Suddenly Corporal Tommy Fletcher is in my head for the second time in so many days. Huge Kerry bastard, arms like Popeye, always complaining. Even on an early-bird mine sweep, Fletcher was mouthing off. This weather is murder on my complexion, Sarge, he was saying. My freckles are fucking multiplying.

Then a Katyusha rocket took out the US M35 truck behind us and flipped it on to Fletcher’s leg, severing it at the knee. I walked away lugging Tommy on my shoulder, with a coating of B+ and a case of tinnitus.

And . . . we’re back in the present. I try not to get bogged down in those days, but when the memories hit me, it’s like being there, except you know what’s coming next. You surface in the present and for a moment you are that scared boy again. Once I wet my pants. I wouldn’t mind, but I held it in during the real incident.

I love watching the TV flashback guys. Tom Magnum, Mitch Buchannon, Sonny Crockett, all the greats. They have a ten-second jitter scene about ’Nam, then wake up bare-chested with a pained frown and maybe a light sweat on their smooth foreheads.

Fletcher, I think. Jesus Christ.

Inside Zeb’s unit, the dust is settling.

This place is a real dump. Pills heaped in untidy pyramids on the shelves, a filing cabinet, its drawer hanging open like a drunk’s mouth. Papers everywhere, a few sheets still fluttering to earth.

There’s somebody here, I realise, and miss a step, catching my toe on the carpet.

‘You okay there, bud?’ says a voice. There are crossed legs and loafers sticking out of the shadows in the waiting area. Penny loafers, with actual pennies. Who is this guy? One of the Brat Pack? But the pennies strike a chord with me; I half remember something.

I cough to give myself a second, then answer, ‘Fine. Goddamn rug. Doctor is trying to kill me.’

A low growling laugh, followed by a statement I get a lot. ‘You talk weird.’

‘I get that a lot,’ I say.

‘What is it? Dublin?’

That’s pretty good. Most people get Irish, but never Dublin. ‘I’m impressed. You got relations?’

The legs uncross and stretch. ‘Nah. I work with a guy, he watches this Irish TV show on the net.’

The pennies drop. I know who this is, and all it takes is a flick of the light switch to confirm it.

Macey Barrett. One of Michael Madden’s soldiers.

Okay. This could be trouble.

We don’t really have much organised crime in Cloisters. Too small. But there’s one guy trying to upgrade from hood to boss. He spent a summer with his cousin in the Bronx and picked up some ideas on how to run an organisation.