‘Everyone knows you ain’t the soldier you used to be. All the lads at camp have been saying the same thing. They reckon you’ve got sloppy. Turning up late for briefings, losing bits of kit, getting the basics wrong. I didn’t believe them at the time, but now I’m beginning to see what they meant.’ He wrinkled his nose at Bowman, as if he carried a bad smell. ‘John should never have recruited you to the Cell.’

‘Those lads should mind their own business. And so should you, Tiny.’

‘Fuck off, Josh. We’re about to get hit by a swarm of rebels. This is no place for a washed-up Blade. Christ, we can’t even rely on you to guard a few civvies.’

‘I’ve got what it takes,’ Bowman insisted.

‘Bollocks. This ain’t the first mistake you’ve made on this op. Is it?’

Bowman said nothing.

‘Patrick told us about what happened in Monte Carlo,’ Loader went on. ‘Raiding Lang’s medicine cabinet when you should have been doing a bog-standard room clearance. Almost blowing your cover story with the concierge. And to top it off, you’re bang out of shape. You’ve been sweating non-stop since we left London. I’ve seen slop jockeys on Selection in better condition than you.’

‘It’s not what you think,’ Bowman said.

‘How’s that, mate? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re a fucking liability.’

Bowman stared at the floor for a long beat, trying to find the words. Ashamed to look his friend in the eye. Ashamed of himself, his failure to protect the little girl. Then he sighed and looked up at his old Regiment mucker.

‘I’ve got a problem. A habit. A bad one.’

‘What is it? Booze?’

Bowman shook his head.

‘Gambling, then? You spunked all your hard-earned cash down at the bookies, is that it?’

‘No, mate. Nothing like that.’

‘What, then?’

‘Opioids,’ Bowman said. ‘I’m dependent on opioids.’

Loader jerked his head back in surprise. ‘What, like smack?’

‘I’ve never touched heroin. And I don’t inject. It’s just pills.’

‘Like painkillers, you mean? Them ones you get on prescription?’

‘Sometimes. Mostly it’s synthetic tablets. From China. They make them in illegal factories over there. Red Lights, Jumping Jacks, Cookies, Space Dust. That’s what they’re called on the street, anyway, I don’t know their real names. I get a regular supply through a trusted contact. A friend of mine from back home. He’s my connect.’

It was out there at last. His secret. Bowman felt something heavy lift from his chest. Loader looked at him in stunned silence. ‘How long has this been going on for?’

‘Ten years.’

‘You’ve been an addict for a fucking decade?’