At the cigarette machine, a tall, ashen-faced man with hair hanging in his eyes, pissed as a fart, did a staggering turn and collided with Dillon. About to brush past, Dillon stopped dead in his tracks. He gripped the man by the shoulders, stared into the lost, bleary eyes.

'Steve -? Steve Harris?'

In place of the handsome Jack-the-Lad, six-feet-two in his stocking-feet and with, as he never ceased to tell anyone within ear-shot, a dick that was perfectly in proportion with his Adonis body, was this pathetic, shambling wreck. Unshaven, bloated and boozed out, Steve 'the Puller' Harris, renowned for his sexual exploits, not allowed near anyone's wife, or sister, and on one occasion, Smother Smith's mother!… Steve, one of Dillon's best lads, was almost unrecognisable.

'Leave him, Frank, just leave him, he's a waster,' Jimmy said contemptuously, and as if to add insult to his remark, he stuffed into the drunken Steve's torn top pocket a tenner. 'Right, we mustered? Let's go…'

Dillon held Steve's face in his cupped hands. 'Steve! It's me, Frank, Frank Dillon, what's happened to you, sunshine, eh?'

The lost eyes, sunk deep in unknown depths, roamed about and finally registered a tiny spark. The slobbering mouth opened, but instead of words, a choking, throttled growl issued out, grotesque and mechanical and meaningless as an alien's.

Dillon's heart filled his chest. He put his arms round the lad and pulled him to him, mumbling, 'Steve, oh Steve, Steve

News at Ten was just starting when Susie's mother decided she'd had more than enough, thank you very much, and put her coat on to leave. The table had been cleared, except for one plate, one cup and saucer, and the bottle of Spanish sparkling, now half-empty. The boys were long gone to bed, asking where Daddy was even while Susie was tucking them in. Now she drained her wineglass, trying not to ignore her mother at the hall door, at the same time fighting to stay calm, not lose her temper. But Helen wouldn't let it go.

'Some homecoming. Bloody hero doesn't even turn up.' She tucked her woolly plaid scarf under her chin. 'I'm sorry for the boys…'

'He'll need time to adjust, Mum.' She hated the plaintive tone in her voice, but it just came out that way.

'He's not going to find it easy to walk into a job with no qualifications.'

'He's doing this for me and the kids, and if he wants to let off steam for a few days, then that's his business.'

'Eighteen years, and all he's got to show for it is three thousand quid.' Helen's blue rinse quivered. 'That mate of his got near a hundred thousand…'

Susie snapped off the TV and faced her. 'That was for his leg. He lost his leg. You ask his wife which she'd prefer – better still, ask him. Goodnight, Mum.'

Jimmy Hammond swung the re-conditioned jeep into Kilburn High Road, shouting into the slipstream and not giving a damn who heard, least of all Steve, 'He's a waster, Frank!'

Harry leaned back from the passenger seat, poking Steve's knee as he addressed Dillon. 'Just make sure he stays put. He's a bloody liability.'

Steve sat between Dillon and Wally, apparently insensible to what was being said, or even the universe at large. After about quarter of a mile the jeep turned off the main road and jinked down several badly-lit backstreets, darkened shops and shuttered industrial premises sealed tight for the night.

As they drew up beneath a streetlight, Jimmy said tensely, 'How many did he say there were, Harry?'

'Five. Said we'd recognise one of the bastards… here's Johnny now.'

A figure muffled in a scarf and donkey jacket emerged from an alleyway, collar up around his ears, and skipped along the damp pavement on rubber soles. 'Frank – how you doing, man?'

Johnny Blair, another old mate from the Regiment, shook Dillon's hand. Then he noticed Steve. 'What you brought him for?'

Wally clambered out, a bit unsteady on his pins. His feet were bad anyway, ever since he'd lost three toes to frostbite on Wireless Ridge in the Falklands. 'It's Frank's first night in civvies!' he chortled.

Johnny laughed, rubbing his hands together. 'Right, there was five at last count, up in the snooker hall. Could be more…'

Jimmy was pulling on a pair of leather gloves, heavily reinforced along the knuckles. Under the gloves he wore three chunky gold rings.

'What's going down?' Dillon asked, sobering up fast.

'Bit of paddy bashin', Frank,' Harry grinned. He jerked his thumb, glancing towards the green light that glowed above the entrance to a club, half a block along on the opposite side. Then spun completely round saying, voice way back in his throat, 'Holy Shit! Look who just walked out – it's Keenan. Any money Tony McKinney's with him!'

Keenan, apparently, wasn't slow on the uptake either. Seeing the group under the streetlight, he flicked his dog-end into the gutter and hurried back inside.

'How do you want to do it?' Wally said, fumbling in his pocket. 'You want a cosh?' he asked Dillon.

'Wait.' Jimmy laid a hand on Wally's arm, looking into Dillon's eyes. They were a team once more, a professional fighting unit, and Sergeant Dillon was back in charge. 'Over to you, Frank.'

Dillon straightened up, sucking in a breath. The haze of alcohol evaporated from his brain, in its place cold, crystal-clear reality. 'How many exits? We do it in or outside? We'll need a man either end of the alley… an' we need to know how many there are.' He hooked his arm around Wally's shoulder. 'Let's flush 'em out…'

Three minutes later they were set, men posted, exits covered, Wally as the decoy stepping through the doorway, the light above making a green bird's egg of his bald head. He looked up the narrow staircase to where Keenan was standing, shapes rippling on the frosted glass panel behind his back.

'Wanna game?' inquired Wally casually.

'It's members only.' Keenan's eyes were flat, hard. 'And you're on our turf, so back off!'

'Wrong, you Irish git,' said Wally softly, mounting the stairs. 'This is our territory…'

'Stay put… You bin warned.'

'Then come on down!'

The provocation had the desired effect, as Dillon knew it would. Wally grabbed Keenan's foot as he kicked out, the next second the pair of them rolling down the stairs and into the street – the signal for all hell to break loose as the staircase was suddenly filled with Irishmen wielding billiard cues, one with a baseball bat, some with bottles.

Flattened against the outside wall, Dillon, Jimmy and Harry Travers bided their time. The important thing was to work as a team, backing each other up, using the techniques of karate and kick boxing against an undisciplined mob used to street brawling. Dillon chopped the first man down with a blow to the windpipe, employing the straight edge of his hand like a knife-blade. He sidestepped to avoid a swinging bottle, swept the attacker's legs out from under him, and let Jimmy finish him off with two stiffened fingers in the eye-sockets. Harry got a crack across the back of the head with a billiard cue, grabbed the man by the lapels and broke his nose with a single head-butt. But the Irishmen were a tough bunch – biting, kicking, flailing about with their weapons – while the Paras worked with clinical, methodical patience, covering each other's backs.

Left behind in the jeep, Steve saw a bunch of men charging along the alley, having piled out of the rear exit and doubling round to cut off the retreat. Steve yelled a warning but nothing came out, just a harsh guttural croak. He stood up, smacked his hand against the car horn and kept it there. This alerted Dillon all right, it also drew attention to Steve, a lone target, and three of the men broke away and ran across the street, hauling Steve down onto the road and taking it in turns to kick the living shit out of him. Dillon saw it happen, but he had one or two little problems of his own. He dealt with one, knee to the groin followed by a rabbit punch, the other a bent-elbow thrust into the larynx. And then he was up and running, aggression pumping through him, his tunnel vision directed at going to Steve's aid. In the distance, police sirens wailed. Without breaking his stride, Dillon yelled back to the others: 'Cops! Move out – it's the cops. Pack up… Pack up!'