He’d come to help after the business in spring had left Will with a broken knuckle and a bullet in his arm. He’d copped far worse in the war, but he’d been younger then. Kim had volunteered to do the heavy lifting while he healed, and worked his arse off ever since: quietly, relentlessly, obsessively. Will’s books were now arranged in a sensible manner, with just enough chaos that browsers could believe they might snap up a hidden treasure. The rare books were all kept in view of the desk, and Kim had identified a couple of ratty old tomes whose sale had covered the entire year’s rates. Books had migrated from the floor to the shelves, which meant a man could get a broom around the place, and the whole thing looked a lot less like a scholarly gnome’s den and more like a proper commercial enterprise. Will still reserved the right to close up whenever he felt like it, mind. He was a second-hand bookseller and there was a principle at stake.

He felt a bit guilty about how much unpaid work Kim had put in, but he’d needed the distraction. He hadn’t been physically damaged as Will had but he’d taken a hell of a beating all the same, the kind that left scars you couldn’t see, and that also took time to heal. Bookshop work was a lot more productive than most of the other things the nervy sod had found to do with himself over the last few years, and it had given them a lot of time together, long stretches of working in silent harmony, bickering about trivia and practicalities, enjoying each other’s company. They’d needed that, and it had been good, really good.

It would be ungracious of Will to moan about things. He had his own business and his own home, which was not to be sneezed at in these hard days. He had pals to drink and play football with. And he had Kim as partner, lover, friend. He’d be an idiot to complain life was uneventful: after years in the trenches and two clashes with a criminal gang, he’d surely had enough excitement to be getting on with.

All the same, Kim had a habit of quoting Shakespeare that Will found as contagious as it was irritating, and the phrase that kept circling his mind was, Farewell, Othello’s occupation’s gone.