1985: Parramatta, NSW.

He walked down the street and the old familiar sense of claustrophobia immediately settled on him like a layer of unease. It disturbed him that it could still make him feel this way even after all the years away. Memories wafted over him of the countless times that he made this journey down towards his home, running along from school as a kid, riding his bike, kicking a footy ball, chasing his friends, walking the dog, hanging out with his mates, driving his old banger, arms round his latest girl. It was as if the very unremarkable paving stones and the neatly trimmed hedges contained a flickering newsreel of his life, reminding him that he was still just this kid from working class streets in Parramatta who was trying to pretend he would ever amount to something different from the rest.

Nothing ever brings you down to earth as quickly as those who know what you really are. They don't even have to open their mouths.

A couple of people glanced up at him as he passed by; he vaguely remembered faces and could see by the spark of recognition that they knew who he was. Paddy's youngest...Terry, wasn't it? He could hear them muttering in his wake. Joined the army...haven't seen him in yonks. He never comes home...his poor mother.... It made him stiffen his shoulders and raise his chin, swagger in some inexplicable defiance. Christ, did these people just spend their entire lives sitting on their porches watching life happen to others? Didn't they know that most of the world moved on and didn't expect to spend their future as carbon copies of their own parents stuck back in Nowheretown, NSW, simply reduplicating the pointless existence of the generation before?

Terry winced at his own cruel dismissal. These were the families whose sons he had grown up with, whose daughters he had kissed, the friends of his parents who had supported each other raising their children together. He ought to have more respect. But he couldn't feel any more than a disdain for it all even as he knew that his harsh opinions came partly from his own alienation - and partly from his own fear.

Was this really the sum of what he was when all was said and done? You can take the boy out of Parramatta - but can you take Parramatta out of the boy?

He could have taken a cab here- a mate had even offered to lend him his car- but Terry had preferred to take a bus down from Surry Hills with his kitbag, ride the ferry from Circular Quay to the end of the line and then walk home. It might be a very long time until he retraced this route again and he wanted to do it once more as a kind of reverse pilgrimage; not out of a sense of the sacred but out of a desire to close the final door. If I hate it as much as I always did then it won't ever have the power to pull me back. Or some such unlikely superstitious notion.

He also was delaying the moment of truth. But he didn't admit that to himself.

Number 56 Randall Avenue. There it was. Nineteen thirties bungalow, wooden frontage painted a ludicrous pink, rickety veranda with a few broken slats (mostly caused by him climbing or hacking at it when he was a nipper), the little garden neatly tended, well pruned roses and dainty flower beds. Time warp. Couldn't see much difference since his earliest memories. Any changes? Satellite dish and recent model family saloon were all that caught his eye.

Unlatching the gate, he pushed it with his knee, took a deep breath and sauntered up the path to the back door, tapped once sharply and entered. Mum never locked it.

It was as simple as that. Lieutenant Terrence Thorne, ASAS, stepped onto the worn linoleum of the back kitchen of his childhood home and his mother at the table looked up, dropped her mug of tea in shock and cried out: "Terry!"

He dropped his bag and strode across the room as she ran to him, ignoring the river of spilt tea running across the table top and the broken pieces of the mug. Picking her off the ground, he swung her around as she clung on and burst into tears, laughing and crying at the same time and brushing his hair back with her fingers. It occurred to him she felt reduced in some way. His Mum had always been a big woman, raw boned and broad, an imposing figure, tall and wide hipped with large breasts that he still remembered burrowing into as a child. But somehow, despite her size, she felt lesser in his arms than he recalled. She hadn't lost weight but diminished, her flesh sagged, her substance rearranged. She was getting old. Worn down. Losing that formidable strength and hard exterior as she began the inevitable descent to an old frail lady.

How much had he hastened that decline?

"Terry! You should have called! Why do you always do this? Just turn up! I would have got everyone round, cooked a special dinner..." she protested as he set her down gently and stood back. She looked older. It was the same face; he couldn't quite identify what was the difference but it was like seeing her familiar face through a filter where only a slight adjustment one way would make her as she was in his memory but the other way would render her old. She must be what - sixty one now? Not that old. But not getting any younger, that was for sure.

"I meant to. Just jumped the ferry instead and came over...you look great, Mum. How's everything?"

She smiled and raised her eyebrows, returning to the table to mop up the spilt tea; she was obsessive about cleanliness, always had been. Their house was cleaned from top to bottom every day and always smelt of polish, bleach and cleaning fluids where other people had flowers or room fresheners. "I'll get the broken pieces, Mum, watch yourself!" he said as he gathered up the pieces.

"Wrap it in newspaper!" she insisted and took the job from him; Terry shook his head. She always had to do everything for them, like they were still little kids.

Busying herself clearing up, she then put on the kettle for the ubiquitous pot of tea, his mother's answer to everything. "Let's have a nice cuppa..."

He sat down with her and filled her in with a vague version of what he was doing there, missing out the main story, not quite ready to thrust that one on her so abruptly. For now he said he was on leave for awhile before a new posting and had at last got the chance to come home. It was eighteen months since she had seen him. His last visit had been brief, for his sister Maggie's wedding; he hadn't even made it for Christmas last year. He was on duty right through, he had told her, let the married guys have leave...in fact he had gone to Sipadan with a few mates on a scuba trip rather than face another crap Christmas in the same house as his Dad.

"You never even sent Maggie a congrats when Shane was born..." Mum complained.

He pulled a face. "Not much one for cards, Mum, you know that. Bought a toy for him. Got it in my kitbag somewhere. How old is he anyway?" Terry replied.

"Six months. He's a little darlin'. Reminds me of you when you were a baby..." She was off and running with the usual baby stories. Between his four brothers and one sister there was by now a bloody gaggle of kids - he had no idea how many grandchildren she had. They seemed to be popping them out every few months. Probably about nine or ten, he thought.

That they knew about. God knows if there were any other Thornes round and about. The five of them had done their best to sow their oats over the years and Terry was surprised if a few hadn't sprouted where they hadn't been intended.

"She'll be over later. Always calls in with him every evening before she goes home. I'll go and ring the boys, see if any are free..."

"Mum...take it easy...I'm here for a couple of days..."

"A couple? Is that all?" her voice fell. "I thought you said you had a long leave..."

Terry frowned. The old guilt trip. "I've got some plans, Mum...you know how it is?"

"A girl?" She inquired hopefully.

"Girl? No. Just some mates..." She seemed to want all of them to get a noose around their necks as soon as they could. What was it with them? He was twenty three. Jesus, he could hardly look after himself never mind a wife and family. Didn't they want him to have any life at all? He turned it into a joke as he always did. "You know me, Mum. I've already got my best girl. Why would I need an inferior model?"

She shook her head at his nonsense. "You need to think about settling down, Terry. A soldier's life needs some foundation. I worry about you sometimes. And some of those women you mess around with..."

He laughed. "Me? Still a virgin, Mum. Never touched a woman in my life..." she swatted his arm and rolled her eyes. 

"Oh yeah...? I might be a bit naïve but I'm not falling for that one..." She grinned and leaned over to ruffle up his hair. "Can't say I blame the girls...but..." she tutted and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "It's so good to have you home..."

"So you managed to find us, did you?" His father's voice broke into the conversation and poured a wet blanket onto the moment. He had stepped into the back door, probably back from his afternoon down the pub. He drank more than ever now he had retired. Terry felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck instinctively and belligerence settle on his mood.

"Well, nice to see you too, Dad." Terry stood up and held out his hand. His father grunted and walked past him to the fridge, pulling out a beer. "Suppose you want one?"

"No. I'm having a cup of tea with Mum..."

Another grunt and his father poured out the beer, eyeing him up. "Do you have to walk around in that bloody uniform?" His father barked.

Terry smirked. "No...but I do so love winding you up...Get over it. I've been a soldier for five years. It isn't going away, Dad."

"Soldier! Play acting, if you ask me. What the fuck's an Australian soldier? Like saying you're a British leprechaun...."

Terry ignored the slight. "It's a job, Dad. Pays well and I've been given a great education...which you didn't have to fund..."

His mother stood between them. "Look, you two....can't you just give it a rest for once? Pat, he's only just walked in the door and you're already starting on him..."

"Well, we all know you'll side with him against me, don't we? The blue eyed boy, eh? Who can't even remember his own mother's birthday. He's a fuckin' user, Mary, and he always was. Except you're too blinkered to see it..." Patrick Thorne turned back to his son. "So... this education of yours? What can you do of any fuckin' use to man or beast? Shoot a gun? Jump out of an aeroplane? March in time to the band? Jesus Christ...you're nothing but a grown up Boy Scout..."

"I'm a linguist, a weapons' expert, qualified in electronic warfare and systems, a black belt in several martial arts, have a high level of intelligence training, can fly a helicopter... What the fuck can you do...? Apart from raise a pint, throw your money away on the horses...oh yeah, and lay bricks. I forgot about the crucial one...."

His father sneered. "Try and make it in the real world, son. Where men have to work to support families and pay bills. Then tell me you have any skills to impress me..."

Terry looked around at the humble kitchen with a look of wry amusement. "You kept us in great style, hey, Dad? And you made a fortune for the brewery and the bookies on the way. What a man!"

They were like a red rag and a bull. It had been years since they had been in the same room for more than five minutes and a quarrel had not broken out. It was hard to pinpoint the origin of their intense dislike for each other. Once upon a time, Patrick Thorne had doted on his youngest son who had followed his father round as if he were the oracle, listening and repeating everything he had said. Paddy's eyes had sparkled at the sight of him, tears often pricking as he had watched him grow. He had been so proud of this boy who seemed effortlessly talented at everything he did while still retaining that wild streak of boyish charm that all the Thorne males had been noted for. But where they usually were inclined to fecklessness, Terrence had been more focused, full of ambition, eyes always on the world outside, curious and eager to fly. Once, that had delighted Patrick. Then it had broken his heart.

At school Terry had been clever but lazy, always sailing by the seat of his pants but making the top cut, just about. His teachers invariably complained he underperformed but it never seemed to bother him. The sports' field though was a different matter. There he had been relentlessly competitive, excelling in a wide variety of sports and a natural captain and leader of others. He had been popular, but not unduly gregarious, having a quiet side to him - and also a tendency to push the boundaries. At fourteen he had been picked up by the police for stealing a car but he had been fortunate; the cop had been a family acquaintance who had brought him home and handed him over to his Dad and older brothers instead of pressing charges. Paddy had given him his belt but Mickey the eldest brother had taken him under his wing and encouraged him to join the local army cadets to get rid of some of his restless energy. That's when it had all gone downhill.

All that latent energy and focus was turned on by the military experience; Terry at last discovered what he could do and seemed to change radically from then on. Most men might have been relieved at this discipline and direction in a son who was on the edges of going off the rails - but Patrick Thorne was not most men. He was a staunch Republican Irishman from the North with radical and inflammatory views who had even flirted with membership of Sinn Fein as a boy. He hated armies and regimentation with a passion and was absolutely rigid in his refusal to accept his son's chosen career.

From then on, his relationship with his youngest son had simply spiraled downwards. That night over the stolen car had been the last time Terry had tolerated him laying hands on him. When Patrick had lost his temper a few years later over Terry's announcement that he was joining up. His son had turned on him then and faced him down. Asked him to take a swing and told him he would love to show him just how much younger and fitter he was "Go on, Dad, hit me...I've waiting for a chance to hit you back for years, ya bastard....!" Terry had been drunk that night, no doubt to give him some false courage to break the news that he had known would finally finish his father off. His brothers had pulled him away. Patrick himself had backed down, stormed out and gone to bed- but the incident had left them even more hostile and their relationship had never recovered. Terry had never known that his father had wept in his bed that night at the thought of what might happen to his son, not to mention the disgust he felt at seeing his flesh and blood don the uniform that represented repression and indoctrination to him. How could he know? They had barely ever exchanged civil words since then.

And then Terry had gone and never really come back, seeming more and more removed from them all each time that he returned.

This time after a plea from his mother, Terry backed off, picked up his bag and went upstairs to his room, throwing himself on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He could hear the muted sounds of his parents in conversation downstairs and it rewound his thoughts back to countless similar times when he had done the same, staying in his room while they fought over him downstairs.

He stared about him at the room he had slept in almost every night of his life until he had been eighteen. Nothing had altered apart from the gradual evolution of his tastes from little kid to young man. The walls were covered with a haphazard gallery of fads and interest; posters of rock concerts, sports' heroes, nubile pin ups and snaps of him and friends looning about. Then there was the bookshelves piled up with books about war, soldiers, sportsmen, hoards of magazines- sport, cars, girlie ones hidden in the midst, the trophy shelf with all his awards, citations and medals, the cupboards loaded down with sports' gear, cricket pads, bats, rackets, footy stuff, balls, stumps...you name the sport, it would be there somewhere. On the top of the wardrobe were the boxes of old things he hadn't let her throw away: toys, cars, miniature soldiers, Meccano... She kept this place just as it was. Like a fucking shrine.

Lighting up a cigarette and still feeling the extra buzz that came from breaking house rules when he had smoked up here as a kid, he inhaled deeply and flicked the ash onto the carpet in a stupid act of puerile defiance. He laughed to himself and the bed shook slightly. It had been a child's bed and was singularly inappropriate for a man of his size and weight. An idle thought of what it would be like to fuck a girl on this bed passed through his mind. They'd be rocking like a bucking bronco. He bounced slightly and grinned at the squeak. That was one thing he had never done. Brought a girl here? No bloody chance.

Sitting up, he stubbed the cigarette out on a strange pottery object that he remembered making at school when he was about ten. God knows what it was supposed to be. His fingers trailed across the surfaces, not a trace of dust; she must be in here regularly cleaning. He picked up the Sacred Heart statue on top of his chest of drawers and shook his head. How long since he had been in a church? Probably Maggie's wedding. And his Dad had taken offence because he hadn't gone to Communion. Any excuse for finding fault as usual.

Rooting in his kitbag, he pulled out a present for his mother - a bottle of French perfume - and a cuddly toy for this kid of Maggie's. He'd also brought a bottle of Bushmills for his Dad but he put it back into the bag. What was the bloody point, hey? He would only knock it back and get more aggressive. Why even pretend he gave a shit?

Stripping off his uniform, more than grateful to be rid of it, he wandered to the bathroom in his skivs and took a quick shower and shave, wrapping a towel round him and heading back for his room. Downstairs he could hear another voice. Maggie's. He smiled to himself and went back to dry off and change. Be good to see her. Couldn't imagine her as a Mum. It made him smile.

Downstairs, he found his sister in the lounge room playing with her little boy who was sitting in a baby chair. Terry gave his father a stare and received one back but no further words were exchanged.

"Mags?" Terry grinned; his sister shrieked, ran over and hugged him.

"Terry...you look great! It's so bloody good to see ya! Where've ya been, ya bastard!" Maggie laughed and punched him playfully. She was his elder by four years and they had always been close, even if they had spent most of their lives teasing each other remorselessly. The other four were a lot older, already in their thirties and had not been as much a part of their lives while growing up. Mickey the eldest was almost forty; he'd been sixteen when Terry was born and got married when his baby brother was three. The others had similarly left home young either for work, freedom or to live with girls, and for most of his youth, Terry and Maggie had been the only two siblings living at home. There was a special bond.

"I'm great. So this is the little bubs, hey? Hiya, little mate...Sean is it?"

"Shane! Can't you even get his name right? You are so hopeless!" Maggie laughed, lifted up her son and deposited him on her brother who grabbed the squirming child awkwardly. "Better learn fast. This will be you soon enough..."

"Me? You crazy? I don't want kids. What for? Can you see me as a dad?" he laughed but still jiggled the boy up and down. Shane chuckled and Terry smiled. He was a cute kid.

Maggie snorted. "The way you go on you might have no choice. You're not exactly known for keeping it in your pants, are ya?" she teased.

"That's enough of that crude talk, Maggie. Your Mum's only in the kitchen!" His father chimed up from behind the newspaper.

Maggie raised her eyebrows and laughed. "C'mon, Tez, let's go outside on the porch...I'll get you a stubbie..."

He carried the child out and sat in the rocking chair, glad to be out of the house. The little boy lay on his lap and reached out his hands; Terry let him grab his fingers. He couldn't remember the last time he had held a child. He could see how they could worm their way into your affections. "So, you're the latest are ya, mate? What d'ya think of us? A pretty dysfunctional lot, eh? Don't you ever get the urge to climb back inside?"

"Oi...stop teaching him to be as cynical as you." Maggie emerged with a coldie and exchanged baby for beer; she settled Shane on her knee on the cane chair opposite and raised her T-shirt, feeding her nipple into her son's mouth and smiling at him as he latched on and began to suckle noisily.

"Still doing that lark? What's wrong with a bottle?" Terry asked, unaccountably bothered by the sight of his sister in this nurturing mode.

Maggie fixed him a wry look. "It's always guys like you that get uptight about breastfeeding. You don't like reminding that this is actually the purpose of breasts- not waving them in your face for a bit of titillation. How aptly worded that was, hey?" She laughed at her unintentional pun. "Get over it, Terry. I have sex and breasts. I am a woman. And it's better for him than some formula milk. That's what parents want. The best for their kids..."

He shrugged. "Some do. I wouldn't know..."

Maggie sighed at him. "Grow up, Terry. Mum and Dad did the best they could. They loved us and struggled with six kids and not much money. Sure, they made mistakes but who doesn't? Can't you stop acting like a spoilt teenager, even now? You didn't exactly suffer. As I recall you got the best deal. They had it easier when you were little once the others had gone. You went to grammar school..."

"I was bright. Won the scholarship. Nothing to do with him..."

"So who do you think you got your brains from? The fucking milkman...?" She replied tartly.

Terry pursed his lips but did not reply. They sat in silence awhile. "So how's that bloke you married. Pete or something..." Terry began.

"Phil, as you well know....if you mean my husband." She watched him as he shrugged, drank from the bottle, lit up a cigarette. "He's a really nice guy. I just do not know why you two never clicked..."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't wait around, did he? Got you up the duff pretty sharpish. Now he has you where he wants you, eh? Stuck at home all day raising his kids? Cooking and cleaning for him..."

"TERRY! It's called love. Why do you have to make it sound like some big con trick? Phil is a great bloke. He got a good job, looks after us real well and...I love him. Can't you be happy for me? Even now?"

Terry drew on his cigarette deeply. "What about your dreams? All those things you wanted to do? Travel? See the world?"

His sister smiled to herself and fingered her son's curls thoughtfully. "This became my dream. Things change, Terry. This is where I want to be now. We are not all as single-minded as you..."

"He's a fucking accountant in a shoe factory. Jesus Christ... have you never wondered what a real man feels like?"

"Like you, you mean? Or one of your tough guy mates? You are just so bloody arrogant, aren't you? Listen, Terry, I have met blokes like you....I have slept with blokes like you. So don't tell me I don't know what I'm saying. Great sex and he, of course, forgets to call you the next day. Excuse me if I didn't want to spend my life being rolled over for men like you to empty their balls and move on...."

"Jesus, Maggie... do you have to be so blunt?" he winced.

Maggie laughed. "I forgot. That's not allowed for women, is it? Crude is what the big guys do when they get out there in that big bad world and play tough shits. Terry - my world is as real as yours. Maybe more so. Maybe one day you'll find that out..."

He gave her a smug grin and made it clear that he did not agree with her. Maggie eased her son away and noticed how Terry turned his back rather than see her naked breast and the drip of milk that oozed out. It amused her. He couldn't accept his sister as a woman. And he thought he was the one who had grown.

"The lads are coming round later. Mum called them. Want to take you drinking down the Rocks..."

"Great....be good to see them."

"Think they've called some of your old mates from school..."

"Ripper," he answered tersely. Maggie couldn't judge his reaction; was he angry, worried about something or simply uninterested in them all now?

"Everything all right, Terry? Is there something bothering you? That why you came home? You're not in any trouble, are you?" Suddenly she felt concerned and realized that she had been missing something. There was a jumpiness about him and something in his eyes that implied to her he was hiding.

Terry swallowed and drained the bottle. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving? The army?" Maggie was shocked. It was his life, she knew that.

He shook his head. "Not exactly. Going to England. The British SAS accepted me. See some real action."

"WHAT? The British army? The SAS? Christ, Terry....this'll kill, Dad..."

"What the fuck's it to do with him? It's my life. You know how few men make the cut for the Regiment? It puts me up there with the best soldiers in the world. It's an honour..."

"What? To die for a country that isn't even yours? To go on the streets of Ireland and kill your own people?"

"They are not my people..."

"Well, they are closer than the fucking Poms, mate...Jesus...why? You could get to the top in the Aussie army. I know you're good, Terry, but....I mean the SAS get involved in serious shit. All over the world. Really dangerous secret stuff. Terry...why would you want to risk your life like that?"

He ran his hands through his hair and groaned. "I'm a soldier. I don't see it like that. I have skills and want to put them to use. For good. Why do you all regard being a soldier like some kind of dirty business? It's not about killing and being killed. It's about intervening and saving lives...doing the things that make life better for everyone else..."

"Give him the Nobel prize for Peace! Rename him Mother Teresa....Christ, Terry, don't bullshit me. You want to go fight. Shoot your gun and act tough. You want to go to war. You get off on it. At least be honest with yourself..."

"I am honest. Okay...I won't deny I want to pit myself against other men and see how I fare in the real test. But the other things count too. I'm not just some mindless Rambo. You don't understand the modern military. Or half the fucking things that go on behind the scenes. They need men like me. And I am going. Next week."

She sighed. "I'm proud of you. I really am. I know this is a great honour - but don't expect any of us to like it. You'll be in danger. You'll be far away. We'll never see you for years! Don't you realize that we care?"

Terry smiled and slipped off the chair to kneel by her side as she rocked her baby. "I know. I promise you I'll stay in touch better than I have been doing. And I will take care. And I will be back safe and sound. They do give us leave. And a very good salary."

She touched his arm and he leaned over while she hugged him. "Still playing the field, Terry? No significant other yet?"

He sat back on his heels and smiled over, stroking the baby's head. "You know me. There isn't one born who can run fast enough to catch me."

"Corinne got pretty close..."

"Corinne?" Terry asked pulling away and standing up. He turned away and lit up another cigarette, his unease evident. "What do you mean - Corinne? I haven't seen her for years..."

"Not since you paid for the abortion, you mean?" Maggie cocked an eyebrow. Her brother said nothing, just stiffened his back in reply.

"How do you know that?"

"Women talk."

"She wouldn't have..."

"She did. Not then but later. She's married now with a toddler of her own. Girls' night out...we were talking about bastards we had known and rooted....unwisely if memorably...your name came up..."

"Corinne wouldn't have..."

"She didn't. But half the other women there did...one mentioned your little mistake with Corinne. Who wasn't there that night..."

Terry turned round. "..That was private. I looked after her..."

"Sure you did. Hey, Terry, I'm not being judgmental - and none of those women actually complained. I mean...you are the stud, and they were glad they'd gone along for the ride. But it is pretty disturbing to know exactly how many of my friends you've fucked over the years....one at my wedding apparently..." She giggled..."You are a bloody love rat, aren't you? Do they ever say no?"

He grinned. "Not often. What can I say? The Thorne charm. Got it from Dad..."

"Your big dick, you mean...also courtesy of the old man...wait till you see Shane's ...he's a real Thorne..."

"I'll give it a miss...Not really into shitty nappies..." They both laughed, the tension eased. 

"I've got to get back. Get the dinner on...come over for lunch on Sunday. We'll talk then. Please. I'd really like you to get to know Phil...say you'll come?"

He nodded. "Sure. You know I will. Got something for the little fella. I'll bring it then."

Dinner was ready and Maggie took her leave. Terry ate in the kitchen with his parents in a restrained politeness; it was clear Mum had laid the law down with his father to act civil. He enjoyed the pot roast. Mum could always knock a meal together, even if it was pretty plain fare. Meat, potatoes and cabbage. Cabbage. The other smell from his childhood. The kitchen so often smelled of cabbage when he'd come home from school. Another trigger to memory. He drank another beer and Mum rambled on about news, relations, neighbours, gossip - he listened and feigned interest more because he was grateful for a reason not to have to talk to his father than anything else.

He helped his mother clear away; his father as usual never raised a hand to help her, even now that he had retired. Another reason to piss his son off. Then his brothers began to arrive - Kevin and Joe, the next youngest and they soon left for the city, getting the ferry and then sauntering over to the Rocks, three likely lads out for a night in the town. They settled in at the Fortune of War, reputed to be Sydney's oldest pub, and soon Mickey and Ant turned up and then a couple of old school mates.

It was the usual lads' night out. Plenty of drink, raucous conversation, falling back into the jocular nicknames and insults of youth, daring each other to drink faster than was wise, eyeing up women and making the usual crude remarks, judging each one who was unfortunate enough to walk past as if they themselves were all male pin ups. Terry listened to the bravado and macho-speak and smirked affectionately. Most of them would run a mile if one of these women actually stopped and took them on - they were all either married or partnered up in one way or another.

They had wanted to catch up with his news and he had filled them in succinctly and without much embellishment, falling into a different mode - the consummate professional. "I'm moving to England. Headhunted by the SAS. Why not? Might see some real action now..."

"Dad will bust a gut - but I suppose that was half the attraction, eh?" Mickey observed.

 Terry shrugged. "None of his fucking business. Just keep your mouths shut until I break it to Mum. I don't give a fuck about the old fella..."

His brothers exchanged looks but didn't say anything. Not there. No one was about to wash their dirty laundry in public but they all intended to have their say alone later. Not that it would make a bit of difference. Terry had never listened to anyone in his life and he was hardly going to start now. His friends were impressed, teased him, called him Pommy Bastard - but it was evident that he had risen in their estimation even higher than before. Terry had always been the one most likely to. No one was surprised.

"Secret stuff, hey? The SAS? They're the fucking real McCoy, aren't they? Christ, you gonna be a super soldier, Tez?"

Terry dragged on his cigarette and grinned. "Special forces. Not James Bond. It's not quite as glamorous as all that. Very far from. We get the shit. But someone's gotta do it, eh?" The men all nodded, respect clear in their demeanour and recognizing what was unsaid in his laconic understatement. Terry was one tough Aussie.

"Reckon you'll have your pick of those British Sheilas, though. They love us Aussies. Can't say I blame them - imagine having to do with Pom blokes?" Some wit said.

Terry grinned and downed his pint, standing up to go to the bar for the next round. "They all love me boys...some things never change...and he grabbed his groin crudely, setting off a chorus of ape-like chanting. Easing his way out, he strode through the small crowded pub, pushing through to the Men's Room before making his way back to the bar to put in his order. The barmaid caught his eye straight away - even though there were men in front of him - and she shouted. "I'll bring them over, mate..."

As he smiled and turned away, he noticed a very attractive blonde standing at the side of the bar with a few men chatting to her. She looked bored and her restless eyes had seen him even before he had noticed her. He nodded and she blushed slightly, immediately looking away. Terry watched her a moment longer but it was just a passing glance, much as he often did, checking out a woman and setting her at ease even if he had no intention of taking it further.

Back at the table, the conversation had drifted to sport and they were in some heated debate about the forthcoming State of Origin match. He found his attention drifting, already a little bored with the company. His eye caught the blonde again and she was looking over. He raised his glass.

"Got your eyes on someone?" Joe had seen his movement and followed the direction of his gaze. Then he laughed. "No chance there, mate. She's out of your league, sunshine..."

"Oh yeah?" Terry asked, curious now. "In what way?"

The others joined in after Joe had pointed her out." That's Keeley Dawson. Minor celeb....she's on that Home and Away shite..."

"Home and Away?" Terry echoed. He hadn't watched TV in years.

"Crap TV soap. Filmed up north side. But she won't be interested in the likes of us..."

"What's she in here for then?" Terry asked but he was now openly watching her and he could tell by the way she was tossing her thick blonde hair that she was playing to him.

"Slumming it. This place has some kind of shabby chic...you try that and she'll blow you off. Fifty bucks says you can't get your leg over..."

"Did I just hear a challenge?" Terry laughed, drained his glass and flexed his shoulder muscles. "Watch and weep, boys...As they say in the Regiment...Who dares...gets laid..." He stood up amidst the jeers and sauntered over.

"These blokes bothering you, love?" He asked quietly, indicating the men she was standing with.

"Push off, ya bastard..." One of them said.

"...Actually they are." The blonde held out her hand. "Keeley Dawson...and you are...?"

"Just call me the White Knight. I'm genetically programmed to rescue damsels in danger of being bored to tears by arseholes like these. You want to mount my charger and escape?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Sir....?"

"Just call me Terry....I never stand on ceremony..."

It was as simple as that. Five minutes later he was ushering her out, his eyes firmly on his friends and family who were cock-a hoop at the display of Terry on the prowl and making crude signs at the young woman behind her back. A mild disgust passed over him. He was with this woman just to boast to his mates that he could have her, this minor celebrity, another notch for his bedpost. He knew she was just a young woman who no doubt believed he was interested in her. Well, of course he was in one sense. Who wouldn't be interested in rooting a beautiful girl when the only alternative was getting pissed with that lot and rolling home to a kid's bed that creaked? But it was a rather hollow victory that he pushed down just as he always did.

She took him to a nightclub that was new to him, expensive and pretentious, full of wannabes and style victims. Terry looked about him in wry amusement. Some of the guys here thought they were tough. He was tempted to show them tough but thought better of it. Tonight was about getting laid, not winning a fight. He bought a beer and some overpriced cocktail and they settled down in a booth above the dance floor. It was very noisy and hard to make conversation for which he was rather grateful, not really having much to say to the woman and idly wondering what had made him rise to the challenge. He had been the guest of honour among the lads and had walked out on them.

"So what do you do for a living, Terry?" Keeley shouted. He moved closer, ostensibly to hear her better.

"Army."

"Really? A soldier? Thought you looked a bit more interesting than that..." she laughed.

He smiled. "Special forces."

"What's that mean?"

He sighed inwardly. A real no-brainer here. "Elite corps. We do the dangerous stuff..."

"Wow....like bombs and assassinations...?"

"You watch too many films, love. This is Australia not Tel Aviv..." But she was still impressed and he noticed her lean on in, stroking his leg and rubbing her breasts against his arm.

"Dance?"

He pulled her onto the floor and they moved together. It was a Bruce Springsteen number, fast and sexy. He held her by her narrow hips as she slipped her arms round his neck and they ground against each other:

I get up in the evening, and I ain't got nothing to say
I come home in the morning, I go to bed feeling the same way
I ain't nothing but tired, man, I'm just tired and bored with myself
Hey there baby, I could use just a little help

You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire even if we're just dancing in the dark

Keeley pulled his head down to her ear, licked the lobe and then whispered: "Your gun for hire, Terry? I think I need a fire lighting tonight..."

He didn't answer, merely dipping his head to kiss her, his hands flat on her butt and pressing her in on his groin as he flickered his tongue round her mouth. She shivered and loosened; he began to massage her cheeks in the rhythm of the song. Their behaviour was overtly sexual but not so far different from other couples in the room; he even contemplated just finding a dark corner and doing the job here - they wouldn't be the only ones, judging by some of the writhing couplings from the unlit booths.

Message keeps getting clearer, radio's on and I'm moving round the place
I check myself out in the mirror I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face
Man, I ain't getting nowhere just sitting in a dump like this
There's something happening somewhere, baby, I just know that there is

You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire - even if we're just dancing in the dark...

But he thought better of it. It wasn't really his scene, even with a casual pick up. If a man and woman were going to get intimate, however fleeting, they deserved to show  enough respect for the gift they were receiving of each other to at least pretend something approaching romance. Keeley clung onto him and he wondered why she was here with him. He wasn't about to fool himself that this was simply about her being turned on by his outward appearance. Her behaviour spelt needy, despite the sassy streetwise exterior. He wondered what pain she was trying to drown in him tonight.

He whispered into her ear, singing the lyrics of the song as they ground against each other. The words seemed to have an almost prophetic significance for his life- he wondered, did she feel that too?

You sit around getting older there's a joke here somewhere and it's on me
I'll shake this world off my shoulders, come baby, this laughs on me
Stay on the streets of this town and they'll be carving you up alright
They say you got to stay hungry, hey baby, I'm just about starving tonight
I'm dying for some action I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book
I need a love reaction, come on now, baby, give me just one look

You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark
This gun's for hire - even if we're just dancing in the dark...

"Let's split? We need to find a room..." he muttered. She nodded and they wended their way through the milling crowds, he dragging on her hand, impatient now that they had made the move.

They ended up in her apartment in Paddington. She had already been in his pants in the taxi and they barely made it to her front door without indecently exposing themselves. Keeley was one hot little lady. Inside, she danced away from him, discarding her clothes as she went and picking up a bottle of Scotch. Terry followed her through to the bedroom, throwing his own clothes off as he went. There wasn't much need for finesse on this job, he thought to himself; she wanted it and fast. Just what he felt like tonight.

Naked they fell to the bed and rolled over; Keeley climbed on him, admired his impressive length. "A cock like this, you swallow on the first date..." she giggled as she set to work on him. She was skilful and experimental; had him groaning in minutes as she sucked, squeezed his balls and manipulated his perineum.

"Careful, love, or this is over before we've begun..." he gasped out huskily.

"Big boy like you, won't take you long to get it back..." she chuckled as she returned to pleasuring him. 

Terry lay back and relaxed. If that was what she wanted then that was what she would get. He held on long enough to tease himself, heat centred on his hardness, radiating through his balls, surging from him like electric charges. The pressure was building and he could feel his cock harden even more, his balls beginning to throb with the impending release and then the moment of orgasm - white light and temporary blindness - a deep guttural groan and then the thrusting shudders as he pumped into her mouth, his fingers grasping for her hair desperate for a connection to ground him as he spun into orbit.

The woman lay with her head on his belly, her lips softer now on his cock as she gently used her tongue to chase every last spurt of his come. He was breathing rapidly and for a moment wished she would just go away and leave him alone. He wasn't sure why he felt so unattached when she had just given him the most intimate of attentions.

Easing her from him, he raised her to the pillow and she lay looking at him. Her lips were swollen and red, a slight rawness against her pale skin, her thick golden hair messy, her eyes bleary and lust-soaked.

"Christ..." he muttered.

She smiled and ran her fingers down his chest, following the spear of hair and scratching the scruff of his pubic hair with her long nails. "You taste good...loads of spunk...I want you so bad..."

Her sexy, throaty voice stirred something in him and he rolled onto his side, letting his own hand wander about her nakedness. She was a beautiful girl, slender but large bosomed, impossibly narrow hips and flat belly, long thin legs. Her pubic hair was trimmed to a tiny golden tuft; further investigation showed that she was shaved naked below that. His curiosity was aroused and so was his cock; he could already feel the slow steady pump of blood into the sensitive shaft. He slid his fingers through the thick cream of her arousal, inserted a few digits and watched her reaction as he manipulated her and tickled her swollen bud with his thumb. Keeley writhed lewdly, played with her breasts, muttered profanities and sex talk to encourage him. She wanted it all and she gave him a carte blanche. Make me come, Terry, and you can have what you like. He did. With his fingers. With his tongue. With his cock, grinding his hips until he drove her to release.

And then as she lay helpless he turned her over and took what he wanted.

Ramming her into the bed some time later, ploughing his own pleasure, it occurred to him she was possibly on something apart from the booze; her mood was high and spaced out. Had been all night when he thought about it.  He wondered how much she was actually aware of what he was doing to her apart from her body's natural reaction to the sexual stimulation. Not that he was too concerned. He had used a condom and given her a good time.

When he finished and slumped by her, sweaty and satiated, she had poured him a Scotch and lit a cigarette. He sat up and smoked; they talked and drank.

"So what you dancing from tonight, Terry?" She asked, suddenly acutely sharp as she surveyed him.

He eyed her up. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine. Isn't that how it works?"

"You ever been in love?" She asked him bluntly. He tightened his jaw and looked across at her sharply.

"No. Not so I've noticed..."

Keeley shrugged. "Count yourself lucky then. No, talking won't help me. But thanks for the offer anyway. More than I get from most of them. You're a nice guy. You can do without my fucked up life..."

He flicked ash into his empty glass and exhaled. "Other people's problems are not yours. It's easier to deal with them and pretend you haven't got any of your own. That's what I find anyway..."

But she shook her head. "Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. If you're still around..."

It was about three when he woke, worked her comatose body off him and then stepped out of bed, gathering his scattered clothes before dressing in the hallway. Rubbing at his face, he let himself out of the front door and ran thankfully down to the street. She hadn't woken. No need to bother about the morning now, excuses or lies unnecessary. No need to give her that ear he had offered. She would know the score once she woke and found him gone. Turning up his collar against the chill of the breezy night, he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked along to the main road, flagging down a cab and throwing himself inside. The cabbie was more than pleased to get a ride to Parramatta at that time of the morning.

"...Mate? This your place?" He woke to the cabbie shaking him; he must have dozed off in the back. Fumbling in his pockets he found his wallet and paid, staggering out and slamming the door. He didn't have a key but she rarely locked the back door if one of them was out.

"...It's nearly four, Terry. Where have you been?" His mother's voice spoke from the dark of the lounge as he tiptoed through, reminiscent of how he had been coming back for years. Too late. Too drunk. Smelling of sex.

"Four? Then you should be in bed, Mum. What you still up for?" He tried for a light approach, but she wasn't being shifted.

"I was worried. I waited up for you..."

"Jesus Christ, Mum....I'm twenty three. I'm a soldier. I don't need you to hold my hand..."

"Don't use language like that in this house. I'm your mother. If I want to wait up for you, I will." She stood up and walked over to him. He instinctively stepped back, aware that he still stank of a woman - on his face, his hands... "Who was she?"

"What d'ya mean? I've been drinking with the blokes..."

"...Until you left with a girl. I called Mickey at one. He'd just got back. Said you left with some tart off a soap opera. Terry...you just slept with a girl you picked up...a girl you will never see again. Why? How does it make you feel? Surely it must seem empty, all this aimless sex...."

"Mum...I'm not discussing this with you, okay?" Terry turned towards the stairs but she caught his arm and held him back.

"Find a decent girl, Terry. I know you at heart. This is not you. What happened to that sensitive little boy I remember? Always dreaming, reading, writing stories...when did you become so hard and cynical? When did you become so selfish?"

He sighed and sat down on a chair. His mother sat by him. "I still dream, Mum. I still read books...but I'm a man now. I have other needs..."

"Love? You need love. That's not the same as sex, Terry. Don't mix the two up."

"I don't. Now can I go to bed?" He bridled at her comment. Love? What the fuck did she know about what he needed?

"No. I want to talk to you. About your Dad."

He groaned but she went on regardless. "He loves you, Terry. He just doesn't know how to say the things he ought to. You've disappointed him in your choice of career but he still admires you. You're all he wanted to be himself but he never got the chance. Things just didn't go his way. That's why he wanted it all for you..."

"He hates me, Mum...and the feeling's mutual..."

"NO! You don't hate him. Any more than he hates you. All you've ever wanted is his respect and praise. You care about that more than anything. That's why he annoys you so much - because you care! He's wrong - and I've lost count of the number of times I've told him what he's going to cause if he doesn't change his attitude - but he won't listen. You know what he's like! Terry, I'm begging you - make your peace with him. Eat humble pie. You're young and you've got your life ahead of you. Just do it for me. Please..." He looked at his mother pleading with him and it just made him angry. She had wasted her life on this man - but like everyone else it was up to them to dance to his tune and let him win again.

Terry stood up. "I'm tired. I'll think about it. But if I do - it's for you. Not him. I don't give a fuck about him."

He lurched up the stairs and left her sitting in the dark room, clutching a string of rosary beads and fingering them instinctively, tears spilling down her cheeks. They were so alike - but both too stubborn to realize that. Paddy was worn down and jealous of his virile sons with all still before them and frustrated that the one he loved the best seemed to him to have rejected all he had taught him. Terry was arrogant and cocksure, resenting that his father had never been able to show love in the way he wanted. If only he knew the other man his father really was who only ever revealed his inner heart to her. It worried her that her son was going the same way as his father, repressing his true feelings and replacing them with a selfish hard-edged style that protected him from ever being hurt.

Which ultimately could only hurt him more

He should have told them the next day. It had been his intention to do so but when the moment presented itself, he just couldn't do it - couldn't say the words that he knew would break his mother's heart or even drive the final nail into the coffin of his damaged relationship with his father. Instead he went to lunch at his sister's and buried his head in the sand. That Sunday, his father spent a couple of hours in the Church social club downing his usual eight pints of Guinness. He bumped into a mate whose son Roy had been a school friend of Terry's - one of those who had gone out with him the night before. That's where he learnt of his son's new career decision.

Returning home early evening, Terry walked into the lounge and hit an icy wall. His mother was sitting still as a stone, her body tense, radiating her pain. His father was standing, ready for the attack.

"So when did you plan on telling us? Or were you just going to go over there and say nothing? But you couldn't resist boasting about it to your mates, could you...you little bastard..."

He knew straight away. "I was looking for the right time, Dad...."

"Right time? And when exactly would that day come?  The army was bad enough - but this? The British SAS? Set up to murder those who dare to oppose the corrupt rule of those fucking Westminster cunts? I'll tell you something now, you're no son of mine. Get out of my house! If I ever see you again, it'll be too soon...Go to England and join your fuckin' secret army. Go and kill Irishmen. With any luck one of them will get you, you arrogant cunt. Get out of my sight. You're nothing but a right wing British arse-licking bastard traitor...!"

Terry's mother sobbed and tried to reach out to her husband to stop his tirade but he pushed her away. "If you want to be on his side then you can bugger off as well...this is your doing, Mary. You indulged him over the years. Let him think he was some kind of special kid. Now you know what he is...look what you've raised...the fucking cuckoo in the nest..." Patrick Thorne walked upstairs and banged his bedroom door. Terry stood rigid, still stunned by the vitriol his father had spat out at him, unable to speak.

"Terry...this is too much...how could you have done it?"

He ran his hands down his face in an attempt to digest the stunning impact his news had had on his father... "Because it is right. The next logical step. I don't understand him. The British army is a fine institution. The IRA is a pack of animals. Mum...you can't seriously fall for that Sinn Fein propaganda, can you...? They bomb innocent people, they kill kids, they shoot housewives married to Protestant men...That's not a legitimate war. He doesn't know what he's talking about...he's so full of sentimental crap about some long lost cause..."

"I don't give two hoots for any of it. I love you and you are going to fight and maybe die for things I don't understand. But I know this. Your father is passionate about his homeland - and you've broken him, Terry. I won't defend you this time. You've made your own bed. Now go and lie in it - and dear God, I hope it will be worth it for you."

She left him alone then and he sat down head in hands to try to grasp just why they felt this way. He could have coped with their worry for his safety, opposition for him taking on a fight that wasn't his - but this was something else. None of them really believed what he was doing was a thing of honour. It was as if all the norms of most people were inverted in the dynamic of his family. No support, no pride in his achievements, no one to follow his career with interest. He was alone. A strange situation for a boy from a big family to find himself in.

But maybe it was what he needed. The last tie cut. No country, no family, no woman, no one to claim any part of him.

Shaking his head, he went upstairs and threw his belongings back into the bag, standing the bottle of French perfume next to the Sacred Heart statue on the tall boy. He had forgotten to give it to her.

On the bed, was a neatly folded pile - his uniform and the clothes he'd worn the night before already washed and ironed, crisp and fresh, smelling of that clean well- aired scent that recalled the past acutely in his senses. For some reason he felt a lump in his throat and tears prick his eyes at that involuntary trigger. Choking it down, he rolled the clean clothes clumsily, shoved them down into the bag, pulled out the bottle of whisky and uncorked it, swigging deep.

Walking round the small room once last time, he stopped before a photograph pinned on the wall. It had been some presentation years ago when he had won Sportsman of the Year award at school. He must have been about fifteen. There was his Mum and Dad with him as he held up his trophy and they all smiled. His father's hand was on his shoulder, his mother's round his waist. Ripping it from the wall, he thrust it into his pocket and zipped up the bag.

His mother was in the kitchen when he came down, his father nowhere to be seen. "I better get off then..." he mumbled, running his hand through his hair, his knee jiggling to some internal anxiety. She watched him purse-lipped, recognised his pain, observing that glassy green of his expressive eyes, those mirrors to his gentler soul; he could never hide his vulnerabilities from her, no matter how he tried to play the hard man. Nor could his father.

"I think so. Much as it hurts to say it to you. But...it's too late for talking. Good luck, Terry, and God bless. You know I'll always have you in my prayers..." She cried then and he dropped his bag, pressed her against him, knew somehow then that this would be the last time he would ever be able to comfort her. But when she had won back her composure, she pushed him away, stroked his hair and patted his cheek. With a nod, she whispered: "Go, love. It's what you need. Go and conquer that world out there. But don't lose yourself in it all. Don't lose the better part of you..."

As he left the house a short while later, he felt a swirl of conflicting emotions settle over him. Relief, freedom and anticipation on one hand , sadness, rejection and resentment on the other - but beneath it all the underlying self doubt that he was learning how to bury deep within his psyche. The belief that however good he was, he was never going to be good enough to be the man they wanted him to be.

Squaring his shoulders and looking about him, he said his silent farewells to it all and set off back up the road. 

Who dares, wins, eh?