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footsteps. Paperbacks with sun-bleached spines were racked in a wire tower that squeaked when it turned. The man behind the counter
watched James and Webster as they picked out cans of Coke and a loaf of bread and a packet of rolled pink slices of ham.
    Webster paid, peeling off a note from a wad he kept in his trouser pocket. James had no idea where the money was from. And it never seemed the right time to ask.
    The man behind the counter wore half-moon glasses on a chain. He tapped the keys hunt-and-peck style on the old plastic till and each number appeared in digital green on the narrow screen. His
face was lean and lined, the colour of an estuary at low tide. Black strands of hair were combed crossways over the white dome of his head.
    ‘Nice tat,’ said Webster suddenly, nodding at the inside of the man’s wrist. James tipped forward and saw the beginning of a word in black gothic script. The man pulled up his
shirtsleeve to the elbow for him to see.

    ‘See much action?’ asked Webster.
    As the man picked out the right change from the till, he rapped his right thigh with a knuckle and there was a hollow, hard sound as though he was knocking on a door.
    ‘You?’ he asked.
    ‘Yeah,’ replied Webster. ‘You could say that.’
    ‘And now here we are,’ he said, handing Webster his change. ‘Here we bloody are. At least you got your boy.’ He smiled at James.
    ‘Yes,’ said Webster. ‘I’m glad to have him.’
    ‘You gonna be a para too, son? Like your dad?’ James shrugged. ‘No? Well, I don’t blame you. Stripping down your SA80 ain’t much use out here in the real
world.’ The man cocked a finger at Webster and pulled the trigger. ‘
Ready for Anything.
Anything but Civvy Street, right?’
    ‘Ready for anything but life,’ replied Webster and the man cackled a laugh that flopped strands of black hair down over his forehead.
    As they drove away, James looked back at the garage. The man was hobbling across the forecourt, pulling up a wire chain until it was hanging between four metal posts. Eventually, he disappeared
from view as the road bent round.
    ‘Ready for anything,’ said James. ‘Is that what the Latin said?’ Webster nodded. ‘Is that what they teach you in the army?’ Webster nodded again.
‘Isn’t it impossible? To be prepared for everything, I mean.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Webster. ‘But you have to try.’

13
    The church was on the outskirts of the town, hidden from the main road by a screen of chestnut trees. Webster parked the car in a side street lined with redbrick houses set
back from the pavement, each one an echo of the one beside it. When James opened his door, he smelt newly-cut grass. Diesel. Dirt in the drains.
    The afternoon was starting to lengthen and they walked through shadows that crept from walls and corners like outriders of the night. Kids buzzed around the street, screaming and shouting.
    When Webster noticed a little girl clip-clopping towards them in red high heels and wearing a set of black beads, he stepped off the pavement and waved her by with a low bow. She was pushing a
buggy, its four orange wheels crackling like pepper grinders. A naked plastic baby was strapped in the seat, sitting with its arms outstretched.
    After walking past them, the girl wheeled the buggy around and started back down the path, shushing and cooing as she went.
    ‘She won’t settle,’ she said, going past again.
    ‘She will,’ said Webster and grinned at James.
    But she shook her head. Pointed at the other kids playing. ‘Not with all that noise,’ she sighed.
    Webster watched her tottering in the heels until he heard something that made him start. When James looked up, he realized the kids playing in the street were shooting each other with imaginary
guns. Lobbing imaginary grenades. Dying horribly and eagerly in their made-up world. Webster took a deep breath and started walking, plunging shaking hands into his pockets.
    James trailed behind. When they