He’d taken another drag. Pinched the butt out and dropped it in the steel bin provided.

‘I talked to a few of the guys who’d fought on the ground in Helmand. Helped me to understand what my problem was. Turns out, killing in the field is one thing. Because you’ve got mates to share it with. Help you talk it through. And of course the first one of your mates gets his leg blown off, it makes it personal. Makes shooting to kill a whole lot easier. But killing a man, from a portacabin in Lincolnshire? Not knowing who else might have been caught in the blast? And then just going home for dinner? Too corrosive for me.’

Standing in the street, looking at a window full of other people’s cast-offs, Mickey finally, completely, understood the point he’d been making. About the price of vengeance being the loss of the revenger’s humanity. Took a deep breath and wondered whether to burst into tears. Decided not to, even if it would have been therapeutic. Started walking again, composing himself. Walked in to find Roz busy baking. Some coffee morning for cancer or other. Kissed her and went upstairs to change.

Diverted to the bathroom, realising he needed to use the toilet. Hands shaking, explosive diarrhoea. His body telling him it wasn’t happy at being flushed with adrenaline like that. He showered. Dried himself off. And took a long, hard look in the mirror. Looking a bit tired. But OK, overall.

Through the physiological reaction to combat, perhaps. But without any hint of the quiet elation he’d felt with Warren’s death. Was that strange, given he’d just taken four evil bastards off the board? Plus an adolescent gang fantasist who was undoubtedly going to turn out bad, if he’d lived. And fired a body blow into Joe Castagna’s operation.

‘You going to be all night up there?’

Called up the stairs in that mock-gruff way she had of showing affection. And momentarily, Mickey wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing. Taking so many risks. Risking prison. And losing Roz. And that was before the danger that Joe Castagna posed. Then flashed on the image of the last of them going backwards through the doors. Brought to justice. Mickey’s justice, without the right of appeal. No obfuscation by smart lawyers. No threatening of defenceless jurors. And he nodded slowly at the face in the mirror.

Worth it. Almost. Because at the back of his mind a quiet, relentless voice was muttering the same words, over and over. So quietly as to be almost transparent, mentally. And yet so insistently that he knew it was the first thing he was going to think about when he woke up the next day.

And now the clock’s ticking.

12

‘Come on in, little man. We’re all friends here.’