“I understand too well. He’s just a boy. Like me.” Petrovitch laughed, and it hurt in a way that reminded him that he was still alive and how much he had to lose. “Father John thinks he can take the place of the martyred O’Donnell and win the souls of Paradise. He’s deluded by dreams of glory and can’t see that he’s going to go the same way.”

“They hate us. They act like we’re another gang, moving in on their territory. You’re right: they’d kill Father John, too, if they could. But he has me,” she said.

“So what’s your life expectancy measured in? Weeks or days?” He looked her in the eye, briefly, before feeling the need to count the lace holes in his boots.

She gathered her blowing veil and held it over her shoulder. “Someone has to do something.”

“I bet that’s what the Armageddonists said, right before they…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. His feet left the ground and, for a moment, he thought he was going over the parapet.

“Don’t,” she screamed in his face. Her fists were balled up in his collar. “Don’t ever. This is their fault. Everything. I could have been little Madeleine instead of this. I could have been normal.”

Then the calm after the storm. She lowered him rather than just letting go. His toes gratefully found the concrete roof.

“I’m not like them,” she said. She straightened his jacket out, sweeping her long fingers over the folds in the cloth. His skin burned under her touch. “I could never be like them.”

Petrovitch dared to move, retreating until his back was against the brickwork. When it eventually came, his voice was high and panicked. “I’m going now. For both our sakes.”

She waited until he was ducking down out of sight before calling after him. “Do you believe me?” she asked.

“What? That you feel the need to die in a futile gesture? Yeah. Russians have been throwing their lives away for nothing for centuries: it’s in the blood.” He started down the steep steps. “I don’t intend to join them.”

“So why did you try and save that girl?”

“I didn’t try,” he whispered defiantly. “I succeeded.”

Father John was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, holding up Petrovitch’s bag in one hand. His expression said that he’d won at least one small victory.

Petrovitch took the bag from him, unzipped the pouch and slid his hand inside. The rat had gone. All he found was his nearly-spent cash card and a flimsy piece of paper.

“Oh, this has gone completely pizdets.” He pulled out the paper, knowing what was on it already. But he still had to look.