‘God, you look terrible.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘You should be in bed.’

‘I’m all right.’

‘You’re not.’ I glanced at the door – the coast was clear – and put a hand to his forehead, like my mother did when I was poorly. It was hot and clammy. Stephen sighed and closed his eyes. ‘I’m not a well woman.’

‘You’re as skinny as a rail.’

‘I’ve been off my food.’

‘You’re making yourself ill.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the general idea.’

‘What?’

‘Have you seen what’s written on the wall in there?’ He jerked a thumb towards the toilets. ‘Roll on death, demob’s too far away.’

‘What’s the idea? Starve yourself to death? You’ll get shoved on the ward and force fed and then they’ll put you back to the beginning of the course, with the new intake. Or worse, they’ll bump you back into basic. What’ll you do then?’

‘Kill myself.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’

‘Ooh!’ he wailed, ‘I didn’t know you cared!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Poynter.’

He leaned against the basin, staring at his thumbnails. One was bitten to the quick, the sides ragged and bloody; the other was long and carefully shaped by surreptitious filing against brickwork.

I looked at my watch. Two minutes to eight. Wright would be here soon.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Okay’ He watched as I splashed my face, dried it on a towel, straightened my collar, combed my hair. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve got something for you.’ He unbuttoned his breast pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. ‘My friend in London sent it to me. I thought it might be of interest.’

‘What is it?’

‘Take it. It won’t burn you.’ He laughed and a spot of colour returned to his cheek – then he started coughing, a deep, rattling cough from the lungs. ‘Fucking hell, dear,’ he gasped, ‘it’s like Greta Garbo in Camille.’ He tottered towards me, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. ‘It’s not a dream … I’m here with you in my arms, at last …’

‘Cut it out!’

‘Armand!’

There was whistling from the dormitory. ‘Medway! Are you in there?’

‘Coming!’

I checked my reflection one more time, stashed the newspaper clipping in my pocket and left Stephen spitting into the sink.

Some of the men whistled when Wright and I walked over to the Astra together. I blushed, but he blew kisses. The crowd parted, so we were at the front as soon as the doors opened. Wright jumped over the seats and plonked himself in the middle of the back row, spreading his legs wide enough to reserve the seat on his left. I went round the more conventional route, and joined him.

The cinema was full, standing room only, hundreds of cigarettes glowing in the dark when the lights went down. Wright was wriggling around in his seat.

‘Hey, Medway,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘I’ve got something to keep us warm.’ I could smell the tobacco on his breath. He pressed a bottle into my hand. It was warm – body temperature.