Left of the Bang. Claire Lowdon

admired about Callum – the interest he took in other people, the quiet, intelligent way he collected information, asking his careful questions, storing up the answers to think about later, at length. He rarely offered personal opinions during casual conversation. But just now this trait struck Tamsin as bloodless, even a little unfair – as if he were trying to catch Chris out over a subject on which he, Callum, had no real authority.

      ‘Obviously it’s not ideal. But to be frank, it’s better than the alternative – which is jail, for most of them. Most of these young guys, they’re illiterate, they’ve got problems with money, family problems. The army offers them a way out of all that.’

      ‘Some people might feel that that’s a rather defeatist position,’ Callum said neutrally. ‘Sorry. I’m playing devil’s advocate. Well, I sort of am.’

      ‘I disagree. I strongly disagree.’ Chris’s ardour was a sharp contrast to Callum’s coolness. He wasn’t angry, but his dark eyes were big with conviction. ‘I know what I’m saying might not be all that palatable, but at least it’s realistic.’ (Tamsin murmured in automatic approval: ‘realistic’ was something of a trigger-word for her, an uncontested good, regardless of context.) ‘Fact of the matter is that the army educates them, it provides financial guidance, pastoral care … It isn’t perfect, but it’s by far the best of a pretty shabby set of options. And in the end, when you look at the camaraderie, the sense of purpose, the brotherhood – I’m really not exaggerating when I say that joining the army is the best decision that most of these guys will ever make.’ Chris nodded fervently.

      Bored, Will waved the debate away. ‘Well, that’s all very Agincourt of you, Chris. But I’m more interested in your cocks. In the jungle, when and where do you masturbate? I want specifics.’

      ‘Will!’ Tamsin turned on him.

      Will feigned hurt. ‘These things are terribly important.’

      ‘It’s okay, I don’t mind,’ said Chris.

      ‘That’s not the point.’

      Will tapped the tabletop impatiently with the flat of his hand. ‘Come on, Chris, don’t be shy, you’re among friends.’

      ‘I’m not shy, it’s just…’ Chris looked to Tamsin for consent.

      ‘Oh, don’t mind her,’ said Will, draping an arm round Tamsin’s shoulders. ‘Tam and I go way back, don’t we?’

      Tamsin wriggled out from under his arm. Will was always claiming for them an intimacy that had never existed, and it irked her.

      ‘Basically,’ Chris began, uncertainly, ‘men will always find a way. Problem with the jungle was that we were all sleeping in hammocks, at fairly close quarters. I suppose after a while it just happens.’

      ‘So you were effectively jerking off in public,’ said Will.

      Chris hesitated before continuing. ‘The, uh, the wanker does his best to be discreet, and everyone else does their best to ignore it. That is, depending on the guy. There was one lad who made a bit of a thing about it. Dave Gaskin – though everyone called him Gashbag. He had, er, some innovative solutions to the problem of waste disposal.’

      ‘As in – what exactly?’

      ‘He either rubbed it into his chest – said it was good for the skin – or’ – Chris’s mouth puckered in amused distaste – ‘or he ate the stuff. Sorry, ladies,’ he finished, remembering Tamsin.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ said Tamsin stiffly.

      Chris was embarrassed. ‘Sorry, bit far.’ He stood up, looking flustered. ‘My round, isn’t it? Sorry. Same again? Three Peroni, two Pinot Grigio, and a – a grapefruit juice?’

      ‘Actually, I’ll just have water,’ said Leah. The background noise forced her to raise her voice. For the first time, Chris heard the gluey consonants of a Birmingham accent lurking behind her carefully clipped speech.

      As he queued for drinks, Chris experienced a familiar deflation. He had been riding high on attention all evening, but now he felt sadly empty. Much as he loved performing, these days it so often felt like the only mode available to him. He was always ‘the army guy’. People’s responses were getting boringly predictable. Suze’s adoration, Big Mac’s cynicism, Will’s covert bid to prove that he, too, could be one of the boys – they were such types.

      Of course he knew he encouraged it. He put himself on display, and by putting himself on display, he fairly volunteered for exclusion. The civilian world was becoming another country. He didn’t quite belong here any more – and yet he didn’t quite belong in the army, either. He was too sensitive; he could do tough, when it was required, but it was always a bit of an act. Even the cigarettes he smoked after dinner in the mess felt like props. Same as being mixed-race, Chris thought morosely: Japanese in England, English in Japan…

      Two boys were blocking his way, leaning on the bar and sipping at their pints of Guinness.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Chris said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I think—’

      ‘No, excuse me,’ said taller boy, boldly impersonating Chris’s plummy vowels. ‘I am most terribly sorry.’ He had a tidemark of foam on his upper lip. They shuffled over to make room for Chris, the short one laughing sycophantically at his companion’s joke.

      No, thought Chris as he ordered, it had not been a good night. He had a growing suspicion that he’d made himself ridiculous to Tamsin in the flat; and just now he had surely offended her with that stupid story about Dave Gaskin.

      (As it happened, Tamsin wasn’t at all bothered by the talk about masturbation. Her objection to Will’s question had been entirely arbitrary, an expression of her general frustration with the evening. For no very good reason, she felt cross, with Callum, with Chris, with herself; so for no very good reason, she got angry with Will.)

      ‘That’ll be twenny-six-sixty,’ the barman told him.

      ‘Really?’ Chris was surprised; he had never been much good with numbers. ‘Hang on, I might have to give you most of that in change…’

      ‘London prices, eh?’ said the barman, conspiratorially. ‘It’s the Peroni what does it, that’s four pound fifty a pint.’

      ‘Really?’ Chris said again, contorting his torso as he strained to access the more remote corners of his jeans pockets.

      ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

      ‘Well, not exactly.’ Chris wondered if this was going to be one of those ‘No-but-what-country-do-you-really-come-from’ conversations. ‘I’m living near Salisbury at the moment.’

      ‘I knew it!’ The barman was triumphant. ‘Takes one to know one, but honestly, that haircut – dead giveaway every time. You must be, what, Rifles? or is it Paras? And with a posh voice like that … Captain?’ This last speculation was made entirely without malice or resentment.

      ‘I wish,’ Chris grinned. ‘Still very much a crow-bag second lieutenant, though.’

      Well, you should try being a crow-bag private, sir,’ joked the barman. ‘Fusiliers,’ he added, with pride.

      Chris looked at the barman more closely. Early forties, certainly no older than forty-five. ‘Gulf War?’ he asked, holding out a palm-full of coins and notes.

      The barman nodded. ‘That’s right. Best years of my life.’

      The two men exchanged a look of perfect understanding. Chris wanted to laugh.

      He took the Pinot Grigios and the water back to their table and came back for the three Peronis.

      ‘You know that bird with the black hair, then?’ The taller of the two boys was looking at him again.

      ‘What?’ It was a moment before Chris understood that he was talking about Leah. ‘Oh, yes.’