Our arrival at Keith’s house wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He and Feisal had to carry John in, and Schmidt wouldn’t shut up. But nobody came out of the neighbouring houses to ask what was going on. Sometimes it’s safer not to know what is going on.

The house had only two rooms. The one into which Keith led us was obviously his bedroom. It contained a camp cot, a few boxes, a table and chair – both draped with miscellaneous male garments – and a lamp. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to afford such comfortable quarters if it hadn’t been for Mr Tregarth’s generosity,’ Keith said. ‘I hope he’s not seriously ill. What can I do?’

The place didn’t look comfortable to me. It didn’t even look sanitary. But it was a lot better than we had any reason to expect. I asked for water, and was pleased to learn that John’s generosity had also provided plenty of the bottled variety. Feisal went off to deal with the jeep and Keith went for more water, and Schmidt hunkered down beside me and watched while I unbuttoned John’s shirt and started peeling back the tape.

‘He has been wounded?’ He was genuinely concerned, but I detected an underlying note of enjoyment. Wounds are so romantic. In Schmidt’s favourite form of fiction they are usually in the arm or the shoulder and after biting his lip and muttering, ‘It’s only a scratch,’ the hero goes back to fighting four or five opponents barehanded.

‘You could say that.’ I lifted the cloth.

‘Lieber Gott,’ Schmidt whispered. ‘Who has done this?’

‘I’ll tell you later. It’s not as bad as it looks, Schmidt,’ I added, as tears of sympathy rolled down Schmidt’s sunburned cheeks. ‘Something else must be causing the fever. Maybe . . . Maybe a good night’s sleep is all he needs.’

John opened one eye. ‘Was that . . .’ The eye rolled towards Schmidt and then closed. ‘It was. I thought I was dreaming. I hoped I was dreaming. Schmidt, what have you – ’

‘Ruhig sein, my poor friend,’ Schmidt said. ‘All is well. You are safe with – ’

‘All is not well.’ John raised himself on one elbow. ‘What have – ’

‘Rest and sleep,’ Schmidt insisted, trying to push him back down.

‘No, have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.’ I shoved Schmidt away and held a glass to John’s lips.

‘Yes, that is probably better,’ Schmidt agreed.

‘Oh, Christ. Will you two stop picking at me like dogs over a bone? I’ll submit to your infernal attentions as soon as Schmidt tells me what wild story he gave Kendrick.’

‘Richard is himself again,’ I remarked.

‘Richard is a hell of a long way from being himself. Which is lucky for you. Schmidt – ’

‘Why, I told him the truth, of course.’

‘Oh, God.’ John collapsed back onto the hard pillow.