‘Oi, Nick!’

I turned. He wasn’t one of them. I didn’t know the guy from Adam – except that I don’t remember Adam eating all the pies. He was surrounded by other beer bellies and red faces, throwing down the pints like they were still nineteen-year-old squaddies. Many were thinning on top; some were bald or grey. All of them were bullshitting about how great it’s been since they got out. Great house, great car, everything’s gravy.

Some wore their Green Jacket blazers and ties over crisp white shirts and neatly pressed slacks. Others were in their best suits. Me? I was in a Tesco shirt, washable trousers and cheap leather jacket. Most of them would have been lorry drivers, security guards, painters and decorators, firemen or policemen. That was what normally happened with the lads. The odd one would be on the circuit, fucking about in Iraq or Afghanistan, but today it really didn’t matter who or what you were. The one thing everyone had in common was that they knew Tenny.

Tennyson had spent the best part of a year sorting out his gut before marrying Janice and taking up his commission in the Green Jackets – which had become the Rifles in the next shakeup. He never did make general, but was promoted to full colonel in command of media ops at Camp Bastion in Helmand province. It was a plum job, making sure reporters and news crews got where they were needed, and managing the PR output. Until he got zapped again, this time in the head by a 7.62mm short from an AK.

The voice called again: ‘Nick! Nick Stone!’

I still didn’t have a clue who he was, but shook his hand anyway. I didn’t have much choice: he’d gone for it big-time. He pumped my arm so vigorously my shoulders shook.

‘Good to see you, mate.’

Maybe he’d had more hair the last time I’d seen him.

‘Graham – Graham Pincombe. How you doing, mate?’

Still none the wiser. ‘Ah, yeah, fine… mate…’

My brain whirred into hyperspace as the very thing I was trying to avoid started to happen.