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Porter suddenly. ‘I left him unconsciousness. There was no way he should have come round.’
    ‘But he did, didn’t he?’ said Pemberton. ‘And three good men lost their lives. I can’t discipline you, Porter. In this Regiment, every man makes his own decisions in the moment of combat. We don’t have a lot of officers analysing them afterwards.’
    Pemberton leant closer into Porter’s face, and he couldsmell a trace of whisky on his breath. Burying his face in his hands, Porter was desperate for a drink. Any kind of drink. ‘Under the Geneva Convention, you’re not supposed to kill a child, so I don’t think I can court-martial you, as much as I might want to.’ He paused. ‘But I will say this. Perry here deserves a bloody medal, and I’ll make sure he gets one. And you … well, I wouldn’t want to be looking at your face in the mirror every morning knowing that I had the blood of three of my mates on my hands.’
    Porter turned round, and started to walk back towards his cabin. He felt empty and bitter inside. Nobody was looking at him, but he heard one man whisper: ‘There’s going to be a lot of dead eyes looking at that bloke.’

ONE

    Vauxhall, London: Monday, 23 October 2006
    Porter could feel the dampness in the sheet of cardboard that was covering him. There had been some light drizzle during the night, and although he had taken shelter inside a railway arch, that didn’t stop the rain from seeping in. On Goding Street, between the Albert Embankment and Kennington Lane, it was one of a strip of arches that the developers hadn’t yet got their hands on. He could feel a dirty light from the river flicking down the alley, and painfully opened first one eye then the next. Some rubbish from one of the local kebab shops was overflowing in the bin next to him – the guys running the shop tipped it out there when they shut up at three or four in the morning – but from the smell he could tell there was nothing that he’d want to eat. One dog had already walked past without stopping.
    He pushed the cardboard aside, and stood unsteadily. A thumping pain was ringing through his head, like having your skull drilled open. There was a pain in his left leg. The nerves were shot to pieces, he could tell, and there was some nasty bruising. He knelt down to take a look and noticed the state of his feet. It was more than a week since he’d taken off his shoes and socks, and although he didn’t much feel like taking a look, he sensed there was some blood starting to coagulate somewhere around his toes. Just ignore it, he told himself. What difference does it make anyway?
    He started walking, trying to put as little weight on his leftleg as possible. For a brief second, he thought about his daughter Sandy, and wondered what she might be doing. What day was it today? he wondered. The weekend? He glanced towards the tube station. No. Too many men in suits. Must be the week then. Maybe the start of a new one. Not that it makes any difference. One week is much like another down here.
    The Travel Inn was a half-hour walk away, along the side of the river. Pleasant enough if you were in the mood for walking, but Porter found the pain in his left leg was increasing the more he used it. Something was definitely wrong there. He’d take himself to a hospital, but if there was anything seriously wrong with him, they’d make him stay in. And then how was he going to get a drink? No, he told himself. You’ll be OK in a day or two. And if not … well, who cares anyway.
    Washing-up wasn’t a great job, but when you lived on the streets it was usually all that was available. The Travel Inn wasn’t a classy place, but they often needed someone to clean up the breakfast dishes. They didn’t pay even the minimum wage – not many hotels in London did any more – but the work wasn’t too hard, even though the two missing fingers on his left hand made it hard to keep a grip on the plates. And they didn’t mind too much if