‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst melted away. The ambassador glanced out of the window, snorted, then turned back to Harry. His pale eyes were calculating.

‘Hillgarth told me about your meeting this morning. Maestre’s a blabbermouth. The things he mentioned, Juan March and the Knights of St George; you’re not to discuss them with anyone. There are lots of angles to what we’re doing here. Need-to-know basis, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I told the captain I’d say nothing.’

‘Good man. Glad you’re all right.’ Hoare clapped Harry on the shoulder, then looked with distaste at the flour on his hand. He turned to the door. ‘Tell Tolhurst to get that cleaned up.’

LEFT ALONE, Harry sat down. He felt terribly weary and there was a humming in his ears, a pressure. It took him back again to Dunkirk, after the shell landed next to him. He had tried to sit up. He was covered with sand that was wet and warm. He couldn’t think properly, bring his thoughts together. Then a touch on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. A small, wiry corporal was leaning over him.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Harry could hardly hear the man, there was something wrong with his ears. He sat up. His uniform was covered in bloody sand and there were lumps of red scattered around. Tomlinson, he realized.

He let the corporal drag him down to the beach, into the sea. The water was chilly and he began trembling from head to foot, he couldn’t move. ‘Tomlinson,’ he said. He could hardly hear his own voice. ‘Such little pieces.’

The corporal grasped his shoulders, turned him round, looked into his eyes. ‘Come on, sir, come on, into the boat.’

The corporal led him deeper into the water. Other men in khaki were splashing all around. Then Harry was looking up at the brown wooden hull of the boat. It seemed so high. Two men reached down and took his arms. He felt himself being lifted into the air again, then passed out.

HE BECAME aware that voices were still calling outside. He got up and went back to the window. The youth was standing to attention now, banner at his side, yelling up at the embassy. Harry caught the words. ‘Death to the enemies of Spain! Death to the English! Death to the Jews!’

The boy stopped in mid-flow. His mouth dropped open and his face reddened. Harry saw a tiny black circle appear at the crotch of his grey shorts. It grew larger and larger, then something ran glistening down his thigh. He had worked himself into such a state he had wet himself. The boy stood rigid, his face blank with horror. Someone called, ‘¡Lucas! ¡Lucas, continua!’ but he dared not move, he was the one trapped by the crowd now. Harry looked down. ‘Serve you right, you little bastard,’ he said aloud.

THE FALANGISTS DISPERSED shortly afterwards. The boy who had wet himself had to turn round eventually, slinking back to his comrades. They stared at his soaked shorts then quickly looked away again. The fire had gone out of them, anyway, they were getting tired; they put away their drums and banners and marched off. Harry turned away, shaking his head. He sat at Tolhurst’s desk, grateful for the quiet. Tolhurst had been decent. He had been surprised by the strength of his grip when he pulled him inside; there must be some muscle under that fat.

He looked round the office. A battered desk, an ancient filing cabinet and a cupboard. Dust in the corners. The King’s portrait on the wall but no personal photographs. He thought of his own parents’ picture, which stood in the flat now. Did Tolhurst have parents living, he wondered, or had they been scythed down too in the Great War? He closed his eyes and for a moment saw the beach again, thrusting it away with his mind. He had done well today; not long ago an incident like that would have had him crouching in terror under a table, another pink rat.

He remembered his time in hospital in Dover, the disillusion and despair. He was partly deaf, the nurses had to shout to make him hear. A doctor came and gave him tests. He seemed pleased with him. He leaned in close to the bed.

‘Your hearing should come back, there’s no real damage to the eardrums. You’ve got to rest, you understand, lie here and rest.’

‘I’ve no choice,’ Harry shouted, then remembered it was he, not the doctor, who was deaf, and lowered his voice. ‘If I get out of bed I start shaking.’

‘It’s shock. That’ll get better too.’

And so it had, with the determination that took him out of bed, then out of the ward, then into the grounds. But neither his recovery nor the Air Force’s victory in the Battle of Britain could heal his sense of angry shame at the retreat from France. For the first time Harry had found himself questioning the things he had been taught at Rookwood, that the rules there were good and right, England a country destined to lead the world. It was the Fascists who were winning now, everywhere. He had always hated them, as he had always hated the cheats and bullies at school. That gave him something to hold on to. If they invaded he would fight if he could, even for this broken, fractured England. It was for that he had answered the spies’ unwelcome call, come here to Spain. He jumped as the door opened and Tolhurst reappeared, a pile of papers under his arm. ‘Still here, Brett?’

‘Yes. I was watching the fireworks. One of them pissed himself.’

‘Serve the little bastard right. Are you all right now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just needed a minute to pull myself together.’ Harry stood up. He looked at his morning suit, from which specks of flour still drifted to the floor. ‘I ought to change.’

Tolhurst opened the cupboard and took out a crumpled dark suit and trilby hat. Harry changed into it. The suit was baggy and smelt of old sweat.

‘I keep meaning to take it home and press it,’ Tolhurst said apologetically.

‘It’s fine. Thanks. I think I’ll go home unless they want me for something else. I’ve no work left downstairs.’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘All right. By the way, there’s a drinks party for some of the younger embassy staff next week. At the Ritz. It’s a Nazi haunt these days; we’re showing the flag. Why don’t you come?’

‘Thanks. I’d like to. Thanks, Tolhurst.’

‘Oh, call me Tolly. Everyone does.’

‘Then call me Harry.’

‘OK. Anyway, listen, if you’re going home don’t take the metro, there’s a power cut again.’

‘All right. The walk’ll do me good.’

‘I’ll arrange for your jacket to be cleaned.’

‘Thanks again, er, Tolly.’

Harry left Tolhurst to his work. Outside it was still dry but a cold sharp wind had started to blow from the mountains. He put on the trilby, shuddering a little at the cloying damp of old Brylcreem. He walked to the city centre. In the Puerta del Sol a group of gipsy beggars sat huddled together in a doorway. ‘Alms,’ they called after him. ‘Alms. In the name of God.’ There had always been beggars in Spain but now they were everywhere. If you met their eyes they would get up and follow; you developed the trick of seeing them only with your peripheral vision. They had talked about peripheral vision during Harry’s training: use it to find out whether you’re being followed, it’s amazing how much you can train yourself to see without eye movement so people don’t know you’ve seen them.

In Calle Toledo one of the restaurants had put out its rubbish for collection. The bins had been tipped over on the street, spilling out across the pavement. A family were hunting among the rubbish for food. There was an old woman, a younger one who looked like she was her daughter, and two pot-bellied children. The young woman might have been pretty once but her black hair was greasy and dishevelled and she had the red patches of consumption in her pale cheeks. A little girl picked out a piece of orange peel and rammed it to her mouth, sucking desperately. The old woman grabbed a chicken bone and pocketed it. Passers-by turned to avoid them; across the road, a couple of civiles stood watching from a shop doorway. A priest in a neat black suit walked swiftly by, averting his gaze.