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stacked boxes of karela, Rob felt like the last Englishman alive.
    The store was busy with chattering shoppers. Some conversations made themselves heard above the public address system pushing today's special offers, but none of the languages were his. He thought he could pick out Bengali and Thai, but he couldn't understand any of it.
    No, that wasn't strictly true. Sometimes a word that sounded like Pashto jumped out at him. Instantly, he was back on patrol in Helmand, waiting for the worst to happen in a suddenly-deserted street, or wishing he knew more Dari or whatever, so that he could work out whether the dodgy-looking locals were discussing how far the infidel bastard's legs would get blown when he hit the IED at the next corner, or if they were just griping about the price of carrots.
    But it was probably Urdu, not Pashto. They had words in common, according to one of his mates, and there were a lot of Pakistanis around here. The realisation did nothing for the knot in his gut or his guilty sense of resentment. He walked on. Sod it, he was store security. He could look at anyone he pleased without needing to feel bad about it.
    It's not race. Shit, we had all colours in the Corps. Bloody good blokes. It's the language thing. It's not knowing what they're saying. This is England and we should all be speaking English. It's not knowing what England is these days.
    It was also not knowing if Rob Rennie belonged here any longer. He checked the display clock on the wall above the dairy section, a plain, white-faced thing with a jerky second hand that he'd come to see as running parallel with his life. He hated that fucking clock. He hated it more than he hated his job, although he knew that there was nothing particularly wrong with either. The clock simply counted down the remaining hours of his life, unstoppable and implacable.
    But this was for Tom, to help him through uni and see him settled with a job and a family. It was the natural order of things: survive, mate, reproduce, die. Rob had seen it on a depressing documentary once. He refused to dwell on how he'd decayed from an experienced and valued NCO – a bit worried about the defence cuts, nothing more, still fit and functional – to scrambling for low-paid jobs with hundreds of other unqualified, middle-aged, working class blokes.
    Wind your neck in and crack on with it. The Corps wasn't always a bundle of laughs either. I get paid. I've got all my body parts. I've got a roof over my head. What am I dripping about?
    It was three minutes to six. Some iffy-looking teens were hanging around the snack section. His gut said to go and move them on, but for once he decided that it just wasn't important enough. What was the worst that could happen? Locksway would lose a few bags of peanuts. Nobody would die. Nobody would bleed to death or find themselves out of ammo, pinned down and relying on him to make the difference between life and death.
    See, that's what's wrong with all this. It doesn't matter. My job doesn't matter. I don't matter.
    He headed for the doors marked STAFF ONLY. Beyond the keypad barrier, the noise of the store dropped to a whisper. Sheets of paper pinned to the employee noticeboard shivered in the downdraft of a heating duct. He checked his watch to make sure it was one minute past six, then waved his pass in front of the sensor and went to change into his street clothes. The bloke on the goods -in gate was a former Gurkha, Krish. Locksway had a policy of employing ex-service personnel and made a lot of noise about in their ads. Rob wondered if Krish also had moments when he wondered what the hell it had all been for.
    "'Night, Krish," he said. "See you tomorrow."
    Krish gave him a big grin. "You want to come round for a meal next week? The wife, she says you need a proper dhal bhat. "
    "Love to, mate. Thanks."
    Rob zipped up his jacket and headed for the bus stop. Krish was a good bloke, the best. But being sociable was harder these days because