‘So. Medway. These … sketches.’

‘What about them? They’re nothing.’

‘I want to see ’em.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Why do you bloody think, mate? Because I’m bloody gorgeous and I want to see what you’ve made of me.’

‘Oh. Right. Well … I think I might … Somewhere …’ I keep a sketch book in a buff envelope at the back of one of the filing cabinets, where no one would ever look. There are Reville landscapes, drawings I’ve done in the NAAFI, caricatures of ‘Sausage’ Kelsey … and pictures of Wright.

He liked the caricatures. ‘Look at the fat cunt! Christ, Medway, that’s brilliant. You ought to get that printed up, sell it to the lads.’

‘Yeah, and get discharged for my troubles.’

‘But what a great way to go, eh? Ah. Now this is more like it.’ He’d found a sketch I did in the gym – a series of rapid figure drawings of boxing positions. ‘This me, is it?’

‘Well, sort of.’

He turned the page to a much more recognisable head and shoulders. ‘Ah! That’s my boy! Wow! I like that!’ He ran his fingers down the lines of the neck. ‘What a beauty, eh?’

‘It’s not bad.’

‘Not bad? It’s bloody lovely, Medway! You’re a fucking genius.’

‘Oh well …’

‘Mind you, with material like this, how could you go wrong?’ He jumped up into a boxing pose. ‘You should paint my portrait.’

‘Well, I suppose it could get …’

‘You got a camera, Medway?’

‘Yes.’ I’ve barely used it since call-up. ‘Why?’

‘Know how to use it? You know, properly?’

‘Yes. I used to do a lot of …’

‘Good. You’re my man, then. I thought you would be.’

‘For what?’

He lit another fag. ‘Publicity manager. I need some glossy ten by eights. For the big fight.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ But I was thinking: there’s a Reville Photography Club, a darkroom, and the chance of getting Wright to pose for me …

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Okay. It’s a deal.’

He took my hand in his big square paw and squeezed it. Then, on the way out, he turned his head and said, ‘You going to the pictures tonight?’

They were showing Jailhouse Rock at the Astra. I wasn’t intending to go, but I said, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Right. Pick you up at eight, and don’t be late.’

He whistled ‘Love Me Tender’ as he walked across the parade ground.

When I finished work I shovelled down some chips in the refectory then went back to the barracks to change my shirt. I was excited, like I was going on a date.

I could hear sobbing from the washhouse. This is not unusual, and we all turn a blind eye to it. Everyone, at some point, has a bad day, and it’s bad form to intrude. Stephen has more than most.

I was cleaning my teeth at the sink, and he came out of a cubicle. ‘Oh. I thought it was you.’ His voice was dead and flat, and he mechanically washed his hands, wringing them over and over again under the tap until they were red and raw.