Dave threw his head back, drained the dregs of his drink, tossed the can into the bin with deadly accuracy and lay back, wiping droplets of liquid from his blond stubble. Flung together by the SAS, they were planets apart. Tom, all blue chip and silver spoon, had seen pictures of Dave as a kid, a skinny, scruffy urchin with spindly legs, scabs on his elbows and big flappy ears. Removed from his drug-addicted mother at four, he had weathered every indignity the care system could heap on him, as he was bounced through a succession of homes and foster placements, his spirit undimmed, until the Army had thrown him a lifeline. There, he had blossomed, single-mindedly transforming himself into the fine fighting machine that now lay spread-eagled on the cot and scratching his ball-bag.

‘I mean, look at you, playing soldiers while Her Indoors waits in vain. When you gonna get your act together?’

Dave had a theory he loved to expound on about doing one thing at a time and had given Tom a hard time for saddling himself with a fiancée.

‘Tell you what,’ said Tom. ‘Just fuck off to the gym.’

‘I’ve decided. Don’t try to talk me out of it.’

‘There’s a new USAF one. They’ve got a whole rig of great kit in there, chest press, pec fly, gyroscopic dumb-bells. An hour of those and you’ll sleep like a baby. With a nice clear head when you wake up.’

‘My head is clear.’

‘Sure, sure, I know. Their AC runs off its own genny. You’ll look cool and be cool. Now split.’

‘You sound like an ad for deodorant.’

‘I’ll catch you up, okay?’

Dave reared up and was on his way out of the door.

‘Where’s your weapon?’

He patted his holster.

‘I’m going to the gym, man – not patrol. Hey . . .’

Tom paused, his fingers on the keyboard.

Dave grinned. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, you know that?’

The door swung shut and he was alone.

Tom glared at the laptop, not relishing the upcoming communication. Skype seemed to be the worst of both worlds. He used to like to write letters. At prep school, every Sunday after chapel, they’d been made to. He’d listed the week’s academic achievements – that bit didn’t take long – then his various triumphs on the field. Dear Mum, I got two trys in rugby and got sent to the Head for fiyting Robbo only it was just play. Nothing broken so you don’t need to tell Dad. The ginger cake is all gone. Please send a bigger one this time if poss. Love from Tom. He’d carried on after he’d enlisted, deaf to the hoots of derision from his mates. But it was easier than phoning – no grief coming back at him.