Drew poured himself a whisky and stormed back into the bathroom, troubled by the phone call. Things must have been desperate for Arthur to make it. He was one of the members of the voluntary group that met regularly at the Red Lion, a quiet unassuming man who had hung back from the general discussions about prisoner of war experiences. Things were not going right for him at work or home and he’d found he couldn’t hold down a job. He had confided to Drew in the Gents that he had nightmares and sweats and couldn’t settle to anything. He had lost two jobs after he’d clocked in drunk. Drew had suggested they met up on their own to talk about his symptoms and perhaps refer him to someone in Leeds who specialised in rehabilitation.

At the theatre Drew sat through the performance, wondering if Arthur would ring him back. He was the quietest of the bunch, always sitting in the corner supping slowly, listening, nodding, but saying bugger all. He’d been in some camp on the Burma Railway, starved and worked almost to death like most of them, but he’d had a pal, a bit of a singer and concert party star. The pal was executed in front of him. Drew guessed that Arthur was hard up and didn’t want to miss his round so he only came once or twice.

Drew was finding all this talking about their past feelings disturbing. He wasn’t trained for this sort of palaver himself. Needles and pills, yes, anything physical. But he couldn’t get a handle on this invisible pain. The stuff that goes on in somebody else’s head was properly speaking a job for a trick cyclist. It was a relief at least to know they had arranged to meet later that week.

But back at the flat an overwhelming urge to find Arthur took over him. This sense of urgency got him ringing round discreetly to find out Arthur’s home address, but nobody knew it.

Two days later Drew arrived early and sat at their table in the Red Lion, waiting for Arthur to turn up. He didn’t show. With a sinking feeling he sat there for hours before he got in the car and drove to Rawdon. He found Arthur’s address by asking around the pubs, saying he was an army pal. Drew knocked on his front door, feeling apprehensive. A tired woman in black opened it. One look at her face and he knew that Arthur was dead.

‘I’m Dr Stirling. I was concerned about Arthur.’

‘Come in,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not here, I’m sorry. He’s gone. He went missing two nights ago…’

Drew bent his head, thinking, It’s all my fault. I could have helped him but I was in the bloody bath.

‘What’s happened? How did he die?’