Thomas Blackthorne - Edge

Deep breathing and abdominal contractions took the place of sit-ups, then he ran up and down the sloping field, easy at first, then sprinting uphill at fast intervals, sucking in dawn air. Breathless, he returned to the car and took out a black kettlebell, like a cannonball with handle attached, ripped the weight skyward and performed swings and snatches and presses, feeling every sinew, because you have to push the fitness all the way or the fuckers will get you, for somewhere an enemy lies in wait, while the sounds he heard were not the waking birds but the crash of frag grenades, the screams of limbless men.

"What's that?" Maria had asked, the first time she saw one of his kettlebells.

"Oh, I call it Maria," he'd said. "Because it's gorgeous and I can't keep my hands off it."

"Uh-huh."

"Or because it's dangerous as fuck, and flies off the handle if you don't watch out."

They had laughed, both of them, so long ago.

Sophie.

The susurrating machines that did the breathing for her, the shining green tubes festooning her pale body, the beep of monitors which "Oy, you!"

Anger in the voice. Josh hunched over, slumping as if afraid, knowing he should not play these games. The approaching man was a licensed farmer, no doubt, for he carried a long taser rifle, while at his side a lean black-and-white collie bared teeth. Blood rush washed in Josh's ears, obscuring the unfriendly words. Then he straightened up, kettlebell in hand – quite a weapon – and the farmer stopped dead, confusion sizzling in his eyes, voice croaking to stillness, and in that moment he might have died, if Josh had wanted it.

Man and dog stayed back, swallowing, as Josh heaved his things into the car, got in and started the engine. He bumped his way in reverse along the track, swung a reverse-one-eighty manoeuvre, and accelerated onto the road.

Behind him, the farmer had not moved.

From outside the cafe was blue and white, the Zak's Kaff sign bright yellow, like every other ZK in the country. Each parking space had sockets to plug into, the recharge "free", meaning it was factored into the cost of food. Three other cars were parked. Josh pulled in, hooked up the cable, and lugged his carryall inside.

"Table for one, dear?" The waitress didn't glance at his sodden tracksuit. "Where would you like to sit? There's always plenty of room at this hour, specially Saturdays."

"I'll pop to the loo first. Can I sit there, against the wall? And I'll have a large cappuccino."

"All right. It'll be a few-"

He went through to the disabled toilet, because there was plenty of room and no one who might need to use it. He took out his washbag, everything neatly in place – a symptom of military OCD, Maria called his neatness, not knowing how seconds late for a rendezvous could spell death, how equipment organised and to hand made all the difference, and if that was obsessive-compulsive then he could live with it. Sponging himself in front of the sink, he remembered how quickly he had learned these habits, for every soldier – not just special forces – can wash and dress in eight minutes flat.

Refreshed, enjoying the clean clothes against his skin, he sat down at the table and sipped from the waiting cappuccino. Scalding, even though it had been sitting there.

"You ready to order food, love?"

"Large OJ, beans on toast, another large cappuccino."

"Blimey, you'll have the wind behind you."

Josh looked up at her and she stepped back, raising her touchpad like a shield. Shit. What was wrong with him?

"Sorry. Bit of a family situation, and I'm in a mood, you know?"

"Oh." A near-laugh. "I know how that goes."

"And I feel better already, with the coffee. Thanks."

She smiled, meaning it now, and went back behind the counter.

Lofty Young used to advise against life-changing decisions made on an empty stomach, saying: "Low blood sugar equals suspect thinking." Good advice, hard to follow given the missions Ghost Force often faced, yet based on sound understanding. Last night seemed to signal a sundering from Maria, a severing with no going back, and he pulled out his phone but did not call her, for Lofty was always right. As he waited, he watched the waitress bring food to another table, a family of three looking up startled when she put the first plate down, because they had not seen or heard her coming. How could people be so unaware and yet survive?

Perhaps because others fought their wars for them, keeping the place safe and peaceful and far too soft, but that was an old thought and far too simplistic, and wasn't it time he put it out of his head? Encircling his neck with a narrow cord – a throat mic for subvocal speech – he plugged it into his phone, thumbed through his contacts and chose Tony Gore. He pushed a bead into his ear as Tony's face came to life.

"Hey, Josh. It's a bit early to call. You all right, mate?"

"Flying green, and I knew you'd be awake. Everything still on for next week?"

"Uh-huh. Hang on." The phone showed Tony turning away. "Hey, Am? You hear the kids screaming?" A distant answer sounded, then he turned face-on again. "Sorry, yeah, the course is on plan. You sure you're OK to teach?"

"Definitely. So is the basha free tonight, by any chance?"

"I didn't expect anyone before tomorrow, but yeah, it's booked since the beginning of the month, because of the programme."

It was an eight-week training programme for Quantal Bank, and Tony had booked a Docklands apartment, cheaper and more homely than a hotel. Most of the trainers called it a basha, because Tony hired only exmilitary.

"Thought I'd settle in, get my bearings. Same entrance code?"

"Sure. You're OK with the mentoring aspect? You're not primary teach until week three. Next week, the big thing will be getting them fired up for the old board breaking."

Bankers wanting SpecOps mystique to give them confidence, deal with the deadly stress of meetings, bureaucracy, and back-stabbing. It was the security-and-crypto modules for the IT guys that Josh was looking forward to.

"No change with Sophie?" added Tony.

"No miracles, no."

Giggles sounded in the background.

"Listen, Am could look after the kids, and I'll meet you in the basha tonight."

"No, enjoy your weekend," – he looked up as the waitress appeared, beans on toast in hand – "and give Amber my love. Hi to the kids. Cheers."

"Cheers, mate. Take it easy."

He flicked the phone to GPS, ready to slot into the car's dash, and placed it face up on the table as the waitress put down his food.

"Enjoy, love."

"I will, thanks."

The map displayed his long and lat, his position a glowing yellow dot, while in subterranean data centres beneath the Cotswolds, massively parallel networked clusters tracked the movements of every phone and car in Britain, DNA-tagged and ID-registered, everyone known to the system, even as the most important parts of their lives, the millions of thoughts and feelings, everyday and profound, remained unknowable, untrackable, beyond governance.

Josh could drop off the grid if he had to. If only he could pull his daughter into health and freedom with the same kind of ease.

He stared at his food, feeling dreadful.

Nine minutes before the Broomhall boy's appointment, Suzanne's phone beeped. She turned her chair away from the window, and picked the phone up from her desktop, checking the caller's picture. It was a client, Rosa, so she pressed the Accept symbol, pointing the phone at the wallscreen, transferring the image.

Rosa's face sharpened, larger than life-sized.

"Hey. Just wanted to call and say thank you."

"Rosa, does that mean you've good news?"

"The hospital confirms what you thought. The consultant's nice."