He finishes the water, stares round at the crash mats and notices the head guards and boxing gloves have moved. Maybe Malcolm and Konrad had some fun last night. Either that or Safa and Harry came out for a few more rounds after he turned in. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t care.

‘Put this on when we go outside,’ she says, handing him a black cotton baseball cap. ‘Keep the sun off your face.’

‘Stop mithering him,’ Harry mutters, tucking into his cheesy-feet marrow and looking ridiculous with his baseball cap perched on the back of his head.

‘Mind yourself,’ she says in a biting tone, but Harry just shrugs and carries on eating like nothing was said and if Ben gave a shit he’d notice the dynamics of their trio are changing.

‘Both of you go outside, I’ll be out in a minute.’

Ben follows Harry through the doors and corridors. Outside the view is as glorious as before.

‘Up there,’ Harry says. Ben follows his line of vision to the sky above and several of the flying creatures they saw bursting from the forest canopy the day before yesterday. Shit. This is the third day here already. No, the fourth. They were drugged for a day or two so it could even be the fifth day. Five days away from home. Five days of being dead. Have they had the funeral yet? Do they have funerals without a body? I think they do. Like symbolic or something. Steph must be in pieces. His parents too. Steph was having an affair. Christ, that thought hurts deep in his gut, a pain that will never go away. Is five days too late to go back? He could say he was knocked out and crawling about the tunnels in the Underground for a few days. They’d believe it.

‘Give me a hand, one of you,’ Safa says, pushing through the door carrying the black gun bag in one hand and a large, stainless steel flask in the other with three steel mugs hanging from her fingers. Harry goes over, taking the flask and cups to the table while she grimaces and tugs the black bag off her shoulder.

‘I’m aching a bit,’ she says. ‘You?’ she asks Harry.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Coffee?’

‘It is,’ she says. ‘No milk though . . . and no sugar either.’

‘Fine by me,’ he replies, lifting the flask to inspect the outside. ‘This is clever.’

‘You didn’t have flasks back then?’

‘Not like this.’ He unscrews the top and sniffs the contents with his eyes showing his appreciation of the aroma.

‘I’m pissing Roland off,’ she says conversationally, watching Harry pour the black liquid into the mugs. ‘He’s got no idea,’ she adds, ‘completely no idea of what he’s doing. He’s asked me three times since yesterday when we’ll be ready.’

‘And?’ Harry asks.