‘I don’t think you’re too yellow to do it,’ he replied calmly.

They sat there in silence for a moment. Jacob did not take his gaze away from Sam’s eyes.

And then Sam had started the car. As he pulled out into the traffic he saw his mates arrive, but he didn’t stop. He drove home with his brother, neither of them saying a word.

It was months later that Sam heard what happened to his accomplices. Three years, each of them. Out in eighteen months if they were lucky. But by then, Sam’s life had changed. On Jacob’s insistence he had already been recruited into the Paras; by the time his mates were back on the streets, Sam had his sights set on the Regiment. As his brother was so fond of saying, you’re a long time looking at the lid.

He drained his pint and walked back up to the bar. The barmaid’s face spread fatly into a toad-like smile. Jesus, Sam thought to himself. Is she giving me the come-on? It was enough to put him off his beer. For a split second he considered fleeing to another pub, but that thought was interrupted by his mobile phone buzzing in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. Number withheld. His instinct was to leave it: it was probably one of the girls calling to give him his welcome-home present. But as his eyes flickered up again at the barmaid, the prospect suddenly didn’t seem so bad. He flicked the phone open and walked out of the pub to answer the call.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘Evening, Sam,’ a voice replied. ‘Jack Whitely.’

Sam’s brow furrowed. Jack Whitely was the Ops Sergeant back at base. What the hell was he doing calling him now?

‘What is it, Jack?’ He knew he didn’t sound very friendly, and he didn’t much care.

‘You’re called in. Squadron briefing. 07.00.’

‘What are you talking about? We only got back this morning. We’re not standby squadron.’

‘07.00, Sam. CO’s orders. I’m calling in the rest of the squadron now.’

‘Good luck,’ Sam snapped. ‘It’ll go down like a pork chop at a fucking bar mitzvah.’

‘They’ll get over it. Go and get your beauty sleep, Sam. Or sleep with whichever beauty you’ve got lined up. I’ll see you in the morning.’

There was a click as the Ops Sergeant hung up.

Sam stood for a moment looking out into the darkness, with the phone still pressed to his ear. When he finally clicked it shut, it was with a sigh of pure irritation. After eight long, dry weeks in the field the beer was going to his head. He was knackered and he needed to lay up for a bit. A squadron briefing first thing in the morning was the last thing in the world he wanted. He glanced over his shoulder through the frosted glass window of the pub door. There was a warm glow from inside that belied the spit-and-sawdust nature of the place and he wanted to go back in. Then he looked back out towards the car park.

‘Fucking hell,’ he whispered to himself as he stuffed the phone back into his pocket, pulled out his keys, walked to the car and headed for home.

It was midnight and the pubs were chucking out. Jamie Spillane had tried to get drunk, but without much success. It wasn’t lack of money – earlier on he had withdrawn cash on the card Kelly kept hidden at the back of one of her dressing-table drawers; it was just that the booze wasn’t doing its job. He wasn’t feeling woozy and pleasant; he was feeling lairy and on-edge. The bar staff had lowered the lights in a last attempt to get the punters out, but Jamie was sitting in the corner, his half-drunk pint on the table in front of him.

‘Drink up please now, sir.’

Jamie looked up. The guy standing in front of him wore a suit and tie, had a shiny, shaved head and was built like a brick shithouse. Jamie vaguely recognised him as one of the bouncers that had let him into this place a couple of hours earlier.

‘Now, please, sir,’ the bouncer repeated.

Jamie picked up his glass. Slowly he put it to his lips and took the most minute of sips before placing it down on the table. He looked up at the bouncer and gave him a smug smile.

‘All right, sunshine,’ the bouncer growled. ‘Out you get.’

Jamie stayed where he was, his chin jutting out with arrogance. He felt a frisson of excitement at the confrontation to come and took a perverse pleasure in sipping once more from his drink.

The bouncer looked over his shoulder and gestured at his colleague. A second man approached. He was taller, his bright blue eyes small and aggressive, his nose long and aquiline. ‘Playing silly buggers, is he?’ the man asked in a quiet Cockney accent.

The broad-shouldered man nodded.

‘Look, son,’ the new arrival continued. ‘Piss off home, eh? We’ve had a nice quiet night and I don’t want to spoil my lovely manicure on your jaw.’

Jamie took another sip. ‘Tell you what,’ he replied. ‘Why don’t you two homos go back to the gents where you belong and…’

He never finished the sentence. With a flick of his big hand the broad-shouldered man swiped Jamie’s pint away then leaned over and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, before pulling him over the table towards him. Jamie was thrown to the floor at the feet of the two men. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, then pushed himself upright again.

The tall man was standing in front of him now, the broad-shouldered one behind him. Jamie staggered from one foot to the other, a leering smile obstinately on his face, then held up both hands palm outwards.

‘All right!’ he said. ‘All right! I’m going.’

The tall man physically relaxed. His shoulders lowered and his jaw loosened. It was then that Jamie made his move. With a sharp, upward movement he jerked his knee sharply into the man’s bollocks. Instantly he doubled over with a groan like a collapsed lung, giving Jamie the opportunity to hit him round the side of his face with a clenched fist. It stung his knuckles and barely seemed to make his victim move, but his smile broadened as he did it anyway.

He was half-expecting to be walloped from behind, so when it came it was no surprise. It knocked the wind out of him, though, so that he was bent double. And when the tall man returned the punch, it was with interest. Jamie felt his neck cricking and a spatter of blood spray from his nose. Seconds later he was lifted from his feet, taken to the pub door and unceremoniously flung on to the pavement.

A group of lads on the other side of the road jeered as Jamie scrambled to his feet, flicked a V sign at the bouncers still standing threateningly at the doorway to the pub and stumbled off into the Soho night.

As he walked, Jamie used the back of his hand to wipe away the blood that oozed from his nose. People were glancing at him and he quite liked that; and even though his face hurt, he was flushed from the excitement of the encounter. He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, waiting for the blood to stop flowing and his head to stop ringing. When finally it did, he stopped and looked around. Soho was still busy at this late hour. Cafés were open, so were clubs; and on the other side of the road was a seedy-looking entrance with a fat, overly made-up woman behind a counter and a neon sign over the top. It flashed its message in big, bright letters: GIRLS.

Jamie smiled and almost instinctively moved his hand into the back pocket of his trousers. His fingertips felt money there. Notes. He looked up at the woman. The stare with which she returned his gaze was dismissive and unfriendly, but Jamie didn’t care.

Stage two of his impromptu night out had just been decided on.

But at that exact moment he was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile phone. He cursed and pulled it out. Sleek and thin. The latest model. No number flashed up on the screen and he almost didn’t answer. The truth was, though, that Jamie Spillane was not the kind of young man to ignore a phone call. His curiosity always got the better of him. If it was someone he didn’t want to speak to, he could always pretend not to hear them. He accepted the call and put the handset to his ear.