“How long could we hold him?” said the patrol leader. “We can barely feed ourselves. And look.” He opened the map. “See what he was doing. Each red circle here is a land mine. He was laying them.” The soldier’s bag stood open, a tangle of metal and wires. “These ones here, they’re not designed to kill. They have a charge but no shrapnel, so they’ll only blow your feet off. They want to leave the victims alive, just crippled, so they become burdens on us. How could a human being think so cruelly? Are you still sorry you killed him?”

“I never—” Lifeng cleared her throat. “I never said I was sorry. Of course I’m not. It was my duty.” She rose, shakily, to her feet.

“You’re a good person,” said Xiongmin, which seemed inadequate, but exactly what she needed to hear. She rested her hand, just for a moment, on his arm, and looked like she wanted to lean against him.

They hid the dead soldier in some undergrowth and went back the way they came. They would make their report, and be praised for their bravery. Lifeng would receive a special commendation for her part, though she would be wise to self-confess her moment of weakness too. This would make them all stronger. They tramped on, the rear line obscuring their footprints, leaving no trace behind as the jungle swallowed them again.

4

Revathi

Revathi stomped down St Martin’s Lane, cursing the frost on the pavement, the sharp chill in the air, everything. February had reached the point when it seemed entirely probable that winter might go on forever. Even the brief hours of daylight were grey and besmirched. A man in a bowler hat walked right into her, as if it were her job to get out of his way. She smiled blandly at him, tamping down the impulse to drive her umbrella into his foot, and thought fuck it, this day can go to hell. She’d been headed back to the office, but now swerved into the Nag’s Head, where the boys were usually to be found.

Someone called her name as she stepped into the pub, but her glasses fogged up from the warmth, and she had to swipe at them with her scarf before she could see again. It was Fred Robertson, waving from the usual corner. She swabbed her boots on the mat and waved back. “Lars is looking for you,” he called, as soon as she got within earshot.

Revathi shrugged. She’d had a beast of a morning, tramping round half of Willesden chasing down a quote. Lars could wait. She brusquely asked if anyone wanted anything, and headed for the bar before they could answer. Time to lose herself in an unladylike pint.