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to Copper, who was struggling to sit up.
    Adams took hold of Sean’s wrist and held it out to Copper. ‘Shake, Mulroy.’
    Copper looked up, dazed. The sergeant shrugged, and picked up one of his gloved hands. He bumped it against Sean’s. ‘There. No hard feelings.’
    Yeah, like fuck , Sean thought as Adams led him over to his corner.
    ‘Thought he was going to kill you,’ the sergeant said, removing Sean’s first glove. ‘But when you finally switched on to what was happening, you did seriously well.’
    ‘I was just trying to stay alive.’
    ‘Of course.’ He began to unlace Sean’s other glove. ‘But whether you realize it or not, you read the situation and you only attacked when you saw an opportunity. You took the fight back to your attacker, and you turned what he was doing against him.’
    Sean said nothing.
    ‘God help me, I see a soldier in you,’ said the sergeant. He rapped Sean gently on the forehead with his knuckles. ‘Potential for one, anyway.’
    The second glove was off. All Sean wanted to do was sit and ignore just how sore everything felt.
    He looked over at Copper, who was finally sitting up, bruised face bowed, resting his arms on his knees. ‘OK to talk to him?’ he asked.
    ‘Of course.’
    The corporals had got Copper’s gloves off and hadmoved on to the next pair scheduled to fight. Sean went over and crouched down in front of his opponent.
    Copper looked at him with dazed, puzzled eyes. ‘Fuck me, Seany.’ His face was serious. ‘Where did that come from? I figured smashing you up would be easy.’
    ‘I’m joining up.’ Sean looked him straight in the eye as he spoke. ‘And you can tell the Guyz that if anyone, anyone , even thinks of laying a finger on my mum – I’ll do to them what I just did to you.’ He tapped Copper gently on the head, the way Adams had done to him, and grinned. ‘Bro.’

Chapter 7
    The Warrior roared and shook as it thrust its way over rutted heathland. Sweat trickled down Sean’s face beneath his helmet, and the webbing of his battle kit cut into his body with every lurch. The only consolation was that the seven other soldiers he was crammed in with, all fully kitted up in light greens and browns – the multi-terrain pattern of No. 8 Temperate Combat Dress – would be feeling the same.
    The Warrior wasn’t built for finesse. It looked like a small tank, hurtling forward on its tracks at speeds that stopped just short of shaking its human cargo to bits. The driver, Tommy Penfold, seemed convinced that he was the very image of an action hero and was obviously doing his best to find every pothole and rut in their way.
    Sean loved the machine. It looked angry from every angle. Its heavy armour was surrounded on all sides by protective grilles, like an animal carrying its owncage – one that was going to break out at any moment to chew you up into small, gristly pieces. It had the fire-power to do it too, and that didn’t just include the heavily armed and seriously well-trained bastards inside. On the outside, it was armed with a 30mm autocannon, a 7.62mm chain gun, and anti-tank rockets.
    But it was hot inside and it wasn’t padded. The sweat mingled with the camo paint that clogged up Sean’s skin. He felt like a chicken roasting in an atmosphere of engine fumes, dust and sweat, and his bones rattled with every bump and dip of the vehicle. He was only carrying battle kit, enough to get him through twenty-four hours of fighting, rather than a full Bergen, which would keep him going for about three days, but it wasn’t designed for sitting down in. No position seemed comfortable.
    And Sean had never been happier.
    It was a muggy August day outside – almost a year since he had finished the community part of his sentence. He had been allowed to work for some basic qualifications while that was going on. He had bagged a first-aid certificate, and a few others on field craft and drill, and he had nailed the army’s fitness requirements. He