‘I left him out cold,’ snapped Porter.

‘Then I suppose your punch isn’t hard enough,’ said Collinson. He paused, wiping away some greasy sweat from his forehead. ‘There were two firefights as I went back to collect the bodies. A couple of snipers were trying to get me. I think I may have killed one of them, I’m not sure. Took three runs to get our men, and I don’t mind telling you it was a bit hairy. Still, at least we got out. And, after all, the hostage was rescued.’

Porter’s eyes remained rooted to the floor. If he could have drilled a hole in the bottom of the boat, he would have gladly sunk himself to the bottom of the ocean. Steve, Mike and Keith. Three of the best mates I ever worked with. All dead. And all because I didn’t finish off that little Arab bastard when I had the chance.

‘So, as Perry says, mission accomplished,’ said Pemberton. ‘The hostage is back, and unharmed. But three of our men died, and the Regiment doesn’t take casualties lightly. This is our worst day since the Falklands. So, the question is this, Porter. Why didn’t you kill the boy?’

Porter’s eyes were still rooted to the floor. He couldn’t move them. He wasn’t sure they would ever move again. ‘I … I …’

He could start the sentence. But how the hell could he finish it?

‘Well, man?’ snapped Pemberton. ‘What’s the bloody answer?’

He was just a kid, thought Porter. He was begging me. A child …

‘Sod it, can’t you even speak?’

‘We’re not butchers,’ said Porter suddenly. ‘I left him unconsciousness. There was no way he should have come round.’

‘But he did, didn’t he?’ said Pemberton. ‘And three good men lost their lives. I can’t discipline you, Porter. In this Regiment, every man makes his own decisions in the moment of combat. We don’t have a lot of officers analysing them afterwards.’

Pemberton leant closer into Porter’s face, and he could smell a trace of whisky on his breath. Burying his face in his hands, Porter was desperate for a drink. Any kind of drink. ‘Under the Geneva Convention, you’re not supposed to kill a child, so I don’t think I can court-martial you, as much as I might want to.’ He paused. ‘But I will say this. Perry here deserves a bloody medal, and I’ll make sure he gets one. And you … well, I wouldn’t want to be looking at your face in the mirror every morning knowing that I had the blood of three of my mates on my hands.’

Porter turned round, and started to walk back towards his cabin. He felt empty and bitter inside. Nobody was looking at him, but he heard one man whisper: ‘There’s going to be a lot of dead eyes looking at that bloke.’

ONE

Vauxhall, London: Monday, 23 October 2006

Porter could feel the dampness in the sheet of cardboard that was covering him. There had been some light drizzle during the night, and although he had taken shelter inside a railway arch, that didn’t stop the rain from seeping in. On Goding Street, between the Albert Embankment and Kennington Lane, it was one of a strip of arches that the developers hadn’t yet got their hands on. He could feel a dirty light from the river flicking down the alley, and painfully opened first one eye then the next. Some rubbish from one of the local kebab shops was overflowing in the bin next to him – the guys running the shop tipped it out there when they shut up at three or four in the morning – but from the smell he could tell there was nothing that he’d want to eat. One dog had already walked past without stopping.