‘Sam? Sam? You don’t look right, Sam. Please, they’ll be here in a minute… Sam?’

Self-hatred makes a man turn on the first person he sees. But it was particularly aggravating to Samad that this should be Archie, who looked down at him with a gentle concern, with a mix of fear and anger all mingled up in that shapeless face so ill-equipped to express emotion.

‘Don’t call me Sam,’ he growled, in a voice Archie did not recognize, ‘I’m not one of your English matey-boys. My name is Samad Miah Iqbal. Not Sam. Not Sammy. And not – God forbid – Samuel. It is Samad.’

Archie looked crestfallen.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Samad, suddenly officious and wishing to avoid an emotional scene, ‘I am glad you are here because I wanted to tell you that I am the worse for wear, Lieutenant Jones. I am, as you say, out of sorts. I am very much the worse for wear.’

He stood, but then stumbled on to his boulder once more.

‘Get up,’ hissed Archie between his teeth. ‘Get up. What’s the matter with you?’

‘It’s true, I am very much the worse for the wearing. But I have been thinking,’ said Samad, taking his gun in his good hand.

‘Put that away.’

‘I have been thinking that I am buggered, Lieutenant Jones. I see no future. I realize this may come as a surprise to you – my upper lip, I’m afraid is not of the required stiffness – but the fact remains. I see only-’

‘Put that away.’

‘Blackness. I’m a cripple, Jones.’ The gun did a merry dance in his good hand as he swung himself from side to side. ‘And my faith is crippled, do you understand? I’m fit for nothing now, not even Allah, who is all powerful in his mercy. What am I going to do, after this war is over, this war that is already over – what am I going to do? Go back to Bengal? Or to Delhi? Who would have such an Englishman there? To England? Who would have such an Indian? They promise us independence in exchange for the men we were. But it is a devilish deal. What should I do? Stay here? Go elsewhere? What laboratory needs one-handed men? What am I suited for?’

‘Look, Sam… you’re making a fool of yourself.’

‘Really? And is that how it is to be, friend?’ asked Samad, standing, tripping over a stone and colliding back into Archie. ‘In one afternoon I promote you from Private Shitbag to lieutenant of the British army and this is my thanks? Where are you in my hour of need? Gozan!’ he shouted to the fat café owner, who was struggling round the bend, at the very back, sweating profusely. ‘Gozan – my fellow Muslim – in Allah’s name, is this right?’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Archie. ‘Do you want everyone to hear you? Put it down.’

Samad’s gun arm shot out of the darkness and wrapped itself around Archie’s neck, so the gun and both their heads were pressed together in an odious group hug.

‘What am I good for, Jones? If I were to pull this trigger, what will I leave behind? An Indian, a turncoat English Indian with a limp wrist like a faggot and no medals that they can ship home with me.’ He let go of Archie and grabbed his own collar instead.

‘Have some of these, for God’s sake,’ said Archie, taking three from his lapel and throwing them at him. ‘I’ve got loads.’

‘And what about that little matter? Do you realize we’re deserters? Effectively deserters? Step back a minute, my friend, and look at us. Our captain is dead. We are dressed in his uniforms, taking control of officers, men of higher rank than ourselves, and how? By deceit. Doesn’t that make us deserters?’

‘The war was over! I mean, we made an effort to contact the rest.’

‘Did we? Archie, my friend, did we? Really? Or did we sit around on our arses like deserters, hiding in a church while the world was falling apart around our ears, while men were dying in the fields?’

They tussled a little as Archie tried to get the gun from him, Samad lashing out at him with not inconsiderable strength. In the distance, Archie could see the rest of their motley crew turning the corner, a great grey mass in the twilight, pitching from side to side, singing ‘Lydia the Tattooed Lady’.

‘Look, keep your voice down. And calm down,’ said Archie, releasing him.

‘We’re impostors; turncoats in other people’s coats. Did we do our duty, Archibald? Did we? In all honesty? I have dragged you down with me, Archie, and for that I am sorry. The truth is, this was my fate. This was all written for me long ago.’

O Lydia O Lydia O have you met Lydia O Lydia the Taaaatooooed Lady!

Samad put the pistol absent-mindedly in his mouth and cocked the trigger.

‘Ick-Ball, listen to me,’ said Archie. ‘When we were in that tank with the Captain, with Roy and the rest.’

O Lydia the Queen of tattoos! On her back is the battle of Waterloo…

‘You were always going on about being a hero and all that – like your great-uncle whatsis name.’

Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus too…

Samad took the gun out of his mouth.

‘Pande,’ he said. ‘Great-grandfather,’ and put the gun back in.

‘And here it is – a chance – it’s staring you in the face. You didn’t want to miss the bus and we’re not going to, not if we do this properly. So don’t be such a silly fucker about it.’

And proudly above waves the red, white and bloooo,

You can learn a lot from Lydia!

‘Comrade! What in God’s name.’

Without them noticing, the friendly Russian had ambled up behind them and was looking in horror at Samad, sucking his gun like a lollipop.

‘Cleaning it,’ stuttered Samad, clearly shaken, removing the gun from his mouth.

‘That’s how they do it,’ Archie explained, ‘in Bengal.’

The war that twelve men expected to find in the grand old house on the hill, the war that Samad wanted pickled in a jar to hand to his grandchildren as a souvenir of his youth, was not there. Dr Sick was as good as his name, sitting in an armchair in front of a wood-burning fire. Sick. Huddled in a rug. Pale. Very thin. In no uniform, just an open-neck white shirt and some dark coloured trousers. He was a young man too, not over twenty-five, and he did not flinch or make any protest when they all burst in, guns at the ready. It was as if they had just dropped in on a pleasant French farmhouse, making the faux pas of coming without invitation and bringing guns to the dinner table. The room was lit entirely by gas lamps in their tiny lady-shaped casings, and the light danced up the wall, illuminating a set of eight paintings that showed a continuous scene of Bulgarian countryside. In the fifth one Samad recognized his church, a blip of sandy paint on the horizon. The paintings were placed at intervals and wrapped round the room in a panoramic. Unframed and in a mawkish attempt at the modern style, a ninth sat a little too close to the fireplace on an easel, the paint still wet. Twelve guns were pointed at the artist. And when the Artist-Doctor turned to face them, he had what looked like blood-tinged tears rolling down his face.

Samad stepped forward. He had had a gun in his mouth and was emboldened by it. He had eaten an absurd amount of morphine, fallen through the hole morphine creates, and survived. You are never stronger, thought Samad as he approached the Doctor, than when you land on the other side of despair.

‘Are you Dr Perret?’ he demanded, making the Frenchman wince at the anglicized pronunciation, sending more bloody tears down his cheeks. Samad kept his gun pointed at him.

‘Yes, I am he.’

‘What is that? That in your eyes?’ asked Samad.

‘I have diabetic retinopathy, monsieur.’

‘What?’ asked Samad, still pointing the gun, determined not to undermine his moment of glory with an unheroic medical debate.

‘It means that when I do not receive insulin, I excrete blood, my friend. Through my eyes. It makes my hobby,’ he gestured at the paintings that surrounded him, ‘not a little difficult. There were to be ten. A 180-degree view. But it seems you have come to disturb me.’ He sighed and stood up. ‘So. Are you going to kill me, my friend?’