‘Your mother sprays her correspondence with cheap perfume?’ The lips curled into a sneer. ‘What kind of sick family are you from?’

Thomas looked down at the letter. It was postmarked 25-03-1988, a good three months ago, but from it he could still detect a promising floral scent. ‘Did you say one hundred, sir?’

‘I distinctly remember saying two hundred.’

There was nothing left for Thomas to do but pay the price. He rested his rifle against the table and lay face-down on the cool linoleum floor.

‘In your own time, troopie.’ The Lieutenant’s voice was ripe with the expectation of pleasure.

Thomas counted, ‘One.’ The first push-up was agony. ‘Two.’ So was the next. ‘Three.’ But as his joints loosened up and the pain subsided, he began to wonder who the letter was from. ‘Four.’ It wasn’t as if he had a girlfriend or even any girls he could call friends. ‘Five.’ His last two schools had been boys-only affairs. ‘Six.’ Then he had gone straight into the army. ‘Seven.’ But there was someone. ‘Eight!’ A girl he had met in the short holiday between. ‘Nine!’ It was from her. ‘Ten!’ It had to be.

‘Stand up,’ a voice said.

‘Eleven!’ Thomas kept counting, blocking out everything but the push-ups and the promise that waited at the end. ‘Twelve!’ Only one hundred and eighty-eight to go. ‘Thirteen!’ Pain splintered through his body and he crumpled to his side, clutching his ribs.

‘Get off the floor.’ Skeletor’s boot was poised to deliver another blow. ‘Major De Kock wants to see us.’

Back on his feet, Thomas felt dizzy and disorientated. He rubbed his rib cage, doing his best to massage the pain away.

‘Hurry up.’ Skeletor scurried out of the office, no doubt expecting to be followed at once.

But Thomas hesitated. He looked down at the envelope glowing pink with possibility on the counter. Then he glanced at the Lieutenant, who was scowling from his chair, his entertainment so rudely interrupted.