might see you tomorrow, then?' she said, the tang of her cigarette still twisting on the breeze.

He awoke, the memory of her branded onto his mind's eye. So far, he'd done everything right. He hadn't said too much, and so can't have seemed what he was, which was desperate. He'd known he needed a girl, but to be sent one he was so perfectly suited to was completely unfair. It put him at a terrible disadvantage.

He was useless when he cared.

He went out onto the landing, looking over the banister into the entrance hall below. Somewhere in the house someone was talking, engaged in an argument or heated discussion. Angus probably, on the phone in his father's study. Then movement at Charlie's back, the master bedroom opening.

Trousers off, hair askew.

He wasn't ready.

'Good morning,' said Martina, the swish of polyester as she passed.

'Morning,' Charlie mumbled, glad it wasn't Kayla but self-conscious nonetheless, his legs, for instance, skinnier than they should be.

Martina took the stairs, watching him as she went.

'You okay?'

'Good,' he shrugged.

She pursed straight, pale lips, as though she didn't quite believe him, making him wonder what Angus had told her, but particularly what he'd told Kayla. She'd called him 'the mystery man', so maybe Angus hadn't said anything yet about Brize, the heroin, that whole situation. Charlie certainly hoped so. He wanted to tell Kayla himself. To have her understand, maybe even forgive him.

Of course, even if that happened, it was still a long way off.

Meantime, he'd play his new 'mystery man' persona to the hilt.

He got dressed, went downstairs to the kitchen, where Will had lined up a collection of pills and was knocking each one back with a mouthful of Tropicana. He grunted as Charlie came in. It made sense that Will was medicated, explained his perpetual lack of enthusiasm.

'You want eat?' said Martina, breaking eggs into a spitting pan.

'I can get my own,' Charlie said.

'I make. You eat.'

After serving a fried breakfast on white bread, Marina went to tend to Mr Fothergill, leaving Charlie and Will alone. Poor Will. So filled with lumbering teenage angst not even Charlie felt the need to make small talk.

'You really in the RAF?' Will said, eventually.

'I am,' Charlie shrugged, wise beyond his years.

'I was thinking about joining the army.'

'Oh, yeah?'

'Yeah. Angus says I shouldn't, but I reckon it'll be good for me. What do you think?'

'It's not for everyone.'

'Can't be bothered with college. I want to see the world.'

Charlie nodded. He doubted Will would make it through the application process, never mind basic training.

'Just talk to them. See if it's your thing.'

Will stroked a blackhead on his chin. 'Just want to do something, you know? Something important.'

'I'd keep my options open, that's all.'

'That's what Angus said,' Will sighed.

After they'd finished eating Will disappeared, leaving Charlie to load the dishwasher. When he'd done that, he went to find Angus, maybe run into Kayla, but other than Martina and the old man upstairs, the house was like a ghost ship.

He decided to make a start in the garden, impress them with his work ethic, his ability to learn new skills, adapt to new environments. He made coffee, instant Barista, then walked outside. Only a third of the wall left to go. He could finish that, no sweat, but then what?

Would he have to leave?

He went back in, zapped the TV in the living room.

Around ten, watching three people make a cake, his mobile rang.

A number he didn't recognise, a message on his voicemail.

'Charlie? This is Detective Inspector Liam Goff with the Metropolitan Police. Need to talk to you, Charlie. Before you end up in big trouble, alright? So give me a call back soon as you get this. I'm here to help. So do yourself a favour, give me a call back right away. My number's...'

Charlie disconnected his voicemail, staring down at the screen.

All his worst fears realised. Just like that. The police, looking for him. Calling him on his private number.

So this was it.

Game over.

He got Radford on his mobile.

'A policeman? You're sure?' Radford said.

'I shit you not,' Charlie told him. 'Left a message, literally, like, one minute ago. So that's it. That's me fucked. They're out looking for me. I mean, how the fuck did they even get my number?'

'Well, it's the police,' Radford said. 'They have their ways and means. But if they've got your name in connection with this, maybe they've spoken to your superior officers. Maybe they've had a look at your file.'

'Fuck me. Really?'

'Could be. Impossible to say for sure, but where else would they get your details from?'

'Then why hasn't my sergeant called? How'd they get my name in the first place?'

'I wish I knew. So look, what are you going to do?'

'Fucked if I know. What do you think I should do? They could be here any minute.'

'Does anyone else know you're staying there? Anyone other than me?'

'No one,' Charlie said. 'Paranoid, mate. No one knows I'm here.'

'Okay. Well, you'll be alright for now, then. Should be anyway.'

'Yeah, for now. Then what?'

'Look,' Radford said. 'Why don't I come over? I've been thinking I ought to interview you properly. What do you reckon? You up for that?'

'Yeah, I suppose. What have I got to lose?'

'Good man. Okay, I'll see you in an hour or so, okay? Just hang in there, alright?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Charlie said. 'Hanging by a thread, mate. Hanging by a thread.'

Radford arrived just over forty minutes later. Charlie buzzed him in at the gate and he pulled up to the front door in a red Prius. When he climbed out he looked more like the Radford Charlie remembered from Camp Bastion: combat fatigues and Timberland boots. He called out a greeting, walking across the gravel, up the front steps to where Charlie was waiting.

They shook hands, before walking into the entrance hall, into the depths, past the study and the cinema room, into the kitchen out back.

'God, I'd forgotten,' Radford said. 'The scale of it. It's obscene. So tell me, is the lord of the manor home?'

'Who, Angus? Haven't seen him yet.'

'Well, I'm sure he won't mind if we get started.'

They took up a stool each at the counter. Radford reached into his satchel, produced a Dictaphone, which he placed halfway between them.

'Listen,' he said. 'Before we get started, you should know, I tried to speak to Ashby. Unfortunately, as I suspected, it's a no go. Request denied. I also spoke to my contacts in the military and, well, let's just say none of them are exactly keen to see a story like this see the light of day. They're basically toeing the party line, saying it was a one-off, a single, bad apple acting alone and that no one in authority was involved. Anyway, I just thought you should know.'

Charlie felt the anger churn in his belly. 'But what about Baker? What about Geddis? They set the whole thing up. I told you that.'

'That's as maybe. But without proof and with no one willing to talk, it's looking a little unsubstantiated. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.'

'So, what does that mean?'

'Well, the good news is I've spoken to my editor and he agrees there's still a story here.'

'What story?' Charlie said. 'That me and some other dick took it upon ourselves to bring a load of smack in? I bet that's the story this fucking copper's got, and all.'

Radford shifted uneasily. 'Look, right now it's your word against theirs. But don't worry, I'm going to keep digging.'

'But you just said, no one's talking. You just said that.'

'So far. But we can't give up, Charlie. We owe it to ourselves. And something will shake loose. It almost always does. In the meantime, I thought why not get your side of things on tape?'

'My side of things? It's not my side of things. It's what happened. Anyway, that's not the story. I keep telling you that. What happened to Baker, that's the story.'

'Yes, of course. Try not to get upset, alright?'

Charlie stood, gestured to the Dictaphone. 'So I confess. That what you mean?'

'Hmm. Well, you were always going to do that, weren't you? To be honest, I got the impression that's kind of what you wanted. Get it off your chest? And you can still withhold your name. That's still an option, okay?'

'What difference is that gonna make now? I got the cops after me now. Calling me by name on my phone.'

'I realise that,' Radford said. 'That's why I thought you might want to give your version of events. While there's still time.'

'Fuck that. We find proof. Get to the, you know, the truth. The government and that. Then I'll give my interview.'

'Great in theory. In practical terms, might be easier said than done. That's the worry.'

'No, no. I'll take care of it, ask around again or something. Because they can't just make it go away, something like this. I mean, there's no way, right?'

'Look, the thing to do is to keep digging,' Radford said. 'Something will shake loose. Meantime, just try and stay positive, alright? Everything will be fine, you'll see. And anytime you want to talk, I'm here, okay?'

Charlie nodded, found he couldn't meet Radford's eye.

'Yeah. Course. We'll think of something, won't we?'

Radford reached over, gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze.

'Damn right we will.'

So no interview, the cops closing in. Meanwhile, Radford only seemed interested in the version of events that made Charlie look like a criminal. Why bother saying anything, then? Trusting anyone? How long, though, realistically, could he keep hiding in the countryside? Perhaps he should disappear for good. He had nearly thirty grand. A fine start. He tried to imagine himself in Scotland or Ireland, maybe Europe somewhere. Less easy to visualise was staying there on a permanent basis. No more Jack or Shira. No more England. What would he do with himself? Thirty K would last a year or so, but then what?

'Think I might stick around,' Radford said. 'Catch up with Angus while I'm here.'

Charlie looked at him, barely able to conceal his animosity.

'Cool,' he muttered, getting up. 'I got stuff I should be doing in the garden.'

'Hey, Charlie,' Radford said. 'We're going to figure this out. You know that, right?'

Charlie grunted, went outside where he set about finishing the wall. His energy levels were low, almost non-existent, but he had to lose himself, channel the bitterness coursing through his bloodstream.

Later, he heard Angus in the kitchen, laughing with Radford.

Laughing about him?

No, Angus was still a friend, despite a nasty habit of leaving Charlie to do all the work.

He continued long into the afternoon, toiling away beneath a sky so low that when the wind dropped the house and its grounds felt as though they were suspended in time and space, out on the tip of some remote, barren peninsula.

What the fuck am I doing here? he asked himself, over and over.

And this time he really didn't have an answer.

So when she skipped through the back door, leaving twin contrails of tobacco smoke in her wake, he found himself to be both physically and existentially unprepared.

'Alright?' he said, a smallish boulder in his hands.

'Wow!' Kayla nodded approvingly. 'Did you just build a whole wall?'

'Been working on it a couple of days, all in.'

'Actually, I think Angus has been trying to get that thing done for about three months now.'

'Not much to it, really.'

She punched his bicep, a clean, solid shot. 'Take a compliment, doofus. Anyway, Angus said to come and get you. So come on, then. Can't hide out here all day.'

She backed away, crooked teeth bared.

'Sorry, where we going?' Charlie said.

'Duh. It's Friday night. Going for drinks, remember?'

# 14

It was astounding, the effect she had on his mood. Some women, he now saw, would be worth years of friendship, just as long as the lines of communication stayed open. He remembered being with Claire, how she had done most of the talking, usually while organising his time and money for him. But he had opinions of his own, especially after everything that had happened over the last few weeks, all the fear he'd been holding inside, corrosive as a leaky battery.

Finally, he could open up properly.

Or would have been able to, had Angus and Radford not decided to join them.

Which was ridiculous.

Angus didn't even drink.

They walked into the village, Charlie listening intently as Kayla expressed herself in small, meaningful ways, while behind them Radford hammered on about his divorce, which Angus was somehow able to equate to 'the decline of modern civilisation in general'.

The main village artery was busy, full of Beamers and Mercedes, their owners all making their way home after a long day running things in the city. Charlie and Kayla reached The Lion and Unicorn ahead of the others, a gastropub with a slate roof and hanging baskets, its cluttered interior a warm, amber embrace. Charlie went straight to the bar, determined to set the tone, flash a little cash. He'd already learned that Kayla was indeed an Aussie, and that, a year out of college, she was saving up to go travelling.

I'll go with you, he almost blurted, as though determined to sabotage himself from the outset. Suddenly, though, the idea of skipping the country didn't seem quite so outlandish after all. He bought a pint of lager for himself and Radford, a vodka tonic for Kayla and a Diet Coke for Angus, after which they staked out a pair of leather sofas arranged beneath a gigantic, illegible specials board.

There was a moment's tension as they faced each other, Angus and Radford sitting opposite, Kayla reclining next to Charlie. Ordinarily, Charlie would have filled the silence, but reminding himself to remain, from this point onwards, enigmatic, he said nothing.

Because, apart from anything, what were Angus and Radford even doing here?

Shouldn't they be with people their own age?

'So, is it Adam?' Kayla said. 'Angus says you're a war reporter?'

'Guilty as charged, I'm afraid.'

'Wow. That's amazing. Really exciting, I'll bet.'

Charlie sipped his pint. He thought he knew what was coming next: a long monologue about how badly freelances were treated by their editors, followed by a hymn to whichever oppressed, indigenous race of people Radford had most recently shared a bowl of rice with.

He didn't disappoint, and was still going strong after Charlie finished his pint, began to think about getting another.

'...and I dare say Charlie will agree with me on this, because when you've been there, spent time with the Afghans, you really see that while, yes, they're a tribal lot, hard as bloody nails, they also have a love of life that we seem to be missing here. Even in the midst of all that. It's sad, but also true.'

'You were over there, too?' Kayla said, turning to Charlie.

'Yeah. Didn't meet any Afghans, though.'

Radford shook with laughter. 'Had a few close shaves, though, didn't you, Charlie? Especially on the way back.'

Charlie shot him a glance tipped with poison.

'Why, what happened on the way back?' Kayla said.

'Nothing,' Charlie coughed. 'Had a little trouble, that's all. My own fault, really.'

'What fucking bothers me,' Angus announced, 'is how accepting we all are of Western dominance. Sticking our nose in where it doesn't belong and calling it democracy. I mean, how many times have we had our arses kicked? In that very country?'

'I'd hardly say we had our arses kicked,' Radford said.

'No?' said Angus, mock confused. 'Tell that to the lads they dropped into the thresher. Bunch of fucking kids, no food, no support, not enough ammo. Watching their mates getting blown to fucking pieces. Tell it to them.'

'Well, of course,' Radford shrugged. 'But it's war, isn't it. It's what happens when you uphold something of, you know, value.'

'What, being the Yanks' whipping boys?'

'Again, I think that's missing the point.'

'Oh, really? So what was the point, then? Of that particular war? Because I think you'll find most people have forgotten, so if you'd be kind enough to enlighten us...'

Charlie glanced at Kayla, who seemed to be enjoying this verbal tête-à-tête, watching Radford and Angus with an amused light in her eye. But as the discussion progressed, Charlie began cursing his decision to play the strong, silent type, pretty sure he was coming across as some kind of mute introvert instead.

'These two crack me up,' Kayla whispered, leaning close to his ear. 'They gonna go on like this all night, or what?'

Charlie nodded.

This was his chance.

Say something.

Anything.

'Fancy another?' he mumbled, holding up his glass like a visual aid.

'What, and leave me here on my own?' she said. 'Heck, it's my round, anyway.'

The shots of flavoured vodka were her idea. After two each she asked the barman to turn up the music, challenged Charlie to best of three games of pool. He shrugged, the words still forming as he followed her through a low archway into a wallpapered back room.

He'd never seen anyone so...

What was the word?

So free.

He decided to let her win, until she potted one off the break, then another, before narrowly missing the third. After that, he knew he'd settle for not being humiliated. He was, however, finding it hard to concentrate. She kept asking him personal questions, like if he had a girlfriend, and if not why not? What kind of women did he go for, strong or submissive? Then his personal favourite: were relationships even worth bothering with here in the twenty-first century?

'Like, my parents are still together, still get on great,' she said, bending over the table, showing off a ladder in her stockings. 'But times have changed, you know? Or they are changing. And that's the tricky part. Because we're the ones in transition. So the rulebook, that's just gone, right? Might as well just throw it out the window, start again. You know what I mean?'

What he hoped she meant was she wanted to have sex with him.

Why else would she be so deliberately controversial?

'I just wanna take it as it comes,' he told her. 'See a thing or two, you know? Like I've been around.'

She chalked her cue. 'I'd call being in a war zone being around. That must've been pretty crazy, huh?'

'Kind of. I wasn't fighting, though. We were just helping to pack up, really.'

'Sounds like the smart move to me. Less chance of getting your head blown off.'

A few minutes later, she potted her final red, setting up the black for an easy, decisive finish.

'Nicely done,' he nodded, mixed feelings about being beaten by a girl, even one as capable as this.

'Got brothers back home,' she shrugged. 'Sports mad, the lot of 'em.'

He put another couple of pound coins down, went off to get the drinks in.

Under the specials board, Angus and Radford had been joined by Will, sitting on the arm of the sofa, staring at the floor. Also present was a middle-aged couple, the man overweight and boisterous, the woman yet to relinquish a large, studded handbag.

Charlie pretended not to have noticed them.

'Hey, Charlie,' Angus called. 'Come here. Want you to meet some friends of mine.'

Charlie approached, stood before them like he was back on parade.

'You must be the groundsman,' said the fat guy. 'Angus has told us all about you.'

'This is Warwick,' Angus said. 'He makes TV. This is his wife, Lisa.'

'Alright?' Charlie mumbled. He cocked his thumb in the direction of the bar. 'Just getting them in. Anyone want another?'

'Allow me, fella,' Warwick said, heaving himself off the sofa.

They had to wait to get served, standing behind a group, five young lads in bright shirts and designer jeans. Shouting and laughing, one of them in particular seemed determined to impress the barmaid with the length and complexity of his drinks order. Meanwhile, Warwick was making small talk, having to raise his voice to be heard above the increasing upsurge. Again, Charlie wondered exactly how much people knew about him. He was finding it difficult to relax. These lads weren't helping. Nor was Warwick, who was now breathing alcohol fumes directly into Charlie's face.

'So, Angus tells me you're an RAF man.'

Charlie answered in the break between one pop/dance anthem ending and another beginning. Warwick then talked for a while, not a word of which Charlie was able to make out, nodding along, waiting for his chance to get back to Kayla, whose presence he could feel all the way on the other side of the pub.

'Anyone want food?' one of the lads was saying. 'Chris, Johnno? You want food?'

Finally, the group moved off to a table, where they continued to let everyone know just how little they cared about being overheard.

'Well, good to meet you,' Charlie said, after Warwick paid for the round.

'Not joining us?'

'Maybe later. Playing pool just now.'

He hurried away, through the archway and into the back room. No Kayla, her absence shocking, almost supernatural. He waited a few minutes, thinking she must have gone to the ladies. When she didn't return he went to look for her, snaked his way around Radford, who was standing, locked in agreement with Warwick, before heading past the kitchen, the roar of molten chip fat, the shouts of an unseen chef.

He pushed a back door, stepping out into a freezing, concrete beer garden.

'Yoo-hoo,' she called, huddled between Will and Angus, a joint cupped in one hand.

'Fucking hell,' Charlie said, striding towards them. 'Give us a puff on that, will you?'

At first he was fine, vocalising thoughts that uncoiled at quite a pace, but which made perfect sense, and best of all, made Kayla and Angus laugh. After that, he put his whole body into it, pacing and miming. He should have been an actor. From a small rucksack Angus produced a few cans of Monster Energy drink, which they passed back and forth along with the skunk. Hysteria ensued, and Charlie knew that if he could just channel this kind of good feeling the world would open up, accepting totally this very best version of himself.

Because people were loving this version.

Kayla especially.

She kept touching his forearm.

'Come on,' Angus said, after a while. 'Let's go mix it up, shall we?'

It was standing room only inside The Lion and Unicorn, and as they pushed their way through the crowd Charlie was suddenly less sure of himself, at odds with how invested everyone else was in their Friday night out. For one thing, there seemed to be a dress code, a narrow spectrum ranging from office to evening wear. Even the young people had ties or cocktail dresses on. But there was another element, too. Tradesmen. Men who looked as though they worked in the building trade. Charlie saw at least two groups like that, barely speaking, eyeing the other drinkers intently.

Or were they?

Maybe it was all in Charlie's mind.

These were just normal people.

Same as him.

'I need a drink,' Kayla said, glazed and bleary.

He trailed after her, ended up in space as she slipped between two of the many figures pressed against the bar. Now he looked alone, just standing there, which was absurd because all he was doing was waiting for his lady-friend to buy him another beer.

Why?

Why had he thought smoking weed in public was a good idea?

He should leave at once.

But that meant leaving Kayla, and he wasn't about to do that.

That would be insane.

In front of him, a guy in a purple shirt was leaning in, forcing her attention. Charlie realised it was the guy from before, from when they'd first arrived. One of those lads who wouldn't stop shouting.

'I'm good, Dean,' Charlie heard her say. 'Couldn't be better, alright?'

Dean?

So they were acquainted.

An ex-boyfriend?

Maybe her current boyfriend.

How would Charlie know?

They'd only just met, yet he was treating her like a possession, some item he was bidding for on eBay. He decided to ignore the exchange, of a type hardly unusual on a Friday night. All across the globe girls would be fending off legions of drunken, libidinous men. Nothing Charlie could do about that. In fact, who was he to assume women didn't enjoy being approached and courted?

What could be more natural?

He shifted his weight.

Because in this particular instance, it was painfully obvious.

No way she was into this guy.

No way.

He tapped her on the shoulder.

'I could use a JD and Diet Coke, actually. If that's alright.'

She nodded, distracted.

'Who's this, then?' Dean said, without turning in Charlie's direction.

'Dean, right? How's it going? I'm Charlie.'

Dean grunted, lifted his chin.

Which was good, meant he wasn't a psycho or anything.

'Tell you what,' Charlie said to Kayla, stepping forward. 'I'll get these. You go plug the table.'

She moved away, glad of the reprieve.

'Want a beer, Dean?' Charlie said, closer than he'd like but with bodies at his back.

'I'm all set. So, Charlie, is it?'

'That's right, yeah.'

'So what line of work you in, Charlie? You don't mind me asking.'

'Me? The military. Just back from overseas, actually.'

Charlie saw the hesitation in Dean's eye, just for a second.

'In the property game myself,' he said. 'Development mainly.'

'Oh, yeah?' Charlie muttered, staring straight ahead.

'Yeah, you know. Take a house, knock it down, build something better in its place. Money to be made, if you know what you're doing. Silly money really. So you in the army, then? Like, the Paras, or what?'

'RAF.'

'What, like flying planes and that?'

'Something like that, yeah.'

Charlie caught the attention of the barman and turned away, done with Dean, who'd gone anyway. Dean who now thought Charlie was a fighter pilot back from running bombing raids over Libya, or somewhere equally as dangerous.

Not that Charlie had said that.

He'd let Dean fill in the blanks, was all.

Charlie ordered the drinks, a double to go with his Diet Coke, another vodka tonic for Kayla. In the back room Angus, Radford and Warwick were organising a pool tournament, busy arguing and picking teams. Then Dean and two of his mates came in and circled a corner table, moody with intent, and Charlie saw that to keep going meant to banish all traces of marijuana from his system by flooding it with alcohol.

He looked at Kayla, hoping to communicate something exclusive and intimate, but she was too busy playing with Will's hair to notice.

Charlie picked up a cue.

Not even nine o'clock yet.

From there on he became brazen, having a conspicuously good time. Because 'fun' was contagious, and whoever was having the most was already a winner. Everyone knew that. They were playing doubles, but in the most shambolic, distracted way. No partner for more than two games in a row, with people dropping in and out to go and smoke, get the round in or acknowledge a favourite tune. Angus began hitting the Monster drinks hard, while Radford refused to play, preferring instead to circle the action, red-faced and staring. Meanwhile, Warwick was doing a half-decent job of charming Kayla, but Warwick was fat and over forty so Charlie didn't mind.

He was riding high.

He'd taken off his jacket, his tight grey T showing off each individual muscle group. His game had improved, too, perhaps because, comparatively, he was paying more attention than the others. All except for Kayla, whose technique remained extraordinary. He loved the way they barely spoke, locked in fierce competition whenever they faced each other, before annihilating their opponents when paired up.

What he didn't appreciate was the way this Dean guy would try and corner her on her way to or from the bar or bathroom. They would talk intently, then she'd give him the brush-off and he'd return to his table to mutter and seethe. Yet somehow the idea that Dean and his mates might actually start anything serious seemed to Charlie a distant and vaguely amusing prospect.

He was almost interested to see how that might go.

Later, he wasn't sure what time, he found himself attempting to order another round, squeezed up against Warwick's wife Lisa. It was only then he realised he hadn't seen Lisa in what seemed like hours, and during that time she'd become catastrophically drunk. She pressed herself against him, while he stood firm, using a twenty-pound note to try and flag the barman.

'I have no passion,' she said, her breath like stale cinnamon in his ear. 'All I have is a husband who works sixty hours a week, an empty house and friends I can't stand. That's all I have.'

'Look on the bright side,' Charlie said. 'You're hot for your age.'

'Really? You really think so?'

She pulled back, let him take stock of her breasts, which, he had to admit, were fairly inviting in a ripe, pendulous kind of way.

'Very nice,' he told her, smiling magnanimously.

Fresh glass in hand, he walked back into the pool room, took a moment to place Kayla, who was now sitting on Dean's lap. Dumbstruck, Charlie kept walking, around the table first once, then again, feeling as if something at his very centre had crystallised and shattered, before being cast into the heaving snake pit that was his lower intestine. How could this be? He knew she'd been hammering the vodka, but had she lost her mind completely?

Or was she doing this on purpose?

He poured his pint back, went to get another.

Reset.

A momentary lapse, nothing more.

Only now she was leaning in, close to Dean's ear, smiling and whispering.

Charlie showed them his back, focusing intently on the current game between Angus and Warwick, dispensing advice and criticism, before laughing without restraint whenever one of them missed a shot.

'Do you mind?' said Angus, eventually.

'Me? Not at all,' Charlie told him. 'Hey, let's start playing for money. Make things interesting.'

'No need for that. Just a friendly game.'

'Suit yourself. It's just getting fucking boring, that's all.'

He continued to orbit them, but Angus and Warwick were trading unfunny, old-man quips, leaving Charlie on the outside again. And still, at the table in the corner, Kayla nuzzled Dean, who, energised by her sudden capitulation, was dishing out free advice about how to succeed in the property game.

'Fucking arsehole,' Charlie muttered.

'Everything alright?' said Radford, appearing at Charlie's shoulder.

But Charlie was wise to Radford, the way he sniffed around people looking for some weakness to exploit.

'Couldn't be better,' Charlie announced. He gestured to the pool table. 'Why don't you take a turn? Go on. Game of skill, instead of just watching.'

'Prefer a bit of five-a-side football, myself. A round of squash at the weekends. Although, I think those are more sports, really, aren't they?'

'Squash? What sort of wanker plays squash? Anyway, I'm going to the bar. Anyone want another? Angus, Warwick? Another?'

He didn't wait for a reply, pushing past Radford and heading into the next room.

Coming through the archway was Will.

'Will! Give us a toke, mate. There's a good lad.'

Will shrugged, and they went out into the beer garden, the night air accelerating the effects of the booze Charlie had already consumed, leaving him speechless and confused. Will sparked a joint, passed it across and within seconds Charlie's thoughts became an angry swarm, even less coherent than before.

'I should probably get back,' Will mumbled, conformation, were it needed, that Charlie had just made a terrible mistake.

'See you in a bit, yeah?' he managed, as Will slipped away.

Alone in the dark, Charlie wrestled a million conflicting impulses. Yet again, he told himself to leave. Go back to the house. Go to bed. Start again tomorrow. And he would have, if only he could find a way to understand why Kayla would choose Dean over him. If, for example, Dean were an honest, kind or remotely suitable person then maybe, maybe Charlie could walk away.

But Dean was none of these things.

Any idiot could see that.

As for Kayla, she was obviously an innocent in all this, too open and pure for her own good.

Charlie gathered his strength, drawing on reserves he didn't know were there, and from that subterranean pool sucked up a cocktail of rampant egoism, chronic self-loathing and steely, battle-worn cynicism.

Then walked back into the pub.

All of them, every last one of them loud, brainless. Might as well be a different species. They knew or cared nothing for him, his experiences, his insight. Someone ought to shake them from their collective stupor.

But first he had to find Kayla, deliver his message.

He pushed his way back towards the pool room, caught her in his peripheral, over near the entrance. She was putting on her coat, Dean helping her, trying to pass himself off as a gentleman. Charlie crossed the floor towards them, running parallel with Dean's two mates, who somehow Charlie hadn't seen coming.

Great.

She was leaving with not one, not two, but an entire group of lads.

What was she thinking?

'Hey. Not going, are you?'

'Oh, hey, Charlie,' she said, tiny inside an oversized coat that Charlie realised was Dean's. 'Yeah, gonna hit the road. I'll catch you later, alright?'

'What? It's still early, you part-timer,' Charlie said, ignoring Dean's face, the way it was rearing back. 'Come on. I'm getting the round in.'

'No, I'm good. I'll see you soon, alright? Thanks for a great night.'

She turned, Dean leading her away as his mates made their presence felt, smirking either side as Charlie did his best to ingratiate himself. Happens to the best of us, right, lads?

'Better luck next time, soldier boy,' Dean said.

They moved through the open doorway, a tightly packed unit, protective and superior.

So Charlie let them have their victory.

Bequeathed it for the full count of five.

'Hey, Dean?'

They hadn't made it very far during that handful of seconds, and were still orientating themselves on the pavement outside when Charlie stepped from the pub, stepped past everyone else and headbutted Dean in the face.

'Who's fucking lucky now?'

Dean recoiled, hands going up, and in a way it seemed like an overreaction, as though really Charlie had only spoken to him: Look, it's fine, just hit me back. I want you to. Then Kayla started to scream, while Dean's two lackeys made the adjustment, obliged as they were to suppress their shock and revulsion and take on a much more active role.

'Alright, alright,' Charlie announced. 'Sorry, alright? Anyone wants me, I'll be in the bar.'

To their credit, Dean's mates followed Charlie back inside, but a lack of commitment meant that as they took it in turns to swing at him, only one or two glancing blows connected. Mostly they just seemed to be jumping up and down, drawing unnecessary amounts of attention to themselves.

'That's enough!' someone roared, as the other patrons gasped more or less in unison, clearing a space within which this sudden invasion could play itself out.

Angus.

He came in low, using his big, flat hands to bat the two lads away.

'Go on, fuck off. Fuck off or I'll not be responsible.'

Charlie steadied himself on the bar, thought about ordering another drink.

'Come on, you and all,' Angus said, taking his elbow. 'Move!'

Realising how much scrutiny he was under, Charlie picked Radford out of the mix.

Radford's eyebrows did a small Mexican wave.

'What the fuck are you looking at?' Charlie screamed, lurching towards him.

'Alright, son,' Angus said, walking him out of there. 'Think that's enough for one night, don't you?'

# 15

The next morning, another voicemail message from the same copper. 'Charlie? DI Liam Goff again. I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay? You're not in any real trouble yet, alright? Not yet. But if you don't talk to me soon, things could end up going pretty badly for you, son. And I don't want that. There's no need for it, but you have to call me, understand...?'

Prostrate under his duvet, Charlie tossed his phone across the room, continued to reel in and out of a fractured, self-imposed illness. Craving fluids, he eventually climbed to his feet, walking out onto the landing just in time to see Angus greet two uniformed officers, standing aside, welcoming them into the entrance hall. Dropping to a crouch, Charlie slithered back, an acid reflux cascading to the top of his throat. Had DI Goff been calling from outside the house? Charlie crawled to the window. A sheer drop, straight down to the patio below.

Cramp gripped his right calf.

He hobbled to the bed, pleading with his lower leg.

So it was finally happening.

The end.

He hopped to the bedroom door, listened. Why put it off any longer? He should, however, probably dress for the occasion. He pulled his jeans on, thought some more about prison, the reality of which, despite wearing him down for weeks now, had never been wholly confronted. In practical terms, he'd have to shave his head, push weights, prove to the other inmates he couldn't be dominated or controlled.

More bile at the back of his throat.

He sprinted from his room, along the hallway and into the bathroom, where he puked a thick slurry into the toilet bowl.

Washed his mouth out, crept back the way he came.

Why was the house so quiet?

Where was Kayla, Martina?

Anyone?

He pushed the door to the master bedroom. Inside, Mr Fothergill was propped up in the king-sized bed, shrivelled and spotted, his white hair sticking up in undignified tufts. They'd put flowers on both nightstands, but the stink of urine and antiseptic was palpable. Charlie stood, staring at the old man, who stared back, his eyes two fixed, stagnant pools.

Look what happens, they said.

He heard voices downstairs, went back to his room and waited.

A few minutes later Angus inched his way in.

'Hey? You up?'

He saw Charlie, imitated a smile.

'Good, you're awake. Okay, listen, that was a couple of boys from our local constabulary. Don't worry, I told them you ran out on me last night, but, see, Dean's pressing charges. Seems you broke his nose and, well, safe to say he's none too happy about it. Anyway, they want me to go down there, give a statement.'

'Right,' said Charlie. 'Shit.'

'Yeah. And, see, thing is, I couldn't care less about some authoritarian and I've never liked that idiot Dean. So I'm saying nothing. But Kayla, she's been on the phone, and she's pretty upset about the whole thing. To put it mildly.'

'It's alright,' Charlie told him. 'I'll be on my way. Don't worry.'

'Listen, Charlie, I'm sorry,' Angus said, shaking his head. 'I've liked having you around. Sincerely.'

Charlie got to his feet. 'Don't worry, I get it. It's fine, honestly.'

'Okay. But don't go running off without saying goodbye, alright?'

Charlie nodded, his arm raised in a sort of wave, sort of spasm.

'I won't,' he said, as Angus closed the door behind him.

Charlie made several attempts to leave that day. Each time going down to his Golf, where he sat, hands on the wheel, key in the ignition. He even started the engine, listened to it hum awhile, imagining he'd attached a hose to the exhaust and that soon he'd be cocooned in an infinite and dreamless sleep. He'd never thought about death or dying before, not in any profound way, but suddenly he thought he understood what people meant when they talked about 'going back to the earth'. Only it wasn't the earth you went back to, it was the universe: atoms, particles, hurtling through time and space, no longer bound by the laws of man.

No need to explain yourself.

No guilt, shame or sadness.

Just total cohesion.

As simple and complicated as a beam of light.

He turned off the engine, wiped his eyes.

Clearly, he was in no state to leave yet. He needed another day. A good night's sleep and he'd be fine. No more thoughts about death, the universe, imaginary beams of light. He was hung-over not suicidal. Sometimes, though, he felt it there. The dark place. One wrong move and he might get sucked in, too broken to pull himself back.

Kayla.

He saw the look on her face when he'd used his forehead to converse with Dean.

Now she was part of the dark place.

How had that happened?

How could anything go so wrong, so quickly?

He climbed from the car, went back inside the house. One more day. That's all he asked for. He knew Angus was out, his Range Rover missing from the driveway. Charlie would await his return, explain the situation. Angus would understand. He'd said Charlie shouldn't leave without saying goodbye.

Upstairs, Martina was on duty, tending to the old man. She emerged from the master bedroom carrying a bulging plastic bag, her blonde hair scraped into a ponytail, her breasts preternatural in both size and density. She watched Charlie's ascent, seemed to study him, as though he were some new, as yet unclassified life form.

'Are you drunk?'

'Not any more,' he told her. 'Think that's the problem.'

'You want eat?'

'No. Not feeling too good, actually. Might shower.'

'Okay, you shower. I bring clean towels.'

The water helped. He didn't wash, but simply stood, head bowed, letting the jets unlock the tension in his neck and shoulders. He realised at some point he ought to shave, trim his toenails, his chest and pubic hair.

That he'd let himself go a bit.

He began to hum a half-remembered tune, the heat, steam and privacy a barrier between him and the turbulence still bubbling in his mind.

'Where you want towel?' Martina called.

'What?' Charlie shouted.

He hadn't even heard her come in.

'I have for you,' she said, opening the shower door. 'Where you want?'

He stepped out, dripping onto the mat. 'Dunno. Here, maybe?'

She reached down, cupped his testicles. 'Mmm. You want here?'

He shrugged, nodded. Didn't actually vocalise the affirmative, opting instead to simply let it happen. Even later, when she unsnapped a giant, straining bra and straddled him in her bedroom, there remained a curious detachment, as though he'd woken up during surgery but was still too drugged to point out his predicament.

'You like?' she said afterwards, drawing on a cigarette.

'Yeah, great,' he said.

'We can do again if you want. But no too much. I have boyfriend back home.'

'You've got a boyfriend?'

'Yes. But I like you. You like me too?'

'Yeah, yeah, course,' Charlie told her, thinking it had got late enough that he might feel the benefits of a drink or two.

He spent the night with Martina, which meant more sex and several trips to the fridge and back. She brought cake, sausage rolls and pasta salad. When she brought him a whole rotisserie chicken it occurred to him she might be feeding him up, and he imagined them as an old married couple, her enormous, him merely obese. Already, in just a few hours, a routine had formed, where she would surf the internet and make calls on her mobile, while he watched TV and drank the beer she'd smuggled in from outside. Angus had returned, as had Kayla, who was working the nightshift. Charlie understood that fucking Martina didn't really give him an excuse to stay on in the house. But it almost did. Not that he'd ever admit to anyone the realities of sleeping with a plus-sized woman.

She didn't hold back, he'd give her that.

But what if Kayla found out?

Charlie couldn't risk it, keeping to Martina's room at the end of the hall, only sneaking out every now and then to use the toilet.

The next morning he awoke alone to the sound of people shouting outside, his day ruined before he'd even opened his eyes. So he'd been discovered. Fine. He wouldn't need telling twice. He was done with them anyway, all of them, but particularly Martina, whose pheromones were so entwined with his own he wanted to scrub himself raw in the shower, only with the door securely fastened this time.

He tiptoed across the bedroom.

Looking out, his first thought was that the police were back. Rushing up the stairs, he walked out to face them, only to realise their green and yellow uniforms were all wrong.

'Yes, thank you. In here...'

Charlie turned, saw Angus, wild-eyed in a vest and dressing gown, gesturing to the ambulance crew, urging them to hurry. Charlie stepped back, let them thump past, saw Kayla and Martina bringing up the rear, Kayla blowing tears and snot into a tissue while Martina comforted her, saying, 'He will be okay. He is strong man. Old but strong. You will see.'

'What happened?' Charlie said.

Kayla ignored him, while Martina made a face, the general gist being he should shut up and go away, but don't worry, she'd be along with all the gossip soon enough. Hardly some great mystery, though: the old man struck down by another stroke, maybe a heart attack this time. And sure enough, they stretchered him out a short while later, Angus leading the way, looking scared and childlike.

'We'll get you over to the hospital, have you back in no time at all, eh? No time at all.'

Charlie watched the ambulance pull away from a downstairs window.

He couldn't leave now.

He had to know if Mr Fothergill had survived or not.

In the kitchen, Martina and Kayla were talking about what had happened, what it meant in terms of their employment. Charlie thought they'd be okay. There was, after all, no shortage of ailing pensioners in the world.

He hovered in the kitchen doorway.

Death.

Wasn't it supposed to bring people together?

'Charlie, just fuck off, alright?' Kayla said, shaking her head.

He shrugged, whatever, went to watch the flatscreen in the living room.

Before long, he heard footsteps approaching, and was joined by Will.

'I just heard,' Will said.

'Yeah,' Charlie nodded, thinking Will might have been Kayla, come to apologise. 'It's not looking good.'

They went to the cinema room, put on The Expendables 3, the weakest of the trilogy. Charlie knew this because he'd watched an illegal download of it in Afghanistan. During the trailers, Will primed a glass bong, took a hit like he was trying to suck the meaning from the world around him. Then, lungs streaming, passed it to Charlie, who devoured his share, allowing a porthole into his mind to open through which the true essence of cinema could be transported.

What was he missing here?

He watched the opening scene, watching as it became skewed, distorting even the most basic human emotion and replacing it with an attitude or world view he didn't recognise.

Missing something, that was for sure.

He was about to get up, maybe go to the bathroom, when Will handed him the bong a second time, the bowl crawling with silver and purple buds, a small bush fire that supposedly only Charlie could put out. He forced it down, watching, waiting, until carried in by the rising tide that followed, the queasy certainty he'd never see Kayla again. He climbed to his feet, walking on broken springs to the kitchen. She wasn't there. She wasn't there because she was already gone. He sprinted upstairs, trying to outpace the inevitability of her departure, the void already forming in her absence.

Martina was in her room, on her mobile as usual.

She waved him in.

'Kayla about?' he said.

'Eh?' Martina said, palming the phone.

'Kayla. She still here?'

'No. She go. Come in, come in.'

'Yeah, yeah. I'll be back in a bit.'

On his way back downstairs, replaying their last exchange, probing it for subtext.

Just fuck off, alright?

Fuck off where, he wanted to ask her.

He drifted through the house awhile, then went back to the cinema room, because no matter how temporal, the combination of that screen, showing the rest of that film meant tonight was taken care of.

And even better...

It really wasn't so bad.

Then later, when Angus returned, Will prepared a bong for him too, which he accepted, balanced on the edge of the sofa, laughing at some joke he seemed unable to quite communicate.

'Right, lads,' he said, producing a much diminished bottle of The Glenlivet. 'Action or comedy? Just do me a favour, spare me the fucking drama, okay?'

Angus said nothing about his father, preferring instead to provide a loud, running commentary to whichever movie was playing. Charlie laughed along, while Will rolled one spliff after another, hunched in one of the armchairs, his fringe in his face. They were watching Lethal Weapon 4 ('Fucking hilarious, man,' Angus assured them), when, having finished the Scotch, Charlie offered to go into the village to get some beers for them to share.

'No need,' Angus said, getting to his feet. 'Something I've been meaning to do for a while now.'

They followed him out of the cinema room, along the hallway to the kitchen. Inside, next to a pine dresser full of coloured glass and bone china, was the cellar door.

'Let's see now,' Angus said. 'Breaking down barriers, that's me.'

He stepped forward, shouldering the wood, really putting his weight behind it. He did this a number of times, Charlie cheering as each body check met its target, until finally Angus stood back, rotating his arm in its socket.

'Bastard.'

'Here, let me take a turn,' Charlie said, limbering up, ready to kick it in, sort of thing he'd seen on TV a million times. He took a small run-up, repeatedly aiming his trainer at the lock to no avail, before tapping the frame with his knuckles, saying, 'Fucking thing's solid. That's proper craftsmanship, that is.'

'Useful as balls on a priest, you,' Angus said.

'Haven't you got a key?' said Will.

'Yes, Will. Got it here in my pocket, as it happens. But where's the challenge in that, eh? Where's the fun in that?'

Next, they tried barging it, all three of them, Angus shouting instructions, grabbing Will by the shoulders, who, despite his significant bulk, made no impact whatsoever.

'Fuck's sake,' he said, squirming away.

Angus stroked his five o' clock shadow, which was, by now, creeping towards his eye sockets. 'We shall overcome, right, lads? We shall not be fucking moved, I'll tell you that for nothing.'

He walked across the kitchen, went out the back door.

'Where's he going?' Charlie said.

'Who cares?' Will sighed. 'He's just a dick.'

Angus returned a few minutes later wielding an axe. He ordered Charlie and Will to maintain a safe distance, shouting 'Heeeeere's Johnny' as he parted the air in a swift, downward motion.

The first shot didn't seem to do much, the blade getting buried, after which Angus struggled to pull it free. With the second attempt he found his stride, providing an indoor spectacle the likes of which Charlie had never seen before, and he'd seen an Aircraft Technician drink a pint of vomit during a night out in Chipping Norton.

'He can't do that, can he?' said Will, moving behind the counter.

Charlie didn't reply, transfixed by the cracking and splintering of old timber, but mainly by Angus, the way he was channelling some kind of ancient, rabid ferocity.

'Fuck this. I'm going,' Charlie heard Will say.

He pressed a bag of weed into Charlie's palm.

'Look, just tell him I had to go, alright?'

Charlie took the bag, unable to acknowledge Will even as he retreated into the night.

Moments later, Angus leant the axe against the wall, reached through the hole he'd created, unlocking the door from that side.

'Feast your fucking eyes, man,' he said, before disappearing from view.

Charlie was expecting the wine cellar to be gloomy, dank. Then Angus switched on a set of powerful spotlights, revealing a polished stone cavern containing hundreds of bottles, each one shining like a religious artefact. He performed a quick circuit, picking out vintage after vintage from the racks, handing them to Charlie until, arms full, he had to go back upstairs and deposit them in the kitchen.

'Now this,' Angus said, when he returned. 'This is what I'm talking about.'

From a small wooden crate he produced a bottle of Scotch, holding it up to the light.

'The Macallan 1950. Fourteen grand for this bad boy right here. So what d'you say? Wanna try some? I know I do.'

'Alright,' Charlie shrugged.

He didn't ask if he could mix it with cola.

They went back to the cinema room and while the actors exchanged blows in the background, Angus poured them a couple of drinks worth about two hundred pounds each.

'Here's to you, Charlie-boy,' Angus said. 'Don't ever get old.'

He swallowed his, while Charlie took a few tentative sips, discovering that really good booze didn't need coke to take away the taste.

It was pretty good without it.

'Now that was worth the wait,' Angus announced, pouring himself another.

After a lengthy and sentimental epilogue Lethal Weapon 4 concluded and Angus selected Saving Private Ryan for them to watch next. They winced and shouted their way through the storming of the Normandy Beaches, after which Angus' mood took a turn for the self-indulgent.

'So, Charlie. From London originally, are you?'

'Yeah. My mum, you know?'

'Oh, yeah? My old mum was a Southerner, too. Took her fifteen years to talk the old man into coming down here. I hated it down here. The cuckoo in the nest, that was me. Especially after she died. After that, the old man, I know on some level he blamed himself for my drinking and carrying on. Course I didn't mind that. But the truth is, that whole nature/nurture thing? There's no nurture about it. It's the genes, man. The fucking genes. So the old man was a workaholic. He withheld or whatever the fuck. He also provided, you know? And my mum, she goes and dies young. A fucking tragedy for all concerned. But the family, they all think that's why I can't stop hitting the bottle. They think it's all their fault. But it's nobody's fault. Because, see, the thing is, I just don't like the way I feel. Like, day to day, moment to moment. And I'm gonna be rich soon. The old man's gonna die and I'm gonna be rich. Don't know how rich yet, but how much does one drunken fucking idiot need, you know? I ask you. But the point is, it doesn't matter. It doesn't mean a thing, because moment to moment, I can't stand my own company. And in the end, that's all that really counts. You understand what I'm saying to you?'

Charlie nodded. 'I find a good workout can help.'

Angus smiled. 'Course, I also wonder if the booze, if it's about, you know, my own personal amazement at how little has happened to me over the years. Like I've been waiting for something, you know?'

'What? Your life's been mad.'

'No, that's where you're wrong. I never did a thing. Never even tried, man. Never even tried.'

They sat in silence a while, working their way through the Scotch, watching the platoon get picked off one by one as they searched Nazi France for Matt Damon. It was a much longer film than Charlie remembered, and before it finished he found himself in Martina's bed, agreeing to a blow job in the hope she'd leave her clothes on.

Later, he poked his head back into the cinema room but Saving Private Ryan had finished and Angus was watching a musical, something old and in glorious technicolour. Whatever it was, it seemed to have moved him to tears, so Charlie went back upstairs, and put Homeland on his computer while Martina painted her toenails, the smell of enamel potent and distracting.

'You like?' she said, rolling over, her foot in his face.

'Yeah, yeah, very nice,' he told her, turning away.

He fell asleep around midnight, awoke suddenly at dawn, daylight pushing its way in from outside. Somewhere in the house Angus was shouting. Had been for some time.

Was he on the phone?

More than anything, Charlie hoped he was on the phone.

# 16

Early the next day he had his first and last argument with Martina. She claimed he snored, which, coming from her, was an insult. He left her room, vowing never to return. He came downstairs, heading for the kitchen. Along the way he had to navigate a sea of empty bottles, more fine wine and expensive whisky, some of it spilled on the thick, rich-person's carpet. None of which prepared him for the state of the kitchen. Apparently, at some point during the night, Angus had taken it upon himself to do some cooking. What exactly he'd tried to cook wasn't clear. A bit of everything, judging from the thick strands of pasta hanging from an encrusted saucepan, the eggs smashed across the counter, and the white, unidentifiable liquid solidified inside the microwave.

'What the fuck?'

Charlie crossed the floor towards the open fridge, reeling as one of his bare feet landed in something soft and moist.

He looked down.

Red meat of some kind, bloody and mashed.

'Shit.'

He plucked a carton of juice free, called it breakfast.

The cinema room was also in disarray, so he went and sat in the lounge. He opened his laptop, logged onto Facebook. He didn't quite know why he was doing this. He didn't know Kayla's surname, any of her friends or her email address, yet the prospect of never seeing her again was unbearable. Why had he let her leave the previous evening?

Why so afraid?

Of course, he could always beg Angus for her phone number.

Or, better yet, find it himself.

He went along to the study.

Inside, the oak desk, heavy and important. On the walls, several framed canvasses, each featuring a ruddy, bewhiskered old geezer, eyes fixed on Charlie as he entered. He sat, palms flat against the varnish, trying to equate the man dying in some hospital somewhere with the business titan who had, at one time, controlled his empire from this very spot.

Charlie opened the desk drawers, sifting through the papers there, a lot of boring legalese. Nothing about the agency Kayla worked for.

He could ask Martina, but doubted she'd give out another girl's phone number.

She was probably hopelessly in love with him by now.

He put his feet up on the desk. What separated people, he wondered? Determined if you were meant to succeed or not? Hard work and drive? Being born in the right place at the right time?

To the right parents?

He sensed movement, down the hallway. The front door opening, someone calling out, 'Hello? Anyone home?'

A boulder in Charlie's stomach dissolved, became a thin, effervescent solution. He got up, crossed the room. More voices, clearer now. Whoever they were they had come into the house without being invited. Charlie's anxiety quickly calcified, became a righteous, bristling anger. He walked from the study, moving fast, staying close to the wall. At the edge of the entrance hall he stopped, waited, then stepped out, confronting an ageing couple, the man's sturdy physique familiar somehow, the woman stooped and brittle. They were looking all over, up past the iron chandelier and back again, when they felt Charlie's presence and turned to greet him.

'Hi there,' said the man.

'Can I help you?' Charlie said.

'Right, yes. Sorry, who are you?'

'I think it's me who should be asking you that.'

'Andrew Fothergill. Actually, this is my father's house.'

'Right,' Charlie coughed. 'Charlie Wetherspoon. I'm the groundsman.'

'You're who?'

'I'm helping Angus in the garden.'

Andrew Fothergill and his wife exchanged glances, as if to say, 'Right. And we all know what that means...'

'Is Angus home?' said the wife. 'We did try and call first.'

'Not sure,' Charlie muttered, heading for the stairs. 'Tell you what. Give us a minute, I'll just go find him.'

Angus was asleep in his father's bed, cocooned in the king-sized duvet, a stack of woolly, multi-coloured blankets. Charlie gently called his name, ignoring the smell of his unwashed anatomy. On the bedside cabinets the flowers were starved, hanging their heads in defeat.

'This had better be good,' Angus said.

'I think your brother's here,' Charlie told him.

Angus took a moment to digest the news, pushing back the covers and crawling to the edge of the mattress where he sat, the hair on his shoulders downy and extensive. He reached for a bottle of the good Scotch, took a long drink, while Charlie collected up some clothing for him to wear.

'Best will in the world, this is going to get messy,' he said, massaging his almost totally bearded face. 'My so-called brother and that cunt he calls a wife are here to lay down the law. Want to sell it all off, collect the proceeds, and so on and so forth. Thing is, I can't let that happen. Call me sentimental, but there it is. So, think it would be best if you made yourself scarce, just for now, okay?'

'Cool. I'll be around if you need me.'

Angus reached out, embracing him in a somewhat noxious bear hug.

'You're a good boy. Now, why don't you go tend to the garden awhile, eh? I've family business to attend to.'

Angus left the room, Charlie waiting a few minutes before going back downstairs. Empty vessels everywhere, so many it didn't seem possible that Angus had fallen off the wagon only the night before. Charlie picked up an unopened bottle of white wine, wondering how much this particular brand, the Chevalier-Montrachet, was worth. He went into the kitchen, through the back door into the grey, flaccid morning. His plan was to finish the wall, but there were insufficient stones to get the job done. They'd have to order more. He walked across the lawn, into the trees, swigging the wine, sour but exotic.

It felt good to be outside, to have leaves rustling under his feet.

Fresh air.

Maybe that was all he really needed in life.

Beyond the copse was an old, dirty white outbuilding. He unhooked the doors at its front, went inside. Up in the rafters, the local wood pigeons cooed. Beneath them, streaked in their shit, a Land Rover, a brand new Freelander, just sitting there unused. Past that, among the garden furniture, the rakes and shovels, a tractor lawnmower. He walked over and climbed aboard.

He was, after all, the groundsman, and as such he would mow the lawn.

He fired the 450cc engine, steered the mower past the Freelander and into the garden, heading for the field beyond. All this acreage he'd never thought to explore, all the way up to a perimeter fence in the distance, what looked like a farm or another big house. He lowered the blades, striking out for the horizon, the grass being spat out behind him in small, hazy arcs. Soon, the effects of the wine kicked in and he drove idly up and down, leaning back, leaving big, irregular swirls in his wake. After an hour or so he got hungry, went in, raided the fridge and came back out again. Sat on the edge of the patio, eating a roast chicken sandwich.

His iPhone rang.

This time it wasn't the cops.

'Hey, man,' said Jack. 'Long time no see.'

'Yeah, shit. How's things?'

They spoke for a few minutes, during which Jack intimated that he missed Charlie and was sorry he'd let Shira kick him out of the flat. Pretty much everything Charlie had been hoping to hear, even if it wasn't expressed outright. Then Jack announced he was coming to visit that very day, catching Charlie completely off guard. It seemed too strange a mix, Jack and this place, a clash of aberrant, disparate energies.

'Dude, you still there?'

'Yeah, I'm here.'

'Give us the address, then.'

'Yeah, yeah, course,' Charlie said. 'Got a pen handy?'

# 17

Having seen off his brother, Angus announced he would no longer be receiving visitors, and taking a fresh bottle barricaded himself in the study. Meanwhile, in anticipation of Jack's arrival, Charlie walked around, recycling the empties. He even tried to tackle a few of the red-wine stains, but despite his best efforts, there was no shifting those.

Finally, the intercom buzzed, Jack's UPS van coming down the driveway, pulling up outside.

'Dude, look at the state of you,' he said, jogging up the steps.

'What?' Charlie said, who hadn't shaved in days, had his hair cut in weeks, and whose jeans were soiled from the garden.

He told Jack to shut up, embraced him.

Held him longer than he meant to.

They did the guided tour next, Jack suitably impressed at the size of the place, the combination of genuine antiques and flatscreen TVs. Charlie went on to describe his duties in the garden, aware that he was making it sound like he was toiling away out there, instead of sitting around drinking and watching old movies. It was, however, good to see a familiar face, someone (maybe the only one) who knew Charlie as he really was, and not the easy-going image he sometimes tried to present.

'Fucking good to see you,' he said again, grabbing Jack roughly around the shoulders.

'Alright, alright. I get it. It's good to see you, too, dude.'

'You gotta try some of this whisky. It's fucking amazing.'

'No, I'm cool. Gotta drive back soon.'

'Just have one, then. I'm telling you, fourteen grand a pop. You never tasted anything like it.'

They went into the living room, Charlie making a show of pouring them a drink each. He even had to assure Jack he had permission, explaining what a great guy Angus was, what an amazing life he'd lived and how he'd taken a real shine to Charlie.

'Guess I'll drink his crazily overpriced booze, then,' Jack shrugged.

They clinked glasses like two old men, sitting on the leather sofa. It was, for Charlie, almost overwhelming. He had so much to say, realising in that moment how little of himself he shared with Angus or Martina. But first, he took great and chivalrous pleasure playing host, asking Jack about work, Shira, even Aubrey. Jack sipped his drink – 'Mmm' – talked about this and that, starting with his mum, who was seeing a much younger man, which was weird, if ultimately laudable. Then there was Aubrey's new girlfriend Poppy, who'd moved into the flat and was planning to redecorate (apparently under the mistaken assumption she knew more about interior design than Jack did). Shira was fine, while politics in Britain remained an unfunny joke, myopic and entrenched as ever.

And so it went on.

Familiar, comforting, Charlie waiting for his turn to speak, Jack beginning to prattle on a bit. In particular, he seemed obsessed with this girl, Poppy. Anyone would think her main aim in life was to denigrate and annoy him, principally by suggesting he should clean the bathroom once in a while, or by advising Aubrey to smoke less weed, at least contemplate a career path.

'Dude, I'm telling you. She's gotta go.'

As if Jack's domestic circumstances compared even slightly to the epic run of bad luck that had recently befallen Charlie. More than once, he'd thought of calling that detective back, handing himself in, but, despite several attempts, couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd had a drink instead. Had a smoke, sat in the cinema room in the dark obsessing about a girl you could bet wasn't doing the same in return. Radford was gone. Couldn't be trusted anyway. So where did that leave Charlie? Killing time until, sooner or later, he was placed under arrest, thrown in gaol.

'Listen,' said Jack, putting his unfinished drink on the coffee table. 'I gotta get going.'

'What, already?' Charlie said.

Jack shrugged. 'Work and that. Fucking management track my every move. They'll have me wearing an ankle bracelet next.'

Charlie walked him to the front door.

'So, dude,' Jack said. 'About, you know, everything. That gear you brought in. What's going on there?'

'Oh, that?' Charlie said. 'Dunno, really. Have to see what happens. What proof have they got, anyway?'

'Yeah, that's right. You'll be fine, man, you'll see.'

They hugged, Charlie tapping Jack's shoulder, one, two, three, releasing him so he could hurry to his van. He said something Charlie didn't catch, then climbed behind the wheel, taking so long to execute a three-point turn Charlie thought about going inside. A few moments later, after narrowly avoiding a large, ornate plant pot, Jack took off towards the front gate, whipping up a dust cloud as he went. At the top of the driveway he sounded his horn, one, two, three, and Charlie smiled, glad of the reminder, that they were still brothers, even if things between them had changed, strained in ways difficult to articulate but still subtle enough to ignore.

The following day Martina left. A friend of hers (a much more attractive friend, Charlie couldn't help but notice) gave her a hand loading her stuff into the back of an old Nissan, the two of them stopping every minute or so to smoke or tinker with their mobiles. Martina had so much clothing, hair product, so many stuffed animals they were going to have to return later in the week to pick up the rest. So it was goodbye, not farewell, which went some way to explaining why she didn't ask Charlie for his phone number.

Not that he'd have answered her calls.

It just seemed logical she'd want it, was all.

He offered to help pack the car, but she refused, after which she and her friend would whisper to each other, glancing his way, before barely concealing their laughter. Even Angus was looking at him sideways, an amused slant to his furry countenance.

'Yeah, yeah,' Charlie muttered. 'Whatever.'

Finally, they watched her pull away, their drinks raised as a mark of respect.

'That's quite a woman,' Angus said. 'And more than a handful, I'll bet.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'What? Nothing. Why, what d'you think I meant?'

Charlie went back inside. 'Yeah, yeah. Fuck yourself, alright?'

'What?' Angus called after him. 'Just saying a man could lose himself, that's all. Might never been seen again actually, if he wasn't careful.'

They ate lunch in front of the television, had a couple more drinks, after which Charlie went outside to finish mowing the garden.

'You don't have to do the whole field,' Angus said, gesturing from the back door, spilling his whisky. 'Just trim the lawn, for fuck's sake.'

'What about the wall? I told you, we need to order more stones. I can't do everything, can I?'

'Right. Top of my to-do list, that one. Dying father, thieving, control freak of a brother, but, oh, oh, best get the fucking wall done.'

'Give me the number, then. I'll call them myself.'

Of course, the number he really wanted was Kayla's, but he could see he was going to have to pick his moment, preferably in the morning when Angus was still at least halfway sober. Charlie climbed aboard the mower, spent the next few hours manoeuvring the blade up and down the green, leaving a set of perfectly uniform stripes, before tidying the edges with a strimmer. It was late afternoon by the time he was able to stand back, looking down on his creation from the patio. Tired and hungry, he went inside, only to find the fridge contained nothing but rotting vegetables and condiments. He was, he realised, fed up of being left to do all the cooking, cleaning and shopping. Of fetching bottles from the cellar every time they ran dry.

He had enough to do in the garden.

In the study, Angus was behind his father's desk, his face illuminated by the pallid glow of the computer screen.

'There's nothing to eat,' Charlie said, expecting another argument.

Angus sighed, sat back. 'Tell you what. Let's go out. Get some dinner somewhere. Maybe not the pub, though, eh? I've a sneaky feeling you're barred from that particular establishment. Somewhere fancy. What'd you think? We'll get Warwick and Lisa to join us.'

'Do we have to invite them?'

'What's wrong with them?'

'Just, weird, that's all. Or Warwick is.'

'Yeah, that Warwick. Offered me a three-way once, I tell you that? And that Lisa, she's a great woman, you know? In the end, though, the thought of looking up, seeing Warwick's sweaty manhood staring back at me. Jesus. If that doesn't put you off your stride, nothing will.'

They went upstairs to change, Charlie pulling on his best, Diesel jeans, before taming his hair with a good scoop of wax. He waited in the entrance hall for Angus, who took longer than a teenage girl, but eventually emerged in a jacket and waistcoat, clean-shaven for the first time in a week.

'Looking good,' Charlie told him, as he came down the stairs.

'I've decided. Gonna make a play for Lisa. Why not, eh? So, the plan is, we get Warwick so fucking smashed he can't muscle in, or creep up on me while I'm doing his wife. It's not the most noble cause, I'll grant you, but the truth is I haven't been with a woman in longer than I care to remember. Meaning all bets are off. So, you in, or what?'

Charlie remembered how Lisa had come on to him back in The Lion and Unicorn, thinking that, at some point this evening, he might be forced to sabotage Angus' efforts and claim her for himself.

'You can count on me, matey,' he grinned.

They went outside, Angus insisting they take Charlie's Golf.

'It's too cold to walk. And the transmission's fucked on mine. Totally shot, I'm not kidding you.'

'You just want me as your personal driver. Fuck that. I'm drinking tonight.'

'Tell you what,' Angus said. 'I'll drive, alright? Happy now?'

Too bored to protest, Charlie tossed him his keys, muttering, '...over the limit already.'

They drove to the front gates, which parted, only Angus wasn't in gear, fascinated by an imaginary speck of dirt on his posh-bloke's waistcoat. He looked up, lurched forward, the Golf stalled at the edge of the road. Cursing, keyed the ignition, yanking the gear-stick, the engine rising towards a steady, metallic wail as Charlie shouted, 'Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the fuck are you playing at?'

'Relax, relax. I've got it.'

Catching movement at Angus' side, Charlie was suddenly embarrassed to be in the company of an incapacitated, middle-aged man. What if it was someone from the village, some pedestrian or dog-walker ready to spread the word?

That Fothergill again. Back on the drink, terrorising the neighbourhood.

'Angus, for fuck's sake.'

A second later, the window blew in, the glass turning white as it was pitched across the dash towards Charlie, who rocked back, and with surprising clarity understood that it must be Dean, come to take his revenge. Must have put a brick through, because even if Charlie hadn't stolen his girl, he'd broken his nose in front of her.

Angus slumped forward, blood pouring into his lap, giving Charlie a framed, if somewhat lopsided view of the balaclava, the blue surgical gloves pulling at the jammed action of an automatic pistol. The barrel levelled, the trigger pulled, but still no second shot dispensed, leaving the gunman to pose, jabbing at the air.

And finally Charlie got it.

Had enough information to exhale, reach over, shaking Angus, screaming at him to put his foot down. Then, when he didn't respond, climbed across, moving towards the man with the illegal firearm, giving him time, a clean headshot as Charlie got himself arranged, got the Golf to back up, pistons grinding.

Good, but altogether?

Probably not quite good enough.

The second shot punctured the windscreen, blew the stuffing out of the other headrest, while, cheek to cheek with Angus, Charlie got a fix on the house, knowing that if he didn't stay in that simple holding pattern then everything ended. No more turgid, stupid days filled with morbid dissatisfaction, sexual frustration. No profound realisation right at the end of it all, that each of those moments had in fact been imbued with an exclusive, awe-inspiring beauty.

Only premature death.

Mangled and confused.

'Nearly,' Charlie said into Angus' ear, as the driveway opened up, Fairview filling the back windscreen seconds before the Golf was upended, chassis crunching against the steps, run out of road. Charlie shook off the impact, saw the gunman, a large, almost lumbering figure, moving down the driveway towards them.

Forcing his side open, Charlie stumbled around, pulling Angus from his seat, unable to stop him sprawling in the gravel.

'Gotta go now,' Charlie said, realising his hands were covered in blood. From Angus' trouser pocket he hooked his keys, cleared the front steps. Had to stop, his fingers streaked, flexing involuntarily as he aimed the key at the lock. Aimed, missed, dropping the bunch and crying out, before catching the handle on his way to the mat.

Angus hadn't secured the house.

Charlie threw himself inside, pulled the top bolt across, backing into the entrance hall, his throat squeezed shut, his breath coming in notes he didn't recognise. He should keep moving, not keep doing what he was doing, which was standing, staring at the door, waiting for whatever was coming next.

But move to where?

Out back?

Had they locked the back before leaving?

He turned, a clumsy pivot, almost falling, then ran, along the hallway, past the cinema room, the dining room and into the kitchen. Saw a dark shape pass along the windows above the sink, didn't bother waiting for it to gain entry, but doubled back, bootsteps on the stone floor, closing the gap, not even thirty feet between them. Only this time Charlie knew where he was going. He sprinted up the stairs, aware he must be in the gunman's line of sight by now, and there weren't the few seconds he needed to get to a bathroom. He pushed the first door he came to, realising he'd picked the master bedroom, where there was no key, no lock.

The chest of drawers?

Barricade himself in, but then what?

He had no intention of staying that long.

He tried to run across the bed, propelling himself over the bedside cabinet, bringing the flowers, vase, the get-well messages crashing to the carpet.

Idiot.

He pulled himself up by the sill, opened the window and pushed himself out, legs first, arms extended as far as they'd go, all in one rigid, unpractised movement. Then he dropped, the darkness separated and he met the patio below, tucked, rolled, felt his knee 'pop' but tried to stand anyway, a burst of white phosphorus enveloping his right leg.

Blindly, instinctively, he threw himself off the patio, somehow covering enough ground to make it over the wall. He lay still, listening, heard nothing and so began to crawl through the soil, the boxwood shrubs and Savanna Blues, towards the last of the stones. From there he broke cover, pushing past the evergreens, heading for the trees, but kept falling, the agony outstripping even the most basic survival instinct. He bellyflopped among paper leaves, knowing he'd only stay hidden if no one came looking. Saw the tractor-mower parked close by, began to squirm towards it, emerging at the edge of the grass, the lights from the house threatening to pinpoint his location. Had they left them on? He couldn't remember or process the thought properly. He got up, dragging his leg towards what was going to have to pass as a getaway vehicle.

Top speed?

Ten, maybe twelve mph.

He slumped over the handlebars, fired the ignition.

An obvious target, but a moving one at least.

He swung around, drove past the grove into the field, where beneath a rising, three-quarter moon he pushed the tiny engine to breaking point, a hail of imaginary gunfire at his back.

Soon he'd driven into darkness so complete he gave up looking ahead, concentrating instead on keeping as low to the seat as possible. He became disorientated, fireworks blossoming on the backs of his eyelids, and when the mower turned sharply, sent him tumbling into damp grass, he knew he hadn't hit some object or ridden into a ditch. He'd simply let it happen, too weary to continue. He gazed up, watched as a comet or satellite traced a path across the teeming night sky, alone amongst millions, yet seemingly certain of its trajectory. Time began to curl in on itself, his mind in retreat, as if trying to crawl to the back of a large, unfurnished room. He forced himself to sit, the pain in his leg issuing an urgent and belated transmission.

Angus.

He had abandoned his friend.

He stood, began to walk back the way he'd come.

Should have taken the mower, but he quickly realised he wasn't as far from the house as he thought. Already, he could make out the trees, the space between them that led back into the garden to where the gunman may or may not be waiting. He took a moment to choke back his fear, pursue a course straight up the middle of the lawn towards the rear of the house.

Keeping low, he crossed the patio to the window.

Glanced inside.

The kitchen was empty, and in being unchanged was a lie.

He opened the back door, attuned to even the tiniest fluctuation in energy or airflow.

Moved on, into the hallway, expecting the man in the balaclava to appear suddenly, and that the second it would take him to end Charlie's life would be extended, and as such, would be much worse than the simple act of not existing any more.

He made it to the entrance hall, then, dizzy and staggering, through the front door to where the Golf was still lodged against the steps. He crouched, half on purpose, couldn't bring himself to look, his mind already packed with extreme, unwanted images. But this, he knew, would be the finisher. He walked around the car to where Angus lay, looked down at the empty space, thinking that the porch light must be shining in such a way it'd caused an optical illusion, tricked him somehow.

Because Angus had gone.

Survived.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Charlie put his weight on his knee, had to lean against the driver's side, overpower the howl rising in his chest.

Angus was alive.

Saved, in a way, when you thought about it, by Charlie's quick thinking.

He called out, got a fix on him at last, couldn't understand how he hadn't seen him sooner, slumped on the grass less than ten feet away. Charlie ran, slipped, collapsing on top of his prone form, before grabbing him by the lapels, lifting him from the ground, saying, 'Hey. Hey...' Angus' face, a leering, misshapen silhouette, dropped to his chest, and Charlie realised that a section of his jaw was missing. Then sat awhile, steeped in an unexpected serenity that settled over the whole area, muting any sound, all except for a group of low, dissonant chords that seemed to emanate up through the soil, demanding Charlie's attention, patterns forming in the grass. To be close to the earth. That was good. To be able to spend a few, calm moments with his friend, let things meander, slowly disassemble.

What could be the harm?

Later, as the hedgerow thrummed with non-human activity, he began to feel cold, and considered getting closer, exchanging body heat, the way soldiers might under extreme duress.

Except Angus was cold, too.

Because he was dead.

Shot in the brain at point-blank range.

Weeping, Charlie got up, hobbled back to the house. Once there, he went upstairs to his room. Behind the wardrobe, the bag containing the money and drugs. He slung it over one shoulder, walked outside again, had to push the Golf from the front steps before he could get behind the wheel, last man to leave.

Where the fuck were you, eh? Angus said, into the rear-view mirror, his lips peeled, eyes dull as unpolished glass.

# 18

The Golf vanished into country lanes. Charlie had no idea where he was going, only of the distance he was putting between himself and Fairview. As the miles ticked by, nothing beyond the reach of his headlights seemed real, and he imagined continuing on like this, suspended in perpetual forward motion, outpacing his past, his future a pit stop he might not bother making. He pulled onto a motorway, cutting across lanes without realising, traffic wailing as long, fractious shadows pierced the Golf's interior.

What are you playing at, lad?

He swerved, almost losing control, the wheels of an articulated lorry spinning inches from his window as he hit the brakes. The lorry careened ahead, the Golf sledging across, threatening to jackknife before reaching the hard shoulder.

He slowed to a halt, took a minute, then the next exit, returning to the relative peace of the countryside. Stopped in the rural equivalent of a lay-by, the field beyond silent and cloaked. Been putting off what he was about to do next. The pain, though. It was impossible to ignore. Turning on the overhead light, he unbuckled his jeans, lowered them, taking in his knee for the first time. Swollen to twice its normal size, it was covered in bruising so lustrous he thought for a moment he was bleeding.

He'd have to get it looked at, strapped up.

He refastened his jeans, trying to trace the logic. Sooner or later, probably at some time over the course of the following day, Angus would be found. Friends and neighbours would be canvassed, and Charlie's name would come up. Then in the absence of the actual murderer, he'd quickly become the prime suspect, having fled the scene, covered in the victim's blood.

He took out his iPhone, his finger hovering over DI Goff's number.

Time to turn himself in. It was the only rational thing to do. Surely, Goff would believe he was innocent, see he had no earthly reason to take out Angus (whose brother, for instance, had far greater motive). What Goff wouldn't believe was that Angus had been killed by mistake, that Charlie was the intended victim, and that some kind of government agency (no doubt working in tandem with the military) was behind it.

He'd laugh in Charlie's face.

Charlie stepped on the pain, let it corkscrew, become hate.

Never back down.

Never give himself up, hand himself in, no matter how guilty he appeared. He just wished he could convince someone this conspiracy theory was real. That Geddis would come back, or that something, anything would happen to corroborate his story, get people listening.

Because somebody cared.

Cared enough to have Charlie killed.

He shut his eyes, tried to block out visions of Angus, his final moments, but this time the bombardment was too much to take. He let another few minutes pass, travelling far beyond the point of no return, as if to convince himself he never had any choice. He reached for the sports bag. In the side pocket, the heroin he'd bought from Two-pints.

Careful, eh? A mug's game, that is.

He tore at the cling film, opened the wrap, barely stopping to look at the powder inside. Scooped some up on the edge of his debit card, put it to his nostril and dragged it skywards, where it exploded, slowly, and came fluttering back, like pollen on a flawless summer's day. But this wasn't a death wish. It was medicinal. Because his leg hurt, and he couldn't get to a hospital yet.

Might not need a hospital anyway.

Not now he was cured.

Somewhere in the night he heard Angus again, saw him, drink in hand, bathed in the light of his home cinema. 'So this guru, village elder type, right, he lays his hands on me, and he's pointing at the bottle, telling me I want to be careful because booze, it kills the spirit, right? So I have another drink, look him square in the eye, tell him there's nothing that's gonna kill my spirit. That's the problem. My spirit's too big for this world, I says. Too big for a job, or a wife, or taxes, or any of the bullshit they been trying to sell me since I was a wee laddie. And sure enough, by closing time, this geezer's fucking smashed as I am, wants to go out dancing and chasing young birds. Lead on, I tell him. American dollars okay? Looks at me like I'm Christ on the cross. No word of a lie. Thought I was gonna have to marry one of his daughters. Probably should have, come to think of it.'

Charlie opened his eyes.

Outside, a sepia dawn was advancing.

He reached for the powder, racked up a small line.

Didn't want to risk passing out or throwing up again. He was exposed now, his car a portable crime scene. Earlier, having come to unexpectedly, he'd used a barrage of crazed vitality to dig the bullet out of the headrest, put its flattened remains in his back pocket so the cops could examine it if and when the time came.

A vital clue, or, thinking about it, damning evidence.

Couldn't quite decide which.

He climbed from the car, pissed into the long grass, while all around him birds called, a cacophonous morning refrain. He knew he couldn't keep driving around in the Golf, caked in grime and blood, an honest-to-goodness bullet hole in the windscreen. He found a bottle of water under the passenger seat, washing his hands and face, the cool stream helping him locate his centre, if only for a moment. Then dried off, walking to the end of the lane, a mottled old arrow pointing the way: Grayswood 2½ m.

That distance, ordinarily unthinkable on foot, passed easily, as though he were being borne along on some tropical jet stream, the trees shimmering and alert. He approached the village, his needs met immediately in the form of a Q8 garage. At the side of the road he stopped, zipped up his jacket and brushed himself off, hoping he looked less like a wanted fugitive than someone coming off the back of a long and punishing nightshift. He went inside, bought what he needed without, it seemed, alerting the suspicion of the young guy behind the counter, who was himself exuding an aura of barely supressed hostility.

Back at the car, Charlie realised he was cold and hungry, and wondered why he hadn't bought any food when he'd had the chance. He snorted a tiny, tiny line in lieu of breakfast or thermal underwear, blacked out for what he judged to be an insignificant amount of time, before starting the engine and pulling away.

Keeping to the speed limit, he passed several other vehicles. Had they seen the bullet hole? Who knew, but it was an issue he probably ought to address. Up ahead, a sign: The King George VI Reservoir. He turned in, bumping down a rocky path, dense thicket either side, before emerging onto scrubland, the giant tract lapping at its shore.

This would do nicely.

He parked, killed the engine and got out. Took the two five-litre cans of motor oil, pouring the contents through each window until both were empty. Then, using the disposable lighter, lit the saturated rag and tossed it inside.

He'd meant to walk away after that, but watched instead, enthralled by the brutal, elemental force as it reduced the seats to silver and carbon, the dash to a drooping lava flow. Moments later, his malevolent glee was replaced by a gut-shot of panic as the smoke billowed up, over the treeline and across the sky, a clear signal for all to see.

He walked back to Grayswood, his knee pulsating, drugs and money slung over one shoulder. Any romantic notions about drifting into town to solve crime or win the heart of a beautiful girl were soon thwarted when a local café owner waved him away, told him to come back in half an hour, leaving him to wander the streets like a homeless person. He saw a sign for the local police station, realising they'd soon find his burnt-out car and that he'd have to catch a train or bus to some other, as yet unknown destination, maybe check into a three, possibly four-star hotel.

Before then, he had to eat, warm up.

He bought a newspaper from a Spar, another bottle of water, which he used to tame his hair, styling it in a van's wing mirror. Almost respectable, except for the blood on his jeans. He went back to the café, waiting outside, walking up and down so as to not be seen loitering, until it opened finally. He had a story prepared, something about car trouble on his way back to London, but the old woman behind the counter didn't ask, taking his order with a benevolent smile, no judgement or sarcasm in her eyes. He sat down, tried to read the newspaper, but couldn't, acutely aware he was the news. The old woman brought him his tea, which tasted better than anything he could ever remember, made him want to break down crying because Angus would never drink tea, tell stories or get drunk and make a nuisance of himself ever again.

All because of Charlie.

He stared out, watching the village come to life, people going about their daily routine, and who beyond the glass of the café's front window may as well have been a thousand miles away. His breakfast arrived, the colour scheme dazzling. He ate slowly, nowhere else to be, left an hour later, another three cups of tea sloshing around inside him. He'd already walked around the village once, this time becoming convinced that if he didn't take shelter soon he'd be reported for a lack of purpose or direction. He saw a bus shelter, crossed the street towards it, checking the schedule: Kingston. Hatton Cross.

More places he had no interest in visiting.

Further along, a pub. The Turnpike. An obvious retreat, but it was only ten in the morning. He noticed a trio of men, one young, two old, hovering around outside, smoking, shifting their weight, looking the way Charlie hoped he didn't even on his worst day, which was yesterday and was still ongoing. He walked over to them, ready to ask for the time or a smoke, but, curiously, found it easier to say nothing. Instead he nodded vaguely, the oldest of the three nodding back, saying, 'Shouldn't be much longer. Old Ben, he knows the score. Ain't that right, lads?'

The other older man grunted.

'Takes the piss,' the younger man said. 'Been here forty minutes.'

'That's where you're wrong. Knows what's what, he does,' said the first man. 'Do right by us, you'll see.'

They fell silent, Charlie accepting a ciggy when it was offered, not bothering to explain that he didn't really smoke, before finding he could barely roll it, his fingers cumbersome and thick. 'Here,' said the old man, lighting the end result for him, the nicotine working his muscles, then something deeper, yet another yearning impossible to explain.

After that, he seemed to disappear, his fingers eventually registering a faint, burning sensation as the pub doors were unlocked, the drawing of bolts like shots being fired.

'It's alright,' said the old man. 'Told you he'd sort us out, didn't I?'

Charlie looked up, realised he was close to the ground, his hands at his ears.

The younger man shook his head. 'You'll fit right in around here,' he said, going inside.

The Turnpike was the perfect hideout, the kind of place most right-thinking people would go out of their way to avoid. The landlord was an exasperated, unwelcoming man with a bushy shepherd's beard, as though having spent years up a mountainside, only his flock for company, he'd been forced to rejoin society against his will. He was, however, prepared to serve beer long before noon, prompting Charlie to join his new cohorts in a toast, their glasses raised.

'To Old Ben,' they said.

'I must need my head examined,' Old Ben muttered, off to attend to publican business out back.

'Les,' said the more vocal of the old men, pointing at himself as though Charlie was at some mental disadvantage. 'These toerags here is John and Gav.'

'Charlie,' Charlie said, shaking hands with Les, while John and Gav nodded, looked back at their pints.

'Working in the area, is you?' Les said.

It occurred to Charlie that he could have said anything, been anyone, a not unappealing prospect, all things considered. But when he opened his mouth he surprised himself, relaying an honest and accurate portrayal (give or take) of what had transpired over the last few weeks. The truth. Or, at least, Charlie's best interpretation of the facts as he saw them: how he was back from the war, he'd seen his friend die, and now the military was trying to cover up some of the bad things they'd done over there.

If nothing else, Les, John and Gav looked impressed.

'Best years of my life was in the service,' said Les, somewhat off topic. 'Had to pack it in, in the end. Me old mum couldn't hack it, thought of me going off to Belfast. Tell you what, if they had a home guard, and if they'd let a sixty-two-year-old bloke in, I'd be there in a flash. Best years of my life, they were.'

Gav made a noise like he was regurgitating his breakfast. 'All that marching about, being told what to do? No thanks.'

'How about another round?' Charlie said. 'My shout.'

This time they seemed genuinely taken aback, shuffling and mumbling.

'Very kind of you, young fella,' Les said, composing himself, draining the last of his pint without swallowing.

They called to Old Ben, who took an age to return, and with no small amount of resentment set about pouring them another beer each, a pipe inserted into his beard.

'Anyone know where I can buy a car?' Charlie said, as he paid him. 'For cash.'

'Funny you should say that,' Old Ben said, as though it wasn't funny at all. 'Got a van out back I been trying to shift. It's knackered, so you'll get a good price. If you're interested, that is.'

Apparently, the idea of Charlie purchasing Old Ben's van was the most exciting thing to have happened at The Turnpike in quite some time, judging from the way Les, John and Gav shambled after them, whispering and jostling for space. They exited through a fire door, emerging into a courtyard filled with beer barrels, a mangy cat asleep on the wall.

The van, a grey Citroen, was indeed knackered.

'She'll run awhile, I reckon,' Old Ben said, his version of the hard sell.

'What do you want for her?' Charlie said.

'Call it three hundred.'

'Call it six. And these three drink on the house all day.'

Behind them, a collective intake of breath.

'Off your nut, ain't you,' Ben said. 'I thought as much.'

'We got a deal, or what?'

'Alright, six hundred it is. As for this bunch of idiots, I'm throwing them out soon as they can't walk no more.'

'Done.'

Charlie reached out and as he and Ben shook hands, Les, Gav and John cheered, did an improvised Irish jig. Charlie counted out the money on the Citroen's roof, making them wonder aloud if he'd robbed a bank or something, after which Ben went back inside, returned with the keys.

'Run someone over, I'll say you nicked it. Just so you know.'

'Fair enough,' Charlie shrugged.

He got behind the wheel, and for a moment the engine refused to spark, prompting Old Ben to smile for the first time all morning, revealing for a fleeting second the younger, carefree man he may or may not once have been. He unlocked the back gates, John and Gav pulling them apart as Les leant close to the window, flashed his gums and said, 'Don't let the bastards grind you down.'

Charlie pulled out, feeling good, like he'd seen something, a slice of real life most would turn away from, not realising there was kindness there, hidden in the dusty corners. Better yet, he knew where he was going now. The last place anyone would expect, himself included.

He was going back to Brize Norton.

# 19

Early evening, pulled up alongside the checkpoint, feeling no fear, only the calming impartiality of a good dose of smack. He produced his ID, was waved through. Parked across two spaces, then walked towards the Air Mobility Wing and Medical Centre, passing several airmen as he followed the road around into the Junior Ranks' Village. Through the window of The Spotlight Club, a few drinkers blunting those hard edges sculpted by another long day on the job. No familiar faces so far, and he wondered what he'd say if he saw another Mover, whether they'd think to mention his absence, his involvement in the smuggling ring.

No doubt he'd find out soon enough.

The front door to his block was open. He went in, reaching his room undetected. Once there, he sat on the bed, forced to evaluate why he'd really come back. What he knew, understood fully at last, was that whoever had murdered Angus, Baker, possibly Geddis too, would be allowed to escape unpunished unless he, Charlie Wetherspoon, took direct and uncompromising action.

A symbol or gesture of some kind, so grand, so unexpected, people would have no choice but to sit up and take notice.

He went to the wardrobe, his uniform hanging exactly where he'd left it. He showered, shaved and dressed, the shirt, trousers and beret a costume or disguise, far from the proud regalia of previous years, when he'd been foolish enough to think he was part of something bigger, something important. So clear to him now, how he'd been cheated, brainwashed by his superiors. He racked up a line on the chest of drawers, sucked it back, wondering how surprised they'd be during a spot inspection, when checking for dust or lint they found a banned substance instead.

He lay back on his bed, encased, gently falling.

When he awoke it took him several seconds to remember where, even who he was. He went outside, the night air permeating the thin cotton of his shirt, his mind slavering, drawn by the lights, the promise of a drink.

The Spotlight was busy, airmen lining the bar, watching international football on the flatscreen. Charlie stood at the bar, ordered a pint. He didn't know what he was waiting for, what he hoped was going to happen next. Soon he'd see someone he knew, and that would lead to disciplinary action of one form or another. He surveyed the room, disgusted at how they banded together, strength in numbers. They should be made to care, to acknowledge what the system, the state, was capable of, yet he understood, only too well, the unquestioning mindset that prevailed in here.

His friend dead.

Gone forever.

And somehow life would just go on.

He became aware of the guy next to him, his stupid, grating voice, but then the content, which gradually became of more and more interest.

'I told them, got to shape up, act like professionals, right? He's gonna be here all day, ceremony in the morning, then the reception, but no way he's coming to the pub, no matter what they read in the news.'

'Yeah, but he's one of us,' said the guy's mate. 'Done his bit, likes a beer.'

'Yeah, but this is, like, official business, not a night on the bloody town.'

Charlie leant over. 'Sorry, who's this?'

'You're joking, right? You been living under a rock or something?'

'The Prince, mate,' said the second guy. 'The good one. Here tomorrow for the thing, hundred years of the 10th Squadron. Gonna get him to come for a beer after.'

'He's not coming for a beer,' said his mate. 'No way. First off, he's gonna be surrounded by, like, helpers and that. What makes you think he wants to have a beer with the likes of you, anyway?'

Charlie tuned them out.

Because it was a sign.

Had to be.

Delivered within hours of his return, its message simple, unambiguous: that while for some life is indeed a series of unconnected incidents, for others it's a malleable network of power, wealth and ever-present opportunity.

He got up, his pint unfinished on the bar.

The true enemy revealed at last.

The knock at his door came well into the small hours, and as he lay listening to it he came to realise the call he'd placed had been real, not a figment or passing thought, and that events were now in motion. He climbed to his feet, stopping to run his hands over his body, make sure it was clothed. He went to the door, meant to speak, unsure if he had or not.

'It's me,' said Two-pints.

Charlie opened up, saw Two-pints standing there, even more furtive than he remembered, even though really that didn't seem possible.

'You in a coma or something?' Two-pints said, walking in, checking the sight lines.

He went to the bed, sat down, pulled the items from a rucksack. It seemed that under cover of night he was even more businesslike than usual.

'Now, listen, short notice, so what I got is stun grenades. Two for the price of one.'

'I want a real grenade,' Charlie said.

'What d'you want a real grenade for? Because this? This is gonna do the trick, believe me. The M84. Same as the Yanks use. Same as they used at the G8 summit. Fucked up them protesters good and proper.' Two-pints held the two canisters aloft, gave them a waggle, pins shaking. 'This is the real deal, right here. Best money can buy.'

Charlie sat down next to Two-pints, his limbs four dead weights, his knee a separate, mewling entity. He lay back, stroked his belly.

'Customer's always right,' he said.

'Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,' Two-pints said, quick to reclaim his personal space. 'Best I can do. Short notice and that. But this is quality hardware. Government sanctioned. This'll blow your eardrums out at twenty yards, I'm telling you. Alright, listen, what I'll do is, I'll throw in some CS gas. But that's your lot, alright? Can't say fairer than that.'

'You ever think about it?' Charlie said, either thinking aloud or just thinking.

'Think about what?' Two-pints said, his voice different, as though pointed away.

'You ever think you'll always be, like, half asleep? That's there's no real waking up. No matter what you do.'

'Three in the morning, mate. Reckon you wanna be asleep, don't you? I know I do. Got to get going, as it happens. Early start tomorrow.'

Charlie began to take his leave, an invitation to some place better, easier on weary and fragile bones.

'Charlie?' he heard Two-pints say. 'Listen, I gotta run. Early start tomorrow. So look, you want the gear or what?'

'Yeah, yeah. Take the money, alright?'

'Cool. Where's the money? Charlie? Where'd you put my money?'

'On the side, there,' Charlie said, his words relayed from a point where all matter converged, aligned with God and Nature, the Father, Mother.

'I'll see you later, alright?' Two-pints said. 'And remember: loose lips sink ships. Alright, Charlie? Alright, mate?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Charlie mumbled. 'We'll get a beer or something.'

It was the perfect morning for a royal engagement. Charlie stepped from his block, had to shield his eyes against a low, copper sun, glistening just for him. In the bag, the money and drugs, the two M84 grenades, the canister of CS gas. They would be found on his person (minus one of the grenades) because he wanted them found. After they'd tackled him, brought him to the ground, the whole base (cameras and press included) watching, all wanting to know 'how' and 'why' and 'this from one of our own?'

But only when they were desperate for answers, for understanding, would he look them in the eye, tell it to them straight.

Men were dead.

Murdered by their own.

And he could turn his face no longer.

He walked from the Junior Ranks' Village, saw that other personnel were using the Prince's visit as an excuse to stop work and congregate outside their respective posts. From the Main Terminal to the Officers' Mess, the airfield was spry with anticipation, staff milling and joshing, flush with an appropriate level of excitement.

'One of us,' that crewman had said last night.

Like he knew the young Prince personally.

Yet Charlie remembered how he, like everyone else, had always thought that for a posh bloke this Harry seemed basically alright. He'd flown missions in Afghanistan, was less serious than his brother, and whose drunken antics in the tabloids came across as genuine, as though everyone, at one time or another, had dressed as a Nazi or run naked through a hotel lobby.

Except these days Charlie dealt in truth, and the truth of it was this spoilt rich kid had been handed at birth a life he, Charlie Wetherspoon, didn't even bother to aspire to any more. Charlie Wetherspoon had to work, grafting all day, every day, while the knowledge it would never be enough, not even close, turned at the back of his mind, steadily poisoning his spirit. Lucky to have a job, that's what they told him. No matter he'd never own his own flat, let alone a house, let alone a mansion with a big, landscaped garden. Never date a supermodel or an actress, just stare at them on his computer screen night after night, because going out was expensive, and meant spending time with his friends, whom he valued, even if most of them felt like strangers now, busy wrestling careers, relationships, their own gaping lack of prosperity.

The difference then, primarily, between Charlie and Prince Harry being that Harry had everything, and Charlie had nothing.

Only now, Charlie had something to say.

Something they were going to hear, like it or not.

His timing, for once, was perfect. Another good omen or clear indication. Across the tarmac, fifty feet from his position beneath the wing of a stationary Voyager KC2, the ceremony was already under way. The 10th Squadron, inside the maintenance hangar, moved in tight formation, while the Prince looked on, seated amongst a small, hand-selected audience. As the performance continued, the Squadron immaculate under a limp pennant, a professional photographer bobbed and weaved, zoom lens aimed at each turn or flurry.

In for a surprise, this guy.

Charlie only hoped he'd be quick enough to catch the change in action, although with a bit of luck someone else would be documenting the event too, maybe filming it on a mobile. Unless, was that against Palace protocol? Hard to say, but what he did know for sure was that in a few moments the Prince would inspect each airman individually, and when he did Charlie would storm the building, creating an international incident the likes of which no one saw coming.

You sure about this, lad?

Charlie scoured his mind for uncertainty, finding none. He didn't expect anyone else to understand, not even Angus, but it was going to be a relief to dive headlong into the public sphere at last. After that, they could do with him as they wished. He'd serve his time, return cleansed and virtuous, his story (and, by definition, him) still fresh on everyone's lips.

In the hangar, they were applauding the Squadron, who'd fallen in, ready to be scrutinised, to have their life choices validated by a media superstar. Charlie could see him clearly for the first time, tall and florid, being escorted by the Chief of the Air Staff, whose uniform threatened to upstage even an in-the-flesh celebrity, festooned as it was with medals, an array of thick, golden tassels. Today, though, none of it seemed real, more like dress-up or make-believe. Charlie began to walk towards them, adrenaline pounding. What would he shout? His protest reduced to one snappy, all-encompassing slogan, something for news teams everywhere to latch on to. Other servicemen and women were also gravitating towards proceedings, trying to catch a glimpse while gingerly keeping their distance. He moved through them, covering the final few feet like he belonged, before crossing into the hangar, staying close to its edge, the Prince, the Chief of the Air Staff and the 10th Squadron less than twenty feet away.

Breathing stalled, Charlie realised that to take a few seconds here, to own the space he was currently standing in, was an incredible show of fortitude. He became aware of the security detail, a woman, dark Ray-Bans tilted towards him, her smooth brow descending in an almost imperceptible motion.

Watching him now.

His energy all wrong.

He reached into the sports bag, slowly, nothing but time, the grenade cool, smooth against his fingertips. A ripple of disapproval followed, which was puzzling because he hadn't done anything yet. Then he heard it too, that universal proclamation, and even as he joined with the affronted, 'what a wanker,' shaking his head in disgust, he knew his iPhone was ringing, had been for several seconds now.

He took the call outside.

'Really not a good time,' he said, pushing his way through the assembly.

'Charlie, that you?' said Radford.

Charlie glanced back but couldn't tell; either in the clear or about to be wrestled into custody.

'Yeah, it's me. Can't talk, though.'

'Charlie, listen. I need a couple of minutes, alright? Can you spare me that, at least?'

'Honestly not sure. Hang on.'

He changed course, a loose, sluggish action that probably wouldn't bamboozle MI6 or its affiliates were they in hot pursuit. Took cover in an adjacent hangar, where a C-17 had been temporarily abandoned, midway through being loaded.

That meant Movers.

Ex-friends, compatriots, now a clear and present danger.

'Like I say, can't talk.'

'Charlie, what happened? I need to know.'

'You can't know. Not if you weren't there you can't.'

'Jesus, I just can't get my head around it. That he's really gone.'

'It was supposed to be me,' Charlie said, huffing back tears and snot.

'Charlie, listen. I need you to think very carefully now. Who knew you were at Fairview? Because, the thing is, this was a professional hit. The police have pretty much said as much. Now they're clutching at straws, want to know if Angus had ties to the underworld or something.'

'It was me they were after. He just got in the way. Wanted to drive and wouldn't take no for an answer. You know what he's like.'

'Listen, I believe you, alright? But I've been racking my brain, I really have, but you're a source. Meaning that, other than Angus, no one knew you were there. Not my editor, not my girlfriend. So, who? Who would have known where to find you?'

'Dunno. Only them that was there.'

'Who? Who do you mean, Charlie?'

'Like, you know, Martina. Kayla.'

'You mean the nurses. That who you mean?'

'Yeah. Kayla and Martina.'

'Okay, but who else? There had to be someone.'

'What, like Lisa or Warwick?'

'Maybe. Look, I'm just trying to get a handle on this, that's all. Trying to work out what happened. Because I don't get it, alright? If they were after you, who told them where to find you? Because I know I didn't.'

At the mouth of the hangar, personnel were filtering back, a begrudging return to work.

'Charlie, you still there? Charlie, can you hear me?'

'Sorry,' Charlie mumbled, eyes down, a quick march towards the airfield. 'Gotta run.'

# 20

Up ahead, Movers, watching as the Prince was accompanied across the tarmac, off for a champagne reception, a meet and greet with more senior staff. Charlie hanging back, waiting for the various aides and guardians to create enough of an interval he could slip past unnoticed. It was then that he saw him, one of his oldest friends, and with a total lack of surprise, saw him turn, hiding behind a joke he'd just cracked to Barry Conlin and Matty Hobbs.

And for a moment, Charlie joined the pretence, that Westy was preoccupied, how at this distance Charlie really could've been anyone.

They both knew that wasn't true, though.

A few minutes later, Charlie reached the van. He keyed the ignition, drove to the checkpoint, a sheen of cold sweat pickling his brow as he clung to the belief that, in their eyes anyway, he was still legitimate personnel, free to come and go as he pleased. He flashed his ID and after a quick exchange was waved through. He pulled out onto the Carterton Road, forearms throbbing, teeth grinding. Going in he'd been close to serene. Why was that? The drugs? Clearly, he needed more drugs, but he'd also been resigned to his fate, unlike now, cast once again into the world, heading for London despite grave concerns about what awaited him there.

Who knew you were at Fairview?

So Jack had known, had appeared unexpectedly the day before the shooting.

But so what?

Not everything could be a conspiracy.

An hour and thirty minutes later, Charlie pulled onto the estate in Hammersmith, parking in the forecourt next to a load of crooked old furniture left out for the council. From the side pocket of his sports bag he plucked the wraps of heroin. Just a taste, so he could face them, because if he couldn't face Jack and Aubrey then he was truly alone.

He snorted a tiny, almost insignificant amount of the speckled powder, first sighing, then laughing aloud as the fear, all that ridiculous paranoia, melted away like butter on a warm stack of pancakes. He saw an old woman, huge and waddling, dragging a basket on wheels towards the entrance of Jack's block. He wondered if she felt included, why he didn't give people like her more of his time or goodwill, and how wrong that was when he had so much to spare. He climbed from the van, jogged across as she used a fob-key to buzz herself into the building.

'Here, let me,' he said, holding the door for her.

'Thank you, dear,' she said, without looking.

He got the lift for her, letting her out on 3, wishing her a good night, the best of luck for what little future she had left. Up on 7, he moved along the open-air walkway, the lights out towards Fulham soft and rippling. He reached Jack's front door, about to knock when he heard music, not Aubrey's classic rock or Jack's punk or reggae, but something faster, heavier.

Grime?

Or was that Dubstep?

Then a voice, a muted shout coming from the kitchen.

Through the net curtain, someone he couldn't see and so didn't recognise. He turned, took the same stairwell, was still descending when he heard more voices, echoing up towards him. He ducked onto the fifth floor, risking a glance but missing whoever had gone past.

Sounded like kids, wild and unpredictable.

He went back down to the van.

Could be all in his mind. Jack and Aubrey had other friends. Maybe they had new friends. Been introduced to new forms of music. Maybe they'd moved beyond their obsession with Burning Spear or AC/DC.

Maybe.

Charlie settled back, waiting. Drifted into a state halfway between acuity and oblivion until somehow the right amount of time had passed and there was someone close to the van who mattered. Completely still, Charlie peered through the windscreen at the tall, long-limbed figure waiting to gain entry to the building.

Fabien.

Drug dealer from East Dulwich, here at Jack's place.

Charlie watched him disappear inside, fished out his iPhone.

4 missed calls, Jack.

2 missed calls, Aubrey.

Reply Jack.

'Hey, dude. Where are you?'

'I'm still in Surrey,' Charlie told him.

'Oh, yeah? Hey, I was hoping to catch up with you, actually. Why don't you come to the flat? Be good to see you, man.'

'Alright. How's things there? Everything alright?'

'What, here? Yeah, yeah, couldn't be better. So, you'll come over, right?'

'Be happy to. I'll come over tomorrow. First thing. How's that?'

'Great. See you then, then. See you then, alright?'

Charlie disconnected the call, his body racked and trembling.

The important thing now, to stay calm, try to piece it together. For Fabien to be behind everything, it didn't compute. It never had. Fabien was a mid-level dealer in his twenties. The idea he'd had Baker, Angus, maybe even Geddis murdered seemed totally unbelievable. Yet here he was. If there was one thing Charlie had learned of late, however, it was never to take things at face value. That just because it looked as though Fabien had masterminded the whole conspiracy didn't make it so.

Who was really pulling the strings?

That was the question.

Another, equally as pertinent: what was Charlie supposed to do next?

He felt sick, like he was going into withdrawal and needed more heroin to think straight. He opened a wrap, looked down at the powder, which seemed to emit an ardent splendour, clouding his mind with that same, cast-iron assurance: everything is going to be fine.

But seriously, since when had everything been fine?

A plaintive utterance left his body, pushed from the very recess he'd been hoping to silence. He dropped his window, tongue lashing as he tipped the wrap overboard, the contents dispatched, blown across the concrete, settling among the fast-food wrappers and empty cans, a small, herbal allotment.

Not bad, lad. Now, do that again, and you're all set, eh?

'Alright, alright,' Charlie muttered, taking the second gram, throwing it after the first.

He stepped from the van, looking up at Jack's flat, then at the block opposite. He crossed the forecourt, pressed a number of bells at random, waiting for a circumspect, 'Hello?'

'Hi there. Number 19. I'm locked out.'

The door buzzed and he went inside, taking the lift up, walking along, looking over at Jack's place, silent, unchanged. It was a prime vantage point, soon interrupted by people coming and going, the neighbourhood kids in particular taking an interest in the man in the blue shirt, black beret and polished shoes. One of them even approached him, maybe twelve years old, asked for a cigarette, then, when he refused, some draw to smoke.

'I got nothing for you,' he said, thinking it was probably time to change his location, move to the upper level. But there also, more doors opening, more mums and their kids, squabbling, smoking, bringing home the shopping. The wind picked up again, the rain being swept in, staining the walkway, while down in the forecourt young men moved in packs, their jeans around their arses, their muscle dogs on chains.

He checked the time on his iPhone.

3.23.

'Hello, sailor,' said a woman in a white fur, laughing with a friend.

His cue to be somewhere else.

He went back downstairs, got in the van. He knew there was another entrance on the other side, probably a fire exit or two. But this was the way they always came in or out. No reason to think that would change. To wait here, he decided, was the safest bet. Sit tight and sooner or later someone would appear, and when that happened he'd instinctively know how best to accomplish all that was required. Only the longer he sat, the sicker he began to feel, his knee more and more painful as one hour crept painstakingly into a second, the afternoon light being swallowed by a sombre, lifeless dusk.

Through the glass, halogen bulbs flickered.

Ordinarily, around this time, either Jack or Aubrey would make a run to the off-licence to stock up on booze, extra nuts and crisps if they had money that day.

Charlie wondered which day of the week this was, realising he had no idea.

The front door opened, the first tenant in some time a shadowy, curiously billowing figure.

Charlie sat up, pulse swollen in his neck.

A woman in a burka, two small children at her feet. Then, moments later, someone else came into view, someone whose jogging bottoms and box-fresh trainers fitted the profile. Young, black, he was talking on a mobile, looking back into the featureless corridor, waiting for someone else, trailing behind him. A white guy this time, hair scraped into a ponytail, a long feather dangling from one ear: a fashion statement so obscure Charlie would've known it anywhere. He slid down in his seat, watching as Aubrey and his chaperone passed.

Donny with the gold teeth.

Difficult, if downright impossible, to forget such a profound and casual disconnect.

That's a whole barrage of career criminals, that is.

He checked his wing mirror, unable to get a fix on them, and so stepped from the van, the pain in his leg transcendent in its severity.

Kamikaze style, eh?

'Shut up, you old, dead cunt,' Charlie said, hobbling after his quarry as two little kids on bikes stopped and stared, as though they'd never heard language like that before.

He followed them off the estate, across the main road and into a Sainsbury's opposite. There Aubrey and Donny toured the aisles, Donny still talking into his mobile, occasionally stopping to instruct Aubrey on what type of produce to put in his basket. Meanwhile, Charlie shadowed them as stealthily as possible for someone half-blinded by his own sweat, his breathing shallow and rasping. He stopped near the shampoo, hair gel and painkillers, heard Aubrey disputing Donny's choice of beer, before realising Donny had looked straight at him. He picked up a bottle of VO5 Smoothly Does It Conditioner, edging back the way he'd come, fascinated by its packaging. He limped towards frozen food, trying to imitate a state of readiness as he turned to face his adversary, the conditioner discarded at his feet.

Alone, he saw them in the raised, circular mirror, at the checkout, Aubrey gesturing, asking for money while Donny ignored him, still busy on his phone.

They left the supermarket a moment later, leaving Charlie doubled over, cramp working his blood flow as he peered down at some boil-in-the-bag cod, a close-up of its waxy flesh smeared in white sauce. He straightened his back, a nearby shopper, some guy in a suit, avoiding his eye as he lurched away from the frozen food section, snatching up a sandwich as he went. Outside, it was dark, headlights blinding, then halted as he stepped into traffic, shoving bread, ham, possibly cheese into his mouth. He reached the other side, a cyclist in tight Lycra almost sent sprawling, then calling out, one single, well-aimed expletive.

People with their normal lives, normal problems.

They didn't know how lucky they were.

He walked back onto the estate, through the iron gates, past the row of graffiti-covered garages and across the forecourt. Aubrey and Donny were at the entrance, Aubrey buzzing them in. Charlie picked up the pace, his knee screaming, catching the door with millimetres to spare. In the stagnant, airless corridor beyond they were waiting for the lift, shopping bags straining at Aubrey's side, Donny jabbing at the call button. As for Charlie, his leather soles gave him away, a brisk tap, tap, tap announcing his approach. Donny and Aubrey turned in unison, already too late, Aubrey stepping back, Donny reaching for the back of his jeans as, arm straight, Charlie sprayed CS gas directly into his face.

'Shit,' Aubrey said, as Donny folded, eyes streaming, hands clawing at his cheeks.

The lift doors parted.

'Give us a hand, will you?' Charlie said, as he bundled Donny inside. Then, when Aubrey did nothing, 'Look, just relax, alright? Everything's under control.'

Taking Donny by the hoody, Charlie pressed him against the lift's supple metallic panels, saying, 'Who are you working for? Hey, look at me. Look at me. Who are you working for? Tell me or you get more of this, alright?'

Even if he couldn't see, Donny understood, screaming and bawling, trying to push the canister away.

'Relax,' Charlie said. 'Relax and talk to me. Who are you working for?'

'Dunno what the fuck you mean, man,' Donny managed, drooling, his face contorted, the damage, Charlie realised, very likely permanent.

'You lying prick,' Aubrey said, entering the fray suddenly, knocking Charlie sideways in his efforts to get at Donny, pushing his fingers into what was left of his eyes.

'Hey. Hey!' Charlie said, trying to prise him free, but Aubrey was stronger than he looked, applying enough force that Charlie almost felt bad for Donny, who didn't stand a chance.

'Aubrey, stay out of it, will you?' Charlie said, this time managing to drag him clear, leaving Donny curled on the floor, whimpering and spent.

They arrived on 7, Charlie pushing the button, sending them back towards ground level again, Aubrey waving his arms, saying, 'Four fucking days. Four fucking days they been at the flat. Him and those fucking dicks.'

He snuck a kick past Charlie, catching Donny in the hip, before Charlie got between them a second time, realising he had Aubrey by the beard. 'What fucking dicks? Aubrey, who's up there? I need to know who's up there.'

Aubrey's eyeballs began to swivel madly.

'Four days,' he repeated. 'Said you owe them money. Made Jack go and find you. But one of them. Charlie, listen to me, man. Don't go up there, alright? Please, let's just get out of here, call the police. Because this one, Mike. Fuck. I thought he'd gone, but then last night he comes back, and, like, seriously, there's something seriously not right about this dude. Like, he just fucking scares me, man.'

Back on the ground floor, Charlie hitting the button. 'Mike? Who the fuck is Mike?'

'Look, we need to get out of here. Call the police, I'm telling you.'

Ignoring this, Charlie dropped, grabbing Donny around the throat. 'Who are you working for?' he shouted, Donny sightless and flailing. 'You're working for the government, right?'

'Dude, what?' Aubrey said.

'Say it.'

'Working for Old Bill,' Donny groaned. 'Fucking feds.'

'What? What the fuck are you talking about?'

'Fucking drug squad, man.'

'Drug squad?' Charlie screamed. 'Don't give me that bullshit!'

He began to rain blows down on Donny, who cried out, shrinking away as Aubrey joined in, kicking him in the legs and torso.

'Don't give me that fucking bullshit! Don't give me that fucking bullshit!'

The lift doors parted, Charlie looking up to see they hadn't arrived on 7, they were on 5, a short Asian man and his daughter rooted to the spot, the girl's stuffed tiger flashing its cotton teeth.

'It's alright,' Charlie told them. 'Just, best get the next one, alright?'

Back on 7, Charlie pulled Donny's Adidas top from his prone form, put it on, pulling the hood over his head. His first problem: Aubrey's unwillingness to return to the flat. Without him, Charlie wouldn't make it through the front door, never mind out again. He ushered Aubrey from the lift, tried to drag him along the walkway, but he was already making a fuss, jabbering and crying, which, despite making Charlie feel oddly calm, was behaviour that couldn't be allowed to continue, no matter how cruel or unusual the circumstances.

'Can't let you jeopardise this mission,' Charlie told him. 'Can't have that.'

'Dude, listen to yourself. You've fucking lost it, man.'

'Try not to cause a scene, alright?'

'Listen, man. Just listen, alright? You got no idea who you're dealing with.'

Charlie weighed his options, then gave Aubrey a cursory blast of CS, which had the desired effect, causing him bend double and stop shouting.

'Look, I'm sorry,' Charlie told him. 'But we gotta go get Jack. I'm not leaving without him. I need you to understand that.'

'Fucking bastard.'

'I know, alright? Come on, you'll be alright.'

Nearing the flat, Aubrey began to hyperventilate, leaning on the railing, mucus in his facial hair. Patience waning, Charlie pushed him the last few feet, propped him up in front of the glass, hunting around in his pockets for his keys.

'Aubrey, help me out, for fuck's sake.'

Charlie knocked on the glass.

No response; he knocked again.

A moment later, the front door opened, Charlie keeping his head down, his heartbeat leaden, pulsating behind his eyes.

'What happened to you?' he heard someone say, someone else he didn't recognise.

He shoved Aubrey over the threshold, keeping low as they moved into the hallway, the figure in the doorway stepping aside, letting it happen.

Another young black guy, a joint in his fist. Charlie sprayed CS into his smiling face, point-blank range, sending him spinning through the front door, where he began to run, flat out towards the stairwell. Meanwhile, Aubrey had dropped to his knees, hands clasped in what looked like a moment's prayer. Charlie tried to force him to stand, but he toppled forward, pleading, it seemed, to be left there. No time to argue, Charlie walked into the lounge, saw another two or three people, all of them black, all of them shouting.

Too late he saw Jack, sitting on the sofa, a cigarette paper in each hand.

Too late because he'd already thrown the M84 grenade onto that side of the room.

He dropped to the carpet, covering his ears.

Fire in the hole.

The blast came a second or two later, was so much more than he could have hoped for, as though the very fabric of reality had been split in two, a squall of raging distortion pouring in through the gap. He tried to stand, but the world had been rearranged and so he fell, blindly reaching as he tumbled helplessly down a new and steep incline.

Took a shot to the kidneys, the jolt of pain bringing him back suddenly.

He raised his head, trying to work out where he was in the room. Saw someone, maybe Fabien, walk across the sofa, then jump towards the window, hanging from the curtain rail until it collapsed, both he and it crashing to the floor.

'Jack?' Charlie called, his voice locked in a soundproof box. 'Gotta go. Right now.'

He found Jack in the foetal position next to the coffee table, unresponsive but awake and breathing. Next to him was another man, the only other white guy in the room, folded against the skirting board, his boots army issue, his crew cut the same.

'Come on, buddy.'

Charlie got hold of Jack, got an arm around his shoulder, forcing him to sit, saw that Crew Cut was doing similar, rolling over, making a purposive effort to go one better and get to his feet. If he was ex-military, this guy, then he hadn't kept up the regime, his gut hanging over his belt, throat ballooning from the neckline of his sweatshirt. Charlie lowered Jack onto the sofa, allowed Crew Cut to reach his full extension, then headbutted him full in the face. Must have mistimed it, Crew Cut shaking it off, holding Charlie's gaze, who reached for the canister of CS, realising it wasn't to hand any more.

'Jack, come on,' he said.

Jack stood, Charlie helping him across the room, keeping Crew Cut in his peripheral, who remained motionless, a palm flat against the wall, watching them go. In the hallway outside, no sign of Aubrey. They walked out front, passing those neighbours who'd emerged to form groups, huddling together and speculating wildly.

'Is it Isis?' said a teenage girl, clinging to her mother.

They turned the corner, heading for the lift.

'I can't hear you,' Jack said, even though Charlie hadn't spoken.

They rode down to ground level, walked out to find the forecourt bustling, a random array of vans, cars and people, most of them police, who Charlie guessed were responding to a possible mugging when some kind of explosive device was triggered. A few moments later, an armed response team pulled up in a red Beamer, adding an extra frisson, as if the situation wasn't combustible enough already. From the walkways above, some of the younger residents either saluted or admonished their arrival. Charlie couldn't tell which, only that for all the disquiet there was a definite undercurrent of excitement, of something memorable happening at last. He watched as those policemen carrying semi-automatic carbines liaised with the other officers, so busy assessing the threat they hadn't noticed Charlie or Jack, who, if they got lucky, might be mistaken for a pair of innocent bystanders.

Then Jack said, 'I don't feel so good,' and projectile vomited with such impetus he got a cheer from the gallery, an unidentified object bouncing off the roof of a patrol car.

'Hey!' Charlie shouted, a policewoman already making her way towards them. 'Someone call an ambulance.'

'You alright there?' said the woman, not even thirty, a tear-shaped birthmark under one eye. She bent down to lend some comfort to Jack, before looking up at Charlie with an appropriate mix of guarded humanity, tolerant mistrust.

'What's happened to you, then?'

Charlie forced a smile, the only weapon left in his arsenal.

Where to begin, eh, lad?

# 21

The lawyer was an energetic young posh bloke called David. The first thing David did was talk Charlie out of making a full confession, helping him construct a carefully worded document painting a broad-stokes picture of a damaged kid, raised in a broken, unloving home (actually, Charlie didn't think his home had been any more 'broken' than anyone else's, but by then David was pretty much unstoppable). He also 'strongly' advised Charlie to stop talking about the supposed smuggling ring operating out of Brize Norton. The police were investigating, but so far there'd been no evidence to support his claims.

'What about James Ashby?' Charlie said. 'Seriously, talk to him about it.'

Pretty soon, though, Charlie gave up asking, understanding at last that people wanted to believe he and Ashby had acted alone.

Unconnected incidents.

Easier that way.

Besides, Charlie had bigger problems looming.

A possible four-to-five-year prison stretch, to be exact.

Which had to be a mistake, although not according to David, who managed to look as depressed as Charlie felt while explaining the charge 'assault with a deadly weapon'.

They were in the kitchen at Jack's mum's place, where Charlie had been sheltering for several days, hiding from everyone except the police, who knew exactly where he was at all times. He'd been staying in Jack's old room, half-expecting him or Shira to appear at any moment, no matter how conspicuous their absence.

Which was probably for the best.

When you thought about it.

What would they have talked about anyway?

'It wasn't a deadly weapon,' Charlie told David, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. 'It was a stun grenade.'

'Look, the thing to remember is that it won't be five years. In all likelihood, you'll serve half that.'

'What, like, two years?'

'Quite probably, yes.'

So Charlie signed the document, was convicted soon after, sent down on a judge's remand, anything from four to six months to find out the length of his actual sentence. Shortly before he was taken away he was offered a small reprieve: surgery on his knee, followed by three days laid up in the Royal London Hospital. Jack's mum Carol was his only visitor. He wouldn't have minded, but the old man in the next bed was often surrounded by family and other enthusiastic well-wishers, yet complained non-stop about how neglected he was.

Then, one afternoon, Carol ushered in Charlie's real mum, announcing her at the absolute last second, practically whipping the curtain away and shouting 'Ta-da!' It took a moment to replace the memory with the woman now standing before him. Older, with new hair, but still basically the same. Same petrified smile, those long, crimson nails as mortifying as ever.

She cried for most of it, blubbering into a nearby stack of paper towels, as if she were the one about to be locked away, only rapists and lunatics for company.

'Ma, it's fine,' he kept saying, expecting at any moment an apology for the lack of phone calls or birthday cards. The kind of meaningful closure everyone wants, but so few get, Charlie included. What he got was an extended diatribe against the latest ex-boyfriend, her employer, all of whom were to blame for the sorry state of her life.

She also had money problems, the bailiffs due any day now.

'Bright side, been to DA. Go whenever I can make it. Tuesdays and Fridays, mostly.'

'DA?' Charlie said.

'Debtors Anonymous. Feels good, you know? To know other people are going through the same. Or worse. Some of them you wouldn't believe. How'd they get away with it so long, that's what I wanna know.'

Charlie thought about the money he'd left back at Jack's place that fateful night. Confiscated by the police? If so, they'd forgotten to mention it. He could have paid his mum's creditors. Or better yet, his legal bills, which Jack's mum had volunteered to foot, and which he knew from eavesdropping on her phone conversations had driven Shira into an industrious and possibly lifelong fury, at least as far as he was concerned.

'See you, son,' his mum said, leaving less than thirty minutes later. 'I'll be in touch, promise. You be a good boy, and everything'll be alright. You'll see. All the best, now.'

He nodded, as though everything she'd just said was true, and not a drastic oversimplification of a much more complicated issue.

'All the best, Ma.'

After visiting hours, the ward was quiet, calmer than before, patients reading or watching TV, its inane chatter a reminder that there was a world beyond these walls, and if you could hurry up and get well you could rejoin it again.

Not so Charlie.

The weight of expectation was bearing down. Soon it'd be too much to take, and if that happened he was afraid he might dissolve into nothing. Because he wasn't going to make it. Knew it in his bones. Wouldn't last a month on the inside, never mind two to three years.

He reached out, pulled the curtain across, unable to stop the tears, hoping instead to purge himself of all weakness, to become an emotionless husk, impervious to the external forces of everyday oppression.

Only that was the problem.

His eyes were wide open, and now they'd seen life as it really was he couldn't close them again, regardless of how much he might wish to.

They took him down on a cold, featureless morning, loading him into the back of a steel van, its walls inscribed by those convicts who had gone before, none of whom had anything profound or supportive to say. Except, that was, for one, a slogan so small and low to the floor he had to lean forward to make it out:

Time is an illusion.

About to test this particular theory, he was, nevertheless, buoyed by the thought that whoever had written it clearly wasn't some brain-dead psychopath. A small glimmer of hope that, sadly, wasn't to last. Upon arrival, he was brought into a reception area packed to breaking point with new prisoners all waiting to be processed. Why was no one keeping order? Panic rising, he held on, waiting until it was his turn to be cavity searched as the men around him, mostly young, seemingly fearless, asked him what he was in for, or if he had any 'burn', which he guessed meant tobacco. He maintained eye contact, but never for longer than a second, while attempting to convey without words that he wouldn't be pushed around.

As for the part of him that was crying, shaking like a scared little boy, he learned in those few minutes to hate and belittle that guy, before burying him completely. He met the staff, who called him by his second name, then the six-digit number he'd just become, and would remain until the moment of his release. After being photographed, fingerprinted and given a uniform he telephoned Jack's mum to tell her he was okay.

When he'd done that he was shown to his cell.

'Induction starts in an hour,' the guard said, locking the door behind him, leaving Charlie to face his cellmate. Smoking on the top bunk, he swung his legs over and dropped to the floor. Charlie had already told himself he'd fight if he had to, but staring into the dead, obdurate eyes of a lifer, he felt what little strength he had left drain away, flowing from his body, leaving him hollow and useless.

'Alright?' said the guy, middle-aged with an Irish accent. 'I'm Ronan. Yourself?'

'Charlie. Charlie Wetherspoon.'

'You alright with the bottom bunk there, Charlie?'

'Yeah, fine.'

'Good. Now, we're gonna be spending a lot of time together, you and I,' Ronan said, resuming his original position up on a thin, withered mattress. 'Close to twenty-three hours a day some days. So, you'll forgive me if I don't ask your life story straight off. No offence, like.'

'None taken.'

'Good man. You can watch TV if you want. I'd just ask you to keep the volume down while I'm reading. That okay with you?'

'I can watch TV?'

'Course you can. You're in prison, not Guantanamo frickin' Bay.'

Later, Charlie discovered that Ronan was a small-time fraudster, caught running a series of scams against several major credit-card companies. He was on an indeterminate sentence, and as such should have been released several years ago, but due to chronic overcrowding and a lack of resources generally his case was yet to be assessed. Charlie found the injustice of this genuinely shocking. He was also extremely grateful. Ronan was no cold-blooded nihilist, or even much of a braggart, although there was no shortage of them on the wing. Convicts, Charlie soon learned, liked nothing more than to boast about all the money they'd made, all the money they were going to make, as if a stint at Her Majesty's pleasure was nothing more than a minor detour on the road to unprecedented financial gain.

But more than anything, prison was about keeping to yourself.

After induction, Charlie signed up for classes in English Lit and Sociology. He got a job washing dishes in the kitchen, almost glad of the mindless repetition, the hours taken up scrubbing pots and pans, the hundreds of serving trays. He spoke to no one but Ronan, and soon received no visitors, talking to Jack's mum on the telephone every other week, until eventually he didn't make that call again, knowing he didn't really need to any more. He began to read the newspapers, one after the next, which passed the time, especially on those days when he was only let out for an hour or less, jogging around the yard, watching as bottles of whisky and other contraband were tossed over the walls in plain view of the guards, who must, he thought, be getting a cut of the action.

Not that he cared.

Another day, he came out of class, saw the stairs had been sprayed with blood, the full Jackson Pollock, but as his fellow students stopped to stare, gorged on their own conjecture, he kept right on walking.

None of his business.

Then, for seemingly no apparent reason, Ronan started scoring smack, offering it to Charlie, who said no, not because he didn't want any, but because it was well-known skagheads were the most volatile element at work inside any correctional facility. Over the next few days, Ronan went on to make a pretty convincing case, something about how, even if other people turned into junkies who couldn't support their habit, there were valid reasons why that wouldn't happen to them.

After smoking some, Charlie couldn't have agreed more.

Decided that it didn't matter anyway, because to feel such love/hope/optimism all grouped together in one glorious, liberating rush was worth just about any outcome, no matter how inevitable.

The altercation, when it finally arrived, was over in seconds. They were coming back from the canteen when words were exchanged, a skinny addict called Sayid squaring up to Ronan, who flew into an immediate, and to Charlie's mind, disproportionate rage. The world quickly erupted into a volley of punching, kicking and shouting, Charlie clearing a path through the melee, dragging Ronan with him, who seemed intent on resolving the matter there and then, or at least communicating his complete lack of concern.

The guards rounded the corner a moment later, the inmates dividing into shoals, impossible to account for.

'I'm gonna kill that prick,' Ronan declared, when they were back in their cell, pulling his stash from under the insole of his trainer.

Charlie put his fingers to his face, his eye tender to the touch, his vision on that side cloudy and limited.

'Shit, man. Caught you a good one,' Ronan said, wincing. 'Bet you didn't even feel it, though, did you? Anyway, we'll get 'em back, don't you worry. Little gobshite steps to me? Last mistake he ever fuckin' made, man.'

The following afternoon, Charlie was escorted into the Visitors' Centre, hi-vis vest over his tracksuit, his left eye socket the colour and texture of an overripe plum. Unlike other prisoners, he didn't enjoy or anticipate the hour spent making small talk, surrounded by screaming kids, the wives and girlfriends always bitching about money, being left to fend for themselves. These days he'd rather read, study or work out. If he wanted to talk, he'd see a therapist, which, as ex-military, he'd already been encouraged to do, part of a support network for those who'd served their country before finding themselves on the wrong side of the law.

Not for him, though.

They hadn't listened before, so why start now?

He crossed the hall, past the soothing foliage, the children's play area. At the far side, fingers drumming nervously on the Formica, was Radford. He looked exactly the same, something Charlie found mildly surprising. A few days earlier, when the request had come through, his initial reaction had been to ignore it. Better to stay focused. Due to be sentenced in a few weeks (he'd already done three months), he had to find a way to accept what he already knew was going to be really, really bad news.

Unless...

What if Radford had information about the case, something about Ashby or the smuggling ring?

Surely he wasn't just checking in.

That would be unforgivable.

'Looks nasty,' Radford said, nodding at Charlie's shiner.

'Goes with the territory,' Charlie told him, sitting down opposite.

'That kind of thing happen a lot, does it?'

'Not as much as you might think. My own fault really.'

Radford nodded, seemed to search for the words.

'So how are you? You know, generally.'

'That a trick question?'

'Right. Of course. Stupid of me.'

'Listen, Radford. I'm not being funny, but if you're just here to chit-chat, I got better things to do. Like go hang myself in my cell.'

'Okay, look,' Radford coughed. 'Just bear with me, okay? Seeing you, it's stirred up some old feelings. I mean, Christ, after everything that happened...'

'I don't wanna talk about it.'

'It still doesn't seem real, you know? For Angus to be, you know, taken like that. In front of his own home. And the funeral? My God, it was a nightmare. Just a total nightmare. I had to give the fucking eulogy.'

'Look, thanks for coming,' Charlie said. 'Seriously. But, the thing is, I got an essay due in tomorrow. Discuss explanations of institutional aggression. Or something. So, all the best, yeah? Maybe I'll see you around.'

Charlie got to his feet, Radford reaching out suddenly, grabbing him by the sleeve, saying, 'Just, please. Just sit down, alright? You're going to want to hear this, believe me.'

Charlie thought about punching him in the face, but a nearby guard took an interest, his thick brow dropping.

'Easy, yeah?' Charlie muttered. He shook Radford off, taking his chair again. 'You'll ruin my image.'

'Sorry. I just want to talk to you, okay? It's important.'

Radford reached for his satchel, producing a file which he placed on the table before them. Inside were a few loose photographs, some papers headed Department of Professional Standards.

'I shouldn't even have these,' Radford said, scanning the room. 'Then I got searched on the way in here...'

'My heart bleeds.'

'Alright. Just take a look at this picture, alright? This one here. Just take your time, tell me if you've seen him before, okay?'

Charlie looked at the still, recognising one of the white guys from the flat in East Dulwich, thinking about how long ago that felt, like something that had happened to an entirely different person.

'Yeah, so?'

Staring intently, Radford cleared his throat. 'So you've seen him before? That what you're saying?'

'That's Fabien's mate. His, you know, muscle, or whatever. A right charmer.'

'Right. So, just so I understand. You mean the drug dealer you sold heroin to? You're saying the man in this photograph, you're saying that's him?'

'One of them, yeah.'

'And you're sure about that?'

'Course I'm sure. Not a face you forget in a hurry. I mean, look at him.'

'Okay.' Radford selected a second photograph, placed it on top of the first. 'What about this one?'

The next snap was a continuation of the first, same brickwork location, but featuring the other white guy, the one with longer hair and heavier stubble.

Charlie nodded, shrugged. 'Yeah, he was there too. I never did get their names.'

'The other drug dealer, you mean?'

'Yeah. Look, what is this? Couple of Avon Barksdales, but so what? No shortage of them in the world. No shortage of them in here, either.'

Radford leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. 'Charlie, these aren't drug dealers. This is Liam Goff and Sean Long. These two are drug-squad officers. As in undercover. As in CID.'

'Liam Goff? I know that guy. That's the guy who was calling my mobile.'

'Then it all makes sense. See, when you sold them those drugs they were already suspended, under investigation for corruption and for the murder of some kid, some low-level dealer in Hounslow. Charlie, these two have a history of strong-arming local pushers and keeping the profits for themselves. So just think about it, okay? James Ashby is caught, he's potentially going to give up Geddis and Baker, and if they give up Fabien, he gives up Goff and Long, who'll be exposed for buying Class A drugs from military personnel, and never once reporting it to their superiors. And you saw them, witnessed them doing exactly what they've been accused of, and not even on the job any more. Not a leg to stand on, basically.'

'So, they came after me for that?'

'You, Baker. Maybe Geddis, too. I think they took out a contract. Hired a professional to get it done property. The two detectives I've been talking to both agree that whoever killed Angus had all the hallmarks of what they call a 'master'. Apparently hitmen fall into one of four different categories: novice, journeyman, dilettante and master. You want a master, you pay the big money. Usually ex-military. Anyway, it all fits. Because if Goff and Long do get charged they're looking at serious prison time. They also think they've got a few million in stolen drug-money stashed somewhere. Offshore accounts, probably. I mean, we're talking high-level corruption, here.'

Charlie stared back at Radford, taking it all in.

The cops.

He should have guessed.

'Yeah, but are they gonna get put away? Like, for real. For what they did to Angus? Or are they gonna get away with it, same as always?'

'They will if we don't do something. You and I, Charlie. You and I.'

Charlie kept his eyes on the ground. 'What am I gonna do? Because I don't know if you noticed, but I'm out of circulation. I'm looking at another two years, minimum.'

'Look, I might not be able to get you out of here,' Radford said, gripping the edge of the table. 'But I can write your book. In fact, I already pitched to some publishers, and they loved it. Went mad for it, actually. I mean, "true crime", that's their bread and butter. And this has got it all: corruption, murder, a genuine conspiracy. So it's all decided. Thought I better check in with you first, though, make sure you're up for the challenge. You are still up for it, right?'

'What about the second source?' Charlie said.

Radford waved his arm dismissively. 'These guys don't care about that. A story this good? Anyway, you're the source, Charlie. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You're the source.'

'I'll do it on one condition.'

'Of course. Anything.'

'We dedicate it to Angus.'

'Goes without saying,' Radford said. 'And I'll need to interview you extensively. We'll need to go over everything. Really build our case.'

Charlie had a thought, something that might help.

He pointed to his eye. 'The guys who gave me this, guess what they said.'

'What did they say?'

'They said, "This is from the Royal Highland Fusiliers.'''

'Really?'

Charlie nodded. 'That's right.'

'That's James Ashby's old platoon, right?'

'You got it.'

'How interesting. You know, Ashby, he never said a word. Never gave up anyone, but he must have known something. Something to bargain with.'

'Maybe someone got to him,' Charlie shrugged.

'What, someone from his own outfit?'

'Maybe. I still think the military know a lot more about this than they're letting on.'

'Wouldn't surprise me,' Radford agreed. 'Wouldn't surprise me at all. Anyway, that's good. Good stuff. Anything like that we can use, okay?'

'But we make those fuckers pay. For what they did.'

'Charlie, that's the only reason I'm here. And let me say this. When we publish, it's going to be a big deal. There'll be controversy, sure, although that just means more publicity. But there'll be tough questions. Media interest, feathers ruffled. By the time we're done, we'll have made quite an impression, I can promise you that.'

For the remainder of his visit, Radford explained his vision in more detail, in what for Charlie was very much an out-of-body experience. This was partly because he barely recognised the young man being talked about, the crazy things he'd seen and done. But also because he seemed to float away from himself, as though a tether had been cut, allowing him to look down on the Visitors' Centre, unencumbered by the weight of insignificance or obscurity.

In fact, by the time he and Radford shook hands, arranging to meet again in two weeks' time, Charlie was feeling more like his old self, only with added depth, the sense that he was about to channel hitherto untapped rivers of raw potential. He was taken back to his cell, where Ronan was blissed out on skag, planning his revenge against Sayid, his now mortal enemy. He offered Charlie the powder, who accepted, touching flame to foil without a moment's hesitation. Because he wasn't like Ronan. Neither could he be contained by a mere prison. No matter what they threw at him he would endure, safe in the knowledge that, in a couple of years, when freedom came, his legacy would already be written, and it would be better than anything he could possibly imagine, even the ticker-tape parade currently roaming the corridors of his mind, the motorcade taking in some unnamed city as people cheered and waved, and a tiny Australian girl clung to his arm, a lifetime of admiration shining in her eyes.

