‘But …’ He looked up, crestfallen, through the black wells of his eyes. ‘But we’re in this together, right? You helped me and I helped you.’ He looked at the screens, and around the room. ‘Am helping you. Max and Baaz. Sounds good, doesn’t it?’

‘No, Baaz. It doesn’t. I know everything feels OK now, safe and warm up here – no one fucking with us, no one trying to kick the door in. No one trying to kill us. Last night already seems like a crazy dream, right? A great story to tell your mates about one day.’

His shoulders sagged again. There was something about him I couldn’t put my finger on. It was the same feeling I’d had in the catacombs, something not quite right about him. His responses weren’t … normal. No one rational survives a firefight only to turn around once it’s over and beg to get stuck in again – no one except the Paras and the legally sane psychos that swelled the ranks of Special Forces. And he was neither a red beret nor a psychopath, of that much I was sure.

‘But it’s not some story,’ I continued. ‘It’s really fucking serious. We got out of those tunnels by the skin of our teeth. Believe me, I’ve been in the shit before. Deep in it. But no matter how bad it gets, it can always get worse.’

My voice had got louder, imploring him to listen. But I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know. Young men infected with romantic notions about adventure can do wildly dangerous things. I knew. I’d been one myself. We were both standing up now. He looked away, struggling to find the words he wanted.

‘I don’t want to tell my mates,’ he said quietly, staring first at the ceiling and then at the floor. ‘I don’t have any mates to tell, anyway. I am twenty-two years old. My father is in prison in Chandigarh, and my mother never leaves the house – which is worse than being in bloody prison. My cousins think I’m a freak because I can do maths, and my brothers think I’m …’ he summoned the word with difficulty, ‘a traitor because I’m not interested in any of their nationalist Khalistan nonsense. I’m supposed to be doing this bloody master’s degree, but my professor is actually retarded, I can hardly speak enough French to order a meal, never mind get laid, and the only person I’ve had to stay is a bloody Irish spook, or whatever the hell you are.’

‘OK,’ I said. It was hard not to smile. ‘You’ve been very brave, and I’m very grateful, but …’

‘But I thought we were friends,’ he cut in. The fingers on both his hands were drumming the air now, as if typing reams of unseen digits on an invisible keyboard. ‘We are friends, aren’t we?’