It was at Sarratt he learnt to kill with his bare hands.
These hands that now twitch against the bottle nursed between them. He raises it to his lips, swigs long and deep, as if the alcohol can cleanse his thoughts and the actions to come. A side-long look at the wan figure next to him, straight-backed as always, even against the uncomfortable wooden slats of the bench. His companion is staring out at the cricket pitch, the wickets bathed in shadow, standing sentinel to this moonlight meeting. He can read his life in the lines of Bill's face, each one a reminder of the years that have passed since their first encounter, like ships always destined to cross and pass each other: a brief sighting, then gone, always in different directions. These ships will never pass again.
Their fingers brush as he offers the bottle over. A flash of something at the contact: hatred? No; yearning still, even after all this time. An ache that never quite leaves. It used be a flame to hold on to, to nurture over bitter separations, a warmth to combat the cold; it's twisted now, spluttering with the disturbance of betrayal, but never extinguished. He cannot bring himself to meet Bill's gaze; cannot risk his eyes conveying everything that must be left unsaid. His path is clear.
A bitter chill sweeps through him as he stands.