It was time for Lockhart to drop his bombshell.

“How come you’re feeling so short at the moment?” he asked.

“What?”

“Someone told me that you’re feeling skinned at the moment. I only wondered why.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“I’m interested, that’s all.”

Worstead smiled weakly.

“Too many whores,” he said.

Lockhart raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“There’s this great new Hungarian tart in town called—”

“Blackmail, Andrew. She’s called blackmail, and she’s the most expensive tart on the street.”

Worstead slumped back, the action causing his jowls to wobble slightly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, merely a strangled croak.

“Do you want to tell me about it, Andrew?”

Worstead shook his head rapidly.

“In that case,” Lockhart continued, “why don’t I tell you what I know and you can correct me if it’s wrong? Is that all right with you?”

Once more, Worstead remained speechless.

“Good,” said Lockhart.

He took a mouthful of beer. Worstead’s reaction had showed that he was guilty as hell, he thought. He had him now.

“Pugh is blackmailing you, isn’t he? Forty marks a month, I gather. He’s blackmailing you because of something he saw in Berlin a long time ago. I don’t blame you for what it was, but I blame you for allowing the Germans to make use of you.

“It’s all right, Andrew, you don’t have to lie to me anymore. I expect you’ve been lying all your life. Lying to me in Crete about your bad luck with the ladies, when all the time you were probably fancying the shepherd boys. For all I know it’s why you joined the army—all those men.”

“Just…just…stop!”

“No, Andrew, I won’t. I want to know why you’re doing it. I want to know why you’re betraying your country; why you’re betraying an old friend. There are plenty like you—I saw it at school—and those who continued with it after school kept it quiet, but it wasn’t enough to turn them into traitors.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Worstead.

He was crying now, tears wetting his cheeks. Lockhart looked at him. The poor bugger. It wasn’t funny anymore, but pathetic, sad.

“Is it really?” Lockhart asked.

Worstead took his napkin and blew his nose into it. The tears were really flowing now.

“Oh yes!”

“Why, Andrew? Tell me why.”

“You’ve no bloody idea what it’s like. You’ll never know what it’s like. You’re so lucky, John, so damn fucking lucky. You don’t know how it feels to be hiding something all your life, hiding something so important, so big. It tears you apart. I never told a soul, and all the time I hated the system that meant that I couldn’t. I hated everybody, everything, hated Britain—bloody uptight Britain. And I hated you, you especially.”

“Me?”

“Yes—you, and Anna.”

“Why us?”

“Because you had it all. Brains, looks, money, each other—all the things that I knew I’d never have. And you looked down on me, thought I was a joke figure, the ‘wheezing windbag,’ I heard that….”