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always have a wry smile for the Emirati men who take part in these events, wearing Nike baseball caps and drinking Coke.
    The irony is not just lost; it vanished with the oil money.
    The 'breaking news' covered an incinerated corpse found inside a burnt out Bentley Continental in Belfast, believed to be a senior politician.
    By the time I'd finished my weights, Sky had named O'Donnell as the victim and 9/11 'remembered' had dropped to second spot. We were headline news.
     
    La Mammas is a good Italian. I'd eaten there many times when I'd been out to an arms fair in the city in 2004. The tableware and presentation is excellent and the portions are large enough to satisfy a dour Scot.
    At exactly one p.m. the three of us sat around our table, rubbing roasted garlic bulbs onto warm Ciabatta bread washed down with a very pleasant Giacomo Conterno Barolo Monfortino. I love a classic Barolo-style wine; and the Monfortino is one of the oldest, aged in casks for many years and made with native Italian Nebbiolo grapes. It has a deep, mineral flavour mixed with berry and spice; at eight hundred Dirham a bottle, not cheap.
It is best served with white truffle ravioli or grilled lamb, but I ordered Cacio e Pepe; a pasta dish with Pecorino Romano sheep cheese and black pepper. Lauren plumped for boneless oxtail with celeriac puree; Des ordered a pizza and to my horror demanded chips with it.
    We ate in relative silence. Des rarely spoke when eating as he considered it a distraction from the process of devouring everything on his plate as quickly as possible. I'd complained about his table manners many times but he always explained that if he didn't eat quickly the 'big lads' would get it; a reference to his childhood days, when school dinners were sometimes the only hot meal of the day for poor Glaswegian kids, and the bigger you were, the more you got to eat.
    I went to top up his glass, but he held his palm over it and shook his head. "I'm gonna have a beer, pal, I'm no keen on the wine."
    "Philistine," I said.
    I waved the bottle in Lauren's direction.
    "I'll have another glass," she said.
    Lauren looked pale and tired.
    "How are you feeling?" I asked, the wine coating her glass as I poured.
    "I'm fine. I'm okay."
    Des finished the last of his chips and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
    "It's normal to feel a bit shit after a job like that, hen."
    Lauren pushed some more food around her plate, looked at us both in turn then snapped.
    "I said I was okay, didn't I?"
    I raised my hands. She would talk about it if and when she wanted to. I remember the first time I was involved in a close quarter kill. It changes you, believe me. Squaddies have counsellors now; but the macho image of the SAS would never allow a man to admit that he was fazed by a job, let alone visit a shrink.
    I did my best to draw a line under the conversation.
    "Fine; well I say, we have a walk down to the pool bar and get some sunshine on our faces."
    Des accepted a bottle of Peroni from the waiter and took a long guzzle from the neck. "I say we get fuckin' pissed and celebrate. I've just taken delivery of two hundred and fifty thousand, pal."
    Lauren raised a glass and a half-smile. "I'll drink to that."
     
    So the drinks flowed and we were still sitting at our beachfront table when the sun dropped like a stone beneath the horizon. We talked about everything except Belfast. I think we raised a few eyebrows with the other guests by being loud. I considered it unlikely they would say anything.
    Des had removed his shirt and was inspecting his midriff.
    "I'll be needing to get in that gym tomorrow, guys," he slurred. "I'm gettin' a fat bastard."
    Lauren leaned over and pinched slightly more than an inch of the Scot's belly, she was well on her way with the drink herself.
    "You're a fine figure of a man, Cogan, I'd shag you."
    Des laughed and furnished me with some information I didn't know.
    "Well you had yer chance, hen, and you knocked me back."
    Lauren shot me