Skitmore was covering for him and Arthur knew he should be grateful. The man clearly thought he had no idea what he was doing, even though Arthur had been shooting many times before. He thanked Skitmore, trying to take the roughness out of his voice, and started to walk back to the farm, a circuitous route by the beech wood and round to the west, quietly so as to avoid the beaters. As he left the wood, he looked back and saw the distinctive orange of Jack’s hair. Even from the distance across the field, he knew Jack was looking straight at him.

*

‘What on earth happened to you today?’ Peter sat opposite him, his second or third sherry in his hand.

Arthur’s food congealed, uneaten, in front of him. He swallowed the sherry and his thoughts swirled like the liquid and couldn’t settle. ‘Skitmore thought my gun went off. Something wrong with it.’

‘Really? Skitmore knows his stuff. You should get him to look at it.’

He wanted to say to Peter, I wished him dead. Had he wanted that? All he could remember was the tremble of his finger on the trigger of the gun and the desire coursing through him to obliterate the American. But would he have done it? And had he even shot the gun?

Whatever had happened, the strength of his sudden rage was disturbing. He didn’t understand the exact source of it. Perhaps if he said it out loud, the thick grey clouds of doubt would dissipate and disappear. He wished that he could at least confide in Peter, to tell him his suspicions, his disparate thoughts, coagulating into a sense that the RAF and the US Air Force were keeping things hidden at Holkham. But he’d already tried to tell him and got nowhere, so kept quiet. Peter would just think Arthur was envious of the men at the base, the men who had purpose, unlike him. He, like Peter, had missed his chance. Too young in the war and nothing real happening now, just this fake war with Russia. In stark contrast to Jack’s experience, he’d not seen active service, had even managed to miss getting posted to Malaya or Kenya or Korea. Even Cyprus would have been better than the miserable RAF stations he’d spent his service holed up in. And now here he was, stuck in a seaside town with a sick mother. The world was spinning on without him. He needed to make a grab for it.

‘Jack said we should go for a chaps’ day out to Norwich soon. What do you reckon?’ Peter was saying.

Arthur’s head spun.

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know.’ Peter looked crestfallen at Arthur’s distrustful tone. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

Arthur sneered. He knew with Jack there was always a motive. And probably a sleazy one.