There follows a satisfied chuckle that reminds me of Corporal Fletcher shooting close to desert mutts, just to see them jump.

‘Irish Mike Madden, I presume. Just kidding, pal. But now you know how it’s going to feel. A little taste.’

Mike is winded as though gut-punched. His eyes are suddenly bloodshot and his hands shake.

‘Where are you? Where?’

‘I am in the dunes above Ballyvaloo, looking down on a lovely little cottage. Smoke coming out of the chimney, a light in the window. Sure it’s like a fucking postcard. It’d be an awful shame to lob a mortar on to that thatch.’

Mike gets his wind back. ‘You are dead! You hear me? Deceased. You know who I am? I will fucking . . .’

Corporal Tommy Fletcher chuckles once more, this time rolling into a fully fledged laugh that overloads the phone’s tiny speaker, breaking into crackling static. He keeps laughing until Mike shuts the hell up.

‘You finished, Mike? Hey, I understand. You’re a good son, a tough guy. But listen to me, Mike. You’re in over your head now. Before Sergeant McEvoy carried me out of a war zone, I did some time in the Rangers. That’s special operations to Joe Public. I’ve buried more bodies in the desert than you’ve had blow jobs from your hookers. I leave one coded message on a website and a hundred guys are on a plane to New Jersey. We will bury you so deep that you’ll be sleeping with the dinosaurs. I can do things to your mother that will make her curse your name. You want that, Mike?’

‘I could track you down,’ Mike says weakly.

Fletcher laughs. ‘This is the army, Mikey. We’re right here. You don’t need to track us down. Listen, Sarge, I don’t think he’s getting it. What say I take a thumb from the old lady, maybe an eye?’

I tick-tock my head, thinking about it. ‘No. I think Mike gets it. He’s top man in a big operation here. You don’t get to be top man by being stupid. Am I right, Mike?’

Irish Mike is having a hard time dealing with the situation. It’s affecting his entire being. The power of speech seems to have deserted him and his head is bulging in places where bulges should not be. He’s snorting like a bull in the ring and his hands are raised, strangling an invisible person.

‘Am I right, Mike?’ I prompt. ‘Or do I tell my corporal to proceed?’

‘You’re right,’ says Mike dully. ‘This doesn’t have to go any further. I think we can call it a day.’ He lifts a hand, finger crooked to scratch his scalp.

‘Nu-uh, Mister Madden,’ admonishes Zeb. ‘No scratching. You want scars, is that it?’

‘You’re right, of course. No scratching.’