Of course he knew he encouraged it. He put himself on display, and by putting himself on display, he fairly volunteered for exclusion. The civilian world was becoming another country. He didn’t quite belong here any more – and yet he didn’t quite belong in the army, either. He was too sensitive; he could do tough, when it was required, but it was always a bit of an act. Even the cigarettes he smoked after dinner in the mess felt like props. Same as being mixed-race, Chris thought morosely: Japanese in England, English in Japan…

Two boys were blocking his way, leaning on the bar and sipping at their pints of Guinness.

‘Excuse me,’ Chris said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I think—’

‘No, excuse me,’ said taller boy, boldly impersonating Chris’s plummy vowels. ‘I am most terribly sorry.’ He had a tidemark of foam on his upper lip. They shuffled over to make room for Chris, the short one laughing sycophantically at his companion’s joke.

No, thought Chris as he ordered, it had not been a good night. He had a growing suspicion that he’d made himself ridiculous to Tamsin in the flat; and just now he had surely offended her with that stupid story about Dave Gaskin.

(As it happened, Tamsin wasn’t at all bothered by the talk about masturbation. Her objection to Will’s question had been entirely arbitrary, an expression of her general frustration with the evening. For no very good reason, she felt cross, with Callum, with Chris, with herself; so for no very good reason, she got angry with Will.)

‘That’ll be twenny-six-sixty,’ the barman told him.

‘Really?’ Chris was surprised; he had never been much good with numbers. ‘Hang on, I might have to give you most of that in change…’

‘London prices, eh?’ said the barman, conspiratorially. ‘It’s the Peroni what does it, that’s four pound fifty a pint.’

‘Really?’ Chris said again, contorting his torso as he strained to access the more remote corners of his jeans pockets.

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

‘Well, not exactly.’ Chris wondered if this was going to be one of those ‘No-but-what-country-do-you-really-come-from’ conversations. ‘I’m living near Salisbury at the moment.’

‘I knew it!’ The barman was triumphant. ‘Takes one to know one, but honestly, that haircut – dead giveaway every time. You must be, what, Rifles? or is it Paras? And with a posh voice like that … Captain?’ This last speculation was made entirely without malice or resentment.

‘I wish,’ Chris grinned. ‘Still very much a crow-bag second lieutenant, though.’

Well, you should try being a crow-bag private, sir,’ joked the barman. ‘Fusiliers,’ he added, with pride.

Chris looked at the barman more closely. Early forties, certainly no older than forty-five. ‘Gulf War?’ he asked, holding out a palm-full of coins and notes.

The barman nodded. ‘That’s right. Best years of my life.’