McNab didn’t like visiting hospitals, and this was his second visit in twenty-four hours to the new Queen Elizabeth hospital, or what Glaswegians had ironically named the Death Star.

Riding with the former Private H. McArthur in the ambulance, McNab didn’t think the skinny wreck of a bloke lying beside him had a hope in hell of making it. But he was wrong, and mostly thanks to an NHS team who were well versed in dealing with stab wounds. One consolation for being a resident of Glasgow, once the knife capital of Scotland, although much improved in recent times.

McNab had departed once they’d wheeled the victim into surgery, and a call later had informed him that Harry, who he’d ID’d via his dog tag, had survived the operation, the knife hadn’t damaged any of his vital organs and he could visit the next day if he wanted to speak to him.

McNab extracted himself from his vehicle and, remote-locking it, made his way towards the entrance. He didn’t like mortuaries either, but for whatever reason, the smells of the morgue didn’t trigger his PTSD.

That was more random, like the sudden bang on Ashton Lane the previous night or the sounds and scents of a busy hospital, which brought forth ghost pains, as though the bullet wound had never healed. Back when he’d been a patient, he’d understood how folk could get hooked on opiates, having pressed the feed on his morphine drip as often as was allowed.

Standing for a moment at the ward entrance, McNab tried to persuade the PTSD version of himself that he wasn’t the one courting death here. That, this time, the black echo wasn’t for him.

The nurse on the desk greeted him with a nod.

‘How’s our patient?’ McNab said.

‘He’s conscious – not sure about lucid, though, if you’re planning an interview.’

‘So he’ll definitely live?’

She threw him a look. ‘The knife wound’s been dealt with. As to the other ways he’s killing himself . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I see he’s been in the wars before.’

‘He was a soldier,’ McNab said.

A shadow crossed her face. ‘That explains the scars then.’

The ones that are visible, McNab thought.

The uniform on duty outside the room stood up on McNab’s approach.

‘Any visitors or interested parties?’

‘None, Sarge.’

The face on the pillow had been scrubbed up, but that hadn’t altered the gauntness or the disfigurement. What age was the bastard?

According to his army record, twenty-five going on fucking eighty.