It felt strange to Evan to be near the Warriors home pitch wearing street clothes instead of a football kit. But everything felt strange about being back in Glasgow. Between the exile of wall-to-wall sheep, then the voyage upon the “HMS Takedown,” as Ben called it, the previous eleven days had been like an out-of-body experience.

They’d watched the police take David Wallace into a private room at the Aberdeen ferry terminal, but Evan had heard nothing since. No doubt he’d get an update on Monday at work, assuming he’d not been removed from Operation Caps Lock. For now, he could focus on today’s events.

Thanks to the rigors of lambing, his right hip still wasn’t fit for this friendly match against Glasgow Greens. It was just as well, since Ben and his mum needed help with Michael and Philip’s wedding—especially once the heavy rain began.

Halftime soon neared, and with it the start of the ten-minute ceremony. In the tent beside the fitness complex, everyone seemed ready: the grooms, the celebrant, the bagpiper. The caterers waited nearby in a box van, poised to set up the reception beneath the tent once the ceremony was over.

Evan was distributing miniature bottles of blowing bubbles—rainbow-striped with the Warriors sword-and-ball logo—to the gathering guests when Fergus approached him, wearing a rain jacket over his mud-stained football kit.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked Evan. “Alone?”

“I have literally a minute.” He handed the basket of bubble bottles to Colin, who wasn’t playing today out of courtesy to his former team. “How’s the hamstring?” he asked as they walked alongside the building behind the tent, out of the others’ earshot.

“Good,” Fergus said, “but Charlotte subbed me out early to be safe.” Fergus stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking…you said you were in Belfast last year. But you came home before the twelfth of July, when the Orange Order has their marches there—or parades, or whatever they call them. So you weren’t there to guard the events.”

Evan said nothing, since there was nothing he could legally say.

“And my ma’s cousins from Derry”—Fergus tugged the front of his rain jacket to shed some of the water—“I saw them at the end of June at her birthday party. They were staying with her in Perthshire for a few weeks. Until after the twelfth.”

Interesting. Perhaps Fergus’s cousins were more involved with Stephen’s cell than MI5 had realized.

“So I put these pieces together.” Fergus held his palms facing up, as if holding the pieces, and looked at them in turn. “If you weren’t in Belfast to guard the marches, why was it so urgent for you to go there at that time?” He dropped his hands. “My guess is you were trying to stop a planned attack, maybe on an Orange Order parade.”

“You know I can’t—”

“You can’t say, I know.” Fergus’s lips formed a tight line. “And I can’t stop thinking about John’s nephew, Harry. Last summer his family took him to an Orange March in Ibrox. He’s five years old. Five. Years. Old.”

Evan nodded. “Sometimes there’s young bairns at those things. Sometimes they’re even in the parades.”

Fergus wiped his mouth. “Look, I’ll never forgive you for leaving, and for lying to me. But working all this out in my head...” He sniffed hard. “It helps somehow.”

Evan wished he could confirm Fergus’s theory. Letting him find meaning in all his pain would never make up for causing it in the first place. But it might ease it, just a bit.

“I’m glad,” Evan said. “You deserve some peace.”

“Yeah,” Fergus said with a bitter laugh. “I really do.”

Just then the wind gusted. One of the tent flaps came loose, followed by a cry of dismay from Ben.

“I’d better go and help,” Evan said, relieved to end the conversation.

“Things are good with you two now?” Fergus asked as they headed back toward the tent.

“Things are things.”

“Good luck,” Fergus said, “and I mean that.”

“I know.” Evan gave his ex a tentative smile. “Thanks.”

He secured the flap and double-checked the other tie-downs as the ceremony began within. Then he began his final assigned task: getting the crowd outside to clear the makeshift “aisle” he’d marked earlier with tape upon the tarmac. As he urged folk to step back on either side, he imagined doing a similar duty while wearing a black uniform and yellow high-visibility body armor.

Evan’s research yesterday had revealed that Ben was right: despite his MI5 experience, there was no way Evan could join Police Scotland at the position he wanted. A hierarchy like that required the sort of by-the-book approach that would soon chafe him into rebellion.

But yesterday he’d also explored other options, one of which he couldn’t wait to share with Ben.

When the aisle was cleared, Evan climbed atop a chair to the side so he could scan the crowd. He noted which people he’d seen before, which were new, and whether any looked suspicious. At least two dozen more fans had made their way over from the pitch since the start of the ceremony, no doubt beckoned by the bagpipes.

If he someday left MI5, Evan wondered, would this instinct for vigilance fade? Would he ever be able to look at a crowd without searching for a threat? Maybe in Orkney. But maybe not.

Soon applause and cheering came from inside the tent, followed by a single bagpipe note. The recession would begin any moment (due to time constraints, there’d been no procession).

Ben and his mum came out, each opening a giant rainbow umbrella on either side of the aisle. Then Michael and Philip appeared, beaming in their black tuxedos—worn over Woodstoun Warriors football shirts—and violet-and-green Thistle of Scotland tartan kilts. As the couple paused outside the tent to wave to the crowd, Evan watched each onlooker.

At the end of the aisle on the other side, a young man in an orange hoodie stood with his shoulders hunched, not cheering. Evan couldn’t see his face, shadowed by the hood, but his form was chillingly familiar.

It can’t be. Not here.

Shifting to the edge of the chair, Evan spied the man’s hands. He clutched a bottle of blowing bubbles, but this one was full-size and bright blue, unlike the mini rainbow bottles Evan and Colin had distributed.

The couple began to process, shielded from the rain by Ben and Giti’s umbrellas. The bagpiper followed, blasting a strangled-stoat version of the Warriors’ unofficial theme song, “Football Crazy.”

Evan leapt off the chair and hurried behind the tent, peeling off his rain jacket so he could move silently. Then he ran, hunched over, behind the other side of the crowd.

He wanted to be sure, but if he couldn’t be sure, he would act anyway.

At the end of the aisle, Evan came up behind the orange-hooded lad and peered over his shoulder. Sure enough, the right hand fidgeting with the lid of the bubble bottle bore a tattoo across the knuckles: a calligraphied 88.

The newlyweds were a few meters away now, striding quickly through the deluge of rain and bubbles. Ben was on this side, next to Philip, soon to enter the line of fire.

Evan clamped his right hand over Jordan’s wrist and looped his left arm around his other side, pinning his arm.

“Oi!” Jordan’s voice was drowned out by the bagpipes.

Evan backed up, spun round, and slammed Jordan face first against the building.

“Drop it!” He pressed Jordan’s wrist to the concrete wall.

Jordan twisted his head to see his captor. “Gunnar? What the fuck?”

Evan squeezed his wrist harder. “Drop the acid!”

Jordan let go. Evan stepped to the right, dragging Jordan with him to avoid the splash as the bottle popped open on the ground, spilling its contents.

Behind him, the bagpipes faded out mid-tune, replaced by cries of the crowd.

“Evan, what’s happening?” Ben called, his voice getting closer.

“‘Evan’?” Jordan’s face crumpled in rage. “David said you was a spook! I telt him, ‘Nah, man, Gunnar’s my mate.’” Still pinned to the wall, Jordan shouted to the crowd, “This guy’s a fuckin’ spook!”

Evan pulled Jordan’s wrists behind his back with one hand and pressed between his shoulders with the other. “Everyone, move away calmly,” he said, “and someone phone the police. This man tried to acid-attack the—”

“I never did!” Jordan kicked back, smashing his boot heel against Evan’s knee. Evan held on, groaning in pain, but his grip loosened enough for Jordan to twist free and shove him away.

“That was never acid,” Jordan said. “That was bubbles, so it was.” He reached into his hoodie pocket. “But this is acid.”

He pulled out a half-size Lucozade squeeze bottle and popped the top.

“No!” Ben shouted as he flashed past Evan.

Evan leapt forward. Jordan lifted the bottle at him point blank. Liquid surged straight for Evan’s face.

The last thing he saw was Ben’s arm slamming down upon the bottle.

Then Evan fell back, blinded and burned. He dropped to the ground as the acid melted his skin…his eyes…every inch of muscle and bone.

His face had turned to fire.

Can’t stop hitting. I stop, we die. Can’t stop hitting. Can’t stop. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

Ben’s vision sharpened, despite his glasses slipping down his nose. There was nothing in the world but his own fists meeting the attacker’s face, faster and faster. He was vaguely aware of Evan screaming in the background below his own incoherent shouts of rage.

“Hunh! Hah! Fuh! Hunh! Hah! Fuh! HunhHahFuh! HunhHahFuh! Haaaaaaaruughhhhh!”

Arms grabbed him from behind, but he tore them off with hands like claws, then began again, smashing, smashing, smashing, smashing.

Down. Down. Stay. Down.

Finally the man’s shouts turned to whimpers. He stopped trying to fend off Ben and simply curled into the fetal position, arms shielding his bloodied face.

Ben straightened up and pulled back his foot to kick.

“Son, please stop.”

His mum’s low voice yanked him back to reality. A reality he didn’t want to face.

A few feet away, Evan lay on the ground, restrained by Liam and Robert.

Liam’s voice boomed above the shouts of confusion. “Phone 999! Get the match physios! Get me clean water! I need all the water NOW!” The defender held Evan’s flailing hands by the wrists. “It’s okay, mate,” he said calmly. “Let’s get you up on your knees so we can rinse this off without spreading it.”

Ben stepped closer. Yellow liquid dripped from the left side of Evan’s face, neck, and shirt. Was this the acid or was it—oh God—his actual skin? Evan was thrashing too hard for Ben to see for sure.

Jamie set an armful of water bottles beside Evan. “Be right back with more.”

“Thanks, mate.” Liam picked up one of the bottles and twisted off the top with his teeth. “Evan, I’m gonnae start rinsing you now, so hold still.”

But Evan only fought harder as the water was poured over him.

“Stop holding him down,” Ben said. “Trust me.” He tapped Robert’s shoulder. “Let me try.”

Robert stood and stepped aside. Ben knelt beside Evan, careful to avoid the splatter as Liam kept pouring.

“It’s me,” Ben murmured as he rubbed Evan’s back. “It’s your kjæreste. Please let them help you.”

Evan’s flailing eased, but he kept moaning like a trapped animal. Eyes closed, he seemed in another world. The pain in his voice shredded Ben’s heart.

The physio arrived, her bag rattling as she set it on the pavement. “We need to cut off his shirt. If it’s stuck to the skin, we can’t remove that part. And for God’s sake, Liam, put on these gloves so you don’t get hurt.”

Ben held Evan’s shirt taut so she could cut it. As the fabric began to part, he dreaded what lay beneath.

But then he steeled himself. He had to look, because he would see it again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and every day. These scars would become part of their life together, and Ben would see and feel and love every inch. Evan wouldn’t go through this alone.

With one final snip of scissors, the shirt fell away. Perhaps it was the dim sunlight through the thick clouds, but Evan’s skin looked…the same as ever.

“What the—” The physio pulled back. “Hang on.” She rummaged in her kit bag and pulled out a torch, which she clicked on to shine over Evan’s chest, then his neck and face. “We should see acid damage already.” She gently took hold of Evan’s chin and tilted it up. “Let’s keep rinsing just in case, but I think he’s okay. Maybe the solution was very diluted.”

Evan gave one last moan, almost in protest. Then he opened his eyes, blinking away the water. “But it’s—that’s not…” He looked down at his own chest.

“Does it still hurt?” the physio asked. “Does it burn?”

Evan shook his head slowly. “What happened?”

“That’s odd.” Robert held up the squeeze bottle in one gloved hand, its cap in the other. “I’m no chemist, but I think this is just Lucozade.”

Evan touched his neck and face, mouthing the name of the sport drink.

Ben looked over at the half-conscious Jordan, who was being seen to by the other physio. “Why would he fake it?” He looked back at Evan. “And if it wasn’t acid, why would you—”

“I don’t know!” Evan’s breath was still coming fast. “I thought it was acid. I thought he was going to hurt you.”

“He didn’t. Well, except my hands.” Ben looked at his own knuckles, raw and bleeding. “Guess I should’ve been practicing Krav Maga without gloves all this time. Build up a few calluses, heh?”

But Evan wasn’t laughing.

Evan sat beside Ben in the tent, staring into his own memories.

They’d all come back at once: the punches in Belfast, the PAVA spray at the BVP rally—every moment he’d wondered whether he’d ever see again.

“It felt so real,” he whispered.

“I know.” Ben reached out to take his hand, then stopped. Evan had already pulled away once, unable to tolerate being touched. “The mind is a powerful thing.”

Especially when you’re losing it. “A normal person would have been frightened for two seconds before realizing it wasn’t acid.” He tugged the blanket the physio had given him tighter around his bare shoulders. “I had a full-blown hallucination. I could have hurt someone.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could hurt you one day if I have another…” Psychotic episode?

Ben was silent for a moment. “If you feel it’s an emergency, I’ll drive you to a hospital. But if you’re basically stable, let’s phone your psychiatrist later and see what they think. Either way, you’re not alone.”

Evan’s voice rasped in his throat. “I warned you I might break someday.”

“You’re not broken, you’re just a wee bit cracked.” Ben shrugged. “And if you do need hospitalized, I’ll visit you every day. I’ll bring you baklava.”

This mundane promise made the world feel real again. “Thank you.”

“So that guy you grabbed?” Ben lowered his voice to a whisper. “Jordan Lithgow, right? I remember his picture when I looked him up on WhoWhatWhere.”

Before answering, Evan checked to see the caterers were keeping their distance. “Aye, that was him.”

“Wow.” Ben rubbed his bandaged knuckles. “I always wanted to punch a Nazi.”

The edges of Evan’s face tightened, and next thing he knew, he was laughing. He bent over, pressing his hands to his cheeks to hide his reaction.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked. “Is it happening again?”

“No, no, no.” Evan coughed and straightened up. “I just…” He looked into Ben’s worried brown eyes. “I just love you.”

“Oh, good.” Ben went to reach for his hand, then stopped again.

Evan’s hand met his halfway in a gentle grip. He examined Ben’s bruised fingertips. “You punched him a lot.”

“Well, I had to, cos each of my punches is like one of your gentle taps.”

Evan felt like laughing again. Instead he put his other hand to Ben’s cheek, then leaned in and kissed him. Ben responded with as much fervor as ever, as though Evan wasn’t broken or even cracked.

“Oh.”

Evan looked up to see Ben’s mum standing there holding his discarded rain jacket. He became hyperaware of being shirtless.

“I believe this is yours?” She held it out without coming closer.

“Thanks.” He shrugged off the blanket and put on his jacket. “Can I help with anything?”

“Not me,” Giti said, “but probably the police. They’ve just arrived.”

Evan stood and zipped his jacket, ready to return to Official Mode.

Outside the tent, the reception and match were in limbo as police cordoned off the area and began interviewing witnesses. One officer was escorting Jordan to a squad car.

Evan introduced himself to the officer-in-charge. For the first time—and probably the last—he showed his badge. “The man you apprehended is the subject of a joint Police Scotland/MI5 operation. We need Specialist Crime Division, pronto.”

The officer did a double take at Evan’s identification. “This was a terrorist attack?”

“We’ll see.” Evan pulled out his phone and rang Detective Inspector Hayward.

Fifteen minutes later, Hayward arrived with Detective Sergeant Fowles and a dozen crime-scene officers, who fanned out to collect evidence and take over witness interviews.

As Evan was recounting his story to Fowles, one of the officers came over with the bubble bottle in a plastic evidence bag. “Detective Sergeant, we’ll send the containers to forensics to confirm, but I’ll say right now, this smells like toilet cleaner. Hydrochloric acid.”

Deirdre looked up at Evan. “Looks like your instincts were right.”

Evan walked over to the blue-and-white police tape and examined the place where the acid had spilled. “I must have smelled it.” He pointed to the spot where Jordan had squirted him with his sport drink, a few feet from the spill. “I was there. That’s close enough to smell toilet cleaner, right?”

“It’s nae wonder you thought you were burnt.” Fowles looked at her notes. “Lithgow said, ‘This is acid,’ then he sprayed you, and you closed your eyes. All you had to go on was scent.”

Deirdre’s words heartened Evan. Maybe he’d been only half-deluded.

“That’s Alt-Tab and Backspace both in custody,” Fowles said. “Not a bad week’s work.”

So David Wallace had been arrested too. “I had nothing to do with Alt-Tab.”

“Of course not.” Deirdre blinked at him with exaggerated innocence. “I was talking about myself.”

“Right. Good work, Detective Sergeant.”

“Considering what happened today with Lithgow, I doubt you’ll be at our Caps Lock meeting Monday morning.”

Dismay washed over Evan as the truth sank in. Everyone here—the Warriors, the Greens, the Rainbow Regiment, and all the wedding guests—must have heard Jordan calling him a spook.

“I’m not saying that to make you feel bad.” Deirdre looked round and stepped closer. “I’m saying that cos this is my last chance to tell you what Wallace was up to before someone orders me not to.”

Evan’s heart beat faster. “Go on.”

“Those documents in the bag—and don’t pretend you don’t know what bag I’m talking about—were instructions on a massive anti-immigrant disinformation campaign. High-level stuff you’d only get from a state actor.”

“You mean a foreign government? So the Russians came up with this?”

Fowles shook her head. “I wish we could blame them, but it looks like the idea began with the BVP. Russian intelligence just provided funding and technical assistance.”

Evan remembered David Wallace saying how Jordan’s “cockamamie scheme” had given him an idea for something “visionary.” It made him shudder how the bigoted whims of a pathetic man like Lithgow could be the genesis of an international conspiracy.

If the Russians weren’t creating divisions in British society but merely driving a wedge into the divisions that were already there…that meant that if the BVP were dissolved, another group would rise in its place.

Wherever he worked, Evan would find a way to keep fighting.

Detective Inspector Hayward called to Fowles, ending her illicit debriefing. “Good luck,” she told Evan as she moved toward her boss. “Let’s do drinks some time.”

“Definitely.” Evan turned away, noticing his initial pain at the thought of leaving MI5 was already morphing into something like relief. Maybe he could pursue his big idea a lot sooner than he’d expected.

He found Ben and his mum chatting to the caterers and beckoned Ben over to the pitch where they could talk alone. “Did they interview you yet?”

“Briefly,” Ben said. “Mum wants me to have a lawyer present for the follow-up interview, on account of my beating seven shades out of Jordan.”

Evan hoped a lawyer would keep Ben from describing it that way. “Talking of police, I need to go to the station to file an incident report.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“It’s top-secret stuff,” Evan said.

“Police station’s got a public waiting area, right?”

“Aren’t you needed here?”

“Mum’s got this. She already told me to go if you had to leave.” Ben took his hand. “Evan, I’m with you, and not just today. Whatever your job, whatever your state of mind, I’m here for it.”

“Are you sure? What about, you know...”

“My faith?” Ben paused a moment and looked past him, toward the place of Jordan’s attack. “When I first thought you’d lost your face, I was freaking out. But a moment later, all I could think about was being by your side through every skin graft, every cornea transplant, through all the pain and sorrow and rage.” He looked up to meet Evan’s eyes. “I would have stayed with you when your body was demolished. So why would I leave you because your mind has taken a beating?”

Once again overwhelmed, Evan could barely speak. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, it does.” Ben’s grip tightened on Evan’s hand. “I know now that it’s not you versus God. It’s you and God, because I can’t live without either, no matter how hard it gets sometimes.” His lower lip trembled a bit. “If the leaders of my faith ask me to leave, I’ll do it, but they’ll never stop me being Bahá’í in my heart.”

“I can’t ask you to give that up for me.”

“You’re not asking. You wouldn’t. That’s one of a hundred reasons why I love you, and why you’re worth it—why we’re worth it.”

We’re worth it. Deep down, Evan had known this all along. He’d risked so much, turning away from the security of solitude because he’d sensed that only Ben could lift his mask, truly see him as he needed to be seen, and still love him.

Only Ben could bring him into the light.