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      Amadeus squatted beside him in the foul-smelling doorway, squeezing him aside to make room, silencing the storm of protest by producing a full pack of cigarettes.

      ‘So, Albert Andrew, I was sort of wondering.’

      ‘Won’ring what?’ Scully snarled, in between hungry draws on the first cigarette. ‘Sir,’ he added as the nicotine began to calm him. Old habits.

      ‘Whether you’ve had enough of sitting on your arse in shop doorways. Bumming drinks and cigarette ends. Smelling like a field latrine.’

      ‘Wha’ the fuck’s it gotta do wi’ you?’

      ‘Oh, Skulls,’ Amadeus scolded. Of course it had to do with him. ‘I’ve got something of a proposition. See if you want to get back into the business.’

      ‘Business?’ The eyes were darting in agitation around the alleyway as though he feared someone was about to pounce and steal his precious cigarettes. He didn’t seem to want to look at Amadeus.

      ‘Red Devil business.’

      ‘No such bleedin’ business any more. They don’t fuckin’ want me. An’ I’ve got a busted fucking foot.’

      ‘I want you, Skulls. You were the best soldier who ever served with me. You see, me and a few pals, we’ve got a little skirmish planned. We want your help.’

      The red-blown eyes steadied, lost their look of a wild ferret, and considered. Somebody wanted him again. It had been such a long time since anybody had wanted him.

      ‘Fuck you, Co’nel.’

      Slowly a hand extended from beneath the dirty blanket. Scully pushed a cigarette towards Amadeus. A peace offering.

      ‘No thanks, RSM. Given it up all of a sudden. Got better things to do.’

      Scully’s lips were cracked and sore, but working hard now to rub a little precision back into his speech. ‘You think I’m up to it?’

      ‘After a wash and a good breakfast, sure. Can you give up the booze?’

      ‘Booze? You think I’m a drunk? Wha’ do you reckon I’m trying to do, fucking kill meself?’

      ‘No, I want you to leave that to me.’

      Slowly, in the manner of an elderly dog, Scully began to shake himself. Layers of blanket and bad times began to fall from him until he was standing, almost erect in spite of his foot.

      ‘Breakfast, eh? It’s a deal. Dunno about the fucking bath, though.’

      ‘Wouldn’t you like to know what it is I want you to do?’

      ‘Don’t need to. Not if it’s you askin’, Colonel.’

      A silence. Then, softly: ‘Thanks, Skulls.’

      Scully began to scratch himself with considerable vigour. ‘Only one question, sir.’

      ‘Give it.’

      ‘Which way’s the fucking canteen?’

      Now there are five.

      Amadeus, the leader.

      Scully, the loyal disciple.

      McKenzie, the man of principle, who is drinking in a pub in Victoria with others he’s met earlier that evening at a lecture sponsored by Amnesty. For him it’s the principle of the thing, coupled with the adventure.

      Then there is Payne, a man of confusion. A man who knows fear all too well. He is also drinking, heavily, in his club on St James’s. Indeed, Freddie Payne is drunk. He has been gambling heavily, at backgammon. Losing. He hasn’t the funds with him to pay his debts, in fact he doesn’t have the money anywhere, so he leaves an IOU. Payment within two weeks. Such things are acceptable, amongst gentlemen, so long as the debt is honoured. For Freddie Payne, life always seems to be a matter of honour. And a burden.

      Mary Wetherell is at home. Or what passes as home. A room in a desperately undistinguished boarding house behind Shepherd’s Bush. She sits in the dark, listening to the thunder of traffic past her window, hoping it will drown out the ringing of her mobile phone. The display informs her that the caller is her husband. She doesn’t answer.

      He rings twice more that evening, until she switches the phone off. Only then does she let go of her tears.

       FIVE

      ‘Welcome home, darling.’ No sooner had he said it than Goodfellowe realized his good humour was probably a terrible idea. Elizabeth was looking at him as if he were a rabbit in her vegetable patch. He could feel the stems of the roses he was carrying beginning to buckle in his hand.

      ‘Not your fault, poppet,’ she muttered before disappearing into her little office at the rear of the restaurant. He pursued her.

      ‘What’s not my fault?’

      She picked up a large sheaf of papers from amongst the clutter that covered her desk, then threw it back down again in disgust. ‘I’ve just had a cancellation. Ten for tonight. We might as well rename this place the Marie Celeste.’ Her maximum cover was only fifty; the missing ten would take a hefty bite out of her week’s work.

      ‘Can’t you start charging a cancellation fee?’

      ‘And make sure they never book in the first place?’ Clearly she wasn’t in the mood for masculine logic. This wasn’t to be a problem-solving session, she simply wanted an audience, someone to share with, and perhaps to shout at.

      ‘Then this,’ she continued, throwing a letter at him from the very top of the pile. From a Mr Sandman of Shepherd’s Bush Green. ‘The lease is up for renewal and the bastards want to shove the rent up another fifty per cent. In the middle of a bloody recession!’

      It hadn’t been the triumphant return from Odessa she had expected. The rent rise would cost her sixty thousand, practically the entire profit she would make on the wine. She was back to square one.

      ‘Sorry, darling,’ she offered in remorse, at last catching sight of the roses. She placed her arms around him and held him tight.

      ‘Yeah, me too.’ He had missed her more than he could have thought, a feeling made all the more intense by the difficulty in telephoning. He had come to The Kremlin intending to tell her so, with roses to show her that she was the most important thing in his life and that he couldn’t imagine living without her, but it was the wrong time. The bloody landlord had got there first.

      ‘It’s just that we’re coming up to the end of the financial year and business always goes quiet around then. Cash flow’s going to be tough. And my house is the guarantee for the overdraft.’

      ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that the restaurant might …’ He didn’t want to complete the thought; even so, it stuck there like cold goose fat. ‘What will you do?’

      ‘Maybe I’ll pull in some of the hotel concierges for a free dinner. See if they’ll push some of the tourist trade our way. If not, I’ll have to let one of the chefs go.’ Or maybe sell off all the wine at auction. She needed the money up front.

      She began sorting through the bottles in the wine rack beside her desk, feeling better now that she had indulged her outburst. ‘It’s either that or marry a rich peer,’ she joked. She held a bottle up to inspect the label. ‘Fancy being my bit on the side?’

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