Steve was on the ground, both hands protecting his throat, curled up in his suede jacket as the boots thudded in. Dillon kneed one of them in the small of the back, got a fist in the nose that rang through his head, and took another out with a leg sweep. He wiped blood from his chin, hearing the sirens blare as two, maybe three police cars came screaming off Kilburn High Road, less than five hundred yards away.

The jeep whinnied, then roared into life. Jimmy gunned the engine, Harry and Wally legging it across the street and leaping in, Johnny Blair close behind clutching the side of his head. Down on one knee, Dillon took Steve's wrist and hoisted him across his shoulder, tossing him into the back as Jimmy crashed into first gear and shot off. Dillon ran, arms reaching out to him, and was hauled on board. The jeep did a screeching two-wheel U-turn, missed a parked van by millimetres, and raced off, leaving behind a dozen slumped, groaning bodies as the police cars wailed up, blue lights strobing the dark street.

Smothering a yawn, Susie Dillon side-stepped the kid's bikes and opened the front door of the flat, wrapping the dressing-gown around herself more firmly when she realised that Frank had someone with him. For a moment she just stood there blinking, brushing a hand through her tousled russet hair, smoothing her fringe down while she took in Dillon's bloody nose and the yellowish bruise on his right cheek.

If anything, the young man he was holding up looked even worse, his face like chopped liver, as if he'd been given a right going over.

'Hello, love!' Dillon greeted her, tossing his suitcase into the hallway and shrugging off his leather grip, looped over his shoulder. 'This is Steve Harris, he was one of my Toms. Steve…?'

But all that came from Steve was a croaking rasp as his head lolled forward. Dillon manoeuvred his way into the hallway. 'He can't talk – had his throat shot out by a sniper in Belfast…'

'Where do you want to put him?' Susie asked, shifting the bikes out of the way.

'Shut the door… fix up the spare room eh?' Susie closed the door and stood watching him helping the boy upstairs. First day out of the Army and he looked like he was back from the bloody wars.

'You gonna chuck up, Steve?' she heard Dillon say. Susie sighed and propped up the bike her husband had still managed to knock over.

'He was awarded how much?' Susie gaped at Dillon and repeated in a hoarse whisper, 'How much?'

Dillon shot her a fierce look across the bed they were making up in the spare room, warning her to keep her voice down, though going by the retching and spluttering as Steve threw up in the bathroom next door, there wasn't much need.

'Over a hundred grand, and he's not got a cent left – nothing. He's had to tap me for a few quid.'

Susie unfolded a sheet and shook it out. 'What did he do with it?'

'Stupid bastards hand over a cheque to a twenty-six-year-old, already having head trouble. He was a right handful when he first joined up – he took some beatin'.'

'A cheque?' Susie said incredulously, tucking the sheet in at one side while Dillon did the other. 'They gave him a cheque? I don't believe it…'

Dillon scowled. 'Captain told him in hospital he'd never jump again. He went from Al fit to P6 – P7's deceased. They tried to say he was forty per cent fit, the C.O. had to appeal. Eventually got put down seventy-five per cent disabled, so he'd been through it before they sent him the cheque. By then he was -' he indicated the pillows ' -pass 'em over, a head case.'

Susie tossed over the pillow slips, studied Dillon as he stuffed the pillows inside. She said quietly, 'How long is he staying, Frank?'

'It'll just be until I can get him back on his feet -' He glanced up as Steve appeared behind Susie in the doorway, and said in a cheerful voice, 'Hi, Steve! You want a cup of tea?'

Susie edged past Steve, giving him a quick smile. 'I am just going to get a blanket,' she enunciated loudly.

'He's not deaf, Susie.' Dillon beamed at Steve, beckoning him in. 'Come on, get yer head down!'

'I'll put the kettle on.' Susie lingered a moment on the small landing with its square of MFI cord carpet, looking in as Dillon helped Steve off with his suede jacket, torn at the shoulder seam, a muddy smear down the back. The boy seemed permanently hunched, hair hanging over his face, and she knew now why he wore that paisley-patterned scarf, tied gypsy-style, round his neck.

She hissed at them, 'And keep the noise down, the boys are asleep. They wanted to wait up, but -' Susie couldn't keep up the frost, she sighed, resigned over the years for the unexpected, 'Welcome home, Frank!'

Steve up-ended the bottle of Tuborg into his glass, filling it to the brim, with the studied deliberation of the experienced piss-artist intent on not spilling a drop. They had been sinking the booze all afternoon, after Dillon had dragged Steve to meet the head of the 'Swallow' club, a club organised to assist men from all sections of the military with vocal chord damage. The membership entree was simple, if you had had your throat cut, or blown out, you were in. The major who ran the club showed Dillon his scars, and with eerie clarity explained that he spoke on a burp of wind, having no vocal chords. They had a speech therapist and a number of men who would gladly assist Steve. It would be a long slow process, but, joining them in the nearest bar, and gulping a frothing pint, he suggested that this was the best way for the 'beginners' to learn, as the beer was good and gassy. The major had thoroughly enjoyed demonstrating his prowess, but Steve had remained stubbornly silent, simply downing one pint after another. They had virtually had to pour the burping major into a taxi, before deciding to return home and continue the 'lessons'. Dillon was beginning to think the entire episode had been a waste of time, even more so as Steve was very obviously an alcoholic, sinking more and more pints in rapid succession, but remaining in stony silence.

'For chrissakes Steve, you got to just try it.'

Dillon having joined Steve in the boozing was getting as pissed as he was. 'Go on, just try… burp and say a word.'

Steve raised his glass to his lips, sank a good half of it, and emitted a raucous belch that somewhere had 'Fuck off in it. Steve had been offered speech therapy sessions, but the attractive woman had been at such pains to make him comfortable, she had made him feel more and more inadequate. A woman he could have pulled spoke to him as if he was ten years old, kept on saying that as soon as he had a break through he would feel better, as if he was sick, or mentally retarded. He was not sick, he was not mentally sub-normal, he was just dumb, and his frustration turned into aggression until he was asked not to return unless he was sober. He had attempted one more session, and was sober, but hearing his efforts replayed on tape, hearing himself speaking like a distorted Donald Duck finished him off completely, he decided that he would prefer to remain silent.

Dillon kept on and on, even trying it himself, until Steve burped out a few words, almost as if to show Dillon that he could do it, but chose not to. Dillon thought Steve sounded like a Dalek with laryngitis, but he heard an entire sentence. 'Piss-Goff an' gleeeve glme gl gla… lone!'

Dillon applauded Steve's effort, doing his best to focus, elbows in a puddle of lager on the formica kitchen table littered with their training session.

Steve gulped down another mouthful and, riding on the back of a huge belch came… quite clearly, 'Baaa… ssst… aaard.'

'Yeah, great, that was great,' Dillon nodded, with an effort forcing his eyelids wide, as if they were lead shutters. '…bastard, right? Am I right?' Dillon grinned crookedly. 'You bastard.'