Sweating, Carr dragged Skelton the ten or twelve feet over to the side of the room. It was a bastard – he weighed more than 270lbs with all his kit, and he couldn’t help much, and Carr felt horribly vulnerable, especially when he had to turn his back to the door to sit him up.

Once that was done, Carr pulled the tourniquet from his chest rig.

‘Keep watching that fucking door,’ he said, feeling for the entry point on Geordie’s leg.

He found it, and then located the exit wound on the back of the thigh. It was large, and wet with blood, and full of bone splinters.

Shit, he thought. But at least the artery appeared to be intact.

‘Okay, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. I’m going to put this on, yeah? It’s going to hurt a bit.’

Carr applied the tourniquet and pulled it tight.

Geordie let out a low moan of animal pain; he was a hard man, and Carr knew he must be in something near agony.

‘That’s done, mate,’ he said, wiping his bloodied hands on his combats. ‘Now listen, I need to go and clear that last room. Anyone but me comes through that door, you kill them. Got it?’

‘I’m coming,’ said Geordie. ‘You can’t do it by yourself.’

He tried to stand, but fell back down.

‘Ah, shit,’ he said. ‘That does fucking hurt. Give me a hand up.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Carr. ‘Stay here.’

Geordie gave him a thumbs-up with his left hand, his right wrapped round the pistol grip of his Diemaco, which was aimed at the doorway.

Carr smiled, returned the thumbs-up, and stepped out and back into the hallway.

Looking at the door to the last room, readying himself to step through that breach.

And then the handle started to move, and the door began to open.

Carr moved to the wall, flush to the door, and took aim.

A bloodied hand gripped the side of the door recess, and then a man of sixty or so stepped out, unarmed, hands cradling his belly. His white shirt was stained red with blood from a gunshot wound to the stomach, and when he looked at Carr the Scot saw shock but no fear in his eyes.

He smiled at Carr and nodded – as if he was acknowledging a stranger in the street, on a nice summer’s day. But then another man, much younger, stepped out behind him.

The second man looked at Carr for a split second, yelled ‘Allahu akhbar!’ and raised his hand.

Carr was diving back into Geordie’s room when the suicide vest detonated, and the force seemed to propel him even quicker.

Momentarily stunned, he came to a few moments later, lying in a heap in the floor, his ears ringing, covered in plaster and dust, and coughing and choking.

From outside, somewhere across the street, he could hear a voice shouting, ‘John! John!’