‘Where else can I get all the Nortons together somewhere I’ll be armed? Where there will already be bullets flying? You’ve said yourself that they’re very rarely even in the same country together, let alone the same place.’

‘You’re walking into the lion’s den.’

‘I’m already in the lion’s den. And anyway, I’m one of the lions, mate.’

‘Are you telling me that? Or are you trying to tell yourself?’

Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

‘French Foreign Legion, sir,’ said Kennedy.

Kennedy was dressed in his regulation polo shirt and pressed jeans. His boss, Ross Norton, wore baggy surf shorts and a similarly outsized T-shirt. He trailed behind Kennedy like a naughty school kid reluctantly taken on holiday by his parents. He was hungover, having partied into the early hours, and was very keen on banishing that hangover by working on another one. The last place he wanted to be was anywhere that featured loud bangs, which meant that the last place he wanted to be was at this shooting range in Zurich. However, Kennedy had insisted, and Kennedy, of course, could be very insistent indeed.

The bangs were getting louder, making Norton wince. At the same time, he was wondering about the significance of the words ‘French Foreign Legion’. Presumably, since it involved loud bangs and shooting, this was something to do with his late father’s contest, which, while admittedly was diverting fun and the essence of an excellent future anecdote, wasn’t, if he was being totally honest with himself, something that he was taking especially seriously.

Ross wanted to win, of course he did. But at the same time there was something in him, something not in his nature, but rather in his nurture, that was programmed to accept loss. A legacy, no doubt, of the family games that he had grown up playing. Games that were always, but always, characterised by his grandfather’s relentless competitiveness. The Nortons were not a family that might go easy on the little ones or let them win in order to build their self-esteem. A generation removed, Ross and Simon grew accustomed to being on the losing side. Theirs was a childhood characterised by loss. An upbringing in which they were constantly reminded of the shame of losing, where coming second was second best while at the same time almost constantly placed in that position. One-on-one, Ross would beat his little brother at whatever games they played, whether it had been football or tennis in the garden, or KerPlunk in the playroom, so at least Ross had that.

Simon? Simon never stood a chance.

No wonder he had turned out the way he had.