Anyway, never let it be said that the Service turns its back on those wounded in its employ, even when the employ is unofficial, and especially when the wounded suggests appealing to the court of public opinion, or Twitter, as it’s now known. Which is how Benny Manors came to be on John Bachelor’s books: not exactly a retiree, and not exactly a shining example of one who’s given all for his nation’s benefit, but a man with a limp nevertheless, which he hadn’t had before the Service came into his life. It took all sorts, John supposed.

And that first meeting had been at a pub near King’s Cross, he thought—he remembered the occasion, but it wasn’t like he’d be treasuring it on his deathbed or anything. So let’s say King’s Cross, and let’s say the usual dark panelling and Fuller’s beer-mats, the usual door to the gents as easy to negotiate as a tiger trap. Benny let John buy the drinks, because that was the way of the world. And Benny let John explain what their relationship was going to be before sinking that ship before it left harbour.

“Once a month? No no no. No no no no.”

Seven nos. Even allowing for the double negative, he was definitely giving this the thumbs down.

At this time Benny would have been late forties. No longer as lithe as he’d been in his youth—who is?—but given that much of his particular youth had been spent worming through windows technically too small for him, he’d had a higher bar to fall from than most. So he wasn’t in terrible shape, damaged leg apart—it had required metal pins, several of them; he was a special case at airports, Benny Manors—but all in all, he wasn’t too bad a picture of a late-forties man, also allowing for this being his choice of meeting place, mid-afternoon. Homo saloon-barensis. He had wiry gingerish hair and a two-day stubble. And his suit was classier than the pub they were in, not to mention the beer he was drinking—Newcastle Brown Ale? John hadn’t been aware anyone actually drank that. He thought the bottles were just kept handy in case a fight broke out.

He followed up his Lear-like string of negatives with an unnecessary clarification. “Once a month isn’t going to work for me.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“See, that’s the sort of thing that gets said by people who spend their sorry little lives doing exactly what they’re told.”

John Bachelor’s life at the time wasn’t as sorry as it would become—he was still on a full-time salary—and he didn’t enjoy the description.

“What exactly is your problem, Benny? What makes it such a chore to have a quick face-to-face round about pay day?”

“Did I say it was a chore?”

“You’re not making it sound like a pleasure.”