The officers were in their billets, drinking whisky and telling each other — with varying degrees of conviction — that they were damn lucky to have a war come along just now, so they could show their true mettle.
And the whores lay still and sore in their beds, calculating how much money they had made that day — and how many more brutal embraces they would have to endure before they could afford to get the hell out of this place.
The man made his way along the same street which Blackstone had gone down half an hour earlier.
He was breathing heavily, and recognized that this was a result not of exertion, but of fear.
But why should he be afraid now, he asked himself?
He had been as brave under fire as most of his comrades. He could contemplate the possibility — the probability — of his own death on the battlefield without undue terror.
So what made this so different?
He wondered if it was because — despite the assurances he’d been given — there was a part of him which considered this to be a dishonourable act.
Yet how could it be dishonourable? Hadn’t they all agreed it was necessary — that even if it brought his own disgrace, he would be acting for the general good?
He drew level with Blackstone’s billet, and gasped at what he saw. He had known the windows would not be locked — that had been taken care of earlier in the day — but he had not expected them to be wide open.
What did it mean? How should he interpret it? Was he being led into a trap, or had fortune chosen to smile kindly on him?
He had been carrying his weapon in his fist, but now he stuck it into his webbing, to give himself a free hand.
He had only to step through the window, and he would be seconds away from completing his mission.
He was dreading what lay ahead, but at least, he consoled himself, it would soon be over.
They have made camp at the end of a long and punishing day’s march in the Hindu Kush. Sergeant Blackstone posts sentries around the perimeter, tells his corporal to wake him up in two hours, then takes out his blanket and settles down gratefully in front of the fire.
He falls asleep immediately. It is a deep sleep, free from dreams of both his mother’s slow death in the East End slum they shared, and the horrors he has witnessed during his time in Afghanistan. It is so calm and peaceful that he might almost be dead.
But though his mind has almost completely closed down, there is one tiny part of it — allied with his senses — which is sentry duty, and it is this small part which alerts him to the smell.
It is the odour of a man — and a man whose habits and diet are totally alien to his own.
Later, he will learn that the sentries he posted are all dead, but for now, as he slowly reaches under his blanket for his bayonet, all he knows is that there is an intruder in the camp.
The same breeze — which had treated Blackstone’s cigarette packet wedge with such disdain earlier — wafted over his sleeping form now, and brought with it a reminder of that night in the Hindu Kush.
But this was not Afghanistan, he told himself, suddenly wide awake — and the smell of nervous sweat which was filling his nostrils emanated not from the body of a Tajiki tribesman, but from a man born much closer to home.
He could just make out a vague shape by the window — which must have been the intruder’s entry point. He wondered what weapon his attacker — and he had no doubt this man had come to attack him — would use.
Not a gun! If he’d had a gun, he would have opened fire by now, spraying the bed with bullets. If he’d had a gun, it would already be all over.
A knife, then? Or perhaps a club?
But he could not use either of them effectively unless he had enough light to see what he was doing.
He would have brought a flashlight with him. He would have his weapon in one hand, and his flashlight in the other. And that was good, because he would have two things to think about, instead of just one.
If I was in his place, Blackstone thought, I would get as close to the bed as I could, then I would lift my weapon high in the air, and switch on the flashlight — aiming it at my victim’s eyes. And the second that the flashlight found its target, I would swing the weapon with all the force I could muster.
The attacker — still no more than a malevolent black shape — slowly and carefully crossed the room.
Blackstone began counting to himself.
One. . two. . three. .
At seven, he calculated, the attacker would switch on the flashlight, at eight he would swing his weapon, and at nine there would be a dull thud as bones cracked and brains turned to mush.
Four. . five. .
The intruder had now reached the foot of the bed, and was coming around the side.
Six!
The beam of light cut through the darkness, hitting Blackstone squarely in the eyes.
Too soon — far too soon — Blackstone thought, as a bright yellow ball bounced up and down in front of his eyes.
The intruder had panicked, and switched on the flashlight before he was in the right position to launch his attack. And yet his very incompetence was working to his advantage.
Blackstone twisted his body round, and lashed out blindly with his legs. He felt the soles of his feet make contact with the other man’s chest, and heard — though he could not see — his assailant catapult backwards, and crash heavily against the wall.
Pain shot though his left ankle — which had taken most of the impact from the kick — and the yellow ball still bounced before his eyes. But he knew that he had to follow through quickly, whatever state he was in — had to hope that the eyes would clear and the ankle would hold him.
The ankle betrayed him — giving way the moment he put any weight on it. He tried to compensate, shifting his weight to the other foot, but he had already lost his balance, and fell clumsily on to his attacker.
The assailant screamed, then wiggled out from underneath and crawled on his hands and knees towards the open window.
Blackstone made a grab at the fleeing man’s leg, but the man was already out of reach.
The attacker struggled awkwardly to his feet, half-jumped, half-fell, through the window, and landed heavily in the street outside.
Blackstone’s ankle issued dire warnings of what would happen if he attempted to follow, and knowing it would be pointless to attempt to defy it, he was forced to just lie there, and listen as the intruder hobbled clumsily up the road.
‘Bugger it!’ he said — and wondered if he could reach his cigarettes.
Five minutes had passed since the attacker had fled. For the first two minutes, Blackstone had lain where he had fallen, massaging his ankle. For the next two, he walked cautiously up and down the room, ignoring the pain and ordering the ankle to behave itself.
On the fifth minute he lit the oil lamp, and got his first look at the weapon which the attacker had been carrying. It was a tent mallet, heavy enough to drive metal stakes into frozen ground, and therefore more than adequate for the task of rendering him dead.
If the intruder had stayed — instead of running — there was every chance he would have prevailed in their struggle, Blackstone told himself.
An East End bully-boy, used to this kind of fighting, would have known that instinctively, but this man was not a professional thug, and so had lost his head at the first signs that things were not going exactly to plan.
Blackstone continued to walk up and down the room. He would have a slight limp in the morning, he guessed, but — with any luck — he should hardly be noticing his ankle by the afternoon.
‘They wanted you out of action, Sam, which means you must be getting somewhere in this case, even if you don’t realize it yourself,’ he said, as he hobbled. ‘That’s good. That’s very good.’