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Rob didn't like turning up empty-handed to freeload off kind people, and money was tight. Still, he'd work something out. Every spare penny went into Tom's university fund so he didn't have to live on beans. Rob would survive and resume his life later, and Tom would graduate and never find out how much of a struggle it had been for his dad.
    He took out his notebook on the bus journey home to do his sums, working out how much he could put away this month. The street lights became a blur in the corner of his eye as he rested his head against the cold glass of the window. Sod it, he could do this. It was just like a long tour of duty somewhere shitty, or a bit of escape and evasion behind enemy lines. All he had to do was focus on the outcome and the rest would follow just like it had in the Corps. He didn't need a car, he didn't need an expensive phone contract, he didn't need to get rat-arsed down the pub every night, and he didn't need expensive ready-meals. He cooked plain, cheap food and went running in the evening. He borrowed books from the library and watched TV instead of paying for videos. This wouldn't break him. It would only make him fitter and harder, more of himself than ever.
    Yeah, he felt fine just being Rob Rennie. No fucker could take that away from him. It was one of those days when he felt murderously bitter about being disposable, and hated whatever this country had become, because it wasn't home and it wasn't his. But the anger passed. At least he hadn't sacrificed his life, his limbs, or his sanity for this fucking government or any other.
    And I've got Tom. That's what matters.
    The hardest part of the day was opening the door of his flat. The air smelled empty and stale, not poorly cleaned but just devoid of all the things that made places feel homely and lived in — a roast in the oven, Bev's perfume, air freshener, laundry. Or even coffee, grease, and sweat. He wasn't used to living alone. He'd spent most of his life cooped up in barracks or camps with other blokes just like himself, or at home with Bev and Tom.
    And this wasn't the kind of place to impress a woman. Friday nights brought that home to him more than ever.
    I hope my bloody dick's still working by the time Tom graduates.
    He bent to pick up the mail scattered on the mat, a pile of pizza delivery fliers and pale cream envelope of expensive textured paper. He thought it was bad news from officialdom until he turned over the envelope and saw the US stamp and Mike's distinctive, formal handwriting. Americans still learned to do proper joined-up writing. It always looked very foreign.
    Rob sawed open the envelope with his forefinger and pulled out a Christmas card, a proper one, not something run off on a home printer. Instead of a generic snow scene, there was a picture of the Brayne family, all wholesome and smiling in front of a huge, log-laden fireplace festooned with red and green swags of ribbon. It was like a team photo of the very rich and powerful:  Mike, Livvie, Mike's politician sister Charlotte, her lawyer husband Jonathan and their two kids, plus Leo and Monica — Mike's parents — and their yellow Labrador, Billy, a nice enough dog if you didn't mind his farting and leg-humping. The greeting was about peace and prosperity in this holiday season, as if Christmas wasn't a word you could use in polite society. Inside the card was folded sheet of velvety paper.
    'Rob, if you want a break, we'd love to see you again. Livvie wants to know if you can make it for Christmas. Just leave the travel arrangements to me. And Esselby could really use you. Always open. Dad can fix the work permits. Let's talk.'
    Mike never gave up. He was a thoroughly decent bloke, no side to him at all, and it was easy to forget that his family was oligarch-grade rich. Rob stared at the card, trying to see the heir and not an earnest, awkward man who didn't seem to have any mates. Mike was an oddball, all right. He'd paid a fortune to go on every elite