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feed her, clean up after her, and take responsibility for any damage she does.’
    ‘The kennel maids have been calling her Lady,’ said the woman, ‘but she’s only been here two weeks so there wouldn’t be a problem calling her something else.’
    ‘Lady’s a good name,’ said Liam. He looked up at his father. ‘Can we take her now, Dad?’
    Shepherd looked at the woman. ‘There’s some paperwork to do,’ she said. ‘And we still have the home visit to arrange. Where do you live?’
    Shepherd told her his address and she agreed to do the home visit early the following day, even though it was Sunday.
    ‘That’ll give us a chance to get some supplies in,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘Supplies?’ queried Liam.
    ‘Bedding, food, brushes, a lead, a collar – dogs need almost as much stuff as children,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘But we can have her, right?’
    ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He crouched next to Liam and put his hand through the bars of the cage. The dog licked his fingers enthusiastically.
    ‘You’re great, Dad. Thanks.’
    ‘Just remember the rules,’ said Shepherd. ‘Six months down the line, I don’t want to be the one feeding her and taking her out whenever she needs a pee.’
    ‘That’s what we’ve got Katra for,’ said Liam.
    Shepherd glared at his son and pointed a warning finger at him.
    ‘Dad, I’m joking,’ said Liam. ‘She’s my responsibility, I’ll take good care of her, I swear.’
    ‘Just make sure that you do.’
    The waitress was a pretty Chinese girl with waist-length hair, flawless olive skin and long fingernails painted bright red to match the figure-hugging cheongsam dress that she was wearing. All the men at the table turned to watch her walk away.
    ‘She’s a cracker,’ said the youngest of the group of five. Ben Portner had just turned nineteen and had only been in the army for six months. He had a shock of ginger hair and a mass of freckles across his nose and cheeks, so he wasn’t at all surprised to be nicknamed ‘Ginge’ before he’d even got off the bus that had taken him to basic training.
    ‘Yeah, a prawn cracker,’ said the man sitting next to him. Greg Massey was two years older than Ginge but had gone through basic training at the same time and, like Ginge, was preparing for his first overseas posting. Afghanistan.
    The men around the table laughed, including the one officer, Captain Tommy Gannon. Gannon was in his mid-twenties, a career soldier, good-looking with a strong chin and piercing blue eyes. Like all the men, he was casually dressed, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and brown cargo pants, with a leather bomber jacket hanging on the back of his chair.
    ‘What are the girls like in Afghanistan, sir?’ Massey asked Gannon.
    ‘No idea,’ said Gannon. ‘They always have their faces covered, once they’re past puberty. And they keep well away from us.’
    ‘What about female suicide bombers?’
    ‘It happens,’ said Gannon. ‘They’ve been using kids, too. But in Afghanistan the main hazards for us are going to be Taliban fighters, snipers and IEDs. Most of the Taliban suicide bombers are for their own people.’
    The pretty waitress returned with bottles of Chinese Tsingtao beer on a tray. ‘Hey, darling, do you go out with round-eyes?’ asked the soldier sitting on Gannon’s left. He was in his late twenties, the most experienced squaddie at the table. Craig Broadbent had already done one tour of Iraq and had the scars from a car bomb down his back to prove it.
    The waitress scowled at him. ‘I don’t go out with squaddies,’ she said, her accent pure Northern Irish.
    ‘You should try Mr Gannon, then,’ said Massey, pointing his chopsticks at Gannon. ‘He’s an officer.’
    The waitress looked at Gannon and raised her eyebrows. ‘A sergeant?’ she said.
    ‘Sergeants aren’t officers,’ he said. ‘I’m a captain. Ney ho mah ?’
    She looked surprised. ‘You speak Cantonese?’
    ‘ Siu siu ,’ he said. ‘Just a bit. I was