After Roth had gone, Ben stood for a minute watching the ocean waves heave and crash, until he felt so exhausted that he crawled off to the spare room and curled up in bed, too tired to undress, his mind swirling with thoughts that he wanted to shut out.

As he lay there he could hear the steady, soft snoring coming through the wall. Roth might be sound asleep next door, but Ben lay awake most of the night as the storm lashed at the island. Sometime before dawn, he drifted off and began to dream.

Chapter 35

It’s been a long afternoon at the dusty roadside. A ragged column of civilian traffic moves slowly through the heat haze and comes to a bottleneck as it reaches the military checkpoint up ahead. A man wearing a long robe and a chequered red keffiyeh is leading a camel along on the end of a rope. A wizened older man is driving a makeshift cart with truck wheels pulled by a donkey. A group of women and children are hurrying nervously along the road, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. The children are aged between about three and ten and walking single-file daisy chain with linked hands; the women are clad from head to toe in black with only their hands and faces showing. The hot, dry air is rank with the Iraqi civilians’ fear and tension.

All around, as far as the eye can see, the landscape is flat and arid, baked to the same uniform colour-washed hue by the relentless sun. A few low, crude block buildings stand in the distance, where some desiccated-looking chickens scratch about in the dirt and a dog is barking.

Formations of military Land Rover Defenders and US Army Humvees flank the roadside, filmed with dirt and sand and overlooked by a battle-scarred M1 Abrams tank whose turret gunner is hunkered down behind his Browning fifty-cal, watching the scene with an indifferent expression. A mixed unit of Coalition forces are stopping the traffic and checking people’s papers, inspecting cars, pickup trucks, carts and saddle-bags for anything suspicious before waving them on their way. Pedestrians have to be frisked, which is done with great caution, especially with the Muslim women and girls, so as to cause as little offence to the civilian population as possible.

The soldiers’ battledress is worn from hard use, day in and day out. Their weapons are scuffed and their eyes are grim and weary. Nobody wants to be here, any more than the civilians appreciate their presence.