Now it came back to him. Abbott could remember being at the bar. That’s right – he and the other bloke had been swapping sob stories and talking about football. At least that’s what Abbott had thought at the time. But somehow, and for reasons that remained a mystery, the conversation had taken a nasty turn. The kind of voices-raised, kicking-back-of-stools turn that had Nigel the world-weary landlord pointing in the direction of the fire door. ‘Right, you two. Out!’

And now here they were, gone from being best new buddies to mortal enemies in the space of a heartbeat.

‘Leave it, will you?’ repeated Abbott. ‘Put down the blade. Let’s go back in, have another drink.’

But the other man was red-faced, eyes streaming, still in his angry-drunk phase, attacking not Abbott but an idea of him – Abbott as an avatar of a world that had clearly abandoned him – and he raced forward, the knife held like a bayonet.

At the last second, Abbott saw what it was. A butter knife. And whether it was that sudden revelation, the complete ineptness of the whole thing, or more likely, because he was also very drunk and had been drunk for weeks, his reaction was slow, and the knife, yes, just a bit of cutlery, but still a knife, nicked his cheek and sent him off balance.

He tried to find his centre of gravity, attempting to summon whatever vestiges of SF training were left in his drink-sodden, pain-ridden head, but found his combat instinct AWOL, staggering to one knee and finding there was no fight left in him.

Instead, what he felt was . . .

Exhaustion. A fatigue that was as much mental as it was physical. As much driven by demons within as it was by the alcohol he used to try and silence them. He looked up to see his opponent, who instead of returning to finish his job had dropped the knife, braced himself against the wall and was throwing up, a copious, lager-rich spew.

Abbott, on one knee like an ardent suitor, and knowing he deserved no better, felt the vomit rain down around him.

‘Do you know what? You’re a right couple of fackin’ twats,’ barked Nigel the landlord, glowering at them from the back door. ‘And you’re both barred.’

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Two boys playing in a field. Abbott and his brother Chris. The river, not deep, but still, they’d been warned to stay away by their worried parents.

Abbott calling for his brother. ‘Chris! Chris!’

This image intertwining with another. This one of a young man dying in a desert, Abbott kneeling over him, watching his son slip away, the light leaving his eyes.

Nathan. Son. Don’t go.

And then, like a man escaping the clutches of hellspawn, Abbott wrenched himself from the dream and into the waking world.

And decided that frankly the nightmare was preferable.