Cole hit him again, and there was real feeling behind this one. "You twat! Why the hell would you do something like that. Does he know? Does he know about her?"

King shook his head, blood and saliva swaying from his chin. "Of course not," he said, tired and sad and scared. "You think I'd have told him about them? I don't even know all about them, or understand what I do know. And I don't want to think about them but I do, every night, I dream and scream and sometimes I think sharing the fear will reduce it, you know? But if you think I told him all that, you're mad."

"I am mad," Cole said. "Mad that they got away."

"The ones that got away …" King shook his head. "They're long, long gone mate."

Cole sat on the armchair and stared at King. He had been a good soldier ten years ago, and someone Cole could have trusted with his life. Now he was a fat shit, living like a pig, sitting in the chair and spilling his guts after a couple of punches. He stank. He had no respect for himself anymore, and no sense of responsibility about the secrets he knew.

"Did you tell him his son isn't buried there?"

King raised his head and stared at Cole, and Cole thought, Oh shit, he doesn't know, he really doesn't know.

"What are you on about?"

"They didn't all die, Nath. Some of them were taken away."

King stared over his shoulder at a past he had been trying to forget forever. "Poor bastards."

"Now you realise why I want to know exactly what you told him." But the words suddenly felt hollow in Cole's mouth, because really there was little point in going on. He knew as much as King could reveal—Tom Roberts had gone down to the Plain to look for the grave of his son—and the most important thing he had to do now was to follow Roberts, stop him, and if necessary silence him. Roberts knew too much already. The slightest risk of him opening the grave … that could not be allowed to happen. Not now. Not after so long, when most of the people who knew about the berserkers were dead, or mad.

"I showed him where to find the grave, and that's all. But Cole, you mean they took some of the guys with them? Who? Where? Why?"

"Where is what I've spent the last ten years trying to find out," Cole said. "And I think you know why."

King bowed his head. "Poor bastards," he said again.

Cole stood to leave. "Nath, you live like a pig. What happened to you? Why did you go this way? You could have sorted yourself out, got a decent job in security. Worked abroad, maybe. Why this?" He gestured at the filthy living room, encapsulating the whole of King's life with one wave of his hand.

"Seeing what I saw …" King said, but he shook his head and looked down at his bound arms and legs. "You leaving me like this?"

Cole put his hand on King's shoulder and squeezed. His old comrade. His old friend. "No," he said, and as King's shoulders relaxed Cole grabbed him around the head and broke his neck.

Outside Nathan King's second-floor flat, Cole stood for a while and held onto the landing balustrade. He was shaking. His hands were clawed, cramped, and his shoulders ached. He had not killed anyone for six years; he had never killed a friend. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, taking strange comfort in the city smells after leaving the reeking flat. Exhaust fumes and the stench of stale fat from fast food restaurants were preferable to the stench of King's decline. Memories flashed by, images of King and him ten years ago, young and brash and indestructible.

Working at Porton Down had been a much sought after secondment. The food and accommodations had been good, the security work interesting, and the local ladies had always been interested in men clothed in uniforms and secrecy. Days on the base were spent patrolling the perimeter, fixing fences, handling the dogs, guarding the gates and occasionally doing over reporters who made it their mission to "reveal breaches in security." Evenings were spent at local pubs and clubs, spreading wild tales without actually saying anything, and letting the local girls work off their fascination in the backseats of cars or on the moor behind the pubs. Cole, King and the others had revelled in the assignment. They were reliable men, good soldiers—that was why they had been chosen—but they were also more than aware that they had landed a cushy number. They worked hard at the security of the base, always aware that a true breach would likely result in them being sent back to their regiments, and put a lot of energy into their leisure time, too. The base had a good gym and ample countryside for running; they kept fit. They banked their extra wages. Rarely, if ever, did they question what was going on at the camp. They all knew of the facility's history, but they were army through and through. They understood the need for deterrent and retaliation, and none of them had any time for the occasional protestors who camped at the main gates, waving their placards and demanding the safe return of a bunch of bunnies or puppies.

Three months after starting there, he and King had witnessed the return of the berserkers from Iraq.

Cole opened his eyes and stared out across the park opposite the flat. A young mother was pushing a pram along a path, a toddler running beside her, aiming for the playground. The toddler, a little girl, ran on ahead, jumping onto the roundabout and waiting impatiently for her mother to begin pushing. The baby squealed in its pram as it watched its sister having so much fun. The mother, tall, red-headed and attractive, pressed the pram's brakes and pushed the roundabout, bending to kiss her daughter every time she spun by. The little girl giggled and the mother smiled.

They don't have a clue, Cole thought. He had just killed his friend for them. For their safety. For the little girl's future. That's what all this was about. After six years spent living in one bed-sit after another, drawing the meagre army pension they had awarded him after letting him go, picking up crappy, menial jobs as he watched for signs of the berserkers' reemergence, it had all come to this. He was convinced that he was doing right, and yet sometimes he had to remind himself, to reinforce his conviction.

Because Cole was not a bad man. Cole was a good man.

He had left the army six years ago, three months before killing Sandra Francis. They had refused to let him pursue the escapees, saying that they were gone and that was that. Gone back to wherever they came from, the brass told him. They'll not worry us now. But he had never forgotten the wagon that rolled in one June morning under cover of darkness, ROBINSON FRESH FOODS painted across its sides. The sounds he had heard from within had stayed with him forever. And later, seeing those things as they brought them out, his view of the world had changed in seconds.

The woman in the park reminded him of the scientist, Sandra. She had been attractive, her red hair hiding a stunning intellect behind Barbie doll looks. And that had been Cole's mistake. He had been a bigot, believing that it would be easy to persuade the truth from her.

What did you do to the girl?

I can't tell you.

What makes her special?

I cant tell you.

You have to—

No, I don't.

What was in the syringe? Did you help them, did you make them immune to the silver?

I can't tell you.

Did you help them escape?

A silence, long and loaded. And Francis never shifted her gaze from Cole's eyes.

You did. You did! Why? You have to tell me. Really, you do, because I need to know, and I'll find out one way or the other.

Then it's the other.

More talking, more pleading, but however tightly he'd tied her to the chair and however much he had threatened, Cole could not bring himself to torture her. And really, looking back on it, he believed that nothing would have made her talk.