I spared her the details of the rest of the journey from Moscow – the majority of which I’d made hidden in the grit box of a truck heading north-east to Ivanovo, the oblast capital. I’d climbed out when the driver stopped to refuel, shivering in a culvert until the coast was clear. From there I’d hitchhiked – a series of short lifts repaid with a few hundred-ruble notes – then taken the tractor. I’d walked the last mile – with difficulty. The car crash and fall from the bridge hadn’t only knocked out one of my teeth – they had badly bruised my ribs, and sprained my left knee, as well as reopening my bullet wounds. I’d made good time, all things considered.

We stood in silence for a moment, her eyes continuing to explore my face until she made up her mind.

‘I have an old sheet,’ she said, pausing again to clear her throat, ‘for bandages. Hot water, too.’ She waved her hand towards the stove. ‘And pokhlyobka for your belly.’

I looked around. On a shelf in the far corner, an ancient, gilded icon of St Michael presided over her proud, searing poverty. We were standing by the dining table – a solid wooden platform more like a butcher’s block. Years of elbow grease and pork fat had rubbed into it a deep, burnished patina. By the door where I’d come in, a woodfired range warmed a large pan of soup. On the far side of the table sat a metal-framed bed covered with an acrylic blanket. A bucket with soaking soiled clothes lurked in the corner. There was no TV, no radio – no luxuries at all, nothing that wasn’t entirely necessary to sustain another day of life – St Michael included.

There was a flight of stairs – open wood planks with no banister – leading to an upper level, which, Polina said, her legs could no longer manage.

‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize how late it was.’

‘There’s no harm done,’ she replied, waving her hand at me. ‘I don’t sleep much, anyway.’ She patted her thigh. ‘Restless legs.’ Then she laid her hand on the table, skin tight across her knuckles. ‘Are you really Anastasia’s son?’ I nodded. ‘Well, this is where it happened, you know.’

I took off my jacket, and began to ease myself out of my sweater. Talia had dressed me in black – guessing, perhaps, I’d need to be camouflaged against gore as I had been in Tel Aviv. She hadn’t figured I’d spend five hours up to my neck in rock salt. The wound in my left shoulder felt as fresh as the day I’d been shot in the cottage. The furrow in my right thigh had split open again, too.

‘Where what happened, Polina Yurievna?’