‘Cinzano,’ he said. ‘’Fraid it’s not cold. I’ve been sitting on it since I nicked it.’

‘You know it’s against standing orders to bring alcohol into the cinema.’

‘They say forbidden fruit tastes sweeter. Have a slurp. Personally I can’t stand the bloody stuff …’ He unscrewed the top, took a swig. ‘But you know what they say. Any port in a storm.’ He wiped his lips on his sleeve, passed the bottle to me. It was disgusting, but I wouldn’t have exchanged it for the finest champagne.

The newsreel began.

‘Go on, Wright,’ said the airman in front of us, ‘give us some.’

‘Bugger off. This is a private party.’

‘Bloody queers,’ said the airman, and immediately found his head locked in Wright’s legs. Everyone cheered. The airman, released and gasping, got thumped by his mates.

‘Thirsty work,’ said Wright, extending his left arm along the back of my seat. ‘Ah. Here comes Elvis.’

Wright enjoyed the film, and I enjoyed Wright enjoying it. Every time there was a laugh, he dug me in the ribs. When there were love scenes with Elvis and Judy Tyler, he squirmed around and pressed his legs against mine. In the musical numbers, he drummed his hands on his thighs, using mine when required. Sometimes his hand rested there for a while, before grabbing the bottle. I had knots in my stomach and felt sweaty and sick – not just from the Cinzano. My groin felt like a block of stone. I’ve dreamed of this sort of thing often enough – drawn it, even – but now, I sat there like a prim schoolteacher.

‘I wish I had that bird with me right now,’ Wright whispered after Elvis had serenaded his leading lady. ‘I’d bloody treat her nice …’ He lit two cigarettes and handed one to me, the tip still wet. His hand was picking at his crotch, as if it was uncomfortable.

As soon as the house lights went up, he jumped up on his seat.

‘Watch this, lads!’

He whipped out a comb, and with a few flourishes he converted his regulation RAF haircut into the nearest thing Reville has seen to an Elvis Presley quiff. Arms at right angles to his hips, one knee swivelling inwards, he began: ‘Warden threw a party at the county jail …’

We were bombarded with caps and sweets and cigarette ends. Wright vaulted over the chair-back and ran, still singing, out of the cinema. I shuffled out with the crowds.

He was surrounded by a gang, still doing ‘Jailhouse Rock’.

‘Number forty-seven said to number three, you’re the cutest jailbird I ever did see …’ He bucked his hips wildly.

‘Elvis the Pelvis!’ yelled one.

‘Merv the Perv!’ yelled another. Wright’s name is Mervyn.

I walked back to barracks, but he ran after, fell into step with me. ‘Where you going? The night is young!’

‘I’m tired, and I feel sick.’

‘You need a breath of fresh air, mate.’

‘I need my bed, Wright.’