The terrorist was close enough to make out the words on his T-shirt: ‘Bob Marley’. He was close enough to see the details of his face. That wide-mouthed expression reminded Thomas of a painting he’d studied at school only six months before. It was of a stretched-out figure on a bridge with his mouth contorted and his hands up in distress. As the terrorist hurtled towards him, Thomas tried to think what the painting was called. The artist was a guy by the name of Monk or Milk. No, that wasn’t it. It was Mink. That didn’t sound right either. If he hadn’t sparked up that joint he’d be able to remember.

The terrorist ran on, drawing a jagged line in the sand towards their position.

Thomas noticed something else about him and said, ‘Hey, Skeletor, I don’t think he’s armed.’

A rifle cracked. The terrorist snapped back like a cartoon dog reaching the end of his chain, and he fell, tumbling to the base of the dune.

‘Got him,’ Skeletor said, his shot still ringing across the lifeless landscape.

Scream, Thomas suddenly remembered. That’s what the painting was called. The guy who painted it, his name was Munch. He was afraid of women, thought they were sinister creatures out to rob him of vital fluids, suck him dry and leave him for dead.

‘You go first,’ Skeletor said.

‘Why me?’

‘I shot him.’

‘What if I step on a landmine?’

‘We can only hope, surfer boy.’

Thomas spun around and opened his mouth to tell Skeletor to get stuffed. But instead of speaking, he started shifting from his foxhole. Staring down at him was the unblinking, 5.56mm eye of an R4 barrel. You couldn’t argue with that.

Keeping his own rifle trained on the terrorist, or whatever he was, Thomas slid down the dune. He tiptoed, listening for the click of a landmine and waiting for the terrorist to rise up and attack.