Carl’s other hand goes to the chest pocket of his white shirt, pulls out a packet of cigarettes. He flicks his wrist and one pops out of the top. He gestures towards me with it.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Wise man.’ He puts the end in his mouth and returns the pack to his shirt pocket and rummages for matches or a lighter. I notice that the back part of his hand is blotched with white scarring that disappears up the inside of his sleeve. He sees me looking at it.

‘Battle scars,’ he says. ‘Burns.’ Unbuttoning his cuff, Carl rolls up his sleeve to reveal the blanched and hairless flesh rising in a series of angry ridges and ripples up the length of his arm. There are places where the muscles seem wasted away. There’s a kind of crater in his forearm. You can see the gap between the bones. ‘They did this to me. Afghanistan.’

I’d seen this kind of injury before. At the big funeral for Dad and the other victims, there had been survivors of previous attacks who had spoken to us afterwards.

‘It was an IED,’ Carl continues. ‘You know what that is?’

Yes, I know. Improvised Explosive Device. I nod.

‘Of course you know. It was by the roadside, hidden in a kid’s toy. Our unit were passing when it went off. A fucking kid’s toy. That’s sick, isn’t it? I was at the front, a way past it. Everything went black then I woke up under a pile of rubble a few minutes later. Some of the unit weren’t so lucky though. I got these trying to pull them clear.’ He rolls his sleeve back down, re-buttons the cuff.

The goods train jerks itself into movement, pulling slowly away and out of town.

‘When Dana told me who you were, after I’d hit you, I felt guilty. I know what you’ve been through. I’ve lost people too. To them.’

I hear the crackle of Carl’s cigarette tip and he inhales deeply. He breathes out slowly, a thin line of smoke disappearing into the middle distance of the housing estate below us.

‘For a little while, Josh, I didn’t know what to do. Then I found something. I’m telling you this because you know how it is, don’t you? You know that anger, that heat? I can help you. Give you a way of living with it. A way to do something with it. A way to honour your dad’s memory.’

‘Excuse me, you can’t smoke here.’ It’s a woman’s voice. We both turn as she walks towards us from a door at the back of the garage. ‘This is a garage, there’s petrol here and gas cylinders in that cage over there. You can’t smoke here.’