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been a good dad.”
    “I hope Steven thought that way,” Tom said, nodding. “I hope he did. Anyway . . . the exercise. It was a long three weeks for my wife and me. We knew he said he’d be out of contact, but still we waited for the phone to ring, or someone to knock on the door. It’s crazy, but you never stop worrying about your children, even when they’re adults. There’s always something of the child to them in your eyes. Do you know what I mean? Do you have children?” Tom knew the answer even as he asked, and Nathan shook his head.
    “Haven’t found the right woman yet,” King said.
    “Good luck to you. Steven left his girlfriend when he joined up, and as far as I know there was nothing serious for the last years of his life. I guess he was living it up, a man in uniform enjoying the attention. Something else I never did . . . never played the field. Sounds mad, but that’s another thing I’m glad he did. Had fun.”
    “So what happened?” King asked, a note of impatience creeping in.
    “The accident.” Tom drained his beer. Through the bottom of his glass the bar seemed even further away, as if he could close his eyes and wish himself home. “They waited until the end of the exercise to tell us. It happened during the second week apparently, but they waited another week until calling, and by then . . . by then his body was already being shipped to us. How fucking cold, you know? Icy cold. Even the officer’s voice on the phone was hard, however much he tried to project sympathy.”
    “He was probably scared,” King said.
    “Scared of telling us?”
    King glanced away, shrugged. “Go on.”
    “They said Steven had been in an armoured troop carrier, out on its own, travelling across the Plain. There were fifteen men in there, including the driver, and they’d just stopped beside a copse of trees when a Tornado fired a missile at them. The pilot thought they were one of the targets set up across the Plain for the RAF to practise bombing. They killed everyone, all fifteen men. And that’s it, that’s all they said. Apart from sorry. As if sorry is ever any good!” Tom grabbed his glass, realised it was empty, and when he looked across at King he squeezed hard, feeling the of a crack beneath his fingers. “What is it?” click
    King had turned pale, and was staring down at his hands in his lap. There was sweat on his upper lip. When he looked up, Tom thought he was going to leave.
    “What?” Tom asked again.
    “Tom, I’m going to get another drink,” he said, and when he picked up his glass his hand was shaking.
    For the couple of minutes King was away Tom’s mind ran riot, trying to imagine who he could be and what secrets he had to reveal. Was he a survivor? Did he know that lies had been told, and if so what they were? Was he the pilot who had fired the missile? Who, what, when, where . . . ?
    Tom closed his eyes to try and calm himself, prepare for whatever revelation may come. I won’t tell Jo, he thought, surprising himself with his own conviction. If it doesn’t change anything, I won’t tell her. She’s suffered enough.
    King placed another pint in front of him, sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He rushed his words, as if afraid that they would dry up. “Tom, your son wasn’t killed in that accident. That never happened. Fifteen men died, but they died at Porton Down, not on Salisbury Plain.”
    “Porton Down,” Tom said, guts clenching, skin running cold. “The chemical and biological research place. Steven was involved there?”
    “No,” King said, sighing and looking down at his feet. “He was there on a trial period as a guard, that’s all. But wasn’t even involved in that exercise on the Plain.” He stayed that way for several seconds, tensed with some inner turmoil. When he looked up again, his eyes had gone hard. “I’ve said too much already,” he said.
    “Don’t you fucking dare!” Tom hissed, leaning in so that their faces were a