For Kingdom and Country by I.D. Roberts

said.
    Bingham-Smith’s eyes darted to Lock’s momentarily and then he frowned. But whether it was from guilt, anger or confusion it was impossible to tell. The man was clearly very drunk and was finding itincreasingly hard to focus on the card game and keep up his vain attempt at seeming to be in control. He moved his hand of cards closer to his nose, shook his head as if to clear it, then snatched up his glass of wine, knocked it back and thrust out his arm. The girl to his left stepped forward and filled the empty glass to the top. Bingham-Smith drained it a second time, then grabbed the girl by the wrist and yanked her towards him. She yelped in surprise, spilling wine from the jug all over Bingham-Smith’s front.
    ‘You stupid whore!’ Bingham-Smith shoved the girl away hard, sending her tumbling backwards and sprawling to the floor. The jug she was holding smashed against the wall.
    The two officers either side of Bingham-Smith laughed.
    ‘Ha! Looks like the bint’s the old maid,’ said the officer with the head of tight curls.
    ‘No, no, no, Hazza,’ the other officer slurred, ‘Bing’s the one stuck with the old maid.’
    Whether this was a reference to Amy Townshend or to the card game they were playing wasn’t clear to Lock, but it certainly riled Bingham-Smith.
    ‘Shut up!’ the blond officer said, getting unsteadily to his feet.
    His two companions just laughed louder.
    ‘And for Christ’s sake, will someone please shoot that bloody musician,’ Bingham-Smith barked. ‘I can’t stand that incessant twanging! Bahar? Bahar?’
    Lock saw Jalal Al-bin Bahar shirk back behind him, but Bingham-Smith’s outburst just served to amuse his fellows all the more. Even the girl on the floor was smirking. The loud music carried on regardless in the background.
    ‘Look at this!’ Bingham-Smith said, pulling at his wine-soaked and stained shirt. ‘You bitch, you stupid goddamn bitch!’ He grabbed at thegirl’s long brown hair and clenched his other fist ready to strike her.
    The girl screamed, and the men around the table cheered in unison.
    Lock sprang forward, blocking Bingham-Smith’s down-swinging fist. A jarring pain shot up his arm to his shoulder, but Lock just gritted his teeth, clenched his own fist, and punched Bingham-Smith in the face. There was a sickening crunch.
    No other body part hurts the way the nose does. Lock knew this and it gave him an enormous sense of not just satisfaction, but release. All that pent-up frustration he had felt ever since discovering that Amy had chosen Bingham-Smith over him, the lies, the betrayals, the manipulation of her family. And then there was the shooting. He expected to be shot, to die, every day he was put in the field, but not from stepping out of a brothel in the middle of a British-held city, not then. He remembered the overwhelming sense of indignation he’d felt as he lay in the dirt of the street feeling his consciousness slip away. He knew it was unlikely to have been Bingham-Smith who shot him and Singh, he even knew it was unlikely to have been Underhill, but he didn’t want to admit that to Ross let alone to himself. Besides, it felt so good, to smash this bastard in the face. Again.
    Bingham-Smith staggered backwards, toppling over his chair. But before Lock could inflict more punishment on his rival, he was wrestled down onto the tabletop. Cards, glasses, wine and money scattered everywhere, tinkling and crashing to the floor. Chairs scraped back and toppled over and one of the girls screamed again. Lock heard Jalal Al-bin Bahar yelp, and then he just concentrated on protecting himself, protecting his head wound. He felt blows to his stomach and arms and to his thighs, and his ears filled with shouts of outrage and drunken bravado. He kicked out, felt his boot connect with something soft and smacked his left fist into someone’s face. His knuckles sang with pain, but it gave him a vital moment to roll to one side, up off the table and onto