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now." Zajac was grinning.
        "And when it's done–" began James.
        "You don't want to challenge me. But you're worried about your soft bum-boy, I'll give him eight weeks."
        James looked disgusted.
        "Night of the final," continued Zajac. "I'll give you till then."
        "Final?" said Richard.
        " Knife Edge ." James looked at his friends. "On the twentieth, right?"
        "Yeah."
        "It'll be final, all right," said Zajac.
        Then he pushed his way through the stationary crowd of boys, ignoring the smashed detritus of his excuse for the challenge, and the reactions of those who'd witnessed it.
        Or Richard's vomiting on the ground: hot, spattering, and full of stink.

[ FOUR ]
     

    Pre-dawn was an avocado glimmer in the east. Josh scrunched up his face, shivering as he came awake in the car, the reclined driver's seat his bed. He liked this, experiencing conditions most people never knew; and he had slept in worse places, far removed from the soft, over-regulated conditions of ordinary lives, lacking danger. And keeping their marriages intact.
         Sophie.
        By reflex he scanned the world outside, the darkness-within-darkness of sloping field and surrounding trees. He was parked on a muddy track that meandered off the road. Flicking off the interior light – old habit – he cracked open the door and rolled out, coming down into mud in a deep crouch. All his attention went outward, for this was the Zen of survival, allowing the animal brain to sniff the environment, listen for danger. Nothing, so it was safe to pee – execute a slash-ex, they said in the Regiment – and he crossed to the trees. Afterwards, he pulled out a carryall from the back of the car, extracted a bottle of cold water – only the concentration on physical details, the chill feel of the plastic, the sloshing of liquid inside, the faint smell of woodiness and grass, kept the rage trapped inside him, coiling round like a snake in a vortex – then he stripped down, pulled on tracksuit and Nikes, and got to work.
        Deep breathing and abdominal contractions took the place of sit-ups, then he ran up and down the sloping field, easy at first, then sprinting uphill at fast intervals, sucking in dawn air. Breathless, he returned to the car and took out a black kettlebell, like a cannonball with handle attached, ripped the weight skyward and performed swings and snatches and presses, feeling every sinew, because you have to push the fitness all the way or the fuckers will get you, for somewhere an enemy lies in wait, while the sounds he heard were not the waking birds but the crash of frag grenades, the screams of limbless men.
        "What's that?" Maria had asked, the first time she saw one of his kettlebells.
        "Oh, I call it Maria," he'd said. "Because it's gorgeous and I can't keep my hands off it."
        "Uh-huh."
        "Or because it's dangerous as fuck, and flies off the handle if you don't watch out."
        They had laughed, both of them, so long ago.
         Sophie.
        The susurrating machines that did the breathing for her, the shining green tubes festooning her pale body, the beep of monitors which–
        "Oy, you!"
        Anger in the voice. Josh hunched over, slumping as if afraid, knowing he should not play these games. The approaching man was a licensed farmer, no doubt, for he carried a long taser rifle, while at his side a lean black-and-white collie bared teeth. Blood rush washed in Josh's ears, obscuring the unfriendly words. Then he straightened up, kettlebell in hand – quite a weapon – and the farmer stopped dead, confusion sizzling in his eyes, voice croaking to stillness, and in that moment he might have died, if Josh had wanted it.
        Man and dog stayed back, swallowing, as Josh heaved his things into the car, got in and started the engine. He bumped his way in reverse along the track, swung a reverse-one-eighty