Porter drew his hand back the few inches necessary to skewer the knife into the man’s neck. He’d already scanned the flesh, and knew exactly where the windpipe was. With little more than a flick of the wrist he could sever the bastard’s life.

And this is the moment …

‘It was that man on television,’ said Hassad. ‘Collinson.’

Porter paused. ‘Who?’

‘The man on TV.’ Hassad’s body was wheezing with fear, and there was a foul stench of sweat all over him. ‘I recognised him. It was the same man on the raid, I swear it, and it was because of him the British soldiers died.’

‘You’re just a lying raghead scum,’ Porter growled. ‘You’re just trying to save your miserable skin. I bloody know it. Well, it’s not going to work, I tell you. I was going to kill you nice and quick, but now it’s going to be slow and bloody painful, just so you know not to start telling lies.’

‘It was Collinson, I tell you,’ said Hassad. ‘The man was a fucking coward.’

Porter’s hand paused again.

What if he’s right? he wondered suddenly. Christ, maybe, just maybe, the bastard isn’t lying to me.

Hassad’s hand snapped sideways so it was resting on the barrel of the AK-47. Porter immediately slammed his fist down on the hand so that he couldn’t pick up the gun. ‘Take it,’ said Hassad. ‘Take the fucking gun, and hold it on me. I’ve got no chance of escaping. I’ll tell you the real story of that day, and if I don’t convince you, then you can shoot me all the same.’

‘It’s a trick,’ snarled Porter.

‘No trick,’ snapped Hassad.

‘You’ve got ten seconds,’ said Porter. ‘No more.’

He dropped the knife from his hand, and grabbed the AK-47. He climbed off Hassad’s chest, and knelt beside him, jabbing the muzzle of the gun straight into the man. ‘OK, mate,’ he said roughly. ‘Tell me what really happened that night.’

Hassad pulled himself up. He was sitting now, with his back to the wall. He had sweat dripping off his face: the cold, angry perspiration that Porter had smelt before on men who were convinced they were about to die. There was a deep cut on his neck where the knife had caught his skin, and some blood was still oozing out of the wound, although a scab would soon start to form around it. The side of his neck and the top of his sweatshirt were both stained crimson. But in his eyes there was a brightness again: the hope of saving his life had begun to return.

‘You knocked me out cold,’ he said, some calm in his voice now. ‘I remember that as clearly as if it was yesterday. But you didn’t make a great job of it. A couple of blows to the head, enough to make me dizzy, but not enough to put me out for long. Perhaps it was because I was so young. Boys can take a terrible beating and come back pretty quickly.’