Tomorrow, they’d probably have the press to deal with. From inside the barrier, around teatime, had come the noise of machine-gun fire. That had dismayed the men. Machine-guns were the ultimate taboo for the private soldier, and the thought that they might be being used in there on civilians… Wrightson had walked round the barrier in the last hour, having a word with all the sentries shivering in their oilskins.

There was still, of course, the matter of composing a letter about Torrence.

A new figure appeared on the darkening road, a bicyclist in a long mac. He hopped off as Wrightson looked up, and wandered over to the van. He had a centre-parting and a grin that had been utterly unperturbed by the rain.

‘What’s going on, Major?’

Wrightson was pleased that somebody had recognized his rank. ‘The area’s been sealed off, sir. Nobody in or out, I’m afraid.’

‘But I live in Farringham. I’d just cycled over to see my aunt in Shellhampton. Not only that, I’m due to address a meeting in town tonight.’

‘Sorry, you’d best make provisions to stay somewhere else for the night. How are you fixed for accommodation?’

‘That’s all right, I can just go back to my auntie. You can’t tell me what this is all about, I suppose?’

Wrightson shook his head. He hadn’t been able to think of a story that wouldn’t cause a mass panic. ‘What’s this meeting of yours, anyway?’

‘Labour group. I’m Richard Hadleman, hopefully the next MP for this town. Hello.’

Hadleman shook Wrightson’s hand.

‘You’ll have some hope, won’t you? No cotton mills in there.’

‘Plenty of underpaid farm-hands and shop boys, though. Here, have one of our leaflets.’ Hadleman reached into his satchel and produced one of the newly printed red pamphlets.

Wrightson smiled at it. ‘The Ten Commandments Of Socialism? Won’t please the clergy, will it?’

‘The opiate of the masses, according to Marx.’ Hadleman smiled, but, seeing Wrightson’s frown, he became serious. ‘Anyway, I’m not here to win votes. If you can’t tell me what’s going on, can you at least tell me when it’ll stop?’

‘I’m afraid not. Out of my hands, rather.’

‘Sure. Tell you what, if you chaps would like it, I can have my aunt send over a pot of stew and some whisky.’

Wrightson nodded. ‘Thanks, but hold the whisky.’

‘Oh, so it’s that sort of⁠ —’

From the town, there came the sound of an explosion. Wrightson leaned out of the van window and called to the soldier standing by the barrier to his left. ‘Position and weapon!’

‘Position and weapon!’ called the soldier to his comrade near by.

Hadleman listened as the call was repeated into the distance. ‘That wasn’t a shell or a grenade.’

‘No,’ Wrightson muttered, and then turned to Hadleman in surprise. ‘How did you⁠ —’