‘What kind of things?’

‘That I was serving the wrong master.’ And then, turning his eyes directly to me, he adds, ‘Like we both were.’

Without speaking, I hear myself repeating different things in response and none of them sound exactly what I want to say, whether it’s some naively patriotic assertion about serving my country or even an attempt at a joke. It’s not an easy thing to negate your own life, to sneer away all the long years of service, and I’m not going to do it, but as I sit there everything seems to summon those days in Saigon that feel now as if they are rushing towards me. And in the word ‘we’ our two lives have been suddenly conjoined once more when I believed that everything that had happened since that shared time had sundered them forever. So at first I say nothing and the only sound is Melissa moving in the kitchen, the rattle of pots and the low hum of her voice in some barely registered melody.

‘Afterwards the Ayatollah said the angels of Allah had kept them safe. And, Mikey, maybe they did. Who can say? You believe in angels, Mikey?’

‘Not angels with wings. But I’ve met good people.’

‘And then maybe they were angels. Because in this world sometimes we entertain angels unaware. It’s something we should never forget.’

I offer nothing in response and instead try to focus on some of the questions I want to ask, but it is as if he senses what I’m thinking.

‘There’s things you want to ask, want to say, but let’s save it for later. After we’ve eaten. When you’ve had time to rest. And you must stay here tonight.’

I tell him that I intended driving back in a few hours but he stiffens on the chair and straightens.

‘It’s not safe out there, Mikey. You must stay here until the morning. Melissa’s already put your bag in the room at the end of the hall.’

‘Why’s it not safe?’ I ask.

‘There’s people out there who wish us harm. White supremacists, young bucks dressed up in camouflage gear, a sprinkling of ex-vets, and some just because they take pleasure in hunting and don’t care who gets caught in their cross hairs. Vigilantes, renegades – all the devil’s servants. It’s not safe because men love darkness rather than light. And there are others too – the voices on the wires, whispering their secrets to each other; the listeners, Mikey. And they probably already know you’re here just like they know everything.’

Many things have changed with Donovan but I feel vaguely pleased that his paranoia remains untouched by whatever it is has altered the rest of him. He holds the bottle of beer in front of his face, looking at the world through its clouded glass. In the subsequent silence he rocks again, nodding slightly as if in a confirmation of something important to himself.

After a few minutes the silence becomes oppressive.