Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan

      ‘Uh huh.’ Her hand was off his chin now, and was resting on his pectoral muscles.

      He tensed them slightly in response: no point doing all that work at the gym if you didn’t get the pay-off.

      She laughed, reading him like a cheap paperback.

      ‘I have to be honest, John,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally go for men with tattoos. But you can be my bit of rough.’

      Carr looked at her sideways again, an eyebrow raised. ‘Is that so?’ he said, with a slight grin.

      ‘I’ll have to housetrain you, of course,’ she said. She pointed to one of the designs. It showed a winged figure holding two swords. ‘What’s this one?’

      ‘St Michael,’ said Carr. ‘Patron Saint of the Airborne.’

      ‘Really? How fascinating.’

      He rolled out of bed, naked, and walked to the bedroom door.

      Her eyes followed him, taking in the artwork covering his upper arms and back. To her eye, it meant nothing; to Carr, each tattoo told a personal story, of death, and sin, and other regrets.

      ‘Must have cost you the earth,’ she called after him. ‘Nice arse, by the way.’

      He heard her dissolve into giggles as he padded out into the hallway.

      A quick piss, and he was in the shower.

      She joined him a few moments later, and they did it all over again under the hot water.

      Later, in the kitchen, he made her a cappuccino and himself a mug of strong tea, and stood there looking out of the window.

      Chewing paracetamol for his head, wondering why he felt uneasy.

      Below him, Primrose Hill looked a picture in the dawn light, the bare branches of the trees picked out by a rare hoar frost.

      The girl stood next to him, swamped by his ivory bathrobe, warming her hands on the coffee cup.

      ‘I’m going to have to go to work in my going-out clothes, thanks to you,’ she said. ‘I’d borrow a shirt, but I think you’d get three of me in one of yours.’

      ‘Sorry,’ he said.

      ‘Is there a Mrs John?’

      ‘Used to be.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Divorced a while back. We drifted apart.’

      ‘Oh. Children?’

      ‘Boy and a girl.’

      ‘Tell me more.’

      ‘George is in the Army, Alice is in her first year of A levels.’

      The girl snuck an arm around his waist. ‘And is there a woman in your life?’

      ‘Women,’ he said. ‘Plural.’

      ‘Well, that’s not very gentlemanly, is it?’ she said, with a smirk.

      ‘I never said I was a gentleman. I’m not into being tied down. Tried it once.’

      ‘I’d like to see you again.’

      He turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. ‘Of course you would, darlin’,’ he said. ‘You don’t see this walking down the street every day, do you?’

      She laughed. ‘I like a man with confidence.’

      ‘I was taking the piss,’ he said. ‘A bit.’

      She put the coffee cup down, and went to get dressed.

      When she came back he was still standing, looking out of the window.

      ‘I’ve written my name and number down on your pad,’ she said, handing it to him, and grinning. ‘And where did you get fucking Emma from?’

      He looked at the notepad.

      Her name was scrawled above a mobile number.

      It said ‘Antonia de Vere’.

      He looked up at her, staring closely now, the realisation slowly dawning.

      Regimental balls and summer barbecues and Hereford parties over the years…

      Everyone bringing their families.

      Wives, sons.

      And daughters.

      Oh, shit.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, giggling. ‘I didn’t think you recognised me. But then I suppose I am all grown up, now.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, into his ear. ‘I won’t tell daddy if you won’t.’