“Don’t be a zhopa. I’m going to find Sonja Oshicora. The New Machine Jihad tell me she’s in Paradise.”

The priest looked puzzled. “The who?”

“No, the New Machine Jihad. I think they’re the ones behind all the weird computer shit.”

“You can’t go to Paradise,” said Sister Madeleine, over the heads of everyone.

“Yeah. I’m going to do it anyway.”

“But they’ll kill you,” she said.

“I’m officially dead already.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and felt the weight of the guns, the bullets, his soul. A fresh outbreak of gunfire clattered down a side street. There was a collective flinch.

“I need to get these people to safety,” said Father John quickly. “What can you tell me about the center?”

“It’s pretty quiet. Where are you heading?”

“A church on Mount Street.”

“Then avoid Hyde Park. Take the long route round.”

The father held his flag up again and waved his ragged column on. They streamed around Petrovitch, scared not just of what they’d left behind, but of what lay ahead of them. He couldn’t blame them.

As the crowd flowed and thinned, he could see Sister Madeleine striding toward him. She came closer, and as she walked past him, she deliberately looked away. A few seconds later, she stopped, clenching her empty fist. The others carried on without her.

“What is it that you want from me, Sam?”

“I don’t want anything from you. I want you to go.”

She still refused to face him. “Why is finding Sonja Oshicora so important?”

“I promised that I would. But that was before the New Machine Jihad crashed every information system in the Metrozone. Now, doing what it wants might be the only way to get it to stop.” He stared at her tall, broad back. “Something else too. I think I might actually be doing the right thing for a change. I’m not the only one looking for her, but I’m not going to put a bullet in her head when I find her.”

Finally, someone noticed the nun’s absence and told Father John.

“Sister Madeleine. With us, please,” he shouted.

“Do you know how difficult you make this for me?” she said.

Petrovitch didn’t, although he was both hoping and fearing that she might show him.

“Sister? Now.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. She was crying. “Tell me honestly: what is it you want?”

“I…” Petrovitch didn’t know how to articulate the feeling he had inside.

Sister Madeleine ground her foot on the tarmac and took a step away from him.

“I want to make a difference,” he blurted, then took several deep breaths. “That sounds stupid. I could have hidden, I could have run. I didn’t. Whatever crappy motive I had to start with, I want to do this. I have to.”