‘Believe me, Wright, nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

‘Come on, Michael, we’ve got to do it! You’ve got to write the letter for me! Help me choose the picture. Or we can do some new ones. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Please, mate. I can’t let some other bastard steal this from me.’

The thought of doing more photos got me interested despite my decision to play it cool, and Wright knew it.

‘I’ll get some new gear. And I’ve been thinking up some new poses.’ He leaned over the desk, his mouth close to my ear. ‘Sexy ones. We should send ’em off to the muscle mags. Make a bit of cash.’

I closed my eyes so that I couldn’t see his face. But I could still smell him, the soap, the Brylcreem, the tobacco. The flesh.

‘Big day for you tomorrow,’ I said, suddenly needing to get up and go to the filing cabinet.

‘Yeah.’ He danced around on his toes, jabbing his fists in the air. ‘That other cunt won’t know what hit him.’

‘You’re confident.’

‘Course I am! He can’t touch me. So what do you say, Mikey? Write me the letter, will you? You’re better at that sort of thing than I am.’

‘I’ll type it for you if you like.’

‘Good lad.’

He hung around, shadow-boxing.

‘Wright, I’ve got to get on. The CMO will have my guts for garters if I don’t get this done today.’

He wasn’t listening.

‘When’s your next forty-eight?’

‘What?’

‘Weekend leave. When is it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t really …’

‘Well find out, you silly wanker. Christ. Not knowing when your next forty-eight is.’

‘What’s the big emergency?’

‘We’re going to Blackpool.’

‘Who are?’ I had visions of some ghastly group outing, a pub crawl followed by a spot of whoring.

‘We are, bollockhead. You and me. Wright and Wrong.’

‘What for?’

He paused for a second. ‘To celebrate.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘I don’t know, Mike. My victory. Getting the part of Hercules. Surviving another day in this shit hole. There’s always something to celebrate, if you put your mind to it.’

And of course, he did win. The whole camp converged on the sports hall, the largest covered space at Reville, converted for the occasion into a boxing ring with a hundred seats for officers and guests, and room for another four or five hundred standing. Those who couldn’t get in clustered around the doors and windows. Wright’s image was plastered all over the walls. The ‘other cunt’ had lost before he even stepped in the ring. He lasted two rounds before Wright KO’d him. Just long enough for them both to work up a good sweat. Wright was carried out of the hall on his comrades’ shoulders, and Reville gave itself over to fiesta.

I watched it all with butterflies in my stomach and a hard-on, which kept getting pressed against the arse of the airman in front of me, one of the new flight, a lad called Miller who’s caught my eye once or twice and always seems to have a ready smile. He tried to follow me out of the hall, but I gave him the dodge and walked off to the perimeter for a smoke, as far from the celebrations as I could get.