He didn’t want to give up, after all.

When he got back to Bawdsey he learned the inquiry had concluded that the cause of the crash was a catastrophic failure of the airframe. The IFF fixings had been ruled out as a cause. The plane had literally broken up in the air and plunged into the sea. Nothing, not even the skill and experience of Captain Burrows, could have saved them.

He ran to his room and lay on Johnnie’s bed, weeping with relief and loneliness. But not for long: there was a knock on the door, and Scott calling: ‘Mac, are you in there? Shake a leg. The boss wants a briefing, right now.’ Vic washed his face in cold water and dashed down to find seven men already in the office: both the IFF research teams, including Frank Wilkinson.

‘Listen up, chaps. We’ve given up on the Sudetenland, and whatever that joker Chamberlain says, we can be sure our friend Mr Hitler will be rubbing his hands with glee. He won’t stop there. It’ll be Belgium next, and then he’ll be right on our doorstep. There is much to do and so little time to do it. IFF is a key part of our defences, and you fellows here are among the best brains in the country. The system developed by Mr Mackensie and his late partner Mr Palmer proved its credentials at the trial a few weeks ago, but to make it work for larger numbers we need elements of the powered transmitter being trialled by Mr Wilkinson’s team’ – he nodded towards Frank – ‘so I suggest you work together to refine it.’

Scott caught Vic’s glance with the slightest of raised eyebrows. Vic shuddered inwardly as he saw Frank’s face lit with triumph. It was a look he’d often seen on the face of Tomkins, the bully of the class at school, for whom Vic was the usual target. But one day, it had turned out differently.

Tomkins had wrestled him to the ground. ‘Eat the earth, Mackensie. That’s all your kind are good for.’ The boy was straddling him, pressing down on the back of his head so that his face was mashed into the grass. Another shove. ‘Go on, eat it.’

The boy was just too heavy, too strong, trapping him to the ground. But as he struggled, he realised his legs were free. If he kicked his feet backwards, hard enough . . . He tried it once and failed, earning himself another punch. He tried again, harder, higher, whipping up his heels as fast as he could. They met something soft. Tomkins groaned and fell to the ground, writhing and clutching his crotch.

‘You little bastard, Mackensie. I’ll get you for this,’ he shouted, as Vic ran for it. But he never did. And there was no more bullying.

Working with Frank, there would be two choices: eat dirt, or kick him where it hurt.