‘The storm killed him.’

‘Oh, come on. I knew what I was doing, luring him to the top of the mountain, using the knife to attract the lightning. He was human just enough to feel hate, but not enough to realise the danger. I killed him for certain.’

‘Do you regret it?’

‘Not now. Not today, and probably not tomorrow. Ask me next week, next month, next year if either of us is still around by then. My grandfather – have I told you about my grandfather?’

‘A bit, but go on.’

‘He was too young to join the army in the Second World War, but he did it anyway, lied about his age, fought for six years against the Japanese, got a chestful of medals, came home and …’ Communal violence, neighbour turning on neighbour. Partition, fleeing in the dark with his parents, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, brothers and sisters, and when the light of that first day dawned, it rose on fewer of them than had left. Refugees, relying on the kindness of strangers. Immigrants, in what should have been the Mother Country, but it was a cold love. ‘Eventually I happened. I remember him as this fiercely proud, deeply religious, honourable, dependable man, that even when it took all his strength to get up out of his wheelchair, he’d stand to attention as if he was still a child playing at soldiers.’

‘He sounds like a right handful.’

‘He was – drove my mum mad. If you’d asked him if it had all been worth it, he would have said yes. But he would have said it while remembering all the friends he’d lost, all the men he’d killed, all the suffering, all the fear, all the cruelty and callousness. I never said anything to him, but I did used to wonder if he really thought it had been worth it. He had nightmares, not every night; enough of them, though, that I knew about them. Stanislav? It was a thing that had to be done. Bell? Better leave it undone and make a mistake. We’re talking about killing: you can’t take it back.’

When his grandfather had died, those few of his compatriots left, who’d served with him and who’d also made their homes in Britain, gathered together at his house. They’d made a curious group, telling their stories, moustaches bristling, beards white as snow, turbans bright and tall. For brief moments, they shifted from little old men, coloured ribbons signifying past battles, to lions, fierce and terrifying, kirpans like claws, banners held high. The little children running around their legs knew nothing of war but its glamour and finery, even though they were both war’s legacy and its future combatants.