‘Pusscat,’ yells Joe, thumping me in the chest as I march towards the door. ‘You hurt pusscat!’

Ignoring his ranting, I yank the door open and head out into the freezing night, cursing myself for leaving the car parked outside Isobel’s house, for letting her persuade me to go to the pub.

‘Want see pusscat,’ yells Joe as I run with him towards the vicarage, its pointed roof a black silhouette against the purple night sky. ‘You hurt him. He was my friend.’

‘Tom will be fine,’ I say, grappling to locate my keys in the deep folds of my coat pocket. ‘Cats always fall on their feet.’

Joe mutters something at me as I place him on the pavement and point the keys, which have got twisted up in my pocket, at the car. As the lock releases I hear footsteps coming from the direction of the church.

‘Come on, Joe,’ I say, opening the back door. ‘Let’s get out of the cold.’

‘Bye bye.’

I turn on my heels. Joe is standing with his back to me, waving his hand.

‘Joe?’ I say, spinning him round. ‘Who are you talking to?’

‘Saying bye bye,’ he says, rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hand. ‘To the man.’

I look up, my stomach twisting with fear, just in time to see a figure, small and hunched, disappear into the darkness.

22

Soldier Number 1

Rowan Isle House, 23 September 2004

‘Open your eyes!’

The shock of his voice made me jump. I turned and tried to salute but my legs wobbled and I almost fell over.

Sarge was still dressed in his best uniform and he’d had a haircut. It was like we’d switched roles: he was now the elite soldier and I was the straggly-haired mess.

‘Turn round,’ he commanded.

At first I was confused. I didn’t know which direction he meant so I turned to face the wall. Then I felt his hands on my shoulders and he spun me round and pushed me towards the other wall, where, I noticed for the first time, a mirror was hanging.

‘What do you see?’

‘I see me, Sarge.’

‘You?’ he said, a weird sneer creeping across his face. ‘And who might you be?’

I told him that I was his daughter, Soldier Number 1.

When I said this he grabbed my shoulders with both hands and pushed me closer to the mirror so that my face was touching the glass.

‘Really?’ he said, with spit spraying from his mouth. ‘That’s what you are? Is that right?’

I nodded my head. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Who else would I be?

‘See, I always thought that’s what you were,’ he said, holding the back of my hair in his fist. ‘And that’s what you’d always be, but yesterday you showed me you were something else. That you weren’t a good soldier any more.’

I told him that I was a good soldier, that I’d always done as he asked, that it was just a swim, an innocent swim, that I was still a good soldier.