Poynter came into the barracks while I was writing my diary one afternoon, and everyone else was out on the football field or on furlough in Blackpool. As usual, I hid the diary under the bedclothes – but he wasn’t paying attention to that. His eyes were red and swollen, and he was paler and thinner than ever. He stood by the window, looking out, his fists bunched.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘What do you think.’

‘Kelsey?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He started to speak, gulped back some tears and was silent for a minute, breathing hard.

‘I think he wants me to kill myself. People do, you know. It’s quite common.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Well, after all, why not?’ He turned to face me. He looked awful, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. I’ve been avoiding him since we arrived, since he tried to make friends that day, because it’s better if we’re not linked. ‘Might as well give him what he wants. I’m of no use to anyone here. I’ve got no friends. My family can’t bloody stand me. I might as well be dead.’

‘Why give him the satisfaction?’

‘Isn’t that what we’re here for? To be good little airmen, to do what our superiors tell us? To follow orders? Like you?’ His voice was getting shrill.

‘All right. There’s no need to take it out on me. I didn’t do anything.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I thought you might stick up for me. Be a pal.’

‘Well, I …’

‘Don’t worry, Medway. I don’t want you to hold my hand as we skip merrily around the base.’

‘Good.’

‘I just need a friend.’ Nobody has ever spoken this directly to me before. ‘And I think you’re the only friend I’ve got here. With the possible exception of Nurse Austen, or Jane as I call her. But she’s so prim and proper, a right little lady with the lamp. Won’t even catch my eye. Is something the matter, Medway? You look as if you’re about to vomit.’

‘I can’t stand that sort of talk.’

‘What sort of talk, dear?’

‘You know. All that … all that “dear” stuff.’

‘You mean camp talk.’

‘If that’s what you call it.’

‘I do. What do you call it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell it to the marines, duckie.’

I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean. You may fool them, dear, but you ain’t fooling me. Takes one to know one. Isn’t that what they say? Hmm? Botticelli?’

It was my turn to stare out of the window. ‘Shut up, Poynter. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He came closer. ‘Do you want me to show you?’ His hair has grown out a little now, and is suspiciously yellow. He smelt sweet, perfumed.

I heard a noise outside the barracks, and bolted.

‘Oh Medway!’ he called. ‘You’ve left your diary lying around.’

I ran back in, my heart pounding.