Sissy got up and went to him, pressing her body to his back, her head resting on his shoulder. The singing beneath the window faltered, died away.

In a small, faraway voice, Dillon said, 'You know the stag? When we found out how much he was worth we thought about knocking it off. Five grand's a lot of cash. But…' He gave a tight shake of the head.

'But?'

'He makes you think about freedom,' Dillon said, deep within himself. 'None of us has had too much of that, it's not the way the Army trains you. Everything is ordered, you live by rules and regulations.' Leaning against him, Sissy could feel the muscles in his arms tautening, then going slack, then going taut again.

'You don't know it's happening to you,' Dillon went on in the same quiet, charged voice. 'When you're on leave it's short-lived, you need booze and more booze to loosen you up, like you can't handle not having anyone watching your every move…'

He turned and laid his hand gently to her cheek. 'I did five years in Belfast, I hated the city… the kids spitting in your face, old ladies looking at you with hatred. Hate. You can feel it, but you act as if nothing is happening -' A tremor passed across his bruised face. He seemed to physically shake it off, but the effort left his eyes unnaturally bright, moist in the corners. Sissy could hardly bear to look at him.

'You call low-life "sir"…' The words stumbled out. 'the players – we call the IRA suspects players…' The dam on the point of cracking, breaking, bursting open. Dillon shut his eyelids tight, wetness squeezing out. 'But in the end, the game's been on us…'

Sissy let the moment prolong itself. The pain ebb away. She said, then, 'Do you have kids?'

Dillon opened his eyes and looked into Sissy's. He nodded. Raucous shouts rang out from below, 'Frank!… Come on, Frank…'

'It's time I went home,' he said. And then, for only the second time she could remember, Dillon smiled. 'God bless, love.'

There was a cheer as Dillon came out. A long drive ahead of them, and the lads were eager to be off. Dillon walked to the jeep, hefted Steve's holdall from the back, dropped it on the gravel. He jerked his thumb. Out.

Steve slowly climbed out. Dillon took a fistful of money from his pocket and offered it. Steve backed away, fear in his eyes. Dillon gripped his lapel, pulled him close, and without even bothering to look at Steve, stuffed the money in his top pocket.

'Take it! You're on your own, Steve.'

Steve's face was white. The fear in his eyes was now mingled with the abject, cringing look of a whipped dog. He hesitated, then reached out a trembling hand, tried to catch Dillon's arm. Dillon jerked his arm free. He climbed into the passenger seat next to Jimmy, looking straight ahead.

The jeep backed away from the front of the hotel, wheels churning gravel, and shot off down the driveway. Lashed to the radiator was a stag's head – old MacFarland's stag's head – that Jimmy had swiped from the bar. Steve saw the spread of its antlers above the hedgerows as the jeep sped along the lane, heard the bellow of a song floating back on the breeze, gradually fading, fading, fading away.

'Ten green bottles

Hanging on a wall,

And if one green bottle

Should accidentally fall…'

The stag's head went up, antlers raised high, scenting danger. It stood poised on the crag, all senses alert, its massive tawny flanks quivering slightly.

High up on the facing southern slope, Steve lay cushioned in the coarse grass, hidden by the waving fronds of heather. The wooden stock of Jimmy's L42A1 sniper rifle, fitted with a cheek rest, nestled against his shoulder. 7.62mm calibre shell, muzzle velocity 838 metres per second. Effective range 1,000 metres plus.

Steve squinted through the sighting telescope.

Beside him lay his empty holdall, his kit neatly spread out on the grass. Next to his wallet, a single photograph of Steve in his parade uniform. Face shining, smiling into the sunshine. Silver badge of winged parachute, crown and lion on his Red Beret. The Red Beret he was wearing now, with his jeans and denim shirt and the neckerchief swathing his throat.

Clearly outlined on the ridge, the stag slowly turned its head. Poised, muscles tensed, nostrils twitching, it looked in Steve's direction, seemed to stare directly into Steve's eyes.

The crack of the rifle shot scattered the peace of the valley. Screeching birds scattered, wheeled into the sky. Before the first echo had died away the stag was leaping down, crashing through the bracken, seeking the safety of the wooden glen.

On the grass, Steve's kit lay undisturbed, the photograph spotted with three splashes of blood, the largest one obscuring the smiling face. The impact had thrown the body backwards, arms flung wide. The rifle rested between his legs. Some distance away, the Red Beret lay on the grass, unmarked, pristine, cap badge shining bright.

Dillon stood in his boys' bedroom, looking over their board with all the photographs. There was one in the centre of Steve, his arms wrapped around Dillon laughing, there was another with his trousers dropped mooning to the camera. Dillon removed the picture of the two of them, touched Steve's smiling face. He whispered softly, 'Goodnight Steve, sleep quiet…'

Jimmy barged in carrying a black plastic rubbish bag containing all of poor Steve's possessions. He seemed completely unaware of what Steve's suicide meant to Dillon.

'We best get a move on. What you want me to do with his gear?'

Dillon shrugged, said there was no one to collect it, give it away, anything but he couldn't deal with it.

'What about his mother?'

Dillon shook his head, didn't want her to see Steve's few pitiful belongings, knew it would hurt her. She had his medals, she had those to remember Steve, that was better than sweat-stained T-shirts, old sneakers and a baggy coat.

'Okay, but we should get going, got a busy day.' Jimmy said impatiently.

Dillon nodded, wanting Jimmy out, needing him to go and leave him for just another second, but then he turned and followed him down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Jimmy tossed the black plastic bag into the bins. Dillon said nothing, he couldn't, he just touched the pocket where he had slipped. Steve's photograph, touched it, as if to say, it's okay, I cared, I care Steve.

'I want to go to the crematorium.'

'Shit, we already been there!'

'I want to go again, ALL RIGHT? THAT ALL RIGHT WITH YOU?'

Jimmy slammed the door shut. 'Fine, that's where you wanna go, that's where we go…'

They drove in silence.

It was a simple plaque, set in a small square plinth of smooth grey stone. Wreaths of clustered dark green leaves and flowers wrapped in clear cellophane, each with a message of condolence, were placed beneath it in a bed of red stone chippings. The biggest wreath had the Regimental crest as it centrepiece, with the motto Utrinque Paratus woven below in tiny white flowers.

Clad in his worn black tracksuit and his wrinkled Pumas, Dillon crouched on his heels, surveying the display of grief. He looked at the motto, and his lips silently mimed the words, 'Ready for Anything.' Anything but civvies, Dillon reflected bitterly. First Taffy, now Steve. A roll-call of battle honours, in reverse. Which one of them next? Jimmy? Dillon gave a small sour grin. Definitely not Jimmy, Mr Jim'll Fixit – not if Jimmy had anything to do with it. More likely himself. Much more likely…

He stood up as a middle-aged woman in a straight fawn coat with large round purple buttons approached along the path. For a long moment she gazed at the plaque with sad brown eyes, then rested her gloved hand on Dillon's arm.