Leaving one more newspaper story, one early statistic in the ‘Troubles’.

And anger.

The ring-leader went by the nickname of ‘Mean Machine’. He was a lance-corporal, came from somewhere in Ayrshire. Cropped blond hair, looked like he’d played rugby, liked to work out, even if it was just press-ups and sit-ups in the barracks. He started the campaign for retribution. It was to be covert - meaning behind the backs of the ‘brass’. It was to be a release-valve for the frustration, the pressure that was building in the cramped confines of the barracks. The world outside was enemy terrain, everyone a potential foe. Knowing there was no way to punish the sniper, Mean Machine had decided to hold the entire community to blame: collective responsibility, for which there would be collective justice.

The plan: a raid on a known IRA bar, a place where sympathisers drank and colluded. The pretext: a man with a handgun, chased into the bar, necessitating a search. Maximum harassment, ending with the beating of the local IRA fundraiser.

And Rebus went along with it ... because it was collective. You were either part of the team, or you were dead meat. And Rebus wasn’t in the market for pariah status.

But all the same, he knew the line between ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’ had become blurred. And during the incursion, it disappeared altogether.

Mean Machine went in hardest, teeth bared, eyes ablaze. He swung with his rifle, cracking skulls. Tables flew, pint glasses shattered. Initially the other soldiers seemed shocked by the sudden violence. They looked to each other for guidance. Then one of them lashed out, and the others fell in beside him. A mirror dissolved into glittering stars, stout and lager washed over the wooden floor. Men were shouting, begging, crawling on hands and knees across the glass minefield. Mean Machine had the IRA man pinned to a wall, kneeing him in the groin. He twisted his body, threw him to the floor, then started pummelling him with the rifle-butt. More soldiers were pouring into the drinkingclub: armoured cars arriving outside. A chair crashed into the row of optics. The smell of whisky was almost overpowering.

Rebus tried to shut it out, his own teeth bared not in anger-but anguish. Then he aimed his rifle at the ceiling and let loose a -single shot, and everything froze ... A final kick to the bloodied figure on the floor and Mean Machine turned and walked out of the club. The others hesitated again, then followed. He’d proved something to the other men: for all his lowly rank, he’d become their leader.

They enjoyed themselves that night in the barracks, chiding Rebus for letting his trigger-finger slip. They cracked open cans of beer and told stories, stories which were already being exaggerated, turning the event into a myth, giving it a grandeur it had lacked.

Turning it into a lie.

A few weeks later, the same IRA man was found shot dead in a stolen car south of the city, on a farm road with a view of hills and grazing land. Protestant paramilitaries took the blame, but Mean Machine, though he admitted nothing, would wink and grin when the incident was mentioned. Bravado or confession - Rebus was never sure. All he knew was that he wanted out, away from Mean Machine’s newly minted code of ethics. So he did the one thing he could - applied to join the SAS. Nobody would think him a coward or a turncoat for applying to join the elite.