"Oh, no," she said loudly. "You don't get out of it that easily, Greg Mandel. Do you realise I know practically nothing about the time between you leaving the Army and meeting me? This is the first glimpse you've ever allowed me into this section of your life."

"You only had to ask."

She shot him a quick glance. "If you'd wanted me to know, you would've told me. And now you're starting to. I'm not sure what it means, but I'm bloody pleased."

"He takes some getting used to," Greg offered. She recognised the tone, regret for the impulse decision to invite her. Just how bad could his friend be?

"You said he was hurt?"

"Very badly. Completely disabled, and burnt. It's not pretty."

"I won't embarrass you, Greg."

"I didn't imagine you would; rather, the reverse. My past is not totally savoury."

"Women?"

"No!"

"There were," she corrected demurely. "That sort of knowledge isn't exactly hereditary."

He gave her a weak smile and gave up. Happier, though, she thought. However badly disfigured this Royan turned out to be, she was determined Greg would never be disappointed he'd introduced them.

The narrow streets and iron-red bricks of Bretton were registering through the windscreen. She parked in an old schoolyard, next to an impressive New Conservative council banner proclaiming its incipient refurbishment as the community's cultural centre. The classrooms were all boarded up, and someone had driven surveyor's stakes through the playground.

She got out and looked at him expectantly. He was wearing Levis and his leather jacket over an olive-green T-shirt. She'd dressed in a shapeless navy-blue sweatshirt and black jeans; nondescript, as he'd told her. Now she was beginning to realise why; Bretton was a backwater, untouched by the vitality which roared through the rest of the city. The houses she could see all had heavy wooden shutters over the windows, and solid metal security doors.

Greg blipped the Duo's lock.

They were quickly surrounded by about fifteen kids, none of them in their teens yet. Silent, eyes shining bright out of grubby faces.

"Car watch, fella?" piped a prepubescent voice.

"Highway robbery," Greg protested.

The ritual was a relief in an obscure fashion, putting her back on solid ground. Bretton was still plugged into the rest of the city, during the day, at least.

"Five pounds," the lad said.

"I think we'll park in the next street," Greg retorted.

"Four."

"It's very dirty," Eleanor pointed out.

The kids put their heads together.

She exchanged an amused glance with Greg.

"Three," declared the summit. "And we wash it, too."

"Half now?"

"Two now," said the highly affronted ringleader.

He and Greg showed cards, both of them pictures of woe.

"Wonder what Walshaw will make of a three-pound transport expense item?" Greg mused whimsically as the kids moved in on the Duo, two racing away for water and sponges.