Bright lights and music spilled from the Lodge's windows and doors. Madari had stepped outside to take a break from the Christmas party and now strolled in the yard out front, smoking a cigar. Drummond appeared in the main door and Madari called out to him.

"Good evening, Clive."

Drummond hunted in the darkness until he spotted Madari, then strolled over to fall into step beside him. He had a cigar too, but also a generously filled whisky glass. His face was quite flushed, his nose especially red.

"Haven't had a proper Christmas bash like this for years! Place is usually empty at this time of year."

"It's very kind of you to throw a party for us. I hope the men don't get too rambunctious."

"Rambunctious." Drummond chuckled. "That's a good word. Rambunctious. Well, I hope you're letting them sleep in tomorrow, because I think there'll be a few sore heads."

"I'll let them off morning PT for Christmas, yes," Madari said.

"Got the kitchen working on a good Christmas dinner for tomorrow. Hard to call it traditional, since we're such a mixed group, but there'll be plenty of it."

"Excellent. In that case, we'll have extra PT on the twenty-sixth."

Drummond roared with laughter. "You keep those boys on their toes. They're a good bunch of lads. Devil makes work for idle hands and you've kept them from being idle. Kept them out of mischief. They've got a lot of respect for you."

"Thank you, that's good to hear."

"They're friendly with my lads and they mention it. Think a lot of you. Discipline, but fairness. That's what gains the respect of troops." He puffed on his cigar. "And believing you put their interests first. Seen too many officers who think the troops are just there for him to use to make him look good."

"Yes, I've seen that too."

"If a commander gets it right with the men, respects them, then it'll come naturally from them. They'll want to make him look good."

"Not just 'him' these days."

"True, true. She's got a different approach from you of course."

"Well, she's not a commander yet. A junior officer can get away with a more informal relationship with the troops." Bennett's approach, her informal way with the men reminded him of Jahni's. Perhaps she was a sergeant at heart, like him. But he'd seen Jahni's friendly approach change over the years, to one with more distance, like his own, as Jahni moved up in rank and the chain of command. He was still more approachable than Madari himself, but less so than the young lieutenant Madari had known at the camp.

"She's looking very pretty tonight," Drummond said, smiling. "Nice to see her in a dress."

Madari felt a little uncomfortable with the direction of the discussion. Not something he was used to talking about. But he made an effort.

"You're old enough to be her grandfather, my friend."

Drummond laughed. "Very true. But it does my old heart good to see her anyway. Mr Ritchie looked as if he was enjoying it too. Don't think she's interested in him though." He winked at Madari in a suggestive way that made him blush.

"Um... well, I'm old enough to be her father. And she's under my command."

"What happens at Christmas parties doesn't count," Drummond said. He chuckled. "Most people forget what they did the next day anyway, had so much to drink."

"I don't drink."

"Like I said, Christmas parties don't count. Come on back inside now, Faris. It's starting to rain." He put a hand over the top of his whisky glass to shelter it from the fine raindrops.

"I'll just have a few more minutes, I think."

"Suit yourself. Don't get soaked through and sit around in your wet clothes. Knew a fellow in Lagos did that and died of pneumonia two days later."

The Brigadier seemed to know of more men who had died from accidents, illness and general foolishness than ever died in combat. Madari watched him go and continued strolling, thinking about his words. He doubted Bennett had any romantic interest in him. They had become friendly, it was hard not to, she was easy to get along with, even if her manner startled him often. But he felt sure nothing else lay behind that.

Or was it him? Was he not able to see it if a woman was attracted to him? Sophia had been forced to take the lead in their relationship, from their first kiss, to their first sexual encounter. Was that because his interests lay elsewhere? He certainly sensed Kahil's interest in him. And when Raslan had made coded advances, he'd had no trouble picking up on those. Despite the fact he could make love to a woman, and care for her, was there something fundamentally different about him?

And yet, aside from Kahil and Raslan, he rarely felt attracted to other men. There'd been times in the past, when he was young... but he'd always repressed and denied such feelings. The fact he could do that made him believe they were nothing but insane moments, temptations to sin.

His unit had many fit and handsome young men in it, but he never had inappropriate thoughts about any of them. Out here, Mr Ritchie was entirely safe from him and the Cameroonian soldiers didn't attract his eye, however handsome and well-built some of them were. Was it only Kahil? No, Kahil and Raslan. As much as he despised Raslan now, he couldn't deny the physical attraction he'd felt for him, or how close he'd come to giving in to Raslan's attempt at seduction.

So, did he have a... type? Only Arab men, with thick, glossy black hair? Then why did he not look at other men in the street, or the men in his unit? Because his mind was filled with Kahil? Or because his mind was filled with fear? His feelings for Kahil were too strong to repress, where a passing fancy for a handsome young man on the street would be stifled before he even noticed it.

He was very afraid of the word 'homosexual'. When his psychiatrist, Dr Fauzi, used the word he had protested that he didn't think of himself that way. Though Fauzi hadn't pressed the point then, Madari suspected that he thought how Madari liked to think of himself and the reality of the situation might be two different things.

He realised he really was quite soaked through now, and should go back inside. The party was coming to an end now, close to midnight and they didn't need his help to finish it. He headed upstairs, took a warm shower to guard against any chill, so Drummond wouldn't have a tale about this Arab fellow he knew who got a soaking and died a week later.

Over the next hour, the music downstairs silenced and the voices of the revellers quietened, as the men and officers retired, Madari read for a while then turned off his light.

~~~~

Bright light in his eyes.

"What I do next you will never recover from. I promise you that."

Mouth too dry to spit. Could curse, swear impotently at the demon. Did no good. What could he call the creature that it hadn't been called a hundred times, a thousand times before?

"Pliers."

"No!"

The cry was in his dream. Still in the dream and only the dream. Not screaming awake. He knew that this was a dream, not real, not really there again and yet he was there. He felt the pain as the pliers clamped onto his fingernails and ripped. One by one. Heard his own inhuman shrieks and pleas for mercy as he they mutilated him. Remembered vomiting. Remembered wanting them to kill him. Killing him would be mercy. Praying for death.

And breaking. Remembered breaking. Saying the names of the King's Men. The names of his friends. Rahama. Gave him up first. Friend. Mentor. Betrayed him. Sobbing with shame, and self-loathing. Sobbing out the last name as the blood poured from his hands.

"Faraj. Idris Faraj! Captain Idris Faraj!"

Madari woke, crying out Faraj's name.

Darkness. The hood? No, they took it off so he could see. See the blood. But he couldn't see. He was blind! No, the light, put on the light. Kahil. Where's Kahil? Help me, Kahil, help me!

Blind, and terrified of what he'd see, he fumbled by the bed, trying to find the switch for the lamp, hearing things fall to the floor. Didn't know what. Didn't care. Needed the light.

His groping hand found the switch suddenly and the bedside lamp came on, a small circle of soft light, enough for him to hold his hand up to, looking for blood, looking for the fresh wounds. He found only the old scars and the present slowly came back.

Long ago. Long ago. And yet, it felt new. Because the dream never went there. Never. It always stopped when Sevchenko called for the pliers. Always. He couldn't go further. His mind wouldn't take it. He heard the word pliers and woke, calling out for Kahil, for the voice, for the arms to hold him.

Tonight, they weren't there. But he needed them. His head was spinning and he suddenly threw back the tangled and sweat heavy sheets and staggered to his bathroom. He swept his hand over the light switch as he passed and the light was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. But he closed his eyes against it as he dropped to his knees by the toilet and vomited.

Eventually he managed to drag himself across to the sink and scoop cold water into his mouth then over his face, washing over the sweat and tears, before he dropped to the floor, legs too shaky to hold him, trembling like a man with a high fever.

He looked at his hands again, still expecting to see blood, still amazed at how old the scars looked. As if it happened years ago. It did happen years ago, he reminded himself, trying to hang on to the present, terrified he'd lose himself back in the past and be unable to escape.

Could he go mad because of it? So long after it happened?

Was it even the worst thing they did to him? The other horrors he relived regularly in his dream, yet that moment had been hidden from him for so long. Not because of what they did, he now realised. Because of what he did. Because he broke. Because he did something so utterly unacceptable that he could do nothing but hide it. Suppress the shame, never see it, never have to remember the moment.

He felt shame again now as he realised he was lying on his bathroom floor curled up, the sobs choking him, only just becoming aware of them.

No. Not his bathroom. The Lodge. Zaire. He was in Zaire. Air so thick and damp. He wanted the dry, cool air of the night in the desert. He wanted the silence of his own room, not the clicks and buzzes of the jungle outside.

And he needed Kahil. He couldn't deal with this alone. He needed Kahil. Needed that voice to hold back the darkness still clawing at his back.

More memories came back to him. Newer memories. Why he was here. Who was here with him. And equipment they had here. Equipment. Yes. Yes. He could hear Kahil's voice at least.

He climbed to his knees, then his feet, wobbly and dizzy. His bathrobe hung on the back of the bathroom door and he dragged that one, seeking the comfort of its warmth. It covered him to his knees. Decent enough. Good. Because he had no time to dress, couldn't wait that long.

He had to find Bennett.

~~~~

Karen Bennett, who'd been only mildly tipsy at the Christmas party, woke to the sound of someone knocking at her door.

What? Had she slept through her alarm? The colonel would have her guts for garters. No, it was still pitch black. She turned on her bedside light and the clock showed barely four. Must be some kind of emergency. Bloody typical. Unless it was Santa Claus and he'd got lost trying to find the chimney. She giggled and got up when the knock came again, grabbing her dressing gown to put on over the pyjamas she wore and slipping her feet into a a pair of slippers after giving them a quick shake out.

She opened the door to find Colonel Madari standing there. Shit, he looks like hell, she thought. Hair wild, face streaked and eyes red, as if he'd been crying. Pretty green around the gills too, and trembling.

"Sir, what's wrong? Are you ill?"

"What? No. Phone, Karen. I need you to make the... the phone, the satellite phone work."

"What?" She came out of the room, closing the door behind her and he at once turned to head up the corridor towards the stairs. She hurried after him. "Sir, what's happened?" Someone must be dead, she thought, though couldn't imagine who that could be to produce such a reaction in Madari. She hadn't seen him anything but controlled and dignified.

"I need to talk to someone. To Kahil." They reached the stairs and she had to grab at his arm as he wobbled on the top step. Glancing down, she saw his feet were bare. He stared at her wildly for a moment, and tried to pull his arm away, but she held on firm and started down the stairs. Giving in, he came with her, letting her steady him.

He wanted to talk to Kahil? Now? In the middle of the night? She knew who Kahil was of course, Madari talked of him often. His second in command, a comrade in arms for many years and a close friend. She'd even seen a picture of him - used to mark a place in a book, a picture of the two of them. But why did Madari want to talk to him now?

A moment later, they reached the office she shared with Ritchie and she manoeuvred Madari to a chair, then went to get out the satellite phone. He didn't stay in the chair, jumped up and started to pace up and down. Karen hoped there were no drawing pins on the floor, thinking of his bare feet.

"Sir," she said, as she began to set up the phone. "I really don't think we're going to get a signal. The satellite won't be in the right place." He turned such an anguished look on her, that she thought her heart would break. Whatever had upset him, driven him so close to the edge of control, it had to be something bad and she wanted to help in any way she could. "But I'll try, sir. There could be another one I can piggyback on. I'll do my best."

Her best wasn't good enough. A couple of times she thought she was going to get there, but the reception faded away again, leaving them with nothing. By the time she gave up, after almost as hour, Madari had stopped pacing and was sitting at Ritchie's desk, with his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, finally, and reluctantly admitting defeat. "I just can't get it."

He sat up, running his hands down his face. "Thank you," he said, his voice distant and faded. Almost a whisper. He cleared his throat. "Thank you for trying." He looked around the room as if he didn't recognise it. "I'm... sorry. I shouldn't have disturbed you."

"That's okay." She packed up the phone and put it back into the cupboard, then went over to Madari. He was calmer, but not okay yet, not by a long way. That look in his eyes, as if he was barely here, was somewhere else. Somewhere bad. She still needed to take care of him. "Would you like some tea, sir?"

"Tea? Oh, yes. Perhaps. That's good."

"Wait here."

She hurried into the kitchen, and started making the tea. She was familiar with where to find everything, since she often hung out in there talking to the staff. Placing the things on a tray, the gently steaming pot last of all, she took it all back to the office and put her head around the door. Madari was in the same place, staring into the distance. No, she thought, staring into the past.

"Follow me, sir," she said, rousing him. Before he could speak, she set off and led him up the stairs. Get him back to his room and then get him back into his bed, when he'd had the tea. He needed his sleep. Sleep always helped.

Bennett worried for a moment about what she would find in his rooms, but everything appeared normal. She set the tray down on a table and poured two cups of tea. Madari stood by the door, staring at her, but she put his cup on the table and then brought him from the door to the sofa. She closed the door as she led him away from it and he looked back at it, then at her, shaking his head.

"Sit down," she said, firmly, before he could start talking about being chaperoned. Whenever the two of them were alone in a room together, he was always careful to leave the door open. It amused her, his old fashioned ways, protecting her reputation. Well, right now, the closed door would protect his reputation, because it wouldn't do for anyone else to see him so distressed. That clod Ritchie for one. Had all the sensitivity of a brick.

She sat on the sofa opposite him, sipping her tea. He watched her for a moment, then picked up his own cup. They drank the tea in silence, and some colour had come back to his face by the time he'd finished his cup.

"There's more in the pot," she said. "Pour you another?"

"Thank you," he said, his voice stronger now. He was coming back from whatever terrifying place he'd been. Karen poured the tea and noticed a jar with biscuits in it on the side table with his coffee things. Getting his blood sugar up could only be good. Taking the jar back to the table along with his tea, she offered him a biscuit. He took it with that baffled look on his face again, as if the ordinary had become strange to him.

Where was he, she wondered? Behind those scared eyes, where was he that frightened him so much? He'd been a soldier for many years. He must have seen so much. And she recalled his story about how he became a guerilla, how he'd been in prison. Looking at his fingernails, she wondered about the parts of that story he hadn't told her. She sat down again, still watching him carefully.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get through to Kahil, sir."

"That's all right, Karen. You did your best. It was... foolishness."

"No, sir, I understand. Sometimes there's... one person we have to talk to." She hesitated. "I know I'm not that person, sir, but I'm here. You can talk to me."

"You shouldn't even be here." He glanced over at the closed door. "In my room, I mean."

"You let me worry about that," she said, smiling. If someone saw her leaving Madari's room it would stick it to Ritchie. He kept saying all Arabs were poofters.

"Karen... I really can't. There are things... things I can only talk to him about." The voice had become a whisper again.

"Then talk to me about Kahil."

He stared at her. It could work, she thought. Any talking was better than him spiralling down into the darkness she could see trying to drag him away. If he couldn't talk to Kahil, then talking about him might help. Might give Madari the strength to resist the darkness, even if he only had the memories of his friend and not his presence.

"Where was that photograph you use as a bookmark taken?" she asked.

"You've seen that? It... it was... in Hereford. At the SAS barracks. We were there consulting with them, for setting up my anti-terror unit. That's when Kahil decided to try to pass Selection."

"Did he pass?"

"Yes. He completed the six months training. He was the first man from our country to do so." His voice grew stronger again, filling with pride.

"That's impressive. He must be bloody good."

"He's the best soldier I've ever worked with. And the bravest." He paused. "He once took a bullet for me."

"What, in combat?"

"No, an attempted assassination. He saw the car. He saw the gun and he stepped in front of me."

Bennett stared, genuinely impressed now, not just encouraging him to talk. "Wow."

Madari smiled weakly, something she was glad to see. "He used to be my bodyguard you see, when we were guerillas. I don't think he's ever quite grasped that that's no longer his job."

He continued talking, becoming more animated, the faded, distant quality gone from his voice and manner. His affection and respect for his friend came through every word, as he talked about Kahil's many acts of bravery and daring. The guy sounded like a hell of a soldier, and Bennett decided she really wanted to meet him.

But not because he was a hell of a soldier. She'd met plenty of those. She wanted to meet him because this tough, daring, SAS-trained badass was the man Madari wanted to talk to when he was half round the bend from some personal emotional crisis. That meant there had to be something more to Kahil than kicking ass. Something more to their relationship.

They talked the sun up, the pale, watery light coming through the raised blinds, promising another wet day. Madari, much recovered, though very tired looking, smiled at the grey light and turned to Bennett.

"Happy Christmas, Karen."

She'd almost forgotten. Of course, it was Christmas morning. Good thing the colonel had already given the whole unit the day off. She'd need to spend the morning in bed to catch up on her sleep.

"Happy Christmas, sir. Well, I know, you don't celebrate it."

"No, but it is Christmas, and a wish for me to be happy on Christmas day is perfectly welcome. Thank you."

"Er, right, whatever you say, sir." She smiled. "You feeling better now?"

"Thank you, yes." He stood up and held out his hand to her for a shake. "It was good of you to stay with me, Karen. I'm sorry you had to see me that way. I'd appreciate your discretion about it."

"Of course, sir."

The night was over, and she saw he needed to be alone now, to get back to the version of himself that he presented to the world. So she nodded and said, "See you for Christmas dinner later, sir."

She left the room. Not sneaking around. That would look guilty, but even so, she was happy nobody saw her on the way back to her own room. She didn't want to be questioned about it. It was private. Madari had asked for her discretion, but he didn't need to ask. It never occurred to her to breathe a word of what had happened. Ritchie would be an arse about it, so she wouldn't tell him even under torture. So the colonel had a rough night? Didn't they all from time to time? Nobody else's business but his.

He must have some... demons he struggled with, yet in the weeks they'd all been serving together, this was the first time she'd seen the evidence of that. The rest of the time, he was as strong as any commander she'd worked with. Whatever had brought him to the point of losing control, it had to be bad, something almost as strong as him. Something he needed help dealing with when it attacked at full strength as it had tonight. Seemed Kahil was the usual one to help. Well tonight, she'd had to be a substitute for Kahil. She hoped she'd been a worthy one.

~~~~

Madari paused and wanted to tear up the letter, eliminate the bland sentiments. He'd written to Kahil from here a few times now and found it extraordinarily difficult. It was like having a conversation with him in a room that might have a hidden camera. Paranoia told Madari to be careful about anything he put on paper to Kahil. He'd carried that caution since he burnt that note the night before the battle for the camp.

He'd love to have letters from Kahil that told of their true feelings. Letters he could read again and again. His mother had always kept letters from his father, and the book of hand written poems he'd given her. Such things were so precious. And he would never have them. Never dare. Just in case they ever fell into the wrong hands.

It was more than paranoia. All those years ago, his house had been searched after his arrest, looking for papers about the conspiracy. But what if the same kind of thing were to happen again and they found... personal papers? Compromising letters?

He wouldn't risk it.

But he had to tell Kahil about last night. Kahil had been his guide back out into the light on so many of those evil nights that the compulsion to tell him about it remained as strong as it had last night. If he couldn't tell him on the phone, then a letter was his only option.

He stopped again, chewing the end of his pen. Should he really tell Kahil about this? Might it only upset and frustrate him that he couldn't be there to help. Should he wait until he returned home?

He would decide after he finished writing it.

He winced as he thought about it. Could he trust her not to say anything to anyone? She had been a great help last night. As much as he regretted appearing so weak in front of her, he couldn't remember her appearing embarrassed, or contemptuous. Just kind.

He chewed his pen again for a moment and continued.

He set the letter aside, putting a paperweight on the blue airmail paper. Later he'd decide whether to send it.