Arthur insisted John stayed for tea, and it wasn’t until early evening that John was able to suggest – if Gladys didn’t mind – that he and Arthur went out for a pint. The Red Lion was on the way to the station and the landlord let them take their drinks into the garden at the back.

Arthur sat down at the table, took a sip of beer, froth sticking to his upper lip. ‘I’ve a feeling this isn’t just a social call,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d have done it years ago.’ His voice had a bitter edge and his mouth was firm.

John put his glass down on the table. ‘I had a visitor,’ he said. His hand had begun to shake and he slipped it into his lap. Hoped Arthur hadn’t noticed. ‘You remember that Russian?’

‘Which one?’

‘The spotty one.’

‘Yes,’ Arthur said. ‘I do.’

‘His name is Anatoly, so he tells me, works at the Soviet Embassy, though when I rang them they said no one of that name works there,’ John said. ‘That they would admit, at least.’

‘I hope you rang from a call box,’ Arthur said. It wouldn’t make any difference wherever he rang from, John thought. They had his number anyway.

He took a long drag of his beer, placed the glass carefully back in place. He felt better with a bit of alcohol inside him, though his hands were gummy and his stomach churned and his leg tremored out of control.

‘The thing is, Arthur,’ John said, ‘there’s been a new complication.’

‘Forget it, John,’ Arthur said. ‘I want nothing to do with this.’ He stood up, turning to go.

‘No,’ John said. ‘I don’t need your advice. I know what to do.’

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

‘I just had to talk to someone, get it off my chest,’ John said. ‘You’re the only person who knows. Please…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Just listen.’

John saw Arthur’s face, that look of disdain and mockery and tolerance that he remembered so well. He thought of all the kindnesses Arthur had shown him, when Private Nash died, when he went against orders with the morphine, when he’d sought him out in Berlin. That’s what camaraderie was, being a comrade. Doing, not saying. John was an idiot, but he’d earned his spurs with Arthur. He watched as Arthur sat down again, lifted up his glass, gulped the beer so his Adam’s apple quivered.

‘Go on,’ he said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

London: August 1958